by Roslyn Woods
She pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt and tiptoed into the hall. Peeking into the living room on the way to the kitchen she could see Dean was lying on the couch, eyes closed. The dog lay on the floor beside him. She lifted her golden head as Shell peeked into the room and wagged her tail briefly.
Margie was sitting at the kitchen table holding a cup of coffee in two hands. “You know where the cups are,” she said softly and motioned for Shell to sit down.
“What’s happening?” Shell asked.
“Not much. I finally went to bed at three, but he probably hasn’t slept.”
“Looks like he might be asleep now,” Shell offered.
“Maybe just resting his eyes.” Margie stood up and looked through the door. “Seems to be breathing pretty evenly,” she said hopefully.
“Look,” said Shell, “you’ve got all this family stuff to deal with, and I’ve got to get the weight of boxes and suitcases off my tires. I think I should just go get a room and start looking for a place—”
“No!” said Margie. “Dean asked me to take care of setting you up in the house last night. He wants me to handle everything for a while. It needs cleaning, and I know you’ll want to paint, but it’s a good house. Actually, I can take you over there now. He won’t start making calls before eight. I should be back here then.”
“You should be here when he wakes up,” said Shell.
“Actually,” said Dean’s voice from the doorway, “I’m awake now. I’m going to take a shower and drink some of your coffee, Margie. You two go. I’ll see you in a while.” He turned away, still distracted.
“Okay,” said Margie. “I’ll be back in a half hour.”
“Okay,” he said without looking back.
Margie led the way in her minivan. Shell followed closely, only vaguely familiar with the streets in Hyde Park. She had forgotten how many trees were in this part of town, and she loved the look of the neighborhood. The house was nicer than she had expected it to be. It was on Barrow Avenue near Park Blvd., and there was a large pecan tree in the front yard. It was a Craftsman bungalow, painted a barn red color with forest green trim, and Shell figured it was probably built in the twenties. This was a style she had always liked, and she guessed it might be about 1500 square feet. A single carport had been added at some point, and wisteria vines were climbing over it.
“The street and the house are really pretty. I like it so far,” Shell said as Margie led the way up the porch steps. It was a cement porch with a Mexican tile floor, and it spanned the front of the house.
“I really like it myself,” said Margie, turning the key in the lock.
It was certainly big enough for a single woman, but Shell was going to need to get some furniture. The living room was good-sized, maybe twenty by twenty four, and there was a beautifully tiled fireplace. The wood floor extended throughout, and beyond the living room Shell could see a charming little dining room through one door and part of the kitchen through another. The kitchen wasn’t a bad size, but she thought the appliances might need to be replaced, and the paint on the walls was white, but she figured she could change that. These were fixes Shell thought she could manage if Dean would approve them. There were three bedrooms and one bath. The bath needed updating eventually, but she could manage with it for now just by applying fresh paint and adding a new shower curtain. A small laundry room had been made from what was once a back porch, and a door in the far wall led to the back steps. Margie looked at Shell hopefully. “Will this work?”
“Oh Margie, it’s great! I love it. But can I afford it? This is a really nice neighborhood.”
“I think so,” said Margie, and she quoted Shell a more than reasonable number that her friend instantly agreed to. Then Margie asked, “Are you going to be okay if I just give you the keys and go? Can you manage?”
“Of course, Margie,” she said, quickly pulling her wallet from her purse and opening her checkbook. “Take this,” she added as she filled out a check in the amount of her first and last months’ rent, “and go home and do what you can for your brother.”
“Okay. I think I should hurry back.”
“And take a nap when you get a chance,” Shell added, knowing there was little likelihood of that today. “You okay?”
“I’ll get through this thing with Dean,” Margie said as she put the check in her handbag, “but it does have me upset. I’m sorry it happened right now when you need me, sweetie. In a few days I’ll realize how good it is to have you within ten minutes of me again.”
“Things will get sorted out,” Shell said with more optimism than she felt. “Call me if you think of anything I can do for you or Dean.”
Margie gave her a hug before she rushed off, and Shell felt a pang as she watched her friend drive away. She wished she could help Margie and her brother deal with this terrible situation, but she knew there was nothing to be done. Someone who understood the law would have to help Dean, and she hoped time would heal the pain of his loss. She pondered over that now. How tough was the loss going to be? Margie had said that Dean and Amanda were in the middle of a messy divorce. She wondered if the love he had felt early in his marriage had survived the bad times that led to filing for divorce.
She was startled by the sound of her phone ringing. It was Brad, and she really didn’t want to answer it. I’ll have to talk to him sometime, she told herself.
“Hello.”
“Shell, where are you? What’s going on?” Brad’s voice was filled with the hurt she expected him to express. He probably even meant it in his way.
“I’m in Austin, Brad. How are you doing?”
“Not good,” he replied. “I just don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand why you left—”
“I left because we’re not in love, Brad.”
“But I do love you, Shell! I don’t see how I can live without you—”
“Brad, I saw you with Lisa yesterday. I know something’s going on with the two of you. If you were in love with me you wouldn’t do that. “
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! It wasn’t me!”
“Yes, Brad. It was you, and it’s okay. We were going to break up anyway. I’m not even mad. I’m just ready to be somewhere else. That’s all.” Shell felt a strange calmness as she spoke. She had never been surer of anything in her life.
“I need to see you. We need to work this out!”
“No, you don’t.”
“Where are you? I’ve got to come and see you. I can explain whatever it is you think you saw. I know I can!” Brad had a desperate sound in his voice, but Shell knew it was momentary. He was the kind of person who was terribly interested in whatever bright, shiny thing was right in front of him. If Lisa walked into the room he would be thinking of her instead.
“Let’s at least take some time before we talk again,” Shell said calmly. “Things will become clearer in a few weeks.”
Chapter 6
Margie stayed busy all day Wednesday with Dean and his new lawyer, Kenneth Richert. Dean had to identify the body and endure questioning. Now he was in the throes of trying to contact the family. It was not proving to be an easy task. He didn’t return to the house next door, and Shell assumed Margie was being Margie and insisting he stay with her for a few days. It made sense. He probably needed to be with someone right now.
It was Thursday morning, and Shell didn’t have to meet the movers at the storage place until ten. She was looking forward to getting her things into her new house. She was grateful the weather was clear and warm. It wouldn’t do to try to move her things to the house on a rainy day.
After her shower she donned a comfortable work shirt and jeans, gathered up her purse and sunglasses, and headed over to Quack’s Bakery on 43rd and Duval. She was hungry, and she remembered this place from her college days. There would be good coffee and cinnamon rolls. I need a little carb loading, she told herself.
The place hummed with the chatter of Austinites. College kids, grad students
, mothers with little ones, and older couples filled the bakery with their varied conversations. Shell grabbed a copy of The Austin American Statesman to go with her breakfast. She wasn’t in the mood to sit alone eating in a public place, so she headed back to the house.
Seating herself on the living room floor, she leaned up against the wall. I’m alone and I’m doing okay, she affirmed to herself. She took a bite of the cinnamon roll and a sip of the dark French roast. It was just as she remembered it. Then she opened the newspaper and scanned the headlines. There it was at the bottom of the front page.
Austin Woman Shot, Killer at Large
Early Tuesday, in North Austin, Amanda Lopez Maxwell was shot and killed in her apartment, police say. Maxwell, 34, was the wife of web designer Dean Maxwell of Hyde Park. Mrs. Maxwell had filed for divorce from her husband, and they were in the middle of proceedings. Formerly an employee of Dell Computer Corporation in Round Rock, Mrs. Maxwell has been unemployed for over a year. There are no suspects in the case as yet, but an investigation is underway. “It’s a very sad case,” said Sgt. Gonzalez, homicide investigator for the Austin City Police Department. “Our focus now is on finding Mrs. Maxwell’s killer and bringing him to justice.”
Shell was surprised to see that Sgt. Gonzalez had assumed the killer was a “him.” She wondered if he had information or if he just assumed only a man could be capable of murder.
Hearing a noise outside, she got up, went to the window, and looked out toward the street. KXAN News had sent a van, and it was parked in front of Dean’s house. She watched as two men got out and stood by the van talking. Then one of the men lifted a large camera from the side door and put it on his shoulder. The two turned and walked to Dean’s front porch. They climbed the steps and knocked for a good couple of minutes before going around the side of the house and trying to open the side gate.
This is really too much, thought Shell as she headed out the front door and called over the edge of her porch, “May I help you?”
“Oh yeah, Miss,” said the reporter coming toward her, “Can you tell us where your neighbor is?” He had the plastered look of too much hairspray.
“No, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to go into his backyard,” said Shell.
“Well, have you seen him?” he persisted.
“No, I haven’t, but don’t you think you should ring the doorbell instead of trespassing on his property?” she asked, not letting on that she had seen them on the front porch already.
“What can you tell us about Mr. Maxwell and his wife?” the reporter asked, ignoring her question.
“I know nothing about them. I just moved here,” Shell said, turning to go back into her house.
“Do you think he’s the kind of man who could murder his wife?” he asked.
Shell turned and gave him a level look. “I just told you I know nothing about the man or his wife,” and she went into her house and closed the door. Then, looking through the shade, Shell watched as the two slowly returned to the van and drove off.
Do you think he’s the kind of man who could murder his wife? Shell kept hearing the question in her head.
“No! No I don’t!” she said aloud, but she kept hearing the question anyway.
Chapter 7
Sgt. Gilberto Gonzalez was tapping a pencil on his desk and looking at a framed photo of Emelda and his twin sons. He wished he were home right now. He wondered if he could get more accomplished on this case sitting at his own kitchen table. Even when he closed the door to the office he shared with Sgt. Bill Moore, there was a lot of distraction coming from the murder room. He was constantly being interrupted. He stood up now and looked through the large, plate glass window and allowed his eyes to travel across the ten desks. Except for the few who were out today, each desk was occupied by a detective, and he wondered if any of them was getting anything done. He walked over and opened the door.
“Wilson, could you get on the phone and see if they’ve sent the report yet?” he asked.
“Okay, but I just checked a while ago.”
“I don’t care when you checked. Just find out.” He knew he was abrupt, but he really needed that report. He picked up his coffee mug and walked out of the office to get some more of the burnt brew. He was tired, but that didn’t make his case go away. He glanced at Wilson’s tidy desk as he headed back to the office. Sometimes he wondered if Wilson was working at all.
Gonzalez had cleared a lot of the mess from his own desk and spread pictures of Amanda Maxwell’s apartment in front of him. She had been found just inside the entry. She lay on the parquet just as if she had slowly sunk to the floor and dropped sideways, the maroon of her dress blending weirdly with the deeper hue in the puddle of blood beneath her. One bullet to the chest. He hoped it had been quick.
He shuffled through more pictures of the apartment. It looked pretty bad. The living room had been torn up right down to couch and chair cushions having been pulled from their places and tossed around the room. A few books and magazines lay on the floor, and the rug appeared to have been moved. In the bedroom it was the same. Drawers were emptied and their contents flung around. The dresser had been moved to an odd angle, and even the mattress had been shifted. Someone had been looking for something, no mistake about that.
But, as far as anyone could tell, it had not been a robbery. Gonzalez took a sip of the bad coffee. Nothing was really missing from Amanda’s effects as far as he knew. Just her keys and her cell phone. It was possible they had taken cash, no way to tell if she’d had any. They had left her wallet and the credit cards that were in it. It didn’t make sense.
It was too bad he’d had to question Dean Maxwell before there had been time to do a full background check and get the preliminary autopsy report. He didn’t even have matches on the prints found in the apartment. He put his earbuds in and selected the interview on his computer screen.
“My name is Sgt. Gilberto Gonzalez and this is an interview with Dean Maxwell. The people present in the room are myself, Detective Thomas Wilson, Mr. Dean Maxwell, and Attorney Kenneth Richert. The time is four fifteen p.m. and this is Wednesday, October sixteenth. Does everyone present understand that this interview is being recorded?”
Gonzalez slid the arrow across the screen to pass up the preliminary questions. “And when did you and Mrs. Maxwell decide to separate?” he heard his voice asking, but the camera stayed on Dean Maxwell’s face.
“Six months ago.”
“And why did you separate?”
“We’d grown apart. We wanted different things.”
“That doesn’t tell me very much.”
“It’s sort of my business, isn’t it?” Maxwell had sounded impatient. Gonzalez had ignored the question.
“Okay, so then what happened?”
“She moved out,” he said.
“Why didn’t you move out?”
“Because the house was mine, my mother’s actually, and we were living in it. My business was housed there, and we both needed my income to keep us going. It made more sense for her to be the one who moved out.”
“And were you angry at your wife, Mr. Maxwell?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Richert had piped in. “Can’t you just ask pertinent questions?”
“Okay. Where did your wife move?”
“She found an apartment in Steiner Ranch.”
“And was the address of this apartment 601B Steiner Place?”
“Yes.”
“Did you help her move?”
“No, but I was present when the movers came to our house and packed up the stuff she wanted.”
“Did you ever go to her apartment, Mr. Maxwell?”
“No.”
“Did your wife drink, Mr. Maxwell?”
“Yes.”
“How much did she drink?”
“I don’t know how to answer that. More than I thought was healthy.”
“Do you know if she used any illegal drugs?”
“I don’t
know for sure what she did. She was gone a lot.” Here his jaw clenched a little.
“Did your wife have any enemies that you know of?”
“None that I know of.” Here he ran a hand through his hair.
“Did she have friends she spent time with?”
“She spent time with her brother and a few people she knew from work at Dell.”
“Would you give me her brother’s name?”
“I don’t know the full name, but he’s called Danny. Danny Lopez.”
“How old is this Danny Lopez?”
“Two years younger than Amanda.”
“So, thirty-two?”
“I think so.”
“And do you know Danny Lopez?”
“Yes.”
“Have you spent time with him?”
“Only a little. He came to the wedding. We had dinner a couple of times, the three of us.”
“That’s all the contact you’ve had with Danny Lopez?”
“No. I designed the website for his business.”
“Did he pay you for the work?”
“I didn’t expect him to pay me.”
“And did you maintain contact with him?”
“I maintained the site for a while. Then he said he could manage it.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen Danny Lopez?”
“Maybe a year.”
“But Amanda was still seeing her brother?”
“As far as I know.”
“And where did he live?”
“Somewhere in south Austin. I don’t know. My contact information was just the bar and his cell.”
“The bar?”
“Yes, he owns a bar on Sixth Street. The website was for the bar.”
“And the name of this bar?”
“Danny’s Place.”
“And Amanda’s other friends?”
“She had a friend named Linda Morrison from Dell, a programmer.”
“Anyone else?”
“Becky Lester. I can’t remember what she did there.”
“Just two friends?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t think of anyone.”
