2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “Art tote, please,” Jessie said, gesturing toward the soft sided bag. She snapped the lid tight on her palette box. “I’ll have to clean up the palette in the hotel room, I guess.” She’d been going to say ‘the Hawk’ before she remembered it was still in the impound lot near the Sheriff’s Office.

  “Thanks, Tate.” She began loosening the fitting at the back of her easel, preparing to fold it down. “I’ve got time to carry things up to my room before my piece is auctioned.” She loosened the wing nut on the metal leg, folded the easel, and slid it into a carrying bag and set it on the floor.

  Grant came and stood at her shoulder. He put out his hand to Tate. “Grant Kennedy.”

  Tate looked up in surprise but shook Grant’s hand and introduced himself. While Tate went back to storing Jessie’s paints, Grant picked up the bagged easel. He lifted her small table and waited for her to wrap the dirty brushes in a cloth for cleaning later. Tate picked up her apron.

  *.*.*

  Russell stood by glowering at both men. There was nothing left to carry, unless he wanted to sling Jessie over his shoulder and carry the redhead herself. He almost snickered at the reaction that would draw—both from Grant and the new guy.

  What kind of name is ‘Tate’ anyhow? Dumb name. Sounds like an Idaho spud.

  Russell jutted his chin forward and glared at the tableau, rubbing a hand across his five o’clock shadow and wondering how best to go about tossing the other men on their keisters and getting Jessie’s attention.

  He watched her joking with Tate but casting wistful glances at Grant and realized any chance he might have had with Jessie was probably long gone.

  If only I’d asked her to marry me without asking her to stay in Sage Bluff and quit the art. Seeing her paint tonight was like seeing her—really seeing her—for the first time.

  Tate was folding Jessie’s apron with military precision. Russell scowled again. Then he heard a husky voice to his right say, “Don’t fret, Sweet Thing. If those two handsome fellows are handling Jessie’s clean up, I’ll let you help me over here.”

  He turned toward the voice. Camille pushed her chair aside and stood. She put her hands on the small of her back and stretched, rolling her shoulders and accentuating her generous figure. Russell gawked. One blond curl spiraled down next to her cheek. She tossed her head back and blew the curl from her cheek with delectably sensuous lips. Then she untied her apron, dropped it on the chair, and stepped toward Russell. She stood with a hand on one hip and gave him a blatant once-over.

  He felt himself move toward her like a heat-seeking missile. With the added height from her high-heeled boots Camille had to look down at him. Involuntarily, his gaze swept from the toe of her extravagant cowgirl boots, up her generous black-clad curves and finally over her lovely face. His eyes met hers.

  And there was a blatant challenge in those beguiling blues.

  Russell felt his breath catch, felt it whistle through his clenched teeth. He took a step forward.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Arvid and Esther waited in line outside the Copper Plate. While Arvid checked out the menu, Esther quickly texted Jessie, Russell and Grant to tell them the hostess assured them they’d have a table ready within ten minutes.

  “Marinated elk tenderloins with a chipotle butter. What the heck is chipotle butter? Buttered meat? Now, that don’t make sense,” Arvid grumbled, looking at his wife. “Sure we want to eat here? The food sounds awful fancy-schmancy.”

  Esther ignored him and slapped an emoji into the text to Jessie. It was a toothy dinosaur. Except for the emoji, her text was as readable as a formal letter—all the correct grammar and spelling. “Come quickly if you can,” she texted. “Otherwise, Dino here is going to want to head downtown for a chili dog!”

  “Crab cakes with a mustard remoulade,” Arvid read. “Huh. And you think I’m uncivilized? Even I have enough sense not to put mustard on my fish. On FISH. And what is this remoulade? Sounds French. The only thing they do well is French fries.”

  Esther sighed.

  He continued. “The prices aren’t too bad, but are you sure you don’t want to go down to Hank’s Diner and Dogs? They have the best—"

  At that moment the hostess appeared with two menus in hand, ushered them into the Copper Plate and seated them at a table. The round table was elegantly set with real silver, a rose bowl, linen napkins and a pristine white tablecloth. The carved back dining chairs had deep burgundy leather upholstery. Esther sank onto a chair and grinned at Arvid.

  “Now then,” she said, beaming. “Isn’t this lovely?”

  Arvid looked at the expression on her face and wisely said nothing. Then, his phone vibrated. He looked at the caller ID. Fischer.

  “I have to take this, Esther, but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be right outside the door. Order an appetizer, will you?” He got up and whispered to her, waving his hand in the negative. “But not that crab cake and mustard thing.” He strode hurriedly to the exit.

  “Arvid here.” He said. Then he listened and groaned inwardly. Dinner—at least his dinner—was going to have to wait.

  *.*.*

  “Where’s Arvid,” Jessie asked, sitting down across from Esther.

  “He had to go meet Sheriff Fischer. It seems there’s been a development in the case.”

  Jessie smirked. “Yes, Russell had to leave, too. So, it’s just us gals.” Esther looked sheepish, but Jessie didn’t notice. “But before he went he took a tumble.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Not that kind of tumble, Esther. He met Camille. And from the spellbound look on his face, he fell hard.”

  “Camille?”

  “Yeah,” Jessie said. “Tall blonde. Beautiful and with big…um, curves. Camille is one intimidating woman.” Jessie chuckled. “You should have seen Russell’s face when she walked over and gave him the come-hither.”

  “The come-hither? Sounds like something out of a medieval romance novel. What are you reading these days, anyway?” She smiled and pushed her menu toward Jessie. “So, she was flirting with Russell…and you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Jessie picked up the menu and opened it. “At one time, I thought Russell and I would eventually wind up together, but it never happened. It’s for the best.” She picked up the stemmed water-glass the waiter had delivered and took a sip. Then she snickered. “So here was Russell, standing there. Gob-smacked. Staring at Camille drooling like a basset hound ogling a beefsteak while his phone rang and rang. Finally, Tate said to him, “Hey, buddy—that’s your phone.” Jessie grinned. “He hated to leave. You wait and see. He’ll be back this evening and he’ll be extremely uncomfortable. Maybe even embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed? Why?”

  “Because last year he asked me to marry him and he keeps saying the offer is still good. Like I’m a used car he wants to buy.” She grimaced. “Now, he’ll have to call me and ask, ‘Say, Jessie. Who was that big blonde doing the quick draw?’ Camille said they hadn’t had a chance to introduce themselves before the Sheriff called.”

  “Ah. I see.” Esther’s eyes twinkled. “And last year, Russell thought you should give up your art, stay home in Sage Bluff and do nothing but be a momma hen, didn’t he?”

  “Uh huh.” Jessie laughed. “He never understood my obsession with my art. Now, Camille has blindsided him. Those two are made for each other.” She bit her lip and looked thoughtful. “I’m surprised I never thought of it before. But wait until he tries that “no more traveling for art” line on Camille. Man, I’d like to be a flower on the wallpaper during that conversation just to see the fireworks.”

  “The woman is that self-confident, hmm?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Esther lifted her stemmed glass toward Jessie’s and they clinked together in a toast.

  “And Grant?” Esther asked.

  Jessie looked quizzical. “He helped me carry my easel up to the room, but I haven’t seen him since.”

  Esther looked over J
essie’s shoulder. “You know that isn’t what I was asking. But as a matter of fact, here comes Grant now.”

  Jessie looked uncomfortable. “You hadn’t said he was joining us. In fact, when he and Tate helped carry my things back to my room, Grant never mentioned it, either.”

  Esther’s face was innocent. “Arvid must have invited him.” She turned in her seat and gave Grant a finger wave. “Over here, Grant. Come and join us.”

  “Thanks.” Grant pulled back a chair and sat. He had slipped on a dress shirt and blazer since the quick draw. “I’m only here for a short while. I want to keep an eye on the paintings listed at the end of the auction because I’m expecting the Emily Carr to be tossed in at the end. But I have time for appetizers.” He pulled Jessie’s menu over and opened it, scanning the offerings quickly.

  The waiter appeared. Grant waited until the women had ordered, then said, “Think I’ll have the sampler plate. And a glass of the Farm Dog Red, please.”

  When the waiter left with their order, Esther asked, “What did you say you’re watching in the auction, Grant?”

  “I’m watching a valuable Emily Carr—I think.”

  Both women looked perplexed. “What do you mean ‘you think’?” Jessie asked.

  “It may not be offered. Either tonight or tomorrow—at the end of the auction—I expect an Emily Carr to come up for bid. It isn’t listed anywhere in tonight’s auction catalog, but I know it’s been consigned. I think our good friend Max will slip it in tonight and bid on it himself. It seems he presents something valuable at the end of nearly every auction. It’s always a ‘late addition” and never makes the catalog. Toward the end of the auction, he mentions there is just one more piece. No provenance, no image, no estimated value is given. The piece is never auctioned until after most bidders have left.”

  “You’re sure? How would he make that work?” Esther asked.

  “Max weights the auction with inexpensive pieces toward the end. Most of the moneyed customers, the knowledgeable bidders, aren’t interested in those pieces. They leave, and he can bid on the valuable late listing himself.”

  “Oh no,” Jessie said. “That’s so unethical. Are you certain?”

  “Well, I know it was consigned by the owner, because she told me so herself. She also gave me a photo of the painting. The Emily Carr is valuable—extremely so. And so far, I haven’t seen it hung with the pre-auction display. It isn’t listed in the catalog for tonight’s auction. Nor for tomorrow.”

  “That’s awful. Keep me posted on what happens.” Then Jessie explained about her donated landscape the year before, and her concern that the money it brought was never sent to the humane society.

  Grant frowned. “I can help you check on that. What he’s doing with the Emily Carr is against his client’s wishes and damned unethical, but not illegal. What might have been done with the proceeds from your painting—which I purchased by the way—would be illegal. The Expo promoted the Crooked Creek Humane Society as a recipient of donations and recipient of the proceeds of certain pieces. Yours was one of those total donations. I remember that. If the money didn’t get to the society, it needs to be tracked.”

  Jessie nodded. “I planned to discuss that with him. I just haven’t had a minute.”

  “How about tomorrow morning? I’ll make an appointment with him. He can’t very well refuse to speak to an FBI agent. Do you want to come along? I’d take you to breakfast first.”

  Jessie said, “I’m meeting a friend for breakfast, but if you’ll make the appointment for about nine, perhaps I could meet you at his office?”

  Grant’s face fell. “That works.”

  Sliding a platter of appetizers in front of Grant with a flourish, the waiter said, “Bon appetit!”

  Jessie’s mouth watered at Grant’s appetizer plate—the stuffed mushrooms, parmesan cheese straws, the mini crab cakes, a short bison kebab, and calamari puffs. They looked delicious.

  “Help yourself,” he said, glancing at Esther and Jessie. And they did.

  When the waiter returned with Esther’s huckleberry braised short ribs with garlic mashed potatoes, and Jessie’s baked stuffed pork chops with roasted cauliflower, Grant glanced at his watch. He reluctantly stood to leave.

  “Time to go see if Max has added the Emma Carr. If his pattern holds true, he’s more likely to drop it into the auction tonight because this is the slowest auction. Friday’s auction always attracts fewer big buyers.” He gave Jessie a wink and said, “See you at nine at Max’s office on the first floor.” He turned to Esther. “Thanks so much for inviting me, Esther. I’m sure dessert will be incredible, and I hate to miss it, but duty calls.” And off he went.

  Jessie watched him stop briefly at the hostess desk. Her gaze lingered as his broad back disappeared through the exit. Then she swiveled to face Esther. “So,” she murmured. “Arvid invited him, did he?”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office

  “What do you have,” Arvid asked Sheriff Fischer.

  Fischer looked somber. “First, some remains were discovered not far from Savannah. The military police are nigh certain that the body is that of Harris Freeman, but they’re waiting for DNA data to come back. I’m sure you recall that he was the friend of Dominic Nielson who they thought had gone AWOL.”

  “You wouldn’t have called us in on this unless you thought it was tied in with the Nielson or Benny Potter murders,” Russell said.

  Arvid nodded.

  Sheriff Freeman went on. “Right you are. When Dom Nielson died, he had a hand-written, but legal will. He had sent it to Christofferson’s law firm before he came home. In it, he left all his worldly possessions to Harris Freeman. So far, no other will has shown up. This is one of those wills servicemen make when they think they might be sent into dicey situations.”

  “So, explain,” Arvid growled. “Let’s assume Harris Freeman is the body found near Savannah. Who is now the heir to the Nielson’s farm? And what if Harris Freeman is dead? Who inherits both Nielson’s and anything else that Harris Freeman owned?

  “Althea Freeman Heath. Leastways, that’s what we believe. She’s Harris Freeman’s mom and Glen Heath’s stepmother. Nice old lady. In good health physically but she has good days and bad days with early onset Alzheimer’s. Forgetful.” Fischer frowned. “She’s in an assisted living facility here. I believe everything will go to Glen when she passes away, since Harris is dead, and Althea has a pretty good relationship with her stepson. So, when she dies, Glen Heath will be standing on what farmers around here call the ‘top of the heap’. And it’s ironic. He’ll be the heir to his stepmother’s ranch, too, and Glen hates everything to do with farming and ranching. Althea Heath has been paying the Christofferson brothers to care for her property and the livestock. Of course, he could always sell.”

  “Have you told him about his stepbrother yet?”

  “I warned him that it’s about a 99% bet that the remains are Harris Freeman’s. But that isn’t the most interesting thing discovered by the Military Police down there in Georgia.”

  Arvid and Russell gazed at him expectantly.

  Fischer grinned. “When they finally decided to go around to all the car rental agencies again, asking for the rental agreements for a period of three days—records from the day Freeman disappeared and a day before and a day after, guess whose name popped up?”

  Arvid gave him a palm out gesture and Russell shrugged.

  “Benny Potter’s.” Sheriff Fischer smiled broadly. “I think we have this one wrapped up. We think Benny went down there and killed Freeman.

  “My God. Why would be do that?” Arvid looked puzzled.

  “Here’s the scenario. Stop me if anything sounds off. Because the whole thing is crazy, but it fits. Last year, Berg Nielson put in a complaint about Benny Potter, who’d been shooting at his outbuildings and his mailbox.”

  “Well,” Russell said, “that isn’t really a good reason to kill someone.”

&
nbsp; “No, it isn’t. But we have a little bit of new evidence. According to the head librarian, Benny came into the library frequently when Adele was working and asked her out. She’d tried telling Benny she had a boyfriend, but it didn’t discourage him. So instead she told him her dad wouldn’t allow her to go out with him. Her dad told her to use that excuse whenever she didn’t want to date someone. So, we think he shot at Nielson’s tractor and killed Adele, thinking it was Berg out there doing the planting.”

  “Maybe.” Arvid looked grim. “Ya. It might have happened that way.”

  “After talking with the Binghams,” Sheriff Fischer said, “You and Russell both thought Benny might have been shooting at outbuildings that matched the distance from the road to the tractor. I think you’re right.”

  “What about afterwards,” Arvid asked. “Do you think the campaign of nasty messages sounds like something Benny would do? Or was he even smart enough to think of it? If he was as slow as folks around here say, that just doesn’t add up.”

  “People tend to surprise you,” Fischer said.

  “And why would he go down and kill Freeman after both Dominic and his dad died?”

  “I think he was worried that Freeman suspected something and that’s why he was coming home. And the Art Expo brochure we found in Harris’s room—we did what you suggested and fingerprinted good old Benny. The print on that brochure was his.”

  “So, you think he sent the brochure as a warning? Or do you think he had it with him?” Russell asked.

  “He wasn’t that bright. He probably simply dropped it there. The motel clerk wasn’t sure if he’d gone into Freeman’s room or not.”

  “I don’t know.” Arvid rubbed his chin. “It sounds a bit far-fetched to me.”

  “It isn’t too far fetched, when you consider how many men go bad over a woman. Dull-witted as he was, he probably thought once he got rid of dear old dad, Adele would go out with him. Adele was quite a looker.” Fischer looked sad. “A lovely girl in all ways.”