Romancing the Brush: An Austin, Texas Art Mystery (The Michelle Hodge Series Book 3)

by Roslyn Woods

  “I forgot about Margie,” he said. “Did you call her?”

  “I texted her about when you texted Melinda. I know she’s dying to hear what’s going on, but I just couldn’t tell her in a text, and there hasn’t been a minute to talk.”

  “She can wait till after you’ve dealt with Estelle and this buyer,” Dean said. He reached over and put his hand over hers for a few moments. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “but I don’t want to be away from you right now.” She was immediately sorry she had said that. She didn’t want to seem needy. Being as alone in the world as she was made her want to appear supremely self-sufficient, but inside she longed for permanence in her relationship with Dean, and even though every day with him had been happy, there was also a nagging fear that it would all end, and she would be alone again. She looked out the car window as they headed south along Red River, the city having its normal day while they dealt with their trauma, and she realized she was flashing back to the day her mother had died. The lost feeling she had felt then pushed its way up into her consciousness, and she closed her eyes for a moment against a piercing pain in her chest.

  “I don’t want to be away from you either,” Dean said quietly, glancing over at her. “And I certainly don’t want that woman thinking she can manipulate and get tough with you. I want to be there.”

  “Thanks,” Shell said, collecting herself.

  “You’ve met Estelle how many times?” he wanted to know.

  “Just once. She came by the gallery and looked it over, trying to decide whether we passed muster for showing her dad’s work. She pretty much ignored me and Billie, but she talked to Garrett as if he owned the place, and Leonardo had brought her business to us, so she dealt mostly with the two of them.”

  “She sounds unpleasant.”

  “She was pushy, I’ll say that. And she was dismissive,” she added. “I guess I didn’t like her much, but we don’t need to like her to benefit from her business. I’d just rather deal with nice people.”

  “I’m in agreement with you there. Maybe she doesn’t have enough money to make dealing with her bad behavior worth the effort.”

  “Well, it depends on your need, I guess. Today was the first time I witnessed any truly bad behavior. That conversation with Billie was awful. It was inexcusable,” she said. “It wasn’t just my decision to take on her business, by the way, but the truth is, Billie and Leo and I all thought we needed whatever money we could get.”

  “Not Garrett?”

  “That was before he joined us.”

  “And now? What about her money now?”

  “We probably need it more than ever. I just don’t know what’s going to happen now that Garrett’s gone. He was clearly the wealthiest partner, and he really believed in the gallery, really wanted to make it work.”

  “I remember you all seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when he joined you.”

  “We did, but now we’re stuck again, and I don’t know how Leo and Billie are going to feel about keeping the gallery going.”

  “You’ve invested a lot of your own money.”

  “I knew it was a risk. You can’t succeed if you don’t try.”

  “It may still work out,” he said.

  Shell looked out the window again and swallowed the lump in her throat. There were so many questions in her head, and she felt sick about Garrett.

  “Don’t let me forget to put this sign on the door before we leave today,” she said, looking at the ordinary sheet of paper in her lap. We will be closed until Wednesday, April 30th.

  Shell noticed that the cool of the morning was gone, and the sun was already baking the sidewalk in front of the Westside Gallery. Estelle Travis and Enrique Mendoza were waiting there when she and Dean walked up from the parking garage.

  Estelle was wearing her usual western-style garb—a tight-fitting, mini shirtdress in turquoise with red coral beads embroidered into a floral design on the collar and strung on the fringe that hung just past her elbows. A big, silver necklace and bracelets adorned her neck and arms, and her long, brown legs ended in cowboy boots. But the thing Shell noticed first when she saw Estelle, was her long platinum blonde hair, neatly controlled by an elegant, silver headband encrusted with large pieces of polished turquoise and red coral. There was no denying her good looks, but at forty plus years, her complexion was beginning to take on the leathery appearance of a person who has spent too much time in the sun, and heavy black mascara seemed to weight her lids.

  Enrique Mendoza was about 5’9” with thinning black hair. He looked to be in his late forties, and he was a little heavy, maybe 190 pounds, but he was robust, and he looked plenty sure of himself. He wore jeans with cowboy boots and—for Austin in late April—an inappropriately warm, leather sports jacket.

  Shell was glad she hadn’t changed from her jeans and sandals. The black blouse she had hurriedly changed into before they left the house was dressier than a T-shirt, but it wasn’t what anyone would call dressy. Right now, she really didn’t care what either of these people thought of her appearance.

  Estelle gave her a somewhat disparaging up and down appraisal and turned her attention to Dean. She reached out her hand to shake his and smiled winningly into his eyes.

  “Hello, I’m Estelle,” she said.

  “Dean Maxwell,” he replied without returning the smile.

  “And to what do we owe the honor of your presence here today?” she asked, tilting her head sweetly.

  “I’m just the driver,” he said. “I take orders from Ms. Hodge,” he added, completely unresponsive to her coy manner.

  Estelle didn’t look at Shell again for a moment. She said to Dean, “How did a big guy like you end up with the job of driver?”

  “I’m actually her other half,” he said, tilting his head toward Shell. “But she’s the boss.”

  Estelle glanced at Shell again. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she said, as if she hadn’t met the younger woman before today.

  Shell didn’t answer but nodded to Enrique and shook his hand as if she hadn’t heard Estelle at all, “You must be Mr. Mendoza. This is Dean Maxwell,” she said, and the two men shook hands. Then she continued, “We only have two paintings to show you today. I imagine Ms. Travis has explained about our tragedy.”

  “Yes,” said Enrique, bowing in a very formal, old-world style. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I apologize for causing you trouble today.” He was looking at Shell with what felt to her like approval, and she forced a smile and gestured for them to follow her into the gallery.

  “Please, as soon as I’ve got the door unlocked I’ll disarm the alarm and we can all go on through and take a look.”

  Shell could feel their eyes on her as she rifled through the keys and unlocked the door and walked in. She typed a code into the alarm system near the door and gestured for the others to come in. Once they were inside, she walked ahead and led them through a space with almond-colored walls and brightly painted canvases.

  “Just this way into the conference room,” she said, turning her head to the others momentarily.

  The two Wes Travis paintings were on easels at the end of a longish, rectangular table. They were patently western in subject matter, and they had an Impressionist look about them. One depicted horses running across a river, water-spray rising around them and catching the light. The other painting depicted a wagon train on salmon-colored earth with a cloudy, turquoise sky. Beside them was an empty easel, undoubtedly waiting for the painting Garrett had planned to return this morning. In Shell’s view, the missing painting, Comanche Sky, was the most remarkable of the three.

  Enrique didn’t speak immediately. He approached the paintings and smiled at Estelle. “They don’t disappoint at this distance,” he said. He pulled a lighted, handheld magnifier from his pocket and examined the surface of the painting with the horses.

  “What’s this one called?” he was asking.

  “Crossing The Pecos
,” Estelle answered.

  “When did he do it?” he wanted to know.

  “Seventy-six, just before he died.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The back says ‘April, nineteen seventy-six.’ He had a habit of penciling in the date after finishing a piece. He died in September.”

  Enrique moved on to the next painting, gliding over the surface, first with his bare eyes, and then with the magnifier. He didn’t say anything about this one. “May I look at the backs?” he asked.

  Shell lifted the first painting from the easel and turned it for him. Again he looked at it with his magnifier. In a minute he simply walked around to look at the back of the other one. “No need to lift it,” he said, as Shell turned Crossing the Pecos back around on its easel. He examined the back of Wagon Train West for a full four minutes and asked no more questions. Suddenly, he stood up straight and looked directly at Estelle. “I’m liking these.”

  Estelle smiled. “Of course you are,” she said.

  Enrique turned to Shell and flashed white teeth. “Thank you so much, Ms. Hodge, for obliging me today,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.” He nodded at Dean. “I can show myself out,” he added.

  Shell walked him to the door, anyway, leaving Dean alone with Estelle for a few moments.

  “Please message me,” Enrique was saying, “as soon as the other painting is available for viewing. I’m coming to Austin next Sunday for a music event. If I’m lucky, the two things will come together.”

  “Yes, that could happen. We’ll let you know as soon as we do,” she answered.

  He bowed slightly and left the building just as Estelle reached the foyer with Dean.

  “I didn’t see you trying very hard, Ms. Hodge,” said Estelle.

  Shell returned her direct look. “No need,” she answered. “The paintings sell themselves.”

  “You surprise me, Ms. Hodge, coming down here in your jeans as if you’re ready to sell tickets for the carwash.”

  Shell could see Dean’s jaw clenching, but she didn’t really need any help. “Well, I was happy to oblige, Ms. Travis,” she said, as if she had just been given a compliment, but she didn’t smile, and she hoped her distaste for the other woman was veiled. “You may as well go. I’ll set the alarm and lock up.”

  It was a clear invitation for Estelle to leave the premises, but the woman didn’t act insulted. “Until later, then,” she said, and after giving a big, friendly smile to Dean, she turned and left through the door she had entered a few minutes earlier.

  “Wow,” said Dean as they watched her retreating figure. “Billie is right.”

  “Yeah,” Shell replied, remembering the choice descriptor Billie had used forty-five minutes earlier.

  Dean pulled her into his arms. “You managed her better than I could,” he said softly. “And you know, you’re more beautiful in jeans than any woman I ever saw.”

  “Thanks,” said Shell, leaning into him and allowing his tenderness to soothe her, but she wanted to cry. It wasn’t that Estelle had been offensive. It was just this day and the whole, dreadful series of events that had led up to Dean drawing her close and trying to say something kind and supportive. She rested her face against his chest, listened to his heartbeat for a moment, and said what they were both thinking. “This has been one terrible morning.”

  Chapter 6

  Shell got a text from Billie as Dean drove out of the parking garage. He and Leonardo had gone home after Gonzalez and Wilson had come by Shell’s house. Rita had stayed with them till the detectives had arrived and would call and check on them all later. Billie and Leo were to go to the morgue at two to identify the body. Then the detectives wanted the four of them to come into the station at four to answer questions.

  Shell called Margie and asked if she and Dean could come over.

  “Of course!” Margie said. “Why did everything get cancelled anyway?”

  “It’s not good, Margie. I don’t want to upset you.”

  “I’m already upset. I know it has to be something bad. Just tell me you and Dean are okay and I’ll be okay.”

  “We’re okay,” said Shell. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Margie’s house always smelled good. Being a chef for a successful restaurant had been a hard gig to give up, but the truth was, she had hated the stress. Loved the cooking, hated the stress. When her husband, Donald, had gotten his counseling practice going, he needed help with bookkeeping and persuaded her to take some time off. She had agreed and quit the restaurant, but the bookkeeping had turned out to be a job that took about an hour a day, and Margie was spending the rest of her time creating elaborate meals with exotic desserts for herself and her husband. She knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t seem to stop. When she learned she was pregnant, she worried about putting on weight too quickly, and Donald had already put on five pounds.

  When Shell’s gallery had opened, it had provided the perfect escape from free time in her gourmet kitchen. Margie had started out volunteering only four hours a day, three days a week, but she enjoyed the work so much she had added two more days, and Shell and the partners were thrilled.

  “What’s the catch with your adorable, red-headed friend?” Billie had asked Shell one morning. “Working for free is odd. Do you think she thinks we’ve got money stashed somewhere and we’re going to start paying her?”

  “She’s trying to stay out of the kitchen,” Shell had answered.

  “Well, sweetie,” he had said, “she’s putting new treats in the conference room every day, so I think we could be making matters worse.”

  “We’re helping her eat them,” Shell had laughed.

  “Yes, darling, we are, and I need to watch my figure. Oh well!” he had said with a sigh and picked up another snickerdoodle.

  Today Margie was baking again, and she had put a fresh pot of coffee on after Shell called.

  “Come on in, you guys!” she said as they mounted the steps to her porch. “I’ve got coffee and scones.”

  “Oh, thanks, Margie,” said Shell, giving her a hug.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Dean said, and he hugged his sister, too, but his expression was somber.

  “Come sit down and tell me what’s going on,” she said, drawing them through the living room and leading them into the cheerful kitchen with its apricot walls and gleaming copper pots. She went over to the counter where blue and white coffee cups were waiting in their saucers, and she poured as Shell and Dean sat down at the antique cherry table. There was a silence as both of them searched for words.

  “Okay, it’s got something to do with the gallery,” Margie began as she poured the third cup of coffee, “or the artwork, or the building, or the partners, or the meeting with that buyer. I’ve had the news on, so I know there haven’t been any terror attacks downtown—”

  “Margie, I think you should sit down,” Shell said, worried about the jolt to her system this announcement was going to be.

  “Really? It’s that bad?” she asked.

  “Just sit down,” said Dean.

  Margie put the coffee pot back in its tray and headed over to the table frowning. She pulled back a chair and sat facing her brother and best friend.

  “Margie,” said Dean, “Garrett was shot and killed this morning.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t know how else to tell you but just to tell you,” said Shell. “Leo called when Dean and I were having breakfast and he asked me to run over and check on him because he was late coming in. Anyway, I couldn’t get in, so Dean came over and broke the glass in the back door.”

  “You guys found him?” she asked. “Why? Why would anyone—”

  “We don’t know anything,” answered Shell, “other than the fact that he was shot in his living room. His little dog was there, and he must have been making tea because his kettle was on.”

  “Who would kill Garrett? He was about the sweetest man anybody ever met,” Margie said with tears in her eyes.

  “I
thought of robbery as a possibility,” said Dean. “His house is full of art and antiques, but I couldn’t tell if anything was taken. Maybe it was.”

  “The Wes Travis painting he was examining was still sitting right there on the drafting table,” said Shell, getting up and grabbing a few paper napkins to put on the table. She sat down again and took one to dab her eyes, and Margie did the same. Dean got up and brought the coffee cups to Margie and Shell and went back to the counter for the tray with the other cup and the scones.

  “You know,” said Shell, “there’s something else we’re going to have to figure out.”

  Dean just looked at Shell like he was reading her mind. “Carmen,” he said. “I’ve already been wondering what to do about her.”

  “Oh, Dean,” said Shell, “we can’t let them find out about her!”

  “I’m afraid that’s not an option,” said Dean. “She’s his cleaning lady. Even if Garrett paid her in cash, there will be some kind of record.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe if he paid her in cash—”

  “What the hell are you guys talking about?” asked Margie.

  “She’s undocumented,” said Shell. “If Gonzalez has to question her—”

  “Oh no!” said Margie. “There’s got to be some way to protect her!”

  “I’m afraid honesty is our only choice,” said Dean. “They probably already have her name and know she has no Social Security number.”

  “How?” asked Margie.

  “The contacts in his cell phone is all they need,” said Shell quietly.

  “That’s probably one of the first things they do,” said Dean. “Just go through the contacts one by one and figure out who everybody is.”

  “I bet Garrett has a lot of contacts,” said Margie.

  “Still, it’s just a matter of time,” her brother replied.

  “Will she be deported?” Margie asked.

  “Not if Gonzalez doesn’t report her to Immigration.”

  “Will he?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll talk to him. I don’t know what else to do.”