by Lee Pulaski
“Grandmother, Sajen may not be able to give me the riches that you’ve accumulated all your life, but he shows me love—and affection,” Rose looked at Sajen for a moment with her eyes full of affection, then back to Muriel, where the affection in her eyes was replaced by anger. “It’s like pulling teeth to have you or Grandfather acknowledge my existence. It only seems to matter when I’m interested in someone else.”
“Young lady, I will not have you talk down to me in such a manner. Get your coat. I’ll have your grandfather take you home.”
“I am nineteen years old! I will not be sent to my room like I’m a child.”
“As long as you live under my roof and accept my charity, you will.”
“I can remedy that, Grandmother. I’ll just move in with Sajen.” Rose grabbed Sajen’s hand firmly. “Let’s get out of here, before she reverts to her holier-than-thou persona.”
Muriel snapped her fingers. “Osgood! Stop them! Rose is leaving with that Sage artist!”
Zachary was starting to feel like a guest at an outdoor barbecue witnessing a family meltdown and trying to figure out the easiest avenue for escape. He glanced over at Newell, who looked equally ill at ease.
“I had no idea this was going to get so heated,” Anne Marie whispered to Zachary. “Tribal leaders have been telling me what a talented artist Sajen is. I had no idea the Reimers hated him.” She did a double take. “I had no idea the Reimers hated artists, too. It’s like inviting a radicalized Muslim to your Christmas party.”
“Look on the bright side, Anne Marie. If you wanted people to remember your first opening night, I think you succeeded.”
Anne Marie made a face like she planned to be careful what she wished for in the future.
Newell took a nibble of cheese. “Aside from the drama, it looks like everyone is loving the gallery. That’s definitely a credit to all your work.”
“He’s right.” Jonathan Boivin, chairman for the Menominee Tribe, had just joined the conversation. “My dear, I know there has been much sacrificed to make this art gallery possible. I hope this is the first of hundreds of wonderful receptions.”
“Thank you, Jonathan,” Anne Marie took Jonathan’s hand. “The tribe is such a wonderful supporter of the arts, and I hope that…”
“Take your hand off me, you heathen!” Osgood Reimer was slapping Sajen’s hand away as the family brouhaha was starting anew at the gallery entrance. “If I ever see you near my granddaughter again, I will see to it you spend all your days in prison!”
“You don’t have that kind of influence,” Sajen replied. “Despite what all these doting folks may lead you to believe, everybody knows you’re nothing but a foolish old man who almost lost your entire business to a conglomerate who would have turned your farms into urban eyesores.”
“That’s a lie!” Osgood sputtered.
“So you’re calling your own flesh and blood a liar, then?”
Osgood gave Rose a withering glance. “How could you say such a horrible falsehood?”
“It’s not a falsehood, Grandfather. You know that.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the gallery at that moment. Only that moment, though, as the silence was shattered with the crash of Jasper Walters’ painting. Everyone stood frozen, shocked expressions on their faces, as though they were afraid that if they made any moves, other artwork might fall to its doom or spontaneously combust or something.
After a few moments of uncertainty, Anne Marie leapt into action and ran to pick up the fallen painting. Her brother, Christopher, was in close pursuit. Newell handed Zachary his drink and hurried to lend a hand. Zachary glanced at where the Reimer family squabble had been taking place, but the honored couple, their granddaughter and the intrepid, free-spirited boyfriend were all gone. Had they taken the argument to the sidewalk? Everyone else in the gallery started chirping again, undoubtedly about the misfortune of the fallen painting. Was it a bad omen for the White Eagle Gallery? Was Anne Marie’s dream of art and culture in Gresham dead before it had a chance to live?
CHAPTER THREE
Zachary looked out the kitchen window at the swirling snow dotting the landscape outside the farmhouse as he took a sip of hot chocolate. The winter storm was light, which meant the drive to work would not be treacherous, but he couldn’t help but feel like something was wrong.
The feeling had actually started the night before. The reception had ended rather abruptly after the fall of Jasper Walters’ masterpiece. Poor Anne Marie got a tongue-lashing from the artist, who called her too incompetent to be managing true works of art and suggested she might be better suited to fill the walls with knockoffs of dogs playing poker before he demanded full restitution for the damaged painting. With the star attraction damaged and the honorees mysteriously exiting, the night ended earlier than anyone could have expected.
A high-pitched whine emanated near Zachary’s feet. It was Toby, his terrier mix dog, and he looked sad. Zachary smiled.
“I guess somebody’s hungry.”
Zachary picked up Toby’s food dish and filled it with a new dog food he was trying that was supposed to promote a healthy body. Newell had just started working with the company a few weeks earlier, and Toby was the guinea pig to see if the food lived up to the hype.
The house was really quiet. Newell had to be to work a little after six to open up the feed store. He looked a little tired as he left, probably due to staying late and helping Anne Marie clean up the mess in the gallery, not to mention rebuilding her crushed ego. It was about midnight when they’d made it home, but at least the gallery didn’t look like a crime against artistry had occurred.
Zachary shivered, still feeling the chill from going outside to feed the animals a few minutes earlier. He brought up the collar of his sweater. He took another sip of hot chocolate, hoping it would help him feel warmer.
The house phone rang. Zachary walked over and grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Sweetie, do you have the television on?” Newell’s voice sounded concerned.
“No. I just got in from feeding the critters. Why? What’s up?”
“Turn it to the news.”
Zachary walked into the living room and grabbed the television remote. “Which station?”
“Take your pick. It’s on all of them.”
Zachary turned the television on, and the reporter for the local Fox affiliate was giving a live report. “I’m standing outside the Reimer family homestead, where we’re getting word that Osgood and Muriel Reimer were found dead this morning under suspicious circumstances.”
Zachary’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck?”
“I’ve already had three people come in the shop in the last five minutes about it,” Newell said. “According to the gossip mill, one of the hired hands went into the house around seven when Osgood hadn’t come out to supervise the morning feeding, and he found the two of them dead in their bed.”
“I’m guessing they didn’t die from natural causes.”
“At the same time? It’s doubtful, Zach.”
“Ho boy. Anne Marie’s going to have a stroke. She’s already reeling from that painting falling, and now the subjects of her opening have bought the farm—to use a phrase. It’s probably going to drive her over the edge. Maybe I should head into town early and see if she needs a sympathetic ear or shoulder.”
“She was really starting out so well, until the Reimer family had a meltdown.”
“Hold on, Newell.” Zachary turned up the volume on the television.
“Police are looking for an eighteen-year-old Menominee man named Sajen Hawpetoss, who is believed to be the boyfriend of the Reimers’ teenage granddaughter. They won’t say if he is a suspect at this time, only a person of interest. Fox Green Bay has received unconfirmed reports that Mr. Hawpetoss had allegedly gotten into a heated argument with the victims at this art gallery in the village of Gresham during a reception last night.” Live video footage of the gallery appeared on the screen as the reporter continued
his story. “We have tried to reach the owner of the gallery for confirmation of this report, but she has not responded yet.”
Zachary shook his head. “Newell, I’m going to let you go. I’d better find Anne Marie before the TV reporters do. I love you.”
“Love you, too. See you later.”
Zachary had just set the phone down when he heard a knock at the back door. Toby was sitting by the door, his ears in alert mode. He looked through the window and saw it was Anne Marie, wearing a black ski cap and sunglasses.
Zachary ushered Anne Marie inside. “Anne Marie! What brings you here on this frigid day?”
“Have you seen the news?” When Zachary smiled sheepishly and pointed to the television still on the Fox station, Anne Marie groaned. “This is a nightmare! All I wanted to do was expose Gresham to the beauty of art and give us another attraction to bring in tourists, and now I’m going to be known as the one who brought down Beef Jerky and Cherries Jubilee!”
“Is there any way you could come up with another exhibit, perhaps? Something simple like having talented high school students show their work, or maybe you could have Jasper Walters display some of his other pieces.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure he’d want to jump on that after calling me an amateur, incompetent, third-rate art wannabe! I couldn’t handle his tribute painting to Osgood and Muriel Reimer, so I doubt he’s going to throw anything else my way. Did you know that painting was selling for fifteen hundred dollars, and I’ll have to pay through the nose to compensate that snobby bastard?”
Zachary snapped his fingers. “I know! Why don’t you display some of your work? You’ve done paintings and drawings for years, and you taught your techniques to hundreds of schoolchildren. People love your work. You’ve got two pieces hanging in the village hall and three more at the school.”
“It’s not going to be enough to attract tourists. Nobody outside Gresham and the Menominee reservation knows who I am.”
“They will now, based on all the buzz you’re getting.” Zachary indicated a chair at the kitchen table to silently suggest Anne Marie should sit. “It’s February, Anne Marie. There aren’t a lot of tourists bustling about right now, so I think your art would help distract the locals and hopefully give you a chance to plan something bigger and better once tourist season starts in earnest in about three months.”
Anne Marie sat down. “I guess that would help. I’d have to think about it. I’m not sure what else I can afford to do. Besides the cost of Jasper Walters’ painting, I had to pay almost two grand to compensate the symphony orchestra for its performance.”
“You’ve got other things at the gallery besides Jasper’s painting. Didn’t you say other local artists did other pieces as tributes to Osgood and Muriel? The show could still go on, but maybe it could be a tribute to their memory.”
“I’m not sure it could be as strong without Jasper’s painting, but perhaps the show could recover.” Anne Marie put her head in her hands. “Oh, Zach! I was so hoping to make this opening show a real splash, but now it’s looking more like a disastrous boating accident!”
“It will be disastrous if you keep believing such bile. Anne Marie, I’ve seen you take classes of students to the village hall to see how government works because you have faith that they are the future. You’ve turned a lot of young children into budding artists and given them the belief that their imaginations can create true beauty in this world. Now, if you can do all that, you can spin the straw that is your art gallery into pure gold. You have to believe it, though.”
Anne Marie exhaled. “Okay, I’ll give it a go. I’m not sure which idea I’ll jump on, but I’ll pick something. Now, do you have any idea how I can slip past the army of reporters camped outside the gallery?”
“I think I have an idea for that, too.” Zachary picked up the phone and dialed. As he dialed, Midnight, his black cat, jumped up on the table and nuzzled next to Anne Marie’s hand, begging to be petted.
“Fox Green Bay. How may I direct your call?”
“Newsroom, please.” Zachary winked as Anne Marie gave him an odd look.
“Alfred Bigglesworth. How may I help you?”
“I understand you’re trying to track down Anne Marie White Eagle, the lady who started the art gallery in Gresham. I know exactly where she is. She’s having a meeting with Jacob Malueg, our Gresham village chairman, at this very moment. His address is four-one-seven Oak Street.”
“Four-one-seven Oak Street, Gresham. Thank you very much for the tip, Mister… Mister…”
“Walters. Jasper Walters. I’m glad I could help. Praise be to George W. Good bye.” Zachary set the phone down. “There we go. With any luck, the cameraman with Fox will take the bait and head for Jacob’s house, and the others in the hive should follow their leader, which will hopefully give you an opportunity to get into the gallery without being noticed.”
Anne Marie shook her head. “Zach, if you ever gain real power, you’re going to be extraordinarily scary. You do realize that, don’t you?”
“I do. Now, once you get in the gallery, lock the door and go about your business. If you need rescuing, you know how to reach me.”
“I do, but I didn’t think you could see that bat-signal during the day.”
Zachary rolled his eyes. “Go, and if by chance my little ruse failed, just head for the feed store. Newell has plenty of places you could hide.”
Anne Marie stood up. “Zach, you’re such a good person. First, you come to my rescue on the reservation, and now you save me here. Thank you. I’d better get going before the Fourth Estate realizes they’ve been duped.”
After Anne Marie left, Zachary returned to his gazing out the window. The gallery’s damaged reputation was just one issue with unanswered questions, the biggest one being how that painting fell from the wall. The big question was how Osgood and Muriel Reimer, who were in good health just twelve hours earlier, could suddenly both be making reservations for the coroner’s table. Somehow, some way, murder had crept back into the heart of Gresham, and chances were good that it would be up to Zachary Gagewood to set this wrong right.
Alexander whistled. “Wow! Those snowflakes are getting pretty big out there, Zach. Do you think they might bury those reporters outside the gallery?”
Zachary looked out the window of The Literary Barn at the half-dozen reporters loitering on the sidewalk. Anne Marie had managed to make it into the gallery, but sure enough, once they discovered the tip about Jacob’s house was a ruse, they returned to the gallery, apparently hoping Anne Marie would give them a sound bite.
“You would think they’d be camped out at the scene of the crime instead of harassing poor Anne Marie,” Alexander said as he absentmindedly put magazines on a rack near the register. “If I were a reporter, I’d be at the gates of the Reimers’ homestead waiting for a police officer or detective to come out so I could get the skinny on what happened.”
“If you were a reporter, Alexander, the world would be a better place. Instead, we’ve got greedy snow vultures smelling the scent of death in exactly the wrong place.” Zachary looked up at the clock, which read four o’clock. “I wonder if Anne Marie needs rescuing again, or if she’s managing okay in the gallery. She’s been in there all day.”
“I feel so sorry for her. She had a dream, and this whole affair is gutting it like a catfish.”
“It’s not over yet, Alexander. She’ll come back from this. Gresham has been riddled with setbacks, but we’ve always risen from the ashes.”
“Have you heard anything about how the Reimers died?”
Zachary shook his head. “I imagine Sasha’s already guts deep into their autopsies, so I don’t think we’ll hear anything today. It’s just really sad, seeing two lives snuffed out like that.”
“Really? I was just thinking it was a little romantic.”
Zachary did a double take. “Romantic? This isn’t Romeo and Juliet, Alexander. Two people may have been murdered.”
“I’m aware of
that, but I mean that they both went out of this world together. It wasn’t like one of them had been killed, and the other one had to find a way to move forward alone after fifty-six years of walking the same path together.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I can see your point. It’s still a little twisted, but I can see it.”
The little brass bell above the front door jingled as Newell walked in. “So, did I miss anything? Have those reporters left the gallery at all today? Is Anne Marie in there?”
“No, you didn’t miss anything. Anne Marie is in there. She managed to slip past the media this morning when they were given some wild tip about her being at Jacob Malueg’s house.”
Newell shot Zachary a suspicious look. “Now, I wonder who would give them such a line.”
Zachary pointed to Alexander. “I told him not to do it, but he’s just been so petulant lately.”
Alexander rolled up one of the magazines. “Don’t make me throw a copy of Time at you, you big fibber.”
Zachary looked outside again. “Look at the way those two reporters are laughing and pointing at the quilt square the community association built. They must think it’s the goofiest thing in the world.”
“Big-city reporters trying to understand small-town ways,” Newell said. “They’ll never get it, so let them have their jokes. We know we’re better.”
The phone rang, and Zachary answered it. “Thank you for calling The Literary Barn. How can I help you?”
“Can you send the media lemmings away on another wild goose chase? I need to show you something here in the gallery.”
“Sure thing, Anne Marie. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Zachary clicked off the call, but held the phone next to his chin. “Should I go with CBS, NBC or ABC?” When Newell and Alexander gave him strange looks, he explained, “I’ve already punked the Fox station, so I have to go with someone else.”
Newell sighed. “If those media vultures wind up camped on our doorstep, you’re sleeping on the couch, darling.”
