1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  "Omigosh! Are you okay?" The girl looked stricken.

  Jessie pushed herself to a sitting position, groaned and then stood. She put a hand to the small of her back.

  "Yeah, I'm good. I hope this wasn't Melinda's favorite dress, though." They both stared. The edge of the band notebook had snagged the filmy material and ripped a wide gash in the front of the skirt. The momentum of the fall had opened one side seam from hem to mid-thigh. She stretched and rolled her shoulders, feeling a lightning bolt of pain. "I'm afraid I won't be singing tonight. They'll have to put someone else on."

  "They can't! Oh no, they just can't. See, here's the thing." Her voice was small. "Chef couldn't find anyone else. You're the only one."

  "What? You have to be kidding. Did he even look?"

  Sarah shrugged. "Uh, yeah. I think so. I don't know. But if you can't sing, he's gonna kill me. It's just you." Sarah sniffed. She stooped to pick up the heavy music folder. "The benefit will be ruined, and it's all my fault."

  Jessie rubbed the back of her neck. She remembered the walk down the depressing halls of the High Butte Senior Living Center—the dingy white walls, the lack of comfort and cheer that she, herself, would hope for in old age.

  "Well, I guess if I'm it," she said, smiling at Sarah, "I'd better make it enough."

  It was at that moment she saw the row of hooks, each one holding an apron similar to those she wore for painting. Only these were an almost neon yellow and emblazoned with the restaurant logo, the head of a red-eyed snorting bull. She grinned.

  "Hey." Snagging the nearest one, she wrapped it around herself and tied it. "We're good to go." She patted the teary-eyed teen on the shoulder, steeled her resolve and pushed open the door.

  "I had a little wardrobe mishap tonight, folks," Jessie began, leaning into the microphone. "So this is what you get." She threw her head back and raised her arms in the air. At the sight of the Wild Bull apron, the band and all the wait staff hooted and whooped. "And if I can sing—dressed in an outfit with a big old bull on it—I hope you folks out there can open your wallets and throw something in the kitty to dress up the retirement center!"

  The drummer gave a quick drum roll ending with a bang of cymbal.

  "The band is donating their time," Jessie said, gesturing to the four musicians, "And Koot Lundgren just informed me that he is making a fifty-dollar donation for every Friday that he misses the forecast for the next two months." Jessie turned to the tall balding man by her side and gave him a big hug.

  "Make it a hundred, Koot! I still got wet hay on the ground from when you missed it last week," a voice in the audience yelled. The crowd roared.

  "Ah hell, seventy-five then. Wilt, you're a whiner," Koot yelled back. "What kind of brother are you?"

  Jessie turned to the band and gave them two thumbs up. They had a list of the songs she knew by heart, a mix of old blues and new country. A stoic expression had settled on the drummer's face, the look of someone watching an oncoming disaster but unable to prevent it. A dubious look passed between the piano player and guitarist as well, and she winced inwardly.

  She swallowed hard. The air in the dimly lit room was filled with the smell of charred Angus and spilled Bud. Her stomach churned, protesting the lack of lunch and overload of jitters.

  Chef Perry stepped in front of the mike for a quick announcement—directing the customers that the back of every seat held an envelope for their gift to the cause. "Make 'em big folks! Prime rib don't come cheap!"

  While he spoke, Jessie shaded her eyes with her hand, searching the crowd for someone, anyone, she knew, but the back of the room was too dark to recognize individual faces. And with the dazzling colored spotlights over the band, the clothing on the first couple rows of restaurant customers blurred into blocks of color, a faceless kaleidoscope.

  Then she saw John Running Bear seated in a wheelchair by an exit door, the illuminated sign casting a red glow over the prominent bones in his wrinkled face. He cackled something Jessie couldn't quite hear but what she thought was "Go, Red!" She gave him a little wave and blew him a kiss. Her shoulders relaxed. This was what the whole evening was about.

  As Perry gestured for her to take her place at the microphone, Jessie felt another swirl of butterflies in her stomach. But as the band began to play the intro to Me and Bobby McGee Jessie leaned back, tilted her head, and her body swayed of its own volition to the beat. She began, "Busted flat in Baton Rouge . . .waitin' for a train . . . . " and with every line, she slipped out of herself and into the music. The guitar. The wailing lament of the harmonica. Her own voice. The beat of her heart. That's all there was.

  In the back row, Grant Kennedy watched transfixed as Jessie transformed. When she first tipped her head back and let loose—that throaty, rich voice pouring out like flames whipping the music into a wildfire—half the people in the room, himself included, rose to their feet. The redhead blazing onstage, her eyes nearly closed, arms outstretched and palms with fingers splayed, never noticed, but the band went crazy, huge smiles on their faces. By the time she rasped, ". . . holding Bobby's body close to mine", her voice dropping to a sultry tone and her splayed fingers running seductively from her chest to the hollow of her throat, Grant felt a jolt of electricity akin to jamming his finger in a light socket and an irrational anger at his parents for not naming him Bobby. He leaned forward, yearning to reach the woman on stage.

  Jessie sang song after song. When she began an intro saying, "Now, one of my favorite singers, a fine lady named Tina, would introduce this next song by saying, "This one is about Mary . . ." the room cheered. The band began the intro, giving it a softness while Jessie went on, "And first, I'm gonna do it easy. Then—I'm gonna do it. . . . rough." The band picked up tempo, and Jessie ignited the crowd with her version of Proud Mary, the entire room roaring and stomping their feet, little old ladies and youngsters alike waving their hands above their heads like backup singers while she wailed the music, moving in a Tina Turner frenzy.

  Then Ode to Billy Joe poured heartache over her listeners before a rocked up version of Amazing Grace made every atheist in the room weep to accept religion.

  After the old gospel song, she said into the microphone, "If you're enjoying the music—if that song made you feel charitable, reach deep into those pockets and," Jessie raised her hands over her head, causing the tight dress to ride high, and yelled, "pony up folks!" Money came out of jeans' pockets and purses and slipped into the white envelopes.

  By then, the side seam of Jessie's dress had ripped to her hip, giving an enticing glimpse of slim leg as she moved to the music. Sexy as hell, Grant thought. But it wasn't only her sensual quality that revved the crowd. The woman on stage was awake—alive in a way most people never experience. She pulled you in, opened her soul, and became the song. Grant hoped someone was taping it. Does that elusive quality even show up on tape?

  He understood why Arvid hated to miss Jessie's performance. Oh, poor Arvid. And what a lucky draw for me. Probably a good thing we couldn't get Jessie on the phone this afternoon to let her know about the stake-out. She might have been too worried to get into the music.

  All around Grant, women hooted and cheered, yelling, "Oh, yeeeah, baby!" Jessie had launched into Carrie Underwood's Before He Cheats. As she reached the last chorus, his cell phone vibrated, dosing him with reality. He checked caller ID. There's the big Norwegian now.

  Rising reluctantly from his seat, he moved through the crowd. He handed his donation envelope to a waiter as he stepped outside to answer the call.

  "Did anyone try to hit O'Bourne's, Arvid? . . . Too bad. We'll have to work out a better plan." Grant listened to the grumbling at the other end of the line, then said, "No, Jessie's fine. She's ending the last song now. You weren't kidding when you said that woman can belt out a song." Louder grumbling peppered with mumbled "Swedish". Grant laughed

  From his place by the door, he saw an old station wagon pull into the well-lit parking lot. Russell got out, K.D. in tow. An enormous,
middle-aged man wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt tagged along. Russell nodded at Grant as he passed. Grant gave him a casual, two finger salute.

  Bet they're ready to call it a night and collect the donations. Russell's going to hit Jessie's last song right at the tail end, if at all, Grant thought. He didn't stop to think why that gave him a sense of satisfaction.

  "Dad!" Jessie threw her arms around him and squeezed hard. She released him and looked with surprise at the sight of Russell and K.D. by his side.

  Dan O'Bourne beamed at her. "Sorry we missed your songs, cupcake."

  Russell looked glumly at the musicians unplugging amps, packing away guitars, and rolling extension cords.

  "Bet they were real nice," Dan went on, "but my flight was delayed."

  "Uh oh. You came without Marty?"

  "Yeah. My lovely bride has gotten herself obsessed with winning a women's golf tournament."

  "And?"

  "I told her she should go ahead and play, and I'd be back in three or four days. Then, I bribed her by extending the honeymoon a week, so's we could tour the other islands. She's as happy as a cowboy who just won the bull riding competition."

  K.D. tugged on Russell's hand. "I'm thirsty, Dad."

  Russell looked apologetically at Dan. "I'll take him to a table and order him a quick snack and glass of milk before I head home. Sorry we missed your show, Jessie." He nodded to her. "I'll let you two talk." He walked off toward the back of the restaurant with K.D.'s hand held firmly in his.

  Jessie's gaze followed him, the beat from the evening's song metamorphosing once more into her biological Big Ben. Then she turned back to her father.

  "Why didn't you let me know you were coming, Dad?"

  "Knew you'd tell me not to come, honey. Don't be upset. A few days ago, Russell called and told me I should get my butt home and take care of you. Said he didn't feel he could do it. Stretched too thin.'

  "Oh, for—"

  "Hear me out. Whatever's going on here isn't any fault of Russell's. He thinks you need protecting, and I'm the easy answer for that. We'll hash it all out at the house."

  "But how did you get here from the Billings airport?"

  "Russ came and got me. And brought my grandson with him. About time we were introduced. 'Course, the little one slept most all the way back to Sage Bluff. He's a cutie, isn't he?"

  "Don't think you're off the hook for not telling me about him. I am so mad at you."

  Dan looked shamefaced. "Let's talk about it at home. It'll have to wait for morning, though."

  "Okay, I'll let you off the hook 'til then, but only because you must be exhausted after the trip home."

  "Well, yeah, but actually it's because we have company. Arvid and some DEA agent named Samuelson are waiting for us. I was instructed not to mention it to Russell. I still can't believe you and Arvid, of all people, are suspicious of—"

  "Dad, why are they at the house? And how'd they get in?"

  "They couldn't reach you, so they phoned me. I told them where to find the spare key. If you were out painting all day, I suppose you had your phone off again."

  "Yeah, sorry. Guilty as charged. But why did they want in?"

  "It was a last minute plan to watch the place. Arvid still thinks that girl's killer is after her research, and knows you have it. He said everyone knew you were singing at the Wild Bull, and it would be the perfect time to break in and hunt for the files. Or the Morans. People are so stupid. Like, 'poof', all of a sudden those paintings are going to appear after going missing for so many years? Nah. Anyway, Samuelson and Arvid thought your singing at the Wild Bull was like baiting a bear trap. So they took Monette over to stay with Esther for the evening, and then they staked out the place."

  "Actually, that's a good plan. Did anyone show up?"

  "Nah. But that FBI fellow, Grant, said he got some research today that you'd want to see. Hey, did you get a prize tonight, Jessie?"

  "Nope."

  "Never mind, honey, he said in a consoling tone." He hugged her shoulders. "Maybe next time."

  "Sure," Jessie said, with a crooked grin. "Maybe next time. Shall we head home? I'll introduce you to our so-called security team. They're lucky I didn't come home early and shoot them myself, mistaking them for burglars."

  "Ain't it the truth? And poor Arvid was pretty upset that he drew the short straw."

  "Short straw?"

  "Yeah, I guess the guys drew straws to see who would go to your talent show and who would stay and watch the house. Agent Kennedy won."

  "Oh . . . I didn't see him there."

  "Aren't you going to take off the apron? What happened, you get stuck waiting tables?"

  "Something like that, yeah. But Chef Perry said I could keep the apron."

  "Good thing, Jess girl, 'cause you got a big rip in that dress. The whole side seam's split out."

  "I fell."

  "Geez, girl. Now that I look at you, all that hooker goo on your face, and that dress. You look . . . sorry, honey but you look positively indecent!"

  "Stage makeup, Dad. Not hooker goo. And I'm not hurt, thanks for asking."

  "But—"

  "Try not to think about it, Dad."

  "You didn't sing Amazing Grace in that get-up, did you?

  "Uh . . . I thought about it, but no," Jessie fibbed.

  "Good thing." Dan shook his head. "All that hooker goo on your face and that dress, God mighta struck you dead, right there on the stage."

  "Yeah. I probably had a close call, Dad."

  Chapter 55

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  A huge, form lumbered out of the darkness toward Jessie's Ford as they pulled into the yard. "Good Lord, what is that thing?" Dan yelled. "It's a bear!"

  Jessie laughed. "That's Bass. It's Arvid's dog. He's my bodyguard. Or he was until you came home. And I don't see how they could stake the place out if he's been running free in the yard. No thief in his right mind would try to break in once they caught sight of him. They must've let him out just now."

  "Dog, huh? Didn't know they made 'em that big. That's a lot of D-O-G."

  Jessie parked, and got out to ruffle Bass's big head. "How are you, baby? How's my big, drooly boy?" Bass trembled all over, his body aquiver with excitement. As Dan stepped out of the truck, the dog issued a low, rumbling inquiry.

  "Whoa, now, hold on there, boy." Dan backed up.

  "Good boy, Bass." Jessie grabbed his collar and scratched behind his ears. "It's okay, fellah."

  "Hope that big guy is well-trained. He could really do some damage." He reached into the pickup bed and grabbed his suitcase.

  "You can't imagine the tricks he knows. Well-trained doesn't begin to cover it. Have Arvid show you sometime. He'll probably be taking him home now that you're here."

  "Nup," came Arvid's voice from the doorway, "Maybe not just yet." He held his hand out to Dan. "How you been?"

  After Grant and Samuelson were introduced, the men brought Dan up to speed. Samuelson called Brookes to ask for a lift back to his hotel. Once the DEA agent said goodnight, the conversation drifted onto bad airplane food and the skimpy servings of said food. Dan sent longing looks at the refrigerator, and the trio decided that pastrami and cheese sandwiches would give them strength to go through the information Kara had overnighted to Grant.

  "We looked through it this morning while Jessie was out. We can't see anything in it we can use." Arvid spread lavish mayo and mustard on a piece of sourdough. "I'll make you one of my special double-layered Dagwoods, Jessie, if you want."

  She nodded. Her face was freshly scrubbed and the disreputable dress had been exchanged for blue jeans and her 'Starry Night' tee. She sat at the table sipping a cup of hot Earl Grey while she looked through newspaper articles and printouts of research spread out over the oak table. They included background on Gordon Harris, the bank robber, and witness statements taken at the robbery scene. None of the research mentioned a son named Phillip, but the complete arrest report of Virginia Grayson Pot
ts was included, and Jessie marveled at the efficiency and resourcefulness of Grant's girl Friday. Indicated on the arrest sheet were "brown hair, green eyes". Not many people have green eyes, she thought.

  Taking a bite of the pastrami and gooey cheddar concoction Arvid had put together and then nuked for her, she moaned in pleasure, the sound resonating deep in her throat, then realized Grant was gaping at her. She stopped, the sandwich half-way to her mouth.

  "You want one, Grant? You can still change your mind."

  "Uh, no. No. Thanks." Grant looked away.

  "This is heavenly, Arvid. Just heavenly." She looked closer at the photo. It was clearer than the one Grant had located earlier in the newspaper archives. It reminded her of someone. But who? She might have to sleep on it. Then, "Oh!"

  Jessie's quick intake of breath made Bass bound to his feet. She gave a whoop. Jack, who'd been sitting near her feet, hissed and arched his back as the dog strode toward the table, stopping the dog in mid-stride. The men stopped talking to stare at her.

  Jessie explained her idea. "Everything is tied together. Maybe all the way to St. Benedict's, I think. And I'm not convinced a patrol car was involved. You wouldn't need a cop car to pull Amber over. Just one of those . . . What do they call them, Arvid? Bull something?"

  "Bull blasters."

  Dan looked puzzled.

  "You know, those portable light and siren systems—they're magnetic and you just pop 'em on the top of your car. Our EMTs here in town use one. But you'd still need a uniform, Jessie."

  "Uniforms can be faked, bought or stolen. I couldn't sleep last night, so I got up and worked up an outline of what I'm going to call "the Moran deaths"." She left the room and came back with a sheet of paper. "I think I see how they all connect."