1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  "Is everyone okay at O'Bourne's?" Grant asked worriedly, as Samuelson grabbed both Stendahl's wrists and secured them with cuffs.

  "Right as rain," Esther told him. "You had her pistol, but fortunately, she had the dog." She smiled. "It's like owning a rocket launcher."

  Grant and Samuelson began to laugh.

  "By the way, Arvid. Jessie can't seem to call Bass off. There's nothing on her list that means 'get off'."

  "Poop," Arvid said. "It's not on her list, 'cause it isn't one Bass knows. Call her back. Ask her if she has a piece of baloney."

  Chapter 60

  Sage Bluff Sheriff's Office, present day

  Jessie leaned on Russell's desk. She'd brought him a new desk blotter and a large box of drawing supplies for K.D..

  "I'm so sorry about Trish," she said softly. Trish had indeed been buried at the reservoir. Fiske and his cadaver dog found her remains. "And I'm sorry I doubted you about Kevin. What you tried to do for Mom and Dad—"

  "Please don't mention it. I screwed everything up. If I'd left well enough alone, maybe we'd have figured out sooner that Kevin was murdered."

  "Was Mom really addicted to the Oxy—"

  He grimaced. "Yes. But she was trying to get a handle on it."

  Jessie gave him a sorrowful look.

  "Blanche was a great actress. Who could've known that she was so vindictive and that she hated your family so much?"

  "At least she didn't kill her own niece. Stendahl admitted that Duane from the gas station was coerced into calling Cassy. He claimed his friend had nearly drowned out at the reservoir and he needed help. It was Simpson's bad luck that Cassy Adams grabbed him to go out there with her. He must have offered to drive."

  "Poor guy. So nobody actually figured out he was a DEA agent."

  "No. When they got to the reservoir, two of Blanche's goons were there, dressed in swim trunks. They said their buddy had been taken to the hospital by another pair of paramedics and when they hopped into their pickup to follow them to town, their vehicle wouldn't start. Of course, Cassy and Travis offered them a ride to town."

  "So they shot them from the back seat. Cassy and Travis probably didn't have time to react."

  "No time at all. We suspect the killers had Travis call in to work and say he had a family emergency. Just to delay any search for him. They likely told him to call both the Fire Station and the hospital, since he was supposed to have a shift that day at both locations. Instead of calling the hospital, he dialed the DEA office number."

  "But why didn't they have Cassy call?"

  "Stendahl says they weren't supposed to kill her—just scare her into silence. After all, she was the ringleader's niece. Cassy must have been uncooperative."

  "I can't imagine how awful it must be for Violet to know that Blanche was involved, even if she didn't pull the trigger. And what about Jake Ward?"

  "Stendahl claims it was Blanche who put out the hit on Jake Ward. She overheard Arvid and me talking about Ward planning to turn state's evidence. Duane got word to Jake at the prison that Blanche was the one who killed Amber. Ward was determined to take her down for that. He really loved that girl."

  "Duane had more nerve than I would have thought. He must have thought he could notify Ward without Blanche finding out, but figured he couldn't turn her in without implicating himself."

  "Yeah. Especially since Blanche kept threatening to hurt his little sister if he didn't play by her rules. Of course, Duane was probably afraid he'd be next, and hoped Jake would bust the whole thing wide open—let the chips fall where they may. He claims he didn't know that when he phoned Cassy, Blanche had two goons out there at the reservoir ready to kill her. He thought he was just sending Cassy on a wild goose chase so they could search her apartment. When he heard around town that Cassy and Travis Simpson went missing, he complained to Blanche. Stendahl had his hired help work him over as a warning. Nobody takes credit for damaging your tire. I think it was just one of those things—some random nut case."

  Russell picked up the box Jessie had brought. "So, what's this?"

  "It's for K.D., but you may as well open it."

  Russell cut the tape holding the box closed, and spread the children's art supplies across the desk. He gave Jessie a thumbs up.

  "I appreciate these. And K.D. will be ecstatic. Thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  "Anyway, getting back to Blanche's mess. We still haven't found out who was searching your dad's house that night. Some other poor schmuck under her thumb, I suppose. Arvid suspects it's someone who works at the Wild Bull. There are several questionable guys who run those outside grills. Might account for the smoky smell you mentioned."

  "That's a possibility, Russ. I'll bet their clothing reeks of it by the end of a shift."

  "It'll take some time before we get all of the people involved rounded up—if ever."

  Jessie nodded. "Grant hand-carried the three Morans to an expert in Boston. I'm sure they'll be verified as authentic. Our family will keep our small one, but I know the money the two large landscapes will bring at auction will be a great boost to the school here in town."

  "Talking about painting, how did the plein air event go, Jess?"

  "Good. It went great." She paused. "I'll be back in the fall to teach a workshop."

  "Jessie . . . ," Russell began. "Will you think about coming home for good . . . maybe give you and me a chance?"

  "And give up painting like you mentioned before, you mean, Russell? No." She looked at him, her eyes dark. "I'll come often enough to give K.D. some lessons, though. We can work in Kate's old studio."

  "You know I don't want a wife who needs to travel. You could sing instead, Jess. Hey, get hooked up with the band that played at the Wild Bull."

  "And you can put a cork in it, Russell. I don't want a husband who feels I'm not good enough as I am, Russ. Someone who doesn't care if I'm doing what I love. I deserve better. And I guess I'll keep looking until I find it. I've told you before, I'm not like your mother."

  "That isn't—"

  "Yeah. It is. You've never gotten past the way your mom left. Somehow, you think a wife needs to be right there at home. Well, the 1950s have come and gone, Russell."

  He didn't answer.

  "By the way, Monette's looking for a job here in Sage Bluff. She's already talked to the owner of the new computer store and has an interview. Dad's having her house sit until they get back. He flew back to Maui to finish his extended honeymoon. I have an art show in Fredericksburg, and I can't stay any longer."

  Russell gave her a mournful look. He stood and came around the desk to wrap his arms around her. She leaned into the hug for a minute and then disentangled herself.

  "She likes you, Russell. You might give her some thought."

  Jessie turned and started toward the open door. She could feel Russell's gaze on her as she walked away. She'd taken a leaf from Monette's book and bought herself a pair of those blingy jeans.

  Russell sat down heavily behind his desk and stared into space. The decisive click of the shutting door threatened to smother him, made it difficult to draw breath. For nearly fifteen minutes, he sat motionless. His mind was a merry-go-round of disjointed thoughts

  Was she right?

  He thought back to when Jessie was studying at the Paris Academy, how he'd decided he'd had enough of Dan O'Bourne telling him how poorly suited they were. How he'd rashly purchased an airline ticket and the biggest diamond he could afford. It would have meant he'd have to be the one to compromise, to leave Sage Bluff. But, he'd planned to go to France, tell Jessie in person how much he loved her and ask if they could build a life together.

  What had happened to that younger Russell, the one with the courage to risk it all?

  He rocked back in his chair, leaning precariously on the back legs. Kevin's death and Trish's dilemma changed Russell's flight plans. Now, he had a second chance. She was here, within reach. And he was letting her go.

  Who does she think she
is, trying to fob me off on Monette? Monette, of all people. Could she possibly be more different from Jessie?

  He pictured the two women in his mind. The little, flirty blonde, and the tall redhead. When he thought of Jessie, he remembered how she'd looked standing near the stained glass window, the light filtering colors across her face. And he realized, it wasn't the warmth of color that made her so beautiful to him at that moment. He was a damned fool.

  It was love.

  In a flash, he was out of the building, running down the street, searching frantically for the Hawk. Jessie was gone. He rushed back to his office and picked up the phone, punching in her number.

  Jessie tracked Arvid down at the Calico Café.

  I should've known to look here first. It's huckleberry pie Wednesday again.

  "Hey, Arvid." She slid into the booth.

  "Hey, yourself. Want a piece?"

  "Yeah, but I'm going to get mine to go. I'll stick it in the Greyhawk fridge until I hit Yellowstone. I'm heading out, and I wanted to stop and give you a hug goodbye."

  Arvid waved a waitress over and gave him Jessie's pie order, telling her to add it to his bill.

  "You tell Russell, 'no dice'? He loves you, you know."

  "Yeah. I know, Arvid. But I finally realized that we aren't suited. Dad used to tell me so, and I finally realized how right he was. All of the O'Bournes are stubborn, so it took me a while to give up on Russell."

  "That Grant Kennedy was getting pretty sweet on you, Jess. He gets a certain look in his eyes when he even hears your name. I heard him tell you he'd like to stay in touch. Boston's a long way, but you might give him a call."

  "I did, Arvid. Yesterday."

  "And?"

  "Some woman . . . ," Jessie cleared her suddenly tight throat. "A woman named Pat answered. Said she was his wife, and asked me if I wanted to leave a message."

  Arvid looked startled. "Poop. Well, if that don't beat all."

  "It does," she said, her voice catching. A dull feeling settled in her chest, and she recognized it as the deep loneliness she'd become accustomed to. She'd become very fond of Grant. In fact, she'd hoped Grant might be 'the one'. She'd certainly never suspected he was a player. That biological clock of hers had better just shut up. Reaching into the tote she'd carried in, she brought out a small, flat package. It was wrapped in the Sunday comics.

  "I brought you a little thank-you gift for the loan of the D-O-G."

  "You didn't have to do that." A wide smile brightened his face. He unwrapped the package to find a small oil painting of Bass, with Jack curled up by the dog's side. "It's priceless, Jess. Thanks!"

  "I didn't make up the pose. One night I got up to get a drink, and they were snuggled up on Bass's bed like two hot dogs in a bun."

  "You talked to John Running Bear, didn't you?'

  "Yeah. Blast his wrinkly old hide. He could've saved us a lot of time. He finally admitted that he'd seen Virginia dump Sister Mary Catherine in the river. He didn't let on at the time. Had to stay there, he says, and make sure the younger kids were okay. When Moran came to the school, he thought the painter was too old and frail to be of help. Then, when the body was found, he spoke up, but everyone thought he was lying. Hungry for attention, they told him. John's parents told him to keep quiet and let the white folks sort it out."

  "Oh, man. He must have been terrified."

  "Yeah. The poor little kid. Seems funny to say that, now that he's so old."

  The waitress reappeared and set a white Styrofoam box on the Formica table in front of Jessie. She picked it up and slid from the booth, then leaned over and gave Arvid a light kiss on the cheek.

  "You and Esther come down to Santa Fe anytime you want a vacation." She gave him a brief hug. "Drive down in that new motorhome of yours and park it in the driveway as long as you want, you hear? Congratulations again, Arvid. I'll bet that horse trailer you won in the mail-box contest made a great trade-in."

  "Yep. Made a big dent in the down payment. Esther and I already got a big fishing trip in the works. She's going to write her music while I catch us dinner."

  Jessie turned and was walking away when Arvid said, "Hey, Jess!"

  She looked back.

  He gave her two thumbs up. "Killer jeans!"

  She gave him a little salute and a wink. A few minutes later, she opened the door of the Greyhawk, stowed the pie, and slipped behind the wheel. Jack was sitting in the passenger seat, kneading the upholstery into submission and purring in satisfaction, ready to hit the road.

  Her phone buzzed. When she checked the caller I.D., Jessie's heart lurched.

  Russell.

  Abruptly, she turned the phone off and dropped it into the glove compartment. She stared out the windshield, scanning the nearly empty streets of her beloved hometown. She felt the urge to go somewhere. Anywhere. And put brush to canvas.

  "I'm just not in the mood for any long drawn out goodbyes," Jessie said, scratching Jack behind the ears. "So, I guess it's just you and me, Butter Tub."

  She started the engine, put the radio on, and pulled onto the cracked, asphalt road leading out of Sage Bluff.

  "Let's go paint something."

  END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mary Ann Cherry is a professional artist, much like her heroine, Jessie O'Bourne. She was raised in rural Montana in an area similar to the fictitious town of Sage Bluff. She now lives in rural Idaho with her husband and several pudgy cats.

  Cherry and her husband travel to art shows, where she exhibits her work professionally. She takes part in 'quick draws' at the shows, producing a painting in about an hour's time from start to finish. Her work is in the permanent collection of several art museums, and she is a Master Signature member of the Women Artists of the West.

  Usually you can find her painting in her home studio, or writing at a desk situated on an upper floor landing—one that affords a lovely view of a grassy yard and lush golden willow tree during the summer, and frost covered branches and snow during those cold Idaho winters. Wherever she is working, the coffee pot is always on and the brew is of the good strong Norwegian variety that holds up the spoon.

  Jack is patterned after the big orange tomcat Cherry's father owned, who was indeed named after the old time boxer, Jack Dempsey. In his youth, Jack would growl at pickups going past the yard and stand between Cherry's feet to welcome visitors with a snarl when the doorbell rang. Such a charmer!

  I hope you have enjoyed this novel. Thank you for being a Jessie O'Bourne art mystery reader.

  If you enjoyed “Death on Canvas” and want to continue your friendship with Jessie, Jack (that rascal) and Arvid, please continue reading. Here is a free sample of Book Two of the Jessie O’Bourne Art Mystery series, “Death at Crooked Creek”. Enjoy!

  Please check the website: www.maryanncherry.net for the availability date.

  Prologue

  September - Nielson’s farm near Crooked Creek, Montana

  A dele Nielson stood with her hands on her slender hips and gave her father her best teenage stink-eye. Is he the most stubborn man on the planet? He’s as bullheaded as that big Angus bull in Fergusen’s back paddock.

  Berg Nielson avoided her gaze. He sat in his favorite chair, his normally bronzed face as pale as white bread and his eyes rheumy. He looked bone-weary. Adele knew the chemo had stomped the stuffing out of him. Thank God he’s through with the barrage of treatments, she thought. According to the oncologist, the chemo been superbly successful. Even so, Doc warned her Berg would feel as useful as an old work boot for several weeks—one with no laces, holes in the sole, and shredded lining.

  She stiffened her spine and prepared to do battle. Adele knew that to grow a successful crop come spring, winter wheat should be planted at least six weeks before the ground froze. Eight weeks was even better. Worn out as he was, her dad was nonetheless determined he could do the planting himself.

  “You know you aren’t up to it. Not yet.” She gave him a stern look. “Besides, Jeff
Benson came over yesterday and loaded the planter with seed. The John Deere’s all ready to go, and my evening shift at work doesn’t start ‘til six. I can at least get the north field planted.”

  She looked at her watch and frowned. Maybe she’d be a few minutes late to work. She loved her job at the library, but the world wouldn’t stop spinning if people waited fifteen minutes to check out a Louise Penny or Dan Brown novel. Of course, Mrs. Madsen, that gossipy old biddy, might feel out of sorts if her interlibrary loan had come in and Adele wasn’t behind the desk the second the hour hand hit six so Mrs. Madsen could pick it up. For some reason, she came only when she knew Adele would be working the desk. Could the woman be curious about her Dad? Adele gave a shudder. But, she was in her early sixties, about the same age as Berg, and since Adele’s mother, Vi, passed away, the Madsen woman always inquired about Berg’s health. Oh, well. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Adele twisted a lock of her shoulder-length brown hair and gave her dad a look that would wither steel. “And tomorrow’s Saturday. I have all weekend to do winter wheat.”

  Without further discussion, she walked to the entryway closet and pulled out his coveralls, holding them against her body to judge the size. She realized with a wince how long it had been since she’d pulled her own weight on the farm. Grimacing, she gave Berg’s large coveralls a critical glance. While she was nowhere near her dad’s breadth, she was tall. And hippy. Maybe she could manage with them for a day. It would save her jeans. Every time she worked in the barn or drove the old John Deere, she managed to wipe oil on her jeans.

  Hmmmm. Dominic was more her size. Maybe she should go up to her brother’s old bedroom and borrow some work clothes. Goodness knows, he won’t need them back until he comes home from his deployment. Still, she hated to just help herself to his things.

  Her Dad gave her a critical look. “You’ll be swimming in those, Addy.” Then he stared out the window at the unseeded fields with a wistful expression. “You sure you can do it? You don’t mind?”