The Murder Motif: An Austin, Texas Art Mystery (the Michelle Hodge Series Book 2)

by Roslyn Woods

  “You’re sure the guy is gone?” Margie asked first.

  “Yes, I saw him go, but I didn’t see him go in, so I guess it’s possible someone’s still in there,” Shell answered doubtfully.

  “Not likely,” said Dean, rubbing the stubble on his face. “I’m calling the police. If there’s evidence in there, I don’t want to corrupt it somehow. Maybe the guy left prints.”

  “Don’t you think you should call Richert first?” Donald asked.

  “No,” Dean answered emphatically. “I don’t have anything to hide, and waiting for my lawyer’s opinion about everything makes me look like I’m hiding something.” He was already tapping numbers on his phone. “Hello, this is Dean Maxwell. I need to speak to Sergeant Gonzalez.”

  It was a full thirty minutes before the police arrived. In the meantime Shell and her three friends went outside and walked around the two houses. She had been so focused on the interior of her rental that she hadn’t spent any time outside yet.

  The two backyards were separated by a fence with a gate, so that people in either house might pass from one backyard to the other. The gate appeared to be newer than the rest of the fence, and Shell imagined this was added so Dean could easily check on his mother next door. His back patio was lovely with a barbecue pit and stone pavers. At the back of the lot he had a fenced and neglected looking vegetable garden about fifteen feet wide and ten feet deep. Even though it was October there were still some pepper plants with fruit on them.

  “Pathetic, isn’t it?” the deep timber of Dean’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “What?” she asked.

  “The garden. I haven’t had the heart for it this year. What you see before you is my half-hearted attempt to pretend things were going along normally.” He turned back to the others before Shell could respond.

  “How do you like the backyard?” Margie asked walking over and leaning on the garden fence.

  “I really like it. I’d like a little vegetable garden like this one on my side.”

  “Oh, maybe Dean can put one in for you someday. He’s always recommending that people grow vegetables.” They turned and watched the two men walking around the side of the house.

  “Where’s Sadie?” asked Shell.

  “At our house with Tabitha. They’re probably tearing our pillows apart!”

  “I doubt it. They both seem like such sweet dogs. I sometimes think I need a dog, too.”

  “You do. You should get one,” said Margie with conviction. “Listen,” she added, lowering her voice, “Dean is having a really hard time. Don’t let his gruffness bother you.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I know he must be just miserable, and he can’t be expected to be making small talk with a virtual stranger,” Shell said. “Anything new going on?”

  “No, not since they had him identify the body on Wednesday morning. I went with him to the morgue just so he wouldn’t be alone, but I don’t think I was any help. He’s been like a rock.”

  “Everyone handles crisis situations differently. Some people fall apart, and some people have so much strength!”

  “But I can tell he’s worried. He had to go in for questioning Wednesday afternoon. His lawyer, Ken Richert, went with him, but the police detective made him feel like a suspect. It has to be unnerving.” Margie, always strong herself, was suddenly overcome with emotion.

  Shell put her arm around her friend and said, “This is going to work out. You’re helping your brother.”

  Just then they heard a car pulling up in front of the house. The four walked around through the front gate and into the front yard.

  “Good evening,” said Sgt. Gonzalez as he and Detective Wilson approached the house. “What exactly happened here?”

  Gonzalez looked to Shell to be about forty-eight to fifty years old. He was of average height. His black hair was gray at the temples, and his face had the beginnings of worry lines. He had the look of someone who had grown tired of his job, or maybe he was just tired in general. Wilson was younger, maybe thirty-five. His hair was sandy and cut short, and he stood a good four inches taller than his boss.

  “Sergeant,” Dean said, “I called because my tenant saw someone leaving my house. Someone has been here, and we need to know who it is and why he was here. I feel sure this person has some connection with the death of my wife.”

  Sgt. Gonzalez looked at Dean with slightly narrowed eyes. Then he turned to the others and quickly identified Shell as the tenant. He had met Margie at the station and the man holding her hand was clearly her husband.

  “And you live next door?” he asked Shell without asking for an introduction.

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly did you see?” he asked.

  “I saw one of the shades inside the house moving, so I knew someone was inside. Later I saw a man come out of the front door and lock it. Then he went down to his car and drove away.”

  “You say he had a key?” the detective asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And was he carrying anything when he left the house, Miss?”

  “Not that I could see,” she said.

  “When did this happen?”

  “It was about 4:15 when I noticed the movement in the house, but the man didn’t leave until about 4:45.”

  Sgt. Gonzalez looked at his watch. It was 5:50 now. He looked back up at Shell. “Do you think you can give a description of the man and his car?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well,” turning to Dean the sergeant said, “It was a good decision not to go into the house until we have a look at it. Detective Wilson will need to take this young woman’s name and write down the details of her description. I’m going to have a look in the house.”

  Dean nodded. Sgt. Gonzalez walked up onto the front porch and looked around. “Keys?” he asked. Dean tossed them up to him and watched as the sergeant carefully turned the key in the lock without touching the knob. He pushed the brick-red door open and went into the house.

  Shell was talking to a rather eager Detective Wilson as he took notes. “No, single,” she was saying. “Michelle Andrea Hodge…Yes, it was about 4:15…”

  Dean and the others went up onto the porch and looked through the door as the detective moved from room to room. He only spent about five minutes inside.

  “I can’t see that anything’s disturbed,” he said as he came back to the others. “Are you sure you didn’t give a set of keys to a friend?”

  “What?” Dean asked, exasperated. “No. No one has keys to this house but my wife and myself. There’s no reason why someone should have been here. Besides, I don’t know anyone who looks like the man my tenant described.”

  “Sometimes,” said the investigator, “people forget these things. You may have given the keys to a friend some time ago. Your wife might have done the same thing. Can you vouch for the fact that your wife didn’t ever give a copy of her keys to a friend?”

  Dean looked at Sgt. Gonzalez with rising indignation. It was true that Amanda had been undependable. She might have given her keys to anyone as far as he knew, but Dean also knew that this intrusion into his home was somehow connected to her death. Someone had come into his house for a reason. He could see that the sergeant was avoiding investigating.

  “Are you going to dust for prints or not?” Dean asked. “Are you going to do your job and find out who was here and who killed my wife, or are you going to pretend you’ve already got all the answers?”

  “Calm down, Mr. Maxwell. We can’t go investigating every time someone enters a house and does nothing. Dusting for prints makes no sense to me. There doesn’t appear to have been a robbery, and no one’s been hurt. Believe me, I’m taking the investigation into your wife’s murder seriously, but I doubt this event has anything to do with it.”

  “How do you even know that something hasn’t been taken? How can you stand there and tell me this is meaningless? I have expensive computer equipment in there in my office. What about that? This has
never happened before—” Dean was genuinely angry now.

  “It happens every day, Mr. Maxwell.” Gonzalez said calmly. “Your tenant here didn’t notice the man carrying anything out of the house. This doesn’t look like a robbery, but why don’t you take a walk around inside and see if anything’s missing yourself? We’ll wait.”

  “What if I move something or smear prints?” Dean asked.

  “Be careful,” the detective said.

  Just hearing his condescending tone made Shell begin to feel angry herself. The investigator was clearly not planning to look into this. She watched as Dean entered through the open door to his living room. Margie and Donald were speaking to each other in soft voices, and Shell could tell they were not pleased with the way things were going. It was a full seven minutes before Dean came out onto the porch. He looked puzzled and somewhat dejected.

  “Anything?” asked Sgt. Gonzalez flatly.

  “No. I can’t see that anything’s gone.” Dean sat down on a porch chair, defeated.

  In a more conciliatory tone this time, Gonzalez said, “We’re working on other leads, Mr. Maxwell. Let us know if anything else comes up.” He turned to Shell and handed her his card. “If you see anything new, you can reach me at that number.” Then, turning back to Dean, “And thanks for calling us. We’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 10

  Margie and Donald invited Shell to their house for dinner that night. It was completely impromptu. Dean had decided he was going to go home, but he needed to get Sadie first.

  “Why don’t we order some barbecue and eat before you go? You come too, Shell.”

  It seemed so natural and relaxed the way Margie entertained. Shell found herself agreeing before she had even thought about the situation Dean was in. Later she wondered how they could have been so cool about leaving the house empty for a few hours right after learning there had been an intruder.

  It was decided that Shell would go over to the house with them in Dean’s car. They ordered brisket and ribs from Stubb’s Barbecue. Margie and Shell remembered listening to music there in their college days, and Donald was hungry for ribs. Dean dropped Margie and Shell off at the house while he and Donald went after the meats.

  Once in Margie’s house Shell turned to her and asked, “Do you think Dean’s up to having dinner together?”

  “Well, he’s got to eat, and I know he won’t cook. Listen, give me your phone.”

  Shell pulled her phone from the pocket in the front of her purse and handed it to her. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m putting Dean’s number in your contacts. You’re his tenant and you don’t have his number do you?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” Shell admitted.

  “You and Dean are so much alike. Neither one of you thinks about these things! And I’m putting your number in his phone when he and Donald get back,” Margie said, handing the phone back to her.

  You are such a control freak, thought Shell.

  “Margie, do you think it might be a bad idea to leave the house right after it’s been invaded by some intruder? Do you think he might come back?” asked Shell.

  “Whatever that intruder did,” Margie responded, “he’s already done. I think the house is okay, and I really think Dean needs to think about something else for a few hours.”

  “Do you think he can?” Shell asked as she searched for coleslaw ingredients in the fridge.

  “Probably not,” was all Margie said. She looked up from the loaf of bread she was slicing. “I think we should at least try to distract him.”

  It was a surprisingly pleasant evening. Dean seemed tired and rather quiet, but he appeared to be in a less distracted state than he had two days earlier. Margie and Donald kept the conversation going with stories about their favorite places to get barbecue, and Donald talked about his psychology convention. After dinner they sat in the cozy living room drinking decaf. Shell found a spot on the area rug next to Sadie and absently stroked her soft head.

  “Careful, you’ll spoil her,” Dean said, giving her a rare smile.

  “She’s a sweet girl,” said Shell.

  “Oh Dean!” said Margie. “You should show Shell the tricks Sadie can do.”

  “I haven’t trained her to do a lot,” he said, “but she’s awfully smart and likes to learn. Come here, Sadie.” The dog obediently moved toward her master, tail wagging. “Roll over,” he said softly.

  Sadie obediently rolled over on the carpet, and Shell smiled. Then, using a hand signal, he had her roll the other direction and then back again the other way. Then he took his wallet from his back pocket and lay it on the floor beside her. “Guard,” he said. Sadie lay on the floor beside the wallet. Margie tried leaning toward it, and Sadie began to growl. Everyone laughed, and Dean said, “Good girl!” He gave her a pat as he put the wallet back in his pocket.

  “What’s impressive,” added Donald, “is when Dean has had me help work with her with padded gloves! He says ‘get ‘em,’ and she attacks my arms. She’s really a tough fighter. I can hardly remain standing!”

  “Does she know you’re not really her enemy?” asked Shell.

  “Oh yeah,” said Donald. “She knows she’s being trained.” Then looking at Dean he asked, “Right?”

  “She does,” Dean answered, “but she sees it as serious work. She knows she’s being trained for the real thing. Hopefully, protection will never be needed, but dogs like her need some kind of training and some kind of work to do. She’ll probably only hear the attack commands when we’re working with her, but she loves to work, don’t you girl?” He reached down and gave her another pat while she wagged her tail.

  Margie leaned down from her spot on the couch and rubbed Sadie’s coat, too. In a minute the dog went back and put her head in Shell’s lap. “Shell needs a dog, Dean. Look how Sadie’s taken to her! We should take her to the shelter to pick one out.” Sadie was so pleased with all the attention she let out an excited bark.

  “Sadie likes the idea,” was all he said, but Shell thought he had a worried look on his face.

  Then leaning forward and surprising everyone with the abrupt change of subject, Donald said, “I don’t like this Gonzalez character,” as if he could no longer keep the thing that was really on his mind from being said.

  Shell and Margie exchanged looks, and Margie rolled her eyes. “Really, Donald? Do you really have to talk about this now?”

  “What? I’m not allowed to talk?”

  “For a psychologist, you can be pretty damned insensitive—” she began.

  “It’s okay, Margie,” Dean broke in. “You’ve been great about trying to distract me, but I can’t really think about anything else.” Then looking at Donald, “I don’t think Gonzalez is a bad guy, but I was definitely disappointed today.”

  “Yes, why wouldn’t he at least look into finding this guy?” Donald was fixated on the subject and Margie, annoyed, got up from the couch and went after the coffee pot.

  “Who’s ready for more?” she asked pouring into her husband’s cup without an invitation. He looked at her with an anxious expression on his face.

  “None for me, thanks,” said Dean. “Actually, I think I should probably get home. I’m pretty tired, and I’ve been neglecting some accounts.” He glanced over at Shell and she stood up, realizing he was her ride back to Barrow Avenue.

  “Yes, it’s been a long day,” she added.

  Sadie was surprised not to be riding shotgun, but she and Shell had made friends over the course of the evening, so she jumped politely in the back of the Cherokee. As they rode along Shell was content to be silent.

  “Thanks for being so upbeat about all this,” Dean said turning right onto the northbound frontage road of I-35. “It can’t be pleasant for you to find yourself moved in next door to all this trouble.”

  “I’m just sorry all of this is happening at all. I feel certain the mystery will be solved, but I know that’s not very comforting.”

  “Nothing’s very
comforting,” Dean answered. “I just can’t stop thinking about what really happened and why. I keep wondering if I could have done something different and if it would have made any difference.”

  “Well, I don’t want to pry, but if you need to talk about any of this, I’m here,” Shell said quietly. “Sometimes a puzzle comes together when you talk about it.”

  “You would do that?” he asked.

  “Why not? You’re my best friend’s brother. Your well-being is important to your family, and let’s face it, I see Margie as my family.”

  “I know she loves you. She told me you’re very important to her.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  “She’s the only family I’ve got,” said Dean quietly.

  “Me too.”

  “No one else?” he asked, surprised.

  “My dad died when I was seventeen, and my mom died two years ago. I don’t have siblings. There are some cousins in Kansas, but we’re not close. Christmas cards.” Shell suddenly realized she might be sounding like she was feeling sorry for herself. “I wouldn’t trade the parents I had to have different parents who are still alive, though. I had really good parents. I think they made me strong, and I sometimes feel my mother is still with me.”

  “I wish I could feel that way,” Dean said simply as he turned the car onto Barrow Avenue.

  “You don’t at all?”

  “I find myself wanting to talk to my mom, knowing how she’d feel about things, that kind of thing. But no, I don’t feel she’s with me,” he said.

  “How long has it been?” Shell asked.

  “Three months. Grief stays with you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m over the loss, but I’m better than I was. I still feel it, though, and I imagine I always will.”