DEATH at CROOKED CREEK - REVIEWS
“…I’ve read a few murder mysteries in my time, but few of them have been as cleverly crafted with as many red herrings thrown in as Death at Crooked Creek by Mary Ann Cherry. This is superbly written with a plot that takes you on twists and turns you don’t expect and leaves you guessing or, even better, makes you think you know “whodunit” before the actual reveal. I loved the artistic setting of the story and the fact that the author, an artist of note herself, was able to inject her knowledge into the story naturally and without artifice…I cannot pay this author any higher compliment than to say, I want to read more about Jessie O’Bourne’s crime-solving adventures….I can only hope there are more on the way. A highly recommended read.”
- Grant Leishman for Readers’ Favorite
“…Death at Crooked Creek is a well written mystery with a touch of romance. I loved how she made the people come to life through their distinct personalities, making them seem like the person next door…I enjoyed this book and looked forward to reading more every time I had to set it down.”
- Peggy Jo Wipf for Readers’ Favorite
“…Author Mary Ann Cherry has written an intriguing art mystery story in Death at Crooked Creek…. I enjoyed how convoluted and complicated the story was—a fascinating read!”
- Deborah Lloyd for Readers’ Favorite
DEATH at CROOKED CREEK
by
Mary Ann Cherry
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my sons and daughters, who are the light of my life, and to their wonderful spouses. I am so lucky my children chose well. It is also dedicated to my grandchildren and future great-grandchildren. Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER
This book is a work of fiction. Graehl Frames, from the Kalispell, Montana area, and Ten Spoon Winery near Missoula, Montana, are real businesses with wonderful products, but the characters, incidents and dialogue in the novel are drawn from the author's imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or living persons is entirely coincidental with the exception of Cheri Cappello, a contemporary living artist, and Emily Carr, an actual Canadian artist and writer (now deceased). I also briefly mention Georgina Goodlander, a lovely artist friend who is the Willard Art Council’s Visual Arts Director here in Idaho Falls, and who graciously allowed me to use her name. Thanks, Georgina!
Emily Carr (December 13, 1871 – March 2, 1945) was one of the first painters in Canada to adopt a Modernist and Post-Impressionist painting style. Carr was inspired by the Indigenous people of the Pacific Northwest Coast. Events in this novel regarding Carr paintings are fictitious. A bit of a rebel spirit, she is supposedly one of the first women to ride a horse without doing so side-saddle.
Cheri Cappello is an exceptionally gifted artist who creates the type of Native American reproductions portrayed in this story. Thank you, Cheri, for allowing me to give you a fictitious personality in my mystery novel. I certainly had fun doing so, and I think that if Jessie were a real person, you two would be great friends.
Copyright © 2018 by Mary Ann Cherry
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or copied in any manner without the express permission of the author.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Death at Crooked Creek
by Mary Ann Cherry
Prologue
September - Nielson’s farm near Crooked Creek, Montana
Adele Nielson stood with her hands on her 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 monstrous Angus 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 had 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 have the whole day. I can at least get the north field planted.”
She looked at her watch and frowned. She’d better get started. Even with the entire day to plant, she’d be late to work if she didn’t hop to it. She didn’t want to stop planting mid-field. Adele loved her job at the library—her first real after-school job—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. Lehman, 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 she could pick it up. For some reason, she seemed to keep track of Adele’s shifts and came in only when she knew Adele would be working the desk. The woman is curious about 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 Lehman 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 fully pulle
d her own weight on the farm—so long that her own coveralls no longer fit. 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?”
“I don’t mind,” she insisted. “It’ll be fun.” Smiling to herself, she realized she meant it. In fact, she felt a little skip in her step at the thought of having something substantial she could help with, instead of sitting by helplessly and worrying about her Dad’s health. She gave the heavy coveralls a shake. “And these’ll do fine.”
“Okay, okay. But not unless you sit and have a good breakfast before you start.”
She wasn’t hungry, but she hesitated. She knew he didn’t feel up to cooking for himself. And he still didn’t have his appetite back. He’d skip eating unless she made him a meal and watched him chow down.
“That’s a great idea. I’m hungry as heck for bacon and eggs. But I’m only fixing them if you’ll eat, too.” She draped the coveralls over the back of a chair, went to the kitchen and took a frying pan off the hanging pot rack. Humming, Adele bustled around the cheerful room, pulling a loaf of sourdough from the wooden bread box and setting out ingredients for French toast, scrambled eggs and bacon. Soon, the mouthwatering smell of frying bacon made her glad she’d decided to postpone the fieldwork and cook. She plopped the French toast into another pan, and while it sizzled, she quickly packed drinks and snacks into a cooler to take along in the tractor.
Half an hour later, she sat at the kitchen table across from her father. He looked better. The hot breakfast was a good idea. They argued too much lately—especially about her choice of boyfriends—and sharing a companionable breakfast took the edge off the irritation they sometimes felt toward each other.
She tried to cut him some slack, knowing the chemo made him cranky as an old grizzly, but he seemed to be mighty opinionated about college. About girls who married too young. About jobs. The boredom of the snack shop job she’d tried before landing the position at the library proved he was right about that job. College was a good idea. She shivered inwardly. Not marriage. Not at nineteen. She wasn’t ready, even though at first it had sounded like fun to have her own place. If she ever did get married, she hoped it would be because she couldn’t be happy without one specific man. A man. Not a boy. And right now, she was pretty sure she was the only adult in her relationship even though her boyfriend had four years on her. And the worst thing was that he had some screwed-up values. Very screwed-up. She stood and began clearing the table.
When her father got sick, she’d grown up a little—actually, a lot—learning how easy it was to want to take care of someone you loved, but how hard it was to do it. It must be even harder to take care of kids, she mused. She didn’t want to give her dad the satisfaction of telling him he’d been right all along, though. Grinning, she guessed it all broke down to wanting to argue for the sake of stating her own mind, letting him know she was all grown up. Making her own decisions.
“What are you smiling at, girl? Thinking of that damn boyfriend, I’ll bet. That engagement ring the kid offered you had a diamond about the size of a pinhead. You know what that fellow has most of, don’tcha?”
“No, but I’ll bet you’re going to tell me,” she said in a combative tone, egging him on. She chewed her bottom lip. Heck, that brought a little color to his cheeks. I need to remember he’s been sick. Stomp on my tongue a little. Besides, he’s a lot older than my friend’s folks. Old enough to be my grandpa instead of my dad. Man, Dom and I must have been the classic afterthoughts.
“Bull. That man is full of it. Pure bull. Never heard the like.” He guffawed, the laugh ending in a short cough. “Why, he’s more full of bull than old Johnson’s big Aberdeen Angus. And he’s too old for you, that’s for sure.”
Adele put the last plate in the dishwasher and grabbed the coveralls, slipping the baggy legs over her jeans. It was a bit nippy out and the heater in the cab of the tractor wasn’t working. She reached into the hall closet again to take one of Berg’s blue knit caps off the shelf.
“You could be right, Dad.” Tucking her hair under the hat, she grabbed the cooler, pecked the surprised man on the cheek and headed out the door. “Love you!” she called over her shoulder.
Partway to the tractor she heard the door to the house open and Berg call after her, “I love you too, Addy!”
*.*.*
“Ugh.” She’d forgotten how mind-numbingly boring seeding could be. Row after row after row at five miles an hour. How could she have thought it might be fun? It was getting towards eleven when she began obsessing about lunch. Even though she’d munched all the snacks from the cooler, her stomach rumbled like an approaching train. The music pounding through the cab helped the boredom but didn’t do squat for the hunger pangs. She wished she’d packed more in the cooler. Was there at least one of those cardboard-tasting granola bars left? Continuing her slow pace down the row, she reached an arm over, flipped open the small insulated bag and rifled through wrappers and napkins. An apple core. A plastic fork.
After her fingers found and grabbed the last peanut butter and honey bar, she straightened. There was a distant pop and something sharp stung the side of her neck. She slapped her hand at it. A gasp erupted from her throat when she saw that her fingers were crimson with blood from a wound on her neck. A spider web crack had blossomed across the front windshield. The John Deere lurched across the field as she wiped the back of her neck in horror. She twisted around and saw a neat round hole in the back window.
A bullet. It must’ve just grazed me.
Her head swung around, her eyes scanning the field. Nothing. She pulled the tractor to a stop and put it in park. Then she looked toward the far ridge. Next to a parked pickup, someone stood there holding a rifle.
“What the heck? What’s he—”
As Adele saw the man raise the rifle to take aim again, she stiffened in horror. She threw herself to the floor a fraction of a second too late.
*.*.*
Out at the highway, the shooter lowered the rifle. “Oh, God! No, no, no. Not Addy.”
He swore aloud in disgust and disbelief. Just as the girl began to dive for cover—just as he squeezed off the second shot—he’d realized it wasn’t Berg. Damn! She’d been wearing her dad’s knit cap. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!
He let the rifle drop to the ground and covered his face with his hands. He squinted his eyes shut, seeing the bullet plowing its way through that lovely face in his mind's eye. That sweet, beautiful girl. His stomach roiled. He couldn’t let himself vomit. DNA, he thought. If you can get it from hair, you can sure get DNA from someone’s lost lunch.
“Addy . . . Oh, Addy. You stupid kid.” Anger made his voice unrecognizable even to himself.
He should have planned better. His stomach threatened to erupt. He ejected the shell casing and put it into his pocket. Then, looking frantically around, he spotted the first empty casing. He grabbed it and picked up the rifle. He ran to his pickup, jumped in and stomped on the gas. He had to get out of there. As he headed over the hill, his eyes filled, making it difficult to see the road. Without bothering to wipe the tears away, he headed toward town. Reason reasserted itself. Don’t be stupid. Follow the original plan, he thought. He hit the gas. When he got to town, he’d stop in at the gas station on the other side of Main. Then get a cup of coffee from the diner. Make it easy for people to remember just what ti
me he’d stopped by. To place himself in town.
His mind churned into overdrive.
“Think, you idiot!” he bellowed aloud. “Think!”
He forced himself to be calm...to concentrate. He would have killed her later. Or maybe not. But he wasn’t prepared to deal with it so soon. And now, his plan had to be revamped. Totally revamped. Worse than that. Could he salvage any small part of the plan at all?
His upset stomach threatened to ruin his focus. Glancing at the passenger seat, he saw the fast food sack from his morning run through the Quik Stop. At the time, he thought he could eat, but he’d been so nervous he hadn’t swallowed more than a bite. His stomach did another heave. He pulled the pickup over and stopped on the edge of the gravel road. He snatched the bag and opened it to be met with the nauseating odor of a greasy breakfast burrito.
“Oh, God,” he groaned. He leaned over the paper sack and retched.
Chapter One
Following March - Crooked Creek Resort
Jessie O’Bourne brushed her red hair back from her face, pulled on her knit gloves and gathered her strength. Then she grabbed the handle of the unwieldy hand-truck and dragged it backward. The handcart loaded with paintings threatened to spill as she waded through six-inch deep snow to the service entrance of the majestic Crooked Creek Lodge. The Hawk, her beloved motor home, sat double-parked as close as she’d been able to manage, with her orange tom wailing like a tortured soul in the cat carrier while she unloaded. She couldn’t chance Jack getting loose—and lost—while she took trip after trip into the building.
Unlike the well-lit, welcoming front entrance of the hotel where she’d checked in, the artists’ parking area remained unplowed. Numerous tracks through the snow testified that many artists had already slogged through the deep snow to carry their paintings and display panels into their reserved rooms—rooms where each painter or sculptor would exhibit for the four days of the annual Crooked Creek Art Expo.
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