Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “I’m trying not to buy this tuxedo jacket. I’m afraid if I move, I’ll rip it more than I already have.”

  “It looks good on you.”

  Carefully, I sipped the beer. “I can’t breathe; besides, I don’t have anywhere to wear it.”

  “We could have a Sheriff’s Ball.” She leaned in with a salacious grin. “I know you have them.”

  “All right kids, break it up.” The Cheyenne Nation appeared to our right and sipped a glass of burgundy, looking like some kind of First-Persons-Indigenous-Peoples James Bond. “How is it going?”

  “I can’t breathe.”

  He touched the rim of his wineglass to the neck of my beer bottle. “Drink up, you’ll be fine.”

  “Who are the chicks?”

  The Cheyenne Nation glanced at my undersheriff. “Excuse me?”

  She gestured to the room at large. “The tall blonde who was hanging all over you at the silent-auction exhibition table, the brunette who was attempting to dry hump your leg at the bar, or the audacious redhead who was trying to give you a tongue tonsillectomy by the ice sculpture.”

  The Bear was, indeed, cutting a wide swath through the upper end of female high society here in Park County.

  “I have been exchanging in important cross-cultural references.”

  “As long as that’s all you’re exchanging.”

  He shrugged. “We will see.”

  “How do you not get diseases?”

  “I lead a morally pure life. How about you?”

  Lifting the rim of her martini, they touched glasses. “Here’s to moral purity.”

  “Has anybody seen the count?”

  Vic shook her head. “I have cased the entire joint, and there’s not a single cape in the place.”

  Henry’s black eyes glittered over the attendees. “There is supposedly a VIP reception upstairs in the boardroom, and I would imagine that is where he is along with the director, your friend Mary, and other assorted luminaries.”

  Spotting Beverly Nadeen Perkins, I nodded toward her. “That’s the conservationist who is x-raying the painting.”

  “My painting?” The Bear cocked a head. “I have not met her.”

  Vic snorted. “She’s the only one.”

  Ignoring her, he sipped his wine. “Did you say x-raying?”

  “Yep, some kind of gadget that vibrates the electrons and gives you the age of the painting. I guess it also can tell from the elements in the paint as to whether it’s a reproduction, an original that’s been tampered with, or the real deal.” I pushed off from the wall like a ship having sailed into view, acutely aware that I was moving like an inanimate object from the waist up. “I’m going to go ask her how it went before she disappears.”

  As I approached, Beverly was talking to some patrons and turned to smile at me and then suddenly looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re moving strangely.”

  “Um, I pulled my back a bit.”

  “You want to hear about your painting?”

  “You read my mind.”

  She glanced around. “It’s pretty interesting, but it might be best if I were to just show you back in the lab?”

  “Sure, when?”

  “After the auction? I’m off to Boston tomorrow, and I doubt I’ll have much time. I was expecting you this afternoon.”

  “Sorry, I got busy.”

  “Nonetheless, after the auction tonight?”

  “Deal.”

  “By the way, if you’re looking for Count von Lehman, he’s holding court over there with some of the other donors in the hallway by the stairs.”

  Looking that way, in a spot I could not have seen from where I’d been standing, there was a small gathering of individuals surrounding a large man wearing a dissolute, full-length velvet duster, an ascot, and wild hair that looked as if he might’ve driven in with his head stuck out the window the whole way.

  “Thanks.”

  The conservationist made a face. “Wait till you meet him and then thank me.”

  As I drew nearer, I could see him gesticulating with an unlit cigarette and speaking in a vague accent. “The methodology requires the profundity of chaos, an ever-evolving cycle of destruction and resurrection, by turns exasperating and exhilarating, which defines the creative process. Do you honestly think that Picasso could have been half as productive without all those screaming wives and mistresses and untold amounts of legitimate and illegitimate children crawling around underfoot?”

  A well-dressed man I knew, Barron Collier II, was bold enough to attempt a response. “Well, I think . . .”

  “Of course not, in the greatest chaos is the clearest window to the human soul. As Cézanne once said, we live in a rainbow of chaos. And the desperate solitude of Van Gogh with his mysterious and innate ability to thrive in the sorrowful conflicts that comprised his burdensome life.”

  “He committed suicide.” A woman on the fringes of the conversation ventured.

  “Hogwash, he was murdered, likely by a teenager wearing a Buffalo Bill outfit, of all things.”

  The crowd grew silent at that one, but the woman persisted. “Surely, you’re joking, he . . .”

  “A young man whose family summered south of Paris—I don’t recall the name . . .”

  “René Secrétan.”

  He studied me, somewhat put off. “That’s right, the pharmacist’s son had seen the Wild West show the year before Van Gogh’s death, and they say he modeled himself after Bill Cody, wearing a buckskin outfit with fringe, a cowboy hat, and an actual pistol that worked sometimes.”

  “Evidently it worked the morning he shot the Dutch painter.”

  Scratching his head, which did nothing to straighten his hair, he pointed toward me with the cigarette. “You seem sure.”

  “So do you.”

  “I’m sure of the theory, but you seem absolute in it.” He studied me, unhappy that I’d taken some of his spotlight. “Are you some kind of art historian or something?”

  “Um, no.”

  Barron took my elbow and spoke. “Count, this is Walt Longmire, the sheriff from over in Absaroka County.”

  He sniffed in disapproval. “A sheriff?”

  “When I’m not on the lecture circuit.”

  There was a twitter of perfunctory laughter, but not from him. “And on what do you base your absolutist theory?”

  “Forensic evidence of which there was a recent review that said there were no traces of powder burn even on the hands in a period when handgun cartridges were loaded with black powder, smokeless powder having only been introduced in 1884. Black powder is extremely dirty and only burns about half its mass when fired, so there would have been a great deal of it evident if the artist had shot himself.”

  The count rested an elbow on a crossed arm, holding the cigarette from his mouth. “Really?”

  “Also, the gun had been fired most likely from a range of two feet and at an oblique angle from the left.”

  Another man looked doubtful. “What does that . . .”

  “Van Gogh was right-handed.” I sipped my beer. “If it was suicide, as he himself claimed, why shoot yourself in the stomach with your off hand and then limp home and curl up in your bed to take twenty-nine hours to die? Why was the pistol never found, and why did his paint, easel, canvases, and other supplies never turn up?”

  The count adjusted his glasses. “Then why do you suppose he told the gendarme when asked if he’d intended to commit suicide, that he thought he had?”

  “He was covering for the young man who had shot him. Secrétan was a brat who had publicly tormented Van Gogh and only later in life admitted to loaning Vincent the gun, which, if he did, could be seen as a criminal act in itself considering the man’s mental state. I think Vince
nt didn’t want the boy to suffer and took the shooting as an opportunity to end a painful and tortured life.”

  “Death by Buffalo Bill.” The count silently mimicked clapping. “Bravo, bravo.”

  I affected a slight bow and then watched as he took an extra moment to stare at me. Then he strolled off, pushing open a glass door and walking into the garden, where he dropped his head and cupped his hands, attempting to light his cigarette.

  A chic brunette, with just a trace of silver in her hair, touched my arm, and I turned, happy to see Donna Johnson, a friend and ex-CIA analyst. “So, whatever happened to Secrétan?”

  “He became a well-respected banker and businessman in France.”

  Her husband, Wally, laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. “Sounds like they needed Walt Longmire.”

  I shrugged and glanced outside where the count had disappeared. I smiled an apology. “Excuse me.”

  Moving through the crowd, I opened the door, relieved to be outside, especially in a garden. I’d just started to adjust my eyes and look around when a tall young man, impeccably dressed and with formidable blond hair, appeared to my right.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I was looking for Count von Lehman?”

  “And this is concerning?”

  I stared at him for a moment. “Who, exactly, are you?”

  He stuck out a hand. “Conrad Westin, I’m the count’s personal attaché.”

  We shook. “Walt Longmire, Absaroka County Sheriff.”

  There was a strange noise as if crickets were chirping, and he held up a long finger. “Excuse me for just a moment.” He produced a small cell phone from an inside pocket and stepped away, speaking into it. “Yes?” He turned, and I couldn’t make out the conversation, but after a moment he turned back, pocketing the device. “So, is there a problem?”

  “Not if I can talk to the count.”

  He smiled a perfunctory grin. “Well, perhaps if you tell me what this is pertaining to?”

  A voice called out from the darkness. “Who sold you that jacket?”

  Nodding to the young man, I wedged off the jacket, laid it over my arm, and moved toward a fountain to my right where the voice had come from.

  Spotting the glow of his cigarette, I changed direction toward the bench where he sat. “It’s a rental.”

  “It’s a rental for someone two sizes smaller than you.”

  “It was spur of the moment, and they did the best with what they had in stock.”

  “I’m glad you took it off, I thought you were going to pass out.”

  “Me too.” I stepped forward, extending a hand. “Walt Longmire.”

  “Count Phillip von Lehman.” He glanced past me. “Thank you, Conrad, I’ll take it from here.”

  The young man came over. “You’re sure?”

  “Quite.”

  Westin studied me for a bit longer and then entered the building as I turned back to the count. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Most of it good.”

  He waved with the cigarette in a vague loop. “I can be an acquired taste.” His face turned back to me. “Sorry about that—Conrad’s on loan, and sometimes takes his responsibilities a little too seriously.”

  “An interesting young man.”

  He nodded. “Used to be quite an artist himself, until he discovered that arranging to sell paintings is actually more lucrative than simply painting.”

  I watched as the young man observed us from inside. “Barbara Schuster at the Brinton said you’re gifted when it comes to ascertaining the credibility of period pieces of pigment-encrusted canvas.”

  He laughed to himself. “This is an odd conversation to be having with a Wyoming sheriff—come across something in a yard sale you want appraised?”

  “You know what, Count.” I emphasized his title. “You and I will probably get along a lot better when you stop underestimating me.”

  He sat there for a moment, appraising me like one of those pigment-encrusted canvases. “You might be onto something there. I have a tendency to perform, and I imagine it’s quite annoying.”

  “A bit.”

  He extended his hand this time. “Philippe.”

  “Walt.” I sat on the bench with him. “What do you know about Cassilly Adams?”

  He stared at me for a moment. “That he was lucky Anheuser-Busch brewed beer.”

  “Anything else?”

  He thought about it. “Busch had F. Otto Becker rework the famous painting I’m assuming we’re discussing, brightening the somber tones to prepare it for the lithograph, and there were about three different versions produced.” He inhaled the cigarette, raised his head, and exhaled. “Which is why you see the damned thing in every bar, saloon, rumpus room, man cave, and garage in America.”

  I nodded. “I did a little research and discovered that Busch donated the actual painting to Custer’s old outfit, the Seventh Cavalry, in about 1895 when the unit was based in Fort Riley, Kansas.”

  “Later moved to Fort Grant in Arizona Territory while the Seventh was sent to Cuba in 1898 during the Spanish-American War. The painting languished, rolled up on a flagpole in the rafters of a forgotten building, until Brigadier General Robert W. Strong discovered it on maneuvers in 1929 and contacted then commander Schellie, who took it back to Fort Bliss, where it was placed on display in the officers’ club.” He took a puff of his cigarette. “God only knows what condition it was in at that point.”

  “Wasn’t it sent to Boston during the Works Project Administration and repaired?”

  “It was and then returned. It burned in 1946, along with the building in which it was housed.” He studied me some more. “If you don’t mind me asking, why so much interest in a minor artist who painted a mediocre painting that was destroyed more than a half century ago?”

  “I think I may have an artist study.”

  “A study.”

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm.” He smoked the last of the cigarette and then leaned down, crushing it out and depositing it into the pocket of the velvet duster that had seen better days. “May I see it?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  He stood. “When?”

  “After the auction? It’s in the basement in the conservation lab being x-rayed. Supposedly, they’ll have some information for me, but we think it might be bad form to abandon the fundraiser.”

  He shrugged and pulled another cigarette from a pack of Dunhills he produced from another of the myriad pockets. “I am the epitome of bad form, but since I have a few paintings that I own that I donated for the auction, I think it would be de rigueur to wait until after.”

  “Agreed.”

  He started toward the door but then stopped. “One last question.”

  “Yep?”

  “Do you consider the gifts of a great artist to be a blessing or a curse?”

  “It’s according to the artist, and the art.”

  He slowly smiled and gestured with the unlit cigarette. “In the meantime, I have other performances to give and if you find them tiresome, imagine how I feel about them.”

  “Break a leg.”

  Walking over and opening the glass door, he ventured in where Conrad Westin waited. “One can only hope.”

  * * *

  —

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Talking with Count von Lehman.”

  She reached up and fingered my collar. “Should I check you for bite marks?”

  “You’d only find yours.”

  She grinned and sipped her third martini. “We appear to have lost the Bear.”

  “Probably got a better offer.”

  “So, how was the count? Any count at all?”

  “An odd duck, as they say.” I th
ought about it. “Kind of the absentminded professor type, but there might be more than meets the eye.”

  “He any help with your painting?”

  “We’ll see . . . we’re all going to take a look at it after the auction.”

  “A private viewing?”

  “So to speak.”

  We watched the auction commence. There were a few items I was tempted to bid on, but I’d neglected to get a number and was subsequently left in the cold. The pangs of non-purchase weren’t so bad until a familiar artist came up with a dramatic depiction of the Bighorn Mountain foothills.

  “Isn’t that the artist you like from over in Big Horn?”

  “Joel Ostlind, yep.”

  She peered toward the stage where the price of the painting was rising. “You like that one?”

  “I like everything he does.”

  Her hand shot up with the card numbered 289. “Back here, you assholes!”

  The auctioneer made a face but then laughed before committing to the fray as Vic battled it out with a matriarch in the front row, a well-heeled couple to our left, and a short-haired blonde sitting with Conrad Westin about halfway back in the same row as Count von Lehman.

  My undersheriff was standing pat at four thousand dollars, and there was a momentary hesitation in the other buyers before the blonde struck again, setting off another round of bids that soon approached eight thousand.

  “Isn’t this getting a little rich for your blood?”

  “Shut up.” She raised her card again. “What did I get you for Christmas?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Your birthday?”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “Shut up.” She raised the bid, and there was another pause as the remaining buyers finally realized that bidding against Victoria Moretti was like swimming with sharks having been chummed to a state of frenzy. My father used to always say that when you bid on anything in an auction, be sure to set a price in your head as to what it’s worth to you and not exceed it. Victoria Moretti had never heard that theory, and if she had she’d discarded it long ago.

  “Ten thousand!”