“You think everything snowballed from there—from him shooting the wrong person in the tractor?” Russell looked skeptical. “Then who do you think killed Benny?”
“We brought Evan Hanson in for questioning this morning. We’ve got good evidence against him.”
“Ah, poop,” Arvid said in disgust. “Evan? What kind of evidence?”
“He had motive and opportunity. Motive since he was Adele’s boyfriend and he likely discovered or suspected that Benny killed her. Opportunity because he was at the Art Expo when Benny died. But the kicker is we had our tech guy look at Evan’s laptop. It appears the text asking Evan to go out to the artists’ parking lot to meet Jessie was created right on Evan’s own computer.
“Geez,” Russell said. “I find it hard to believe that Evan isn’t smart enough to delete evidence like that. And did you find any boots belonging to Benny that are a good match for those in the infrared camera video?”
“Oh, just about everyone has boots like that. Most guys around here anyhow.” Fischer jutted his chin.
“And how do you think Evan discovered that Benny had been Adele’s shooter?”
“Not sure. We’ll probably find out when we interrogate him. Right now, he’s with a lawyer. Dumb kid.” He grimaced. “If he’d just let the law handle it, Benny would be the one locked up, not him.”
“I don’t know about this,” Arvid said. He gave Fischer a skeptical look. “I’m not sure it hangs together that well. It just strikes me that you’re putting too much certainty on Benny’s having killed Adele.”
“You can’t argue with the facts. Benny Potter rented a black SUV in Savannah and he had no reason to be down there except to kill Harris Freeman.”
“Did they find anything else on Freeman’s remains?” Russell stood, looking restless.
“Actually, they did,” Fischer replied. “Found a letter in his pocket that just said, “I’ll pick you up about nine.”
“Do you have a photo of it?” Arvid wanted to know. “I suppose the military police haven’t let loose of any evidence?”
“Not yet,” Fischer said, “To them it’s about Freeman. I guess they aren’t concerned with what’s been happening here in Crooked Creek.”
*.*.*
The door opened. Deputy Jacob Cramer stood looking apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff.” He nodded at Russell and Arvid. “Evan’s lawyer says his client is ready for the interview.” Jacob rolled his eyes. “Interview, he called it. Not an interrogation. Like it isn’t just cut and dried.”
“Thanks, Deputy,” Fischer said, tossing a glare at the young man. “Be aware it is never cut and dried until a jury says so.”
Jacob looked abashed. “Yes, sir.” He stepped out, closing the door behind him.
“There’s a major flaw in your deductions, too, Sheriff,” Arvid rumbled.
“What’s that, Arvid?” Fischer asked.
“It’s what’s been happening to Jessie. Someone dropped one of those tractors and a threatening note outside her door,” he rubbed the back of his neck and went on, “after Benny was already dead. And I don’t like coincidences. I don’t think Benny was responsible for those notes and toy tractors. And Evan got one too, remember.”
“Heck, Evan probably did all that himself—leaving the notes and toys both at his own door and at Jessie O’Bourne’s, too. Just to cloud the issue.”
Russell and Arvid both looked at Fischer. “Nup. I just can’t see it. Jessie said Evan has been really nervous. She said Evan blamed himself for Benny’s death because he should have been the one to go out to the parking lot. Are you so positive that it was Evan that you’re willing to take a chance with Jessie’s life?”
“Well—” Fischer began.
“‘Cause I’m not,” Arvid continued. “Something still smells like rotten trout.” He tapped his ballcap against his knee. “What do you think, Russell?”
Russell looked from Arvid’s determined face to Sheriff Fischer’s annoyed expression. “I think I’ve got to side with the stubborn Norwegian on this one, Sheriff. Jessie might not be in any danger, but I’d rather keep an eye on her until Evan actually confesses or you arrest someone else who says they’re guilty.”
“You sure you don’t want her to come down and look at the trail cam video? She hit the nail on the head with that art paper.” Arvid nodded his head. “Speaking of which, did you look at both Benny’s and Evan’s homes and find any of that paper?”
“No.” Fischer shook his head. “No, we didn’t find any of that paper at either place. We didn’t have a search warrant for Evan’s, but he gave us permission to search anyhow. We haven’t searched his vehicle yet, but we’ll get to that sometime today. And no, I don’t think Jessie O’Bourne should come in and view the video. That paper is probably bought and used by every artist who sketches. And after all…we found Benny in her trailer. She isn’t totally in the clear herself.”
“Aw, dritt,” Arvid growled, giving Fischer a black look. “Let’s go, Russ.”
Chapter Forty
Cheri Cappello waited by the buffet table when Jessie walked into the buzzing artists’ hospitality room the next morning. Her long blond hair fluffed out around her head and she was dressed in western chic that enhanced her willowy form—a fringed leather skirt, embroidered and embellished western shirt and Navajo silver concho belt. A turquoise squash blossom necklace and turquoise earrings put the finishing touches on her outfit. She chatted animatedly with the aproned woman who was sliding a square serving of a baked egg dish onto her plate.
“It’s better if you assemble it the night before,” the woman said, wiping a hand on her enormous apron. “The flavors mingle. And you can use either breakfast sausage or kielbasa. I call it Reuben’s Roundup Casserole. I got the recipe from my friend Cecily Reuben. She used to make it for the hired hands at branding time.” The big woman gave a belly laugh suitable for a truck driver. “Everybody had trouble getting’ hired hands ‘cept for Cecily and Bud. I’m pretty sure it was the food.”
Cheri thanked the server, then noticed Jessie. “Hi. I grabbed a small table over in the corner. Most of the artists ate in a rush and left to open their display rooms early.” She beamed at Jessie. “You’re lucky you got here before everything was gone. These artists are like Hoover vacuums. Mostly because this breakfast casserole is delicious. I’m ashamed to admit this is my second helping.”
The server smiled broadly at Cheri and slipped a generous serving of the hot dish onto Jessie’s plate. The women moved to the next offering, a platter of flaky almond pastry. Jessie helped herself to a piece of the pastry and headed toward the huge coffee urn to get a mug of ‘instant wake-up’.
“You’re so thin, you can afford thirds,” Jessie teased Cheri. She sniffed appreciatively. “And if breakfast tastes as good as it smells, I’ll probably be joining you in those extra helpings.”
Seated, she picked up her fork and tried a generous forkful of the casserole. Mmmm. It was scrumptious. Definitely a recipe she wanted.
“Told you so,” Cheri laughed. While they ate, they told stories about their experiences at art shows, playing the usual game of “I can top that’. Jessie won with her story of the unfortunate quick draw in Dallas.
“This drunk kept asking questions while I painted—the quick draw was a pronghorn antelope scene—and I tried to be polite, but it was hard to concentrate.”
Cheri listened intently.
Jessie waved her hand around. “So, here he was—this guy with a Budweiser in his hand who was sloshing beer and yelling his questions—even some off-color ones about me—not the painting. When I ignored him, he suddenly staggered right through the roped off area, tripped, and dumped the whole beer onto my skirt and into one of my new laredo boots. I had to paint my quick draw smelling like a brewery.” She stuck out her tongue. “Phew.”
Cheri hooted with laughter.
“Then,” Jessie continued, “he was so contrite that when I started to frame the painting for the auctio
n, he staggered over again holding a Swiss army knife with the screwdriver attachment opened and wanted to help me frame the piece by screwing the fittings on for the picture wire. I was afraid he was going to slice right through my canvas.” Jessie made stabbing motions with her butter knife. “The upshot of the story is that it was one of the best quick draws I ever did,” she said. “Because I was so irritated with the drunk that I forgot to be nervous.”
Cheri chuckled, again declaring Jessie the hands-down winner, and conversation turned to other art shows and galleries. Cheri told Jessie about her last show, a great one in Colorado where the people were so friendly and where the décor was hay bales and corral gates. Then, they exchanged information and opinions about the art market in different regions of the United States.
“Arizona and Texas venues sell best for me overall,” Jessie said. “I’m not showing in any Montana galleries right now, although I’ve sent a few pieces to the Crooked Creek auction over the years. This is the first time I’ve driven up to the Expo with a body of work. But I imagine Montana is a fabulous area for your warshirts, Cheri. How were your sales yesterday?”
“The best,” the blonde answered, beaming. “The museum staff knows how to bring in good buyers. I think they sold one of my Lakota warshirts, a horse mask, and at least four of the parfleche bags. Very good for the first day of the show.” She pumped her small fist in the air and gave a “yeah, baby”. “How about you?”
“I didn’t check last night, but in the late afternoon I noticed red dots on two landscapes and a moose painting. So—at least three sales from the room, and the quick finish I did was auctioned last night.” Jessie took a sip of the dark coffee and tried not to make a face. The coffee had been sitting on a hot plate long enough to be acrid. She grabbed a creamer and dumped in a generous amount. “The show takes forty percent of the auction price, but the piece went okay, so I can’t complain. Well, I could, but it wouldn’t do me any good.” She took another bite and chewed, then looked at Cheri. “Omigosh. Yum. Did I hear you asking for this casserole recipe? I’ve got to have it.”
Cheri held up her phone. “She knew it by heart, so I recorded it while she recited the ingredients. I also have the almond pastry recipe. It is soooo good.”
“Text both of them to me, would you, please?” The word ‘text’ reminded her of her troubles and she told Cheri about the fake text and Benny’s body being hidden in the Hawk.
“I know. I heard about that.” She gave Jessie a sympathetic look. “It must have been awful for you. And you must have heard what happened this morning.”
Jessie looked up. “No. What?”
“Sheriff Fischer came and took Evan Hanson in for questioning on Benny’s murder.”
Jessie felt her chest tighten. “Evan? Oh no. They can’t possibly think he killed Benny.” She thought of the nervous, stammering Evan standing by the elevator—telling her that Benny’s death might be his fault. He was devastated thinking that Benny died when he, himself, might have been the target. “Why he’s no more a killer than I am.” Jessie scratched her head at that. Or is he? Can anyone kill if the motivation is strong enough? It would have to be pretty strong motivation for me to want to murder someone, she thought.
“Well, the Sheriff is pretty good,” Cheri said. “He must have some kind of evidence if they hauled Evan in for questioning.” She smiled at an artist walking by and murmured, “Going back for thirds, are you, Tom? I don’t blame you.” Then her gaze swung back to Jessie. “I was in the lobby when they brought him out. He looked dumbstruck.”
“Did you hear why they thought Evan killed him?”
“No,” Cheri said. “But I heard him say it had something to do with Adele Nielson. She’s the girl who—”
“Yes, I know who she is. She’s the girl who was shot and killed in that tractor. The one they’ve got the show banner draped over.”
“Oh no! I didn’t realize that was the same tractor. How macabre,” Cheri said. “Yuck. Anyway, it seems that Evan was Adele Nielson’s boyfriend. The Sheriff suspects he thought Benny shot her and wanted to get even.” She shrugged. “I don’t know all the particulars.”
“Benny?” Jessie’s eyes grew wide. “They think Benny shot her? Now, that’s odd.” Jessie’s appetite deserted her. Instead of getting a second helping, she picked up her plate and set it on the cart with other dirty dishes. As she turned to drop into her chair, her cell buzzed. It was Russell. She muted it and sat, telling Cheri, “It’s one of my old flames and I know what he wants. He can stew a few minutes. Besides, don’t you hate people who answer the phone when they’re visiting with someone else? It’s like everyone else is more important than the person they’re with.”
“I hate that, too. But now I’m curious. An old flame? Is this the guy who proposed to you, but said he only wanted to get married if you gave up your art?”
“Yep. That’s Russ.”
“Well, let the jerk wait,” Cheri said emphatically. Then she asked curiously, “What do you think he wants?”
“He and my friend Arvid have been collaborating with the Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office, so maybe he just wanted to tell me they’re questioning Evan. But I think it’s more likely he wants some other information.”
“About what?”
Jessie gave a wry smile. “He got a mega dose of Camille’s fabulous charm at the quick draw yesterday. One minute he was giving me a hang-dog expression because he wasn’t getting any attention from me and the next minute—whammo!” Jessie smacked her palms together. “Camille stood up, gave him a sexy look that lit major fireworks and gave him quite an attitude adjustment.”
“Oh no! Are you upset?”
Jessie thought about it for a minute. “No. I’m relieved. Last year, I realized Russell and I weren’t suited. Maybe he’s always known that. I really don’t want to marry Russell. But, I do want him to be happy and the sparks weren’t only on his side. I think Camille looked very interested. The chemistry was so obvious they might as well have written it in magic marker on their foreheads. The thing is, he got called away by Sheriff Fischer before they even had time to exchange names.” Jessie grinned.
“But wasn’t there a sign by every quick draw table with the artist’s name and room number?”
“Yes, but the volunteers had taken them away by the time Camille did her thing. I’ll bet Russell is desperate to find out who she is, and the quickest way to find out is to ask me.”
Cheri’s melodic laugh rang out. Then she asked, “But Jessie, why would your friend want to tell you about the arrest? Because you found Benny in your motorhome?”
Jessie told her about the toy tractors and the threatening note, and more of the background story of the Nielson family.
“None of that sounds like Evan to me. I really can’t imagine him killing someone or threatening an old man. Or you. Especially you. What would he gain by that? And just think about it. Evan isn’t very tall. If he was going to kill someone as big as Benny Potter, he’d have to shoot him or something. It would be difficult to murder someone taller than himself by bashing them over the head.”
In her mind’s eye, Jessie again saw the dead eyes. She’d been standing by the Hawk when the deputies removed the body. Benny had been a big man. “You’re right, Cheri. I can’t picture it either.”
She looked out the window. Spring had finally descended upon Crooked Creek. A clump of daffodils at the edge of the parking lot showed signs of yellow buds. The clouds drifted by in thick clumps of white against bright blue. The scene looked like the painted backdrop of a play. A play, she thought, thinking of Evan’s situation. He was being set up. Very cleverly set up. She swung back to face Cheri Cappello.
“I don’t think Evan did it, Cheri.”
“Neither do I.”
“How about Benny? Can you imagine him as a murderer?”
“Maybe. He was—oh, strange. I’m sorry if that sounds unkind. But he was odd. At the same time, I don’t think he was intelligent enough to plan t
he threatening notes to Berg Nielson or to you. Not without making a mistake and getting caught.”
“Arvid and Sheriff Fischer keep searching for one killer. But there isn’t any reason why there couldn’t have been two people in on it.” Jessie fussed with the hem of her tee-shirt. Today she wore a pair of her blingy jeans and a deep green pullover sporting an image of Monet’s waterlilies. “I just can’t figure out why anyone would want to murder all these people. Probably greed. Human nature being what it is, though, it must boil down to money.”
Maybe the toy tractors left at her door had nothing to do with the murder. She thought about the phone message she’d left Max, asking to meet with him regarding her donated painting. Could Max be trying to scare her away because he didn’t send the money from her landscape to the Humane Society? It seemed like a silly notion. But…maybe. She tried to remember the sequence of events.
Had she called Max before or after the first tractor and note appeared? But why would he assume she even knew about the first murder—the shooting of Adele Nielson? No, it was a stretch to think Max was trying to run her off.
“Say, Cheri. On a totally different subject, have you ever donated a piece to the auction at this show where the money was to go to a charity?”
“Let me think.” Cheri bit into her almond pastry. Her eyes met Jessie’s. Then she put the pastry back on her plate and pulled out her phone. “Let me check my file.”
“You have that info on your phone?”
“Listen gal…I have everything on my phone. I go to so many shows, and I’m on the road to galleries all the time. I am one organized business woman when it comes to my art.”
“Well, now I feel totally inadequate,” Jessie laughed. “I’m always glad when I remember to log it all in when I get home. My taxes are a nightmare because I have to dig through all my receipts.”
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