“Tell it like it is, Evan. You mean Adele’s murder,” Glen growled. “Not death—murder.”
Jessie listened intently, judging the slight rattle. In her mind, she practiced a long brushstroke beginning from directly behind her to the man with the gun. The pitchfork would be the brush. Ochre, she thought. A long yellow-gold stroke.
One chance.
She judged the slithering sound. It was almost perfectly aligned, she thought, with the pitchfork. She took a deep breath.
Soon.
“Now, Jessie!” Cheri’s voice came from the loft. Evan’s gaze flew upward toward the sound as Jessie whirled, grabbed the pitchfork, scooped the wriggling load of hay and flung it. Through the air flew the King of Diamonds, the largest diamondback rattler Jessie had ever seen. Its mouth opened wide as it hit, one large fang piercing Evan’s cheek. The gun catapulted into the air as he screamed and clawed at the snake, pulled it off his face and launched it backward through the open door. Its body whipped back and forth as it propelled itself from the barn.
Glen tackled Evan, landing with a sickening thump.
“Get off me! I’ve been bit—”
“Holy moly! Would you look at that?” Arvid’s voice boomed through the open door. “Dritt, that’s the biggest snake I’ve ever seen. Did you see it?”
Helland and Cheri hustled down the ladder as Russell and Fischer hurried into the gloom of the barn.
“Jessie, are you okay?” Russell pulled her in and hugged her hard. Then he let her go, stepped back and looked at her intently.
“She’s delightful,” Glen said. “Girl has the best follow through I’ve ever seen. Swoosh. Just delightful.”
“I’m fine.” Jessie gestured to Evan. “But I think Evan needs to be treated for snake bite.”
Fischer was pulling out cuffs.
Jessie walked to Cheri and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Thank you, thank you. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have waited too long to take the chance.”
“You’re welcome.” Cheri grinned. “It was quite a sight.”
“Damndest thing I ever saw,” Helland said. “And I have everything Evan said on my phone here.”
“You got all that from up in the loft?” Jessie gave him an incredulous look.
“I’m a bit hard of hearing, so this phone here is amplified. Cheri did that new texting thing to 911, while I crept to the edge of the loft, so I could record the situation. We wouldn’t have let him hurt Jessie or Glen.” He patted the pocket on the vest he wore. “I was planning to shoot him.” “Beretta Pico. It’s a .380 caliber, but only weighs eleven and a half ounces, so it’s easy for an old guy like me to carry.” Helland noticed the look on Sheriff Fischer’s face. “And yes, before you ask, I do have my concealed carry permit. But Cheri thought she knew what Jessie was planning and whispered that if I shot Evan, Jessie might move. And if she moved forward—even an inch—that snake would strike. So, Cheri watched the movement of the snake under the layer of hay and yelled when she thought the rattler was exactly parallel to Jessie.”
Fischer slapped him on the back. “You rock, Joe.”
Arvid peered down at Evan. “Let’s get him to the hospital. Looks like only one puncture mark, but it’s swelling fast. We need to hurry.”
“Joe, come along.” Fischer was abrupt. “Bring your phone.”
*.*.*
As they hurried Evan into the Sheriff’s Chevy Tahoe, a car screamed into the yard and two men bolted out. Russell had called Grant and Tate while enroute to the barn. Out the side window, he saw the big blond man run toward the barn—and to Jessie—and felt a momentary pang of loss. The feel of Jessie in his arms just a few minutes before had felt like coming home after years of wandering in the desert. He wondered if it would ever be that way with Camille. Yeah, there were sparks. But with Jessie there were deep embers—the kind that glowed throughout a lifetime and never diminished. Jessie said they were family. He sighed. The O’Bourne’s had been the only real family, the only caring family he’d ever known. He loved Jessie, but now that he’d felt that special spark with Camille, he wanted it. The blasted redhead was right again. Russell squeezed his eyes shut...rubbing them with an index finger. He wondered if Grant had told Jessie yet that he’d turned Max’s investigation totally over to Woodcastle—who was now beginning to find discrepancies in Max’s books—and to an FBI art appraiser. The appraiser had determined the painting in Max’s office needed to be ‘further examined’. Russell opened his eyes and sighed. Jessie would be happy to hear that Grant’s next assignment would be in the Santa Fe area, investigating a huge turquoise jewelry theft. A feeling of jealousy washed over him, then dissipated. He grinned.
And then he wondered what was happening in room 145.
Chapter Fifty-five
Jessie’s studio – Santa Fe, New Mexico
Jessie was downing a cup of dark roast Kona coffee from a bag of ground beans and working a crossword puzzle when the delivery truck backed into her drive. She saw two men jump out and manhandle a large wooden crate toward her front patio. Before they reached it, she opened the door and stepped out. They set the box down and one hefty fellow pulled a sheet of paperwork off the crate. “I’ll need your signature on this, ma’am.”
“Excuse me. I’m not expecting anything.”
“Are you….” He looked down at the invoice, “Miss Jessie O’Bourne?” He held it out to her.
“Yes.” Jessie looked at the sheet. It was indeed her address. There was no return address. It was just a form asking for proof of delivery. She signed with the pen he held out to her. Then she motioned them inside and supervised as they carried the heavy box indoors and placed the box on the floor of the studio.
Later, Jessie twisted the screw on the last corner of the heavy plywood crate, pulled it from the wood and dropped it into a metal dish. Inside, the box was loaded with foam packing nested around a second container of lightweight wood, a box closed with buckled leather straps. Another box, she mused. It had red arrows pointing upward, as had the outer container, and the standard “this side up” warning.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Grant would say. A lot of expense in shipping and no return address.
She grunted as she tried to lift the box out, complaining to the curious tomcat watching the process. “My gosh, it’s heavy as lead. Someone sent me a set of weights. Maybe anvils, Jack. Hmm…Somehow, this smaller box must be attached to the outer container.” Indeed, it was. After removing the foam packing she could see support braces on the underside of the interior box and suspected those braces were wood-glued or screwed to the outer container.
Jack ignored her, busily batting at a piece of packing foam. He whacked it and charged, his tail puffed out, claws skittering across the floor. He snagged it with a claw and tossed the piece in the air, then smacked it toward the wall and let it carom off before pouncing again.
Jessie watched his antics and smiled, then turned back to her project and puzzled at the inside carton. Finally, she left the inner box in place, still attached to the outer, and undid the leather straps. The last clasp let go with a snap. Inside, lay another cocoon of thick foam. It was a type of insulating foam that she’d seem blown around objects to form a mold so that the object could then be cast in bronze. It was slit down the center and the two halves duct taped together.
On top of the shaped foam lay a manila envelope. Jessie slit it open and pulled out a wooden gingerbread boy, a thin sheet of paper and a photograph. She stared at the image of a smiling family. Turning it over, she saw the names scrawled on the back.
Berg and Vi Nielson, Dominic and Adele…in happy times.
On the sheet of white paper were just a few words.
Jessie,
May you always stretch your wings and fly above trouble in grace and beauty. Heartfelt and eternal thanks from an old whittler,
Joe Helland
Jessie felt her eyes fill. She set the photo and letter aside. She caught the edge of the thick foam and peeled it back
. Her breath caught when she saw the whorls of dark walnut.
“Oh Joe, you didn’t,” she whispered.
Sweeping aside the rest of the packing, she stared at the carved base, the walnut mimicking the ripples of water lapping at the swans’ nesting place. The carving had been painstakingly rubbed to a rich, mellow sheen.
The swan that had been unfinished in Helland’s studio now stood solidly on wide webbed feet and stretched to its full height, its breast puffed out and its graceful neck extended, bill opened as if calling. The head was slightly tipped upward and in the brown head were luminous black eyes.
The wings were flung gracefully outward and up—substantial, exquisitely feathered. They lifted gloriously, triumphantly, upward toward the freedom of the sky.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARY ANN CHERRY
Award winning mystery author, Mary Ann Cherry, is a professional artist much like her book heroine, Jessie O'Bourne, and was raised in rural Montana in an area similar to the fictitious town of Sage Bluff within her first novel. Cherry now lives in rural Idaho with her husband and several pudgy cats.
When Cherry isn’t writing, she travels to art shows, where she exhibits her paintings professionally and takes part in “quick draws”, 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 and Emeritus 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 the flower beds that are not getting weeded while she is putting down words. Luckily, the view is only 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.
Information on current writing projects can be found on Cherry’s website: www.maryanncherry.net
If you missed the first novel of the Jessie O’Bourne series, be sure to read DEATH on CANVAS.
DEATH on CANVAS
The first novel of the Jessie O’Bourne mystery series finds the artist working with her Norwegian friend, Sheriff’s Deputy Arvid Abrahmsen, on a desperate search for a killer and two missing Thomas Moran masterpieces worth millions. The paintings connect the cold case murder of Jessie's great aunt Kate with the present-day murder of a Native American grad student Jessie discovers in the O'Bourne family hayfield—a girl who whispers before she dies that her attacker was a cop.
The colorful writing in this award-winning novel offers the reader a glimpse into the mind of an artist and a view of the picturesque setting of rural Montana. Lovers of the mystery genre will enjoy the twists and turns in this who-done-it and laugh at the humorous interludes afforded by Arvid Abrahmsen and Jack Dempsey, Jessie’s disreputable orange tomcat (appropriately named for a 1920’s professional boxer).
With Jessie’s biological clock (A.K.A. Big Ben) ticking away, the romance reader will also find themselves evaluating acting Sheriff Russell Bonham and hunky FBI art theft agent, Grant Kennedy, as suitable mates for their favorite artist.
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