2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  She pushed through the French doors at the other end of the common area and entered the huge glassed-in sun deck. Not a soul was enjoying the richly decorated seating area with its western-themed overstuffed chairs and loveseats. She looked around. Low tables whose legs and supports were formed by elk antlers faced chairs in front of the welcoming fireplace. A floor to ceiling wall of windows offered a spectacular view. The vista pulled her toward the windows, and she wished immediately for her paints.

  Low clouds draped like lace bridal veils over snow-covered hills. Beyond the hills, Jessie could see the far peaks of the Rattlesnake Mountains.

  Thick pines wandered down the near hillside like a marching army. Here and there the march was interrupted by the white bark of an aspen tree not yet beginning to leaf, or a charred or blackened pine, a monument to lightning’s fury or man’s stupidity. Sprinkled here and there were a few brown trees—likely victims of beetle-kill.

  In drought conditions the pine bark beetles flourished, and the trees were more susceptible to the insects. Numerous dead trees increased the fire danger. Montana likely rejoiced over the much-needed snowfall.

  Minutes passed as Jessie gazed out at the spectacular view, her pity party over her childless unmarried state forgotten as she assessed the scene’s potential for plein-air painting.

  Where the line of trees began she saw a brown flurry of movement. She peered intently but whatever animal she’d seen disappeared quickly into the trees. Something small, Jessie thought, a small coon or porcupine having to wade through snow too deep for its short body. Nature is a tough taskmaster.

  A bald eagle soared over the trees. Wings outstretched, it flew effortlessly along the top of the mountain. Then it was joined by a second bird. Circling and swooping, they appeared to hover. They’d caught a thermal, an updraft.

  A feeling of joy washed over her at the magnificent sight and she raised her arms above her head in exuberance.

  “Wow!” She realized she’d said it aloud. She looked around at the empty room, wishing there was someone—anyone—to share the moment. Then, Jessie imagined her mother telling her, “Enjoy each day—never waste it on “might be betters”.

  Most people never get the chance to see such a fabulous sight. Her mood lifted.

  I’m so lucky. Just pull up the big girl britches, Jess, and get on with life.

  Her mental tush-kicking completed, she strode back to the restaurant and bought both the Road Block and Going to the Sun wines. When she was finally back on the second floor, she walked toward her hotel room with trepidation. At room 212, she sagged in relief.

  Thank god there’s not another of the beastly little tractors and notes waiting at the door. Maybe the lunatic limits himself to one toy and one terrifying message per day. She set the wine down, opened her purse and withdrew her room key.

  From inside the room she heard the phone ringing and Jack yowling as though in reply.

  Brrring.

  “Meowr.”

  Brrrring.

  “Yeowr. Nik nik?”

  When he heard the keycard slide into the door lock, his caterwauling grew louder.

  “Oh, for cripes sake, Jack. Are you trying to get us booted out of the lodge?” Jessie stepped in and let the door close behind her. The tom wound circles around and between her ankles as she set the wine bottles on the desk and grabbed the phone.

  “Jessie?” Esther’s voice asked. “I tried your cell, but it must be on the charger.”

  “Oh, Esther. Hi. Yes, it is. I think they call them cell phones because we’re prisoners to the battery charger.”

  Esther gave her mellow laugh. “That’s where ours always seems to be. Of course, it also spends a lot of time forgotten in Arvid’s truck—under the seat, in the cubby—or tucked in his fishing gear. I’m always hunting for it. I even found it in the refrigerator once. He says he set it on the shelf, so he could pull out his ‘sandwich fixins’.”

  Jessie laughed.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to see if you had everything ready for the quick-draw. Would you like some help carrying things down from your room?”

  “Thanks, but I’m well organized for a change. My easel is set up downstairs already, so all I have left to haul downstairs is an art tote. I can manage fine.”

  “Wonderful. It’s going to be so much fun to watch you paint a piece from start to finish. Afterward, would you like to have dinner with Arvid, Russell and me tonight?” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered to the men, “Grant, too, right?”.

  “Ya, but don’t tell her he’s coming,” Arvid whispered back.

  Grant smiled broadly.

  “I’d love to,” Jessie said. “But before I have dinner, I want to watch the first part of the auction. They sell the quick-draws first and I get nervous waiting for mine to sell. I know I’ll enjoy my dinner more after I watch it go. Can I call you after that and see where to meet you?”

  “Perfect,” Esther said in her cultured tones. “You don’t need to call. We plan to go get in line at the Copper Plate restaurant as soon as you sign your name on your painting. That might assure us a table. Just meet us there.” She ended the call.

  Jessie sat on the bed, taking mental inventory of what she’d set up downstairs at her quick-draw station. She pulled her reference photos from her art tote and stared at them intently, planning her quick-draw strategy. A flutter of nervousness rippled through her stomach when she looked at the photos she’d chosen to work from. It would be a challenge, but she was sure she could make a decent painting in the allotted time. Returning the photos to her bag and setting it aside, she patted her lap, inviting Jack to jump up. He landed with a whump, then nestled into a comfortable position. Immediately his rumbling purr kicked in, soothing Jessie’s jangled nerves.

  “We have ten minutes of quality time, Butter Tub, before I have to get dressed.” She stroked his soft head, planning what to wear. Thank God, she’d hauled her expensive western jackets and boots into the lodge. They would have been pricey to replace. She’d wear a T-shirt, jeans and her leather fringed boots while she did the quick-draw, with the apron the Expo gave each artist for taking part. When she was finished with her painting, she’d add her brown leather jacket with the stylized running horses on the back and the silver concho buttons. That should be dressy enough for the Copper Plate restaurant.

  She scratched behind Jack’s ears and smoothed the fur on his broad head, all the while telling him what a good boy he was.

  There’s something comforting about petting a cat. Sometimes I wonder if I take care of Jack—or if he takes care of me.

  “I’m getting to be an old cat lady, Butter Tub. No husband, no kids, just a big fat cat with an even bigger attitude.” She ruffled his fur. Jack gave her an inscrutable look and yawned, his breath escaping in a waft of tuna kibble.

  *.*.*

  Esther turned to Arvid. “She’s there. She’s fine. I have no idea how you two fine specimens of manhood lost a woman between the lobby and elevator.” She glared at Grant. “And you…a hot-shot FBI agent.”

  Arvid gave a sigh of relief and crooked a thumb at Grant. “Yuh. I expected him to be better at tailing someone.”

  “Hey, I don’t even know why we were supposed to be tailing Jessie.” Grant raked his fingers through his blond hair and rubbed an eye. Then he turned to Esther and explained. “Arvid hasn’t told me what’s going on. And I’m jetlagged. I think I actually sleepwalked while I followed Arvid around the halls.”

  “Huh. I thought I was following you,” Arvid joked.

  “Good grief.” Esther gave Arvid a little shove. “You two clowns go have some coffee. Arvid, fill Grant in on the story. And then find Russell and ask if he’s heard anything new. I need to dress.”

  “We’ve been evicted, Kemo Sabe.” Arvid nodded to Grant. “Let’s vamoose.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Quick Draw

  “Okay, folks, this is how it works,” Max stood on a podium and spoke into the microphone. “
A buzzer goes off in ten minutes. Then these artists start their paintings and have an hour—only an hour—to create a wonderful work of art. You get to watch it being made! Then, they’ll frame their paintings and we’ll auction them off right here! Get your bid numbers now and buy a piece of art! If you don’t have a bid number, ask one of the fellows in the bright green vests—the auction gophers—for help”

  People milled about, sipping wine and nibbling on hors d’ oeuvres. The crowd walked from easel to easel to meet the artists and ask what they planned to paint.

  Camille had the quick draw location next to Jessie’s. While Max continued his spiel and began introducing each quick draw artist, the two women exchanged glances and rolled their eyes at his banter. Camille again looked gorgeous. She had on a pair of black jeans with a form-fitting soft black sweater and wore high-heeled cowgirl boots decorated with embroidery. Both the sweater and boots had a cactus motif. Her blonde hair was piled on her head, several curls draping loose. She looked stunning. She wished Jessie good luck, donned an artist’s apron and sat down at her table, where she would create a colored scratchboard.

  Jessie squeezed paint onto her palette. She put her canvas on her easel and got out her reference photos, clamping them onto a support sticking out from the side of her easel. The final painting would be of several cows and a couple of calves standing in the shade of a huge cottonwood tree. She nodded, smiled, and waved to the onlookers when Max came around with the microphone and introduced her, pointing to her easel and reading a shortened biography emphasizing that Jessie was the honored guest artist.

  Jessie was setting out her brushes on a small table next to her easel when she felt a quick tap on her shoulder and turned. She gave a squeal and was enveloped in a quick hug.

  “Hi, Jessie.” Cheri Cappello smiled and gestured to the reference photos. “It’s great to see you. I just stopped by to wish you luck on the quick draw. I’ll be watching!” She glanced over at Jessie’s reference photos. “Neat subject. I’m going to be bidding on yours.”

  “Thanks. I hope you get it, and I’ve been hoping we’d get a chance to visit. Are you planning to be around tomorrow?”

  “I am. I’d love to visit and get caught up. How about meeting in the hospitality room tomorrow morning? They put on a pretty good breakfast. Can you meet me there about eight?”

  “Sure thing. If I beat you there, I’ll get us a table. See you then.”

  Max started the count-down. “Ten!...Nine!...Eight!”

  Cheri wiggled her fingers as Max continued the countdown. “You go, girl!”

  Jessie poised her brush over her paint.

  “One!”

  *.*.*

  Jessie’s brush flew over the canvas, blocking in the darkest masses of the cottonwood tree and the deepest color on the cows standing under the tree. She wiped her brush and picked up a clean one, swiping it through a glob of ultramarine blue and white with a hint of cadmium orange added to grey down the mixture and began slapping on the sky.

  Behind the velvet rope strung around the quick finish area, Arvid, Russell and Grant watched the rapidly developing painting. Arvid folded his arms across his chest and shook his head in amazement. Grant lifted his wine glass and sipped thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving the redhead at the easel. Russell stared. A small crowd had gathered behind Jessie’s easel, but she didn’t sense that she was being watched. Her mind and eye were focused only on her canvas.

  For the area near the horizon, where atmosphere filtered out more of the red, Jessie used a large brush loaded with a cool cerulean and worked across the horizon area—then dabbed the same color in a few places on the mass of the cottonwood tree—letting what artists call “sky holes’ peep through the leafy area. Jessie stepped back several steps and squinted at her painting, judging the effect before stepping back into place.

  She stood still at the easel, humming under her breath for several minutes, staring at the reference photo. In her mind, she was back at the pasture, watching the cows meander under the massive cottonwood. Then she stared at the canvas. The brush began to move again, adding the nuance of green reflected from the grassy pasture to the underbelly of the cow half in the sun, half in the shade—adding a swipe of deep blue across the backs of the cows shaded by the tree, then chose a new brush and flicked on some speckled touches of light where the sun shone through leaves.

  Her toe tapped to her soft humming—humming that took the place of the music usually blaring in her studio while she worked. The brush moved faster.

  “Fifteen minutes to go,” Max bellowed into the microphone. “Fifteen minutes, artists!”

  Jessie appraised her painting. Then she flicked the lightest areas of yellows and golds onto the masses of cottonwood leaves.

  When she deemed the painting finished, she chose a tiny brush and meticulously signed her name on the bottom right corner, adding a copyright symbol and small QD for “quick draw”.

  The buzzer sounded, and the crowd cheered and clapped. Arvid told Grant, trying to be heard over the noise, “Man, that turned out great, didn’t it?”

  Grant nodded.

  “I’m going to go find Esther and we’ll get in line at the restaurant,” Arvid continued. “You two hooligans can help her pack up easel and paints, okay?”

  Jessie picked up her frame, put the wet painting into the opening, and tacked it into place with her small hand-nailer. She set it on her easel and removed her apron. She nodded at her small crowd of admirers, giving them a generous smile. When she noticed Grant and Russell, still standing behind the velvet rope, she gave them a little finger wave. Then she looked past them, and her face clouded with apprehension.

  Stepping around Russell and Grant, a tall man strode to the velvet rope, lifted it, flung it back over his head and went to Jessie’s easel. He slapped a single piece of paper on the table near her paints and gave a whoop. Then, to the consternation of Grant and Russell, the man grabbed Jessie, picked her up in a bear hug and whirled her around before setting her back on the floor.

  “Logan Cooper? What the heck?” Jessie squeaked.

  “Look at it. Just look.” He pointed to the paper and Jessie picked it up with careful fingers.

  It was a delicate portrait of a young girl rendered in charcoal. Jessie looked closer. The girl looked familiar. And the sketch was signed ‘Cooper’.

  “It’s…it’s just beautiful. And new?”

  “You’d better believe it’s new, you bossy broad.” He waved a hand toward her easel. “I didn’t realize when you came into my art room that you were the guest artist. I thought you were about the rudest, dumbest, smart-mouthed woman I’d ever laid eyes on.”

  “I was awfully hard on you.” Jessie said. “I’m sorry.” She looked again at the portrait. “No, I’m not sorry a whit. This is beautiful work.” She picked it up and stared again at the lovely lines. It had a slightly different feel than the older work she’d seen in his room, but it was good.

  Now she knew who it was, too. It was the little girl in the elevator—the button pusher. “It’s Lynda Sue?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s my daughter.” he asked. “Have you met her?”

  “I heard her mother talking to her in the elevator.” She gestured to the sketch. “How long did it take?”

  “Three and a half long hours,” he groaned. “For a drawing that used to take me one. But I don’t care. I wouldn’t have even tried it, if you hadn’t blasted me for feeling sorry for myself.”

  Jessie smiled, then looked behind him and saw Russell and Grant gaping at them. Walking up next to Grant came Lynda Sue and her mother, holding the baby. The woman’s face was aglow with happiness. Obviously, she was Logan’s wife.

  “Well then,” Jessie said in a pleased tone. “I don’t owe you an 8x10.”

  “Nope. You’ve given me my life back.” He muttered low, so only Jessie could hear. “Probably saved my marriage, too.” He gestured toward his wife. “I think she was darn tired of my bad attitude and my ‘poo
r me’ funk.” In a normal tone he said, “Thank you, Jessie O’Bourne. Come and pick out any piece of art in my room. It’s yours.”

  Jessie laughed. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”

  He picked up the drawing. “Oh, I mean it all right. Anything on the wall. Any damn thing. Biggest one in the room if you want. In fact, I wish you’d take a big one because you’ve given me my life back.”

  She nodded solemnly. “I’ll stop in tomorrow.” Blaring from the microphone came Max’s voice, urging everyone to “find a seat and get ready to bid.”

  Jessie watched Logan stride to his young family and take his little girl’s hand. He looked back at Jessie and tossed her a casual salute.

  One of Max’s gophers came over, gave Jessie a quick ‘hello’ and grabbed the painting from her easel. “Your piece is number seven,” he said over his shoulder as he hurried toward the stage. “What’s the title?”

  “Cows and Cottonwoods.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up.

  A high-pitched whistle filled the hall, and everyone cringed, some putting their hands over their ears. The auctioneer adjusted the pitch and volume on the microphone. He practiced some noisy prattle, a string of numbers, and went on to “Howdy, howdy, howdy folks. We’re gonna sell some art!” He swept off his Stetson and put it back on. Now this is how it works,” he sing-songed. “You got your auction numbers?”

  “Yeah!” The crowd roared.

  “You see those tall guys in the black Stetsons?”

  “Yeah!”

  “They’re the spotters. They’ll keep track of the bidding. When you bid, if they see you, they’ll yell “Go!” and point to you. When the next person bids, they’ll point to him and yell,” the auctioneer explained.

  The velvet rope separating the crowd from the painters was pulled down by two helpers. Tate stepped from the crowd and strode to Jessie’s supply table. “Super quick draw painting. The light in it is beautiful,” he said, drawing the word out into four long syllables. Then he glanced around. “What can I help with?” He picked up two tubes of paint. “Where do you want your tubes of paint stowed?”