2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  The woman, her shiny salt and pepper hair swinging to her shoulders, reached down to pet Jack. Before Jessie could say “he bites”, the lady’s hand touched the orange head. Jack immediately began purring softly, squinting his eyes in ecstasy.

  “You lovely, well-behaved boy,” she crooned, pursing her lips at the tom. “Look at handsome little you and your classy harness.” Then she straightened, pushed her hair behind one ear, and smiled at Jessie. “What a sweetie. I imagine you can tell that I have cats.” She glanced back at the busy check-in desk, then said, “So, getting back to the art show—what about the quick-draw? I heard several people say they wanted to go. How does it work?” She laughed. “I’m assuming it isn’t a pistol contest.”

  Jessie chuckled dutifully. “No, it isn’t. Before the Saturday night auction, visitors can watch fifteen artists each create a work of art in only an hour, starting with a blank canvas. Servers wander the crowds, passing out tasty hors d’oeuvres, wine and elegant small desserts. People seem to really enjoy it. When the hour ends, the new pieces are auctioned off at the start of the main auction.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely going to watch that. Are you?”

  Jack, the traitor, was rubbing against the woman’s leg. The woman wore lovely black trousers in an expensive looking fabric. Jessie winced as she saw several orange hairs attach themselves to the cloth like Velcro to flannel.

  “Actually, I’m going to be painting in the quick-draw.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” the woman said with enthusiasm. “I’ll come and watch.” Then she frowned. “I came to town to handle some business this afternoon, but some of it has to wait until Monday. Luckily, I was able to get a reservation here. What a pleasant surprise to find an art show going on. I thought I’d have nothing to do between meetings.” She held out a delicate, well-manicured hand that sported expensive looking turquoise rings and a wide silver cuff bracelet. “I’m Anna Farraday.”

  Jessie looked into the woman’s warm brown eyes and reached out to grasp Anna Farraday’s hand, wishing her own were soft and baby-smooth instead of sandpaper rough, and her nails not so utilitarian, with the stain of ultramarine blue oil paint under several fingernails even after repeated scrubbing.

  “Nice to meet you. Welcome to the show. I’m Jessie O’Bourne. At two o’clock tomorrow afternoon I’ll be doing an oil painting demonstration in the area next to where the musicians will be playing.”

  “Oh, I’d love to watch that. What will you paint?”

  “I’m not sure yet. If I can find a model, it will be a portrait. But I suspect I’ll be painting a landscape from photo references. Maybe something with a few cows.” She gestured toward the art show information table. “You can pick up a schedule of events over there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Next.” The clerk at the hotel check-in desk beckoned.

  Anna Farraday turned slightly toward the counter, but before stepping over to check in, she cocked her head to the side and said, “So nice to meet you, Jessie. And your sweet cat.”

  Jessie nodded, trying to keep a straight face. “Let’s go, sweet thing,” she told Jack, giving a slight tug at his harness. They headed to the elevator where she saw a man waiting, leaning on the “up” button. Not wanting to take a chance on Jack’s leash becoming tangled in the door, she picked him up and gathered the excess cord as she waited for the elevator car. “Sweet. That woman called you ‘sweet’.” She threw back her head and laughter bubbled forth. She heard the elevator mechanism started with a rumble and a slight ding signaled the car was on its way downward. The light above the door indicated it had started from the top level. Jessie was stroking Jack’s soft fur when she realized the man waiting was Evan Hansen. His haggard face and hollow eyes gave evidence that he’d heard about his friend Benny’s murder.

  “I’m so sorry about Benny,” Jessie murmured. “It’s awful. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” Evan shook his head. “I should never have sent him out to the parking lot. I wasn’t thinking.” His face twisted as though in pain.

  “You certainly had no way of knowing he’d be attacked, Evan. It isn’t your fault.”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Miss O’Bourne. Jessie. It was my fault alright.” He punched the button again and again, then held his finger on it. “My fault entirely. It hadn’t occurred to me…,” He turned and looked at Jessie, his eyes haunted. “I don’t know why the text was made to look like it came from you. I guess just to get me out to the farthest, darkest corner of the parking lot. I’m really, really, sorry about that. If you’d gone out too, you could have been hurt.”

  “But…who…?” Jack squirmed, and Jessie put him down, snugging the leash close to her body so he couldn’t get near the elevator door. “What’s going on? You obviously think someone wanted to kill you, not Benny.” She peered closely at his face. “Why?”

  The door to the elevator opened, Evan stepped in and turned to face her, a ravaged expression on his face. He held the door open with one hand, and with the other he raked fingers through his hair. “Maybe I do. But I can’t prove anything. And you’re b-b-better off knowing nothing.” He was beginning to stutter.

  “Then you need to talk to the Sheriff.”

  Evan hung his head. “I…I’m on my way there as soon as I get my jacket. To speak to Sheriff Fischer again. But I d-d-doubt it will do any good. Take the next one Jessie. Don’t be seen talking to me.” The elevator doors slid shut. Jessie realized that while they spoke, but before she could step aboard, Evan had pressed the “door close” button.

  How rude. And how odd.

  Jessie stood staring, perplexed, at the closed doors, listening to the “ding” as the lift hit the various floors. Finally, it came back down, and after several passengers disembarked, she and Jack stepped in. Once they exited at the fifth floor, she set him down on the carpet and Jack trotted by her side in dog-like fashion. When she reached room 510, she gawked. In front of her door was another toy replica of the large tractor parked in front of the hotel. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand, looking at it in puzzlement. It matched the one she’d turned in at the hotel desk except part of the tractor cab had been painted with splotchy red.

  It doesn’t look as cute with the nasty blobs of red paint, she thought. Finally, she unlocked her door, stepped over an envelope that had been slipped under the door, and set the toy on the walnut dresser.

  As she stooped to pick up the missive, a swift orange paw swiped it sideways, sending it through the crack under the closet door. The cat gave a guttural sound of satisfaction, then yowled piteously to remind her that he had been a model of decorum and it was now time such good behavior should be rewarded, hopefully with salmon nuggets. Jessie removed Jack’s harness before rummaging in the box of cat paraphernalia to pull out treats. She pitched several to him, smiling as he pounced on each.

  Then she opened the closet door and reached for the white envelope. As she picked it up she saw a second one on the floor at the back of the small space. She grabbed it as well and glared at Jack. “You wily little bugger. You’ve been intercepting my hotel notes. I think that’s mail fraud.” Jack flipped the last piece of kibble into the air and pounced again.

  Jessie sank heavily onto the bed and opened the envelope that must have arrived first. It was a single sheet of thin paper covered in large black print. “What the heck?” she said aloud. “It’s like a bad fortune cookie.” The block letters stated:

  MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS

  IF YOU WANT TO LIVE

  Puzzled, Jessie turned it over and looked for a signature. Nothing. “This has to be some sort of joke. But it isn’t funny,” she told the tom, glancing down at him. “You do stick your nose in everything.” Jack slanted his reptilian eyes at her. She relented. “Well, okay, me too. We’re both snoopy. But nobody here knows that. It’s just plain weird.”

  She tossed the note aside and slid her finger under the flap of the second envelope.

  De
finitely not a joke.

  The enclosed note said;

  THE GIRL ON THE TRACTOR DIED FAST. SOMETHING MORE UNPLEASANT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU IF YOU DON’T STAY AWAY FROM SHERIFF FISCHER.

  Jessie sat stunned, her mouth slightly open. She looked from the note in her hand to the toy tractor, with its ominous splotch of red. She again stared down at the blunt note with the nasty warning.

  I’ll bet the first note has been here since sometime in the night—the same time the tractor must have been left at the door. She remembered the woman in the restaurant booth talking about a girl named Adele who got shot while in a tractor. And the Sheriff asked about the big tractor…it must be connected to the toys dropped at my door. But why on earth threaten ME, for God’s sake?

  Goosebumps rose along her forearms and Jessie felt chilled. She rubbed her arms with the palms of her hands and glanced around the room cautiously. It looked normal. The room was tidy. Welcoming. Beautifully appointed. The same rich bedspread covered the bed. The room held the same luxuriously thick sheepskin rug she had oohed and aahed over the night before. A coffee pot rested on a tray filled with packets of regular and decaf grounds. A clear baggie held creamer, stirring sticks, and sugar packets.

  Nothing had changed.

  Jessie had told housekeeping they could keep work to a minimum on her room, since she’d be staying nearly a week. The maid had been in with new towels, but the woman hadn’t vacuumed, or she’d have found the first note that Jack must’ve flipped under the closet door and she’d have picked it up and set it on the desk.

  From her seat on the bed, Jessie stared at her reflection in the mirror over the walnut burl dresser. Her eyes were huge in a face as pale as cream except where freckles scattered across her face like confetti. As usual, her auburn hair, albeit shorter than normal, was a tangle of unruly curls. On her casual gray tunic, the image of Michelangelo’s famous touching fingers looked accusing, as though the two pointed at each other in condemnation. She reached down and picked up the cat, hugging him close to her chest and pressing her face into his fur. She shuddered.

  “You know what, Jack? I really hate room 510.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Poolside, Crooked Creek Lodge

  “My gosh, Jessie. You cut your hair. Let me look at you.” Esther circled Jessie, staring in amazement. “It’s cute. So much shorter, but very cleverly cut.” The slender woman’s white blond hair sported her usual short spiky “do” and she towered over Jessie. Always elegant, Esther was wearing a flowing red skirt and one of what Jessie considered Esther’s signature tops—a long silky tunic with a pattern of treble and bass clef notes. She wore strappy red heels that added an extra three inches to her already tall frame. After visiting with Glen and Camille, and now Esther and Arvid, Jessie, at 5’7”, was beginning to feel like a munchkin. Maybe she needed some stacked heel cowboy boots to go with her western outfits.

  “Yeah,” she said, “Most of the artists got their hair cut for a charity the art show is sponsoring this year.”

  Arvid looked startled. He peered at Jessie as though he were nearsighted. “Geez, you sure did. It’s shorter. I didn’t notice.”

  Esther and Jessie exchanged amused glances.

  “Yes. It’s a couple feet shorter. It was down to her waist.” Esther grimaced good-naturedly. “Do you mean to tell me that you just lunched with Jessie and never noticed? I should save my money by not going to the beauty shop if a change this drastic doesn’t register with you, you big blind goof. I could save up for that baby grand piano I want.” Her gaze took on a dreamy quality. “Maybe not a Steinway, but still…a good one.”

  “Aw, Esther, you know I notice everything about you, Sweetheart.” He gave her a mock leer.

  “Hmph,” she muttered. She put her hands on her hips. “It’s a good thing you have other redeeming qualities, or I’d simply have to trade you in for a couple twenty-five-year-olds.” She sat back down, a tablet of lined musical composition paper in front of her. She was seldom without it, saying she never knew when an idea might hit.

  “Arvid has redeeming qualities?” Jessie laughed and took the seat across from Esther. “And more than one?” she teased, looking at him. “What’s top of the list?”

  Esther looked thoughtful. “Well…There’s um…” She flipped the pencil she was holding end over end, finally setting it down on the music score she’d been composing. “And hmmm. Well, uh.” She snapped her fingers. “The man makes a mean omelet. The best ever.”

  “That’s it?” blustered Arvid. “A mean omelet? That’s all you can think of?” Then he glimpsed the look of sheer devilment in Esther’s beautiful ice-blue eyes. “See if you get any more of my specialty Sunday eggs.” He looked at Jessie and crooked a thumb at Esther. “She likes my baked trout, too. That reminds me. I need to check on the fishing regs. I talked to Glen Heath a few minutes ago and he said yesterday he spotted a huge rainbow trout in the riffles over in Bobcat Creek. I’m going to—”

  Jessie was done with small talk. She laid her hand over his, causing him to look at her in surprise. Her eyes were serious pools of deep blue. “Arvid. I know you’re anxious to get in some fly fishing. But something came up that I need to run by you and Esther before we discuss trout. I haven’t even made an appointment with Max over the issue of last year’s painting proceeds.” She took in a deep breath and was horrified to hear her voice catch as she continued. “You know the toy tractor I found by the door to my room? Well, there was another one waiting for me when we came back from lunch…and it was splotched with red and came accompanied by a bizarre note. A threatening note.”

  She placed the toy tractor and the two envelopes in front of him. While he opened them and read, glancing up at her in alarm when he came to the part about the girl dying on the tractor, she told Esther about the toys, the text message that lured Benny out to the parking lot, finding his body in the Hawk and the interview with Sheriff Fischer. She also mentioned Evan’s odd comments and her suspicion that he knew something.

  “There’s no sense worrying about fingerprints, I suppose. I handled both letters and envelopes, and it looks like Jack gnawed on the corner of the first one while he was batting it around. It must have been slipped under the door sometime during the night, and Jack managed to push it under the crack of the closet door out of sight. He loves to play with paper. I found it just a few minutes ago.” Then Jessie told them about the conversation she remembered overhearing in the lodge restaurant that morning—the discussion about a woman being shot in the tractor that now supported the big advertising banner.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. And Sheriff Fischer was asking you what you knew about the big John Deere outside.” Checking his watch, he said, “Like I said before, I don’t believe in coincidences. Get your coat, Jess. Let’s head back down to the Sheriff’s Office and talk to Fischer right now.”

  “I should…,” Jessie began. She had wanted to stop by the Yellowstone Room and see how the display looked before the opening reception and ask if the museum staff manning it that evening had any questions. She looked at her watch. Well, she’d given them the prices and info on each of her paintings. She could simply assume they knew what they were doing, but before she went to the reception, she needed to shower, dress and do her hair. As guest artist, she wanted to at least look nice. She put a hand to her mouth. But the notes rattled her. She gave herself a mental shake.

  Calm down. As she often did when overstressed, she took a deep breath and began silently reciting the colors on her studio palette to herself.

  Ultramarine blue. Cobalt. Burnt umber. Burnt sienna. Cadmium orange. She put her hand down and flexed her fingers. Yellow ochre. Cadmium yellow pale …

  “Nah,” Arvid said. “No matter what you were going to say, it can wait. We’re going to find out why Fischer was asking about the behemoth of a tractor out there and find out anything and everything about this girl who was killed in one. He’s gotta know something. We’ll plop the fish back in his creel."
<
br />   Jessie stared at him.

  "You know. Toss the ball back in his court." He smirked. "I like to give the old clichés a bit of fisherman's panache. And when we come back, we’ll brainstorm.”

  Esther started to stand and put her sweater on.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Arvid asked.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Nup,” Arvid said. “You’ve got rehearsal in about fifteen minutes. We’ll fill you in when we get back.”

  “But—” Esther looked crestfallen.

  “No, he’s right. There’s no need for all of us to go. I don’t have a vehicle, or I could go by myself.”

  “Oh, sure.” Arvid’s tone was sarcastic. “Someone just got murdered. The body got dumped in the Hawk. You're getting threatening letters. But you think you can handle it by your lonesome?” He gave her a mock disgusted look.

  “Well," Jessie said in a small voice. "I’d rather have help. That’s why I brought the notes to you. But I’m fine.” She knew by the tremor in her voice that she wasn’t fine, though. She wasn’t good. She wasn’t even fair.

  Blast it, she thought. I don’t even think it’s just room 510.

  She looked out at the slushy landscape and the snow—yesterday a gorgeous, sparkling white—now a filthy sludge from the mud churned up by vehicle tires.

  I just flat out hate Crooked Creek. And tractors. I really hate tractors.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fort Stewart Army Base, Georgia - Previous December

  Harris Freeman watched his buddy as Dom scribbled a list of what he needed to do—and in what order—to expedite leaving the service.

  Dom always was an organized S.O.B., he thought. His ducks aren’t just in a row. They waddle military style in a precision line-up. Hell, his goddamn ducks salute.