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fire chief, the coroner, and everyone else who looked at the facts. Modesty Breck was a stubborn old woman, hell-bent on living alone. We also know she was getting more frail. Did you ever think that she might have moved the paintings and papers to your cabin and then not so accidentally killed herself so she wouldn’t be forcibly moved off that ranch for her own good?”
    A chill went over Jill. “Are you saying that Modesty meant to die?”
    Purcell shrugged. “Given what you told me, suicide is as much within the facts as the verdict of accidental death. If you insist, I’ll reopen the case. But it sure would make collecting any life insurance more difficult. As the beneficiary, that’s something you should think about.”
    It took Jill several silent moments to get a grip on her temper.
    Purcell was everything she and the Breck women had hated about the Mormon West. If Jill wanted any answers to her questions, she’d have to find them herself.
    She thought again of the card Joe Faroe had given her, then dismissed it. She wasn’t being stalked. The only danger she was in was losing control and assaulting an officer of the law.
    “Thank you for your time, Sheriff. I won’t be bothering you again.”

7
    SNOWBIRD, UTAH
SEPTEMBER 12
1:30 P.M.
    R amsey Worthington frowned at his computer screen. It was a large screen, noted for showing the fine details of any properly prepared photographic file. As an auctioneer in high demand and the owner of several galleries selling fine Western art, Worthington frequently had to make judgments of fine art via electronics. If the piece interested him enough virtually, he would ask to see it physically before he made a decision whether to buy, trade, or represent the art in question.
    “Something interesting?” John Cahill asked.
    Worthington looked up at his manager and occasional lover. Cahill wasn’t the jealous type. Neither was Worthington, at least not when it came to sex. As always, Cahill was dressed in a way that was neither too formal nor too casual, suggesting wealth and breeding without insisting on it. Not for the first time, Worthington wished that his wife had half of Cahill’s understanding of style.
    “I’m not sure,” Worthington said. “The photo is obviously made by an amateur.”
    Cahill leaned over Worthington’s shoulder to look at the screen. “Photo sucks, but the painting looks fabulous. How big is it?”
    “She didn’t say.”
    “She?”
    “Jillian Breck.”
    “Oh, hell. Not that crackpot again,” Cahill said, disappointed.
    “No. Some relative of hers, apparently. Same last name, different first name. Supposedly the old woman died and Jillian Breck is the heir.”
    Worthington clicked to a second image. It was as powerful as the first.
    Cahill made a disgusted sound. “Whoever is out there painting these ‘Dunstans’ should give it up and paint under his own name. He’s good enough to make a decent living. With the right representation and some luck, he might even make an excellent living. He’s quite powerful. Technique and intensity both. Not a common combination.”
    Worthington nodded.
    A third image came up. Powerful, beautiful in its stark landscape and overwhelming sky.
    “Did you send these to Lee Dunstan?” Cahill asked.
    “Not yet. He was furious about the painting Ford Hillhouse sent. Sounded like Lee was going to stroke out over the phone.”
    “Why does something like this always happen before a big auction?” Cahill muttered.
    Worthington shrugged. “Greed. Someone knows that big money is out there attached to Dunstan’s name. They want a piece of it.”
    “They should have done their homework,” Cahill said.
    Worthington nodded. “Yes, the human figures are unusual for Dunstan. Any forger would know it. Which means this one is either stupid—”
    “Unlikely,” Cahill cut in. “He knows his subject too well.”
    “—or these just might actually be Dunstan’s work.”
    “They aren’t Dunstans until Lee