Blue Smoke and Murder sk-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Purcell picked up the cream-colored Stetson that was as much a part of his uniform as the tooled leather belt with its gun, nightstick, handcuffs, and bullets.

  Jill waited. She knew she was irritating the sheriff, but she couldn’t just let all the questions go because the man believed at a gut level that a woman living alone would naturally come to a bad end.

  “Maybe Modesty had just been lucky all these years,” Purcell said bluntly. “A woman like her isn’t supposed to live alone.”

  A combination of triumph and anger burned in Jill. She hated the assumption of every woman’s inferiority to any man.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” she said.

  Purcell leaned forward on his elbows. His face was clean-shaven, surprisingly pale for a man who spent so much time outdoors. His lips were thin and flat. He wore a white, pearl-buttoned Western shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, and a bolo tie. He was an elected rural lawman who ran for office every day of his term and dressed accordingly.

  “Modesty Breck was a pain in the side to the folks around here,” Purcell said. “She flaunted views that decent people in this county find offensive. More than one person came to me, saying that they thought she was incompetent, that she ought to have more supervision, particularly in her declining years.”

  “And there are those who thought she should have had more supervision, especially in her younger days,” Jill shot back. “Some people can’t abide the thought that a woman should choose never to marry, or worse, to leave a church-sanctified marriage and live on her own.”

  Red stained the sheriff’s cheekbones. “Modesty Breck was a runaway bride.”

  “She never married,” Jill said. “As far as I know, she never even agreed to an engagement.”

  “She led on several good men, making them believe she would marry them.”

  Jill held her tongue. If legend and gossip were true, Purcell’s father had been one of those eager men. But in the end, Modesty had never found a man she couldn’t live without.

  Neither had Jill.

  “Modesty’s sister Justine was no better than a prostitute and an adulteress,” Purcell said grimly. “Justine was a drunk who shot her married lover during an argument. My father brought them both in for drunk and disorderly. Justine’s lover was a good man led astray by a flashy, easy woman. He felt so bad about it that he hanged himself in this jail the night they were arrested.”

  Jill’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “You don’t believe me, I’ll show you the arrest records, fingerprints and all. Purcells have been lawmen here since before Arizona was a state. We take pride in our work.”

  Jill didn’t know what to say. She’d heard hints and whispers and speculations, but nothing as plain as Purcell’s words.

  “Justine’s bastard daughter, your mother, was a runaway wife who divorced a good man, changed her name back to Breck and never entered a tabernacle again,” Purcell said. “The Breck women are nothing but godless troublemakers.”

  “It’s a free country,” Jill said, trying and failing to keep the bite out of her voice. “Including the freedom not to be religious.”

  Purcell scowled. He was an elder in the Mormon church. His authority as sheriff owed more to the church than to the badge clipped to his wide belt. Canyon County was a God-fearing place, one of the last frontiers of decency in an increasingly depraved nation.

  “But the temple doesn’t forgive a runaway woman,” Jill said. “A male sinner, sure. A female? Never.”

  Purcell straightened his spine. “Spoken like a true Breck. But that’s neither here nor there. You have a copy of the death certificate and the coroner’s report. Modesty Breck tripped, broke her thick skull on the iron stove, dropped the fuel can, and caused the fire that burned down the old ranch house and spread to the barn.”

  For a long moment the room was silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. It had been keeping time in a lawman’s office since before the Arizona Territory became an official state of the United States of America. And that lawman had probably been a Purcell.

  Jill grimaced. Too bad a lot of people in the rural West haven’t caught on to statehood and the reality of the twenty-first century.

  “There’s no motive, no reason for anybody to do anything to your great-aunt,” Purcell said, looking at his watch. “Whatever insult the Breck women laid upon the church was a long time ago. These days, believers don’t hold those kinds of grudges. Nobody around here wished Modesty any harm. Nobody thought about her at all unless some drifter was looking for work, and then we sent them out to the Breck ranch.”

  “What about the paintings?” Jill asked.

  “What about them? That letter you showed me was pretty plain about the fact that they weren’t worth anything. Take the insurance settlement they offered and consider yourself lucky.”

  “But why would Modesty suddenly move the paintings to my place and leave me a note saying life isn’t as safe as I think?”

  Purcell snorted. “I followed up with one of the appraisers your aunt tried to employ, a nice young man up near Salt Lake. He as good as said right out that the painting she sent him was a fake or a forgery. Maybe Modesty decided the other paintings were dangerous because she tried to pass them off as valuable. That’s a crime, you know. Fraud.”

  “But-”

  “I’d advise you to keep that in mind, Miss Breck,” the sheriff cut in. “If you try to pass those paintings off as something they’re not, you could end up in real trouble. The criminal kind.”

  Jill’s strong hands gripped the arms of the chair. She stared at the lawman and counted to ten. Twenty.

  Thirty.

  Purcell leaned forward and smiled almost gently. “I know death is hard to accept, especially for an overeducated young woman like you. I just want you to understand that I have acted in good faith in this matter. If I didn’t believe that Modesty’s death was an accident, I’d pursue it to the limit of the law.”

  “But you believe that her death was accidental.”

  “Me, the fire chief, the coroner, and everyone else who looked at the facts. Modesty Breck was a stubborn old woman, hell-bent on living alone. We also know she was getting more frail. Did you ever think that she might have moved the paintings and papers to your cabin and then not so accidentally killed herself so she wouldn’t be forcibly moved off that ranch for her own good?”

  A chill went over Jill. “Are you saying that Modesty meant to die?”

  Purcell shrugged. “Given what you told me, suicide is as much within the facts as the verdict of accidental death. If you insist, I’ll reopen the case. But it sure would make collecting any life insurance more difficult. As the beneficiary, that’s something you should think about.”

  It took Jill several silent moments to get a grip on her temper.

  Purcell was everything she and the Breck women had hated about the Mormon West. If Jill wanted any answers to her questions, she’d have to find them herself.

  She thought again of the card Joe Faroe had given her, then dismissed it. She wasn’t being stalked. The only danger she was in was losing control and assaulting an officer of the law.

  “Thank you for your time, Sheriff. I won’t be bothering you again.”

  7

  SNOWBIRD, UTAH

  SEPTEMBER 12

  1:30 P.M.

  Ramsey Worthington frowned at his computer screen. It was a large screen, noted for showing the fine details of any properly prepared photographic file. As an auctioneer in high demand and the owner of several galleries selling fine Western art, Worthington frequently had to make judgments of fine art via electronics. If the piece interested him enough virtually, he would ask to see it physically before he made a decision whether to buy, trade, or represent the art in question.

  “Something interesting?” John Cahill asked.

  Worthington looked up at his manager and occasional lover. Cahill wasn’t the jealous type. Neither was Worthington, at least not when
it came to sex. As always, Cahill was dressed in a way that was neither too formal nor too casual, suggesting wealth and breeding without insisting on it. Not for the first time, Worthington wished that his wife had half of Cahill’s understanding of style.

  “I’m not sure,” Worthington said. “The photo is obviously made by an amateur.”

  Cahill leaned over Worthington’s shoulder to look at the screen. “Photo sucks, but the painting looks fabulous. How big is it?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “She?”

  “Jillian Breck.”

  “Oh, hell. Not that crackpot again,” Cahill said, disappointed.

  “No. Some relative of hers, apparently. Same last name, different first name. Supposedly the old woman died and Jillian Breck is the heir.”

  Worthington clicked to a second image. It was as powerful as the first.

  Cahill made a disgusted sound. “Whoever is out there painting these ‘Dunstans’ should give it up and paint under his own name. He’s good enough to make a decent living. With the right representation and some luck, he might even make an excellent living. He’s quite powerful. Technique and intensity both. Not a common combination.”

  Worthington nodded.

  A third image came up. Powerful, beautiful in its stark landscape and overwhelming sky.

  “Did you send these to Lee Dunstan?” Cahill asked.

  “Not yet. He was furious about the painting Ford Hillhouse sent. Sounded like Lee was going to stroke out over the phone.”

  “Why does something like this always happen before a big auction?” Cahill muttered.

  Worthington shrugged. “Greed. Someone knows that big money is out there attached to Dunstan’s name. They want a piece of it.”

  “They should have done their homework,” Cahill said.

  Worthington nodded. “Yes, the human figures are unusual for Dunstan. Any forger would know it. Which means this one is either stupid-”

  “Unlikely,” Cahill cut in. “He knows his subject too well.”

  “-or these just might actually be Dunstan’s work.”

  “They aren’t Dunstans until Lee says they are,” Cahill pointed out.

  “Either way, I hope we can sit on them until after the auction,” Worthington said. “The last thing we need is twelve excellent, probably fraudulent Dunstans circulating. Smaller things have taken the wind out of the market.”

  “What are you going to do?” Cahill asked.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Cahill laughed quietly. “You always do.”

  8

  HOLLYWOOD

  SEPTEMBER 12

  9:00 P.M.

  Score was sweating hard, pumping iron in a controlled frenzy that kept him from punching a hole through the wall. It seemed that people just got stupider every day. He’d been lucky to leave the office before he took somebody’s head off and shoved it up their dumb ass.

  His cell phone went off. His private cell, the one that only a few people had the number for. He racked the weight and looked at the caller ID.

  Blank.

  “Score,” he said briefly into the phone.

  “I hope you’re on the trail of those paintings.”

  “Like I told you.” About ten times already. “Dead end. They burned.” The only thing that kept Score’s voice neutral was the really sweet yearly retainer this client paid.

  But the more they paid, the more demanding they were.

  “Then why is Jillian Breck asking galleries all over the West to look at JPEGs of three unsigned Dunstans?”

  “So there were photos somewhere, sometime,” Score said, wiping off his sweat with a big towel. “So what? I took care of the paintings, and the rest is bullshit and ashes.”

  “I’d like to believe that. I don’t. Find those paintings or bring me proof that they don’t exist. And do it before the auction!”

  Score looked through his home gym’s front window to the glittering panorama of lights that was the L.A. basin at night. “How can I prove something doesn’t exist? Run the ashes through a spectrograph?”

  “Whatever it takes. That’s what you’re paid for.”

  9

  ARIZONA STRIP

  SEPTEMBER 12

  11:15 P.M.

  Jill rolled over and tried to find a more comfortable position on the bunk. She couldn’t.

  This bunk is softer than my usual bed on the rowing bench of a raft. Relax, damn it!

  Eyes closed, she listened to the wind playing with the cottonwood leaves. At the rate the temperature was falling, the leaves soon would be turning sunshine yellow and flying away.

  What if Purcell is right? What if Modesty meant to die?

  The wind blew harder.

  Jill rolled over again.

  What if she didn’t?

  With a word she rarely used in front of clients, Jill kicked out of her sleeping bag.

  “Never should have had that extra cup of coffee,” she muttered, coming to her feet in a rush.

  But she didn’t have to pee and it wasn’t caffeine keeping her awake. If she was up and prowling around, it was because she was too restless to lie still anymore.

  “Maybe one of the galleries has sent me an e-mail.”

  And maybe not.

  She thought of going to the hideout in the back of the pantry and looking at the paintings again, just to reassure herself that they were really real.

  “It took you half an hour to wrap them and put them away. Do you really want to-”

  The satellite phone rang, cutting across her words.

  “Guess I’m not the only one awake.” She picked up the bulky unit, looked at caller ID, and saw “private caller.” Pretty much what she expected. Most cell phones didn’t register on the land-based system, much less on the satellite phone.

  She hated accepting unknown calls at satellite rates.

  It rang again.

  “It’s got to be better than talking to myself. And the rates are real low right now.” She punched a button, and said, “Hello?”

  “Jillian Breck?” The voice was oddly thick, like someone with a plugged nose.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Blanchard. I’m a Western art dealer. I understand that you have some paintings I’d be interested in seeing. That true?”

  Jill frowned. She didn’t remember sending an e-mail to anyone called Blanchard. But he easily could be working for one of the galleries she’d sent messages to.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re calling the right number?”

  “I understand a relative of yours tried to sell a canvas near Salt Lake City. That true?”

  She shifted uneasily, remembering the sheriff’s warning: If you try to pass those paintings off as something they’re not, you could end up in real trouble. The criminal kind.

  “Mr. Blankford-”

  “Blanchard.”

  “Sorry. I think you’ve been misinformed.”

  “You don’t know about a dozen Western landscapes that have been in the Breck family for a long time?”

  Silently Jill absorbed that Blanchard knew more about the paintings than had been included in her e-mail to various galleries.

  What she didn’t know was if that was good or bad.

  “My great-aunt submitted a canvas that had been in the family for appraisal,” Jill said neutrally, “but I wasn’t aware that she’d spoken to anyone about paintings other than the one she sent to Park City, not Salt Lake City.”

  “The Western art world is small and real close.” The caller coughed hoarsely. “The canvas your relative sent made the rounds of a number of dealers. She hasn’t answered my follow-up letter, so I’m trying you.”

  Jill’s voice tightened. “Modesty Breck is dead.”

  “Huh. Sorry to hear it. Do you have the painting she sent out?”

  “It was lost.”

  Blanchard made a sound that could have been a laugh or a smoker’s cough or he
could have been choking on something.

  He cleared his throat. “What about the other paintings? They lost, too?”

  Jill hesitated, then shrugged. She had put out lures in the shape of JPEGs, and someone had bitten.

  “Which gallery are you with?” she asked.

  “I work with several. Do you have any paintings like the first one your great-aunt sent out?”

  “The paintings have been in the family so long nobody knows much about them. My great-aunt believed they were quite valuable.”

  “Your great-aunt must have watched too much Antiques Road-show,” Blanchard said, impatience giving an edge to his hoarse voice. “We run into that a lot in this business. People look at a show on public television and get the idea that an old family trinket has huge value.”

  “If the pictures aren’t valuable, why are you interested?”

  The man blew his nose. “’Scuse me. I’m just trying to save you some trouble. Any family paintings of yours might have historical value, maybe a few thousand dollars, but they’re not by some great artist. If there are other paintings, you should be very careful with them. Passing counterfeits off as original works is called fraud.”

  Jill felt a chill, then exhilaration, like the sensation she experienced when she pushed off into the maelstrom of a big rapid. As a river runner, she knew what she was doing, and there was always an element of risk.

  That’s why she did it.

  Blanchard, whoever and whatever he was, knew more about these paintings than she did.

  And Modesty was dead.

  “Funny thing,” Jill said. “This is the second time today somebody has warned me about the paintings.”

  “Maybe we know more about the situation than you do.”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” she said dryly. “That’s why I’m asking questions of experts.”