He pulled his paperback, "Hundreds and Thousands—the Journals of Emily Carr", from the seat pocket in front of him and tucked it into his briefcase along with the file he'd put together on Carr's artwork. The briefcase also held the auction catalog he'd requested from the director of the Crooked Creek Art Auction. What a lucky break that he’d called his Italian friend Vincenzo. Knowing Grant’s obsession with old masters, “Vince” informed him that an estate lawyer he knew had consigned a small Carr painting to the upcoming auction at the request of a client. It might be within Grant’s budget.
Grant read through the catalog on the flight and found no lot number for an Emily Carr painting. After double-checking every page, he frowned. Could it have been consigned too late for the piece to get into the printed catalog? The recent press releases and national magazine coverage hadn’t mention a Carr painting, either. The painting would sell below value without publicity. Collectors of her work would not have the opportunity to bid on it.
The painting was 12 x 18 inches and of similar palette and style to Autumn in France, a piece that Carr painted in 1911. Grant had seen that particular piece in the National Gallery of Canada. He’d gone to Ottowa on the trail of a stolen Franz Hals as part of his job with the FBI Art Theft Division. The case came to an abrupt close when the tiny Hals painting was located by Dutch police. Since he was already nearby, Grant hadn’t been able to resist a quick tour of the striking National Gallery, a gorgeous architectural creation of granite and glass.
Although, he had to admit, the gargantuan spider sculpture guarding the facility, Maman by Louise Bourgeois, did little more than give him the creeps. Goosebumps raised on his arms. Thirty feet of stainless steel and bronze spider, including marble eggs in a suspended sac was enough to give anyone night frights. Brrr. He had to remember to tell Jessie about it when he saw her at the show. He grinned from ear to ear, causing his seatmate to look at him quizzically.
Man, I’m so lucky that Jessie was invited to fill in for the show’s original guest artist. I should go to Vegas after I’m done in Crooked Creek. Pleasurable expectation ran though him. He hummed under his breath.
Thank god for Arvid. After Jessie told the Sage Bluff Detective that she'd tried to call Grant and gotten a "wife's voice" on the answering machine, the big Norwegian had mulled it over for several weeks. Finally, Arvid had casually called Grant one morning to "say howdy". Grant answered the phone, plunked down on a wicker chair on the veranda of his Boston condo when he realized it was Arvid, and they’d visited for ten minutes about what was happening in Sage Bluff.
Then Arvid said abruptly. “We’re pretty fond of Jessie. I got the feeling you were, too,” Arvid said. “We don’t want her hurt, Grant. You told her you were single, but are you actually married?” Getting Grant’s immediate denial, Arvid told him that Jessie tried to return one of Grant’s calls and reached a woman. A woman who identified herself as Mrs. Grant Kennedy. “Jessie said she didn’t leave a message,” Arvid told him, “But she was mad as a wet cat when she told Esther and me about it.”
As they spoke, Grant realized his jealous ex-wife, Patricia, must have visited his condo while Grant was in Sage Bluff and had been there when Jessie phoned. She’d also changed the message on his answering machine—evidently hoping to ward off any female callers. He played the phony answering machine message over and over, boiling with frustration and annoyance. Her sultry message on the machine made it sound as though they were not only still married, but happy as a beagle with two tails.
Damn the woman. Patricia had several men dangling like puppets strung from her delicate fingers, but she was determined to punish Grant for divorcing her after discovering her numerous infidelities.
Grant had changed his locks, steaming. Hell, no wonder Jessie never picked up when he called her cell. She thought he’d lied to her.
It was lousy timing that he'd been sent to Europe the day after Arvid's call. That case had taken longer than usual and had snowballed right into another theft case. He still hadn't connected with Jessie to set her straight. She probably didn't give a damn, anyway. And even if she did, how could a long-distance relationship work? He slapped himself alongside the head every time he felt tempted to call. But now, he couldn't tamp down the feeling of excitement at the possibility of seeing her.
As the plane shuddered to a stop, Grant stood and helped the elderly woman to his right retrieve her carry-on from the overhead compartment. He grabbed his briefcase and followed the shuffling crowd down the aisle to the exit.
Come on. Come on. Move it.
He mentally shoved people out of the way until it was his turn to politely thank the flight attendant as he left the plane. He stopped at the men's restroom in the terminal, made a pit stop and ran a comb through his blond hair. Then he splashed cold water onto his face to jolt himself awake. Wishing he hadn't needed to haul the big winter coat and boots, neither of which fit into a small carry on, he headed to the luggage carousel to retrieve his checked bag. He stewed until he saw his black luggage jolting its way down the conveyor belt. He grabbed it and unzipped the case to pull out a parka, gloves and snow boots.
Now, dressed for the unseasonably cold and wet weather, he headed to the rental car desk. The grouchy clerk checked his credit card against the one on the reservation and handed him the keys to a Chevy Suburban Premier with four-wheel drive.
“Full tank of gas in her.” The man handed Grant a windshield scraper with a brush attachment and pointed vaguely toward the north. “Lot two, sorry it hasn’t been plowed. And I ‘pologize for you having to clean off the Chevy. I can’t help you none.” He pointed down behind the counter and Grant leaned over to see what he was indicating. The clerk’s leg was in a cast from toe to thigh.
“Not a problem,” Grant assured him. “That looks miserable.”
“Yeah. Pitched my durn self down the courthouse steps last week, after I went to renew my license. Slick as snot, they were. Oughta sue the city. Least they could do is get some of those big teenagers on community service to shovel them steps and toss some ice melt on ‘em.”
“I hear you. Thanks.”
Grant left, waded through the snow, located the big blue Suburban and went to work. His stomach growled as he brushed off the windows before stepping into the big vehicle and turning on the heater. Pulling out his phone, he checked his mail. The slight delay would give the windshield defroster time to start working. Soon, Grant pulled out of the lot. At the first fast food joint he came to, he pulled through the drive-up window, then parked in their lot to munch his way through an Angus burger. He set his mega-cup of high-octane coffee in one cup holder and placed the large bag of fries in the other before pulling out and hitting the road.
The freeway was clear, and the plow had obviously been through, judging by the high mounds of snow on each side of the highway. Still staring at the road, Grant fumbled into the bag and grabbed several fries, savoring the salty taste. He sipped the high-octane and put the hot cup back into the holder. He knew he was grinning like a kid watching Saturday cartoons.
Cartoons…hell. Why kid himself?
What was playing in his mind were scenes of Jessie O’Bourne. The vision of the redhead standing in her kitchen making sandwiches with the sunlight streaming through the window, weaving gold through her mass of curls. Her slender hands handing him a steaming mug of coffee as her teasing voice challenged him to name old master’s paintings whose titles included “morning light”. And the bantering tone in her voice calling him “city boy” as they entered the Wild Bull Restaurant. That redneck restaurant with the crazy statue of the huge bull on top of the roof—red swirling lights coming from the eyes. His mouth watered remembering the taste of the elk medallions he’d ordered. Who’d believe they had the best food in the country?
The thought of the restaurant brought up another image, one of Jessie wearing a Wild Bull apron over a torn dress.
Slit up the thigh. Way up.
She stood on stage belting out so
ng after song, tossing her head back and letting that amazing voice pour out. He’d been mesmerized. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as his breath seemed to catch. Damn. She made his pulse quicken, just by being in the room. Getting involved seemed pure lunacy. And he’d been sure he’d forget about her once he left Sage Bluff—and her smile—behind. He hadn’t. Pictures of her spun in his mind like horses on a carousel. If only he’d grabbed at the golden ring on the carousel and taken a chance. It wasn’t too late. Because of this job he was getting just such a chance—a second chance—to make Jessie part of his life.
Must be fate.
A feeling of euphoria came over him. Reaching over, he turned on the radio. He flipped the dial to a country western channel, raised the volume and opened his mouth to sing along. Snow pelted the windshield and the Chevy’s cab filled with a rich baritone. On the radio a twangy voice sang about picking up his girl in his brand-new truck. Well, he thought, this isn’t a pickup truck, and it might be a rental, but it’s got four-wheel drive and a great sound system.
Like that little boy watching cartoons Grant had once been, he thought about what might come next in the story. He liked the beginning, meeting the artist whose paintings he’d collected for several years. The middle—when they’d solved a murder with Arvid’s help and found two old masterpieces—was mind-blowing. Then came his least favorite part—where he left without speaking up, without even asking her to give him a shot, left even though he knew Russell Bonham wanted to marry her—wasn’t so hot. He cringed. What if she’d married Russell in the meantime? Now he had the opportunity to write his own ending.
The cowboy on the radio was “getting a little mud on the tires” and Grant’s Suburban was kicking up snow as he drove. He felt happy for the first time in six months.
He was going to see Jessie.
Chapter Thirty-three
Crooked Creek Lodge
While the elderly veteran wended his way toward Jessie, she swished her dirty brushes in the paint solvent and hurriedly stored her tubes of paint in her palette box. She picked up her hand-nailer, a nifty tool used for shooting the small brads that held the canvas in a frame and snapped the wet portrait demo into a custom frame by Graehl Frames of Kalispell, Montana.
Even if it was just a quick demonstration—and a donation to boot—she didn’t want her work sold without a quality frame to give it the finishing touch.
In her mind she heard her mother’s voice. Jessie was eight. She’d been complaining that the other girls would bring bigger gifts to the birthday party she was attending. “Yours will be the prettiest, Jess girl. Presentation is everything.” Her mom had proceeded to show Jessie how to wrap the small gift in shiny foil paper and make an intricate big bow. “See, Sweety? It’s all about the package.” And so it was.
The small framing job made her think of Tate, and how he’d rescued her frames from the wet weather instead of helping her out of the slush after she’d fallen. The goof. But he was a good-looking goof, and very talented.
As the Gingerbread Man shuffled up to her, she gave him a welcoming smile. She noticed he wore a small hearing aid today. She’d been correct about the hearing problem she’d suspected earlier.
“How are you today, Miss O’Bourne?”
She wracked her brain for his name. Something about Hades. Maybe Hell. And then she had it. “Ah. I’m good. Mr. Helland, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
Thank goodness. I’d hate to slip and say, ‘Oh, you’re the Gingerbread Man. Right?’
“And how are you, sir? I hope you don’t mind if I finish this while we visit.” She picked up a Phillips head screw driver and attached the fittings for the picture wire on the back of the frame, threaded the wire through and twisted the ends. The frame job was complete.
“Not at all. I’m fine, just fine. Well, here’s the thing. I was hoping you’d honor an old man by visiting some of the art display rooms with me. Perhaps introduce me to a few of the artists?”
Jessie looked surprised. Then she realized what a lonely life the man might lead. She beamed at him. “Of course, Mr. Helland. I’d love to. I don’t know most of the artists, either. But let’s introduce ourselves. Just let me take my supplies back to my hotel room and check on my cat.”
“Of course.”
“I also need to take the portrait I just finished to the Yellowstone room—the room the museum is using for their sales gallery. Can you give me—maybe about fifteen minutes total?”
Jessie put her apron into a shoulder bag with her brushes and other paraphernalia, slung it over her shoulder and picked up her palette box, then carefully lifted the wet portrait by the hanging wire.
He slid carefully into a chair and held out a show brochure. “Of course. I’ll sit right here and look at the list of artists while you do those tasks, Miss O’Bourne.” He tapped the brochure against his knee. “I’ll map out our plan of attack, so to speak.”
He watched her hurrying figure head toward the door to the hall. Then he looked down at the list of artists and pulled a pen from a shirt pocket. He checked off several names, then tapped the pen on the table and looked thoughtful. Finally, he muttered to himself. “Yes. A good plan of attack.”
*.*.*
Jessie dropped the portrait at the Yellowstone Room and was delighted to hear that they’d sold a small autumn scene, just an 8 x 10 but one of her favorite pieces. As she rode up in the elevator and walked down the hall toward her new room, her thoughts went to Glen Heath and how annoyed he’d been about reducing the price on his pack train sculpture.
He shouldn’t have sold it so low if it made him so upset. Then again, maybe he really needed the money. I wonder what he meant when he said his ship was about to come in. Wouldn’t it be nice if he caught a good break?
As Jessie turned the corner and approached her door, her thoughts faltered. She could see there was something on the floor. In front of her new room. She approached slowly and swore under her breath. John Deere. Green. The edge of a note peeping out from under the door.
She set her palette box and shoulder bag down. Quickly, she unzipped the bag and drew out her phone. A red bar showed a nearly dead battery. Two percent. She tapped in Arvid’s cell number and held her breath. If it didn’t connect she’d have to go in and use the room phone.
“Arvid,” she barely whispered into the phone. “Can you come upstairs—to 212? There…there’s another one in front of the door.”
“Aw, poop. I’ll be right up. Don’t touch it.”
“Do you have the Sheriff’s number? I left his business card in the room, but I don’t want to move the tractor to go in and get the card.”
“I’ll call Fischer in the elevator.”
“Yeeeowwr. Rowwwer. Ick, ick ick.” From the other side of the door came banshee-like screeches as Jack realized he could hear Jessie’s voice but the door wasn’t opening. Jessie interpreted the wails. “Why aren’t you coming in? Where’s my chow? Staff? Staff!”
Oh, good grief, Jessie thought, listening to the unearthly sounds. Sheriff “I’m scared of cats” Fischer is going to just love this.
Then she remembered Mr. Helland was waiting for her downstairs and made a quick call to Esther.
“Esther? Are you done playing the piano? How’d you like to meet a lovely gentleman?”
“Oh,” Esther said. “Any time. Is my big lug of a husband listening? Are you giving him a bad time? You know, he so deserves it. Tell him I said I like them best if they’re short, handsome and Swedish. That’ll do it.”
Jessie gave a half-hearted laugh. She explained about the new tractor, then filled her in on Mr. Helland, including the Gingerbread Man story. “He’s such a nice old guy. And he’ll just be sitting there waiting. Will you please go rescue him?”
“Of course. I’d be glad to.”
*.*.*
Esther stacked her sheet music and slipped it into the piano bench. Then she walked to the restaurant and picked up a cardboard tray with two of their s
pecialty cocoas and a large plate of stroopwafels to go.
The elderly gentleman was sitting exactly where Jessie said he’d be. She walked up to him and set the cookies on the table by his chair.
“Hello,” she purred. “Did you know that every veteran with the surname of Helland was supposed to receive free cocoa and cookies from a tall, white-haired pianist today?”
He gaped at her. “Uh, no,” he said hesitantly.
“Well, I guess it was news to both of us then,” she said, smiling. Then she explained, “Jessie O’Bourne sent me. She’s unavoidably delayed. I offered to keep you company while you waited for her. May I join you?”
“Oh, I see. Of course.” He stood and gallantly waved Esther to the chair across from his.
Esther sat and took a slow sip of heavenly cocoa. “Cornish, isn’t it?”
“The hot chocolate?”
“No. Helland. Helland, I believe, is a Cornish name.”
His eyes widened. “You’re very well informed, Miss...”
“Mrs.,” she informed him. “Esther Abrahmsen. Totally Norwegian, I’m afraid. Both myself and my husband.” She turned her clear blue gaze on him and lifted the plate, holding the cookies out to him. “And these, according to the restaurant menu,” she said with a grin, “are Dutch. Other than red tulips, I believe these are the very best thing to ever come out of Holland. Here,” she said, holding out the plate, “Take two.”
Helland reached for the stroopwafels and smiled.
Chapter Thirty-four
Crooked Creek Lodge
Upstairs, Sheriff Fischer squatted and took three snapshots of the toy tractor, then scooped it up in a gloved hand and slipped it into a plastic evidence bag. “It’s a silly looking little thing to throw off such a huge creep factor, isn’t it?” he said in soothing tones to Jessie.
The redhead stood in silence, staring at the note under the door. She was experiencing an unfamiliar feeling. She was chilled. She crossed her arms over her chest. Cold. It was fear, she knew. Bone chilling, soul searing fear. And it was a different kind of fear than she’d so far experienced. When her mom had the heart attack she’d been terrified of loss—of heartache. When she was threatened by a woman with a gun the previous summer, she’d been afraid for her own life. Even then, it was a different type of fear. She could see the gun in the woman’s steady hands and the hatred in her eyes. The other woman had substance. Form. The threat was visible.
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