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

by Roslyn Woods

  “All I know is I took him to the airport. He said he was going to Albuquerque. He could have been going to Timbuktu for all I know.”

  “And how about Amanda Maxwell?”

  “What do you mean?” Hoffman sounded nervous.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Same thing. A couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh really? Did she go with you when you took Danny to the airport?”

  “No.”

  “Then where?”

  “She came into the bar.”

  “Well, then you should have that on the surveillance video.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Mr. Hoffman, were you having an affair with Amanda Maxwell?”

  “No! Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “Because the people we’ve spoken with think you were having an affair with her. I’m giving you a chance to tell us the truth about that.”

  There was a long silence during which Ray Hoffman stared at Gonzalez. “Okay. We were involved. There’s no crime in two people loving each other.”

  “But someone killed her, Mr. Hoffman.”

  “Are you suggesting it was me?”

  “I’m asking you. Did you kill her?”

  “No!”

  “You see, the problem is, that’s the same answer you gave a minute ago when I asked if you were having an affair with her.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “No. But you should if you know what’s best.”

  Hoffman didn’t say anything, and in a minute Gonzalez continued, “Where were you between, oh, say nine and noon, on October fifteenth?”

  “I was here! Ask anybody here. They’ll vouch for me.”

  “I’ll bet they will,” said Gonzalez without veiling his sarcasm. “Who do you report to around here? Who knows when you come and go? Who do you tell when you notice something going on out here that’s…violent?”

  “Just the people in the back.”

  “And who are they?”

  Hoffman paused. “Frank and Paulo.”

  “That’s all? Who’s manning the surveillance upstairs on the computer?”

  “That’s it. I’m done. You’ll have to arrest me if you want me to say anything else.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Hoffman. That could happen,” said Gonzalez, but he didn’t really have enough right now. It would just be a matter of time. Hoffman was dirty. Gonzalez could see that. “See you later,” he said, and he and Wilson stood up and started for the door.

  “I hate cops,” said Hoffman. Gonzalez turned and looked at him.

  “Most criminals do,” he said.

  Chapter 47

  Gonzalez often wondered how he had ended up in a job like this. He had thought being a detective would be exciting, but it hadn’t turned out that way. He was tired all the time, and when he was on a murder, he had no time of his own. He would work seven days a week and have to get by on very little sleep. Add to that, he obsessed on it. He would eat, drink, and sleep the case, and after a while he hated everybody associated with it, even his coworkers.

  He had planned that this Sunday he would take Emelda and the twins out for breakfast before going into work at around ten-thirty. She loved going to brunch, and even though he would have to get going to the station by ten, she would know he was making an effort to keep her happy. At least that had been his plan for today.

  But just before seven his phone had started ringing. It was Lara at the station calling to let him know that a body had been found in the river east of Austin. A cattle rancher had called at about six, and Wilson was already on the way out there. The body had been caught up in the trees at the edge of the water near the weir about four and a half miles past the 183.

  Emelda had smiled sleepily at him and said it was okay. She would see him later. Maybe he could come home for dinner. She would just take the kids to mass and they would go over to her parents’ for lunch. Don’t worry about it. But he did worry about it.

  He worried about it all the way south to the 71, then up the 183 to Thompson Lane where he turned north toward the river. The sky was dark and he could see trees and bushes moving with the cold wind. He passed a rather poor neighborhood with cars on the lawns. Looks like the place where I grew up, he thought, imagining his youth in southeast Fresno, California. Poor neighborhoods always reminded him of home, of the good people he had known, trying to make a life in a world that viewed them as nothing but cheap labor and the undeserving poor. He didn’t see any people here till he came to Hergotz Lane. A young Hispanic man stood on the rough grass in his front yard glaring hatefully at the unmarked police car. Yeah, I know you see me, thought the sergeant.

  He turned east and noticed the landscape became suddenly rural. Fields and farmhouses so close to town always surprised him. There were places on this road where he could look back and see the Austin skyline looking strangely near. He noticed there were an inordinate number of dump trucks using this road. Where did it go? In three or four minutes he could see the cars up ahead. They were parked on either side of the road, and he pulled up to the left behind Clara Bentley’s car. She was the deputy chief medical examiner, known for her diligence, and Gonzalez had worked other cases with her.

  The wind was cold, and Gonzalez zipped up his jacket and lifted the collar around his ears as he walked to the gate that led into what appeared to be a cattle pasture that sloped down to the river. On the fence across the road a sign read, Sandy Chocolate Loam and haul off site/We keep dirt DIRT CHEAP. A big, orange truck was pulling in there, and another was behind the first honking, while a third sat in the middle of the road waiting to go in. This explained the dump trucks.

  On the side by the river, the gate was open, and he walked over the cattle guard looking for livestock. There they were, off to the east a bit, resting under the oak trees. He could hear the distant sound of lowing somewhere further off. Even with the movement of the trucks on the road behind him, he felt the ominous loneliness of the place. It wasn’t much of a walk, just a hundred yards or so through wet grass down the hill toward the water, before he saw everyone. Wilson was the tallest, so he stood out, but Myers was here, too, and there was Clara Bentley’s shock of gray hair. She and her team of four were bending over the body.

  Gonzalez was pretty sure it was Danny Lopez even before he saw it. And even after time in the water, he could see the face looked like Lopez’s pictures. All that was left now was for the medical examiner to verify the identity and tell them when and how he died.

  “Cause of death?” Gonzalez asked Bentley without bothering to greet her.

  “Good morning to you, too, Gil,” she said with a little bitterness.

  “Sorry. I’m just cold and I don’t really want to be here.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve already been here for forty minutes,” she said looking up at him. “Looks like a bullet went in at the back of the head. There’s an exit wound here,” pointing to the top of the head. “I just see the one so far, but I’ll know a lot more in a few hours.”

  Gonzalez thought about the strange cleanliness of a victim like this. When the body was put in the water, all the blood was washed away, and there was only a water-logged, puffy form to tell the story of the killing.

  Gonzalez walked up the hill a little to where Wilson was standing. He was writing on a clipboard and didn’t look up.

  “How long you been here?” he asked him.

  “About thirty minutes.”

  “Show me where they found him.”

  Wilson and Myers walked ahead and down toward the water. Gonzalez could see reeds and bushes at the water’s edge.

  “He got hung up right here in these branches. The cattle rancher’s dog found him,” said Wilson.

  “Okay,” said Gonzalez, shivering slightly. “It’s still pretty cold. You can finish the paperwork at the station. Bentley’s team is taking care of this. We need to get down to Onion Creek.”

  “Right,” said Wilson. “I’ve got t
he warrant in the car.”

  “Myers,” Gonzalez said. “Take my car back to the station.” He tossed him his keys. “Wilson and I have to get down to this fella’s house.” He was looking back up the bank at the body.

  “Yes, sir,” said Myers. “See you at the station.”

  So now he had two murders to deal with. It occurred to Gonzalez that finding Danny’s body meant Hoffman had a lot of explaining to do. He had already told them he had taken Lopez to the airport because he was on his way to Albuquerque. That couldn’t have been true, so was Hoffman his killer? Or was he covering for someone else?

  “If we find evidence of wrong-doing down here,” said Gonzalez as Wilson drove south on the 35, “we’re going to need the team to get down here quick. Then we’ve gotta get back up to Austin and bring Hoffman in for questioning.”

  “I hope we can find him,” said Wilson. “He may have flown the coop after that interview yesterday.”

  “It’s possible he’s got an explanation.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “I’m not.”

  Just then Gonzalez’s phone buzzed. Across the screen he read the name of the caller.

  “Becky Lester,” he said, looking up at Wilson. “I wonder what this can be about.” He ran his finger across the screen. “Hello. This is Sgt. Gonzalez.”

  “Oh hi,” she said. “I just remembered when you gave me your card how you wanted me to tell you if I thought of anything else? Well anyway, I did think of something. Amanda told me Dean Maxwell had a gun.”

  “You’re just remembering this now?”

  “Well it’s not so weird is it? I mean, lots of people have guns in Texas, don’t they? So I guess I didn’t think about it at the time.”

  “Yes, yes they do, but this is just a little bit surprising.”

  “I know. I should have thought of it, huh? Oh well! I just thought I’d let you know.” She spoke as if she was letting him know tomorrow was going to be sunny.

  “Miss Lester, would you be willing to testify to the fact that Amanda Maxwell told you her husband had a gun?”

  “Well, why would I have to do that?”

  “Because it’s possible that his having a gun may mean he’ll be charged.”

  “Charged with what?”

  “Murder.”

  There was a pause while Gonzalez waited. Finally, Becky said, “Well, I guess I would if I had to.”

  “When did Mrs. Maxwell tell you her husband had a gun?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Seems like maybe a couple of months ago.”

  “And where were you at the time?”

  “Uh, well, I think we were out shopping.”

  “Shopping. Shopping where?”

  “Uh, well, it seems like we were at The Domain.”

  “Well, were you or weren’t you?”

  “Now I remember. We were walking into California Pizza kitchen in The Domain.”

  “And she just said, ‘Oh by the way, my husband has a gun’?”

  “No, well, I think I said I didn’t have one and so she offered that he did have one, something like that.”

  “And why were you talking about guns?”

  “Gosh, I really don’t remember. Do I need to remember?”

  “You’d certainly need to tighten up your testimony if you had to be a witness.”

  “Oh, gee, I don’t really want to be a witness.”

  “Well, then, let’s hope you don’t have to. Thank you, Miss Lester. I’ll add this new piece of information to our files.”

  Wilson looked up every few moments to see the sergeant’s expression as the conversation seemed to be winding down. Gonzalez was nodding and pausing before answering, “Will do.”

  When he ended the call Wilson said, “I knew it! I knew Maxwell did it!”

  “Oh yeah?” the sergeant said. “By the way,” he added with a withering sideways look, “Becky says hi.”

  Chapter 48

  They hadn’t felt like painting on Saturday, so Shell and Margie had stayed on 16th Street and watched the movies they had intended to see the night before. Dean had called to check on them, and they were home this time.

  “Is he always this attentive?” asked Shell.

  “Actually, he is when Donald’s out of town. He checks on me. It’s sweet. I just didn’t expect him to check on us last night.”

  “Because you were with me?”

  “Right, because I wasn’t alone. I guess he thinks we both need checking on.”

  “Maybe he thinks you’re in more danger if I’m around.”

  “Maybe he’s just as worried about you as he is about me.”

  Sunday dawned cold again. Shell felt like going home and getting a few things done, and Margie was planning to go out to pick Donald up at the airport in the afternoon.

  “What do you think about getting the guys to go listen to some music tonight?” asked Margie, as Shell was getting ready to go.

  “Dean and Donald? I don’t know. I—”

  “It would be good to take Dean’s mind off his troubles, Shell. He needs a break.” Margie paused and looked at Shell earnestly. “He won’t come with just me and Donald. He’ll feel like a third wheel if you don’t go.”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” she said, vainly trying to think of an excuse to say no. “I guess it’s okay with me,” she answered reluctantly, “but I’m not inviting him.”

  “Okay. I’ll call and ask him.” Within seconds, Margie had Dean on the phone while Shell stood and watched. “Hey Dean, how do you feel about going out to hear some music tonight at Saxon Pub?…I think it’s rock and blues…Eightysixxed. Yeah, Donald thinks they’re really great, and we can grab a bite on the way…About seven at Bess Bistro…I’ll make a reservation for four…Can you and Shell meet us there?…I’m sure it’ll be okay with her…Sounds good.”

  Shell stood marveling at her friend’s ability to manipulate people into doing what she wanted them to do. “I just submit to your will, don’t I?” she asked after Margie ended the call.

  “It’s not a bad will,” said Margie with a little smile.

  “I just feel like I ended up inviting Dean to take me out to dinner and music without even knowing it.”

  “You didn’t. I did.

  “I know, but he thinks we’re attached at the hip!” Shell was a little frosted.

  “No. He knows I’m the manipulator. He knows you’d never arrange dinner and music.”

  “I hope you’re right, because I don’t want him to think I’m—”

  “Interested?”

  Shell bit her lip to keep herself from snapping. It was annoying that Margie couldn’t see, or refused to see, how uncomfortable she was with being matched up. Margie couldn’t know how complicated the other night’s argument had been between Dean and herself. She really didn’t want him to think she was trying to arrange an evening out with him. It was hard enough having feelings she was suppressing, but it was just humiliating to think he might be aware that she had those feelings. “C’mon, Bitsy! Aunt Margie’s taking us home.”

  “Ooh, what are you going to wear?” Margie asked, oblivious to Shell’s mood as they headed toward the minivan. “How about that new blue dress?”

  “The periwinkle?”

  “Yes!” Margie was having more fun with Shell’s wardrobe than she was. “And the silver shoes and purse.”

  “Whatever. How about you?”

  “I think I’ll wear my black and purple with the purple belt.”

  “Sounds nice,” said Shell, but she wasn’t very happy.

  Shell took a hot bath and dressed slowly. She spent a little time blow-drying her hair and putting on fresh makeup and a rosy lipstick. Now that the wound on her cheekbone was stitched together, the band-aid that covered it was minimal in size, not so noticeable. Her left eye was starting to bruise just on the top lid, and she applied gray eye shadow to blend it out. The blue dress was prettier than she remembered from her shopping day with Margie. It fit her perfectly, and
she stood in front of the mirror considering a change to something more casual. No, she had never been to Bess Bistro. What if it was dressy and something more casual wouldn’t be appropriate? She would just have to take Margie’s suggestion.

  Dean knocked on the back door at six-thirty. He was freshly shaven and combed, and Shell thought he looked awfully handsome in his sports jacket and dress slacks.

  “Wow!” he said when he saw her.

  “Not too disfigured with the tape on my face?” asked Shell, as Bitsy ran over to greet Dean.

  “You’re beautiful, and I’m sure you’re well aware of the fact that the scratch on your cheekbone hasn’t marred your good looks.”

  “Hey, don’t make fun, and look who’s calling it a scratch now!”

  “I’m not making fun, and three stitches isn’t a scratch, you’re right. But it looks much less frightening tonight.”

  “Well, you don’t look scary either,” said Shell.

  “Ouch,” he said. “I really didn’t mean it like that. Is this okay? Margie called and told me I should wear a blue shirt.”

  “I’m afraid your sister is coordinating our colors,” Shell said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “She can be pretty controlling,” he said with just a slight smile. Then, changing the subject, “I’m liking this paint in the kitchen, especially now that I see it finished.”

  “Yes, I do, too. Just let me grab my handbag,” she said as she headed for the bedroom. “Check out the green paint cans in the living room. You can see the color patch on the top. What do you think of that color?”

  “I think it’ll be great,” he called to her. “I know you have an eye for this kind of thing. I should hire you to tell me how to paint my house, too.”

  “You don’t want to do that,” she said as she returned to the room. “I might charge a terrible fee!” She was suppressing a smile.

  “But I’m sure it would be worth every cent,” he said. “Ready?”

  She nodded and bent down to give Bitsy a pat before following Dean out the back. “How long till we get to use the front door?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t mind it so much. It’s like we’ve got a secret. Do you?”