"Gained?" Jessie pushed her empty mug to the side. "Why do you say 'benefitted'?"
"Well, someone tried to send Evan on a wild goose chase out to the parking lot, don't you think? Even if it is dark and snowy and they were doing it as a joke, that isn’t enough of an inconvenience to be funny. It would take so much time to pull off the fake text that it wouldn't be worth the effort."
"Yes, I see what you mean." An uneasy feeling settled over Jessie. Why send Evan out to the Hawk? Why to my vehicle? Why not someone else's?
"And you were parked out in the far lot? The artists’ lot?"
"Yeah. But I've been out to the Hawk—” Sorry," she explained, seeing the puzzled look on his face, "The Hawk is what I call my motorhome. It's a Jayco Greyhawk. I’m one of those obnoxious people who names everything."
Tate grinned. "I like it."
"Anyway," Jessie continued, "Benny wasn't waiting there. And now that it’s gotten dark and the snow’s been coming down so fast and heavy, I’ll bet a person couldn’t see any footprints showing he'd ever been there."
"Yeah, you’re right. I was going to suggest Max should just check the parking lot for whatever Benny drives, but I guess with all the vehicles looking like snow mounds that isn’t an option.” He gave Jessie a grin. “Unless a person knows exactly the space where their own vehicle is parked folks aren’t even finding their own. Besides, when he saw how bad the roads were getting, he probably hightailed it home." He shook his head. "The poor guy is probably sitting in a snow bank somewhere if he tried to drive home in this mess."
The waitress returned with two more steaming mugs of hot chocolate and another plate of stroopwafels. They smelled heavenly. This time, Jessie was sure she heard a distant “Hallelujah”.
Over their second cup of cocoa Tate asked Jessie questions about the past year’s art shows. As she opened her mouth to inquire about his experiences with the art market, he changed the subject, wondering aloud about possible attendance at the show after the unseasonable snowfall.
"Actually," Jessie said, "Sometimes traffic is better when the weather is awful. Nobody wants to be outside. They're looking for something to do indoors."
"Doesn't matter," Tate insisted. "The weatherman claims it'll quit snowing overnight."
"I don't have a lot of faith in weathermen," Jessie laughed, thinking of Old Koot in Sage Bluff. “They’re wrong as often as they’re right.
"Just watch. The sun will dazzle us tomorrow. The art rooms will be full of customers."
Jessie snorted. "You dreamer, you. Probably full of lookie-loos and tire-kickers." Then she thought better of her gloomy prediction. "I'll be teaching a workshop tomorrow. But I'll stop in and see your work later. I plan to make the rounds of all the art rooms."
"What about your own display? You going to duck out? You won't pick up any sales by being a slacker," he said in an ominous tone.
"Nah, I'm being spoiled. My work is marketed by the show committee, and with the commission they're taking, I don't mind letting them do the work selling it."
"How high a commission?"
"Forty-five percent."
Tate whistled. "That seems pretty steep considering you bailed them out by filling in as guest artist."
"Oh, well." She bit a stroopwafel. "I’m happy to take part. And after the show—weather willing—I plan to stay on a week."
"What for? Do you have family in the area?"
"No. I'm hoping to paint on location with a friend who lives a few miles outside of town. Jan has a couple horses and we want to take an overnight trip into an area where there’s an old cabin by a lake. It should be fun. And, she has a mule registered in the annual Mule Race on Thursday." She smiled. "I don’t want to miss that."
"Mule races?" Tate smiled.
"Yes. I’ve never been to one before, but I hear they’re a lot of fun. Jan is riding a mixed breed called Penelope. It's named after an old prospector's mule—a mule that had a creek named after her."
"Hey, that sounds like a blast. And it sounds like a redneck painters’ holiday, all right. You never hear of anything like that back home. The more I see of the West, the more I love it."
"Where’s home, Tate?"
"Hawaii. I've lived on several of the islands. Most recently I’ve been staying with an old buddy on Maui. It's rocky. Very rocky. Maui isn't what you normally think of when you think 'Hawaii'. Most people think about sandy beaches and sun. Oh, we have beaches, but not like the long sandy beaches on the Big Island. And depending on what part of the island you're on, it can rain hardly at all, or pour buckets. Now, here’s one difference between Montana and Hawaii. The first time I came to town was last year at this time. I came to visit the show, not to exhibit. There wasn’t any snow then, but most of the highway was under construction. So they’d taken the snow markers down. This year when I drove in, there were all these eight-foot-high poles along the road to show the snowplow driver where in heck the road was. I had to ask the hotel desk clerk what they were." He gave an endearing grin. "Now, we have cattle ranches in Hawaii, too. Parker Ranch in Waimea valley is one of the largest spreads in the entire U.S. and the owner raises cattle in waist high grass. Instead of snow markers, we have tsunami warning posts. They show how high the water level could be in an area after an earthquake."
Jessie laughed. "That sounds really strange. I’d like to see that."
"I know you paint a lot outdoors. You should take a trip to Hawaii sometime, to paint something totally new."
"Maybe someday. Dad recently went to Oahu on a honeymoon. He married a nice woman after Mom passed away. After looking at his photos, I was envious of the tropical scenery he’d seen. I have to admit I thought about heading over there to paint the very next morning. What I’d love to do is to see pineapples growing, hit the coffee plantations. Maybe paint on a beach, just for fun."
"You should try your hand at snorkeling. Put on a bikini and take a swim in the ocean." His eyes glinted as he looked at her.
Jessie saw the appraising look on Tate's face and felt herself flush. She knew if she looked in the mirror that her face would be crimson...and peppered with freckles as it always got when she was embarrassed. Crap. Would she never grow out of blushing? She stared at him. For just a moment she became lost in his eyes, dark ocean blue with pupils as dark as obsidian. The look he gave her reminded her of someone. Not the color of Tate’s eyes, but the intensity of his gaze. Who was it? Then she knew.
Oh, dritt. She had hoped her thoughts of Grant Kennedy had sunk into the quicksand of the past. She stared at Tate, evaluating. His features were nothing like Grant’s. It was his posture and attitude. Remembering Grant’s lie about being unmarried, and how she’d fallen for it, reminded Jessie that perhaps she was better off staying away from men in general. All men. She was fine on her own. No males. Well, just Jack.
"It does sound like fun," she said, her voice cool. "But on that note, I think I'll head back to my room. Nice to visit with you, Tate. I’ll probably see you sometime during the show. If not, have a successful one."
His expression was puzzled.
"Wait, Jessie. I wanted to mention that after the reception tomorrow night, the band will still be playing for an hour over by Buck's Bar. Poolside. It's a small pub near the hotel’s convention area. Why don't you plan to hit my display room about nine? I’ll show you my sketches and you can rave about my work? You can tell me ‘Oh, it's wonderful, blah, blah, blah. Wow, you've never seen such talent.’ Then we can go over to Buck's, dance a bit and you can compliment me on my dancing." He grinned engagingly and winked. "How about it?"
"My, my. Not at all sure of yourself, are you? I do hate to see men with such low self-esteem."
Tate smiled broadly at her. But even through the humorous banter, she could see that his smile had a feral quality. A dangerous edge, hiding like a knife in a leather sheath. The old man who’d come to their table had probably sensed the same thing. Tate was capable, self-confident, and ready to do battle. A little shi
ver went up her spine. Her hand came up and her fingers flexed, in the way she did at the studio before picking up a brush. She could almost grasp that aura as something palpable. I’d like to paint him . . . capture that ‘ready to fight’ expression. Military, the old guy had stated firmly, and Jessie saw it clear as crystal. Military. And hiding something, she thought. I wonder what…
"What do you say, Jessie?"
"We'll see.” She put away the imaginary brushes. “I have a friend who’s playing the piano during the reception. We may go out to dinner afterward." Jessie stood and walked toward the door, feeling his gaze on her across the length of the restaurant.
What I say, she thought, is that men who bribe you with chocolate and whipped cream are not to be trusted. But, it had been quite some time since she'd felt so attractive. Desirable. Not since she'd seen Grant in Sage Bluff. A wave of loneliness washed over her. Tate was fun. And his attentiveness and gift of blarney were not to be sneezed at. Hmph. She snorted inwardly, then admitted to herself that his interest in her was flattering. She glanced over and saw Tate's reflection in the large window at the exit. He was still watching her.
Yes, not to be sneezed at. Well, I might at least give it a couple coughs. Or at least a hiccup.
*.*.*
Back in her room, Jack sprawled across the bed, snoozing, tail twitching, as Jessie pulled on her pajamas, then retrieved her journal from the suitcase and picked up a pencil. She began the sketch of Tate—rendering his intense eyes, the square jaw, the straight posture. Her fingers danced across the paper creating swift, sure strokes, each stroke as important as a single note in a musical composition. Twenty minutes later, she picked up a gum eraser and rubbed out part of the jaw, then attacked the likeness again with fervor. Finished, she picked up the journal and held it at arm’s length. She squinted at the drawing, narrowing her eyes until she saw masses of light and dark instead of detail. Her eyes widened, and in a fit of temper, she tore the page out, crumpled it to the size of a golf ball and pitched it toward the small wastebasket. Jack raised his head, twitched his tail and yawned.
She looked at the fresh page of the journal, sharpened the pencil and began drawing again, this time capturing the sleeping tomcat. Her gaze swung from the paper to Jack’s feline form and back again as she worked, using the side of the pencil to create soft fur. A feeling of calm seeped into her. She sharpened the point several times, muttering as she worked.
"Snooze on, Lazybones. This is going to be a detailed sketch of your Highness."
The ruined drawing that lay crumpled on the floor was perfect. But it wasn’t Tate. And although Tate resembled Russell, it didn’t look like Russell, either. It was that heel. That liar. That louse.
It was Grant Kennedy.
Chapter Seven
Nielson’s farm - October, previous year
Berg Nielson stared numbly at the sheet of paper. A week after Addy’s funeral, he’d begun receiving notes—first sent by mail, then slipped under the door or left on the stoop weighted down with a rock. The message was always the same. ‘I’m coming for you next, old man.’ This note had said ‘soon’, instead of ‘next’.
Soon. Berg worried about what to do, turning the issue over and over in his mind like fast moving water pushing a pebble downstream.
Finally, he went to his gun safe and pulled out a shotgun. He loaded it and leaned it in the corner of the entryway.
Coming for me soon, huh? Well, it can’t be soon enough. And I’ll be ready for you, you goddamned bastard. You must be quite the young punk, if you think I’m an old man. Berg gave a snort.
He opened the drawer in the television stand and shoved the new note angrily in with the rest. Then he dropped heavily into the worn recliner and gazed blankly out the window. First Addy. Then these god-awful notes. He wondered if he should even bother to call Jacob down at the Sheriff’s Office this time. The poor snot-nosed young dope didn’t seem able—or willing—to do anything about Berg’s troubles. When Berg had called him the previous fall to report that Potter kid shooting at his outbuildings, Jacob had just made excuses for the young man.
So what if he’s a tad slow? He should at least be spoken to about the dangers of shooting into folk’s farmyards.
Then there’d been the contemptuous look in the young deputy’s eyes when Berg took the last warning note to the Sheriff’s Office.
Berg scowled, remembering. Perhaps, he thought morosely, Jacob Cramer thinks I’m fabricating the threatening notes myself to get a little attention. He wondered if the deputy was professional about keeping folks’ personal business private. He’d heard rumors that he wasn’t. Probably blabbing about the notes down at the local bar. Something in the old man twisted at the thought. If I go again, I’ll demand to see Sheriff Fischer.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the recliner and thought about Addy’s death.
Accident, my eye.
Her death hadn’t been caused by some stupid poacher not paying attention to his aim, like Jacob kept insisting. Someone afraid to come forward. No. It was something dark. Something unfathomable. He could feel it slithering toward him. Like one of those big rattlesnakes he sometimes surprised in the loose haystack when he pitch-forked hay to the cows. Darn things had even been slithering into the loose hay in the barn.
Standing, he went to the small tole-painted table near the phone and reached into the drawer to pull out the thick phone book. Thumbing through the yellow pages, Berg found the listing he was searching for and called to make an appointment with Richie Christofferson, his lawyer, for that afternoon. Richard Christofferson, he reminded himself. Dang it anyhow. He still thought of him as a little boy. Youngster’s still wet behind the ears, he thought. Probably why he had an appointment slot open so soon. Of course, everyone under fifty looked like a youngster to him these days. Berg gave a snort of dry laughter. And surely even Richie could handle drawing up a new will. That settled, he reached into the drawer and pulled out paper and a pen.
Thank God, it was re-enlistment time for Dom. Regretting what he was about to do, he was going to write his son for advice, and if nothing helpful came to mind—he’d ask him to come home instead of signing his re-enlistment papers. He hesitated a moment, then began writing. The letter was short and to the point. Berg went back to the drawer and removed several of the most recent notes, enclosing them with the note to Dominic, sealing the envelope and adding postage.
“I’m a weak man,” he grumbled aloud. His head drooped, his chin lowering to rest almost against his chest. “Weak. And after that damn cancer, feeling way too old for sixty-four.”
He walked down the long lane to the mailbox at the driveway entrance, inserted the letter and put the flag up to let the rural carrier know the mailbox held outgoing mail. His worried deep blue eyes scanned the road to the south, then his gaze went back to the north, as he recalled one note that had been dropped into the mailbox while he was in town for his last doctor’s visit. Once he retrieved the mail on his way home, he discovered the note inserted in the center of his favorite gun magazine. Reaching into the box, Berg pulled his letter to Dom back out and held it in one hand, tapping the edge of the envelope on his other palm. Leaving anything important in his box wasn’t a good idea. When he got back to the house, he opened the door to the Chevy and tossed the envelope onto the seat of his pickup. He went into the house to grab his keys. Thirty minutes later, he dropped the letter addressed to his son’s military APO in the outgoing slot at the Crooked Creek Post Office and then headed to Christofferson’s office.
*.*.*
When Berg returned home two hours later, a small cooler sat on the front porch. The damn kid had been there again. Berg let his head drop to his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he’d misjudged the boy. He was sure taking Addy’s death hard. And doing his damnedest to make sure Berg ate. He opened the cooler and grunted.
Hmpph. The boy had outdone himself this time. Chicken dinner, a big tub of mashed potatoes, and four ears of sweet corn, wrapped in foi
l. Enough for several meals. He popped the lid back on and stood looking at the cooler for several minutes, then kicked it with his booted foot and stomped through the front door. A few minutes later, he opened the door and stared down. He stooped, hauled the large cooler inside and hefted it onto the kitchen counter with a grunt. Sighing, he lifted the lid and unwrapped a large foil-wrapped blob. The heady aroma of fried chicken wafted out. Berg inhaled deeply, drawing the scent into his lungs.
“Ah, what the Hell,” he muttered. He reached into the foil packet and pulled out a crisp, golden-brown drumstick.
As he chewed, he thought about the kid. Maybe he’d give him a call. Addy had liked him. He wasn’t much in the way of muscle. Some brains though, maybe. And hadn’t he said he owned a night-vision trail camera? One of those infrared gizmos that took pictures of animals in the dark? Maybe he’d see if he could borrow it and set it up near the front door. Wouldn’t it be something if next time the lunatic dropped by to leave a threatening note, he could catch him on camera? Red-handed by infrared. Holding the drumstick at arms’ length like a pistol, Berg said aloud, “Pow! Gotcha!” Then he smiled at the thought, lifted the chicken to his mouth, finished it, and threw the bone into the trash.
He opened the cupboard door and grabbed a plate. Then he peered into the cooler, lifted an ear of corn onto the plate and pulled a chicken breast out of the foil package, adding it to his bounty. He topped it off with a softball-sized dollop of mashed potatoes. Shoving the dinner into the microwave, he stood waiting for the timer to ding.
Glancing into the living room, he saw the shotgun he’d loaded and propped in the corner nearest the door. He snorted.
That pimple-faced Jacob Cramer. By God, he isn’t a bit of help.
After meeting with Christofferson, he’d gone yet again to the Sheriff’s Office and shown Cramer the newest note. He frowned, remembering that, like the last time he went in, the young Deputy had made him feel like a silly old man. Probably figured anyone over fifty was ready for the scrap heap. Sometimes, he thought, with another look at the Remington 12 gauge, you just need to handle things yourself. He scratched at the neck of his wool shirt collar with a leathery finger. Deep in thought when the timer dinged, he jumped like he’d been stuck with a pin.
2 Death at Crooked Creek Page 6
