2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “I saw several of the notes Dom’s dad had received,” Tate said to Helland’s back. “When Dom and Harris invited me to their barracks to collaborate on the crazy will Christofferson told you about, we all looked at the notes. Harris got an odd look on his face and said, ‘I’ve seen that type of paper before.’ When we pressed him to tell us more about it, he mentioned the Crooked Creek Art Expo and said he’d probably just seen it in some of the work at the show. He told us that if he remembered anything solid, he’d tell us.’ And when he disappeared, there was an Expo brochure on the nightstand in his motel room.”

  Tate reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I took this to an art store in Savannah. It’s a corner off one of the notes. I draw myself, but I don’t use this particular paper. There are about five local artists in the show who are displaying sketches or prints. Four men and a woman. I checked the website listing for the Expo and thought if I came to the show as one of the artists, I’d have more opportunity to talk to all of them and to their acquaintances. Basically, I was at a loss. It was all I could think of to try, mostly because of the Expo brochure found in Harris’s hotel room.”

  “Find anything out?”

  “Not much. One of the women artists had drawings done on this type of paper, and two of the men did as well. They were all out of towners. I can’t find any association whatsoever with Sage Bluff or Dom. I discovered that this type of art paper isn’t sold in the downtown art supply store. Of course, with the way e-commerce has taken over, it can be purchased online from anywhere in the world. And anyone who paints usually does a lot of drawing, too…but they don’t necessarily display the sketches at every show. It could be any artist in the show—or any artist not in the show, for that matter.”

  Helland nodded in agreement. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “So…what do you think of your inheritance?”

  “I wish I didn’t have another year to go in the Army. I’d love to come back to Crooked Creek and learn to run this place. And the Freeman ranch, too. I need to do something with that right away, because I owe it to Harris to take care of his mother and give something to his stepbrother. How do you think I should go about that?”

  “Well, there’s a piece of property nearer town. It isn’t connected to the rest of the acreage. It’s cut off from the Freeman place by a road and about 400 acres of Gunderson’s wheat fields. I know Pop Gunderson has been wanting to buy that acreage for years. You could deed that and the farmhouse at Freeman’s place to Glen Heath. He could sell both the land and farmhouse to Gunderson if he was of a mind to. Frankly, it would be more than Glen deserves. He never did a thing for Althea until this past year when he came home, so in my mind she doesn’t owe him anything. And neither do you. He wasn’t that nice to her before he needed a resting spot to recuperate from bad health.”

  Tate looked at Helland. “Is that right? But he came home when he got sick, right?”

  “Actually, he came home one other time that summer, I think. Then again when he got sick.”

  “Was he ever one of Benny Potter’s good friends?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Just thought I’d ask.”

  “You’re stretching. I see where you’re going with that thought, but Glen would have to plan miles ahead to inherit not only Nielson’s farm, but also Harris Freeman’s ranch. It’s a big leap. First, he’d have to know that his stepbrother Harris was Dom Nielson’s heir.”

  “That’s not so far-fetched. Harris might have let that slip. He might have mentioned it in a letter to his mom and perhaps Althea then told her stepson.”

  Helland said, “But even if Wheels—sorry, I always think of Glen as Wheels—knew that, he’d have to plan on all three Nielsons, his own stepbrother, Harris, and Althea Heath, his stepmother, to all die before he’d benefit in any way. That’s a long, convoluted chain of events.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Yes, but luckily for Glen, he has a solid alibi.”

  “Yes, it sure is.” But in his mind, he wondered if it was solid as granite or solid as the oatmeal mush served in the mess hall.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Crooked Creek Lodge

  Jessie walked into her hotel room to find a very disgruntled Jack. She knew why he was annoyed. His walk was cut short. He’d watched another cat eat meat scraps, while he wasn’t given any. And now…Jessie smelled of this other feline. She grinned at him. “Her name was Moxie. She was gorgeous, especially after her bath. And you didn’t need her food, Big Fella.” She leaned toward him. “But you were such a good boy to lead us around back to find her.”

  He narrowed his eyes. One canine tooth overlapped his lower lip, giving him a sardonic expression.

  She straightened, hung her sweater in the closet, then walked over and bent to stroke his head. He responded by whipping around, turning his back to her and sat flicking his tail. He offered her a view of a broad orange rump and flattened ears. Then he stalked off, crawled under the bed and disappeared except for the tip of a flicking tail.

  “Well, you ornery little demon.” Jessie put her hands on her hips and laughed. “You can sulk until I’m dressed, but I’ll bet you forget all about being mad when it’s dinner time.”

  She reached down and touched the exposed tail making it twitch angrily. Then she undressed and hopped in the shower, humming a snatch of Esther’s newest music. Letting the water stream over her, she stopped humming and thought about Althea Heath. And how short life could seem. For no reason she cared to admit, she began thinking of quotes from classic novels. And a pair of laughing hazel eyes. From that thought of Grant, she remembered the angry look in Russell’s blue eyes at the last quick draw, watching Grant and Tate help her with her supplies and clean up—before Camille had worked her magic on him. She needed to give him the blonde’s name. She toweled off and wrapped the thick hotel robe around herself and walked out to grab her phone. Frowning, she saw that she had at least four messages from Russell.

  And I’ll bet all of them are asking ‘who was the blonde?’.

  Pictures of Russell flashed across her mind. Her favorite memory of him was watching him banter with her mother in the kitchen at Sage Creek. In her mind, there was Russell, helping Hanna O’Bourne squeeze lemons for lemonade. Russell, playing ball with her brother, Kevin. Russell, casting a fly rod with Dan O’Bourne down at the river. Russell offering her burnt pizza the night he introduced her to K.D. for the first time, saying ‘I cooked’.

  Do I love him? Yes. But no longer in that way, she thought. He’s more like a good friend. Or even a brother. And his life and his happiness are stuck in the bleachers watching while the game is played, too. She tapped in his number and almost cringed when he answered. Her heart hammered.

  “Where on earth have you been?”

  “Long story.” She took a deep breath, then said lightly. “Russell, I think I’ll always love you—”

  She heard a slight gasp and hurried ahead. “But like a brother—a member of our family. Always. You and I are never going to be a couple. But we’ll always be family.”

  “Oh, Jessie. I—”

  “Just listen. You know that gorgeous big blonde at the quick draw?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Camille Johnson. Room 145. And you know what, Russ?”

  “What, Jessie?”

  “Life is short. Too short. You and I love each other—we do—but not the way it takes to make a life together. There’s not that spark. I saw that spark when you and Camille just looked at each other. Take a walk down to room 145. Camille isn’t part of the quick finish tonight, so she’ll have her art room open until the auction starts. And I can give you a heads up.”

  “Dammit, Jessie, I—”

  “It’s okay, Russ. We’re good. Solid. I just want to tell you that Camille is never, ever going to give up her art. Not her art, not her art shows. Not for anyone. The thought of suggesting she might had better not so much as cross you
r mind. Accept that.”

  “I learned that lesson already, Jess.” His voice had a slightly sad sound. “It was a hard one.” In a brighter tone, he said, “145, huh?”

  “Yep.” Jessie ended the call. She sat on the bed watching the numbers on the desk clock flip from minute to minute, feeling melancholy seep into her bones.

  Maybe I’ll open the bottle of wine I bought for Esther.

  Then she gave a rueful smile.

  Nah.

  She sang a couple of lines from “Margaritaville”. Later, she’d text Cheri Cappello a wicked looking emoji—maybe one of those little happy-faced devils—and let her know she’d finally put Russell out of his misery.

  A paw hooked out from under the bed and tapped her ankle. She jumped. Then Jessie untied the sash of the hotel robe and dangled it near her foot. The paw reached out again and swiped at it.

  “Missed by a mile, Butter Tub. You can do better than that. You’re getting slow, Orange Boy.”

  She tossed it out a foot from the bed and dragged it across the carpet, wriggling it to mimic a slithery snake. Jack’s head popped out from under the bed, eyes riveted on his prey.

  The game was on.

  *.*.*

  Esther handed Arvid the phone. “It’s Sheriff Fischer.” He mouthed his thanks.

  “Yes?” Arvid took a notebook and pen from the desk. “You don’t say…So you released Evan…Very interesting. And no matches, but both sets were different.” His expression changed to one of surprise. “Yes. I’ll ask her…okay, for tomorrow.”

  He sat on the bed and tapped his chin with the edge of the phone.

  “What is it?” Esther’s voice was full of concern.

  “They released Evan Hansen. He kept telling Fischer he was being set up and now the Sheriff believes him. It’s probably true. The forensics fellow lifted prints from Hansen’s pickup door handle and another one from the top of one of those little toy tractors. None of them match Hansen’s own prints.”

  “But that doesn’t really make sense. If someone was planting evidence in his truck, surely they’d have enough sense to wear gloves, so they didn’t leave prints.” She watched his face. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I do. But it poses some interesting questions. The prints were nice and clear—good index finger prints—and they don’t match each other. They’re from two different people. And neither one was found in the state Biometric Identification System, which automatically checks fingerprints from crime scenes and suspects against a database.”

  Esther ran a brush through her short hair. “What do you think this means for the investigation? And for Jessie?”

  “I want to give it some thought. There’s a couple ideas butting heads in the old noggin, but I want to let ‘em fight it out a bit. And I think we need to call a meeting of the minds. Grant, Russell, Jessie…mebbe get together tomorrow and brainstorm.”

  “And me, Arvid.”

  “And you, love of my life.”

  Her hand stilled, stopping in the middle of finger-combing her short hair, adding some shine solution. She smirked at him.

  “Now you’re laying it on thick. You want something.”

  “Me?” Arvid answered her reflection with his chin resting on his fist.

  “Yes, you. You’re as transparent as glass.”

  “Huh. I don’t think I’m that bad.” He yawned. “But I was just wondering something. Wanted to pick your brain.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “What in Hades is a polynomial?”

  *.*.*

  Jessie slipped the T-shirt over her head. Deep turquoise, it showed an image of a bucking bronc from a painting by C. M. Russell. She pulled on fresh jeans, her best boots and a leather fringed vest. Then she added sterling silver earrings hand-stamped with a Navajo design. Fluffing her curls and finishing with a spritz of perfume, she pronounced herself ready to rumble. Opening her tote bag, she drew out the reference photos she planned to use for the evening quick draw.

  Staring at the pictures, trying to plan the drawing and color palette, she had difficulty concentrating. Something bothered her about the visit to the jail to see Evan Hansen. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something hovered at the back of her mind. Finally, she gave up and called Arvid to tell him she was ready to go. He had insisted he and Esther would escort her down to the restaurant for a snack before they walked to the Expo quick draw area.

  “It’s just silly,” she told Jack. “I’m a big gal. And I can certainly take care of myself.”

  He opened his mouth in a silent meow that became a wide yawn, showing sharp incisors.

  As he snapped his mouth closed, she heard a buzzing on her phone and picked it up to see a text from her dad. She gave a loud whoop, sending Jack scurrying under the bed. Dan O’Bourne and Marty were coming up to the quick draw—in fact, they were already on their way—and they were driving separate vehicles, so they could bring her old red pickup to Crooked Creek so she’d have transportation.

  She gave a small fist pump.

  Yes! Thank God for Dad. Besides, she loved that old pickup, commonly called Fred, even thought it was a gas guzzler. Good old Fred, the Ford. She was glad she’d found a good shipping company, too, as she could never haul all the artwork back to Santa Fe in Fred. And she didn’t want to shop for a new motorhome until she got back to Santa Fe—after the insurance company reimbursed her for the lost Greyhawk.

  A knock sounded at the door. Jessie took a quick look in the mirror and grabbed the tote bag. Then she remembered that the three musketeers—Arvid, Grant and Russell—had given instructions to check the peep hole before opening the door, even if she was expecting one of them. She peered through it and took a step back. Outside her door stood Tate Kamaka. And she could see—even through the peephole—that he was wearing an army uniform. As she stared through the tiny window wondering what to do, she heard a loud WHUMP, and Tate disappeared from view. From the hall came more loud grunts and yelling and Jessie swung the door open to see Arvid on the floor, Tate flattened beneath him like road-kill, yelling, “Get off! Get off me! What the hell’s the matter with you!”

  “I’m gonna give you about two seconds to explain, buddy.” Arvid’s voice was not loud. It was the low threatening growl of an annoyed grizzly.

  “What the—"

  “Two seconds to explain that toy tractor you had in your hand, you miserable piece of—”

  Tate stilled. Then he wheezed, “The toy tractor? I can’t breathe, you crazy—”

  “Yup.” Arvid pushed harder on the small of Tate’s back. “The toy.”

  “It was on the floor by Jessie’s door. On top of an envelope. I picked them up before I knocked on the door. Why—”

  “Jess, you didn’t plan to let him in, did you?” He gave the redhead a look that said he hoped her brain was in working order.

  “Of course not,” she said emphatically. “And don’t look so skeptical. My brain can still work long division.” She gave Tate a look with blue eyes as cold as chips of glacial ice. “So, what’s going on?”

  “I have no idea what’s going on or what you’re talking about, but let me get out my wallet,” Tate’s voice was choked. “I can explain. Can we step into Jessie’s room and get out of the hall?”

  *.*.*

  “So, that’s my story. I’ve been snooping around trying to find out anything that might shed light on Harris’s murder, and the Nielson’s girl, Adele. Besides, the way Berg Nielson was harassed, I think that could have been intentionally set up to cause him to have a heart attack from the stress. It was tragic that he shot Dom. But perhaps cunningly planned.”

  “You could be right,” Arvid said. “I’ve seen some pretty odd scenarios. It’s a stretch, though.”

  “I need to go see Glen Heath and inform his that his step-brother has been positively identified,” Tate said. “You seem to know Glen quite well, Jessie. I thought it might help if you came with me to give Glen a little emotional support. Although I know that he an
d Harris weren’t close, he was family.”

  Jessie nodded. “I could come. But Camille Johnson knows him much better. Let me go ask her instead, Tate.”

  “Nup. Let’s both go, Jessie. I don’t want you wandering around the hotel by yourself.” Arvid had explained the toy tractors to Tate and had told him about the threatening notes.

  “Good idea, Arvid.” He nodded to Jessie. “We don’t want anything happening to our favorite redhead.”

  “I understand his step-mom has some health issues, and I wanted to ask Glen to come with me when I go to see her—to help cushion the blow.”

  From under the bed came a rumbling meow.

  Tate squatted down and peered under. He grinned and straightened.

  “Am I finally making the acquaintance of His Highness, Jack Dempsey?” he asked Jessie.

  “Yep. But today he’s being more of a royal pain.” She went to the closet, pulled out the cat kibble and poured a bit into his dish. An orange head peeked out from under the bed, followed by the rest of the huge tom. He looked at Jessie, gave Tate a disdainful once-over, laying a tattered ear back, and then began chomping the kibble, stopping to peer at Tate periodically and to rumble an inquiring growl.

  Tate gave a broad smile. “An apt name for him, Jessie. He acts like he has staff and doesn’t put up with insubordination.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m cat staff.” Jessie sighed. “Let’s go get Camille. Russell’s down there, too. He can watch her room while you and Camille go speak to Glen.”

  “Russell’s down in Camille’s room?” Arvid gawked at Jessie. “Our Russell?”

  “Yep, and I think he’d better get accustomed to handling an art display room,” she said airily. “After you, gentlemen.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Unless you need a couple aspirin after being stomped on by my big Norsky friend here, Tate?”

  He inhaled deeply and put a hand on the small of his back, wincing. “No. I’m good.”