1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

"Man-eater, huh?" Jessie said.

  "And a woman that beautiful is even more dangerous when she truly enjoys the same type of things men like—camping, fishing—that kind of thing. Don't you think?"

  "Oh, Shelly," Jack Reynolds said in a tone full of exasperation, "Monette's full of life, one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, and she and Amber were very close." In an aside to Jessie he said, "Shelly imagined Monette was flirting with me when she came to dinner here, Jessie. Imagine—thinking some young thing would flirt with this old duffer. She was just trying to be kind."

  Shelly gave Jessie a knowing look, ignoring her husband's comment. "Plus, she has this little girl, southern drawl that makes men fall over their own feet trying to take care of her. She's smart, but she knows how to get what she wants."

  Jack Reynold's rolled his eyes. ."Still, she was good to our daughter."

  "We don't expect you to search through Amber's research or put it into book form for free, either, you know. We'll pay you."

  Shelly looked down at the caramel rolls on the kitchen table as if seeing them for the first time. She had picked at breakfast, putting tiny bites into her mouth only when her husband encouraged her to eat.

  "I'm going to send the rest of the rolls home with you." She removed the plate of rolls, busied herself at the counter and handed a foil-wrapped package to Jessie. "Make sure Detective Abrahmsen gets some, please?"

  "Yum. Thanks. I'll try," Jessie grinned. "I'm not driving all the way home in one day, so I won't promise all of these are going to make it back to Sage Bluff. I have a reservation at the Fishing Bridge Campground in Yellowstone tonight." She gave Jack and Shelly each a quick hug before going out to the Greyhawk and climbing in.

  Jack Reynold's namesake sat placidly on the passenger seat, ready to travel. As usual, the cat had one tooth hooked over his bottom lip in an insolent catty grin. Jessie buckled her seat belt. Then she started the engine and turned to look at Jack with twinkling eyes.

  "Let's roll, you handsome devil."

  Chapter 15

  St. Benedict's Mission School, 1918

  A blocky cowboy tied his sorrel mare to the hitching post, removed his hat and called out, "Hello! Virginia, you there?"

  The figure the students knew as Sister Mary Campbell darted through the doorway.

  "Cal, shhh," she whispered, "You keep forgetting—call me Sister Mary, you idiot! If these kids find out I'm not a nun, they'll blab to their parents. Then the whole valley could find out where I am. You trying to get me killed?"

  "Sorry. Just checking up on you and bringing you the latest—and it's good news. They caught him, the bank robber from down in Dillon. His name was Gordon Harris. The Sheriff shot him in self-defense."

  "Aw, that's great," Virginia said, enthusiastically.

  "Too bad you were there when he robbed the bank in Helena. You must've been so worried knowing he thought you could identify him, sweetheart. I'm proud of the way you held yourself together."

  "Is he dead, Cal?" Virginia asked.

  "They never found the money, though. Darn shame, for all those people who lost their savings."

  "Sure is," Virginia muttered. "A cryin' shame. But is he dead, Cal?"

  He looked at the black robed figure. "I think so."

  "Good." Her green eyes sparkled.

  "So, Sister Mary, I talked to my cousin yesterday." He laughed. "He'll sell me a horse and I'll bring it for you next week. Then we'll head over to Billings."

  "I can't wait," she said.

  "It's a good thing you decided to help out here, or the kids would have been all by themselves when their teacher ran off."

  "Yeah, those kids were lucky I was here to fill in all right."

  "They ever find her?"

  "Not yet." Her hand clenched.

  The nun had given her a place to stay after Virginia spun a sob story about her non-existent abusive husband. Unfortunately, that same evening she'd caught Virginia counting the money from her saddlebags. The brown wrapper on each bulky package she hadn't opened was labeled Helena State Bank.

  I didn't have any choice, Virginia thought. Stupid nun. I wonder if you go directly to Hell for killing a nun.

  She'd lured the real Sister Mary into the schoolhouse, telling her the rest of it was hidden in the cupboard by the stove. She still felt the heft of the cast iron skillet. The dull thud of it hitting the woman's skull. That nun wasn't any lightweight, either. She'd been heavy, and it had been slow work undressing her, then dragging the body to the river.

  "Sure a fine fix, her running off like that, leaving you to do all the work."

  "Yeah, some people are sure inconsiderate She probably got tired of all the work here. Them kids are a lot of work."

  Surely the strong current carried the body so far downstream it must be long gone, thank God.

  Her mouth twitched, thinking how funny it was for her to thank God, and mean it. She chuckled aloud. She turned her chuckle into a flirtatious giggle as she turned her attention back to Cal and saw him looking at her in a curious way. She linked her arm with his.

  "Aw, I been treatin' these kids just as good as that sissy-faced nun ever would, I'll bet." She smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling in her pock-marked face. "So, they killed Gordon Harris, huh? Well, then I must be safe now."

  "Don't worry, honey. I'm sure you're fine, now." Cal looked at her with an adoring smile. She was so tall, they stood eye to eye. "They'll have to have a replacement for you here."

  "Yah, sure. I'll make sure they do."

  Right now I'll just tell him about the baby. Later, when I tell him about the money . . . well. If he acted strange about it, the money—and Cal's nice ranch—could both be hers alone. She thought again of that satisfying "thwack!" She always wanted to raise some horses.

  At that, Virginia smiled broadly and gazed into Cal's eyes. She reached out and laid her hand on his arm.

  "I got some news for you, sweety," she said coyly.

  "Oh, you don't say, now," The cowboy slipped his large hand over hers.

  "In fact, I got some real good news." With her free hand she rubbed her growing belly, smoothing the black habit.

  Several days later Jim O'Bourne walked out of St. Benedict's schoolhouse with his little girl. The black robed figure of Sister Mary Campbell stood in the doorway watching the tall redheaded man and the girl who looked up at her father with unconcealed happiness. After taking photographs of Kate in front of the log schoolhouse with his newfangled Brownie camera, Jim swung his daughter up in his arms and whirled her around while she squealed with delight.

  "Kate, we're going home. Go pack your things," he said. He set her down and gave her a wide smile. "I've got a huge surprise for you when we get there. Bet it'll be an even bigger surprise than having my friend Thomas teach you to paint." He chucked her under the chin. "You owe your old dad a hug for that one," he said.

  Kate's eyes clouded at mention of Thomas. She pulled her dad's head down and whispered in his ear.

  "You did fine," Jim said. He gave her a reassuring hug, but his expression was somber. "I'll go talk to John Running Bear on the quiet while you pack," he whispered back. "I know his family. I trust him to explain to Father Michael when he gets back. He'll tell him where the paintings are, and why you hid them." He patting Kate gently on the back.

  "Now, go pack. Scoot."

  Chapter 16

  Rural Montana, May 1918

  Father Michael urged his horse down the incline, the sweat running in rivulets down the priest's back and trickling down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He was heartsick at the recent discovery of Sister Mary Campbell's murder.

  Who could have done such a sinful thing? May God forgive him.

  It was unchristian, he knew, to hope God would punish him before He forgave him. Punishment with God's own fierce, mighty, and powerful sword.

  Yes, that's what the murderer deserved. He grinned at the thought, then made the sign of the cross.

  Lord, forgive me
, for I have sinned.

  He mulled over the puzzling story of the mystery woman who had acted as the nun's replacement. A person would need an awfully good reason to want to stay at a poor school like his. The woman had left before he returned, but he believed the children when they told him that until a day or two before he arrived back at St. Benedict's School, there had, indeed, been an unauthorized teacher there. I'm glad I sent John's description of the woman on to the Bishop. Not sure what good it will do. What a shame.

  How disappointing that the Sheriff wouldn't at least listen to John Running Bear's story of the woman hitting Sister Mary Campbell, killing her. John was a reliable, smart child. Once the Sheriff belittled the older child, saying he was just trying to draw attention to himself and making up tales, none of the younger children were willing to speak.

  Sad. People are so blind to their own faults but their eyes see color all too vividly on someone else's skin.

  He removed his hat and fanned his ruddy face. Then he said a quick prayer for the Sheriff.

  Bless the cranky, bigoted old bastard.

  The bay he was riding shook her head and nickered. The priest patted her neck, whispering sweet nothings into the horse's ear to comfort the big animal. They were nearing the small creek and the horse probably smelled the water. Father Michael sniffed. He could smell the sweetness of the blooming chokecherry bushes that grew near the bank, and see the clouds of white blossoms.

  A good crop this year.

  He'd come back later with several of the children once the tangy fruits ripened to rich black. Pick the berries. Make syrup and jelly. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. How he hated to leave the school, but they had to have supplies. Many of the supplies had been pilfered in his absence, likely disappearing with the woman imposter. It was dangerous to go into town, with the spreading of this horrendous influenza. Life was so uncertain.

  So many dead. Probably the majority unbaptized. An awful toll in lost souls.

  He made the sign of the cross over his chest. What if he, himself, fell ill? It worried him that he'd forgotten to tell anyone he'd moved the two beautiful paintings to a more secure hiding place. He would let John know where the paintings were as soon as he returned. And before the end of the month, he'd send them to an auction house. Thank heaven for Thomas Moran's generosity.

  Rider and horse had reached the edge of the stream and the bay lowered his head to drink. Father Michael dismounted, knelt down, and with cupped hands sluiced some of the cold, refreshing water over his face. He wetted his hair and neck.

  A shot rang out and a piece of stone ricocheted off an outcropping, striking the priest on the cheek. The priest put a hand to his face and turned in alarm as his horse lunged sideways and began to trot downstream. Then he heard another blast, felt a hot pressure on his side and grabbed the wound, saw red trickle between his fingers.

  My God, dear heavenly Father . . .

  Chapter 17

  Sage Bluff, Montana, present day

  Grant Kennedy unfolded his tall frame from the rented pewter Toyota Camry. He removed his sunglasses, tucked them into the pocket of his twill shirt, and walked down the block toward the Sheriff's Department. Twice he'd circled the block before he parked, not trusting his GPS and not realizing that the old bank building was now the Sheriff's Office. He looked around at the sturdy old buildings.

  Picturesque. Probably a great place to raise kids, if someone was into that. And here comes Mayberry R.F.D. He grinned to himself.

  Walking the other direction down the sidewalk was a sturdily built dark-haired man in a Deputy's uniform, holding the hand of a small boy in a green T-shirt and blue shorts. The young boy had a tousled head of red hair, more freckles than Grant thought God could fit on such a small face, and a large bandage on one knee. The Deputy and youngster turned and went up the steps leading into the station. Grant walked over to the building, climbed the stairs and followed.

  He walked into the first open office he saw. A large woman in a floral patterned blouse sat behind the desk, intent on a fashion magazine she held open in front of her.

  "I would like to speak to the person in charge of the Amber Reynolds murder. And I'm sorry, I don't have an appointment."

  The woman looked up, and when she saw Grant, she smiled.

  "Sheriff Stendahl is out for a six-week rest—doctor's orders. Sergeant Russell Bonham is who you want. Go down the hall, then to your right," the woman explained. "If Russell isn't in, take a left and visit with Detective Sergeant Abrahmsen."

  "Thank you."

  The big woman stared at the blond man, taking his measure as though he was on the auction block at the annual "Bid on a Bachelor" night the Baptist church sponsored annually the week after Thanksgiving.

  "I'm Blanche." She splayed her hand across her ample chest, fingertips glossy with dark red polish. "Let me know if I can help you with anything else," she purred. "Or if you'd like some coffee while you talk to the fellows."

  Kennedy thanked her again, and saw the Deputy with the child disappear around the corner. As he turned to walk away, he heard the clerk mutter inscrutably to herself, or perhaps into the phone, "I'd go three hundred, not a penny less."

  He continued down the hall to the right hand corridor and knocked on the door marked "Sergeant Bonham". Hearing a deep voice say 'come in', he pushed the heavy oak door open and took out his badge. Grant Kennedy approached the desk with his badge flipped open.

  "Hello, Sergeant Bonham. I'm Agent Grant Kennedy, with the FBI."

  "FBI?"

  "Yes. I would like to speak to you regarding a case I believe you're working on—Amber Reynolds."

  Russell picked up a tablet from his desk and handed it to the young boy, along with a small box of colored pencils. Then he reached for the proffered badge and gave it a serious look. He narrowed his eyes, comparing the badge's photo of a blond man with hazel eyes and a slightly crooked nose to the features of the tall man standing in front of his desk. Satisfied, he handed the badge back, stood, walked around the desk and shook Grant's hand. Grant was about four inches taller, and Russell looked up to meet his eyes.

  "The FBI is getting involved? This is a brand new case. How the heck did you even hear about it, and what's the FBI's interest in it?"

  "It's a long story. In fact, a real long story." Grant Kennedy looked at the little boy, who sat on the floor cross-legged, happily opening the tablet and starting a drawing. "First, I'd like to hear your story about the Amber Reynolds attack. You tell me yours. Then I'll tell you mine. The woman working the front desk promised me some coffee. I've been driving all morning. I'd sure love a cup if you've got it."

  "Well, we got something that almost passes for coffee, but I don't want to piss off the FBI." Russell said. "Think you'd be a whole sight happier if we got some from the restaurant down the block." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a twenty dollar bill, handing it to his son. "K. D., go down to Arvid's office—ask him to walk you to the Calico Café. Get yourself a milkshake. Pick us up three coffees—three—and some donuts. Tell Arvid we need him to bring it back here to the office and join us. Think you can handle that?"

  K.D. nodded. Russell looked at Grant. "Cream and sugar?"

  "Black, thanks."

  Russell turned back to the boy. "K. D.," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Tell Arvid to come in the back way. Remember—the back way. Don't let Blanche see you with that coffee, or we're toast. I swear that woman has a mean streak." K.D. bolted into the hallway.

  "My babysitter was sick today," Russell said. "Sorry, but I didn't want K. D. to hear the gruesome details. We can cover that before they get back, and Arvid won't miss anything new."

  Russell retrieved a file from a drawer, pulled photos and the medical examiner's report from the manila envelope and laid them out on his desk, waving a hand at an empty office chair to indicate that Grant should take a seat. Grant Kennedy thumbed through the file while Russell spoke.

  "We suspect Miss Reynolds was attack
ed by someone she knew or recently met. Bashed in the head and hidden between two hay bales out on a local ranch. We think he meant to kill her outright, but misjudged how hard he'd struck her. We've been having a lot of trouble with drugs here in Sage Bluff. At this time we are checking out the possibility her attack was related to that issue."

  "Do you have any leads that indicate it was drug related?" Kennedy said.

  "Yeah, there's an ex-boyfriend who is definitely a person of interest. Jake Ward was a heavy user and pretty upset not only that Miss Reynolds broke off their relationship, but that she was so successful in college while he was booted out. Supposedly, he's working in Williston, North Dakota, driving a truck for one of the companies doing the fracking at the Bakken oil fields. I spoke to the police in Williston yesterday and they're going to locate the kid and get back to us. Find out if he was actually in Williston when the attack happened." He hesitated. "In fact, I'm surprised we haven't heard back from them yet."

  "Well, your hunch could be right. The death could be drug related, but if I were you, I wouldn't be running down to Vegas anytime soon." Grant continued nonchalantly reading the thin file, flipping to the last page, then looking sadly at the pictures of Amber Reynolds. "It's more likely a connection with what I am working on. I don't want to mislead you. I am an FBI agent, but I'm in the art theft division of the bureau. I think she was killed because she was looking for something worth twenty million or more—two Thomas Moran oil paintings."

  Russell guffawed. "You've been talking to Jessie O'Bourne already, I'll bet. I think the world of her and her dad, but the whole family has always had an inflated view of how much art is worth. Especially Jessie."

  Grant Kennedy put his head down and began to chuckle as well. Russell looked at him in amazement. "Well," Grant said, shaking his head and looking up at Russell. "Miss O'Bourne and the rest of the world, then. In 2008, one of Moran's large paintings sold for $17,737,000."

  Russell stared at him. "Nearly eighteen million dollars for a painting? I thought sure Jessie'd added a few zeroes."