At this point in the journal there was still no mention of Kate finding the canvasses painted by Moran. Jessie chewed on the end of her pencil and thought about what she did know for certain. The people. She could list every person mentioned in Kate's writing.
As she read each chapter, Jessie opened a lined notebook and added to a scribbled list: Matt Ericson—once Kate's fiancée, Superintendent at St. Benedict's, drinking/gambling problem; Phillip Grayson—new, younger man in her life and a lawyer; Nate—the bossy adopted brother. Should she include him? It seemed wrong to do so, but without the tie of family, he would have been on the list. Jessie added Nate's name.
Then she put her list aside and turned the next page of Kate's journal. A pencil portrait of a man filled the page. Kate had written 'Phillip' in the margin. So that's the younger man. He looked strangely familiar.
Jessie stroked Jack's soft head, and began reading the new chapter.
Chapter 37
St. Benedict's Mission School, 1939
All morning Kate worked alone, scrubbing dingy classroom walls, listening to a small radio for company. She'd brought a full thermos of black coffee thick as mud and a paper sack that held a ham sandwich for lunch. Frequent coffee breaks kept her energy level up, the aroma of the strong brew a comforting scent and the heat of the mug a balm to her overworked, stiff fingers.
After lunch, things began looking up. Word had spread around the small town that Kate was fixing up a room at St. Benedicts' School over Christmas break to serve as a classroom for the first art courses ever offered at the school. Excited high school students, bundled against the cold, stopped by to help her. Introductions were made, coats and hats shed and piled on a bench in the hall, and a crew of loud teenagers filled the classroom.
With the exuberance of youth, the volume on the radio was cranked up and work on the schoolroom barreled ahead. Husky boys cleaned desks and then pushed each one against the back wall out of the way, flexing their biceps at each other. Two pretty girls pretended to ignore them while shyly talking to Kate, volunteering to wash the grimy windows and windowsills or sweep. One plump girl, Samantha Devon, shrugged on a jacket and ducked out mid-afternoon, returning soon afterwards shaking snow from her coat and carrying two dozen molasses cookies and a half-dozen bottles of root beer. Both pop and cookies disappeared like raindrops into a puddle.
Surrounded by youthful enthusiasm, Kate found herself smiling more during the afternoon than she had for months. By the end of the day, just one boy, Will Foster, remained to work alongside the slim, red-haired teacher. Kate had seen some of his sketches. Matt showed them to her when he offered her the job, a little bribe, most likely. He knew she couldn't resist helping anyone with such talent and desire to learn. It was obvious to Kate that Will Foster could draw anything. His drawings weren't just sketches, they were precise images of whatever he wanted to capture on paper.
The tall teen chattered non-stop about watercolor and oil painting. He was so anxious to learn that Kate grinned to herself at his enthusiasm.
Hope he picks it up as easily as my niece, Gemma. Her little paintings sing with vibrant color notes. If I can teach even one student to paint half as well, it'll be worth the effort.
With Will's help, she emptied the supply area and the shelves of an old kitchen cupboard crammed into the small space.
"Will, before you leave, help me move this monster out of the supply closet, please? It smells musty, but at least there haven't been mice living in it."
"Sure."
Pushing hard, they slid the unit forward, the wood creaking and groaning, until they were able to shove it through the open closet door and maneuver it into the classroom.
She grabbed the damp rag and attacked the cupboard with soapy water, using extra elbow grease on the inside shelves. Everything was so old it needed cleaning, painting or repair. The cupboard looked ancient. This could be the same cupboard we used at the old school, Kate decided. They must have kept it when they built the new school.
"The back is coming loose. It looks like kind of an amateur patch job," she said, pushing her hair back from her forehead.
"It needs a new coat of white enamel, and it would be good as new," Will said.
"You're right, but we sure aren't doing it right now. I'm exhausted. Let's shove it against the wall by the window so the wall supports the back, and that's enough for today."
When she finished cleaning she wanted to stop at Nate's and drop drawing paper off for Gemma. Phillip was taking her to dinner later, too, and she'd need to shower and change. As Kate turned to ask Will if he needed a ride home, a young woman appeared in the doorway holding Will's coat and beaming at him.
"Hey, Will, I have the pickup," the girl said. "If you're ready to come home, let's go."
"You have the truck?" An incredulous look crossed Will's face. "You got permission?" he asked in a suspicious tone.
The dark haired girl grinned slyly at him. Instead of answering, she cocked her hip against the doorway and glanced at Kate.
"I'm Gloria, Will's girlfriend. I hope he showed you a few of his drawings. You know, Will can draw an exact copy of anything. He's real good. Someday, he's going to be great—maybe famous."
Will looked embarrassed, but pleased with his girlfriend's praise. Gloria was dressed in thin clothes more suited to warmer weather, no gloves or hat. She must be chilled to the bone. The jacket she was wearing was worn and cheaply made, not like Will's heavy, warm coat, but the girl had a definite flair.
"It's nice to meet you. Yes, I know Will is very good." She turned to Will, who was blushing furiously. "Go ahead and take off now. And thanks, I really appreciate all your help."
Will took his coat, pulled gloves from the pocket and put on his winter gear, smiling as he walked toward the door. "If I see your car here tomorrow, I'll stop in and lend a hand again, Mrs. Morgan."
Kate heard the echo of excited chatter as the teens walked down the hallway and left the school. She frowned. Will seemed quite guileless, but there was something catlike and sleek about the girl. And the way she gazed around the room seemed almost sneaky.
Peering out the window, she saw them gleefully pitching snowballs at each other in the chill air before they hopped into a blue pickup and drove away. Will was in the driver's seat with Gloria's arm draped nonchalantly over his shoulder, the girl snuggled close in a very unladylike attitude. Boys were so oblivious sometimes. There's something almost predatory about that girl, Kate thought.
Chapter 38
O'Bourne's ranch, present day
Jessie added Will Foster, his girlfriend, Gloria, and Samantha Devon to her list. Any students Kate mentioned in her journal would be those she knew best. She went to the box of photos and found the group picture of the students with Kate at the school, wanting to put a face to the names.
Will, listed as William K. Foster, was a tall young man with an earnest expression. Jessie wondered if he'd ever done anything with his talent. Then she paused, thinking hard. Where had read the name Foster recently? It was somewhere other than the box of news articles and correspondence Amber had gathered. She would look through them tomorrow, keeping that name in mind. Meanwhile, she wondered if anything would come up online.
Jessie grabbed her laptop, connected to the internet and typed William K. Foster and art together into the search bar. There were multiple immediate hits but two caught her attention. One site covered the grand opening two years earlier of a newly renovated art gallery in the historic area of downtown Billings. The William K. Foster Gallery was high end, handling expensive deceased art such as paintings by Charlie Russell and Frederick Remington as well as the art of contemporary masters. The owner, Christian Foster. In the gallery description, it stated that the venue was named after the owner's grandfather, who had passed away years before.
In the second hit, a newspaper article dated only two weeks ago reported that a gas explosion in the basement had destroyed part of the facility, ruining multiple paintings and s
culptures by well-known artists. The gallery owner was quoted as saying, ". . . we hope our insurance will cover the damage, but if not, we will cover the remainder of the ruined work. Those who consigned work with us will be compensated for any loss."
A list of destroyed paintings followed and Jessie scrolled down to read all the titles and view the corresponding images. Number eight was listed as having been in the owner's personal collection and was titled A Whitetail Deer along the Missouri by Thomas Moran.
Jessie gasped. The large painting sparkled with intense color, deep autumn reds and rich golds. Grazing under one of the trees was a deer that could only have been painted by someone working from the deer painting Thomas Moran had given her aunt Kate in 1918.
Jessie jumped up, put one arm in the air with her hand curled into a fist and whooped, "And the redhead has a Bingo!" She did a little dance around the room, spooking Jack, who beat a hasty retreat to the hallway, tail bushed.
Jessie leaned over, looking again at the computer screen. She said aloud to the cat, who peered back at her from the open door, "Oh, Grant's suspected forger had to have been Will Foster. I'd bet the ranch on it. The only way he could paint the large Moran copy was if he had access to the little original inscribed to Aunt Kate. The grandson, Christian, who now owns the damaged gallery, must be the one who called Christie's trying to sell the authentic painting."
She whooped again and Jack swayed back and forth, his mouth partway open and ears back, looking at Jessie. "Hfff," he said, then turned and stalked toward the back bedroom.
"I think Grant'll be going to Billings tomorrow instead of bringing donuts," she yelled.
She looked at her watch. 11:00. Dang! It was too late to call him, but now she was wide awake. Jessie did a little dance down the hall to the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. She reached in and grabbed a box of unsalted butter, shook a stick from the box and held it up like a microphone. Tossing her head back and striking a pose, she belted out, "Momma's little baby loves shortenin', shortenin'. Momma's little baby loves shortenin' bread!"
In honor of Kate, she was going to make a big, big batch.
Chapter 39
Sage Bluff, next morning
"Arvid, this is Grant. I'm going to drive to Billings to check out a lead Jessie found in the journal. There may be a connection to the small painting stolen from Kate Morgan, and to some other old Moran forgeries. So, no donuts for cops today, I'm afraid," Grant said, looking at his watch, which read 7:30 on the dot.
"Huh, had my heart set on jelly filled. You must've found something pretty good to drive all the way over to Billings."
"Jessie will fill you in, unless you've got time to ride along. If you can, I think I can promise it will prove interesting. Of course, if you go to Jessie's, I've been informed she baked a fresh batch of shortbread, whatever that is."
"Poop," Arvid said. "I sure would like to ride shotgun, but on top of Amber's murder, we have a missing person investigation here. Two, in fact. Not the normal type of case for Sage Bluff, so I'm flying by the seat of my pants. Think I'd better stick around. I'm not going to get to Jessie's today either. In fact, I'm just pulling into the station now."
"Really, a cop talking on the phone while driving? I believe that's against the law, Arvid," Grant's tone suspiciously cheerful. "Maybe I'll call Jessie back then and ask if she wants to ride along. I asked her earlier but she said she wanted to go through the files with you."
Arvid rang off in disgust. No donuts, no shortbread and no leads. All they'd found in Cassy's Fire Station locker after using a bolt cutter on the lock had been an empty duffel bag and a pair of stained running shoes. They didn't even look like they'd fit Cassy, so all it gave them was another mystery.
Why lock a virtually empty locker?
Arvid had simply shut the locker, snapped a new lock on the door to replace the one they'd ruined, and pocketed the key.
I'm missing something. And so is Russell. Hope what I'm missing isn't something to do with Russell. Blast it all.
He steered into his parking place, got out of the patrol car and went into the station by way of the scarred and peeling back door.
Russell was standing by the door to Arvid's office with his hand ready to knock as Arvid hurried down the hall. He unclenched his hand and gave Arvid a wave. As he did so, Hurricane Blanche stormed from the other direction and descended on them like a fury. Today she wore a navy top and pink slacks made of stretchy material. A gaudy floral chiffon scarf floated around her neck. Her long strides brought her up to the two men.
"What have you done to find my niece, Russell?" She said, pointing her finger at Russell as she glared at him. Then she turned to Arvid. "How about you, Arvid?" She asked in a frigid tone.
"Uh . . ."
"My sister Violet is beside herself with worry. I promised I'd call her with a report, but I'm going to have to tell her I sure don't see any progress happening around here. Zip! And the night shift is no better." She snorted. "Bunch of morons. Do either of you have any idea where to start hunting for her?"
Arvid winced. He looked at Russell, and could tell by his expression that he planned to cut Blanche some slack. The poor woman was worried about her niece. Arvid got the uncomfortable feeling he had as a teen when his dad got tired of Arvid sliding by with average grades. He stopped listening to Blanche rant and instead heard his father's voice from the past.
"You can do better, son." He was telling Arvid. "See that you do, if you plan on doing any fishing during summer vacation. Otherwise, you'll spend the hot summer days with Daniel, and by gum, I mean Daniel Webster is who I mean. Get those grades up, or your momma and I will have you copying the dictionary in the hot summer sun instead of baiting a hook. The hot summer sun."
Arvid had buckled down and brought in a 3.8 grade point average on the next report card, but hard work wouldn't find Cassy or Travis Simpson. He had no leads to work on. He gave himself a swift mental kick in the tuckus.
"Calm down, Blanche. Tell your sister I'll be over this morning to go through Cassy's place again. Maybe there's something in her apartment we missed that will give us a clue to where she's gone. Have her phone me and I'll meet her there at her convenience."
Russell looked surprised, and Blanche looked unexpectedly taken aback at the suggestion. Then she shook her head, double chin quivering, and stretched up to her full height, eye to eye with the Norwegian, an annoyed expression on her face.
"Oh, puhleeease. That's the best you can do? Snoop through her apartment again? Again? It's a tiny apartment. The size of a pea! What do you think you missed in there, Arvid, airline tickets? I don't know if Violet will allow that. It would be an invasion of privacy, that's what it would be."
"Blanche . . ."
"What if she comes back and finds out we've been letting you men rummage in her underwear drawers and dig through her paperwork?"
"Blanche—"
"Violet already said she searched every inch of the place herself, and there was nothing at the apartment to show Cassy planned to go anywhere." She stopped for breath. "Besides, her suitcase is still there. Even you know you can't go very far without a change of clothes and a toothbrush, for God's sake."
"Blanche, do you want me to find her or don't you? I'm running out of options," Arvid said. "Nobody she works with has seen her. Her car is still parked at the apartment. She had no boyfriends anyone knows about."
"She didn't go off with a boyfriend!"
"And her girlfriends don't know where she is, and so on and so forth," Arvid continued. "I'm going to look again at places we've already explored because right now I can't think of a creative way to go about locating her. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe I missed something before."
"Lucky! I thought you and Russell were supposed to have all the answers. You aren't supposed to rely on luck. Luck! Luck, you say," Blanche snapped.
"Aw Blanche," Russell said.
She glared at him, then sniffed theatrically. "I wish Stendahl was here. He'd do
something. If you can't think of anything better, I suppose I'll have to call my sister and see if she'll let you into Cassy's place to snoop. Again." She whirled around and headed back down the hall, muttering as she went. "Ought to just put on a uniform myself. Goodness knows I couldn't do any worse than this bunch."
Arvid and Russell watched her sashay down the hall, indignation evident in every step, the stretchy fabric of the pink slacks taut across her ample backside. Arvid looked at Russell, then back at Blanche's retreating form.
"Well, I guess we been reamed," he said. "Rightly so, I 'spose. And I gotta admit I feel like dog doo we can't find any leads on Travis or Cassy. But I gotta say, Russell, pink just ain't her color." Arvid shook his head. "Don't that look like two pigs fightin' in a sack?"
Russell stared down the hall. Then he erupted in a wheezy, silent chuckle, nearly doubling over.
"Uffda, don't you let her hear you laughing," Arvid muttered. "We don't want to hurt her feelings, but I'm just sayin'. Two pigs in a sack."
Chapter 40
Sage Bluff, present day
"I'd love to go to Billings, Grant, but I can't," Jessie said into the phone. "I promised the board for the plein air competition that we'd get together later this afternoon."
"Are you positive you don't want to come, Jessie? After all, it was your lead."
"I just can't. I've already postponed that meeting once because of Amber Reynolds and the Moran research. I don't dare do it again." She said. The gallery in Baxter sponsored two scholarships to the art workshop I'm giving here this coming fall—in September when there's gorgeous color— and the board received a flood of applications. Today, I'm going to choose who will receive them."
"Too bad. I'll call you if I find out anything," Grant said in a disappointed tone. "If your hunch pans out, this could be a major breakthrough in finding the Morans."
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