Chapter Forty-eight
Helland’s Woodshop – next morning
“It’s like a wonderland.” Jessie turned in a full circle. “I don’t know where to look first.” She picked up a small chunky carving of a fat robin resting on a partial branch. “All the carved pieces are so life-like. Coming here is like visiting a small museum. Thanks for inviting us.”
Arvid was squatting down to look at the front of a large chest. The front was a relief carving of several bison and calves.
“At least half of the animals were carved by my grandfather,” Helland explained. “I can’t bear to give them away. Silly of me, I guess. I know a lot of people who would enjoy them.” Helland leaned on a cane and waved his hand around the room. “My granddad, God rest his soul, started working with wood during the Depression. People were kinder back then, nicer to each other. I guess it boils down to not being as selfish. Times were hard, and most folks were down and out, but they still tried to help each other. Whenever someone did the family an act of kindness, Gramps carved them something. It was all he had to give—a gift of his talent—of himself. He never tried to sell his woodcarvings. Their new owner’s name was written down in a little notebook he used before he put the first nick into the wood using an old pocket knife. He carved chunks of Russian olive—wood salvaged from the older trees out in the field windbreak. A lot of farmers in those days planted Russian olives in long rows to block the wind—keep the topsoil from blowing away.”
“Dad did that, too,” Jessie said. “I painted out at the fields. The olives had that wonderful grey green foliage. Some of my best plein-air paintings came from there.” She was staring at Helland.
The old man chuckled and shook his head. “Well, I used to cuss those trees. They were old. Whenever a wind storm came through Dad would have me and my little brother help him haul the broken limbs to a stack behind the barn. We always left some downed wood for the birds. It’s good cover for the pheasant and grouse in the winter. Rabbits, too.” Gramps was in a wheel-chair by then, but he wanted most of the wood salvaged.” He grimaced. Tom and I used to complain to dad, ‘there’s enough wood piled up to last Grandpa ‘til Armageddon’, but Dad was adamant. Most people who lived during the Great Depression were careful about letting anything go to waste. My memory of Gramps is of him whittling, whittling, whittling. It was sure a shame when his hands became too arthritic.
“I’m well acquainted with Russian olive,” Russell said, shaking his head. “I used to snag my jeans, my shirt sleeves and my skin, on the big thorns when I hunted pheasants in O’Bourne’s windbreak. I didn’t know there was any good use for those vicious trees.”
Helland wheezed with laughter. “Those awful thorns. Aren’t they wicked? Nasty. That’s why I hated hauling the wood back. But Gramps never had any money to buy wood when he carved pieces for those he deemed “worthy acquaintances” during the Depression. Even though most people consider it a trash tree, the wood grain is gorgeous. In the middle east, most of the nativity sets they sell are made from olive wood.”
He picked up a small carved cottontail rabbit and ran his thumb along the smooth back of the wooden animal. “The Russian olive trees here in America are likely a cousin to those olive trees in the Middle East. There, they get good fat eating olives. The olives on these aren’t edible. Well, except for wildlife—think deer and such browse on the trees, and certain birds get a benefit from the fruits.” He handed the rabbit to Arvid. “This is the first thing I ever carved. I gave it to my mother, and when she passed on, I couldn’t bear to part with it. It’s crude, but she loved it and I remember her long fingers stroking across the animal when she was stressed. It was like a worry stone.”
Arvid held the small carving in his hand, turned it over in his meaty palm and studied it. “Crude?” He shook his head. “Nup. It’s gorgeous.” He waved a finger over the carving, angling it toward Jessie. “Look how the swirls in the wood help shape the curve of the rabbit’s round body. He handed it to her.”
Jessie gazed at it in appreciation, becoming momentarily lost in the whorls and graceful lines of the wood…then passed the chubby bunny to Grant. She looked at the old man in admiration. “Your first work of art…It’s wonderful. You inherited your grandfather’s eye.” Her eyes sparkled. “It’s an unusual talent to be able to see into the wood. Looking at the grain and whittling it into something only your mind can visualize.”
“You do the same thing with your drawings and paintings, Jessie. You paint more than what your eyes can see. A lot of your painting comes from an inner vision separate from eyesight.”
“It does.” Jessie nodded. “Carving must be the same. What about the large pieces? Especially the gorgeous swans in the corner?” She walked over to the carving and studied it. It was of two adult birds, almost life-sized. The base was carved to appear as a bit of shoreline, with water rippling to the edge. One bird rested contentedly on the base as if nesting, head cocked toward its companion. The second swan was little more than a graceful suggestion. “This will be magnificent.” Her voice lowered almost to a whisper as she stared intently at the piece of wood. “Absolutely breath-taking.”
“I haven’t had the heart to finish that one. Those tundra swans were started for Berg Nielson’s wife, Vi. She died before I could give it to her.”
“What kind of wood is that?” Grant asked. He spoke to the old man, but his eyes kept glancing back to Jessie.
“Black walnut. It’s the only wood I ever bought for carving instead of creating furniture. Actually, it’s the only wood I ever bought, instead of scrounged.” He scratched the back of his head and sighed. “When my wife had cancer, Vi Nielson came over every day to help me take care of her. Every blessed day until Shanna died. The two women were like sisters. Vi’s good nature and sweet caring attitude helped my wife get through each day—even the real bad ones.
When Shanna was so sick she probably didn’t know Vi was here, Vi still came. Held her hand, talked to her. Read her stories we weren’t even sure she heard.” He heaved another sigh. “How can a person hope to repay such kindness? My wife lay in bed, longing to get out of this world. Out of pain.” He ran the tip of his index finger on the curve of the swan base, stroking the length of the ripple carved into the walnut. “I’d hear Vi tell her, ‘It’s okay, Shanna. Your job here is done. Just stretch your wings, honey. Can you feel those wings in your soul? Stretch them out and up like a swan’s. Let them lift you up and carry you away.”
He swallowed. “Shanna would go calm and get such a peaceful look on her face. Then one day. . . well, I guess she just stretched those wings.” He cleared his throat and looked at the swans with a resigned expression. “The Nielsons had a walnut buffet in their dining room. I wanted this to match it. The shape and wingspan needed something thicker than the Russian olive I had available. Like I said before, I lost interest in working on the swans after Vi passed. Heart attack, it was. Sometimes I think I was about as brokenhearted as Berg when that woman passed on.”
Arvid surreptitiously wiped at his eyes. Esther pulled a tissue from her purse and passed it to him.
“And what will you do with the swan carving now? Once it’s finished, I mean?” Grant asked. “Because I’m assuming that someday you’ll complete it.”
“Maybe. Now, I want it to go to the person clever enough to find the bastard that drove Berg crazy. Crazy enough to shoot his own son.” He glanced at Jessie, “Pardon my bad language. My dad said only someone with a lousy vocabulary needed to swear, but that’s the only word to describe someone who’d torment a good man like Nielson.”
Helland cleared his throat and went on in a voice sharp as a butcher knife, “I’m glad Vi was spared living through the hell of what happened to her family. You’ve probably heard the story by now of the Nielson’s girl. Addy was a sweet person. I hope someone can find out who killed her—and Berg. He may have died from the heart attack, but it was the horror of realizing he’d shot his own son that caused it. Someone plann
ed that, I think.” His face grew hard. “And Dominic’s death was unnecessary. He had good Army training. Bless that boy. He could have saved himself if he hadn’t been working to clear the lane, so an ambulance could get to the house...maybe save his father.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t believe it was actually Benny Potter. You want to be the one to find the real killer,” Jessie said. “It’s what you plan to do to repay Vi Nielson, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve been walking the art rooms with me, visiting with the artists. You think like I do. The killer is an artist at that show.”
He coughed. Then pointed at his chest. “Yeah. I don’t think Benny had the smarts to pull those murders together…someone else planned it. Sadly, an old man like me can’t do much to find a killer, even if I wanted to.” He looked at her with a guileless expression and changed the subject. “And I enjoyed meeting those artists with you. I always wondered what it would be like to make a living by doing something creative—something you loved. To do nothing to pay the bills but plan your next elaborate carving or sculpture. Or in your case, a painting.” He sighed. “It bothers me that Sheriff Fischer has about closed the case on the Nielson family. And probably will soon on Harris Freeman’s murder, too. He’ll think the military should handle it. But I’m just too old. I have to leave the sleuthing to the experts like Sheriff Fischer. I wish—”
“Hogwash.” Jessie said. “You old fraud.”
“Jessie,” Russell said. “What the heck? For God’s sake. You—”
Jessie didn’t take her eyes from Helland. “Your carvings are wonderful. Phenomenal, actually. But you didn’t bring us here to see them. You wanted an opportunity to take a good look at us and see if we measure up somehow.” She placed the side of a fist against her chin and stared at Helland. “Let’s see…Esther and Grant fit in, too. You’re a cagey, devious old devil. And not nearly so infirm as you pretend.” Her hand dropped to her side and she leveled her gaze at Helland. “So, what’s up?”
Arvid looked stunned at her rudeness. Grant, who’d been watching Jessie’s face and wondering at the calculating look in her lovely blue eyes, looked merely curious. His focus swung from Helland to Jessie and back to Helland.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Jessie said to the room in general. She waved her hand toward Helland. “I like this cagey, devious old son-of-a-gun. He reminds me of Dad.” She chuckled. “I’ll bet he already has a good list of suspects. But, he wants to hear our take on the people we’ve talked to…the way we think the puzzle pieces fit.”
Russell reached toward her. “Knock it off, Jess. Why—”
“No,” Esther’s polished voice cut in. “Jessie is right.” She turned to the carver. “Mr. Helland…may I call you Joe?”
He nodded.
“So.” She crossed her arms and tapped her toe on the wooden floor. “What’s up, Joe?”
Helland looked from Esther to Jessie and gave a slight shake. Then he smiled. He straightened and stretched. He stood as erect as a forty-year old and seemed four inches taller than before. His eyes sparkled as ten years seemed to fall away. “What gave me away, ladies?”
Esther and Jessie both pointed at the portable oxygen pack.
“Well, for starters,” Jessie accused, “you forgot to turn that on.”
Chapter Forty-nine
Tate sat in his art display room, making conversation with other artists wandering through and judging the interest of people looking at each sketch. Are they serious buyers or tire kickers? It was a welcome pastime that let him avoid thinking about the sad chore of telling Althea and Glen Heath about the positive identification of Harris Freeman’s body. He had even made a morning sale. At the recommendation of Jessie O’Bourne, he had raised his prices, so the sale of a framed piece was now a serious chunk of change.
A middle-aged man in blue cargo shorts and a too-tight tee shirt took a price tag from a drawing and began walking toward Tate. Tate smiled at him and stood, while thinking,
Oh no. Does he want a price break? How much would be reasonable?
“I’ll take this one.” The man handed the price tag and a credit card to Tate. He breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a last-minute decision to get an account for processing a credit card or PayPal payment.
Do people ever use cash anymore? It’s becoming a plastic society.
When he handed the bubble wrapped drawing to the happy buyer, he felt like an old pro.
I know what that barn is good for at the Nielson place, he thought. It would be a fabulous artist’s studio. If I didn’t have a year left in the Army, I’d renovate it. Lights, a bathroom, a big sink. Maybe old plank flooring. Then he stopped short. Wow. Yes, it would be a knock ‘em dead studio. It really would. And he’d heard the big guy, Glen Heath, talking in the hospitality room, blowing steam, saying ‘pretty soon I’ll have a wonderful sculpting studio. My ship’s going to come in.’ Was Glen thinking he’d inherit the Nielson place, too? If he knew Harris originally had a signed will with Dom, he might think he was the heir, not just to Althea’s ranch, but to the Nielson property as well.
Glen had no way of knowing that Dom, Harris and I made a new will. Legit. Witnessed and all. Everyone discounts the idea that Benny killed Adele Nielson. Could he have been set up to take the fall for Harris’s death, too?
Tate pulled his phone out of his pocket and made a call. “Hey, Drew. Do you have that list of names from the rental agency in Savannah? I want you to include people who leased any kind of vehicle up to three days prior to Harris’s disappearance. Yes, any kind of vehicle…not just dark SUVs. And I want you to check the same dates for the major airport car rental services. Try Atlanta’s first. Start with the big airports and work your way to the small ones.” He listened to the voice on the other end, then said. “Stop ranting. Here’s what I need. There are only several names I need you to check. Shouldn’t take each rental agency more than a few minutes because they can pull up a reservation by name…No, I’m in a hurry…I want it like last Christmas.”
An hour later, Tate again pulled out the scissors, tape, and bubble wrap. His smile was wide and sincere as he handed the sketch of a herd of pronghorn antelope to the buyer. “Thank you, Ma’am. Best wishes to your husband on his birthday. I hope he enjoys my work. I put a business card in with the wrapped sketch.”
Again, he was glad of Jessie’s suggestion. Thank you, Quicky Print. Mahalo.
His phone rang.
Chapter Fifty
“I can’t believe Fischer finally asked me to look at the trail cam video. But if you and Russell didn’t see anything worthwhile, there’s probably nothing I can spot.”
“You never know. Another pair of eyes don’t hurt.”
Jessie watched out the window as they went through the town of Crooked Creek, passing Hank’s Diner and Dogs, a quilt shop, several small galleries and the Creekside Medical Center. “And can you believe that Joe Helland, trying to sleuth on his own? He’s going to take me over to the Nielson’s, by the way.”
“What for?”
“I want to take reference pictures of the old barn. We had quite a discussion on barns when I took him around the art rooms. He commissioned a small one, an 11x14. According to him, it’s a fabulous old structure. Barn paintings sell well, so I’ll do a quick study for the Gingerbread Man and several for my galleries.”
Arvid made a left turn, heading into the Sheriff’s Office parking area.
“Funny how nicknames stick, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Did you ever have one, Arvid?”
“Nah…my own name seemed funny enough to the kids. “’Course, I was big. Grew earlier than most of the runty boys in my school.” He chuckled. “The girls grew early, too…ever notice how in junior high school most of the girls reach their mature height, but the boys are shrimpy?” Then he grew serious. “Helland seems very competent, but he’s no spring chicken. Can you take someone along—Esther maybe—or your friend Cheri Cappello?”
“I guess I could. I�
�ll ask. Esther may have practice, but Cheri can probably make it.”
*.*.*
Jessie looked at the video image and her heart sank. “Freeze it right there, Sheriff.” She stared at the video frame, hating to speak. Her throat was tight.
“You see something, don’t you,” Arvid asked.
“Yes. I do. She moved her hand and pointed to the screen. “Blow it up…see that?”
“That dirty spot?” Fischer asked.
“No, it isn’t dirt. It’s darker because it’s a cleaner spot, an area where a metal logo used to be. We don’t ever see the left boot in the video. We only see the right.”
“What makes you think it isn’t just a spatter of mud?”
“Because I took a ride with Glen Heath two days ago. And I recognize the boot.”
“Oh, do tell,” Fischer said. “You recognize the boot? I find that hard to believe.”
Jessie glared at him. “It’s a Harley Davison Motorcycle boot, and on the left one, he still had the metal logo. On the right, the metal logo was missing.”
“If Jess says she recognizes it, she recognizes it,” Arvid growled.
“Glen Heath.” Fischer’s voice was flat. “I didn’t want it to be Glen. It means he isn’t at all the man I thought he was. He’s a cold-hearted vicious killer. He’d have to be, to threaten an old man…to kill Adele. And the sad thing is, I can’t figure out why. Why would he do such a thing?”
“And how can we prove it? No jury is going to believe Jessie identified a specific boot from this lousy footage.”
“I didn’t want it to be Glen, either. But I should have thought about it before,” Jessie said sadly. “Sculptors use drawing paper as much as any artist. They sketch out ideas for each new piece, sometimes doing very detailed drawings before they ever start. And the 3D quality of the little tractors would appeal to a sculptor as well. What I don’t understand is why he targeted me at this show. We were friends.”
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