2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “Why the heck didn’t they plow and shovel back here?” Jessie grumbled aloud. With the snow still coming down, whoever responsible for snow removal must plan to wait until ALL the heavy white stuff quit falling. Under her breath, she muttered several of Arvid’s favorite four-letter words. Her Norwegian friend, Detective Sergeant Arvid Abrahmsen, from the Sage Bluff, Montana, Sheriff’s Office, had some choice expletives he liked to blame on the Swedes.

  “Drek,” Jessie said aloud, trying out another choice Arvidism. Then her heel caught the edge of the buried sidewalk, and she lost her grip on the hand-truck handle. She stumbled, overcompensated for the weight of the cumbersome cart, and tumbled backward into the dirty wet snow, her behind settling squishily into the slush just as she heard the door behind her open with a loud squeak. She swore again.

  “Let me help you.” The voice was amused and deeply masculine.

  She reached a hand up, expecting to be helped from her ignominious position. Instead, the owner of the rich baritone waded casually toward her, grabbed the handle of the pushcart full of paintings, yanked the whole shebang easily up and over the curb and, as Jessie turned her head to watch, disappeared with it through the propped-open door of the hotel. Then he stuck his head out the door and said, “Can’t have those beautiful paintings left in the falling snow…might ruin the liners on the frames. Better get up and find something to wipe ‘em off with.”

  Jessie sat, feeling the cold wet moisture seep into her jeans.

  “Thanks,” she muttered belatedly. He was already gone. She heaved herself up and slogged through the door. The blasted man was right about the frames, though. Each of her expensive custom frames had a brushed-gold metallic liner. Most of the art was wrapped in bubble wrap, but the two pieces on the outside were brand new and she’d decided not to take time to wrap them just to go twenty feet. Their burnished liners would need to be wiped immediately to prevent water spots. She pulled several tissues out of her coat pocket and did just that. She pulled the cart down the wide hotel hallway to the Yellowstone Room, where her work would hang during the show. While the other participating artists exhibited their work in main floor hotel rooms emptied of beds and furniture for the duration of the show, a large portion of the coveted convention room was allotted to Jessie’s work.

  ‘The Yellowstone’ was a centrally located room with space originally reserved for Georgina Goodlander, a local watercolor painter. Goodlander, pregnant with her first child, had been invited as the featured guest artist, but a week before the show, she’d delivered a dangerously premature baby boy in the Billings hospital. The infant remained in the hospital’s neonatal care unit, while his mother stayed in the Motor Lodge next to the facility. Georgina—Georgy to Jessie, who’d known her since high school—had begged Jessie to take her place when the panicked show committee asked her to recommend someone to fill in as the guest artist. After much persuasion, Jessie had agreed.

  After a scary situation the previous year in Sage Bluff where she’d nearly been shot by a dangerous, unscrupulous woman, then a hectic barrage of show after show, she’d been looking forward to a break at her home in Santa Fe, time to paint, relax a bit, and take stock of her life. Instead, she’d packed as many paintings as she had on hand and driven back to Montana. In addition to setting up a display of her work, the tasks of doing several oil painting demonstrations, teaching a one-day workshop, and giving a short talk now fell to Jessie.

  The Yellowstone Room would be manned by a volunteer from the Creek’s Edge Museum. Jessie wouldn’t have to handle sales of her own paintings, or even do the repetitive “meet and greet” of visitors to the display space. The museum would handle all of that, since their knick-knacks, small sculptures, tee-shirts, and books about Montana and Montana artists would also be shown in the convention room. Two of Jessie’s larger landscapes would be transported to the Creek’s Edge Museum and hung there.

  Unlocking the door to the Yellowstone Room for about the tenth time, she pushed it open and tiredly stacked the paintings from the hand-truck against the wall. Pleased, she saw that about a dozen four-by-eight-foot art display panels had been delivered. Her paintings would be hung on these. She looked at her watch. There was no time to set them up and hang the work now. There was a meeting covering the rules and schedule of the show due to start in about thirty minutes. Grimacing, she decided she’d better make an appearance.

  She felt the back of her jeans. Soaked. Locking the door to the room, she hurried back to the Hawk and chattered to Jack as she pulled onto the main road and drove to the designated artists’ parking lot. It was also unplowed, and Jessie groaned as she pulled her RV into a large space at the back of the lot and imagined the walk back to the lodge.

  “Just wait two seconds, Butter Tub,” she said, “and I’ll let you loose.”

  “Yeeowwwwr!” He scrabbled against the door of the carrier, sticking his pink nose through the wire of the door and making feline sounds of impatience. “Nik, nik, nik!”

  “Yeah, I know. Poor thing. You’re sooo abused,” she crooned to the orange tom in a faux sympathetic tone as she let him out of the carrier. He wound around her legs, rumbling his gratitude. Jessie gave his back a few quick strokes, then yanked a T-shirt, sweater, and her favorite pair of blingy jeans out of a drawer and added them to a rapidly filling suitcase. Grinning, she thought how she’d have scorned the sequined pockets a year earlier. That was before seeing how Monette, a southern belle in jeans decorated so heavily on the rear pockets that Jessie dubbed them “stoplight jeans”, captivated every male in the room with the sway of that sexy billboard.

  Blast Monette. Blast Russell, she thought, her grin turning upside down as she remembered how susceptible her old flame in Sage Bluff had been to Monette’s transparent flirting. And blast Grant, too.

  “Dritt,” she said aloud in Arvid’s Norwegian. Grant was the worst. Her mind wandered back to Sage Bluff and her encounter with Grant the year before. He’d let her think he was free and clear, but an unmentioned wife answered his phone when Jessie called his Boston number. Before that little incident, she’d had high hopes for a relationship with six-two—and gorgeous—Grant Kennedy. With her in Santa Fe most of the year and him in Boston, it would have been a difficult, long-distance relationship. Boston to Santa Fe. She sighed. Assigned to the art theft division of the FBI, Grant was knowledgeable about art. Unlike Russell, he appreciated her work. And her. Jessie’s thoughts turned back to the time they’d spent together in Sage Bluff the previous year. His sense of humor was part of his attraction. He’d made her laugh, as well as feel special.

  But not special enough to be the “other woman”, she thought grimly. That louse.

  “You’re the only male I like right now, Jack Boy,” she told him, reaching down again to chuck him under the chin and scratch behind one ragged ear. He stood, feet apart, tail up, squinting his eyes in catly bliss. After the artists’ meeting, she’d haul him and all his paraphernalia to the hotel. “I’ve got to go, Bud,” she said, giving his fur one more quick ruffling. “No clawing on the sofa. No carousing. No pulling open the cupboards or shredding the toilet paper. Back in a few.”

  Locking the door of the Hawk, she stepped out into the softly falling snow, the white flakes coming down big and thick as though God, Jesus, and Saint Peter pelted each other with feather pillows in wild abandon. It seemed like a long way to the hotel from the Hawk. And it was cold. However, she was fairly sure her pipes wouldn’t freeze. After all, it was March.

  Springtime in Big Sky Country. Almost.

  The short-lived spring storm had whipped through Montana, swatting down thoughts of spring with a vengeance, but the weather hadn’t turned very cold. She drew the hood of her coat close around her face, hurried across the parking lot into the hotel, stomped her boots on the mat inside the door, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

  With no water available to the Hawk, the lodge would be “home sweet home” during the show. Stepping through the door to room
510, she checked her watch and realized she was running late. She hurriedly stripped, wound her long, red hair on top of her head with a tie, and hopped into the shower, letting the hot water pelt her skin.

  It was Heaven. Stepping out and drying off with a fluffy towel from a heated towel rack, she looked appreciatively around the spacious room. Every inch of it oozed western decor, from the running horse design on the duvet to the expensively framed wildlife paintings on the wall.

  She snuggled her bare toes into the fluffy white sheepskin rug at the end of the bed while she pulled her hair free of its tie. Jessie yanked on underwear, then slipped on her favorite tee. Deep blue, it was covered with an image of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Finger combing her hair, she decided it would have to do, even though the steam from the shower had blessed its natural curl with an annoying finger-in-the-light-socket frizz.

  In five minutes, she was dressed and heading out the door to what she expected would be a deadly dull meeting. She pushed the button to summon the elevator, and heard it ascend, chiming at each floor. She tapped her foot, willing the elevator to hurry. As the doors slid silently open at her floor, and she stepped into the empty chamber, Jessie caught sight of her hair in the mirrored surface of the back of the chamber. She grimaced at the tangle of curly waist-length auburn hair.

  I wonder how the heck you say “scary mess” in Norwegian.

  She silently mimicked the screaming face on the front of her shirt until the elevator doors began to slide open at the first floor.

  Chapter Two

  The mood in the conference room resembled Belgium in 1815—the Battle of Waterloo—instead of the Crooked Creek Art Expo meeting of artists and show organizers. The general meeting usually explained procedures, policies, and new activities to the attending artists.

  Jessie stared up at the rustic lodgepole pine beams towering two stories high and the log walls decorated with western art and artifacts, and then swung her gaze to the many familiar faces. Professional artists attend many of the same shows across the country, so the art community is normally like a big, happy family of painters and sculptors. Not today. The immense rock fireplace blazed with welcome heat, but the feeling in the room couldn’t be chillier. The expressions on the artists’ faces ranged from icy to irritated.

  Max Watson, the short overweight show director with a Napoleon complex, was on his feet shouting in the direction of Camille Johnson’s shoulder. Camille, a statuesque blond woman of about forty, looked down at him with a disgusted expression. She pointed her index finger at Max.

  “Listen, you need to deliver more than lip service. Last year, your board promised better advertising. Instead, it’s worse than ever. Were there any full-page promotions in any of the national art magazines?” Max opened his mouth to respond, but Camille cut him off. “No. The magazines containing those non-existent ads were supposed to be distributed on various airlines months ago. Months ago. It was lucky that many of us bought our own ads. We did our part to promote the show. Your committee didn’t do theirs.”

  The little man puffed out his chest and sputtered as, all around the room, artists added their raised voices to Camille’s.

  “Yeah! You tell him, Camille,” shouted a man sitting in the last chair of an outer row. Jessie knew him well. It was Glen Heath, one of her favorite wildlife sculptors. A beefy six-foot-four, he was bald on top with a monkish ring of salt and pepper hair pulled into a thin ponytail. Its length drizzled half-heartedly down his back to obscure part of the Harley logo on his black leather vest. Spotting an empty chair behind him, she made her way toward it and sat.

  It had been at least a year since she’d last seen Glen. His work seemed more suited to high-end galleries than a hotel show, where each artist displayed work in a reserved room. It had been some time since Jessie herself had participated in the hotel art shows. Selling her art through galleries was simpler, and more in keeping with her now exorbitant prices. Even though she no longer had a showroom, she always sent a painting to the Crooked Creek annual auction. She appreciated that each year a different charity received a percentage of the auction profits.

  “You promised at least three television spots to pump it up the week before the show,” a woman hollered as Camille dropped back into her chair. “I never saw even one!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Calm down. It’s not our fault.” Max slapped a manila folder against his knee. “When the board decided that local advertising was a better way to go, we scheduled those TV spots. I’m not sure what happened, but the channel canceled two at the last minute. But we still have time to get the last one in. They say we just need to get an artist to Channel 8 at seven tomorrow morning and—”

  Then Max Watson spotted her. He grasped at a change of subject like a man dying in the desert lunged for a bottle of water.

  “Hey, there’s Jessie! Everyone, say hello to our guest artist, Jessie O’Bourne. Let’s give her a big Montana welcome.” With a relieved expression, he began to clap until the artists joined in and then announced loudly, “She’d be perfect—just perfect to do the interview.”

  Jessie half stood and raised her hand to halt the applause. “I appreciate the great welcome, Max. Everyone,” she said, nodding her head at the crowd. “I’m honored to be here. Sorry I’m late, but please don’t let me interrupt the discussion.”

  “Good to see you, Jessie,” Glen said warmly as he looked over his shoulder, smiled at her, then gave her a wink. “Dibs on a hug later. Welcome to the madhouse.” Then he turned back and raised his voice. “Getting back to the subject at hand, I agree with Camille. Even with a good television interview, it might be too little, too late. People need advance notice to plan to attend, especially during the winter, and with the high price of our auction tickets.”

  Another voice growled from the back of the room. “You bet. And the ticket price was raised this year.”

  Since she wasn’t a regular exhibitor at the Expo, most of the meeting discussion didn’t pertain to her, and Jessie began to daydream as the complaints swirled around her like the swarming of gnats. In front of her, Glen stretched his long legs into the aisle as he slouched down in his seat and locked his hands together under his ponytail as though settling in for a nap. His position gave Jessie a prime view of the top of his shiny head, the overhead light bouncing off the pasty white circle. She stared. Glen’s head became a tiny, empty, round canvas. In her mind, she painted a small robin’s nest on that bare space, the wiry hairs surrounding the spot becoming woven twigs encircling three blue eggs. Mama Robin perched on the small branches, head cocked to the side, her beady, dark eyes looking proudly into the nest.

  Jessie’s hand lifted involuntarily, the thumb and index finger pinched together almost as though holding a brush. She grinned inwardly as her imaginary bird painting morphed into a hatching dinosaur egg, the leathery predator peeking out at the new world with wondering, wide eyes.

  “Tyrannosaurus,” she muttered. “T-rex.”

  “What,” asked the woman on her right. “You talking to me?”

  “Sorry. No. Just daydreaming out loud.” She was tired. What was she thinking? She liked Glen. He’s a big sweetheart. So what if he’s sworn off visits to a barber? She shook her head to clear her thoughts, but her gaze drifted back to Glen’s gleaming bald head. The artist to Jessie’s right stood, then edged past Jessie and headed off toward the restrooms.

  Another irate sounding man stood, and Jessie twisted her gaze away from that perfect round circle.

  “Well,” the angry man said. “My beef is that most of my collectors are from out of town—actually, out of state—and they tell me they never received any “save the date” postcard or invitation this year. In the past, they received an elegant, personal invitation from the show committee. You know, snail mail. With an actual postage stamp,” he added sarcastically. “Something they hold in their hand. Stick to the fridge. Good thing I mailed my own invitations. Hell, I always do, or they wouldn’t fly in and park those private jets
at the airport.” He crossed his arms and widened his stance. “These folks are long standing show supporters. They spend big bucks at the auction. They stay here at the lodge. They attend the seminars. The least they can expect is an invite and info from y’all running this dog-and-pony show.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head and sat. “A blinking dog-and-pony show,” he muttered again in a low tone.

  Max’s face flushed. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead that Jessie suspected had little to do with his proximity to the burning logs in the fireplace. “Please. Please. Just settle down. We’re doing everything we can—”

  “The hell you are!” A tall thin man yelled, his hand cutting through the air in a gesture of dismissal.

  Max ignored the interruption. “We’re trying something new this year. More social networking.” He drew himself up to his full five-foot-five, his small potbelly refusing to go along for the ride and drooping dejectedly over his belt. “Why, my assistant, Evan, and I have been on the computer for a couple hours every morning for two months, inviting new—and old—clients to the show. We’re using our Facebook and Twitter presence.” He flashed a nervous smile. “I think the digital approach is working great. And every online post or email contained an e-mailable invitation specially designed by Fox Tail Graphics. Saved us a ton on postage.”

  “Oh great,” Camille bellowed, again jumping to her feet. “A high visibility magazine ad that would reach thousands of potential customers replaced by tweets. Seriously? Free tweets? So where did the ad money go?”

  “Listen,” Max said, puffing out his chest and focusing intently on the bottom of Camille’s chin. “Our graphic design was very expensive. Our website alone cost $20,000 to produce and maintain through the year.”

  “How can that be,” whined a small, thin woman. “You gave us each a password and asked us to maintain our own pages. Once the initial website was up, surely there wasn’t much need or cost for its maintenance. A little help now and then for the computer dinosaurs, maybe?”