2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Glen had finally focused on the conversation and gave a belly laugh. “Max was spitting mad when he was outbid. The same buyer from Boston bought one of my small ones. A horse and rider piece.” He rubbed his chin. “What was that guy’s name? Some president’s name. Man, I can see him standing there with that pleased look on his face. He comes nearly every year. Big man, almost my height. Sandy blonde hair, slightly crooked nose.”

  “Sexy,” Camille threw in. “Very hunky.”

  Jessie stared at them. It surely couldn’t be. From Boston? Big, light haired and with a cute little crook to his nose. She felt heat suffuse her face. That louse.

  Then Glen took another slurp of mocha grande. “Johnson. Big buyer. Nice fellow, too.”

  Jessie felt herself relax. She stood. “I’m going to go over and stand closer to the piano. Esther’s ready to play.”

  Camille nodded at Jessie. “Keep the catalog until tomorrow.” Then she looked at Glen. “No, it wasn’t Johnson. It was—”

  “No, no, don’t tell me.” Glen snapped his fingers. “That coffee is clearing my mind. I’ve got it. Two presidents. He’s named after not one, but two, of our fearless leaders.”

  From the other end of the room, Esther and the guitarist pounded into an instrumental version of Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” with just a hint of sultry background murmuring from Esther to replace the vocal portion.

  She’s good, Jessie thought. And what a choice of music. She could relate to the lyrics. Jessie sighed. At least nothing but a dinner date really happened between that louse and herself, but she had been hopeful she’d finally found a soul mate—until she discovered he was married. Drek. Jessie knew whose name Glen was going to say before he said it. Then Glen’s earlier words registered. And he comes nearly every year? He’d better not show his face, the liar. He had a huge nerve to buy my Glacier Park painting.

  “The guy’s name is Grant Kennedy,” Glen announced triumphantly.

  Jessie threw Glen a dark look. She was seething. If she didn’t do something she felt as though she’d burst into flame.

  “Hey.” He reared back. “What’s that look for? I didn’t do anything.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Jessie picked up his wine glass and downed the remains in one gulp. “But I’m going to.”

  Glen and Camille gaped at her.

  “What? What’re you going to do, Jess?” Glen grumbled looking at his empty glass.

  Camille followed Jessie’s gaze and understanding dawned. She smiled broadly. “Ha! She’s going to sing.”

  “Hey,” Glen called after Jessie as she stormed toward Esther and the baby grand. “I bet it’ll be delightful.”

  *.*.*

  Arvid was lounging by the piano, beaming at Esther while her fingers flew over the keys. She was lost in the music. He was sure she’d forgotten he was there, but he was in a forgiving mood. For him, not much beat listening to his wife at the piano, doing what she did so well. Well, maybe listening to Esther and Jessie together. They filled a room with soul. Or maybe listening to Esther and Jessie while munching on more of those stuffed mushrooms. He looked at his small empty plate, then gazed hopefully around to see if there were any more servers in the vicinity.

  Huh, here comes Jessie. And that gal looks mad as a Swede with his beard caught in the mailbox. Cripes. Wonder what’s up?

  The last note of the song reverberated through the sound system as Jessie stormed up. She nodded to the guitarist, then gave Esther a look that Esther interpreted immediately. Her lovely smile took in Jessie’s stormy expression, but instead of questioning her, she reached into a satchel and pulled out a folder of music.

  “Music’s good for what ails you,” she murmured. “Want to belt out some songs?”

  *.*.*

  When Russell walked in, Jessie was wailing out a Reba McIntyre song, stomping a booted foot that sported a dangling turquoise bangle, her green silk blouse open at the neck, and her black velvet skirt swirling around shapely legs. Esther, Jessie, and the grinning guitarist were rocking the reception. The crowd was rowdy, loud, and bordered on disorderly. Some of the men waved cowboy hats in the air and many of Jessie’s artist friends yelled, “Go, Jess!”

  Leaning against a pillar near the piano, Arvid stood tapping a foot and popping cherry tomatoes into his mouth from a paper napkin. He saw Russell and beckoned him over.

  “Hey, Russell. Where’s K.D.?”

  “I decided not to bring him. I dropped him at his grandpa’s and asked Janice Dahlgren to fill in if Dan needs her.” He didn’t look at Arvid. His eyes were trained on the red-head wailing into the microphone. Then he looked around the room. “Sure glad I decided not to bring him, K.D.. Half the room looks soused.”

  “Nup,” Arvid said gruffly, “Most of them are just having a good time, Russell. I think it’s too bad you left your son home. As much as K.D. likes to draw, the boy would have been in his element going through the art rooms. Man, he would have loved it. But maybe next year, huh?” Then he noticed the mesmerized look on Russell’s face as his gaze fell on Jessie.

  She became a different person when she sang. The music took hold of her as thoroughly as the colors on her artist’s palette and the feel of a brush in her hand. Arvid waved a beefy hand holding a teriyaki skewer at the piano where Esther pounded the keys with the impact of gunfire, and Jessie, head thrown back, eyes closed, filled the room with her rich, throaty voice. “So, what do you think?”

  “Omigod,” Russell said. “I just can’t believe it.” He looked at Arvid and gave him a stricken look. “Jessie cut her hair.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Tate sat in room 160 and looked at the numerical list of art-work. He pulled a drawing from one of the boxes, unwound the bubble-wrap, flipped it over and checked the back.

  Nothing.

  He tried the next one.

  Zip. Blast it.

  Why did his sister offer to dream up titles for each one if she wasn’t going to put a corresponding number on the back when she made up the list? At least the display was up. The lights looked good. The panels looked like he knew what he was doing.

  Thank God for rental services.

  Walking down the hall after getting dinner, he noticed that some of the artists were already open for business. Evidently, they’d invited special customers and opened their show rooms, even though the schedule listed the Expo opening as ten the next morning. Well, he was learning the ropes.

  Some great music came from the reception area. He stood by the open double doors and listed for a few minutes. Man, some gal had an amazing pair of pipes. He dragged himself away. He didn’t have time to listen if he was going to pull off this art show. The room had to look professional. He needed access to the artists’ hospitality room and hoped to meet as many artists as possible. Get them to talk to him.

  Worried, he looked at the boxes lined up by the wall. They were full of framed sketches. He wondered if the work he’d brought would fool anyone. Would they think he was good enough to be here? Then he shook his head. I always wanted to give it a try, but that didn’t matter. It isn’t the point. Selling art is not your plan, my man. Keep your eye on the goal.

  He checked his watch. 7:50. He didn’t really expect Jessie O’Bourne to show up at nine. But wouldn’t it be nice if she did? If she took him up on his offer of dancing at Buck’s Pub? Just in case, he’d better pull this together pronto. He wished he’d worked on it during the afternoon.

  He opened another box and examined another sketch.

  Not bad.

  The loose drawing was a good likeness of the appaloosa mare he’d had in high school. Snowdrop. What a neat horse she’d been. Staring at the piece, he became lost in thought, his mind dragging his heart back to the past, to the feel of the horse beneath him, the smell of lilacs at the edge of the horse paddock. Then he took one of the labels and carefully printed a title in neat block letters. How should he price it?

  Maybe I’ll mark it sold. Keep the damn thing.r />
  He examined the frame. It sure wasn’t like the expensive ones Jessie O’Bourne had on her work, but passable. The frame shop had given him a break on the price since he needed fifteen of the same molding. They’d framed them, boxed them and shipped them. Most of the time, he’d drawn on a paper with a rough "deckled" or uncut edge. The frame shop had mounted each sketch on a backing of dark grey matboard, letting the rough edges show. He liked the finished product. All he’d had to do was slap over two thousand dollars on his credit card.

  Ouch.

  He grinned, looking at the drawing. This one was Patterson’s Barn.

  Hoo-boy. It made him think of Louise Patterson and the senior prom. He looked at the list.

  Yep. Number five.

  He was getting the hang of this. Picking up a metal hanger that slipped over the top edge of the carpet-covered display panel, he hung the drawing, then neatly printed the price label and mounted it on the panel with a small piece of Velcro. It looked damn good. Maybe he’d even sell some.

  Wouldn’t it be crazy if he broke even on this lunatic plan?

  Every hotel room in town was full because of the western art show, so it was lucky there was a last-minute space in the show and he could get a rollaway bed and sleep in the room. He turned on his display lights to make sure all of the bulbs lit.

  Well, I’d better get busy.

  *.*.*

  While he was squatting on the floor unwrapping the last eight sketches, Tate heard a tentative knock on the door. He checked his watch and smiled. Nine. He stood and stretched, rubbed the small of his back, and swung the door open. Jessie stood there, positively glowing. She gave him a little wave. Tate grinned.

  “Greetings, M’Lady O’Bourne of Crooked Creek.” He bowed theatrically. Then he noticed she was accompanied by a tall elegant woman with close-cropped white hair. A woman who looked amused. Behind the woman were two men—one enormous bruiser who smiled broadly and one younger, slightly shorter man whose face wore a gloomy expression.

  “Ah. I see you’ve brought your entourage as well.”

  “We came by to check out your work and then we’re off for a late dinner. Care to come along?” Jessie’s eyes twinkled.

  Tate stood back and invited them in. Jessie made quick introductions and looked around the room.

  “Well, you slug. You aren’t even finished setting up yet.” She picked up a wrapped drawing and began removing the bubble wrap. When it was unwrapped, she looked at the drawing of a small girl sitting on a swing, holding a long-haired cat. “This is lovely. You have a great flair for pencil work. I like the way you used the side of your pencil here to soften the shading on the little girl’s face, but elsewhere the strokes of graphite are as crisp and expressive as brush strokes.”

  She beamed at Tate. “I’ll come and look at everything tomorrow.” She leaned the drawing against a display panel. Esther and Arvid were admiring the few pieces already hung. Russell was standing near the open doorway.

  “Don’t you want to come and eat before you hang the rest?” Jessie asked. “You said last night that the band would be playing at Buck’s pub by the pool, and Arvid said the restaurant has a special—chicken-fried steak. We thought we’d get our food to go and take it out to a table, so we can listen to the music.”

  Tate looked at Jessie, then at the scowl that deepened on her friend Russell’s face. He thought about the chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy he’d had only a couple hours earlier. He’d topped it off with an enormous piece of New York cheesecake with the best raspberry topping he’d ever tasted. Glancing again at the thundercloud countenance of Russell's face, Tate felt the devil of mischief tap him on the shoulder. A big sharp rap.

  “Sure,” he said heartily, slapping Russell on the back. “Nice to meet you. Let’s do it.” He reached up and turned off the strip of display lights. He draped an arm around Jessie. “Maybe tomorrow you can give me some pointers on spiffing up my display, Lady O’Bourne.” He grinned at Arvid and Esther. “Man, I’m starved, aren’t you?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office, next morning

  “No, there weren’t any toy tractors left with Berg Nielson’s threatening notes,” Sheriff Fischer said in a matter of fact tone. “But there is a similarity between his and those left at the hotel.” He placed one of the threats Berg Nielson had received next to one left at Jessie’s hotel door. “Most people think printing isn’t distinctive but they’re wrong. Look at these.” He held his thumb and index finger a pinch apart. “People tend to print their letters about the same height every time. They use the same slight slant. Subtle, but definitely there if you know what to look for.”

  “Ya. The sad thing is, you gotta compare it something you can connect with a name, if you want to catch who’s doing it,” Arvid said, peering at the two sheets. Fischer laid another threatening note next to the one Jessie had received. Then another. Soon, there were about ten more threatening missives lined up on the oak desk. There was a definite look about them. And Jessie’s two notes looked like they were printed by the same hand as the rest.

  “He was persistent, wasn’t he?” Russell asked in a disgusted tone. “You promote the idea that you’re going to come and kill the old man, just drive him crazy with worry. Then paranoia finally does the dirty job for the killer. What a devilish plan on top of shooting the daughter. I’m assuming you feel that her death was no accident?”

  Fischer nodded. “No accident.”

  “And why didn’t he know his son was on the way home?” Arvid looked sad. “A whole family. Gone.”

  “The neighbor—he goes by the nickname ‘Wheels’,” Fischer said making air quotes, “told us that originally Dominic wanted to surprise his dad for Christmas. Anyhow, Wheels agreed to pick him up at the airport. He said he was glad to do it, just to help a member of the armed forces. When the weather turned so sour, he called Berg to let him know he’d be dropping Dominic off, but it would be really late because of the horrible roads. The call must have come in when Berg was outside doing chores. We don’t think the old man noticed there was a message on the machine.”

  Russell and Arvid looked expectantly at Fischer. Fischer was working his jaw.

  “But, you’ve got something don’t you?” Arvid finally asked.

  “A video.”

  “A video?” Arvid and Russell spoke at once.

  “Don’t get excited. All it shows is boots. Goddamn boots. Someone is walking up to the front door at night, and we have the infrared video of someone’s boots. It’s from one of those trail cams that capture photos of wildlife at night. They take infrared pictures—short videos, actually—when movement triggers the mechanism. Adele’s boyfriend suggested it to Berg and set it up for him so that it was unobtrusive. I suspect Berg was curious, and after the kid set it to take pictures of the front door, Berg picked it up but didn’t put it back at quite the correct angle. All we got was a movie of the perp’s feet. And we wouldn’t even have those if the boyfriend hadn’t called us about it after Berg and Dom died. We had to dig around in the snow to find it.”

  “And what’s the boyfriend’s name?” Arvid took out a small notebook and a stub of a chewed pencil. Russell pulled up the note program on his phone.

  “Evan Hanson.”

  Arvid and Russell stared. An hour earlier they’d written Evan Hanson’s name down for another reason. He was the one who was supposed to be in Jessie’s room.

  “This isn’t good,” Arvid said. “Especially not for Evan Hanson.”

  “Nope. It isn’t.” Fischer tapped his pencil on the desk. “When I found out Evan Hanson was originally booked into the hotel room where the threatening notes were left, you could have blown me away like dandelion fuzz. Someone must know he brought us the video and whoever that is, they wrongly suspect that he knows more than he does.”

  “So. Jessie must be right. Benny was killed accidentally. In the dark corner of that parking lot, with the snow coming down, he
could easily have been mistaken for Evan. I’ll bet the killer was expecting Evan, not his cousin.” Arvid grumbled. “Can we see the trail cam footage?”

  Fifteen minutes later, after watching Evan’s video twice, Russell asked Arvid. “Can you get a handle on how big the feet are?”

  Arvid shook his head.

  “I can’t either. There isn’t anything to judge the size against.” He looked toward Fischer. “The boots are also pretty nondescript. Everybody around here probably has a pair like that.” He leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward, rolling his shoulders and stretching the kinks out of his back. Then he told Fischer. “You know, we had a murder case last summer in Sage Bluff, and Jessie was more help than anybody on the payroll. She’s observant.”

  Fischer gawked. “Miss O’Bourne? You aren’t suggesting that we let a civilian look at it, are you? I really wouldn’t be in favor of that.”

  “Huh,” Arvid grunted. “Well, Russell’s right. She looks at things differently. She’s a lot more observant. Might be a help.”

  “I agree,” Russell said. “But I hate to get Jess involved in this case.”

  “Absolutely not,” Fischer agreed. “I wouldn’t even consider showing this to anyone not on the case. And now that she’s moved to a different room, I’m certain she’ll be okay.”

  Arvid shrugged. “We hope so.”

  “Who inherits the Nielson’s ranch?” Russell asked, changing the subject.

  “It’s still up in the air,” Fischer said. “Berg Nielson was dead when the paramedics found him. Dom was still alive but died shortly thereafter. He would have been next in line. And he had a will. A sorry excuse of a will, actually, but according to the lawyer for the estate it is a viable will. It was a handwritten sheet we found in his wallet, and it left everything to a buddy from Fort Stewart Army Base.”

  “Interesting.” Arvid scribbled down the name of the base. “So why haven’t they contacted him after all this time? And what’s his name?”