“That would be about half of you, Arlene,” Max said. “Our web designer spent a lot of time helping those who just aren’t computer literate. We had to pay him for the time spent working on that.”
Several artists looked sheepish, Jessie noticed. But one dark-haired man standing at the side of the room stared toward the committee at the front of the room with such hatred in his eyes that she almost shivered. She followed his gaze, uncertain which person had been the target of that look—a look of pure disgust and anger. She thought the bullseye had been drawn on the young assistant, Evan Hanson.
That’s strange. Evan is just a gopher. He only does what Max suggests. The glaring man stood stiffly, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then, as quickly as it had come, the look was replaced by a calm expression.
I didn’t imagine it, Jessie thought. He’s so all-fired angry, he nearly smokes. There had to be more of a story here than just poor management of the art show. She studied him. She didn’t think she’d seen him on the art show circuit before. He was easy on the eye, with a bad-boy edginess. Tall, dressed in a western shirt and nicely fitting blue jeans, he had the sort of easy grace and sex appeal that reminded Jessie of Russell. It wasn’t intentional in Russell’s case. It seeped from his pores without the clueless man even realizing it. But this guy . . .she suspected this guy was a whole different animal. Sure of himself. Arrogant. Who is he?
Then she knew. He was the stranger who’d hauled her paintings through the service door and left her sitting on her tuckus in the snow. She looked at him again, and as if he felt her gaze, he turned and looked directly at her, giving her a lazy, sardonic grin and a little salute. Jessie felt her face flush and knew her freckles were probably glowing red as stoplights. She swung her gaze back to the speaker at the front of the room.
Several minutes later, she was contemplating leaning over to tap Glen and ask about the man, but as she lifted her finger to tap his shoulder, the sculptor heaved his impressive bulk to a standing position and cleared his throat. “I’m going to say it again. You’ve done diddly to get the customers in, and you aren’t taking good care of the artists who pay for each show room, either. Our fees are your bread and butter money—it’s where the cash comes from for promoting and running the show. We don’t begrudge you your percentage for running the expo but do it right. When I got here this morning, the parking lot wasn’t plowed. I waded through the snow, hauling my sculptures on moving dollies that I could barely haul through the drifts. If you think customers are going to try to park in that mess you got another think coming. They’ll turn around and go home.” He plopped back down.
“I’ll get a snow plow in early tomorrow morning. And we have a large banner printed that hangs on a portable billboard. The snow held us up. After the plowing, we’ll bring the billboard to the hotel and get it set up.” He chewed on his bottom lip. “It’ll be a great ad. Real visible. You’ll see.” He looked down at his notes. “And I’d be happy to send each artist a detailed list of where the money was distributed,” Max mumbled into the microphone. Then his eyes brightened. “I see the restaurant has the urn of coffee and snacks they promised us ready at the back of the room. Let’s all grab a cup while we calm down, and then we’ll cover the rest of the agenda.”
Glen stood and stretched, then stepped out of the aisle and reached for Jessie, giving her a bear hug that lifted her off her feet. He whirled her in a circle, then plunked her down.
“Like I said, it’s good to see you, Jess.” He gave a belly laugh. “When are you coming on that motorcycle ride with me? You know, you promised to check out my new touring bike at the show down in Albuquerque, but I never saw hide nor hair of you after that.”
“Great to see you too, you big mauler. Maybe sometime this week.” After exchanging a few more pleasantries with the sculptor, Jessie meandered over to grab a cup of coffee. After quick hugs and greetings from numerous artists while everyone stormed the refreshment table, she sat down several minutes later with two peanut butter cookies and a steaming cup of decaf.
Max was introducing a dowdy, gray-haired woman. “This is our volunteer coordinator, Judith Miller.” When she stood, hands were immediately raised all over the room.
Camille spoke first. “I see there’s no hospitality room this year.” She sighed with Oscar-winning drama. “Is it too much to ask for a coffee pot and cookies in a spare room where artists can grab a quick snack? Do we have to buy coffee at the Creek’s Edge Restaurant? It’s always packed. Most of us can’t be away from our show rooms that long. Especially since our rooms are supposed to be open eleven hours a day.”
Jessie groaned inwardly. On the way to the meeting she’d passed the restaurant near the hotel lobby and noticed the waiting line snaked out the door and around the corner.
“Yeah. And I practically had to dig through the couch cushions this year to put together enough cash to come. Coffee in that fancy place here is expensive,” another man complained. Jessie looked toward the voice. It belonged to a good looking, muscular man who leaned nonchalantly against one of the lodge pole pine beams. His rich brown hair fell over his forehead in a studiedly casual look. A salon cut, Jessie decided. She also noticed he was very well-dressed for someone claiming to be financially challenged. His decorative cowboy boots were of exotic leather—probably Lucchese brand ostrich—and real pricey. About $600 a pop, Jessie knew. He wore a silky western shirt and kerchief, and a belt with a large silver buckle. But, she mused, many artists “dress for success” at the shows. It’s a known paradox. You have to look successful before anyone wants to buy art from you. And, as Jessie knew—with her own closet holding several western jackets, including one with fringe and beading that she purchased in a weak moment—looking successful isn’t cheap.
“Me, too,” said a voice in the back of the crowd. People all around the room nodded their heads in agreement. Murmured complaints about the poor economy and lousy art sales reached Jessie’s ears.
One man swore he’d raided his eight-year-old’s piggy bank for gas money. And the least he could expect after paying the high show fee was a place to get free coffee.
“Camille, that isn’t correct,” Judith Miller announced, giving Camille the fish eye. “We do have a hospitality room. Number 108. It was simply omitted from the printed list because we were uncertain which room the hotel would allow us to use. Our volunteers will serve beverages throughout the show, and a continental breakfast each morning. Please feel free to bring any high rollers into the hospitality room and give them a coffee and some of Millie’s fabulous coffee cake and—”
The volunteer coordinator was interrupted by a rousing cheer. Jessie smiled. Artists were the same everywhere. She knew they loved the camaraderie of the show hospitality rooms as much as the free coffee and snacks. Comparing notes about galleries and art shows over a hot cup of morning coffee was part of the fun.
Judith Miller continued, telling the assembled group she had tucked one free lunch voucher from the on-site restaurant into each artist’s welcome packet. Soon, with the artists slightly placated, the discussion turned to concerns such as the show schedule and parking.
Jessie, finally feeling warm, shrugged out of her jacket and slung it over the back of her chair. She watched. Listened. Wondered what kind of rodeo she’d gotten herself roped into. After all the grumbling, she was glad she’d pulled the Hawk into the correct parking area after unloading, even though it meant slogging through the snow to the hotel. The parking issue always got the show committees riled up. One artist in every crowd grabbed a prime spot near one of the entry doors and left his vehicle there throughout a show. That meant one less parking spot for a potential customer. The Crooked Creek Show Committee threatened to have the vehicle towed if any artist’s vehicle was found in those primo spots. And rightly so, Jessie thought, yawning.
The meeting limped on and on. Her stomach rumbled, even after she’d eaten both cookies. Dinnertime was long past, and she hated eating alone. If only Arvid and Esther
had arrived, she’d have asked them to go for a late dinner. But, Esther wasn’t slated to play the piano until the next evening at the V.I.P. reception. They’d probably get to Crooked Creek early the next afternoon. Her stomach complained again. In her head, Jessie did a mental cupboard search, trying to remember what edibles were back at the Hawk. Crackers. She squirmed in her chair. Some brie in the refrigerator. She squirmed again. The blasted blingy jeans she’d talked herself into buying rubbed just a bit at the waistline. Maybe she was better off skipping dinner tonight.
She gave herself a mental shake and sighed. Glancing again at Glen’s bald head, she pictured it as an ornate clock face with Roman numerals.
Damn, I’m just so exhausted.
Looking out the floor to ceiling window, she saw it was getting dark as pitch.
I wished I’d moved Jack to the hotel room before coming to this battleground. It had taken some silver-tongued persuasion on her part to get permission from the hotel manager, Bob Newton, to bring her beloved tomcat. Newton’s concession to allow Jack in her room was the only reason she’d given in to Georgina’s pleading that she take her place at such short notice.
She shoved an annoying curl back from her forehead and wondered idly how her friend’s baby was doing. Declan, Georgy had named him. What a fun name. An intense longing washed over her, and her damned biological clock started buzzing. It was bad enough when it used to tick like Big Ben, but now it had taken to sounding like an alarm clock full of hornets. Glaring at Glen’s bald spot she saw both the hour and minute hand on the imaginary clock now stuttering at eleven. Then she pictured it as the top of a hornet nest, the angry insects buzzing out of the top. She waved her hand involuntarily, thinking about colors. Maybe cadmium orange and Payne’s grey, mixed with a little ultramarine blue for richness for the wasps. She hated to use straight black. It was such a dead color.
“I just don’t like black,” she muttered. The woman next to her whispered back, “Excuse me?” in an annoyed tone.
Jessie threw her an apologetic look and mimed, “Sorry.” Then she realized it was Barbara Bardon, the huge, gaudily dressed, African-American scratch-board artist. She had taken the seat vacated by the earlier occupant. Wincing, Jessie remembered how sensitive the woman was about what she called ‘bigoted redneck idiots’. “I was thinking about a painting,” she whispered. “A wasp nest.”
Jessie’s eyes flitted involuntarily to Glen’s big bald dome, and Barbara glanced over curiously. Her lips formed an “O”. Then she flashed Jessie a wicked smile. She wagged her finger at Jessie, but her wide shoulders began to shake as she silently chuckled.
Jessie heard a soft, muted “ping” from her cell phone and reached into her pocket to pull it out. It was a text from Georgina asking if she’d arrived at the show. Jessie typed a quick “Got here fine—no worries. Get some rest and enjoy that baby!” Then she turned the phone off and shoved it back into her pocket. Relaxing, Jessie thought about her friend and the new baby. She’d never seen one that tiny. Maybe on her way home from the show she’d get a chance to go visit Georgina and take a peek at the newborn.
Lately, whenever she thought of children, her thoughts drifted to her talented nephew, K.D., who was now nearly seven. After Jessie’s brother, Kevin, had died, Russell had married Kevin’s pregnant girlfriend and taken on the job of being a father to his best friend’s child. Anger filled Jessie’s mind as she thought again about the hurt of discovering her brother had left behind a wonderful little boy and nobody had told her. Not Russell, not her own father. She felt her eyes begin to fill. The little boy could already draw as well as most adults. She wondered if she’d ever get to teach him to paint. She explained to Russell how important learning drawing and painting skills was for a child with that amount of raw talent. Nearly impossible to get through to Russell. She’d given it her best shot, but Russell didn’t understand. Actually, she admitted to herself, he didn’t want to.
Lost in her reverie, her head snapped up as the current speaker, a heavyset woman with bluish hair, clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention and announced loudly, “Don’t forget to go to the “Curl Up and Dye” salon and get your free haircut. Remember, this year’s sponsored charity makes wigs for cancer patients and most of you promised to get your hair cut and donate it to the cause.” She gave a little wave. “Goodnight all!”
As everyone began to leave, artists nodded and smiled at Jessie as they passed by. Some gave her a quick hug. Evan, the young show assistant, stopped to welcome her. Good looking and slightly built, the young man exuded the charm of a practiced salesman. He tossed overdone, flattering phrases her direction the way boys lobbed pebbles into a pond. As he exhausted his repertoire and turned away, a twenty-something blond woman dressed in jeans and a flowing tunic waylaid him by grasping his arm and holding up a laptop.
“When I was registering at the Expo desk, I saw this on the table,” Jessie heard her say. “There were quite a few people around, but nobody was watching the art registration desk.” The woman patted the zippered case she carried. “I figured you wouldn’t want sticky fingers to walk off with this baby.” She giggled. “Heck, Evan. I was tempted myself.”
Evan gave her a look of appreciation.
“Geez, thanks, Karen. I guess I forgot it there when I was helping with the artist check-ins. I keep all my notes and schedules on my laptop. I’d be lost without it.”
“If anyone took mine I’d go into cardiac arrest. I’m watching a couple stocks and don’t want to miss my entry point.”
“Entry point? You mean time to buy?”
“That’s right, Sugar. No time to chat. I need to check them right away. See ya.” The woman scurried away.
“That’s Karen Sutherland,” Evan said. “Nearly everyone calls her ‘Ticker’ because she’s always spouting stock quotes. I have no idea when that gal has the time to paint, she’s so hung up on the stock market. Does well with it, too.”
Jessie looked after the retreating figure. “I can understand the appeal,” she said. “There are a few stocks I keep an eye on. Not obsessively, but I like to know if I’m losing my shirt. Unfortunately, I find it as addictive as gambling.”
Evan gave her a lop-sided smile. “Me too. Maybe someday, when my ship comes in, I’ll pick up a few.” He gave Jessie a two-fingered salute. “See ya. Let me know if you need anything.”
Jessie was almost out the door when someone called her name. She swiveled and looked inquiringly at the blue-haired woman. It was the woman who’d been speaking about haircuts. With teeth big and white like the pickets of a newly painted fence, she smiled at Jessie. “Georgina Goodlander was going to get her hair snipped right short, Miss O’Bourne. I’m sure since you took her place as our honored guest, you’ll be glad to set a good example and get that gorgeous red hair of yours ‘clipped for the cause’, as we like to say.” She grinned and repeated, “Clipped for the cause.” She enunciated each syllable as though it was a mantra and looked at Jessie with firm determination in her pale blue eyes. “Right short,” she repeated.
Jessie groaned inwardly.
“Um, we’ll see. I’ll think about it, but right now I have to go rescue a cat.”
“Oh, it will only take a minute or two to tell you all about our Locks for Ladies program.” She waved a brochure in Jessie’s direction, peering at Jessie’s hair with an almost predatory gaze.
Trapped like a rat, Jessie thought. But like Dad always says, sometimes you just have to grin and bear it. And time is both the cheapest and most valuable thing you can give people.
“Of course,” she said graciously. She read the name tag on the woman’s patterned blouse. “I’d be happy to hear all about it, Mrs. Jackson.”
The pickets gleamed again. “Just call me Maureen, dear.”
With a sense of foreboding, Jessie sat.
Chapter Three
Artists’ parking lot
In the bedroom of the Hawk, Jack laid his ears back. Something moved in the underbelly of the
motorhome. Jumping from the bed onto the inside access hatch to the storage area—the door Jessie jokingly called her “laundry chute to the Hawk’s basement”—Jack sniffed. Opening his mouth slightly, the big tom expelled his breath in short huffs. He made a chuffing sound. Then, with his tongue slightly protruding he uttered a low growl.
More thumps came from below.
Curious, the mouser scratched at the hatch, using all the weight of his twenty-two pounds and pulling at the carpet-covered piece of plywood with claws as sharp as fishhooks. The carpet covered plywood lifted an inch or two and thumped back into place. Immediately, a loud shuffling sound came from below as something slithered backwards away from the hatch area. Then the tom heard the banging of the exterior door to the storage area and the crunch of running feet on snow. He latched claws into the carpeted lid once more, popping it up an inch before it dropped. His sensitive nose caught the smell of something metallic.
A ridge of fur along his spine lifted into stiff spikes. From deep in his chest, the cat emitted a low growl.
Then he hissed.
Chapter Four
Artists’ parking lot
Reaching the Hawk, Jessie pulled open the door and shut it firmly behind her. She wiped her boots on the mat. Not wanting to track snow any further into the motorhome, she called her furry sidekick and waited for him to come trotting out from his favorite spot at the foot of her bed. He didn’t come.
He’s pouting, she thought. Mrs. Jackson had droned on and on about the Locks for Ladies program. Then, after Jessie finally agreed to get her hair trimmed, not cut short, but trimmed, and Mrs. Jackson went in search of new blood, Jessie’d gone to the cafe and wolfed down a bowl of clam chowder.
2 Death at Crooked Creek Page 3
