2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “Ja-aack,” she crooned softly. “Time to go.”

  The cat didn’t appear. Jessie scraped her feet on the mat and took the bag of cat treats from the nearest cupboard. She shook it. That never failed to make him show.

  “C’mon Jack.”

  Still no cat.

  Darnit, I’m gonna have to go find the big baby.

  She stomped back to the bedroom and found him perched on the interior access hatch to the storage area, peering intently downward. When she wasn’t hauling paintings, she kept a laundry basket in the space under the hatch and dropped dirty clothes straight into it. So handy. After having just emptied the space, Jessie knew there was no mouse in there, but Jack sure looked like “game on”.

  “Nothing in there, Big Guy. NO mice. No nothing. I hauled everything into the hotel. All that’s left to go is one blubber tub cat and all his stuff.” She grabbed him and began to lift. Jack growled and spread his paws, digging his claws more firmly into the carpet covering the hatch.

  Jessie tugged. A hiss like air whooshing from a punctured tire erupted from the cat. She let go.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, you big baby,” Jessie said in surprise. “Let’s go!” She reached down and stroked his head, talking to him in a soothing voice. “You’ll love the hotel room. It’s got cat food. It’s warm. It’s going to get chilly in the Hawk.”

  The cat began to purr slightly and relax, kneading the carpet. Jessie grabbed the advantage—and the tom—then straightened up.

  “Gotcha!”

  Making her way back to the front door, she skirted a roll of bubble wrap, a stack of blank canvasses, an extra pair of boots, and her travel easel. She’d have to come back and get the litter box from the bathroom area, but there was no time to tidy up. She still had paintings to hang.

  Jessie exited the motorhome with her arms full of cat. Trudging past the back of the motorhome, she caught her jacket sleeve on the edge of the storage compartment door. It was hanging slightly open. Hadn’t she closed that when she drove over to park in the artists’ lot? I’m getting sloppy, she thought. She walked over, still clutching Jack firmly to her chest, lifted her foot and pushed the door firmly closed.

  *.*.*

  Back at the hotel, having yowled and complained during the elevator ride, Jack now explored the room, tail up and waving like a king’s pennant. His Highness was pleased. The tom acted especially delighted with the large sheepskin rug. He pushed his head and shoulders under it, forming a cat cave, then burrowed the rest of his bulk into the space until all that showed was the twitching tip of an orange tail. Jessie kneeled down and scratched her fingers on the rug about eight inches from where she calculated Jack’s paws to be. He lunged. She moved her hand and repeated the cat and mouse game until his entire tail disappeared under the rug and he barreled out the other side, jumping in a quick circle to face her with a wide stance that showed her he was ready to rumble. The fur on his back and tail stood at attention. His yellow reptilian eyes were wild and his lower lip had snagged on one tooth.

  “You handsome devil,” Jessie said, flopping on her back on the sheepskin rug, laughing. Jack walked over to peer into her eyes, then walked stiff-legged off in a huff. She pulled herself off the floor, pulled her coat back on, and left him to his explorations.

  On her way to retrieve Jack’s litter box and another small suitcase case from the Hawk, she bumped into Max Watson waiting for the elevator. He held out his hand and shook hers firmly, puffing his chest out in a ‘Bantam rooster’ affectation. It reminded Jessie of the strutting antics of the little chickens she’d seen at a neighbor’s farm when she was a child. Max’s hair, nearly buzz cut, with the longest section combed to a bit of a point at the midpoint of his forehead, unfortunately reinforced the impression of “rooster”.

  “We’re honored that you agreed to be our guest artist, Jessie.” He nodded, rooster tail bobbing.

  “Thanks. I’m glad to be here,” Jessie agreed with a smile, making the requisite small talk.

  “You’re doing a landscape painting demonstration Saturday, right?”

  “Yes. A creek-side scene, I think.” Then she thought of the fields full of cattle she’d seen on the way to Crooked Creek. There’d been so many calves. Cute little things. Maybe she’d change her mind and do something with cows. “Actually, I haven’t decided,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about what to say on the Channel 8 interview and planning tomorrow morning’s workshop on composition and color harmony.” The elevator pinged as it reached the ground floor.

  The rooster tail bobbed again. “People are looking forward to that, too. Sixteen students, right?”

  Jessie nodded agreement. “There may be several more. Perhaps as many as twenty. I looked at the space when I arrived. There are four locals who want to attend, but until I saw the room allocated for the class, I didn’t dare add them to the list. It looks like there’s plenty of room, so Evan phoned them and offered them a space in the workshop. Even if all of them show up, I’m sure it’s fine.” She had printed extra workshop folders and information sheets before leaving Santa Fe, just in case.

  “Wish I had time to take it myself.” He looked thoughtful. “Mind if I drop by for a few minutes if I get a chance and take a few photos or videotape part of the class? It would be good publicity.” Max tapped his foot impatiently while waiting for the elevator door to slide open. As they stepped inside he said, “Say, have you seen Evan? He told me he was going to meet you in the parking lot and help move that painting, but I haven’t seen him since. I need to ask him if he’s scheduled the snow plow tomorrow. No sense duplicating efforts.”

  “No, I haven’t seen him. I did meet him after the meeting. He welcomed me to the Expo. But I have no idea why he’d want to meet me in the parking lot. And what painting are you talking about?” The elevator gave a lurch, and Jessie grabbed the handrail on the wall.

  Watson looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Well, he said you sent him a text, saying you needed some help hauling another big painting from your motorhome before you arranged the work on your panels. He was going out to meet you in parking lot B. Didn’t he show up?”

  “Oh, no. You must have misunderstood him. I never sent Evan any text. And I’ve already hauled in every piece of my work.” She frowned. “It must have been a different artist.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and glanced at it. “No. There’s nothing in my messages from Evan.”

  Max groaned theatrically. “That young fellow is decent at his job, but always gets the artists mixed up. Some poor woman is probably waiting for him to show up and he has the name wrong.” The elevator groaned to a stop. “I try and try to mentor him. I keep telling him, ‘Evan, you’re the type of person who needs to write things down.’”

  “Hmmm.” Jessie murmured, thinking of Evan’s laptop and his comment that he kept detailed notes on it.

  “Oh, well,” Max grumbled. “I always say if you want something done, you should do it yourself. That’s why I’m the show director. An excellent show director. I know all the ins and outs of each person’s job.” He puffed his chest out once more, becoming somewhat deflated when he noticed Jessie’s lack of interest. Again, he reminded Jessie of old Boomer the rooster, puffing his chest out and crowing for the ladies—the ladies who ignored him and wandered off in search of chicken feed. “Say,” Max asked, “Did the committee supply enough show panels to hang your work?”

  Jessie nodded. “Plenty.”

  “Good. Good. Good.” Watson rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. Then he shrugged. “Well, I guess Evan will eventually figure out who needed the help.”

  The elevator door opened. Evan stood there with hands on hips and an impatient look on his face.

  “Ah, speak of the devil. Here he is now.”

  “Did you need something, Max?” Evan asked. “I was just coming down to double-check with you before I headed home.”

  “No, but I just told Jessie here that you were out in the snow looking for her.�
� He looked at Evan with an annoyed expression. “She didn’t text you for help. You’ve confused her with another artist.”

  Evan gave a long-suffering sigh. He gave Jessie a puzzled look and he held up his phone. “No, I didn’t. I have Jessie’s text right here. I was just going out the door when Sophie snagged me to help haul a heavy box. I sent Benny out to help with the painting.” He looked at Jessie. “Sophie’s in a wheelchair. She’s a great painter, but getting her display set up is a challenge for her.” He smiled. “I’m assuming Benny lent you a hand?”

  “That’s the odd thing,” Jessie said, hands on hips. “I really never sent a text asking for help. And I haven’t seen Benny. In fact, I don’t even know which guy he is.”

  Evan gave Jessie a look she suspected he reserved for total idiots. “Benny is one of our volunteers,” he explained. “And you must have forgotten about the text you sent,” he said, pointing to his phone. “It was just an hour ago.”

  She grimaced in annoyance. “May I see that, please?” Jessie held her hand out expectantly.

  Evan looked puzzled, but he slid his finger across the screen of his phone and then gave it to her. “See?” He pointed. “That one right there.”

  Jessie stared at the screen. In the list of recent messages was one marked ‘from Jessie’. She read: “Evan, please give me some muscle at the motorhome. I have one huge piece to haul in and could use a hand. I’ll meet you at the artists’ parking lot. Back left corner in about half an hour. Thanks.’

  “Well, how weird is that?” She handed the phone back to the young man. “But it isn’t from me. My number has a New Mexico prefix.”

  Max’s gaze swiveled to the younger man. “Oh, of course it does. Do we have another artist here named Jessie?”

  “I don’t think so.” Evan looked thoughtful. “No, I’m sure we don’t.”

  “Heck, I wonder what happened.” Max looked perplexed, then grimaced. “Well, some artist is going to be annoyed at our lack of response.”

  “Can’t be helped. I told Benny he could go home after he carried the painting in for Jessie,” Evan said. “Guess when she wasn’t at the motorhome, he high-tailed it before the snow got any deeper. And before we thought of something else for him to do. He’s been watching the weather and road reports.”

  Max said. “He should have called to ask if he should wait for her.”

  “Yeah, Benny’s a decent sort, but he isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. And living out in the country like he does, his roads do get treacherous.” He frowned and tilted his head as if considering something, then swiped his finger across the screen of his phone. “Think I’ll text him right now and make sure he got home.” He glanced at Jessie. “He has a couple dogs he treats like babies. Poor guy’s been worried all day that the power might’ve gone out at his cabin and the pooches would be home alone and cold.”

  Jessie smiled at the men. “Yeah, I get that. I just slogged through the snow to haul Jack, my big tomcat, back to the room where he’d be warm. Guess I’d better go back for the rest of the things we’ll need for the night.”

  “He’s not picking up,” Evan said in a worried tone. “Jessie, if he’s still out at your motorhome he’ll be turning into a popsicle. Just tell him he can go home, will you?”

  “Will do.” Jessie gave them a little wave and headed down the hall.

  *.*.*

  Pushing open the heavy door and stepping outside, she was amazed at how much new snow had fallen. The cars parked near the exit, out of the wind, were white mounds of varying sizes and shapes. When Jessie trudged out of the shelter of the building, she realized gusting wind had blown the snow into drifts and the light poles were coated with sticky white. The vans and vehicles in the artists’ parking lot hadn’t fared as well as those near the lodge. They were coated with a crust of moisture that was beginning to freeze.

  By the time she reached the Hawk, she was cold, cranky, and wishing she was home in the Santa Fe heat. She wiped her jacket sleeve repeatedly across the door so that she could see where to stick the cold metal key into the half-frozen lock. Brrrrr. She hoped the Hawk’s pipes didn’t freeze. Then she remembered there was supposed to be a power outlet on the nearby pole. She grabbed a long extension cord from the storage under the dinette bench, and went out to slog through the snow, eventually locating an outlet and plugging in the electrical system of the Hawk. She gave a mental fist pump and went back inside to get organized. At least she’d have better light while she gathered her things.

  “Ugh,” she said aloud, as she headed to the back of the Hawk to retrieve the litter box and small bag of litter. She grabbed her make-up bag from the tiny bathroom. Juggling everything, determined not to make yet another trip, she opened the door and trudged back to the lodge only to find she was locked out. A sign near the door said, ‘after ten, use room key’. As she turned to set things down so she could find her keycard, she heard an ominous whooshing sound from the roof. A white avalanche caught Jessie on the head and chest and tumbled her backward into the drifted snow.

  She lay there on her back, spouting as many of Arvid’s Norwegian swear words as she could recall, ending with a good old American ‘Goddammit’. Then she began to laugh, and as her laugh dwindled to a hiccup, she became aware of someone else’s deep laughter—laughter that had a throaty, male sound.

  Chapter Five

  Jessie stared at the huge gloved hand that was reaching down to help her up. Standing over her was the same man who’d left her sitting on her tush in the snow earlier that day. He wore a midnight blue down jacket. The gloves were the nylon snowmobile type. For a split second, she contemplated yanking hard on that big hand—pulling its owner down into the snow. At the warning look in his sparkling blue eyes, almost as though he’d read her mind, she thought better of it. She allowed him to grasp her hand and help her to her feet. A sharp pain in her back almost made her gasp. She’d twisted awkwardly when she fell. Inwardly, she grimaced, knowing she’d likely be sore as heck when she taught her workshop the following day.

  “No cart of artwork this time?” His eyes met hers in amusement. Then he noticed her pained expression and asked in a serious tone, “You okay?”

  She nodded. Swallowing her embarrassment and ignoring the throbbing pain in her lower back, she brushed the snow from her jacket and jeans, tossed back the jacket hood and shook flakes out of her long hair. She blinked her eyes to flutter snow from her lashes.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Then, remembering how he’d rescued her artwork that morning, then left her sitting in the snow, she said in a sarcastic tone, “And no paintings to damage this time. I’m a lucky gal. Only my pride is hurt.”

  It was his turn to look embarrassed.

  “Ah, well. Like the old adage, pride goeth before a fall,” he said with a grin. “In your case it came afterward. My fault. I was on the run before the meeting. Sorry for leaving you in the snow.”

  Jessie stared at him. The midnight blue bulk of his chest against the yellow light streaming from the glass of the hotel door was interesting. Without thinking, she leaned slightly forward and stared. It would make a nice study. She loved to work with back-lighting.

  He looked puzzled, then turned his head to look over his shoulder. By the time his gaze swung back to Jessie, she had shaken herself back to the moment and was speaking.

  “Oh, it’s fine. You were right about the metallic liners on the frames. I wiped them off—no spots, thank goodness. Those frames are gorgeous, a little pricey but worth the money. Much better to rescue them first. I’m easier to clean up.” She smiled and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

  He grinned. “I must have seemed pretty rude,” he said. “I’m Tate Kamaka. To make up for it, I’ll treat you to hot cocoa from the Creek’s Edge Restaurant. Nothing better for soothing that wounded pride than a mug of the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had.” Glancing around, he found the shoulder bag and litter box, both half-buried in the snow, and pulled them free. “I’ll carry t
hese to the elevator for you. You can drop them at your room while I go order our cocoa.”

  He smiled broadly, causing Jessie to stare at him in surprise. The blasted man was devilishly handsome when he smiled, and Jessie suspected that ‘devilish’ was exactly the right adjective for this man. Probably hit the nail splat on the head with that one, she thought. There was something about him that gave her a slightly uneasy feeling. An edginess. A feeling that there was more to him than he showed. In looks, he did remind her of Russell, but this man seemed…well, she couldn’t quite put a word to it. Then she thought, Sexier. Russell is sexy but doesn’t realize it. This guy knows he’s attractive, and maybe uses that to his advantage, the big, smart alec. Hot. And maybe dangerous? Hmmm. A big loud warning bell went off in her head. Well, she was swearing off men right now, so he wasn’t going to get her motor revved up. Damn men, she thought.

  She raised her chin and looked into those twinkling eyes. Aloud, she said smoothly, “Name’s Jessie O’Bourne.” Then she continued, “Surely the restaurant’s closed by now.”

  She saw him looking at the litter box curiously, and she turned a chuckle into a quick little cough and put up a palm toward him. “And really, that’s not necessary. I can carry my own things.” Jessie grabbed the edge of the box and tugged it away from him, then picked up the small bag of litter.

  “The restaurant’s open for another hour. I’m sure they’ll take pity on us and give us the goods,” he said, letting her have the lightweight box, but not relinquishing his hold on her larger bag. “What is that thing anyway?”

  “This,” she said with a dramatic gesture and tone, “is His Royal Highness, Jack Dempsey’s, litter box.” She smirked at him.

  “Dempsey—”

  “My cat. He’s a big orange tom named after Jack Dempsey—aka the Manassa Mauler—a boxer from the 1920s. One of Dempsey’s boxing matches was the first to pull in a million-dollar purse. Dad was too young to have seen them, but he researched the boxing matches, so he and Gramps had something to gab about.” She cocked her head. “Jack’s a fighter, a cocky little brute. He’s definitely the King in our household. At least Jack thinks he’s royalty.”