2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  It was that liar. That louse.

  Grant Kennedy.

  *.*.*

  “It’s so good to see you, Jessie. And look at that cute haircut.”

  “It isn’t good to see you, Mister. You’re a liar. And my hair is not cute. Puppies, kittens, babies, and bugs are cute. Grown women are not.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Not,” she growled, “that I asked your opinion.”

  Grant grinned. He turned to a gawking Glen Heath and dumbstruck Helland. “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow Jessie for a few minutes and straighten out a few things before her redheaded temper causes internal combustion.”

  “And I am not a cup of sugar you can borrow from a neighbor, you annoying egotistical—”

  He grabbed her arm and hustled her out of the art room to the area near the covered pool. “I’m not married, Jessie. I’m not. Arvid called me and said Patricia answered the phone when you called. It was my ex-wife being her usual toxic self. She must have let herself into the condo while I was out. She also changed my answering machine message and caused trouble you wouldn’t believe. My own mother called to give me that annoying news. If you’d ever taken one of my numerous calls and let me explain, I could have straightened this out long ago.”

  Jessie felt her face flame. “Your ex-wife? You really aren’t married?” She put her hands to her cheeks. “But why didn’t Arvid tell me?”

  “He knew I meant to track you down so I could explain in person. You were in Scottsdale at an art show, he told me. I’d planned to fly down. Then I got called on a case the same afternoon and spent months in Europe tracking down some stolen artwork. Arvid probably thought I’d handled the misunderstanding.” He looked chagrined. “And I should have.”

  “But—”

  “Jessie, you’re talking to a coward. I wanted to tell you what an amazing woman I thought you were when we were both in Sage Bluff trying to track down the missing Moran paintings. I hoped to stay in touch, get to know you so much better. Then, I realized how damnably awkward—almost insurmountable—the distance was between Boston and Santa Fe.” He shook his head. “Really. A long-distance relationship seemed pretty crazy.”

  “It still does, Grant.” She gave him a questioning look. “How long were you in Europe? I know with your job it can take some time to follow leads.” His appreciation of art, both ancient and contemporary, was one of the things they had in common.

  “Three months. We were tracking down a Franz Hals. You’ll enjoy how it all came together,” he said enthusiastically. “Can I take you to dinner and tell you about it? I know you’ll need to paint tonight—Friday night quick-draw and all that—but maybe a late dinner after—”

  “So, you were in Europe for three months, Grant?” Jessie interrupted. “And you’ve been back in the states for over four? But after talking to Arvid, you didn’t take time to clear this up. Not in four months.”

  “You wouldn’t answer the phone, Jessie. I—”

  “And I guess it’s too much to expect a hot shot FBI agent to pick up a pen and…oh, I don’t know. Write a sentence or two, stick it in an envelope? Add a stamp?” She waved her hand in the air. “You know, those colorful little square things that move messages from state to state? You can even buy them at the grocery store.”

  Grant sighed. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day. Can we sit down somewhere and discuss my shortcomings…” Grant’s voice had a wariness to it. “…and the United States Postal Service?”

  She ignored him. “And exactly what are you doing here? Here, this weekend, at this art show?”

  He sounded relieved at the change of subject. “I heard through the grapevine that an Emily Carr painting was going to be in the auction.”

  “An Emily Carr?” Jessie’s eyes widened. “The Canadian painter?” She grew excited, then remembered she was mad at him and continued in a calm tone. “Late eighteen hundred’s post-impressionist. Hmmm. Part of a well-known art group called the “Group of Seven.” She looked up into Grant’s brown eyes. Not exactly brown, she thought. A bit of rich sienna, flecks of a golden …then she gave herself a mental shake. Rather than think about Grant, she pulled facts about Emily Carr from her memory. “She did totems, geometrics, colorful landscapes. And wasn’t she touted as the first woman to give up riding side-saddle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” She let a chilliness creep into her tone. “So, what you’re saying is that you had a very good reason to come to the Crooked Creek Expo. An important reason. I remember hearing some news about one of her paintings—called “Twisted Staircase” wasn’t it?”

  Grant nodded.

  “Went over three million dollars at auction a few years ago.” She twisted a curl around a finger. “Certainly a reason aside from speaking to me to clear up any misconceptions.” Her heart thudded. She felt like an idiot. She’d thought maybe he’d come to see her. How gullible could she be? And blast it. He looked better than a hot turkey dinner after a week of cold soup. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to just throw her arms around the man and let the chips fall where they may, pride and long-distance relationship be damned.

  “Well…,” He looked abashed. “I’ve wanted an Emily Carr for my collection for some time. But it seemed….” He tugged on an ear as though hoping to pull the correct word out of the lobe. “like a lucky coincidence that one would be up for bid, and that you’d be here, too. Especially since you weren’t listed as the guest artist when I bought my airline ticket.”

  “Oh?” Jessie said coolly. “That was lucky, wasn’t it?” Glacial blue eyes met apprehensive brown ones. In Grant’s eyes, Jessie imagined a long highway stretching from Santa Fe to Boston. The idea was ridiculous, and obviously she was not important to him. At least, not important enough to make much of an effort. “I hope you’re able to win the bid on the Carr painting. It’s odd that I didn’t notice it in the auction catalog.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “I’m afraid duty calls. I have a few other things I need to do before the quick-draw and I want to show the Gingerbread Man several more rooms.” She gave him a slight smile. Looking through the doorway into Glen Heath’s display room, she saw Helland was still browsing, examining each sculpture with obvious enjoyment. “Have a good time at the show, Grant.”

  “The what? Gingerbread? Jessie—”

  Jessie turned and walked stiffly back into Glen’s room, linked her arm through Mr. Helland’s, and walked out the opposite door into the hall.

  He stood watching her go, arms hanging limply at his sides. Then gave a deep, tired sigh.

  A deep voice behind him said, “Well, that was about as smooth talking as if you were speaking English as a second language. Course, it’s hard to say much when you got a big foot in your mouth. A big, big foot.”

  “Were you sitting there listening the whole time we were talking, Arvid?”

  “Yeah. Poop. It was a sad performance, too. I could hardly watch. For some reason I thought you big city boys had a better handle on the silver tongue. I wasn’t eavesdropping. I’m keeping an eye on Jessie and couldn’t help overhearing.” He stood and put out a hand. “How are you, Grant? It’s good to see you.”

  Grant shook Arvid’s huge mitt, then clapped him on the back. “Good to see you, too, Arvid. What do you mean, you’re supposed to be watching Jessie?”

  “Tell you later. C’mon. And for God’s sake, don’t let her spot us following her. She’s so mad she’s ready to go off like a Fourth of July sparkler.” He shook his head and snickered. “Hmph. What an idiot.”

  “Why are you following—” Grant began.

  Arvid shushed him. They rounded the corner as Jessie went into the Yellowstone room. Then he asked, “You Swedish, Grant?”

  “No, dammit. I’m not Swedish.” Grant rubbed his eyes. “I’m just jetlagged. The plane got in late, I had no sleep, and I just finished driving the rest of the way through a bunch of that white stuff you Montanans mistakenly call spring.”<
br />
  Arvid grinned. “I was just checking.” He glanced down the hall to see which room Jessie had entered. “You might maybe better call a florist.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Grant rubbed the center of his forehead with a circular motion.

  “Flowers. And you know what else? You could drop over at the pet store and pick up a couple catnip toys for the beast. Jack is her weak spot.”

  “Arvid.” Grant’s smile was broad. “You’re such a genius.”

  “Ja. Since Jessie didn’t take you up on dinner, why don’t you have a bite with Esther, Russell and me?”

  “Russell? He’s up here, too?”

  “Uh huh. Don’t buy a lottery ticket this week. Your luck stinks like three-day-old fish.”

  “Russell,” Grant grumbled. “Wouldn’t you know Russell would show up?”

  “They aren’t suited, you know. He wouldn’t be good for her. Growing up as neighbors in Sage Bluff, he just got in the habit of thinking they belonged together. But ja,” Arvid intoned, stepping into the open elevator door. “And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s a good-looking pencil artist here she went out with already.”

  Grant gave him a dirty look as though it was Arvid’s fault. “A fast worker, huh?”

  “Yuh.” The big detective gave him a crooked grin. “Nice guy, too. Jessie invited him to join us last night for dinner. Russell looked like he wanted to poison the guy’s chicken fried steak.”

  “Blast. Roses and catnip it is, Arvid,” Grant said in a determined voice.

  “Yeah. And now that I think about the way Jessie was laughing at this new guy’s jokes, maybe you’d better add a box of chocolates. You know how they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach? I think the way to a woman’s is with chocolate.”

  Grant’s tired eyes held a steely determination. “Roses, and Godiva truffles. And at least two catnip toys for the monster.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Jessie waved the Gingerbread Man to the door. “This is the Yellowstone Room, Mr. Helland. It’s run by the Crooked Creek Historical Museum. During the show, their staff will promote my paintings along with Cheri Cappello’s fine replicas. She makes elk-skin and buckskin Native American war shirt reproductions and parfleche bags. Parfleche bags are dried rawhide pouches. The ones here on display are overflow from a larger exhibit at the museum. All of Cheri’s work is historically accurate for the 1800s.”

  Jessie gestured to a piece near a fringed war shirt. Draped on a wooden stand, it was the shape of a horse head, fabricated with eye-holes. The leather mask was elaborately decorated with beading and the addition of several strands of leather with attached feathers.

  “She recently began making the beaded horse masks. Isn’t this one magnificent? I can’t imagine the time involved.”

  Helland had been peering at one of the small parfleche “possibles” bags, bags whose use was determined by the user. He bent to examine the leather piece Jessie was pointing out, reading the signage, “Yes, interesting and intricate. In fact, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. She must have the patience of a saint.” He straightened. “But did the Indians actually use such masks for their horses?”

  “I’m sure they did. None of Cheri’s work is created without extensive amounts of research. She’s meticulous about making her work accurately reflect the best quality work that each tribe could have produced and used.”

  “Amazing.”

  “That’s the word for them, all right. And I know she also does breastplates and pipe bags. They might have a few at the museum. If you get time, you should go see them. It’s worth a trip over.”

  Then Jessie nodded to the left and strolled over to the first four by eight display panel with her oil paintings. “My work is hung on these movable panels and—oh good. They’ve sold a couple smaller pieces already.”

  “How can you tell? They aren’t marked sold.”

  “That’s what the red dot on the price label means.” She pumped a fist. “Whoo hoo! It’s exciting that they’ve found buyers so early in the show.”

  “Well.” He smiled at her excitement. “Congratulations are in order then.”

  “Thanks.” Jessie beamed at him, her smile lighting her face. “It makes me feel fabulous when someone likes my work enough to want it on their own walls.”

  Helland walked slowly past Jessie’s work, exclaiming over several that he liked particularly well. He lingered several minutes before the large painting of O’Bourne’s big red barn. Hollyhocks of pink and white blossomed in profusion along the side of the structure. An unreadable expression crossed his face. “Another barn painting. Why, this looks just like the barn over at Nielson’s. He was one of my neighbors—actually a good friend. He died last winter, he and his son both,” he said gruffly, turning back to the painting. “The barn you painted must’ve been built by the same builder.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” Jessie said, not mentioning that she recognised Nielson’s name. “I almost didn’t put that painting up for sale. It’s one I painted at my dad’s place down in Sage Bluff. But I believe that a lot of the barns around Montana and Wyoming were built by the same two men who travelled the Mountain West looking for such jobs. I’d like to see the Nielson’s barn, if it looks so much like dad’s”.

  Helland made a noncommittal sound. Then he said, “I still have a set of keys to Berg Nielson’s place. I check it several times a week for the executor of Berg’s will. I don’t think he’d mind if you accompanied me one day. But I’ll get permission.” He gave a last look at the painting with the barn and peered at the price tag. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Nice work,” he said. “I might have to give that one some thought. Although just a little smaller would be better for my small kitchen.” Then he swivelled to look around the room.

  Jessie’s gaze followed. “They’re selling their most popular books about both old masters and contemporary western artists. For instance, Frederick Remington and Charlie Russell—a couple golden oldies—and Howard Terpning and Robert Bateman, two of the contemporary masters.”

  “I’ve heard of them all,” Helland boasted.

  “And do you have grandchildren?” He nodded. “They have children’s books on wildlife along with an assortment of artsy T-shirts for children and adults.” She lifted a muted brown shirt off the rack and shook it out, showing Helland the front. It showed a Charles M. Russell painting titled “When Shadows Hint Death” depicting cowboys on a low ridge above a ravine. The cowboys were watching the play of ominous shadows on the opposite ridge. The shadows warned them of a war party above them.

  What a fabulous story and depiction—but depressing, she decided. She refolded it carefully and placed it back on the correct stack. “I plan to come back during the show and buy one of the T-shirts. A cheerful one. Maybe one of the bright ones with the purple horses. It’s fun to wear a ‘work of art’ tee.” She thumbed quickly through the stack of shirts, exclaiming over several that sported brightly-coloured, contemporary designs.

  He smiled at her indulgently—his expression that of a man weary of watching a woman shop, but too kind to complain—and leaned heavily on his cane. Jessie knew that expression well. Dan O’Bourne, her father, was a master of the unvoiced “Can we go yet?”.

  She knew exactly which shirt she wanted. It had better be here when she got back to buy it. “Shall we do one more room?” She asked in a cheerful tone. She looked at her artist directory. “Let’s go across the hall. There’s an artist who does military art. You may find it interesting. It will have to be the last room I visit this afternoon.”

  They moved on, moving to the back door of the room into the next hall.

  As Jessie stepped through the door she saw the artist sitting in a black canvas director’s chair watching his customers browse. He looked familiar. Propped on the foot rest of the chair were feet clad in fancy tooled cowboy boots. The man was dressed in a deep blue silk shirt with a western cut. His belt sported a huge sil
ver buckle. He was what the artists called “all duded up” but looked muscular and fit.

  She remembered then, that he was the man who said he’d had to dig through couch cushions to find enough change to pay his art room costs. She peered at the artist’s name tag on his shirt. It read “Logan Cooper”.

  “Welcome. Come on in and enjoy the work. Most of my displayed work is prints…copies of the originals.” He nodded at Jessie and Helland as a woman walked over clutching a plastic-wrapped print.

  “I’ll take this one, Logan.” She handed the print to him and reached into her purse. “And I’d like one of the books about your experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan. It has a lot of your military sketches in it, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. “It’s more drawings and paintings than text,” he explained. “I was a military artist.”

  “Really interesting. Will you sign it for me, please? Well, actually for my husband, Jerry Holmes.” She smiled at the artist. “I want to give it to him.”

  “I’d be happy to sign it, but I’m afraid I can’t.” He held up his right hand and gave the buyer a sardonic look. His hand was missing the index and middle finger. “If you still want both the book and the print that’ll be $325.”

  “I do.” She looked at the missing fingers, flustered.

  “You can use the small table here to write a check, or I can take a credit card. I can run a card on my smart phone app. It takes me a few minutes, but I manage.”

  “I’ll write a check,” she said.

  “I’ll get your book and bag it for you while you write it out. Thanks so much.”

  After the woman left, Helland introduced himself. Then he inquired, “I think I’ve seen you around Crooked Creek, haven’t I?”

  “You sure have, Mr. Helland. I was raised here. I was sorry to hear about your wife. She was a nice woman.”

  “Thanks.” Helland adjusted his oxygen pack slightly to the right. “Afghanistan and Iraq, huh? Both tough deployments.”