2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “It was over at the field near one of the rest stops, you know? The motorhome, I mean. It’s not near as big as a combine, and the Sheriff here, well he told me to go get it and …

  *.*.*

  Fifteen minutes later, Jessie opened the door to the Hawk and peered cautiously in. She withdrew her head immediately and staggered back. Arvid leaned over, hands on his knees. “Hooooeee. The stench just hits you like a wave, don’t it?”

  “Omigod! It’s hideous. I don’t see how anyone could salvage a blessed thing out of it.” She pinched her nose with the fingers of one hand. She turned to Arvid, snatching the cap off his head, and swatting him hard on the shoulder with it, complaining nasally. “Why didn’t you warn me, you big lumbering Norsky goof?”

  “Aw, Jessie. I figured you’d know soon enough.” He straightened and grabbed his cap. “That’s assaulting an officer, you know.”

  “Well, you’re out of your jurisdiction, so it doesn’t count.”

  “Huh.” He grunted, then rubbed his shoulder as though she’d conked him with a boulder as big as Billings. “Guess I deserved that. Anyway, getting back to the Hawk, I agree. The insurance agent for the county that Fischer called will have to take a look, but even if they can find someone willing to clean it—and even if those folks do a super job—I think there’ll still be times it’ll stink. Especially in any sort of humidity. Rain. Snow. Using the shower. There just isn’t a good way to remove the smell from carpet or even wood paneling. And a mechanic has to give estimates on repairs, too.”

  “Yeah.” Jessie looked at the Hawk and her expression darkened. “I’m going to have to rent something. I’ll need something big enough to haul paintings in as soon as this show is over.” She threw up her hands in disgust. “Arvid, I can’t even think about it right now. I’d like to just pull my hair out, I’m so annoyed. But I’ve got to get back for the demo. Can we go?”

  “Sure.” He slapped his cap back on and gave the Hawk a thoughtful look. “You know, the insurance agent may just total it out. I can’t imagine there are many people willing to clean a mess like that. Add that to the damage caused when the kid bounced it into the concrete pillar. Yup. I think the Hawk’s a goner.”

  “We’ll see, I guess.”

  “What would you buy in its place?” He held open the pickup door for her.

  After he slid into the driver’s seat, she said, “Something similar to the Hawk. Maybe exactly the same thing. It’s like a rolling art studio. It holds all the supplies for plein-air painting, handles hauling the framed work to and from galleries and shows and is just as comfortable as a hotel room. It’s been a great investment. Now I wonder if I’ll be able to get past the memory of finding Benny in the laundry chute. That memory is worse than this smell.”

  “Yep. I hear you.” Arvid snapped his seat belt closed. “Well, let’s get back. You too upset to do your demo?”

  “I’ll be okay once I get started. After the first few brush strokes I can’t think of anything but my painting. It centers me. It’ll be fine.”

  She thought about what Sheriff Fischer said about the young man who wrecked the Hawk. “I’m probably in a lot better shape than poor young Jacob. Imagine how guilty he must feel. First, not taking that old man seriously, and now being responsible for damaging such an expensive vehicle. At least Sheriff Fischer seems understanding.”

  “Uh huh. Mostly because the kid came in and told you about it himself. That took guts,” Arvid said, glancing in his rear-view mirror before pulling out into the street. “Haw. I’ll bet Jacob thought he was the biggest dog in the yard when he got to drive the Hawk. Can you imagine looking back into the motorhome and seeing that black and white tail end working its way toward you?” Arvid gave a slight chuckle.

  Jessie glared at him. Her precious Hawk was a mess. Ruined. And was he snickering?

  Arvid’s breath came out in a whoosh and he guffawed. Jessie couldn’t help it. Her lips curved in a smile. She pictured the southwest tones of her motorhome interior. The rich hues of sunset and red rock. The cherrywood cupboards and paneling. Jacob feeling on top of the world driving such elegance. And then, backing down the center of the main living space came a waving black and white tail. She gave a giggle.

  “And then trapping those poor women in the restroom,” Arvid hooted. “I wonder if the kid has a girlfriend. There isn’t enough men’s cologne in the store to cover that stench. He’s gonna smell for a week.” A huge belly laugh erupted from the big man and Arvid shook his head and smacked the dash with the palm of his hand. “Haw haw!”

  Jessie grimaced. Then grinned. Then she gave a snort of laughter, and soon her shoulders began to shake.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Crooked Creek Art Expo - Demo

  Standing in front of her easel, poised to begin her demo, Jessie’s stomach ached from laughing. She gave the waiting audience a wide smile. This afternoon, she wore a painting apron with an Arbuckle coffee logo and her hair was pulled up into a short pony tail. Her painting palette was organized, tubes of paint and a small jar of thinner at the ready. Her brushes were set out.

  Instead of working from photo references as originally planned, Jessie had opted to invite Lissa, one of the teenage volunteers—a waif-like girl with dark hair—to sit for a portrait. She adjusted the light near the model’s chair, angling it to brighten one side of the face and throw the other side of the face into dramatic shadow. She brushed the girl’s hair to the side, away from her forehead and brows. Then she stepped back to the easel.

  Jessie twirled one red curl around and around a finger, squinting at the lovely picture the girl presented. There was a glow of reflected light—a beautiful note of color—under Lissa’s chin, bounced from a red scarf draped casually over her shoulder. Lissa’s bone structure was delicate and her skin tones were…hmm. She’d begin with yellow ochre, cadmium red light, and a bit of burnt sienna and white. Of course, first she’d block in the masses of deep shadow on the left side of Lissa’s face. Gold and silver hoops marched the length of the ear facing the light, and on the ear in shadow, a cross-shaped earring glinted, drooping from a silver wire. The girl had beautiful eyes. A bit sorrowful.

  The teen years are never all sunshine and roses, Jessie thought. Teenage angst. I wouldn’t go back to being sixteen unless someone put a million bucks in my name in an interest-bearing offshore account. Maybe two million.

  Jessie scowled, wondering what a new Greyhawk motorhome cost.

  Heck, I can’t think about that now.

  Lissa glanced nervously at Jessie, and Jessie gave her a thumbs-up gesture and what she hoped was a reassuring smile. As though captured in a series of snapshots, the girl began to metamorphose in Jessie’s mind to simply a mass of darks and lights, colors, and hard and soft edges. She looked down at her palette, images of Lissa’s face and form solidifying in her mind’s eye, and picked up a brush, swiping it into the paint.

  Max Watson stood on a small platform near the covered pool. He held a microphone, tapping it on the side with the tip of his index finger. The mic complained and whistled like a hot teakettle. He adjusted the volume and tapped again, seeming happier with the subsequent lighter screeching phweet of the microphone. He went into his spiel.

  “Are we having fun yet?” This was met by clapping and several yeehaws. “I’d like to introduce our guest artist, Jessie O’Bourne, who put on her cowgirl boots and stepped in for Georgina Goodlander. Today, she’ll be painting a two-hour portrait study titled “Lissa in Red”. Jessie will take several short breaks during the demo to give her model time to stretch. During those short breaks, she’ll be glad to answer any questions. Our servers will make the rounds with wine and the best hors d’oeuvres this side of the Mississippi while Jessie works her magic.” He waved his arm toward a long counter. “There’s also a no-host bar.”

  Sporadic clapping emphasized his words.

  “After the demo, feel free to stick around and visit with the artist. You can see more of Jessie’s work i
n the Crooked Creek Museum’s display room.” This brought more clapping. Max placed the microphone in the stand on his small platform and stepped down. “You need anything, Jessie?” he asked as he approached her demo area.

  She continued to glance at Lissa, then back to the canvas, broad strokes of her brush blocking in the cheek area on the rapidly developing portrait. She picked up a soft rag, wiped her brush and used it to pick up a glob of burnt umber. “I think a little ultramarine blue,” she murmured. “Just a squinch. It’ll add richer depth to the darks.” She picked up a palette knife and dabbed a dot of blue into the umber mix, then used the flat side to mix the two colors.

  “No,” Max said, watching the process. “I mean, do you need a bottle of water or something?”

  Jessie spared him a look. “Oh. That was you asking, Max? Hey, sorry. I would love a big go-cup of coffee. Strong. Thanks.”

  “Black?”

  “Well, you get a richer dark if you mix the burnt umber and the ultramarine blue. Black is so harsh.” She turned back to her work, making a curving stroke with the brush that gave a three-dimensional feel to the cheek.

  Max gawked. “Jessie, you want cream in the coffee?”

  “Geez no, sorry.” She focused on him with an effort and smiled. “I just want coffee in my coffee. I’m Norwegian. We like it strong. Thank you.”

  “Got it. Dark and strong. No cream.” Max watched the movement of the brush flick back and forth, up and down. In several swipes, the delicate cheekbone was sculpted, the orbital area of the eye took shape. He gave a slight shake of his head and turned to walk toward the lodge restaurant.

  The sound of Evan Hanson’s voice came over the mic at the other end of the room as he introduced Esther on the piano. A piano arpeggio rippled across the room and then Esther’s voice said, “This next one is something new for me. It’s a western piece I wrote especially for the Expo. I hope you enjoy it.”

  Jessie began to hum, her brush picking up speed with the fast-paced music.

  *.*.*

  She had answered numerous questions during the first break and was waiting for Lissa to return from the ladies’ room. Someone paused by the table and a well-manicured hand reached out to pick up a workshop brochure. “Anna Farraday. Remember me? We met at the check in desk when I first arrived. You were with your handsome cat.”

  “Of course. I remember. How nice of you to come and watch.”

  “I am thoroughly enjoying it, Jessie.” She gestured to the portrait. “The likeness evolved so quickly. You nailed it. And with another hour to go I can’t imagine what you even need to do to finish it.”

  “Oh, believe me, there’s still plenty to do.”

  “I’ll be interested to see it progress. I wondered if you’d be interested in coming to Anchorage this fall? I’m on a chamber of commerce board there and we’re always looking for interesting classes for both locals and tourists. We’ve done writing classes, floral classes, astronomy classes—Northern lights and all that, you know—maybe it’s time for you to teach one of your workshops in the Land of the Midnight Sun.”

  Jessie smiled. “I just might be interested. The flier you picked up has my contact information. We can visit more about particulars later. Please feel free to call me.”

  “I’ll plan on it.” As she left, a heavy-set man in western garb approached Jessie’s easel. His stomach preceded him like the cow-catcher on an old time locomotive. He nodded to Jessie. “Hello.” The man tipped his cowboy hat, then bent over from the waist to peer closely at the portrait of Lissa, resting his hands on his knees.

  A server held out a tray to Jessie and she shook her head. Maybe after the demo she’d find something to nibble on. She sipped her coffee, glancing around at the milling crowd. Everyone seemed to be having fun.

  Near the no host bar, Jessie spotted a familiar figure. It was the elderly man with the portable oxygen pack who’d been in the restaurant when she and Tate went out for cocoa. “The Gingerbread Man”, the cafe hostess had called him. He was working his way through the crowd, carrying a small stack of his fliers. He stepped into one of the art rooms and disappeared.

  “Say there.” The big man who’d been examining the portrait took off his hat and reached out to shake Jessie’s hand. “Really like what you got going on here. Especially the fact that this here is a picture of the prettiest gal in town.”

  Jessie looked at him inquiringly.

  “Lissa’s my granddaughter,” he explained. “I’d like to buy the finished portrait for her mama.”

  “Oh, how nice. I can’t process the sale myself. My demos during the show will be sold by the museum staff in their gallery room. I donated the proceeds of the demos to their youth scholarship program.”

  “How much are they going to charge?”

  Jessie hesitated. “I don’t think they’re asking too much. But I would go let them know now that you want it, Mr. ….?

  “Huffman. Gary Huffman. I appreciate it. Her mama’s had a hard time of it lately. It’ll lift her spirits.”

  “Grandpa!” Lissa was back and hugged Huffman around the waist. He gave her a squeeze, dropping a light kiss on the top of her head.

  “Hey there, Beautiful Girl. I’m picking up this portrait for your mama when it’s done. Get yourself back over there now, and let this young lady finish it.” He made a shooing motion. “And your mama is doing much better today, Lissa. Real good.” Lissa smiled broadly, then glided over to the seat and flopped into the chair with a more relaxed set to her body than she’d exhibited during the first painting session. Jessie rearranged the scarf so that it was approximately in the original position.

  Almost perfect. Close enough, anyhow. Something had changed in the girl’s eyes, too. Now, Lissa’s lovely eyes had a happy sparkle. So that’s it, Jessie thought. Not boy trouble or mean girls. A sick mother.

  Jessie grabbed her brush, wanting to capture that happy expression on the girl’s face before the end of the hour. Any mother would prefer her current cheerful expression to the gloomier one she’d shown earlier. Jessie again hummed under her breath while she worked. The brush danced quickly across the canvas and Jessie squinted twice at her model before making each brushstroke on the painting.

  Finally, she began adding background, mostly neutral colors. A dull orange against the black hair in the portrait, with the color complement of the bluish highlights on the girl’s lovely mass of hair, added snap. Hmmm. It seemed too crisp. Jessie took a clean dry brush and lightly dragged it across part of the edge where the hair met the background. She wiped her brush on a rag and made another swipe at the crisp edge. Staring at the portrait now, not the model, she continued to work. It was her favorite part of painting—the time when every stroke seemed to have a life of its own.

  She softened the outline of Lissa’s hair, blending it to fade into the background. She softened the earlobe with the side of her little finger, then swiped the same finger, dull orange paint and all, across a harsh edge on the red scarf, melding the red with the dark color of Lissa’s deep navy shirt. It added a softness. The scarf was no longer a single element competing with the face, but melded with the shirt, even picking up a bit of color from the background. It had become part of the whole package. Jessie hummed louder.

  Glancing at her model, Jessie looked back at the painting and placed highlights in the pupils of the eyes and on the edge of the lower eyelid, then just a fleck of light on the metallic cross peeping out of the shadowed area. After wiping her brush, she lightly picked up some cadmium red on the tip and added a short stroke of soft red at the side of the nose, where the skin was always a warmer tone, then strengthened the reflected red highlight under the chin.

  Jessie looked at her watch. Then in the lower right corner she signed the painting Lissa in Red, demo, Jessie O’Bourne, just as the two-hour buzzer sounded.

  Max’s voice announced, “That’s the demo for today, folks. Now, don’t forget that we have over fifty rooms of art, folks. Fifty rooms,” he said again e
mphatically. “Something for everyone. And I hope to see you all tonight at Friday’s quick-draw and auction.”

  Dropping her current brush into the jar of turpentine, Jessie wiped her hands on a rag. Her model stood and stretched. Around the easel, clapping began, and Jessie heard several whoops from Lissa’s proud granddad. She smiled and gave the crowd a small, self-conscious wave. In her mind, she was still elaborating on bits of the portrait. A heightened awareness of shape, color and light made everything and everyone in the room seem crisp. Full of detail.

  Across the room, she saw the Gingerbread Man come out of another art room in a shuffling, stooped gait. He looked up as though sensing her stare and met her gaze over thick glasses.

  How strange.

  Just for a second, he’d looked so much younger, so different, that she hadn’t thought it was the same man she’d met. She raised her hand as though to shape the contours of his face with a loaded brush. She blinked and shook her head slightly.

  Don’t be daft. Yes, of course it’s him—the elderly veteran.

  He was slowly coming toward her.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Billings Airport

  Grant Kennedy peered out the airplane window as he felt the thump of the jet's wheels hitting the runway. Because of his delayed flight from Salt Lake City, he'd had to reschedule his flight to Montana. Once he disembarked, he planned to rent a car and make his way to Crooked Creek. Car? Heck. I'd better see if I can rent something bigger and with four-wheel drive if the weather is still as lousy as the last report I heard. Winter storm warning with winds and drifting snow. In March? He stared at his watch. Blast! I’m sure to miss the opening reception if the roads are bad, but at least I’ll be there in time for Friday evening's show and auction.