"Yeah. But I don't have any clues. I'm hoping the research I plan to pick up in Denver will have some tidbit. I'll ask elderly relatives what they recall, too. Will you join forces with me? And keep it under your hat—secret partners?"
"Normally, I'd say hell no, police just do not—do not—work with free-lancers. But Amber's fear of the police worries me, too. As long as we can look at this angle with you playing it real safe—letting me know if someone or something seems off, and without doing anything illegal—or that might make me lose my job—I'm in. How's that?"
Jessie gave him a wide smile. "I'll be careful. I won't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do."
"Okay." He rubbed his chin. "Now—remember you're helping me find the paintings, not trying to solve Amber's attack. Let's get that clear as crystal. We're just trying to figure out what Amber knew, what it was she thought would help find the paintings."
"Scout's honor." Jessie held her hand up, palm out.
"When you get back, let's take a trip out to Minna Heron Woman's place on the reservation. She's the oldest person I know—heck, that I ever knew—but sharp as a young girl. A fascinating woman. And she knows the history of any subject or family from town." Arvid grinned and nodded his head up and down. "Probably the whole county. And I guarantee you'll like her."
"It's a date." Jessie gave him an answering smile. "When I get back, I hope to have a few trails to follow from Amber's schedule, too. Her father seems to think her laptop might hold some clues as to who killed her."
"It could, but don't get your hopes up. And what did I say? You aren't looking for her killer. That's my job."
"Yeah, I hear you. If I'm lucky, it'll have a list of who she has already visited or interviewed by phone. Why do you think the police haven't tried to decipher her notes about the past few weeks?"
"It's anybody's guess." The big Norwegian grimaced. "Mostly because they still think it's a random assault, and they could be right. Right now the force here is blaming everything on drugs, and it's usually an accurate guess. Illegal substances are seeping into the county somehow. If her boyfriend was connected, there could be all sorts of reasons for someone to hurt her—to steal money, to get revenge on her boyfriend who owed someone for drugs. That kind of scenario. She could've carried the drugs, and so on and so forth. But, sometimes a pig is just a pig."
"And is that a bit of Norwegian philosophy, Arvid? What's it mean?"
"It means sometimes what you see is all there is. If the police in Denver aren't sharing that laptop with us, and don't think it's important, maybe they're looking too hard for a drug connection. That connection might not exist, and there they go—missing what's right in front of their noses. This poor college kid wanted to write a thesis, graduate and get a good job. Instead, maybe she stumbled across something and someone who saw it as a way to get tremendously rich. So rich he'd never have to work another day."
Jessie nodded in agreement. "Or she. It could be a woman."
"Yeah, but I bet it was some guy."
"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds are expecting me tonight. I'd better get a move on."
"I'm not even sure you should go, Jessie. But it might be safer for you in Denver than it is here in town. Be careful." He handed her a card. "Here's my cell number and my desk phone at the station. My home number's on the back."
"Thanks."
"Listen, don't leave a message on any of the Office numbers. I trust the men here at the station, but I've never seen them tested with temptation like this. If I don't answer the phone right off, call my home number. My wife Esther can let me know you need to get in touch."
"Okay." Jessie pocketed the card.
Arvid tipped his hat back and scratched his head. "Eighteen million or more. Gee, I'm not sure you should trust ME with that at stake." He stared off into space with a dreamy expression. "I could retire and fish away my golden years. Get that fancy fly rod I been wanting." He looked at her, his eyes wistful, then he looked serious. "Remember, I do not want you blabbing on the phone what you found out from the Reynolds's. I could be in the middle of something at work, an arrest, a meeting. Maybe surrounded by people, but unable to answer the phone. If I don't pick up, like I said, I'll return your call soon as I can."
"That'll work."
"Call me when you're on your way home, so I can get hold of Minna Heron Woman and set up a visit."
"Will do," Jessie opened the motorhome door and held it aside, letting Arvid descend the small step before she grabbed her purse and followed him down. "You have all my info at the station, but let me give you my number anyway . . . so it's handy." Jessie reached into the zipper pocket and pulled out a pen and sticky note. She scribbled out her number and handed the scrap of paper to Arvid. "This is the cell I use when I'm traveling. And I'll be real careful, don't worry."
Standing by the patrol car, Arvid stared at Jessie, his eyes distant. "My grandma always said the past never goes away. Her expression was, 'It haunts our present like smoke curling from a blown out candle'. We could be on the wrong road here." He tapped his fingers on the hood of the car. "Especially in thinking a cop is involved. I sure hope we are wrong there. "But I think we're on the right track."
From inside the motorhome, Jack's howls mimicked screeches of the damned, since he'd heard Jessie leave the Greyhawk without him.
"Dammit, that's a huge tomcat you got there, but I wish you had a Bull Mastiff or a Rottweiler."
"Heck," Jessie gave a crooked grin, and tossed him a wave. "I like dogs, but they're a lot harder to take traveling than Mr. Fancy Pants in the Hawk. Besides, I've got my little 9mm pistol." She patted her pocketbook. "I need to practice a bit. Maybe hit the shooting range when I get back, but I do know how to shoot."
"Monday or Tuesday, after we get caught up on the particulars of your trip, I'll take you out to my gun club," Arvid promised.
"Great. That'd be fun."
"And you'd better have a concealed carry permit to go with that pistol you've got hidden away, young lady," He said in his best policeman's growl, pointing at her purse.
She gave her best sassy look. "Sure do."
Chapter 13
Trip to Denver, present day
After promising herself it would be a straight shot to Denver, Jessie broke that promise several time for photo opportunities. First, she spotted a number of sandhill cranes in a field near Sheridan, Wyoming. She'd mistaken their large bodies for deer at first, then drew closer in the motorhome and found herself with the photo opportunity of a lifetime. Parking by the side of the road, she yanked out the binoculars and focused on the flock of cranes for several minutes. Their long necks were topped with red feathers. They swayed and dipped as they gleaned stray grains of wheat from the harvested field. She soaked in the scene. Then she grabbed her Nikon, stepped out of the motorhome, and slowly worked her way near enough to get clear photos.
"Hey, those are huge birds," she told Jack when she got back into the motorhome. "If you could catch one of those, think what I'd save on cat food."
At a pull-out near Casper, she filled the camera card with image after image of running antelope. Their bodies were the amber color of the dry grass and with their nimble hooves maneuvering over the rough ground they seemed to skim rather than run like ghosts of the prairie. The big heads and white rumps flashed by in a herd of forty or fifty. Jessie watched intently, burning the image into her mind, savoring the feel of it, the energy, wanting her next painting to bring the fleeting moment to life.
She stopped for a break and a snack of instant coffee, cut lunch meat, and whole wheat crackers in mid-afternoon in the small town of Douglas, Wyoming. The town's claim to fame was a large jackalope sculpture—a rabbit with antelope horns. Kitschy, Jessie thought, but fun. She set the timer on her Nikon, grabbed Jack from his perch on the motorhome sofa, and stood clutching the cranky fur ball in front of the sculpture, smiling and waiting for the camera to click.
Across the street, a block-long tour bus was parked and nearby picni
c tables were full of laughing Japanese tourists, many pointing at her. Before Jessie could hop back into the Greyhawk, she was mobbed. Eighteen Japanese pulled cameras from pockets and totes and each nodded, gesturing toward her, and then pointing at their digital cameras. She smiled at them. They were so gracious. How could she not oblige?
It was a snap fest. Jessie, wearing her Starry Night tee, and holding a squirming Jack, was sandwiched between so many posing strangers she began to feel like the B in PB&J. Afterward, she ducked back into her vehicle, dumped Jack unceremoniously on the passenger seat, and grabbed a small box from a cubbyhole before stepping back out.
When they climbed back on their bus, each tourist had one of Jessie's glossy business cards tucked into a pocket or purse. Some were already accessing her website with their smart phones, waving from their bus windows, pointing to their phones and giving her American looking "thumbs up" gestures.
Jessie got back into the driver's seat and laughed heartily while she started the engine. She told the tom, "Free marketing, grumpy puss. And you just never know."
Jack sat in the passenger seat, twitching his tail and washing the taste of strangers from his fur. He gave her a haughty look.
"Yeah, you were magnificent, Jack. A huge hit." She scratched him behind his ears and crooned. "And you didn't bite anyone."
He looked up in her direction and closed his eyes to slits.
Chapter 14
Denver, present day
Sitting in the South Platte River Valley just east of the Rocky Mountains, the twinkling lights of Denver filled the sky long before Jessie reached the exit. The ten-hour drive had stretched to twelve grueling hours. She stopped at a gas station, yawned, and then dialed the Reynolds' number. Jack Reynolds picked up on the first ring.
"Hello, Jack Reynolds speaking."
"Hi. It's Jessie O'Bourne. I wanted to let you know I did make it to Denver. But it's so late, I can hold off and come over in the morning."
"Nonsense. Shelly and I are both night owls. And you're welcome to stay here at the house."
"Actually, I'm driving a motor home."
"Perfect. You can park it in our driveway. Don't worry. There's enough room for a city bus. Let me give you directions."
"That's okay. I already have the address keyed into the GPS."
She navigated the streets easily, the route finally winding into an upscale residential area of huge homes with fancy lighting and long, sinuous driveways. At Highland Drive, a gated community, she gave Jack Reynolds's name, and her own, to the tired looking gatekeeper.
At 10 o'clock, Jessie parked the Hawk in the Reynolds' driveway. Gratefully opening the door and stepping out, she lifted her arms over her head and stretched her muscles. A mansion loomed above her. The arched door flew open, yellow light throwing Jack and Shelly Reynolds into silhouette.
Jessie sat in a living room with twenty foot high vaulted ceilings, and walls hung with richly framed western and Native American art. An enormous multicolored Navajo rug depicting the Blessing Way Yei ceremony, with the traditional spirit figures woven into the pattern, hung on one wall. Other Navajo rugs in pictorial patterns were used on the dark hardwood floor or scattered on the backs of leather furniture. Niches built into the wall held baskets or pottery from different tribes, and Jessie noticed several black Santa Clara pueblo pots that were magnificent. She wished she weren't here on such a sad mission. It would be wonderful to feel free to just look around. A painting near a walnut sideboard caught her eye.
A Frederick Remington. And I'd bet it's an original, not a reproduction.
The room contained such a collection of art and artifacts Jessie almost expected a museum curator to walk in at any moment.
"Amber was our only child," Shelly Reynolds said in a soft voice as she set a cup of herbal lemon tea on the side table by Jessie. A pale, slim, youthful looking woman, Shelly had a mane of glossy black hair that draped her shoulders. Her flowing blue robe was decorated with faint images of stylized running horses, and she wore leather sandals. She went to join her husband on the sofa.
"She was adopted, you see, and never felt she fit in. At school she felt uncomfortable as the only student with Indian heritage. Being half white, she thought she'd never fit into the Indian community, either. At college, her nationality seemed less important, but most of her friends were working part time jobs trying to pay tuition and then she was out of place because she felt over-privileged. Too much money." She cleared her throat and took a sip of tea. Tears filled her eyes. "I know. It's a problem many people wish they had."
"Teen years are difficult for most people," Jessie said quietly. "We all have something that eats at us at that age, and anything that sets us apart from the crowd makes us feel uncomfortable."
"So true." Shelly looked at her husband, sitting next to her and took his hand. "Well, no matter where she was, Amber felt out of place. In time, she would have outgrown it. I understood it. I'm part Assiniboine; the Assiniboine are a Siouxan people, but I also have some French in my ancestry."
Jessie nodded, and made an encouraging gesture for Shelly to continue.
"I was born to a woman of the Missouri River Dog Band, the Minisose Swnkeebi. Children raised off the reservation lose much of their culture, and I was raised in a white family and a white community."
"I thought most tribes refused to let children be adopted by parents living off the reservation," Jessie said.
"You're right. Many tribes do not allow it. I never knew how my adoptive parents managed to complete the red tape." She gave a short harsh laugh. "Maybe they stole me, who knows? Or maybe it was done with money. They certainly had enough." She went on. "They always made sure we had acquaintances that were Indian, but there is quite a difference between having an acquaintance, and having a friend. I never seemed to mesh with either culture until I moved into middle-age. That's partly what led us to adopt Amber."
Jack Reynolds broke in, "Amber was an abandoned baby. Her parents were never found, and that made it easier for us to keep her. That, and the fact that because of her lighter skin tone, tribal members were sure she was not full blooded Native American and were more willing to let her be adopted away from the reservation."
"We believe Amber was part Flathead, or perhaps Salish," Jack said. "There's no way to know. We didn't care. We gave her everything we could, but we couldn't erase the slate. We couldn't give her a culture that embraced her."
"All we could do was love her," Shelly said. "We loved her so much."
Jack sighed and continued, "When she began work on her Master's degree in Art History, her thesis was going to cover the effect of major artists on the National Park system, especially the Hudson River School of Artists—Albert Bierstadt, Thomas Cole, Thomas Moran, and the rest. She narrowed her thesis to cover only Moran. Then she researched his involvement, his influence actually, concerning Yellowstone Park."
"I should know about this connection," Jessie said with interest. "Refresh my memory."
"It was partly through seeing Thomas Moran's paintings of the Yellowstone area that the Office of the Interior designated it the first national park in the world. In 1872. Somewhere, either in Amber's reading or interviews, she found out about two missing Thomas Moran paintings. The painter supposedly gave them to a priest in Montana to sell. The money earned at auction would have funded a new and better school at Sage Bluff, Montana—St. Benedict's Indian School. At least, that's what Amber told us."
"Interesting. That's where my aunt, Kate Morgan, went to school for a short time when she was a little girl," Jessie said. "Our family has a photo of her in front of that log school. It's a true story, Jack. If Amber was coming to see us to verify that, we would have done so."
"How can you be sure?"
"Moran not only visited the school, he gave my aunt art lessons, a notebook of painting tips and sketches, and a small painting. He even paid to send her to the San Francisco Art Institute when she grew up. At that time, my great grandfather wasn't as w
ell off as he was later in life." Jessie thought it would be too depressing to mention that the painting Moran gave Kate disappeared and that Kate, herself, had been murdered.
"Your family was mentioned on several pages of Amber's research." Shelly fiddled with her teaspoon, twisting it between her fingers. "Finding the paintings became her obsession. She knew their worth was immense, but she wasn't looking for them because of their value, Amber thought if she could recover them, she'd gain esteem in her field."
"That isn't all she hoped for," Jack said. "If she found them, and if they were finally sold to build a fabulous new school and set up a perpetual fund for Indian education in Montana, she would feel she'd contributed to her Indian culture. I think our daughter hoped it would give her some acceptance."
"We know that it was never likely for Amber to find Thomas Moran's stolen work, Jessie. It was only a dream she had. But her research is still valuable, isn't it?"
"Of course it is," Jessie said reassuringly. "Is all her research on the laptop you wanted me to take home?"
"No. We have a large box of folders, too. Some, but not all, of the information in the box may have been scanned and added to the laptop, but we don't know which pieces. We'd better send the box home with you, too."
Jessie thought of her stop at Douglas, Wyoming. About half those tourists hadn't used an actual camera. Some had snapped Jessie's picture using their smart phones, some the built in camera on an iPad. And many of the tourists were speaking into their iPad or digital camera while they took Jessie's picture, probably narrating where the photo was taken and immediately forwarding the photos to friends and family back home.
"How about video or audio? Anything like that?"
"I never thought about recordings," Jack said. "I guess I'm so old fashioned I've been thinking more of written notes."
"Not in this electronic age, Jack. She may have done interviews and recorded those who spoke to her with a digital camera that recorded sound. Did she have one?"
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