“Well,” Sergeant Fischer said, leaning back in his oak desk chair, hands laced behind his head. “That pretty much depends on what we find. I can’t give you a specific date when you’ll get it back.”
“I see.” Jessie took mental inventory of what she had in the hotel room, and what was in the Hawk. “I suppose I can’t retrieve personal belongings?”
“Sorry, no. At least you have your credit cards and cash, since you had the ladies’ travel wallet in your pocket. After all, it’s a murder investigation. It’s to your advantage as well as ours that we check the interior of the motorhome before anything else is removed. Rule out that the victim had been inside before his death.” He gave her a skeptical look. “We won’t find Benny’s fingerprints inside, will we?”
“I’m sure not.” Jessie’s thoughts churned as she reviewed the checklist. Clothes? Paint? Canvases? Cat items? Leash? Crap, she thought. The hell with Arvid’s Norwegian swear words. I’ve got to have a damn leash.
“Well, I think we’ve covered about all we can for now. You realize that often the person who reports a body is the same person who placed it there?” He gave her a two-fingered salute. “Don’t leave town.”
The absurdity of that struck Jessie, and she almost grinned. “I can’t leave town. Not only do I have an art show to help with, and a workshop to teach, but you’ve taken my only means of transportation.”
“Uh huh. I need to check the team’s progress at the resort parking lot. See if they’ve found anything in the area you said you were parked. I mean before you left for the beauty shop.” Sergeant Fischer stood and retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair. “Do you need a lift back to the hotel?”
“Yes,” Jessie said.
The desk phone buzzed. Fischer picked it up with an abrupt, “Yes?”
He listened, then said brusquely, “Send him in.”
“Seems your champion has arrived, Miss O’Bourne. An old acquaintance?” He rubbed his chin with his hand and looked unhappy.
Jessie brightened at the sound of a knock on the door, which was pushed open even before Fischer called a gruff, “Come in.”
Arvid’s large frame filled the doorway. Jessie relaxed with relief, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. If she couldn’t have her father available for moral support, Arvid was a wonderful second best. Along with his air of self-confidence he wore a flannel-lined denim jacket over a blue plaid woolen shirt—a blue that made his eyes seem the intensity of a summer sky. His salt and pepper hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his meaty fingers through the mop in agitation. He glanced at Jessie in concern, then nodded to her.
Fischer stepped forward and held out his hand to the big Norwegian. Grasping the Sergeant’s hand, Arvid gave it a brief pump before saying, “Good to meet you, Detective Sergeant. Name’s Arvid Abrahmsen. Jessie’s an old friend of mine, and my wife’s. I’m with the Sage Bluff Sheriff’s Office. Whole thing sounds like a can of worms without a fishing pole in sight, don’t it?” Then he looked at Jessie. “I dropped Esther at the check-in desk and hustled my behind over here. You can fill me in on the ride back to the hotel, okay?” He looked at Fischer. “You must be about done with her for now?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Fischer said grudgingly.
“But you got the Hawk?” Arvid gave him a questioning look.
“What hawk?” Fischer asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Huh. Sorry. I mean the motorhome. Jessie’s Greyhawk. You confiscate it to run forensics?”
“Oh. Yes. We certainly did.” Fischer’s tone was self-important. “But we’re a small community. We use the State Police for lab work like that. And they’re always backlogged. We’ll have it for at least a week.”
“A week? Good god, they ought to be able to finish with it before that.”
Jessie gave Arvid a warning look. He grunted, then reached into a shirt pocket and handed Fischer a card.
“Well. Alrighty then. Here’s my info. We’d appreciate it if you’d keep us informed as to your progress and time frame for getting Miss O’Bourne’s vehicle back.”
“Yeah. Our time frame is: we’ll be done when we’re done. No special courtesies just because you and I are in the same profession.”
Arvid gave him a look that could curdle milk. “Didn’t ask for any. You give her a receipt for the motorhome and the contents?” At Fischer’s nod, Arvid glanced at Jessie and reached out to take Jack, hugged the tom to his massive chest and scratched under his chin, working his fingers to the tom’s cheek and behind an ear. Jack purred. Arvid smiled and handed the rumbling cat back to her. “You ready to head back to the hotel?”
“Sure.” Then she reconsidered. “Actually, can we hit a pet store first? I need a couple things for the beast.”
“Wait a minute,” Fischer said. Jessie turned. The Sergeant had slipped on a pair of shades that reflected Jessie’s face in the lenses. “You don’t know who took the art show banner off the signpost and hung it on the tractor instead, do you, Miss O’Bourne?”
“What? The big banner about the show? No, I have no idea. Why on earth do you want to know?”
“Never mind. That’s not your concern.” He waved his hand imperiously at her as though shooing away a fly. “You can go for now. I’ll be in touch.”
Jessie gave an annoyed huff. Without realizing it in her irritation, she’d tightened her hold on Jack, who rumbled his displeasure. His reptilian yellow eyes narrowed.
“You’re squeezing the life out of that cat,” Arvid grabbed Jessie’s elbow and almost pulled her through the door.
As they walked down the hall, Arvid whispered. “Don’t say nothin’.”
When they were further down the hall, Jessie said, “Isn’t he just the…the most obnoxious…the most self-important man you’ve ever met?”
“Yeah, he’s sure got a stick up… uh, he’s . . .,” Arvid scratched his head. “Hmm. Well…he’s just trying to do his job, Jess.”
“Hmph. Well, I don’t like him. I am so not going to sketch his portrait in my journal.”
Arvid gave her a skeptical look. He was well aware Jessie kept a notebook with a quick pencil portrait of nearly everyone she knew included within the pages. Grinning, he changed the subject. “I ‘spose even your cat food is locked in the Hawk? There might be a clue in it, you know,” he teased. “It’d make a good book.” He rolled his hand as though introducing a guest speaker at a podium. “Introducing Sheriff Fischer, author of The Clue in the Kibble,” he said in a low, dramatic tone.
Jessie snickered.
“So, are we making the pet store run for cat food?” Arvid glanced at Jack, then back at Jessie with a grin. “He looks like he could live on his layer of blubber for a week, Jess.”
Jack gave a guttural thrum.
“No. Jack’s kibble was one of the first things I carried into the hotel room.” Jessie sighed. “But I do need a cat harness. Jack’s is still in the Hawk because I forgot to take it into the hotel. He’s already sick of being cooped up. He’s being a real pain about trying to get out when the maid comes to clean the room. I don’t want to lose him. I’m going to take him for walks while we’re stuck staying in the lodge.”
Arvid’s chuckle echoed down the corridor. “I can’t wait to see that. I’m gonna have to borrow Esther’s new phone and make a video.”
“Oh, sure. I can see you doing that. First, you’d have to ask Esther how to turn it on. Then, you’d be on the phone calling tech support for at least an hour—maybe two—before you could figure out the video app,” she chortled. “Esther would think you were having an affair with someone named Habib.”
“Say, now.” Arvid shook his finger at her. “Didn’t I just rescue your tuckus from the possibility of the hoosegow?”
“Huh,” Jessie grunted, mimicking one of Arvid’s most pertinent sayings. “Not hardly.”
“Yeowr,” Jack echoed.
Chapter Eleven
Downtown Crooked Creek
“So, someone sent the show assistant an email, pretending to be you, asking for help? That’s weird.”
Arvid slowed to a stop as the light turned yellow, then red. He tapped his finger impatiently on the wheel of the pickup. They’d stopped at the pet store, bought Jack a flashy blue cat harness that included a leash and a bag of cat treats, and were heading back toward the lodge.
“Yeah. Actually, a text.”
“You know how electronically challenged I am. A text is on your phone, right? And it uses your phone number or a computer account in your name somehow, right?”
“Yes. Most use a phone number. So, whoever sent it had to go to all the trouble to create a fake account with my name, then send the text.” Jessie smoothed the hair on Jack’s back, realizing the gesture was more calming to herself than to the big tom. He was used to riding. Loved it, in fact. “But they must have used a burner phone. A throwaway.”
“Geez. Then it was definitely intentional. No way that could be some computer gremlin.”
“Not a chance.”
“Fischer don’t seem like the kind of guy to be careless. I don’t think he and me are gonna be best buds, but that ain’t important. He’ll check on the text. You got any ideas on who might be annoyed enough at you to pull that stunt?”
“At me? No. I don’t think it has anything to do with me, Arvid. I think my Hawk was just a handy spot to hide the body.”
“Hope that’s all there is to it. Hey, look. Let’s pull in and have a bite.” He put on his blinker, drove past a shop advertising custom-made saddles and pulled immediately into the only empty parking space in front of an eatery whose sign read ‘Hank’s Diner and Dogs’. “Getting a parking place right here in front.” He made a thumbs-up gesture. “Must be good old fate. Diner and Dogs. Bet they got chili dogs. I haven’t had a crumb to eat since we left Sage Bluff.”
Jessie looked dubiously at the cafe. “Well…” Her stomach was roiling. But she knew she should eat. Some food would perk her up if she could keep it down.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Jess. Be a sport. I’m riding on empty here.”
“Oh, alright. Sheesh. I’m not sure I can eat anything, I’m so keyed up.”
“Sure you can. A burger and a piece of pie will fix you right up. Guess I’d better call Esther and see if I need to bring her back a sandwich or maybe order and go pick her up while they make our food. I didn’t even think of it. Heck, I must be a thoughtless hunk of no good husband.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and began to dial.
“Oh, I doubt that. I know how often Esther says you bring home flowers and such.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s out of guilt because I’m always doing some dumb little thing she gets all fired up about.” He held the phone to his ear. He wiggled his eyebrows at Jessie. “Keeps the peace.” He turned his attention to the phone.
“Hi, honey. I can pick you up, so you can have lunch with Jessie and me. We’re stopping for a chili dog. We can fill you in on what’s happening while we eat. I’m starving here.”
Jessie heard mumbling in the background, and Arvid shook his head back and forth, then up and down, waiting for his turn to speak. Then he swiped the phone to off and put it back in his jacket pocket.
“Well, what did she say?”
“Huh,” Arvid grunted. “First, she said, ‘Chili dogs, oh gross’. And then she said, ‘I knew you’d stop and eat without me, you big Norwegian lug’. And earlier, when I told her you found a dead body in the Hawk, she said a word I didn’t even know she knew. Came right outta her sweet mouth.” He shook his head. “She’s going to order a chicken salad from the restaurant at the lodge. Can you imagine ordering a salad instead of eating chili dogs with us?”
Jessie smiled, and with that simple action, felt her spirits lift. How the refined and elegant Esther and the huge crusty Norwegian Sheriff’s Deputy had managed to meet on common ground and marry was a mystery. She began to chuckle. “Oh, Arvid, you don’t even know if they have them.”
“Ya, sure they will. Say, is Jack going to be okay in the truck while we eat? I’ll lower my window a tad.”
“He’ll be fine.” Jack looked up at her tom. One of his fangs was snagged, overlapping his lip, but he was doing his best to look snooty. He’d caught the word “truck” and the intention to leave him in the vehicle. “He doesn’t mind being left in a vehicle when the weather is this cool. In fact, he likes to lay on the dash and growl at passers-by.”
“That is the damnedest cat I’ve ever seen.” He reached toward Jack’s lip. “Poor big ole Jack. Let me help you, Bud.”
“Don’t try it, Arvid,” Jessie said quickly. “He’ll bite.”
“Huh.” He drew his hand back as Jack’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, that looks dang uncomfortable.”
“He’s okay. I’ll crack the window on my side, but we have to lock the doors. I don’t want anyone stealing my handsome boy. And he knows how to open the old truck door at Dad’s, so we have to make sure this is locked tight.”
Arvid guffawed as he and Jessie got out and she insisted on locking the pickup doors before walking to the restaurant entrance.
“After you,” he said, as he pushed open the door and they looked around the sparkling interior of a small, but cheerful, cafe. The walls were sunshine yellow. The floor was black and white checked linoleum—well-scrubbed and well-worn—probably installed about 1950. Several cowboy hats hung on a rack near the door and above the rack hung an ad covered with shamrocks touting an Irish Festival in Butte.
COME DOWN TO BUTTE FOR ST. PATTY’S DAY AND FIND YOUR IRISH ROOTS! HAVE A GREEN BEER, AN IRISH WHISKY, AND LISTEN TO SOME PIPES AND DRUMS. ENTER THE RAFFLE FOR THE REMINGTON MODEL 870 WINGMASTER SHOTGUN—ALL PROCEEDS BENEFIT OUR BUTTE FIRE STATION
The room was a weird mix of art deco meets rustic western with a few St. Patrick’s Day decorations tossed in. The smell of frying burgers made Jessie’s mouth water. But every table and booth was full. Arvid began to turn and exit in disappointment.
A pint-sized waitress with legs slim as a shore-bird’s, and slightly knock-kneed, came barreling over and barked at him in a drill-sergeant’s booming voice, “Wait a sec, wait a sec. We’ll have a booth open in a tic.” Jessie and Arvid hesitated. She stood and wrung her hands, muttering, “Let me see. Let’s see, now.” Then she focused on her target with missile-like precision.
“Frank!” She yelled toward a glum, slump-shouldered, wispy-haired man in a threadbare red woolen shirt. “You been sitting over that same cup of coffee for an hour. Move your butt over to the counter and give these nice folks your booth.”
“Aw, Beth Marie,” came his whiny voice. “Not again.”
“I mean it. Get a move on, and I’ll refill your cup and pop a piece of pie in the microwave for you. Add some real whippin’ cream, even.” She made a shooing motion at him. “Whippin’ cream,” she coaxed in a sultry voice. “You go on, now.”
Frank, now looking remarkably cheery for someone being evicted from his space, rose, strode to the counter and slid onto a tall stool. “I want the Dutch apple this time, Beth.” He grabbed a white napkin from a chrome dispenser, pulled a fork from a container of clean utensils, placed them to his left, and waited expectantly.
“C’mon,” the bossy little woman directed Arvid and Jessie. She swished a rag over the table and waved them into the now empty booth, “I’m Beth Marie, and I’ll be your server. Set yourselves down and I’ll be there in a whipstitch. Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Jessie replied. Arvid nodded and held up two fingers.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
“Cream and sugar. I need my calories.” Arvid gave her an impish smile as he slid into the booth.
Over the table hung a bone-white bison skull. Someone had taped shamrocks over the eye holes and under the macabre head, a stained poster covered with hearts proclaimed, ‘Have a Happy Valentine’s Day’. The edge of a faded Christmas border peeked out from un
der the Valentine wishes. Jessie downgraded her first impression of the cafe from ‘immaculate’ to ‘clean enough to eat in’.
Beth Marie turned on a heel and swept through the small cafe, returning with a pot full to the brim, filling the hapless Frank’s coffee cup in drive-by fashion with one hand and plunking a thick wedge of plated pie in front of him with the other. As she hurried around the counter toward their booth, she tucked a couple menus under her arm and snagged two mugs. Jessie stared at her in wordless wonder.
“Here you go.” She placed two menus on the table. “Our special today is cream of chicken soup with a grilled cheese sandwich on sourdough. The soup is good for what ails you. It’s got chunks of chicken, onion, garlic and a dab of fresh rosemary. Don’t ask about bread ‘cause it don’t come on nothin’ but sourdough. We have two pies—coconut cream or Dutch apple. Fresh today. I put the half and half for your coffee there on the lazy Susan with the napkins. Back in a flash.” And off she went.
“I swear that little woman leaves a trail of smoke,” Arvid said admiringly. “She’s like a super power.”
Jessie smiled and tried not to snicker. She was looking at the menu.
“What the…?” Arvid was crestfallen. There were no chili dogs on the menu. No bratwurst. No hot dogs. But in a corner of the menu was a photo of a fat yellow lab with a chihuahua standing between his legs. In bold red letters, it stated ‘If you don’t want to share the cafe with our dogs, there is outdoor seating in the back of Hank’s Diner and Dogs. Please let us know if you plan to eat outside.’
Jessie and Arvid looked at each other. Arvid raised an eyebrow. Then they looked around and spotted a old, gray-muzzled dog stretched out flat under the back table, legs twitching in sleep. Curled up near the chin of the larger dog was the chihuahua.
“Guess I’ll have the special. And two pieces of pie. One of each.”
2 Death at Crooked Creek Page 9