1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Must be his son. Wish the photo wasn't so darn blurry. About five, maybe a little older.

  Marker and crayon drawings of boats, trucks, dinosaurs and other animals covered the edge of the desk blotter. She looked closer. Darn good sketches for that age. More than darn good. How ironic that Russell, who she knew had so little appreciation for art, should have a child with such natural ability.

  While Arvid muttered over the jumbled state of Russell's desk drawers, her gaze moved to the wall. She didn't see any photographs of Russell's wife, Trish. Everyone had expected she'd marry Jessie's brother, Kevin, but after Kevin's accident, Trish had married Russell within the month. Jessie pressed her lips tightly together. Not for the first time, she wondered if they'd been fooling around before Kevin's death. Russell was too darn good-looking. Tall and lean, with hair the color of home-made fudge, he looked so all-American he should've had Old Glory tattooed on his muscled biceps.

  Yeah, he'd have attracted Trish all right.

  She rose and walked over to examine the child's drawings again. One of a running horse—a horse spattered with green polka dots—stood out. It looked three-dimensional. Astounding for someone so young.

  I hope he doesn't spoil it for the kid.

  Russell had been against her going away to art school, calling it "a frivolous waste of time". She felt a flush creep up her face. Thank God she'd been able to go. It gave her some distance. She'd have died if he'd ever guessed that her feelings toward him were anything but sisterly.

  Since Kevin's funeral, then her mother's only a week later, she hadn't bothered to get in touch with Russell whenever she came home to see her Dad. She had been too hurt. It still hurt. She bit her bottom lip. When she thought of him with Trish, it was hard to catch her breath. Worse, his odd attitude towards Kevin's death bothered her. And that look on his face at the burial.

  Her emotions flitted through fear, then anger, then longing. And here you are, Jess girl. Alone. With a biological clock that hammers like Big Ben ringing in the New Year. And there's Russell, with a kid that wants to draw. Life just isn't fair.

  Dousing the corrosive wave of self-pity as it flowed relentlessly through her, Jessie surreptitiously wiped her eyes with the tail of her apron while Arvid continued to dig in the desk drawers for a statement form.

  "Damn British and their clocks."

  "Huh?" Arvid asked.

  "Oh, nothing." She forced a grin. "Just thinking stupid thoughts out loud. I like to keep the smart ones to myself. I'm selfish that way."

  "Me, too! Why give 'em away when someone might pay good money for 'em? Look at that guy who invented the sticky notes you got all over your pickup dash. Millionaire," Arvid snapped his fingers and smiled. "Just like that." Then he reached back into Russell's drawer and withdrew a piece of paper and pen, holding them up in triumph. "Okey-dokey. We may as well get started. Unless you got more insights to share about England."

  Twenty minutes later, the enormous cop leaned back in his desk chair and capped his pen. "That'll do." He grinned and patted his ample belly. "It'd be an honor to treat Sage Bluff's big-shot artist to two of Alice's special breakfast burritos from the Calico Café. Now, they're a real work of art."

  "Sounds good, thanks."

  Arvid heaved his bulk out of the chair and turned to leave.

  "Sit tight. I'll go over and pick 'em up. Back in two shakes."

  Chapter 5

  Sage Bluff Sheriff's Department, present day

  "Her name is Amber Reynolds. Ring a bell?" Russell looked over at Jessie, who sat on the metal folding chair opposite his desk. Her arms hugged her torso, long legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at delicate ankles. Under the chair, Jack sat contentedly and washed his fur. Jessie had removed the cap. Her long hair had escaped from the neat knot and a glossy, loose curl corkscrewed over one cheek. Russell noticed the other cheek sported a faint daub of yellow paint.

  "Don't suppose you clobbered her yourself, Jess, then had second thoughts and called it in," he said. "It would make my job easier if you'd just confess now."

  "No." Jessie glared at him. "I did not. And if you're making a joke, it's not funny. I've been kept waiting in your office for nearly two hours. I've been bored to tears sitting here. And I've already been over the whole thing with Detective Sergeant Abrahmsen."

  While Russell and his team had been going over the scene with meticulous care, Arvid had supplied her with two succulent ham and egg sandwiches and a hot cup of caffeine—in the strongest brew possible that would still pour. After Jessie finished, with assistance from Jack on the ham, she'd whiled away the time filling Russell's desk blotter with intricate ball point sketches of the view from his office window. She'd carefully avoided the area of childish drawings that filled one side of the blotter.

  "Jess, you've never been bored a day in your life." Russell glanced at the blotter, intrigued. The row of maples across the street, tiny pedestrians, dogs, cars, and belligerent crows paraded across his desk in delicate cross-hatching. All of the miniature drawings she done next to K. D.'s old drawings on the blotter were frame worthy. "You always find something to keep your hands busy. I remember when your brother and I—"

  "Oh, stow the memory lane stuff," Jessie interrupted, "I don't appreciate being treated like a criminal just because I found some poor girl and called 911. What's the matter with you—small town cop syndrome?" She glared at him. "There's probably an acronym for that."

  He grinned broadly, then tapped his face with a fingertip. "Got a big smudge there on your cheek, Jess. Look a lot like you used to when your brother and I would pick you up from Mrs. Johansson's art class . . . you know, when you accidentally missed the bus on such a regular basis. You might clean up some when we're done."

  She sat up abruptly, scrambled in her apron pocket for a rag, and yanked one out. Part of a cake donut popped out of the pocket along with the cloth and dropped to the floor, where Jack attacked it with 'cat's got the cream' enthusiasm. She scrubbed at her cheek. A wide blue streak appeared across the smudged yellow.

  Russell clenched his stomach to keep from roaring with laughter but tried to keep his face stony. "That's better." He rubbed a finger on the side of his nose so that his hand covered his mouth, where a smile threatened to erupt. "Listen, I can't picture you doing anything like this, but the injured girl was found on your dad's property and it's my job to cover all the bases. Whoever hit her smacked her with a heavy fencing tool. You know, one of those big suckers farmers use to stretch barbed wire? We found one lying in the grass with blood on it. Bet there's normally one in your dad's pickup. You missing one out there at O'Bourne's?"

  "Heck, how am I supposed to know?" Jessie asked. "I don't put up fences, and I was driving my old pickup, not Dad's." She paused. "My Ford has been stored at the ranch for some time. I use it when I come home—Dad says a vehicle runs better if it's driven once in a while—and I don't want it to rust away in the garage."

  She crossed her legs, swinging a foot nervously. "Dad always keeps a bull-nosed fencing plier in a waterproof pouch hanging on the main gate post—uses it to fix things when he drives out to check on his cows. A couple years ago he started dipping the handles of all of his screwdrivers and pliers in a liquid rubber. Did the tool have a red coating on the handle?

  "I really can't give that information out."

  Jessie grimaced. "Probably Dad's if it does. Peel that rubberized layer back and if it's his, 'O'Bourne' will be engraved on the metal."

  "Guess I'll talk to your dad then."

  "Nope, you won't. Dad's been gone over a week. He and Marty are on their honeymoon and won't be back until next week."

  "Long honeymoon. I thought he'd be back by now."

  "Just for the record, there's no way he had anything to do with this." Jessie snorted, "I'll bet every farmer and rancher in the county has one of those tools. Gee, Russell," she said angrily, "maybe you should take a county-wide inventory."

  "Huh. Think I'll pass." He watched the orange
tomcat flip donut crumbs around the office, batting at miniscule bits before greed asserted itself and he gulped them down. "I know you went over your story with Arvid, but I like to cover the details, too. What made you go out to the haystack, Jess? I might need to add it to the report. For the record, just routine. "

  "For cripes sake. I was painting. I need to finish a bunch of paintings while I'm home—local scenes—for my upcoming exhibit in two weeks. The light is great in the morning." She sighed. "I saw a flash of blue over near the stack. Thought it was just trash—went to pick it up, saw it was a shoe. Jack wouldn't leave the stack, so I went to pick him up and there she was. The girl—Amber—she'll make it, won't she? I hope you'll be able to ask her what happened."

  A knocked sounded and a woman pushed open the door. She was as tall as Russell and broad as Hoover Dam. Her Winston Churchill face was topped by tight grey curls. "I've got the Denver P.D. on the phone, Russell. They've spoken to the girl's family. Do you want me to transfer it to your desk?"

  "No, Blanche." He stood. "I'll come out."

  Blanche focused on Jessie. "Well, now. Dan O'Bourne's girl, isn't it? So nice to see you. My Gosh, you've grown up pretty. It doesn't surprise me, because I knew your mother. When you're done here, stop at the front desk and visit for a spell. I'm due for my break and I want to hear all about the art show coming up and your dad's new bride."

  "Uh, okay," Jessie said in a surprised tone.

  Blanche squinted her eyes at Jessie. "No offense, but you're welcome to use the ladies' room down the hall if you need to wash your face. You've got quite a splotch of war paint. About there." She tapped her own cheek, turned, and closed the door.

  Jessie sputtered and stared daggers at Russell.

  He chuckled at the mortified redhead on his way out the door, then leaned back in and said, "After your visit with Blanche you may as well go home, Jess." He gestured to the tomcat. "Don't forget to take the monster mouser with you. Leave your phone number at Blanche's desk after your gossip session."

  Chapter 6

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  Russell raised his hand, hesitated a minute, then gave the front door a few decisive taps. He wanted to clear the air but was unsure how much to tell Jessie. He'd have to lie, at least by omission. You loser, Bonham, you know you just wanted to see her—even for a day. Maybe she wasn't home. He couldn't decide if that would be a bad thing, or a lucky break. Just as he turned to walk away, he heard footsteps. Then he heard Jessie yell.

  "Who is it?"

  "Pond scum," he yelled back.

  The door popped open. Jack sauntered lazily out, and Jessie stood looking at Russell with a surprised expression on her face. Her glorious hair hung loose around her shoulders and she wore one of her goofy T-shirts. Today her pullover was an eye-popping green color, emblazoned with an image of Edvard Munch's painting, The Scream. Stone-washed jeans covered her long legs. In her left hand, she held a paring knife and a fat lemon.

  Russell gave her his best cheesy grin, the one that had worked on Hannah O'Bourne when he and Kevin got into trouble as kids.

  "Don't give ME that look, Bonham." But even as she glared at him, she handed him the knife, and motioned him inside.

  He did a mental fist pump. Then he chastised himself. Getting too involved with Jessie would be as easy as sinking into quicksand.

  Just mend fences and get out.

  Stepping inside, he surveyed the room. Dan had repainted. What was once a robin's egg blue was now daffodil yellow. He scanned the room to make certain Jessie's lovely small paintings, the ones he'd been so fond of, were still hung. There were several new ones. As he sauntered over to the bowl of lemons on the kitchen counter, he scrutinized each piece.

  Ten minutes later, he sat on a swivel stool at the black granite counter, his hand wrapped around an icy glass of homemade lemonade. Nearby was a depression era glass lemon squeezer. The tangy smell of citrus pulp and freshly grated rind permeated the air. He'd his share by cutting the yellow fruits, flicking the seeds out with a fork, and working the lemon halves over the ridges of the juicer.

  The taste of lemonade always made him feel grateful to the O'Bournes. With the first refreshing sip, memories of summers he'd spent at Dan and Hannah's place waylaid him. If he shut his eyes, he could hear Hannah O'Bourne telling him to wipe his feet and come in for a BLT and "home squeezed". A lump rose in his throat. He missed her. Hannah, in this kitchen, had been the beating heart of the ranch for years. He'd helped out on the ranch from grade school to graduation for a few dollars plus meals.

  Meals.

  Man, he'd been so timid and scrawny when he first met Kevin. Nine, he thought. They'd become inseparable. Knowing his old man was useless as a broken toaster, Kevin's parents had simply taken young Russell into their fold. A niggle of sympathy for the lost little boy he'd once been passed over him. With it came a renewed determination that his child—his son—would never go hungry. Not for food. Not for comfort. Not for love.

  Stay on task and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Talk to Jessie, you moron.

  He set his jaw and glanced at her. Standing there by the counter, she was so close, yet as unreachable as Mars.

  "Sorry to butt in on your morning, Jess. Uh . . . I figured I'd stop in and see if there was any heavy work you needed done while your dad was away."

  "Nope," she answered curtly. "I'm good, thanks." She idly twisted one of her red curls around and around a finger.

  "Nice of you to come home and house sit for Dan and Marty, so they could take a proper honeymoon. I'm real happy for them. Nobody can replace your mom, but Marty seems good for your Dad." He smiled. "Sure never pictured Dan flying off to Honolulu, though."

  "Yeah," Jessie said, her expression softening, "me neither. Dad called and did a lot of complaining about the airline seats after the trip over, though. Swears they were made for city folk built like hoe handles."

  Russell chuckled, thinking of the huge man stuffed into a tiny airline seat. Dan O'Bourne was not just a big man, but as canny as they came. He'd seen the naked longing in Russell's eyes whenever he looked at Jessie, starting when she'd just turned fifteen. He'd warned him, "She's too young. And I know my Jessie. When she grows up, she won't stick around Sage Bluff. And you—hell, you're a homebody. I can't picture you happy anywhere but here, can you?" It had given the smitten teenager something to chew on.

  He frowned, remembering how he'd come to agree with Dan. So many years later, he still couldn't picture himself anywhere else. And he for darn sure couldn't picture Jessie coming home to live in Sage Bluff. She didn't seem to need people. Certainly not some broke son of a drunk.

  Her obsession with art was the tool he used to put distance between him and the tantalizing redhead. All it took was a sharp criticism of her work now and then. A belittling comment pushed her away just as firmly as if he'd shoved her.

  Heck, she was like his absentee mother, not content to stay where the good Lord had put her. But it didn't make him want her any less. He frowned and looked over at Jessie, ached to reach out, pull her into him, run his fingers through that mane of hair and tell her everything. The whole sordid story. And now—now he needed her to finally come home for good.

  "Say, Jess," he said, "uh . . . how long you going to be around?"

  There was no answer. Jessie had walked over to stand at the dining table in front of the large rectangular window. He stared at her slim, shapely form. She stood awash in sunlight, her back to him, arms around her torso, hugging herself. He opened his mouth, then shook his head instead. As usual, he had waited too long to talk, and she was lost in thought, staring out at only God and Jessie knew what.

  "Great lemonade," he ventured. "I love the way you mixed the pink broccoli in with the little plastic soldiers and the feathers from the albatross." He slurped loudly. "Deeelicious."

  "Uh huh," she murmured, gazing raptly at the sky, "Thanks. You should see the clouds today, Russ. The sky is dazzling."

  He sighed. "Bl
ue. Looks about the same as any other day."

  Same old Jess. Flesh and blood couldn't compete with color and light. Leastwise, not my flesh and blood. He stared out, trying to see what she saw. Well, the sky was pretty. His gaze swung back to Jessie and his heart nearly stopped.

  Her auburn hair was a fiery halo. Then she turned and for just a second looked at him full on. Her eyes held an odd expression and he felt the intense blue of her eyes. Suddenly, he didn't just see the color. It slammed into him like an ocean wave. She immediately turned away, to look out the window, but it was too late. For the first time in his life he not only saw beauty but felt it—a soul-searing pain of realization.

  She was silhouetted against the light, her back to him now, and behind her, the upper third of the window blossomed with richly-colored transparent glass in a grape and vine pattern. The sun tossed colors through the stained-glass window onto the tile floor with the challenge of a gauntlet, daring him to ignore the resultant play of prismatic blues, greens and reds. The effect was mesmerizing. The window Jessie had made was magnificent. Deep inside, in the locked piece of his heart he hated to admit was reserved for Jessie—and Jessie only—the captive voice whispered, "And Lord help me, so is she."

  Willing himself to relock that chamber, he shut his eyes. Shut her away. When he opened them, the window had become simply a means of looking outside, colorful though it was. With a pang of regret, he remembered Jessie painstakingly building the stained-glass window—a gift for her parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She'd cut and soldered the miniscule bits of glass during an unusual hiatus from her incessant drawing. He'd been so impressed when she'd started the project, knowing her fear of sharp objects made cutting the pieces a miserable undertaking.

  What had he told her when she'd finished the project? Her eyes had glowed with excitement. She'd tried to explain how joyous the streaming colors of light made her feel, how the beauty of it made her heart swell to bursting. Finally, she'd told him, it was one, wondrous piece of glass where hundreds of shards had been. He'd said something about a waste of time.