by Roslyn Woods
Detective Wilson fidgeted with his tie and sat on the leather edge of a wooden Morris chair across from the couch and looked at Dean. “Sir, do you know the whereabouts of your wife this afternoon?” he asked.
“I don’t have any idea. We’re separated,” Dean answered matter-of-factly, but he could feel his pulse quickening.
“And where does she live?” Gonzalez asked.
“She lives in an apartment complex in Steiner Ranch,” Dean answered. “What’s this about?”
“Would the address be 601B Steiner Place?” asked Wilson.
“Yes, yes I think that’s it.” Dean felt as if a heavy weight had landed on his chest, and for a moment he struggled to take a breath. This didn’t sound good.
“Sir, I regret to inform you that we’ve found the body of a woman. The ID in her purse seems to indicate that she’s Amanda Maxwell. She’s been shot, sir.”
Chapter 3
Margie’s house was like Margie, warm and welcoming. Even in the dark Shell could see that the yard was a little overgrown, but the porch looked friendly with jack-o-lanterns lit up. Since they met at the University of Texas in their sophomore year of college, Margie had been the friend Shell had turned to when times were tough. It was Margie who helped her deal with her mother’s death. It was Margie who sympathized with her after her last break up. And Shell had seen Margie through a divorce a year before she met Donald.
“Oh Shell, give me a hug!” she said, drawing her into the house and making her feel as if she had just come home from a long trip.
Golden lamplight filled the soft yellow room with a warm glow, and the aroma of something savory and good filled the air. The fireplace was lit for the first cold night of the season, and above it Shell could see one of her earliest paintings, a field of sunflowers in front of an old house, the house Margie grew up in. Margie looked as she always had. Her long hair hung to her waist in messy copper waves, and her comfortable peasant dress hung to her slippers.
What do I call you, Margaret or Margie? Shell had asked ten years earlier. Call me what you like, her friend had answered. Just don’t call me late for dinner! And they had both fallen to giggling as if it had been the first time someone had made the silly joke.
“You must be exhausted. Come in here. I’ve got some good soup and fresh bread. I know you need to eat. And tell me everything. Tell me everything.”
She led Shell into the kitchen and was soon busying herself at the stove, looking every bit the earth mother.
“I don’t know, Margie. There’s not much more to tell. I’m just tired. Really tired.”
“And hungry?”
Shell sank into a kitchen chair at the little cherry dinette and allowed her friend to pour her some white wine. She soon had a bowl of steaming chicken soup in a pretty blue and white bowl. Margie’s kitchen was painted apricot, and the blue and white plates that hung around the top of the room looked both cheery and elegant. Gleaming copper pans hung from a pot rack over the kitchen island, and even though the room wasn’t particularly large, it had Margie’s signature as a chef and a person of taste written all over it.
“The bread is toasting in the oven. It’ll be out in five. Now drink some of that wine and get ready to talk.”
Margie’s Yorkie mix was jumping on Shell’s knee and yapping in hopes of getting some tidbits. “Oh, it’s so good to see you Tabitha!” said Shell as she reached down to pat the little dog.
Margie was silent for a while as she watched her friend drink the wine. She knew Shell would talk when she was ready, but she was impatient to know what was going on. Shell remained silent and stared into her glass as she waited for the soup to cool. Margie got the bread out of the oven and put the pan on a trivet in the center of the table. “I had a dream last night,” she said thoughtfully. “You were really upset and trying to get away from someone. You were asking me to hide you. You can imagine how strange I felt when you called this afternoon.”
Shell stared at her friend and marveled at how connected they seemed to be. Not that she needed to hide, but she did need a place to stay, and Margie had been her safe haven since they became friends back in college. “It must have been kinda freaky for you. I don’t know what to say. But I’m not hiding. I’m—I’m just ready for a change. And, well, you were right. Brad is all wrong for me. I should have known it right away, but I guess I got carried away by everything. We’re nothing alike, just like you said.”
Margie waited a little before asking, “Did you fight? Why all of a sudden?”
“It wasn’t all that sudden,” Shell began. “I’ve known it wouldn’t work for a while. I didn’t plan it like this. I was going to break up with him and I—well I went to the gallery and found him kissing Lisa.”
“What? Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. You must be so upset!”
“Not really. I mean, maybe I should be, but I don’t really feel it yet or something. I was going to break up with him and I was feeling guilty about it, you know? So finding he’s got something going with Lisa kinda lets me off the hook. But that doesn’t make it any less wrong or insulting. I guess I feel pretty mad at both of them.”
“Well it would feel insulting to anyone. You didn’t find a boyfriend before you decided to break up did you? Of course you didn’t. What a jerk!”
Shell knew that Margie would be like this, taking her side and hating whoever she thought might have wronged her, and she had to admit to herself that she enjoyed the emotional support.
Margie poured a glass for herself. “Well, I’m not happy with Brad’s behavior,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re out of there. The breakup was bound to happen, and I’m glad it happened sooner than later. Now you just have to decide what’s next. For tonight, though, you need to eat and get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” Shell said absently swirling the wine. “How’s Donald?”
“Oh, he’s fine. He’s at a psychology convention in California. He’ll be back on Friday, so we’ve got three days to get you through the worst of this. By the time he gets home we will have moved you into your new place and you’ll be starting to feel normal again.”
Shell wondered at the fact that Margie thought she would find a place to live in three days. She herself was convinced that wasn’t going to happen. “I think that’s impossible. If I’m in the way at all I can get a room—”
“That’s not why I said that. I’ve got some news for you.” Margie was smiling as she added, “Soup’s cool enough, Shell. Eat.” She often took a parental role with people she cared about, and while some people might have found her bossy, for some reason Shell found her manner comforting.
“I’ll eat if you’ll talk,” she said, starting in on the soup.
“You remember I have an older brother, Dean?”
“Yeah. “
“Well, you know he’s my half brother from my dad’s first marriage, right?” In actuality, Margie had rarely said much about Dean as he had hardly been a part of her life. “Well anyway, he moved back to Austin three years ago to work for Dell, and in the last year-and-a-half we’ve been spending quite a bit of time together. He and Donald hit it off.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve reconnected with your brother!” said Shell, genuinely pleased for her friend. “You didn’t tell me!”
“I know. I guess I thought it was too good to be true. I think I was afraid I’d jinx it.”
“It is wonderful,” Shell added.
“Well, anyway, Dean’s mother lived in Hyde Park, and she was having some health problems, so—being a lady of means—she bought the house next door for Dean to live in. He was really all she had in the way of family. Dean was starting to break away from Dell to start his own web design business, so having a centrally located house made things pretty easy for him, and he also wanted to help his mom by being near her.”
“Sounds like a good situation for both of them,” said Shell, wondering how this story related to her own problem.
“Well anyway, Dean and his girlfriend,
Amanda, got married, and in a matter of months his mom’s health got worse and she had to be hospitalized. She never came home.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did you know her?”
“A little. I actually liked her, and she was really nice to me. You’d think she would have hated me since my mom was pregnant with me before her husband left her.”
“Awkward!” said Shell.
“No kidding! But she didn’t blame me. Dean said she divorced our dad and never looked back. She eventually inherited some money from her family, and all she wanted to do was be a good mom to Dean and pursue her own interests. She didn’t want to be dependent on a man ever again.”
“I can’t say I blame her,” said Shell thoughtfully. “It’s gotta be easier to live alone than to live with a man who doesn’t love you.”
“Or worse,” said Margie, “to live with a man you don’t love.”
Shell saw how this applied to her own experience and wanted to change the subject. “So how does this relate to my housing problem?”
“Well, it is a little bit complicated, but the house is the easy part. Dean’s inherited his mother’s house. He needs to lease it out, and if you can swing the rent, he’ll take my recommendation and rent it to you.”
“Well, I’m sorry about his trouble, but it sounds like it could work. You said the house is the easy part. What’s the hard part?”
Margie frowned and took a sip of her wine before answering. “Dean is going through a messy divorce with that bitch he married. It’s kind of a mess with his soon-to-be-ex trying to force him to liquidate his assets and give her half of everything.”
“Yikes!” said Shell.
“Oh, it won’t happen. He’s got a lawyer, and he intends to keep the houses. Donald says there’s no way Amanda can win an inheritance away from a man she’s only been with for a year-and-a-half.”
“Oh my, I hope Donald’s right. That would be so unfair.” Then, smiling a little, Shell added, “I can’t remember you ever calling anyone a bitch.”
“I tried, but I just couldn’t like her. She’s just superficial, and she has this fake, breathy voice, like she’s trying to be super-feminine all the time. Plus, she’s a flirt.”
“Really?”
“She’s tried to cozy up to Donald.”
“Yuck! What a way to endear herself to her sister-in-law!”
“No kidding. I know I’m falling into a stereotype when I tell you I wanted to scratch her eyes out, but I really did.” Margie sat shaking her head for a few seconds before she added, “But the worst thing about Amanda is she hasn’t been sweet to my brother. Not at all sweet.”
“Well, gosh, I’m sorry for Dean,” said Shell.
“Anyway, the house is kind of a mess. Dean had movers empty it and put all his mom’s stuff in storage, but it hasn’t been cleaned yet, and it could need some repairs.” She paused then, looking at Shell eagerly, “I know, being an artist, you’ll want to make some changes, but Dean will pay for paint and repairs. He just doesn’t need the hassle of background checking potential tenants right now.”
“Hey,” Shell said smiling, “Beggars can’t be choosers! I’d be happy with anything at this point.”
Shell had eaten half the soup when Tabitha started barking at the front window. Margie said, “That’s strange at this hour.” It was half-past midnight. She walked into the entry and looked through the peephole.
“Dean!” Then turning to Shell, “Something’s gotta be wrong!” she exclaimed, and she threw open the door.
Chapter 4
Dean Maxwell stood on the porch staring blankly at Margie. Beside him stood a rather large black and tan dog.
“What is it, Dean? What’s wrong? Come in, come in!” Margie reached for his arm and pulled him into her living room. He seemed stunned. “Here, sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”
The dog followed him in, and Shell went to the door and locked it as she turned and looked back at the brother and sister on the sofa. The sister was gazing earnestly at the brother, and he was looking straight ahead with unfocused, glazed eyes.
Shell had never seen Dean before. He was completely not what she had expected. He didn’t look a bit like Margie. He had darker hair, and his eyes were a deep, ocean-blue. Margie was a mere five-foot-three and fair with copper-colored hair and eyes Shell had always called, “avocado brown” because she could never decide if they were green or chocolate. Dean was tall and lean. He was about ten years Margie’s senior. Shell knew next to nothing about him, but even in the state he was in he was an appealing man. Handsome even.
“It’s Amanda,” he said simply. “She’s dead.”
“Oh no! Oh no! How?” It was Margie’s turn to look stunned, and Shell sat down on the large armchair opposite the two leaning forward. Tabitha jumped up on the chair with Shell, unsure where she belonged with the big dog in her living room.
“The police came by the house. They asked a lot of questions, told me not to leave town. They said I would need to account for my whereabouts today. She was shot, Margie. I was home. I was just sitting at home, and someone was killing her…” His voice trailed off and his eyes filled, but he seemed to shake off the moment of weakness. The dog whined and lay down at his feet.
Margie looked at Shell and said, “Could you get him a drink?”
Eager to be useful, Shell hurried to the antiqued, white liquor cabinet in the corner of Margie’s living room. She wasn’t surprised by how much was there. Her friend was a chef, and she was a proponent of booze-infused dishes. There were vodka, gin, tequila, and multiple flavors of brandy. There were several brands of cognac and two exotically-shaped bottles of rum. Shell sifted through the shelves, wondering briefly what in the world Margie did with all of these. Toward the back she found several bottles of whiskey. Scotch or bourbon? Here was her dad’s brand: Jim Beam Black Bourbon. She poured a double into one of the crystal glasses that sat atop the cabinet and took it back to Margie.
“Here, Dean,” said Margie quietly. “You need this.” She waited as he took some of the cool liquid.
“You know, this isn’t going to help,” he said, looking helplessly at his sister and placing the glass on the coffee table in front of him. “Who’s this?” he asked, glancing briefly at Shell. She suddenly felt terribly in the way, as if she was looking in on the most private family scene imaginable, and she was a complete outsider.
“This is my friend Shell. She’s the one I told you about. I think she’d like to take the house—”
“Oh yeah,” he said absently. “That’s right.” He was already somewhere else again.
Shell shook her head at Margie. It certainly was not the right time to be talking about renting his house to her college friend. Dean needed help right now, and she had no idea what people did in situations like this.
Margie seemed to recover herself, and Shell wanted to get out of this family picture right now, but she didn’t know how to do it. It was too late to go to a motel, nearly 1:00 a.m., but Dean definitely needed to stay at his sister’s tonight.
“When did all this happen, Dean?” Margie asked.
“They don’t know for sure just yet. It had to be before noon, but they have to do some tests to get it more exact. A neighbor came home from work for lunch and noticed her door wasn’t quite shut. Whoever it was looked in and saw her body in a pool of…” he paused, clearly not wanting to say the word before going on, “…and called the police. The detectives came by my house at about seven. I was watching news. I was getting ready to eat and watch the news,” he said, his voice faltering toward the end, and he ran a hand through his hair.
“I need to call Donald now. He’ll know what to do. He’ll know who we should contact.”
Margie hurried to the kitchen to get her cell. She took it into the bedroom and Shell could hear her speaking rapidly, then repeating herself. She looked at Dean. He was taking turns staring blankly ahead and closing his eyes and putting his head in his hands.
“Can I get yo
u anything?” Shell asked. “There’s soup. I could get you some soup?”
The dog whined again and inched across the floor so that she could lay her head on Dean’s left foot.
“No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t need anything.”
“Yes, Dean,” said Margie, returning to the room. “You do need something. Donald says you need a lawyer, and you need to stop talking to the police without one. He gave me a couple of names. We’ll call them first thing in the morning.”
Chapter 5
Shell woke at six with a headache. She felt all the surprise of her life change and the weirdness of being here in Margie’s guest room again. She had been here two years ago after her mother had died. Seems everyone comes to Margie in times of trouble.
Shell looked at the room in the early morning light. Lavender walls and white lace curtains, cream-painted furniture, and dried flowers. Margie loves all things Victorian, she thought. There was an oval frame on the dresser, a black and white photo of Margie’s mother and father. On the wall by the door were more pictures. Margie at about five, and Donald at about the same age. There was a picture from their college years of Margie with her arm around Shell, and there was a picture that Shell had not seen before. She turned on the lamp and climbed out of bed.
It was Dean’s wedding picture. He was wearing a white tux and smiling, and on his arm was a very beautiful woman with glossy black hair. They were a handsome couple, but they had been unhappy.
She sat on the edge of the bed rubbing her temples. Today should have been a good day for her. She was free of a relationship she should never have been in. She was back in Austin. She was in the home of her very best friend. But things were strange in this house, and she wanted to get up and get out as early as possible.
