“Shame on you,” Cheri said with fake harshness. “Shame.” She touched her phone screen. “Okay, here we go. Two years ago, I donated a parfleche bag. I really liked that one and almost kept it. It went for $1400 and it was a total donation to that year’s charity, which was a horse rescue.” She put her phone away and leveled her gaze at Jessie. “I received a thank you note from the charity and listed it as a tax donation that year.”
“My gosh. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cheri chortled. “I should be Secretary of the Treasury. Now give. Why are you asking?”
Jessie recounted what the beautician had told her about the Creekside Humane Society. “She said they never got enough money from the art show to do much with the planned spay/neuter program. My piece alone should have given them money for quite some time. It brought over thirty thousand dollars.”
Cheri gave a low whistle. “Wow. Yes, that should’ve given it a jump start. You might speak to Camille. And to Glen Heath. I believe both gave a small piece last year. So did Bruce Turner.” Then she listed four other names she remembered.
“Thanks. I’ll try to get around and talk to all of them.” Her phone buzzed again, and the blasted little device somehow seemed more insistent than before. Jessie swore it had a life of its own. An ornery little ‘biting mosquito’ kind of life.
“You should put Russell out of his misery, Jess,” Cheri chided. “Then, let’s you and I go get some home truths out of Max Watson.” She flexed her bicep. “I’m feeling ready for a good rumble.”
Both women threw back their heads and laughed. Then Jessie answered Russell’s call.
He greeted her with, “Where in Sam Hill have you been? Arvid’s fit to be tied.”
“Good morning to you, too, Russ. That’s strange. I’m looking at the call list and I don’t see that Arvid has tried to call.” She met Cheri’s eyes and saw the twinkle in them. Cheri made a gun out of her index finger and ‘fired off’ a shot, mouthing a silent ‘pow’.
“Uh, I thought he had. I know he wants to talk to you about the arrest Sheriff Fischer made yesterday.”
“I heard. Fischer can’t be right, Russell—"
“Oh, he nailed him all right. He only took him in for questioning last night but late this morning they searched his vehicle. Evan had three more tractors behind the seat of his pickup, and a couple more prepared notes ready to go. And—a bloody rag. They think he hit Benny and got some blood on his hands. Then tried to wipe it off before he went back into the lodge.”
“You’re kidding. And he didn’t get rid of the rag? I’m flabbergasted.”
“Me too. Evan’s too short for one thing, and I thought the boots on the video were as big as Arvid’s. Although there wasn’t much to go by for size comparison and the whole video must have been faked, now that I think about it.” Then Jessie heard him mutter to himself. “Now why would Evan bother with the video? That’s another weird thing.”
“The trail cam video, Russell?”
“Oh.” There was a silence on the other end. “Shoot. You know about that. Ask Arvid. I don’t think I should have mentioned it. Now that they’ve made an arrest, it really doesn’t concern you.”
“Hmmm. Okay. But I already knew about the trail cam video. Since I’ve still been getting threats the whole case concerns me. But if you say it doesn’t, it doesn’t.”
“Oh, Jess, for Pete’s sake. Don’t be so stubborn. Fischer wants to keep you out of it since you’re just a civilian.”
Jessie’s eyes flashed. “Oh, just a civilian.” She drew the word civilian into four long syllables. Cheri covered her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Oh, Jess, don’t be difficult.”
“Yeah, I’d hate to be a difficult civilian.” She drew the word out again. “They’re the worst. But why did they decide to search Evan’s pickup, Russell? No, let me guess. An anonymous tip?”
“Yeah. How did—”
“He’s being set up. The real killer is still out there.”
“Well, talk to—”
“I know, I know. Talk to the big Norwegian.”
“Say, Jessie…at the quick draw last night…”
“Gotta go, Russell,” she sing-songed. “Talk to you later.” Then she ended the call.
“Now girlfriend, that was just plain mean,” Cheri said with a wicked grin.
“I know. I know. It really was. But sometimes Russell just gets me hotter than spit on a griddle.”
“Well, go tackle Max while you’re in that frame of mind,” Cheri said. “May as well make good use of that redheaded temper.” She looked down at her phone. “I’d come along, but I got a text from a client who’d like to meet me in half an hour. She’d been looking at one of the warshirts. Maybe she’ll make a decision, and the talk with good old Max might make me late.” She looked regretful. “Sorry not to be there for backup.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jessie said.
“Just keep Russell’s ‘you’re just a civilian’ comment in mind, and you will be.” Cheri waved at the cheerful volunteer behind the buffet counter and snagged a small piece of almond pastry on the way by. “For extra energy,” she called. “See ya, Jessie.”
Jessie took a large piece and put it into one of the foam “go boxes” from a stack near the buffet. She wanted to see that trail cam video. The pastry looked like a darn good bribe for Arvid.
Chapter Forty-one
Crooked Creek Lodge – Grant’s room
Grant stared at the small Emily Carr painting. It was a highly stylized yellow house surrounded by twisted looking trees in deep blue green. Tilting it toward the lamp he admired the way the light caught the strong brush strokes. It reminded him of Van Gogh’s work. And he’d gotten it for a song.
If he could actually add it to his collection with a clear conscience it would be a great addition, but he knew he couldn’t. It was too unethical the way Max Watson handled the auctioning of the tiny Old Master. No image in the catalog. No publicity about the Masterpiece on the Expo website. Placed at the end of the auction. The list went on. It was the same old story—that which is legal isn’t always ethical.
Grant planned to speak to the consignors and see how they wanted to handle the issue. They didn’t really have grounds for a lawsuit, but they could probably threaten Max with legal proceedings. If rumors of a threatened lawsuit got out, Max would lose his standing in the art world—along with his job as director. An evil grin flitted across Grant’s face. He detested unprincipled, greedy men and enjoyed nothing more than bringing them down to size—metaphorically speaking, since Max was already pocket-sized.
Grant stroked his chin. It was highly likely that Max himself had purchased other pieces by lesser known Old Masters for a song, simply because of the way he presented them at the Expo auction. It was highly unlikely that anybody at the auction knew the Emily Carr painting was coming up for bid or had an opportunity to see it before the auction. He and Max had been the only bidders. It reminded Grant of the previous year’s auction.
Last year, in the manner of the Emily Carr painting, Max had assigned Jessie’s bigger landscape the final lot number. But at least it had been listed in the catalog. Several people bid on the O’Bourne landscape, but they dropped off one by one until it was only Max Watson and himself holding up their paddles. Each time Grant raised his paddle anger flashed across Max’s face. Interesting, Grant thought. Because he vaguely recalled that Jessie’s painting had been listed as a 100 percent donation to the Creekside Humane Society.
Jessie. He’d track Jessie down and ask her if his memory was faulty. He wanted to let her know about his new assignment anyway.
He hummed under his breath. First, he’d tackle the problem at hand. Scrolling through contacts on his phone, he tapped on one. When it connected he said, “Hello, Vincenzo.” He listened to three minutes of social niceties from his Italian friend and then looked at his watch. Vincenzo couldn’t discuss business until he’d covered all the polite chit chat. Grant grim
aced. If he could wrap this up shortly, he still had time to catch Max before any of the afternoon events. He interrupted. “What did you find out?”
The smooth Italian voice on the other end chastised him. “Patience, my friend.” Then he told Grant what he wanted to know.
“Yes, I understand. Great work,” Grant assured him. “And the Carr painting was auctioned last night…Uh huh. I did win the bid. I think we can handle it separately from the other case. The granddaughter needs that money soon.”
Grant listened again, nodding his head in agreement even though the man on the other end of the line couldn’t see him.
“Woodcastle, huh? You’re a step ahead of me, Vincenzo. I didn’t know he was already in town. I’ll tackle Max now and keep him talking until Woodcastle gets to the lodge.”
Yes, he thought. I hate grasping, greedy conniving men. But I love bringing them a come-uppance.
Grant whistled a cheery tune as he left his hotel room and headed down the hall. When he came to the office of the show director, he rapped sharply on the door.
Chapter Forty-two
Crooked Creek Lodge
Jessie strode purposefully down the hall, heading to the room designated as the Expo office during the show. She knocked decisively and heard a relieved voice say, “Please, come in.”
When she stepped in, a relieved-looking Max waved her toward a chair. Then he turned to the man whose back was to Jessie and said in a frosty tone, “I’m sorry, Mr. Kennedy. I need to speak to Jessie. You and I will have to continue our conversation later.”
Grant stayed seated, giving Max his stern FBI face. Max looked from Jessie to Grant with a look of frustration mixed with something else. With a start, Jessie realized it was fear.
“Hi, Grant,” Jessie said. “Shall I come back later?”
“No.” He smiled at her and waved her to sit. “Stay. You might have some insight into my discussion with Mr. Watson here.”
The color fled Max’s face. The skin around his eyes looked pinched.
“Here’s the scenario, Jessie. It seems that nearly every year Max has a painting or two that do not make it into the catalogue, nor receive any promotion. They are valuable, but lesser-known Old Masters. They are tacked on at the end of the auction and while Max realizes the value of the pieces, the estimated value is not listed in the catalogue. You know that is not the case on the other valuable auction lots. The value is listed. Yesterday evening, I was able to win the bid on the small Emily Carr.”
Jessie was about to congratulate Grant, but by his tense body language and the steel in his gaze, she realized this was not the time.
“Often, Max—or a certain other buyer designated as his representative—is the highest bidder on those valuable pieces. Max has been answering inquiries about these paintings stating: ‘the piece was acquired for the permanent collection of the Crooked Creek Expo and Gallery’. The sponsor, Cory Stanton, who hired Max to handle the Expo, is in Europe. He pays the operating bills for the show in absentia. In fact, he’s been in Norway for six years—except for a recent vacation during which he visited an auction at Christie’s Auction house. At this auction he recognized one of the paintings being offered as a small C. M. Russell that Max claimed to have purchased for the permanent collection. That’s when he called us.”
The show director tapped a pen nervously on the surface of the desk, and his expression had taken on that of a trapped rat.
“Regarding the Emily Carr,” Grant continued, “An attorney from Denver, John Hausmann, contracted with Max to handle the sale of this Carr painting,” Grant continued. “It was part of the estate of an elderly woman, Mrs. Constance Perkins, who happened to be a dear friend of one of my acquaintances. The estate went to Mrs. Perkin’s granddaughter, who expected Max to post ads in Canada—expected him to list the painting on the Expo website and in the national advertisements about the upcoming show and auction. In other words, she asked an attorney to contract with Max to promote the heck out of it…to bring in potential buyers for the painting and receive the absolute best price possible. The attorney advertises that he is knowledgeable about fine art and antiques.”
“I did list it. Mostly in Canada,” Max insisted. “And in numerous ads. Expensive ads. Of course, you didn’t see the ads because they were placed in magazines and newspapers in the Alberta, Canada, area.”
“Oh, but I did see your Canadian ads,” Grant said. “I wouldn’t call two ads ‘numerous’. And I noticed your ads gave no provenance for the piece, no estimated value, and say it will be auctioned Saturday night. However, it isn’t listed in tonight’s night’s catalogue, either. And you sold it last night. What were you going to do…explain to any buyers who came to bid on it that the advertisements were incorrect? Say, ‘Sorry, the painting was sold by accident on Friday night?’”
A sullen glare was Max’s answer. Even his rooster-tail haircut drooped.
“Mrs. Perkin’s granddaughter hoped to use the proceeds of this one small painting to continue specialized medical training.” Grant glanced at Jessie. “She was in Japan at Hamamatsu Medical School when her grandmother passed away. She trusted the attorney, Hausmann, to handle the sale.”
“I’m sure he handles many estates, including valuable paintings, and so do I. It’s simple to overlook—"
“No. It isn’t,” Grant said in a cutting tone. “I think it’s hard to overlook any painting worth seven figures. And I verified that you did have the painting in plenty of time to photograph it for the catalog.”
The show director’s face was metamorphosing from pasty white to a purplish hue and he looked at Grant with a malevolent expression.
“And strangely enough,” Grant continued, “this same attorney has made a habit of contacting you whenever he notices an expensive painting in an estate. Obscure Old Masters continue to sell at lower prices than many Impressionist and Modern Masters in many of the auctions across the United States unless people consign them to Christies or Sotheby’s. Only the people who specialize in such pieces know what they’re worth. The $43,000 I bid for the Emily Carr is pennies for a painting worth approximately a million five to two million. That is—to use one of Emily Carr’s favorite phrases—a whiz bang deal.”
“Yeah, yeah. You got a bargain, Kennedy,” Max snarled. “I have done nothing illegal. Why don’t you take your Emily Carr, be grateful for the bargain basement price, and take a hike?”
Grant reached into a briefcase on the floor by his chair. “I’m afraid I can’t do that with a good conscience, Max.” He held out his badge. “You see, I’m part of the FBI art theft division. And I’m curious as to why you quit bidding on a painting worth over a million dollars when the bid was still so low. Is it perhaps a copy? The FBI has discovered other discrepancies in your past auctions. Paintings that were bought for a song here and then consigned by your attorney to the better auction houses with their provenance listing. Several of these paintings are now suspected of being forgeries.”
“This is a joke, right,” Max sputtered. “I haven’t consigned any paintings. I’ve only bought art for the Expo’s permanent collection. Someone put you up to this.”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“I can assure you that it isn’t a joke to your attorney friend, Mr. Hausmann. He, unfortunately, has several clients pressing charges for negligence, breach of fiduciary duty and for breach of contract—basically malpractice. Not yet out and out theft, but one of my FBI buddies has been looking at his books and has found some intriguing discrepancies…and a small C. M Russell painting that has been sent to an appraiser.”
“Oh, my God,” Max blurted out. “But it can’t be our little Russell piece. I swear, I have not consigned any artwork anywhere.”
Jessie continued to watch the scene play out. She noticed that Grant’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. He was enjoying himself. The man was a bit arrogant, brimming with self-confidence and life. Ruggedly good looking. The image of the big man crystalize
d in her mind as her hand made an almost imperceptible sweeping motion—a dreamy brush stroke with texture and color visible only in the artist’s mind. She stared at Grant, the conversation forgotten and only the vision of the man in front of her capturing her attention.
“At this point,” The FBI agent said, “I’m not charging you with anything. I don’t have any evidence that proves you’ve done anything illegal. Just unethical. But…the FBI will be auditing your books as well as those of your attorneys, beginning…,” Grant looked at his watch and Jessie’s heart did a somersault as his face split in a wide smile. “…in about ten minutes. My letting you off the hook doesn’t mean that you won’t become collateral damage in the attorney’s problems. In fact, I suspect you will. Or perhaps it’s the other way around and he will become collateral damage in your activities.”
By Max’s expression, it was his expectation as well.
“We’ll hope for the best, shall we? However, if you don’t make this issue right with the Emily Carr, even if the FBI accountant finds nothing—not an iota—amiss, I’ll be waiting in the wings. I will make sure that you’ll never sell so much as a kindergartner’s crayon drawing in future. So, here’s what you’re going to do. I would like nothing better than to have an Emily Carr hanging on my wall, but we both know the amount I paid for it was ridiculous. Next week, if it is judged to be an original Carr, you will void the sale to me and consign it to Christie’s Auction house for my young friend. You will take a small fee for consigning it—a fee equal to the commission the Expo would garner if my purchase was the end of the issue.”
Max glowered. “I hardly think that’s fair. I don’t have anything to do with what John Hausmann does. I didn’t do anything wrong. And I have to make a living you know.”
Jessie looked at Grant. “Is it my turn yet?”
“Not just yet, Jessie,” Grant said. “And, Max?”
2 Death at Crooked Creek Page 28
