Dritt.
Chapter Nine
Curl Up and Dye - March
Snip.
Jessie almost whimpered. In the mirror, she watched the first tendril of her auburn hair drop toward the linoleum floor. She grimaced but gave the spectators a thumbs-up gesture. A cheer went up behind her, encouragement shouted from the other artists waiting their turn to donate hair to the “Locks for Ladies” cancer program. They hooted and yelled when the beautician took a second big snip. And the third. All of the enthusiastic bodies waiting their turn were students in the “composition and color harmony” workshop Jessie was teaching that day. And every artist in the class had volunteered to get their hair “cut for the cause”, taking their lunch break to get it done. Jessie gave permission for her hair, nearly down to her waist in the signature look she’d had for the past few years, to be shortened to shoulder-length, but she’d had to steel herself to volunteer. Hope it’s not ugly as sin, she mused.
Mrs. Jackson had explained to Jessie that every year the Crooked Creek Art Show and Auction chose a different charity to receive a small percentage of the overall profits. The hair sheared during today’s “Cutathon” would be woven into free wigs for women and girls who’d lost their hair after chemotherapy.
Sniffing, Jessie wrinkled her nose. Phew. The beauty shop had the standard salon odor, a sulfurous smell of permanent solution. It reminded her of the rotten egg stench that filled the air near the geysers at Yellowstone Park. Ick. The beauty shop was decorated—overly decorated—in Peptol Bismol pink. Framed photos of the beauticians’ families stood on small shelves near their work stations—all framed in pink plastic frames. The plastic chairs were pink. The Formica counters were pink. Jessie pictured the blow driers, hairbrushes, combs and curlers rocketing into the sky like Old Faithful in a pink plume of cosmetic paraphernalia. She grinned.
The beautician, Mona, beamed back at her. Jessie figured the stylist thought she was being friendly—a good sport about getting her hair cut. The doll-like woman wore a lavender smock made of fabric printed with scissor and comb images festooned with googly eyes and smiles. She clomped around Jessie’s chair on high platform sandals that added four inches to her tiny frame, and undoubtedly caused aching arches by the end of a day. She chewed and smacked gum as she mumbled encouraging words, alternately smiling into the mirror at Jessie, then scowling darkly at the back of Jessie’s head, yanking the red tresses and muttering to herself about thick hair. Mona’s own hair had a streak of purple. Jessie wondered briefly if the color changed according to the stylist’s mood, like a mood ring.
She glanced at the beauty shop clock, impatient to get sheared and get going. She’d driven the Hawk, and because of the motor home’s length, she’d parked in the slushy alley at the shop manager’s suggestion. It was an illegal parking spot. And she’d left Jack loose in the Hawk. She made a face, thinking of the ingenious cat, hoping he wasn’t trying to open the kitchen cupboard with the weak latch. Or digging with his claws at the carpeted storage area hatch that fascinated him so much lately. She winced as Mona accidentally yanked a small tendril. “Ow. Will this take much longer?”
“Sorry. Nah. I’m nearly done already. And don’t you worry, darlin’.” She tugged one curly hank into submission and snipped. “It’ll be real cute. Cute, cute, cute. I‘ve got big plans for this here hair. Since I volunteered to cut all day, Locks for Ladies promised me that some red hair could be earmarked special for my niece, Camilla. Poor baby was a redhead, but she got cancer and now she don’t have a lick of hair left on her bald little bean.”
“Awww . . .” Jessie’s sighed sympathetically, “Poor little thing.”
“Little smooth head reminds me of one of those Great Northern beans they make ham ‘n bean soup outta. You ever make that?” She peered around Jessie’s head and met her deep blue, concerned eyes in the mirror. “I love that stuff, especially with some bacon bits in it. It don’t like me much. Anyhow, she used to be a little spitfire, too, but that damn leukemia took the starch right out of her. Like lettin’ the air out of a balloon.” The beautician gestured to a photo taped to the edge of the mirror. It showed two little girls in their Sunday best, looking directly at the camera. One had a smiling face framed by two long red pigtails, the other child wore a sober expression and a green knit cap. “They’re twins.” She tapped a painted fingernail on the child in the cap. “That’s Cami. Her momma and I are hoping a wig will give her a lift, bless her heart.”
“I hope so, too.” Jessie stared at the photo while her hair was lifted, yanked and trimmed. The little girl’s eyes showed a tired look with a hint of sadness. Dark shadows hung under eyes that looked too large for the small face. For the first time since she’d lowered herself into the salon chair, Jessie felt happy to be getting her hair cut. “You tell Cami I had it cut special for her.” Squirming, she adjusted herself more comfortably in the vinyl chair, and met Mona’s eyes in the mirror. “You can take several more inches if it helps.”
“Too late. I got the length and shape set. Don’t worry. It’s plenty.” Snip. “You got thick hair.” Snip. “Gorgeous stuff, too.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope the wig program makes some money.” The beautician waved her pink scissors in the air, snapping the blades together, making Jessie think of lobster claws. “The haircuts are free today, you know. We’re doing them for the publicity. Been written up in the paper. But anyone who wants can add a buck or two to the donation pot.” She grinned and gestured to a plastic wig form with a big slot cut in the top of the head. “If you want, you can put some right in old ‘Mabel’ there,” she said. “Besides the donations, the charity gets five percent of the art show profits. Whatever people pay for an auction piece, thirty percent goes to the promoter and five percent goes right to Locks for Ladies, Brandy told me.”
“Brandy?”
“She’s head of the charity’s board of directors. And she’s worried. Last year the show supported the Creekside Humane Society. They didn’t make much.”
“Really? That surprises me. Was it a bad show?” Jessie winced as Mona worked, her mind more on the twinges to her scalp than on the small talk.
“Sure didn’t look like a bad show. Everybody I know who likes animals tried to buy at least a tiny piece. Everybody in town knew part of the money was going to fund a big spay and neuter program.” She muttered to herself and lifted a piece of Jessie’s hair from each side of her head, judging the length. “And last year, the charity was supposed to get ten percent, not just five, like the cancer fund this year. Turns out profits were so poor, the Humane Society didn’t get enough money to do much.”
Jessie stared at her hair in the mirror, glaring at the reflection. She was going to reeeaally hate this haircut. Then what Mona had just said registered. Last year, Jessie hadn’t attended the show, but she’d sent a huge oil painting to their auction—one of her best paintings of the Glacier Park area. She’d specified that her share of the selling price, sixty percent, should be donated to the Creekside Humane Society. Hmmmm. She didn’t recall getting a thank you note from the CHS group. She’d received a note from the show committee, though, telling her that her piece had had sold for five figures. Fifty-two thousand, if she remembered correctly. She did some mental math, figuring her 60 percent at over thirty thousand dollars.
Where had that money gone?
She bit her lip and glanced at Mona from the corner of her eye.
“Brandy told you this? That can’t be right. Where did she hear that?”
“Put your head down. I’m checking to make sure I got it even.” Snip. “Put your head up now. Turn to the right.” Snip. “Well, that’s easy. Brandy’s married to the director of the Humane Society. Cliff, his name is. They make such a nice couple. I style her hair. Well, I can’t say I style her hair. Brandy hasn’t changed her hairdo in years. Do you notice that some folks aren’t brave enough to try anything new? Now, I change mine every couple of months. I’m so gray. But I can be any
color I want and let me tell you, darlin’, gray ain’t it.”
As Mona spoke, she untied the cover-up protecting Jessie’s green t-shirt, shook the loose hair from it and tossed it into a nearby hamper. One of the other beauticians’ swept Jessie’s hair from the floor and tipped it quickly into a plastic container marked “Locks for Ladies”.
Mona then grabbed the back of the swivel chair and turned it toward the mirror, fluffing Jessie’s bangs with a flourish.
“Looks good. Thanks, darlin’. You’re a peach.” Mona beckoned to the woman next in line. “Next.”
Jessie stood, still too stunned at Brandy’s comments to look in the mirror and check out her new style. “What’s Brandy’s last name?”
“Morrison.” Mona was already tying the cords of a clean cover-up into a bow at the back of the next customer’s neck.
“Thanks.” Jessie rifled through her handbag, pulled out a couple of twenty-dollar bills and stuffed them into the donation slot on the wig form. She yanked a pen and a small notepad from her purse and wrote ‘Brandy and Cliff Morrison’ on the top sheet. She would talk to Max Watson and ask for the skinny on last year’s auction. Then find and speak to the Morrisons. If the money from her donated painting never got to the Creekside Humane Society, she wanted to find out why the hell not.
* * *
Jessie stepped out of the beauty shop into the Montana sunshine feeling five pounds lighter. Her hair was short! Short! Well, still shoulder length, but shorter than she’d worn it in years. And the day was gorgeous. The sunshine flecked the disappearing bits of snow with dazzling sparkles of metallic gold and was quickly turning the unseasonable white fluff to slush. She was glad of the waterproofing on her boots as she sloshed through the chilly puddles to the end of the block and squished down the alley.
When Mona removed the cape covering Jessie’s clothing, loose hair had slipped down the neck of her T-shirt and it itched like a son-of-a-gun. After she turned the corner and was heading down the alley out of sight of public view, she grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulled it away from her body and shook the loose fabric vigorously. Snips of hair dumped out into the slush.
Yech.
She’d have to change in the motorhome. Looking ahead, she saw Jack through the windshield of the Hawk, sitting on the dash watching for her. He stood and jumped down when she reached the motorhome, and she knew he’d be lurking behind the door, hoping to slip out. He was tired of being cooped up. When they got back to the hotel she’d remember to take her cat leash in with her, so she could take him for a nice long walk this evening. Otherwise every time she went in or out, or the maid came in to tidy the room, he’d try to pull a disappearing act.
She shoved her key in the lock, opened the door a crack and carefully squeezed through, expecting to have to push the cat backward.
“Ha,” she said, inching through and slamming the door behind her. Then she deflated when she realized Jack was nowhere in sight. Jessie found him in the compact bedroom of the Hawk, sitting on the hatch of the storage compartment, slanty-eyed and inscrutable.
“Hey, Good Lookin’,” she quipped. “You’re slipping. Or are you just too lazy to want out?”
She stepped into the adjoining cherrywood bathroom and carefully peeled off the itchy shirt, folding it inside out to corral the loose hair. Then she held a washcloth under the faucet and sponge-bathed. Much better. Looking in the mirror, she closed her eyes in horror. Then brushed her hair. Hard. Her once waist-length hair now swung just below her shoulders. Jessie sighed, turned, and stepped back into the bedroom. From a built-in drawer, she pulled out a charcoal grey knit tunic and slipped it over her head. Portraying Michelangelo’s famous image of God and Adam touching index fingers, it was emblazoned with the text: Sistine Chapel, La Capella Sistina Roma Anno Domini MDXII.
Jack still sat on the laundry chute hatch. “C’mon, Big Guy, you’re not getting down there. What’s with you and that storage hatch, anyhow? C’mon, now. I’m in a hurry. I’ve got a class to finish this afternoon.” Jessie lifted Jack down from the storage hatch and dumped him unceremoniously into the outer room of the Hawk and shut the sliding bedroom door. A paw immediately reached under the crack of the door, and slipped left and right, searching for something—anything—to stick a claw into.
Jessie shook her head at Jack’s determination, then picked up the hairy T-shirt. She lifted the hatch cover wide open before she remembered there was no longer a clothes’ hamper in the storage area. The shirt fell from her hand, and her screams filled the Hawk. Open eyes stared up at her from a face that looked unquestionably dead.
Chapter Ten
Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office
“No. I’ve never seen him before. Ever. Not in my lifetime,” Jessie said frostily, her eyes fixed on the steely blue ones of the middle-aged, uniformed officer. Everything about him seemed unyielding—even his hair, clipped into a short buzz cut. “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Sheriff Fischer.”
“But you say that the night you arrived, Evan Hanson received,” He glanced unnecessarily at his notes, “… a text message from you—”
“No. That is not what I said,” Jessie interrupted. “I said he received a text that seemed to be from me, but absolutely was not from me.”
“…asking him to come out to your motorhome. Instead, he sent someone named Benny.” Fischer gave her a steely-eyed look. “Well, little lady. The hell of it is that this poor Benny shows up dead in your RV, with you driving him all over town. Robbery wasn’t a motive. His wallet was in his pocket, still holding his cash, credit cards and driver’s license.”
Jessie disliked his condescending tone. She really disliked being called “little lady”. She returned his look without flinching. “Yes. So you tell me. But the message …was not from my number. It was only worded to sound as though it came from me.”
“Why do you think someone would do that, Miss O’Bourne? Why do you think someone wanted to kill poor old Benny? And why stuff him in your RV?”
Jessie hung her head tiredly. She’d been sitting in the same chair for two hours. Two hours getting nowhere. At least the Sergeant had allowed her to call Max and tell him what happened. The afternoon workshop session on painting composition had to be canceled or postponed. She’d also asked him to call Arvid Abramsen, requesting that he come to the Sheriff’s Office as soon as he arrived. Under Jessie’s chair, Jack flexed his claws in and out of the carpet in annoyance. The huge orange tom was hungry and had been muttering periodically.
Six months, she thought. It was about six months ago that she and Jack had sat in almost the same pose in Russell’s office at the Sheriff’s Office in Sage Bluff, the day she’d given Arvid her statement about finding Amber Reynolds dying in her dad’s hayfield. The difference was that Arvid had been pleasant. She had an awful suspicion that the man in front of her thought she was involved in this death or had something to hide.
Fischer continued to drone on, but Jessie was lost in thought, thinking of her dad. Of Russell. Of Arvid. Of Sage Bluff. Homesickness washed over her like an ocean wave over empty beach. God help her, she was homesick. How she wished her Dad was here. Dan O’Bourne was huge. He made everyone she met seem small by comparison.
Wasn’t she too old to want her father to fix things? She stared down at her knee, eyes filling.
Oh, no. She was NOT going to cry.
She willed herself to concentrate on the blue of her jeans. Denim. A mix of ultramarine blue, a bit of burnt umber and white. Her fingers flexed. Fischer said something—loud—and she looked up, meeting his inquiring brown eyes.
“What do you have to say about that, Miss O’Bourne?”
Yes, a touch of burnt umber. “Er, sorry?”
“Miss O’Bourne? Are you with me here?” His eyes narrowed.
“Um …can I make another call?” Maybe Arvid was in Crooked Creek but Max hadn’t gotten through to him. Arvid was an electronic dinosaur and his cell phone was truly archaic. One of those flip things.
He compensated by not carrying it very often.
“YeowRrrr.” Jack thrummed grouchily, yawning wide, showing a mouthful of needle-like teeth. He got up to pace restlessly around Sergeant Fischer’s office, prowling from desk to filing cabinet and circling the Sergeant’s chair. When he got close enough to sniff Fischer’s pant leg, the man visibly cringed.
Geez, Jessie thought. The man dislikes cats. Or is afraid of cats. Maybe both.
She reached down and tapped her fingers on the floor. “C’mere, Baby. C’mon, Jack. Leave Sheriff Fischer alone.”
Jack gave Fischer’s boot a last sniff, wrinkled his nose and chuffed, before wandering back to check out Jessie’s fingers with his usual hope that cat treats might appear from mid-air. Finding none, he leaped onto her lap, put a paw on her shoulder and stared soulfully into her face.
“I asked why Evan would send Benny out to help you instead of going himself.”
“And as I have told you several times, I do not know. I have no idea. Ask Evan Hanson. Ask Max Watson.” She threw up her hands, startling Jack. “You could talk to the art show committee. Anybody who knew him. But I can’t help you.”
“Oh, be assured we will be speaking to everyone at the lodge, Miss O’Bourne. And in the meantime, your motorhome will have to be confiscated for evidence gathering. We need to go over it with a fine-toothed comb for fingerprints, and anything else we can find.”
“Can’t you just check out the storage area and give it back?”
“Nope. ‘Fraid not.”
“How long?” Jessie asked solemnly. Then she wondered how she could ever drive it again. Would she always see Benny's dead eyes staring up at her from the storage area? She cleared her throat, again analyzing the the denim color of her slacks—mentally adding just the tip of a palette knife of cobalt—and held back a sob. “How long do you need to keep it?”
2 Death at Crooked Creek Page 8