1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Oh, yeah. He winced at the realization. He'd said, "God, Jess, grow up a little. It's just a picture of grapes. You're such a funny kid."

  He wiped a hand across his forehead and pressed his lips together, his mouth suddenly tasting as sour as if the lemonade was missing sugar.

  We only hurt the ones we love.

  Pushing thoughts of the past away, he heaved a sigh and turned from the window to its creator.

  "I know you're blasted mad at me. I'm sorry."

  She stiffened but turned to face him. With a jolt he saw her eyes were moist. Moist, but angry.

  "I am. After all my folks did for you, the years you spent as part of the family, you should've at least been at Mom's funeral. And . . . well, it just seemed like you got married so fast, that's all. And to Kevin's fiancée, of all people." She twisted her fingers together nervously. "So, yeah. I guess you could say I'm pretty damn mad. Disappointed, because I wondered—"

  "I know." He frowned. "I'm sorry. But there wasn't anything going on between Trish and me while Kevin was alive." Actually, not afterwards, either. "Please believe that. I missed the funeral—"

  Jessie put out her hands, palms up, the expression on her face anguished. "You don't owe me an explanation about Trish. But yes, you MISSED Mom's funeral. Dad and I needed you. And you went off and got married like you didn't have anyone to think of but yourself—you selfish…." Her voice caught. "You…you not only got married, but you never even invited us. Never even let us know. We had to hear it from Sage Bluff's gossip line. You absolute—"

  "Don't say it, Jess. I didn't think. I couldn't have gone through with the marriage if you and Dan had been there. "I'll say it myself. I was a thoughtless bastard. I know. And I understand how it must have seemed to you. Irresponsible. Thoughtless."

  Jessie snorted. "Don't hold back, but yeah, that about sums it up. Guess you know why I never sent a wedding gift."

  "Can we shelve the marriage with Trish just for now?" He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I need to talk to you about Kevin and—"

  Icy blue eyes chilled him to the core.

  "Shelve it? Oh, sure, let's just shelve it. After all, it's only been shelved for six years—"

  "Jess—"

  "You and Trish aren't any of my business. But Dad knows you had a huge fight with Kevin before his accident. So if it wasn't over Trish, what was it about? What was going on that day?" Jessie balled her fists at her hips. "The day Kevin died."

  He stared back at her. Horror at what she was implying shot through him.

  "THAT'S what you've been thinking this past six years?" He stepped toward her. "You think we fought? You think I hurt him? Or killed him? I . . . I just found him in the barn, Jess. He was already dead. There was nothing I could do." He lowered his voice to a near whisper. "You can't think I had anything to do with Kevin's death, Jess."

  She looked at him, blue eyes narrowed, her lips pressed tightly into a thin line.

  He continued. "I thought you were mad at me because of the funeral. I missed the funeral because I had to—"

  His cell phone buzzed. Russell and Jessie continue to stare at each other—each unable to break eye contact. Then he patted his pockets, reached in and pulled the phone out. He looked at the caller ID.

  Hellish bad timing! Dammit! Without thinking, he reached for her and she drew back. He let his arms drop, the phone in his hand still insistent.

  "I have to take this. And we both need to calm down. For Pete's sake, if I'd known you were thinking I might've hurt Kev, I'd never have let this go on so long. We ARE clearing this up before you leave Sage Bluff," he said emphatically. "And I hope you think about coming home more often. Actually, think about coming home for good."

  He turned and strode out the front door, letting it bang shut behind him.

  Jessie frowned. She hugged herself tightly and let her chin drop to her chest. Something was definitely wrong in Russell's world. She hadn't been sky-gazing when she'd ignored Russell's crazy comments. Not this time. She'd needed time to process what she'd unexpectedly seen in the window glass. The fleeting reflections of Russell's face had shown worry, sadness, and yearning. It was the yearning that had surprised her most. And yanked her heartstrings.

  Forget the look. He's a married man with a son.

  Her eyes filled and she blinked hard. She knew if she'd allowed herself to look back at him at that moment, it would have exposed her heart plain as the prairie grass. Come home for good? Who was he kidding?

  Later, she'd paint the memory of Russ sitting at the table, holding the glass of lemonade, light bouncing from the blue shirt he was wearing to wash the underside of his strong chin in the same ultramarine. She had a sketchbook full of memory studies of him—page after page. Him and her Dad. Laughing with Kevin. Teasing her mother. And she knew she would draw one of him with that look in his eyes—the look she had seen in the reflection. Then, hopefully, she could lock those feelings away and simply concentrate on what to paint next.

  Jessie took a deep breath and lifted her hand, making a few imaginary strokes in the air. Remembering his posture, his eyes. Cementing the picture in her mind. The tilt to his head. The color harmony of the yellow drink against the blue uniform shirt. His hair just a little untidy.

  That damn Irish temper of hers. Would she ever learn to control those firecracker explosions? And worse. Now she realized that, after all these years, she wasn't as angry as she was afraid. Terrified of what he had to tell her. The week Kevin died and her mother collapsed, something had happened that changed Russell. She knew the man. And she knew the emotion on his face at Kevin's burial. She had recognized it with horror.

  It had been guilt.

  Russell stood on Jessie's back porch, phone pressed to his right ear. He pressed his left palm hard against the back of his head. A throbbing had started near his temple, the pain working its way to jackhammer intensity.

  "Well, damn, Arvid. What did Doc Turner say about it? The last I heard, he thought the girl was stabilized. He told me she should make the trip just fine."

  "Huh," Arvid grunted. "You know how he hates to lose a patient. He's upset, Russell. So is the EMT, Cassy Adams, who rode with her. But, like Doc says, nothing's ever guaranteed with head injuries."

  "So now we have a murder. Did he have an idea on the time of the attack?"

  "Nah, not really. He said probably late evening. The main reason she lived until morning is that hay bales hold a lot of heat, probably kept her from dying of shock. Probably whoever hid her body in the hay thought she was already dead."

  "Maybe," Russell said, "or someone just didn't have the heart to finish the job and figured nature would do it for him."

  "Maybe, but I wonder if there was more than one perp involved. After all, Amber was hauled about a hundred yards from the road. It had to be a fairly strong guy, even if he was dragging her.

  "Could be there were two of them, I guess. Or of it was just one, he might've shoved her into his vehicle and drove right over the field to the haystack. I took another gander at the crime scene photos. It looks like someone probably drove over the field, then came back, got the cycle and hid it behind the stack. So . . . probably drove over it twice. Once with their own vehicle, once with the Harley. Look at the photos again and you'll see what I mean."

  "Huh." Arvid mused, "Okey-doke."

  "I think whoever did it knew right where Dan's fencing pliers were usually hung on the fence. That smacks of some—and I hate to say it—some local guy. Did you get much from the girl's parents?"

  "Yeah, some. They said Amber had a boyfriend, Jake Ward. Seems this Ward got into some drug trouble at the college." Arvid snorted into the cell phone. "God, I hate drugs. Takes so many young people and wrecks their lives. Be kinder to run over 'em with a truck than get 'em hooked on that crap."

  "I know. So, they have much info on this boyfriend?"

  "Well, here's what they got. He got kicked out of college on his keister because he couldn't keep his grades
up. Then, Amber dumped him because of the drugs. After that, he must have cleaned up some, because he was able to get a job up at the Bakken oil fields in North Dakota. Amber still considered him "the ex", at least according to mama."

  "We'd better verify that," Russell rolled his shoulders as he spoke, trying to loosen the tight muscles.

  "Yep. Mamas don't always get the true scoop. Sometimes what their kids tell 'em as gospel is just so much snake oil."

  "Well, follow up on that angle. Or give that chore to Baker if you're too stretched."

  "Huh. You think that's why the little gal was so afraid of calling the station, Russell? Didn't want to rat out her boyfriend? Lots of abused women don't want to land their men in hot water."

  "Could be. Could be something else entirely," Russell said glumly.

  "I'll ask Denver P.D. to give the parents the bad news in person. They'd planned to fly to Billings to stay with her in the hospital. Now, the body will be flown back down to Denver. Sad."

  "Depressing," Russell agreed. He paced back and forth on the wooden porch.

  "Her folks gave the Denver police a list of Amber's close friends. Station down there says they'll fax the names to us, too, but they were going to talk to those in the Denver area to see if anyone has a clue what was going on with her lately."

  "Good, good."

  "You okay, Russ? You don't sound so hot."

  "Yeah, I'm okay. Headache is all."

  "Tell you what. Grab a couple aspirin from Blanche when you come in. She's got a regular pharmacy in that desk of hers. You want me to find out where this Jake Ward was when the girl was attacked?

  "Yeah, do that."

  "Oh, and let me tell you the most interesting thing Amber's parents told the Denver cops who went to tell 'em their daughter was hurt."

  Arvid began reading from his notes and Russell gave a sharp intake of breath.

  Five minutes later, he said, "Man, that puts a weird twist on it, doesn't it? Give me Jack Reynolds' phone number, Arvid. I don't have it with me." He pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled on a scrap of paper while the other detective spoke. Then he patted the palm of his hand repeatedly against his thigh, a concerned expression on his face. Geez.

  "You get that, Russ?"

  "Yeah, I got it. I got it, but I sure don't like it. I'll be back to the station soon, Arvid, and we can brainstorm on it." He sighed. "But someone has to talk with Jessie about this. I'm already here, so I guess it better be me."

  God, I'd rather take a beating.

  Russell walked back into the bright kitchen and picked up his lemonade from the counter. He took a swallow, set the glass down on the black granite surface and looked at Jessie, his expression stony.

  "Yeah, well, maybe you know why she was up here, Jess? Got something you want to share with me?"

  "What? Of course, I don't, but I can tell you're in a twist about something, Russ. Is this Twenty Questions?"

  Russell narrowed his eyes. "Don't be a smart ass. I'm serious. Guess what she was doing up here."

  "Okay, I'll play along." Jessie struck an elaborate pose lowered her voice to mimic that of a prosecuting attorney. She held her fist in front of her mouth like a microphone. "I have no idea what this young woman was doing in my father's field. Can you please tell the court what Miss Reynolds was doing up here, Sergeant Bonham?" She grimaced at him and lowered her hand. "Heck, just ask her, for Pete's sake."

  He gave her a disgusted look and said seriously, "I'm afraid we're not going to be able to ask Amber who attacked her. She died on the helicopter flight to St. Vincent's Hospital in Billings. When we find the guy who hurt her, he'll be charged with murder, not assault."

  "Oh, no." Jessie covered her mouth with her hands. "I was hoping . . ."

  "Yeah," Russell said wearily, "We were all hoping she'd make it. Doc Turner thought she was strong enough to make the flight to Billings, too."

  "Poor little thing. She looked so young, too."

  "Older than she looked. Twenty-three. Arvid found out she was going to college down at the University of Denver. Doing graduate work, writing a thesis."

  "Wow. There's nothing in Sage Bluff that screams research opportunity. Hmmm, maybe if she was in agricultural studies, I suppose."

  "That's the kicker. Arvid spent some time on the phone with the cop in Denver, the guy asked to notify the parents after we first found her. Amber had phoned her folks as recently as two days ago, and they knew why she came to Sage Bluff."

  "Oh, really. Why?"

  "Jess, she was on her way to see you."

  Chapter 7

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  "Geez. I've told you everything I could possibly tell you, Russell." Jessie said, scraping her chair back from the kitchen table and standing. "We've been at it for half an hour. There isn't one blessed thing I could possibly add. Do you want me to write it in blood?"

  "Oh, don't be a drama queen."

  "I'm serious. I'm done. I don't care if you do have a badge."

  A noncommittal grunt escaped him.

  "Speak up," she grumbled. "Were her folks positive she was coming here? Here, to this house?"

  He sighed and leaned back, tilting the chair onto two legs until Jessie gave him a dark look. He straightened, letting the chair thump back down, then stretched his long legs out and crossed booted ankles. "'Fraid so."

  "But . . . to see me?"

  "Uh, not to see you specifically. Mrs. Reynolds said Amber wanted to talk with the O'Bournes in Sage Bluff. It concerned her Master's thesis. She was making a big loop, interviewing anyone she thought could contribute information for her paper."

  "So our family wasn't the only place she planned to stop. I wonder what she thought we could contribute. And I'd sure like to know what her thesis was about."

  "No clue. And Amber's parents didn't know where else she'd been in the past few days. But there she was—in your family's field." He frowned, looking at her expectantly.

  Jessie saw his knee jerking rhythmically up and down and winced. It had always been the sign that Russell was stressed or worried. "There's something you aren't saying, Russ."

  "Yeah. After Amber died, we spoke to Jack and Shelly Reynolds again. They have a request. They asked if you would please call them tomorrow."

  "What on earth for?"

  "I'd like to know that answer, too. Families of victims often have odd requests. I guess it's okay if you give them a call. Here's the number." He leaned over, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and copied the information onto a grocery list on the table. He handed it to her and sat back, the knee jerking immediately starting up like a car revving its engine.

  "You've been lying to me, Jess. It's time to come clean."

  "Lying? Clean? You're nuts. What makes you think I've been anything but totally honest with you?"

  "Because when they heard who found their daughter, according to the Denver cops one of Amber's parents said, "Oh, we know her."

  She wracked her brain. "I—"

  "I'll be speaking to them again today. But I'd like to hear the truth from you first."

  "I told you the truth. Oh!"

  "Oh, what?"

  "I'll bet they're art collectors, Russ. They might mean they know of me from galleries or articles, that type of thing. Not know me personally. Most people who read the art magazines or follow major shows have probably heard of me."

  Russell gave her a doubtful look. "Hell, Jessie . . . don't be so full of yourself."

  "I . . . I'm not." Hurt stabbed through her. "You asked me and . . . I just—"

  "Never mind," he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "We can follow up on that, Oh, Queen of the Art World. I'd appreciate it if you'd phone them and then let me know how the conversation goes. And we'll be checking with them, too, of course," he said coldly.

  She nodded, his chilly tone cutting her to the quick.

  "Now. In your statement to Arvid, you said the victim spoke to you before the ambulance came, but was som
ewhat incoherent. Did you understand any of what she said?"

  "I put it in my statement, Russell. Didn't you even read it? She was worried about the police coming. Terrified, actually. She kept saying 'No police'."

  "So, nothing else? Are you sure that's all you heard?"

  "She wasn't making sense. I asked her if she knew who'd hurt her. Her voice was so raspy—so weak—but it sounded like she said, 'Thomas Moran'."

  "Are you nuts?" He stood, fairly spitting the words at her. "She told you who attacked her, and you didn't share it with the police? What in God's name were you thinking?"

  "Oh, get a grip." Jessie stared at his dumbfounded expression. "Thomas Moran was an artist who died way back in 1926. Several of my old relatives knew him. He was the one who taught my aunt Kate to paint—the aunt who was murdered. Remember? Someone set the school on fire trying to cover it up. Moran was famous. He gave St. Benedict's Indian school a couple paintings worth a bundle, but the priest who ran the school died before he could sell them. The artwork got lost somehow."

  "Yeah. That rings a bell." He rubbed his chin.

  "It was only a day after Kate located the paintings that she was killed. It happened while she was teaching school here in Sage Bluff."

  "Oh, yeah, Dan told me about that. Still, we have to keep the name in mind. Maybe the killer actually is named Thomas Moran, or something that sounded like it to you." Russell stood, picked up his glass and set it in the sink.

  He looked out the window. An enormous barn with steps leading to the upper area of the building filled the side yard. Man-high hollyhocks grew in profusion along the front of the building, the crimson blossoms camouflaged against the red barn. He wished they'd paint it white. An overwhelming sadness threatened to crush him. He looked at Jessie. She'd followed his gaze out the window. The wounded expression in her eyes stabbed him through the heart.