2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “Yeah?” The word was almost guttural.

  “I suspect you’ve been making an excellent living. This Emily Carr had better be legit.”

  Max’s eyes avoided Grant’s. He shrank into himself until he looked even smaller. “There has to be an explanation.”

  Grant looked past Max and pointed. “Don’t move that small David Johnson waterscape I see hanging behind your desk. It’s as luminous and striking as one I saw auctioned at Sotheby’s last fall—more so, in fact.” Grant stroked his chin. Then he stood, walked around the desk and stared at the painting. “It’s remarkably similar. Should I suspect this could actually be the original?” He turned to Jessie. “The Hudson River School Painters, even the second generation like David Johnson, are very popular on the East coast. They draw huge prices there, whereas here in the West, people don’t recognize their worth.” Looking back to Max, he continued, “I’ll be back in to examine it further this evening. Not now. My associate will arrive soon and if I’m here in the way I’ll get roped into helping. I have other plans.” He gave Jessie a meaningful look. “Agent Woodcastle is bringing an accountant, an art expert, and a search warrant, I believe.”

  Max sagged, and his face again turned fish-belly white. “But, I’ve done nothing. Nothing.”

  “Now it’s your turn, Jessie.” Grant nodded his head and made a sweeping hand gesture toward Max. “Mind if I stick around?”

  “Nope. Be my guest. I’ll keep it short.” She looked at Max. “It’s my understanding that the Creekside Humane Society didn’t get a good start on their new spay and neuter program last year. And not a shred of a start on the new addition they’d hoped to build onto their clinic. I’ll be speaking to them after our meeting here—to see if the check they received from the Expo last year included proceeds from my Glacier Park landscape. The one that sold for $32,250. They had a friend watching the auction, so the shelter had expected to receive those funds since it was announced that my painting was a 100% donation.”

  Max shook his head. “I wrote the check. I sent the check. It was for nearly fifty thousand dollars. Your accountant friend will be able to verify that. There’s been a huge mistake.”

  “I guess we’ll see, Max.”

  Grant stood and offered a hand to Jessie. She placed her small hand in his large one and stood, looking not at Max but directly into Grant’s long-lashed hazel eyes. As he met her eyes, his took on an amber gold cast. He seemed to visibly shake himself and then turned to open the door.

  Halfway down the hall, Jessie asked, “Aren’t you afraid he’ll take off?”

  “No,” Grant assured her. “As we left, I saw my friend Dillon Woodcastle coming down the hall. He wants first crack at Max’s books and he had a capable assistant with him—a woman I’ve worked with in the past.” He shook his head. “It’s too late for Max, I’m afraid. He’ll be busy with Dillon for some time. And I think he’s in water as hot as the geyser at Old Faithful.” Grant glanced down at Jessie’s take-out box. “So, what’s in the box?”

  “A bribe for Arvid.”

  “Ah. Pie?”

  “You’re close.” Her hand tingled—a warm feeling of electricity passing from Grant’s fingers to hers. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. The strength of the attraction that accompanied the subsequent tingle was a little frightening. She blinked and resisted the urge to mentally run through her colors. Maybe it was time to take a chance. To live life instead of backing away—being a spectator in her own story. She gave Grant a smile and said, “Almond pastry. Let’s go put it in my room and check on His Royal Highness.”

  “Okay,” Grant agreed. “We’ll look in on the king of cats…and then?”

  “If you have time, I need a ride downtown to the Creekside Humane Society. And after that to the Sheriff’s Office, so I can visit Evan Hansen. I won’t be long at either place.”

  “Okay.” He squeezed her hand and grinned. “Then I’m your man.” Without noticing the look that passed across Jessie’s face at that statement, he continued. “Just call me ‘Uber’.” He grinned. “Not that I mind driving you, but I take it you haven’t rented a vehicle yet?”

  Jessie scowled. “No, I haven’t. I tried. I really tried. I wanted a lovely red Ford F150. You know, that wonderful fire-engine red?” She looked thoughtful. “Actually, it’s almost pure cadmium, that brilliant…,” she caught herself, paused, and switched gears. She gave a rueful grin with a self-deprecating wave of the hand. “No matter. But the fellow at the car rental place was as chauvinistic as they come. He annoyed me so much that I just couldn’t bring myself to hand him my credit card.”

  “Oh? I take it he didn’t want to rent you the pickup?”

  “Nah. That was only part of it. The obnoxious jerk. He kept saying it was all wrong for a ‘little lady’ like me.” Jessie blew a raspberry.

  “Ah. I can see why he wasn’t popular with the ladylike, but modern, redheaded, independent sort of woman,” Grant chuckled.

  “Yeah. I led him to the row of pickups for rent and he led me right back to the row of cars. Back to the pickups. Back to the row of cars. Esther was with me, and she couldn’t seem to make up her mind whether to brain him one or bust up laughing After twenty minutes, I was practically seething. And he was even more unpopular when he found the car he thought was ‘just perfect for a delicate little lady’ like me.”

  “Uh oh.” Grant turned his face away from Jessie to hide his ear to ear smile. “What did this paragon of virtue think you should drive?”

  They stepped into the elevator and hit the button.

  Jessie’s face flamed. “Well, at least he got the color right. It was red, but it was hardly even big enough for me and my long legs…let alone roomy enough to have pudgy Jack ride along.”

  Grant threw an appreciative glance at her legs. “Compact, huh?”

  “Weensier.”

  “And it was…a Toyota? A Prius?”

  “Worse.” Jessie took her hand back and pinched her thumb and index finger together making a pinching motion. “About the size of a little red wagon. It was one of those dang micro-mini smart cars.”

  Grant’s laughter filled the elevator, turning abruptly into a wheeze. Jessie’s elbow had connected.

  “Watch it, FBI. We delicate gals pack a colossal punch.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Grant stared down at her, his eyes sparkling with good humor. Then they darkened into something else.

  She met his gaze and felt herself stumble slightly. Still staring into Grant’s eyes, she gave herself a mental slap.

  Long distance relationships never work, she reminded herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them to look again into his, determined to be unaffected. Flecks of gold in the hazel pupils. Thick blond hair. A slightly crooked nose that only served to make him look rugged. Tall. Darn good-looking, blast him. Enough electricity sizzled between them to power a high-rise.

  She felt herself beginning to pitch down an ever-narrowing tunnel as she gazed at Grant. A lot of rabbit holes at this crazy art show, she thought, remembering the heat his grasp had generated earlier. A rabbit hole. And so help me, I want to slip down it like a kid on a playground slide.

  As though reading her thoughts, Grant gave her a wink.

  Jessie hesitated, looking again into those teasing hazel-gold eyes. Then she gave a shake of her head, making the shortened red curls bounce, and reached over to firmly reclaim his big hand, savoring the jolt as his fingers wrapped around hers.

  Grant rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.

  Tumbling and slithering, Jessie thought. Down the old rabbit hole. Alice, here I come…

  “It’s a crazy question, Grant, but did you ever read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland when you were a kid? Do you remember any of the neat quotes from it?”

  Grant looked at her in amusement. “We had a choice of novels in our English class, so I read Lord of the Flies.”

  “Ugh. Sorry I asked. I had to read that one, too. It wasn’t one
of my favorites.”

  “Just yanking your chain. Sure, I did. Everyone had to read Lewis Carroll. Have we gone from spouting titles of morning and evening paintings like we did last year in Sage bluff, to quotes from the classics?” He thought a minute, then said, “My favorite quote was: ‘Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’”

  “You’re on,” Jessie said, wracking her brain for a quote. Then she said, “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

  “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.” Grant threw the completed quote right back as easily as lobbing a ball. He stopped walking, let go of her hand and turned Jessie toward him with a serious look. “It depends a good deal on where you want to go, too, Jessie O’Bourne. But you and I both know what the best quote in the book is.” He gestured back to Max’s door, where one of the two newly arrived FBI agents was knocking on the door.

  Grant grinned and looked at her expectantly. Then, Jessie threw her arms in the air and in unison she and Grant said, “Off with their heads!”

  *.*.*

  Up in her room, Jessie scooped kibble into Jack’s bowl while the tom purred and wound around Grant’s ankles, stopped every other figure-eight to look up at him and make a thrumming sound. Grant reached down and rubbed behind Jack’s ears and scratched his back, from his neck to the base of his tail.

  “I missed you too, Tough Guy,” Grant murmured to the tom. “No cats allowed in my Boston condo. It was lonesome, Jackeroo.”

  Jessie shook the treat bag and Jack’s attention swiveled to her. Then he trotted over to see what she held in her hand, standing on hind legs to give it a quick sniff.

  “Fickle,” Grant said. “And here I thought he was thrilled to see me.”

  Jessie laughed. “Well, he does like men. And I’m sure he remembers you, but I’m afraid not even you can compete with a salmon snack.”

  Jack gobbled the treat. Then, Grant and Jessie both forgotten, he ran to the window and leapt to the sill. He looked out the window and gave a muttering grumble.

  “What does he want?” Grant asked.

  “I don’t know.” Jessie watched him with concern. “But he’s probably just tired of being cooped up.”

  “Do you want to bring him along? Arvid told me Jack actually walks well on a leash. He was impressed. He says it’s amazing.”

  Jessie continued to watch Jack. The big tom now stood on his hind legs and looked out the window. Then he plopped down on his rump and looked back at Jessie, his gaze fixed on her in an enigmatic stare. He yowled loudly. Finally, with a dismissive ‘mrph’, he jumped down and walked to his food dish and began to eat.

  “Yes. But Arvid doesn’t know I have to bribe Jack to get him to walk on his harness—and don’t you dare tell him.” Jessie shook a warning finger at him.

  She walked to the window and looked out, remembering the small animal she’d seen scrabble into the brush while she watched from the deck at the top floor of the lodge. Maybe Jack had seen it from his perch at the window. She’d walk that direction when she took him out for his stroll.

  “But thanks for offering to take His Highness along,” she told Grant. “I’ll take him for a good long walk when we get back. Until then, he’ll be okay here. I don’t want to take him into the Creekside Humane Society, because it might scare the bejeebers out of him. Poor thing would think he was going to the vet. And I don’t want to take him into the Sheriff’s Office, because Sheriff Fischer is scared of cats.” She smirked. “Or at least of Jack.”

  Grant burst into laughter. “Well, that’s just crazy.” He looked over at Jack, who was still wolfing down his food. Jack, as though he sensed someone’s gaze on him, gave Grant a determined look and a low rumbling growl as if to remind the big man that the bowl belonged to one rotund tomcat, and he’d best keep his distance. “Hmmm. Well, maybe the Sheriff is a smart man.” Jack gave another grumble. “Discerning, even.”

  Chuckling, Jessie snagged a deep blue sweater from the closet, looked back at the cat, still blissfully chin-deep in kibble, and turned to give Grant a smile as they went out the door, pulling it firmly shut behind them. As the lock clicked into place, they heard a complaint from the other side of the door.

  “Mrrrr.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Downtown Crooked Creek

  “Well, I guess that answers that question,” Jessie fumed, plunking herself on the seat of Grant’s rented SUV. Grant gave her a sympathetic look. They had just left the Creekside Humane Society. The director, Clifford Schultz, said the show manager told him the sale of Jessie’s donated piece had fallen through. The CHS had not received any of the $32,250 for which the painting had auctioned.

  When Schultz had inquired as to why the sale fell through, he was told that the buyer’s check had been returned as “insufficient funds,” and the address given was no longer valid.

  “Neither the bank on which the check was drawn, nor the Expo staff were able to locate him,” Schulz explained. I feel terrible that the piece was the high seller and a 100% donation to the CHS spay and neuter program. Some people are such jerks.” At that statement, his eye began to twitch—a nervous tic.

  “It’s okay, Jessie,” Grant assured her. “I’ll mention it to our auditor so that the sale isn’t overlooked. When the FBI gets finished with Max, the animal shelter will get its money.” His eyes blazed and he told her, “I know the buyer personally. I shave his face in the mirror every day and I guarantee his check didn’t bounce.” He nodded toward his SUV. “Let’s head over to the Sheriff’s Office and see if we can get in to visit Evan.”

  * * *

  “We’d like to see Evan Hanson,” Grant told Sheriff Fischer after introducing himself and showing his badge. “That okay with you?”

  “I guess so,” Fischer conceded. “It’s not like I can argue with the FBI.” He turned to Jacob, who’d just walked in, his expression becoming hesitant when he saw Jessie. His eyes grew huge when he was introduced to Grant, obviously the first FBI agent he’d met. “Take Miss O’Bourne and Agent Kennedy down to the jail and let them visit with Evan,” Fischer told him. Then he turned to Grant. “I’m assuming you can visit through the bars? You don’t want to be let into the cell?”

  “Through the bars will be fine,” Grant assured him.

  “Try to keep it to fifteen minutes.” He glanced at the wall clock. “His lawyer will be here in twenty and I hate to keep him waiting. Guy makes me nervous with all his pacing back and forth.”

  Grant nodded.

  Jacob led the way down the hall to the block of six cells Crooked Creek called “the jail”. All were empty except two. One held a sleeping drunk who reeked of alcohol and vomit, the smell wafting outward toward Jessie and Grant in nearly visible waves. The other cell held a dejected-looking Evan Hanson. He sat on a narrow cot reading a dog-eared paperback that looked as though it had been there since the fifties. When he saw them, he tossed it aside and hurried to the front of the cell, looking through the bars.

  His words came out in a rush, tumbling over one another like pebbles pushed down a swift stream. “Jessie O’Bourne,” His face flushed. “I’m so relieved you came. I didn’t put those crazy toy tractors and nasty threats outside your hotel room,” his voice trembled. “I swear. You’ve got to believe me.” He threw out his hands. “Please listen to me. You could be in terrible trouble. Someone’s harassing you and trying to blame it on me—and trying to frame me for Benny Potter’s murder. Benny wasn’t one of my favorite people, but I didn’t kill him.”

  Grant’s deep voice rumbled, “If it isn’t you, do you have any idea who might be doing it? Or who killed Benny Potter?” For the third time that day, he reached into his pocket and drew out his badge.

  Evan blinked. “FBI? No, but I’m telling you, it sure as hell wasn’t me,” Evan choked out. “I would never in a hundred years murder anybody. I felt like I wanted to…you know, right after Adele was killed. But even if I’d known t
hen that it was Benny who shot her, I still think I’d have let the law handle it.” He stared down at the floor. When he raised his head, his eyes blazed with anger. “And I believe that even more now.”

  “Why is that?” Jessie and Grant asked, almost in unison.

  He waved his hand, gesturing to the tiny cell. “Whoever killed Adele—and Fischer thinks it was Benny—deserves a more miserable punishment than a fast death. To be locked up in a little space like this—well that’s a lot worse—and…,” he stammered, “and…that’s what he deserved.”

  “Evan,” Jessie asked softly, “Do you think Benny was the one sending threatening notes to Berg Nielson? I heard about that.” She gave him a sad smile. “And I know Fischer is certain Benny killed Dom Nielson’s friend, Harris Freeman.”

  “Nah,” Evan said. “I’ve done nothing but sit here and think about that. I’ve been reading the same chapter of this ancient Zane Grey novel over and over. I can’t wrap my mind around any of this murder business and I can’t concentrate. The words don’t even make sense.” He grabbed the bars of the cell again and stared at them—intense emotion making his voice tremble. “This whole situation doesn’t make sense. But no. I doubt if Benny could even figure out how to book a flight to Savannah, let alone figure out shuttle busses and connecting flights. Benny just wasn’t that clever.” Evan frowned. “and the Chicago and Denver airports are so busy, he’d probably get lost. Scary, huh? That means someone else has to be in on it.”

  “I think so, too,” Jessie said. “Maybe even two killers. It seems like all a person should have to do is follow the money. Who inherits the Nielson place? And who winds up with Benny’s?”

  Evan stared at her. “Yeah, follow the money. That isn’t much help. But to answer your questions, I don’t know. I don’t know who inherits Nielson’s, but you know what? Benny’s place bordered the Nielson ranch. I hadn’t even thought of that. He lived in a crappy little shack with his two dogs.” He scratched his head, a thoughtful look on his face. “But he has—had—some land. Maybe about 600 acres. He let his land lay fallow—didn’t plant crops, let the grass grow tall. Benny was a terrible farmer. And he knew it. So instead of planting the fields, he took a subsidy from a conservation program that used his land for wild birds—pheasants, grouse—some sage hen.”