2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  The sound of frantic pounding and yelling came from the ladies’ restroom. “Hey! What kind of stunt is this? Hey, let us out!”

  “And if you didn’t smell so bad and you wasn’t a cop, I’d whomp you a good one. I'm hauling this load on a tight deadline. And I can’t leave now. You know why?” He scowled down at Jacob. “You know why I can’t make deadline? Because my old lady’s stuck in the can, that’s why. She’s gonna be madder than a wolverine with a migraine.”

  Jacob groaned.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  March - Crooked Creek Art Expo

  Glen was gesturing toward the largest sculpture in his display room and grinning at his potential client. “It’s the best one I’ve ever done,” he said, “And definitely one of my personal favorites.”

  His customer, a man dressed in a blue Hawaiian shirt with a swordfish pattern, bent down to peer at the detail in the long pack-train bronze. A rider astride a muscled horse led three pack horses laden with panniers, one with elk antlers piled atop the supplies and wrapped meat.

  “Where did you get the idea for this one, Glen?” He straightened up and fingered the price tag.

  “Up in the Kalispell area, near the Canadian border…we had a pretty good hunt that year.” Glen looked closely at his price tag and then told the man, “I can come down a thousand for you, Butch, since you’re a repeat buyer. One of my favorite clients. Make it about fifteen thousand five hundred.” He looked expectantly at the man, who stroked his chin and seemed to consider the price.

  Jessie sat in Glen’s small easy chair while he and the man exchanged good-hearted banter. She thumbed through a motorcycle magazine on Glen’s end table. My gosh. Glen was worse than her dentist. Why have such an old magazine? She looked at the issue date. It was two years old. One article on antique Harley Davidson motorcycles made her open her eyes wide. She’d had no idea they were worth so much money. As much as her Greyhawk. Thinking of the Hawk, she scowled.

  When am I going to get it back?

  She pulled her attention back to the big sculptor and his customer.

  “It’s a done deal, then,” Glen was telling the man. “Fifteen even and you pay the shipping, Butch.” He slapped the smaller man on the back. “You drive a hard bargain. But I appreciate you, man.”

  Butch beamed. His eyes had the gleam of a man who looked in the mirror and imagined a killer negotiator looking back.

  “Oh, that’s exciting,” Jessie said, putting the magazine down and standing to give the man a wide smile. “Where are you going to put your new piece?”

  “This one’s going in my corporate office, I think.” He looked at Jessie with appreciation. “Or perhaps the cabin in Vail.” He held out his hand to shake Jessie’s. “You’re the guest artist, aren’t you? Jessie O’Bourne? I just bought one of your wildlife paintings—the 20 x 40 of the mule deer coming down the game trail. I may hang it above this sculpture of Glen’s.”

  “I’m delighted,” Jessie said cheerfully, “and pleased it will be in such great company. Glen’s sculptures are fabulous.”

  After a few minutes of small talk, Butch left, and Glen grabbed Jessie by the arm. “He was an early appointment,” Glen said. “He wanted first pick before the show opened. Shall we lock the room, and take our ride? They plowed this morning and with the sunshine we’re getting today we shouldn’t have any trouble. I’m anxious to show you my new bike. Once you try the Harley you’re going to want one, Jess,” he said in a voice booming with confidence. “You flat out won’t be able to resist.” He glanced at the magazine Jessie had put down. “See anything you can’t live without? There are some valuable bikes in that collector’s issue. Pricey. I’d have to sell a bunch of these big pieces to buy the one I’d like to own.”

  Jessie laughed, thinking of a couple pages of bikes with price tags more like those of second homes for wealthy clientele. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t know a thing about motorcycles. This is going to be my first experience on anything with two wheels. Well, except my old Schwinn.”

  Glen steered her through the door and locked it. “Well, you’re in for a treat, and since I just made a wonderful sale, the cinnamon rolls and coffee are on me. There’s a place here in town, the Black Cow Coffee Shop, that has the best pastries you ever tasted.” He gave her a leering smile. “I’ll warn you, I’m going to be your favorite person after this. Wait and see. Our first date, Jessie. When I feed a gal, I call it a date.”

  Jessie threw back her head and laughed, “I’ve been there.” Then she shook her finger at him. “Oh, a date, huh? You must think I’m a pretty cheap date, mister. A cinnamon roll? No, I don’t call it a date unless I get fed steak. Or prime rib.” She grinned to let him know she was teasing. “I’ll bet you were the kind of teenager who took your date to the Gas ‘n’ Go on Saturday night and bought her a piece of beef jerky and day-old nachos with easy cheese.”

  “Nah. I sprung for a coke, too. What do you think I am? Cheap?”

  In the parking lot, Glen handed her a helmet. “Here, put this on. See if you can cram all that red hair in there.” He put on his own helmet. “And wait until you see these cinnamon rolls. They’re as wide as a dinner plate. You won’t be dissing my dating skills. Besides, I’m not that out of practice.”

  Jessie got on the bike, then put on the helmet and wrapped her arms as far as she could around Glen’s middle. As they sped down the street she hung on and said a few Norwegian gems under her breath. But after several blocks, she was having a blast. If it was this much fun to go 32 miles an hour in town, what it would be like out on the open road? Exhilarating, she thought. Then she saw a small spatter spread across the faceplate of her helmet. And buggy. Especially in mid-summer when some of the grasshoppers in Montana seemed the size of small birds. Glen cut a corner on the next block and hit the gas. Jessie began to feel exposed on the Harley.

  Motorcycles are notoriously bad in an accident. Deadly.

  She wanted something nice and big to drive—aka safer—for trips to rural places where she could paint outdoors. In Sage Bluff, she used an old Ford truck she’d driven in high school. It was perfect. And she liked having a vehicle that allowed her to take Jack along. Maybe when she went to choose her loaner, she’d give something larger a try. Maybe an F350 pickup.

  They ground to a halt at a stoplight, next to exactly the kind of pickup she had in mind. It was a large blue Ford F350 that loomed over the Glen’s cycle. Jessie grinned. It was almost like she’d conjured up the big vehicle. The Harley rumbled underneath her as Jessie stared at the behemoth next to them. Involuntarily, she took one hand from Glen’s waist and flexed her fingers. In her mind, she mixed ultramarine and a touch of cobalt—colors she figured would achieve the blue color of that mirror-like polish. Her hand made a tentative stroke with an imaginary brush.

  Glen gave a whoop and twisted the throttle. The bike lurched forward, jarring Jessie back into the present. She hurriedly put her hand back on his waist. As they passed the pickup, Glen tossed the driver a wave.

  By the time they pulled up in front of The Black Cow Coffee Shop, Jessie was daydreaming about what color pickup she’d rent. Cherry red, she thought. Cadmium. Maybe with a glint of metallic.

  *.*.*

  “Oh, Lordy,” Jessie exclaimed as the chubby waitress set the cinnamon roll down in front of her. She looked up at the server. “I can tell you right now I’m going to need a take-out box.”

  “Most folks do,” the waitress said with a knowing look. Then she looked at Glen.

  “Nope. No box here. I might even eat her extra half,” he said.

  The waitress nodded and hurried off.

  Jessie took a sip of coffee, then cut the roll in two, pushing one half to the side of the plate and slathering the other with butter. She cut off a piece and popped it into her mouth. “Yum. You were right. Best rolls ever, except for those my friend Shelly bakes.” She bit into another piece, savoring the cinnamon and raisin center thoughtfully. “Hmmm. A close tie, but S
helly wears the crown—queen of any kind of sweet roll. Of course, I give her extra credit because she and her husband own a couple of my paintings.” Her mouth turned down, remembering that she’d helped the couple find their daughter’s killer the year before.

  “That doesn't count. You have to judge on the sweet roll alone." He seemed to register Jessie's thoughtful expression. "What are you thinking? You look sort of down. Are you getting soured like me? Sick of selling work you poured your whole heart into to people with so much money they don’t bother to count it? Seems like every time I sell a sculpture it’s to someone who packs it away in their collection and barely thinks about it afterward.”

  “No. I wasn’t thinking that.” Jessie answered. She pushed thoughts of the dead Reynolds girl away and tried to smile. “I’m always tickled to sell my work, whether it’s a large expensive showpiece or a little 8 x 10." She frowned at Glen. "Don’t you think it’s obvious they love your work when they decide to buy? I don’t expect to be the only one whose work they appreciate. You're a wonderful sculptor. People buy your pieces because they're so good. Destined to be collector’s items or family heirlooms.”

  “Hmph.” Glen frowned back at her. “Thanks, but it gets my goat. Like this guy who just bought the pack train sculpture. He won’t remember he even owns it once he puts it in his corporate office. He’s only there a few weeks out of the year. Hell, he probably thinks I’m like a clerk at the dollar store. My price tags are peanuts to people like that. You and I both know he could have afforded to pay full price. It costs a fortune to cast something that big in bronze.”

  Jessie made murmuring sounds of agreement. She did indeed know how expensive it was to cast a bronze. “I do know. Framing a large painting costs quite a bit but not like casting a bronze sculpture. Especially a big one.”

  “Two grand. I came down two grand because he wants to feel like a fabulous negotiator. It makes him feel important. And that’s the only time that jerk ever buys.” He took a bite of roll. “Ah well. I needed the money.”

  “I understand what you're saying. But personally, I don’t mind giving people a bit of a break. Especially if they’ve bought artwork from me before.”

  “Well, not me." He scowled. "I’m tired of not getting top dollar for my work. After all, I won’t be able to sculpt forever. There’s too much repetitive motion with sculpting and I’m getting older." He gave her a fake leer. "I'm not TOO old, you understand." Then his expression became serious. "But arthritis is starting to give me problems with my hands.” He flexed his fingers. "And the continual modeling of the wax is causing carpal tunnel."

  “That’s too bad.” Giving Glen a sympathetic look, Jessie took a last bite of her roll, then put the other half in the go box. "That has to be a huge worry. Have you been to a doctor? They can do a lot with carpal tunnel problems even with exercises alone."

  Glen avoided her gaze. "Uh huh. I'm not worried. Somehow, I just have a feeling my ship is about to come in. And it's going to be a super tanker." He made a fist pump. Then he chuckled, gave her a warm smile and picked up the check as he got to his feet. "Let's head back. We don't want to miss that boat. Just in case it docked while I was showing you such a good time. With my extreme dating skills and all that.”

  Jessie rolled her eyes and stood, picking up her go box.

  “Besides,” Glen continued. “I heard about the cops messing up your motorhome. That's tough luck. How about we stop off at the Harley place and see if you can rent a bike? Ten to one they have a couple they use for exactly that."

  Jessie laughed. "No, thanks! If I decide I need a rental, I've got my eye on a pickup."

  Glen blew her a raspberry.

  Chapter Thirty

  Arvid held the phone to his ear, listening to Sheriff Fischer explain about the motorhome. He turned his head to the side and choked back a laugh. Esther looked at him with inquiring eyes.

  “Nup.” Arvid choked out. “Jessie must have her phone off. She wanted to set up supplies—you know, paint and canvas—for her painting demo before she came down to pick up the motorhome.” Arvid looked at his watch. “Yep. She asked me to bring her down. And it does sound like news you should break in person, not over the phone. I imagine there’s paperwork involved.” He listened. “Hmmm. I’ve never had that experience, either. I’m not exactly sure what the protocol is. But we were planning to head your way in about twenty minutes.” More mumbling from the phone and then Arvid said firmly. “Oh, no you don’t. Uh uh. Not me.”

  He felt sorry for Fischer. But not sorry enough to be the one who told Jessie about her beloved Hawk. “I’m not going to do your dirty work.” He grimaced and looked at Esther. “I doubt it. But if you think the situation could use a woman’s touch, ask her yourself.” He held the cell phone out to Esther and doubled over. “It’s Fischer,” he grunted.

  “This is Esther Abrahmsen. How are you this fine day, Sheriff Fischer?” She glanced at Arvid in alarm. He was now holding his stomach and wheezing. “Oh, not good. I’m so sorry. Hmmm. Yes …skunked. Totaled? Ah…I see.” Her eyes twinkled as she murmured into the phone in a soothing, sympathetic and cultured tone. “Nooo. I’m so sorry to hear about that. Jessie will be devastated. Absolutely devastated…I see. You want me to warn her and soften the blow?”

  She waggled her finger at Arvid and waved her hand in front of her face as though fanning away fumes. Then she stuck her tongue out and pulled a stinky face, pretending to hold her nose before speaking into the cellphone, still in her dulcet tones. “Wild horses, Sheriff Fischer.” She straightened her spine and scowled. “I’m sure you know the cliché. The proverbial wild horses, bison bulls and red devils couldn’t coerce me to do your dirty work. Pull up those big boy boxers and tell Jessie yourself.” Then she added sweetly. “Have a wonderful day.” She handed Arvid his cellphone. “The nerve of that coward.”

  Arvid grabbed her around her waist and pulled her to him in a bear hug. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “That’s my girl.”

  *.*.*

  Arvid glanced sideways at Jessie, sitting in the passenger seat of his pickup and looking pleased to be on the way to pick up her Hawk.

  Man, I should probably warn her, he thought. A teenager with his first car has nothing on the way she feels about that motorhome.

  “Uh, you know, there seemed to be something sort of iffy about you picking up the Hawk today when I talked to Fischer. Maybe it isn’t quite ready. I’ll help you find a good rental if that’s the case.”

  “Nah. He said it was good to go when I talked to him this morning. But thanks anyhow, Arvid.”

  “But you know, things happen.”

  “They’d better not happen,” Jessie snapped. “The Sheriff’s Office should be done with it by now. I need the Hawk. Half my wardrobe is in the closet.”

  “I’m just sayin’. If for any reason you do need a rental, maybe you can…uh…find a good pickup or something to tide you over. Er…until you have things figured out.” He scratched the back of his head, near the band of his blue ballcap.

  Jessie looked at him with suspicion. “There’s something you aren’t saying. Spit it out, Arvid.”

  “Ah,” he said, pulling into a parking place in front of the Sheriff’s Office. “Look at this. Are we lucky or what? A space right in front.” He pushed open the door of his pickup, hurriedly locked it and began striding with purposeful steps toward the entrance, his long legs covering ground like a long-distance runner.

  When Jessie caught up to him he’d already knocked quickly on Sheriff Fischer’s door and was shoving it open. She followed him in and saw Sheriff Fischer standing behind his desk, a look of resignation on his craggy face.

  Fischer cleared his throat. “Uh. Yes, hello, Miss O’Bourne,” he began. He looked over at Arvid. Arvid’s face was impassive and he gave a slight shake of his head. Fischer met Jessie’s eyes and said gruffly, “There’s…well. An unfortunate problem has come up regarding your motorhome.”

  “Oh, really?” Jess
ie glanced from Sheriff Fischer to Arvid. She noted the look on Arvid’s face. Then she realized the Sheriff was standing as uncomfortably in his own office as though he’d been visiting for the first time. Apprehension skittered up her spine like a fat spider on a fragile web.

  “Omigosh.” She felt her knees go weak. “Did you find evidence the killer had been inside the Hawk after all?”

  “No.” Fischer raised his eyebrows. He held a palm up in a gesture of denial. “No. Nothing leads us to believe that—” He was interrupted by a series of sharp raps that rattled the office door. “Who is it?” he barked.

  The door swung inward and Jacob stepped in. His face was pale. His jaw was clenched. Then he looked around the room, met the Sheriff’s surprised gaze, nodded at Arvid and then at Jessie.

  He spoke directly to her. “I’m Deputy Williams. Jacob Williams.” He cleared his throat. “I should be the one to talk to you.” His gaze swung to meet Fischer’s. “Uh, you know, there’ve been times when I was clowning around a bit and you would tell me to grow the hell…er…sorry…to grow up. I figured now was as good a time as any.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Then his glance focused on Jessie again. “Well, here’s the thing, Miss O’Bourne. I’ve been driving combine since I was nigh as tall as dad’s waist, so I sure thought I wouldn’t have a lick of trouble with your motorhome. Combines are huge suckers. I mean they’re really huge and—”

  Sheriff Fischer made a rolling motion with his hand, urging Jacob to move the story along.

  Jessie’s eyes glazed over. She was standing close to the young man and a singularly unpleasant and quite recognizable smell was wafting from his direction. She coughed and backed several paces toward Arvid.