by Roslyn Woods
The Girl With The Dragonfly Tattoo
An Austin, Texas Art Mystery
Roslyn Woods
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
About the Author
Also by Roslyn Woods
Copyright © 2016 by Roslyn Woods
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
Monday, August 3, 7:55 p.m.—Shell
The slender woman with the long, ash blond hair paused inside the gallery window when she caught sight of the old man. It was nearly closing time, eight p.m., almost time to go, time to get herself ready for Dean to drive up and take her home in his green, Jeep Cherokee. But the old fellow on Lavaca Street was clearly headed north toward the gallery.
The Westside Gallery wasn’t really all that far west. In fact, it was more central, just north of the main part of downtown Austin, but it was west of the I-35, the main artery to the city with all its congestion, its eighteen wheelers, smart cars, and pickup trucks. They had picked the name because they thought of Austin as a western sort of place, a place of cowboys and music mixed with everything that made Austin weird and beautiful, urban and country.
Shell Hodge stepped down from the display window where she had just placed a large, framed poster of a colorful oil painting under which the words, EVELYN JAMESON: LIFE AND DEATH—OPENING AUGUST 7TH, were boldly printed.
She peered in the direction of the elderly gentleman, taking in the lines and shadows of him. He was familiar, someone she was quite sure she had seen in the gallery before, and he was stooped and walked with a slight limp as he made his way through the evening walkers that had begun to fill the sidewalk as they headed for the dinner and music places that were just beginning to hum at this hour. His hair was white, and his clothes gave the impression of quality, of an era gone by. A summer evening in Austin, Texas, was too hot to be wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and tie with black slacks and Italian leather shoes, but they looked natural on the old man’s thin frame.
Her paternal grandfather had walked in that stooped way, his bad back making him lean on her eight-year-old-shoulder. She remembered his thin hands, slightly twisted from arthritis, his knowing expression when she looked up at him, as if they had their own secret even though there was no secret at all. There was something very like him in this old man’s looks. He was elegant. In his right hand he carried a rather large, black portfolio by the handle.
"May I help you?" she asked as he opened the door.
"Yes. Yes, I have some things I'd like to show you," he answered. His voice was low, but he seemed confident.
"All right. Come in," she said, pulling the door open wider. It was unusual to agree to looking at someone's portfolio without an appointment, but Shell had become accustomed to listening to her instincts, and right now they were telling her to see what this man was about.
"Just let me call my associate," she added. Then, pushing a button behind the marble counter, she spoke in a slightly louder voice, "Billie, can you come up to the front?"
He was there in a moment, a tallish man with highlighted brown hair and a red bow tie, walking in with a complaint, "Shell, darling, I thought we were closing!"
"We are. We're just going to look at this gentleman's portfolio before we go," she answered, giving him a look that silenced him. Then turning back to the old man she said, "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"
"I'm Edwin Baird. I'd like to show you some drawings and watercolors."
"Edwin Baird?" Billie asked. "Edwin Baird?"
That certainly perked him up.
"That's right,” the old gentleman said. “I’ve decided it's time to sell a few things, and I thought you might consider them."
"Well, yes, I think we might!" Billie answered, his attention fully engaged. “By the way, I’m Billie, and this is Michelle. Let's just go into the conference room. There's a table in there where we can spread out. May I help by carrying the portfolio?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you. Yes." Edwin Baird handed the portfolio—the letters EB clearly embossed in its leather side—to the younger man with the perfectly tousled hair.
The mahogany table in the conference room was long and only slightly wider than a standard dining room table. Beside it were three display easels, and there were six wooden chairs on either side of it, plus one at each end. Billie laid the portfolio on the table and looked questioningly at the old man.
"Please open it,” the man said. “These are older drawings and paintings, but they've been kept away from light, so I think you'll find them in good condition."
The drawings were done in graphite and charcoal, and they mostly depicted street scenes, though there were several portraits. The watercolors were also street scenes, strangely reminiscent of Degas, though the subject matter was distinctly Texan—at least to Shell’s eyes—and the pigments were surprisingly intense for the medium.
"Yes, I'll have to agree these are very well-preserved,” Billie said with admiration. “They could have been painted yesterday!”
"Some of them are nearly forty years old," Edwin Baird replied.
"They're beautiful!" said Shell, lifting a watercolor and revealing a lovely drawing of a child beneath it. "Why now?" she asked. "Why are you willing to sell these now?"
"Personal reasons. I’ve been admiring your spac
e. I like what you’re doing here. I’d like to display in your gallery, and I have some other work as well. Are you interested in seeing it?"
"Yes,” Billie answered without hesitating, “we're absolutely interested! We’re honored! And we'd like to promise right now that we'll take a lower commission than any gallery in the city! We can have a wonderful exhibition!"
"Well, thank you," said the artist, sounding drained. "I'm afraid I'm very tired, so I'd like to leave these with you now. And perhaps you can visit me at my studio in a day or two? There's a great deal more. I couldn't bring the oils," he said, handing a card to Shell.
"Yes, of course," she answered, barely glancing at the handwritten address and placing it on the table. "We'd be very happy to. But how soon would you like to display these paintings?"
"Soon. As soon as they can be framed. Is that possible?"
"Wonderful! I can see to that!" Billie answered enthusiastically. “But you’ll want a say in how they're framed.”
"I've seen the frame treatments on the work in your gallery. I'll trust you on the framing."
“Fabulous! But of course I'll consult you before the work is done,” Billie answered. "And what else might we do to help you?"
"You can call me a cab," the old man answered, leaning rather heavily against the table.
"Yes! Of course! Let me do that!" said Billie, rushing to the phone at the end of the conference table. "Or I could drive you."
"No. No, thank you. I'd be more comfortable taking a cab."
"Perhaps you'd like to sit," Shell suggested hurriedly.
"Yes, I would," he said as she pulled a chair for him.
"Mr. Baird?" she began, "Are you ill?"
"No, no. Just old and tired."
Billie was speaking with the cab service.
“Yes,” he was saying. “The Westside Gallery. It’s—Oh! You know the address? Wonderful. Fifteen minutes?” In another few seconds he hung up the phone. “I’ll just get the camera,” he said to Shell, heading over to a cabinet in the corner of the conference room.
“We’ll take pictures to document the portfolio so there’s a record of the pieces you’re leaving with us,” she said. “Does that sound okay to you, Mr. Baird? That way we can give you a copy of what you're leaving before you go,” she added. “It shouldn’t take long.”
"Yes, fine," said Edwin Baird. "I'm not worried about that."
"Yes," Billie answered, turning around with Minolta in hand. “But we're worried about it. We’ll need you to sign the receipt when it's written up, and we'll sign it, too--just saying we have the art in our possession for now. We'll need to work out the ins and outs of the exhibition contract and draw it up after you've decided what else will be in the show."
"I understand," Edwin said quietly, briefly closing his green eyes and swallowing before looking at Billie again.
“And eventually we’ll need to talk about pricing,” Billie was saying, “but I think we can agree that, with your reputation and the age of the pieces, we’re talking about many thousands of dollars.” He aimed the Minolta and snapped a shot of a vibrant street scene.
“So much depends on the current pricing for older works,” Edwin Baird answered.
“And so much more depends on what people are willing to pay. I’m guessing we can start at fifty thousand for the smallest pieces and go up from there.”
“Whatever you think,” the old man said weakly.
"Can I bring you something to drink?" Shell asked. "Coffee? Or water?”
“Nothing, thank you," he answered, and the young woman sat down beside him, frowning.
In a few minutes the receipt, just a standard one where blanks were filled in and photographs of the works were included, was drawn up on Billie’s laptop and ejected from the printer in the corner of the room.
"Now, I've included the address for the studio," Billie said, "but we'll need to write in some contact information before--"
Edwin Baird, suddenly stood up. "I think I need water," he said feebly, turning toward the water dispenser. His left hand went to his chest, and he tugged at the dark tie.
"Oh, you're not well!" said Shell. "I'll get it for you! You must sit down again!” she added, rushing ahead of him to break his fall as Billie put the paperwork down and hurried around the table. But Edwin Baird's knees were already buckling, and Shell couldn’t keep him from dropping to the floor. She went with him, so that, suddenly, they were both on their knees on the gallery floor, the old man in Shell’s arms, Billie bending over them.
“Oh, dear!” he said.
“Call an ambulance!” Shell said. Then, helping the old man to lie on the cool, marble tile, and addressing him as calmly as she could, she leaned close to his face and said, “Mr. Baird, we’re very sorry you’re unwell! We’re going to get you to a hospital. You must try to be calm. We’ll stay right with you.”
Chapter 2
Monday, August 3, 9:30 p.m.—Shell
If Edwin Baird was conscious of the fact that the ambulance driver had told her she would have to follow in another car, Shell didn’t know it. They had put an oxygen mask on him and she had tried to assure him she would be following right behind the EMS vehicle.
Billie was driving, nervously chattering while she watched the tail lights of the big yellow van that was carrying Edwin Baird to Seton Medical Center.
Seton wasn’t that far away, but even so, Shell noticed how rapidly the neighborhoods changed in Austin. A few blocks and the tone changed entirely. Downtown quickly gave way to student housing, family neighborhoods with houses built in the twenties, and pecan trees hanging over sidewalks.
“Oh! I bet that light’s going to turn red. I just know it will,” Billie said. “Oh, look! It’s turning yellow.”
It was happening again. Shell’s heart was racing, and the passing town was fading in and out as her focus shifted from clear to hazy and then back again in an ever-repeating circle. She felt nauseated and wanted to neither look up or down.
Billie kept talking. “You should message Dean that I’ll drive you home. Otherwise he’ll come to the gallery to pick you up and you won’t be there. I already messaged Leo. He knows I’ll be late. See, I was right! It turned red!”
“I already texted Dean,” she answered as Billie screeched to a halt. “He knows you’re driving me home.”
“But he doesn’t know what’s going on, does he?”
They were sitting at the intersection in Billie’s Ford Escape, the traffic surprisingly thin as they waited at 34th Street to continue north on Lamar, the lights of the city just becoming noticeable as the sun sank in the west, but Shell was only conscious of the retreating tail lights of the ambulance fading in and out.
“No, he doesn’t. I didn’t have time to say much. Try to stay calm, Billie,” she answered, her own heart thudding in her ears.
The traffic light turned green again, and Billie lurched forward, as if that would hurry their arrival at the hospital that was only a few more blocks away.
I’m just overreacting, she thought as she went through the motions of gathering up her purse and heading into the ER with her friend. There was something surreal about all of this. She hadn’t been inside a hospital in two months, and she didn’t want to be in one now.
It seemed the ER was all glass and linoleum, everything blue and gray and white. Shell gave all the information she had—which was next to nothing—to the person at the counter, a large woman with big glasses and the ghost of a mustache. The patient’s name was Edwin Baird. No, she didn’t know where he lived. No, she didn’t know where his family was. No, she didn’t have a phone number for any significant person in his life. They had written the studio address on the receipt, but they hadn’t brought it with them.
“It’s all right, Miss,” said the woman. “We’ve got some information from his wallet.”
“Have you called anyone?” Shell asked.
“Not yet. Someone’s trying to sort it out now.”
Shell’s nause
a was passing, her vision clearing. She took a chair beside Billie’s, her mind working on what was happening while her eyes scanned the seated people in the ER. Like her, they were all waiting to see how someone was doing, their child or father, their mother, sibling, or friend.
At just that moment, a man entered the ER through the sliding doors. He was older, close to Edwin Baird’s age, seventy-five or more. His clothes were nice, black slacks and a blue dress shirt over a short, slightly round body. He looked around the room, and his eyes met hers for just a moment before they moved on, continuing to search, possibly for a person, or maybe he was just looking for a chair. Maybe he’d been here for hours and had just stepped out for a smoke.
She stood up again and approached the desk to ask the woman if they would be notified of Edwin Baird’s progress. She had just reached the counter when a round-shouldered man in blue scrubs came into the lobby through swinging doors off to her left. Curls of gray hair escaped the blue cap on his head, and he looked harried when he spoke to the receptionist. “I’m looking for someone named Michelle,” he said.
“That’s me,” she spoke up.
“He’s asking for you,” he said, signaling her to follow him.
She turned briefly and gave Billie a look to indicate she was going with the man in scrubs before following through the swinging doors.
Billie took out his cell and started making calls.
“Oh, dear, Dean! Nothing terrible has happened to me or Shell, but you’d better come down to Seton Medical Center. Someone came into the gallery tonight and had a heart attack. Shell is very upset about it, so we followed the ambulance up here.”
“Let me talk to Shell,” Dean said.
“It’s not that easy. She’s in the treatment room with him! He asked for her. Anyway, your sweetie is more fragile than she thinks. This shouldn’t be happening to someone who’s recently been through a terrible trauma!”
Billie was drumming the fingers of his right hand on the wooden arm of the waiting room chair. His friend Shell was uniquely dear to him. He read the worry in her eyes when she told him to be calm. He noted the telltale way she kept twisting a loose lock of hair around her fingers, the way her hand went to her heart. He was aware of it all. To someone who didn’t know her well, her exterior might have seemed calm, but Billie felt her jagged nerves. He hoped Dean felt them, too. Shell deserved that kind of knowing from her lover, especially after enduring her recent kidnapping.
