1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  "I owe you one, then, Kara. Next time I get to D.C., I'll bring you a bottle of five star wine from the vineyard in Missoula. Get this . . . they're located on Rattlesnake Drive. Hilarious address, but the wine is superb. Award winning."

  "I look forward to that, sir." Montana wine from Rattlesnake Drive, she thought. The smart-aleck. Who does he think he's kidding?

  Chapter 53

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  Grant wasn't pleased. He held up Amber's iPad. "I feel like an idiot. Jessie mentioned cloud storage quite some time ago. I should have had one of our tech guys hack into Amber's account even before we found the iPad. "

  "Yes." Monette swung her head, giving her hair a flirty flip. "The cloud storage should have it all. Her notes. Her schedule. Where she went. Who she interviewed. Everything from this past trip. Amber put everything, even audio interviews she did using her iPhone, into cloud storage."

  The introduction of Monette to Arvid and Grant had taken place over breakfast. It had not been a great meeting. Arvid was upset she hadn't come forward earlier, and in his blunt way, read her the riot act. Monette was so busy trying to charm Grant that it was hard for her to stay on topic.

  Jessie sat, stroking Jack's fur and curiously watching the woman interact with the two men. Monette was, as Shelly Reynolds had said, a man-killer. She was the kind of woman who wore jeans with sparkly bling on the back pockets. You couldn't trust women who drew bulls-eyes on their tush, Jessie decided. She sure didn't fit the image of the computer geek she was purported to be. And you would think, since the Web had so recently lost her best friend, that she could concentrate on finding out who killed her instead of putting so much energy into flirting.

  "Just so we're clear, I got no clue what you two brains are talking about," Arvid was saying. "I fish. I don't play on the computer. So give me a run-down in plain English."

  Monette batted long lashes at him. "Think of it like a bank's safe-deposit box. Instead of being stored on her own computer, Amber's data is stored at an internet site—a hosting company." Monette wiggled long, delicate fingers. "In the cloud." She glanced at Grant. "I can figure out her ID and password, I think." She sashayed over to the coffee pot and poured herself half a cup of deep mountain roast, sparkles swaying as she walked by the FBI agent.

  "I imagine her account will be password protected, though, right?" Jessie tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

  "Yes, but Amber was pretty predictable. I can make some educated guesses. If it works, I can save you some time. If I can't figure it out, ask one of Grant's FBI geeks to use software to unencrypt and display her password." Monette sat on the edge of a chair, crossed her legs and swung her sandal-clad foot. Her toenails were polished the color of huckleberry jam, the shoe studded with rhinestones.

  The mannerism made Jessie think of a cobra, mesmerizing its potential victim. Back and forth, up and down. Grant, she noticed, could not keep his eyes off that tiny, swinging foot.

  "Of course, we could use my phone to locate hers if you want." Monette looked smug.

  "Well, jeez Louise." Arvid crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Why didn't you say something before?"

  Monette gave him a contemptuous look. "Nobody asked me. How was I supposed to know the cops didn't have her stored research or her phone? Or even wanted it? Her phone wasn't at the B&B when I gathered her things, and I knew she'd taken it along when she left. I figured the cops had it, but anyone even slightly competent on the computer would know to check the cloud." She looked apologetically at Grant. "The phone and laptop sync. Amber has them set to share important information like scheduled meetings. You know, like her calendar."

  Arvid grimaced. "She might not have had time to make a record of the last day, I guess, either."

  "Well, let's take a look." Monette put her mug on the table and held out her hand for Amber's iPad. "I'm sure her email will be the ID. If I can't guess the password, we can have a link sent to that email address and use that link to change her password. Let's see if it still has a charge."

  "Wait a minute. You said they sync?" Arvid held up his hand, palm out. "Don't touch it, Monette. I think we'd better hope the battery's dead. We need to think about this. Will her iPad display the last time the files were accessed?"

  "Yes." Monette stared at Arvid with grudging respect.

  Grant rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Someone must have her phone. Now, if we access schedules and files on her iPad, they'll know we've found the iPad, probably know we found you, too. And they'll suspect we know who she saw on that last day."

  "That's right." Her face was pale. "Thank you for stopping me."

  "Do you know if Amber's iPad uses software that would locate her phone?"

  "No, it doesn't." Monette smiled. "But mine does . . . Amber was always misplacing her phone and used the 'find my friends' app on mine to find it."

  Arvid half stood in alarm. "I hope that they haven't already started tracking you."

  "We're good. I don't keep that feature turned on." She grinned. "Too many snoops."

  "Great! We can take your phone to the station, turn that feature on, and search for hers. Before we go, let's hear that message you said was on your phone, Monette."

  The voice of Amber Reynolds came across as clearly as though she sat next to them at the O'Bourne's kitchen table. They huddled, their chairs pulled close together, listening to the voicemail message. The last few words were garbled.

  "One. She's saying 'one'," Arvid insisted.

  "Or 'bum'," Grant suggested. "Maybe even 'dumb'."

  "No. Turn it up and play it again." Jessie leaned forward. "I think the men are wrong. But the last word sounds like 'curly' to me."

  "Geez." Arvid scratched his head. "I hope it's not Lenny. His hair's curly. 'Course, Lenny ain't so big. She definitely says the cop is big."

  "Maybe it isn't anyone from the Sage Bluff's Sheriff's Office," Grant said. "What other law enforcement do you have out here?"

  "State Highway Patrol, but we hardly ever even see them," Arvid said. "We have some reservists that work for the Sheriff's Office, but none of them are big men. Baxter might have some big fellows on their payroll, though, too. Might not be anyone from our own office." He sighed.

  "Hmm." Grant tapped his finger on the table. "Monette, thanks for coming forward with this. You knew Amber's voice. We don't. What do you think she is saying at the end of the message?"

  "Well, yeah, I knew her voice, but I still can't tell. She must have taken off her helmet."

  Grant looked at her quizzically. "So?"

  "It was Bluetooth compatible. Her phone might even have been in her pocket. She didn't have to be holding it near her mouth to be heard. You know, like a car recognizes a Bluetooth phone?"

  "Too advanced for this electronic dinosaur," Arvid grumbled.

  Monette sent Arvid a glance full of pity and exasperation. Then she shook her head, the blond curls shimmering with a life of their own. She leaned over, adjusted the volume, then again touched the play arrow.

  'Monette, I know you're wasted after the long drive, so I didn't want to wake you, but I found out something important. I'm on my way to O'Bourne's right now hoping someone's home. I can hardly wait to tell you—

  What the hell? Someone's trying to run me off the road . . . Oh, flashers—for god's sake, it's some hick town cop! I don't think I was speeding, but I'd better pull over. Yeah, it IS a cop. You'll probably have to come and bail me out in the morning. Christ, it's that same big . . . one . . . curly . . .weird. What the—"

  Jessie looked at Arvid. The big Norwegian had become a solid friend in the short time she'd known him. But he was big. Surely her instincts weren't that far off. Besides, Arvid had been out of town. A chill crawled up Jessie's spine. No, she thought. Not Arvid. But something stuck in the back of her mind, a niggling feeling that she was missing something important.

  "One more time, please, Monette. Then I'll dish coffee cake and ice cream."

  Monette
pressed play and everyone tensed their shoulders and leaned in toward the voice. Again, each thought they heard a different word.

  "It's hopeless." Monette threw her hands in the air. "I give up."

  The other listeners nodded, their expressions echoing Monette's frustrated tone.

  "Grant, you said you know someone who can enhance the sound." Jessie's gaze swiveled to Arvid. "Can he borrow the phone?"

  Arvid gave a grunt. "Nup. Evidence in an ongoing investigation. And since any cop may be a suspect, and since Monette trusted me with it, nobody else on the Sage Bluff force is hearing this either."

  "But how about Russ?"

  Arvid swiveled his head and gave Jessie the fish-eye. "Oh, for Pete's sake," she said in a disgusted tone, glaring back at him.

  "No, Jessie, he's right." Grant was staring at Arvid. "So. You don't want any of the other Sage Bluff cops to hear that message. At least not until there is a viable suspect. What if we forward it to my tech guy and to Samuelson, with a request to keep it under wraps, and you keep possession of a recording of the original?" Grant asked.

  Arvid leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and crossing his arms. "Yeah. I guess. Let's do it. But I keep the original. Your guy only gets a copy."

  With a slight nod of acquiescence toward the big cop, Grant rose to help Jessie. He pulled the dessert plates from a high cupboard shelf, while she cut generous slices of Cowboy Coffee Cake. As she stood at the counter, Jack did a figure eight around Jessie's ankles and then posed expectantly by his food dish. Bass rolled his eyes to focus on the cat, but his massive head continued to rest on his master's boot.

  "I'd be glad to write out a receipt for it—straight from the FBI to Sage Bluff's P.D.," Grant offered. "That help?"

  "Yeah. Maybe." Arvid glowered at the phone. "I guess that would be best. I'll file it. I suppose I should call Sheriff Stendahl."

  Grant raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  "Aw, he's still down in San Diego, recuperating at his son's place. Last time we spoke he said to keep him in the loop. Probably basking in the sun, the lucky stiff," Arvid said in disgust. "Poop. I wish I hadn't even heard the voice message. It ain't right that I'm sitting here like a big doofus, not telling anybody we found Monette. Not sharing this message with Russell. Or the other cops." His eyes took on a faraway look. "But hearing Amber's own voice tell it—it has to be a cop that hit her. A cop. Right from the horse's mouth." He waved his hand in the air as though shooing away a fly. "Someone I know, damn it all." He turned to Monette. "Sorry. Pardon my Swedish."

  Bass stood, sensing Arvid's agitation, and dropped his head onto the big man's lap. Arvid scratched behind the dog's ears, a mournful expression on his face.

  Jessie had her back to the group, topping the cake slices with whipped cream. As she turned with a laden plate in her hand, Monette demanded, "What on earth is that cat doing? He ate what was in his bowl, but now he keeps pawing under the stove."

  Arvid gazed at Jessie with eyes full of mirth. She tightened her lips and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  "Um . . . one of his toys probably rolled under there." Jessie glaring at the yellow tom. She set the dessert down in front of the blonde. "I'll fish it out later."

  A flick of grey flashed for a millisecond, then disappeared under the stove. Jessie sighed, then turned to the group and gave them a wide smile, fake and shiny as a silver Christmas tree. She placed a delicate, china dessert plate in front of each person, dumped a handful of kibble into Jack's bowl, and sat. She changed the subject. "Say, Grant, how soon do you expect to hear from the woman in D.C. who was trying to find out more about the old bank robbery here?"

  "Soon. Maybe tomorrow. And while I'm thinking about tomorrow, you were going to sing at the Wild Bull, weren't you?

  "Yeah, I guess so." Jessie turned to Monette. "The chef at the Wild Bull restaurant is sponsoring a talent show night."

  "Pretty pricey?"

  "No, it's cheap to get in. Couple dollars. Donations are appreciated, though. Those funds go to buy paint for the High Butte Assisted Living Center. And any center residents who want to come, get in free. You were at the center to talk to John Running Bear. Did you ever see more depressing halls? "

  "They're awful. I hope I never end up in a place so sad. And you're going to sing? I thought you were a painter."

  "I am, but I like to belt out a good song, and they need a few people to stand up and make fools of themselves. When I paint in the studio, I paint to rock or blues, anything fast that keeps me slapping paint on the canvas. I sing along, so I know a lot of songs by heart. Singing's a hobby. It's fun, but I'm strictly amateur."

  "What are you going to sing?" Monette and Grant asked in unison.

  "Who knows? I think they have a really good band to accompany anyone who wants to sing. I'll talk to Chef Perry tomorrow and find out." She grinned and wrinkled her nose. "If I don't know any of the songs they can play, I'll have to beg off."

  "Oh, no you don't. I been looking forward to it all week." A red flush crept up Arvid's neck. "Uh . . . hmm . . ." He patted his belly. "Good dinners at them benefits. Don't know what Chef Perry has planned. Might even be prime rib."

  "Yes," Grant chimed in, lending Arvid his support. "They're probably counting on you to show, Jessie."

  "They probably wouldn't miss me, Grant. With all the fuss the Wild Bull has made about this fund-raiser, they must have gotten quite a few volunteers." Jessie rose to gather the small plates and walk to the dishwasher. "Heck, it's not like I'm the only one singing."

  "Of course, you did promise," Arvid reminded her.

  The men's eyes met, an unspoken message dangling like a fine cobweb between them. Monette tilted her head and started to open her mouth. Arvid put his finger to his lips. He had spoken to Chef Perry, and the Chef had told him he and Grant had better deliver Jessie to the stage. She was the only act.

  "Yep," he said. "Maybe prime rib. Ought to be good."

  "Omigod!" Monette's scream was high-pitched and quavery. "A mouse!"

  Much later, as Jessie pulled on turquoise silk pajama bottoms and yanked a white tank top over her head, she chuckled. Poor Monette. No matter how graceful one was, there just wasn't a sexy way to scramble onto a chair and then slip, plopping your blingy jeaned behind right onto your uneaten coffee cake. Jessie threw back her head and laughed until Jack trotted in, perplexed at the sound she was making, and wound his tawny body around and around her legs.

  Then she remembered Arvid's call, to tell her the missing phone had been located in deep grass quite some distance from the gate at her dad's field. They'd missed it at the crime scene. She thought again about Amber's voice message. In her mind, Jessie heard the last broken sentence. Burly? Curly? Surely not. Then, she reminded herself just how valuable the Moran's were. Her stomach knotted.

  Oh, no. But, it doesn't make sense. There would have to be an accomplice. I don't want to cast suspicion on anyone and be wrong. I'll look through the box of files again tomorrow.

  She closed her eyes, mentally scanning photo after photo from Amber's research. Yes, she thought. It does make sense. She was nearly certain she knew who had killed Amber, or at least who one of the people involved in the girl's attack was. Especially if Amber was killed because of the Morans, not because of the drug route. But she had to be sure. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Hmmm.

  Worried, she checked the downstairs locks for the third time, then went back upstairs and locked the door of her bedroom as well. Jack jumped into his accustomed place on the bed, and stood on the patterned comforter, looking at her with unblinking eyes. She scratched behind his ears. Then, she grabbed the shotgun from the corner of the room, checked it, and slid it carefully under the bed where she could grab it even from a prone position. Finally satisfied, she snuggled into the cool linen sheets. Jack padded to her side, stretched and plunked down. She reached over, ruffled the tomcat's fur, and closed her eyes.

  Sweet dreams, Mouse Boy.

&nb
sp; Chapter 54

  Rural Montana, present day

  "I am so sorry, Chef Perry. I've been painting all afternoon and the time just got away from me." Probably sunburned as well as embarrassed. Doggone it, my freckles will have freckles. She rubbed her right shoulder.

  "Come anyway. So you missed practice. It doesn't matter. This is a great band. They'll play whatever you know by heart."

  "I'm way out in the boonies. I don't think I even have time to go home and change if I need to make it in time for your first set."

  "That center is counting on you to bring in donations, Jessie O'Bourne. We promised the crowd some singers. Just get here. We'll figure out what to do about clothes when we see you," Chef Perry said in a harried voice. "Please! We really need you."

  "Oh, all right. You guilted me into it. I'm on my way." Jessie wiped a hand across her forehead to brush away a drop of sweat. As her arm came up, she sniffed. Yuck. I reckon. If I take a shortcut through Henblom's property and take the cut across Finnigan's, I can make it. Maybe with time for a sponge bath. Good thing I left Jack home minding the hollyhock patch. At least I don't have to detour to drop him home.

  * * *

  "Take her, Sarah." Chef Perry handed the teen a key. "Go across the alley to my house and wait while she takes a quick shower." He patted Jessie's arm. "Sarah went to school with my Melinda. You look about the same size. Sarah's going to raid my daughter's closet for you while you clean up. The band will keep the crowd busy. Now, hurry!"

  Twenty minutes later, Jessie was in the back room at the Wild Bull Restaurant peering over the band leader's notebook of song choices. Her hair had pitched a fit about the humidity of the shower and tumbled down to her shoulders in an unmanageable halo of red curls. Sarah had applied too much makeup to her eyes, claiming "stage makeup" was the way to go. Hooker makeup is more like it, Jessie thought.

  Melinda's shimmery, dark green dress was cut way lower than Jessie would've preferred. She squirmed. It was snug. Too snug. So snug she could hardly breathe the sigh of relief she felt when she saw several songs on the list that she knew by heart. As she reached for the door knob, the door burst open and Sarah collided with her, knocking Jessie onto the floor with a yelp.