by Roslyn Woods
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She decided to call the hospital and busied herself looking up the number at the computer on the counter. In a few moments, she had it and was tapping the numbers on the phone.
“This is Michelle Hodge. My business partner and I called an ambulance last night for a man who had come into our gallery. He seemed to be having a heart attack. Anyway—”
“Do you have an emergency?” the operator interrupted.
“No, I have a question.”
“Can you hold?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
The theme from A Summer Place started playing in Shell’s ear. Now what? She waited for a full three minutes while staring at Edwin Baird’s scribbled address. Finally, the operator came back.
“Seton Medical Center. How may I help you?”
“I’m calling,” Shell said patiently, “because I came to the ER last night with a man who came to my gallery and got sick. He died there in the hospital. Now I have something of his and I don’t know who to give it to.”
“I’ll connect you with an administrator,” the woman’s voice said.
More music. Barry Manilow this time.
A group of older men and women, maybe nine or ten people, was entering the gallery just then, oohing and aahing as they gazed at some of the colorful pieces in the lobby. Shell waved to them and put her right hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.
“Hi,” she said, smiling apologetically. “Feel free to look around. I’m here if you have questions, and I should be off the phone in a couple of minutes.”
The woman who was apparently the leader of the group mouthed the words, “No problem,” in an exaggerated way and signaled the people following her to sign the guestbook and move ahead into the main gallery.
Shell was tempted to hang up on the medical center, but she thought she might be close to an answer and had decided to wait for just one more minute when she heard someone picking up the line.
“Hello. This is Ella Montagne.” Her accent was strong, extremely Texan.
“Hello!” said Shell, and she repeated what she had said about Edwin Baird to the operator, her eyes drifting back to the retreating figures of the visitors as they headed into the next room, though one older gentleman with thinning white hair had paused and was examining one of the paintings in the lobby with great interest. She could only see the back of him, no taller than she was herself, and slightly round.
“Your name?” the voice of Ella Montagne said.
“Michelle Hodge.”
“And what was the name of the gentleman?” she asked. Shell could hear the sound of rapid typing on a computer.
“Edwin Baird.”
There was a pause before the woman replied. “Well, that’s just plain strange,” she drawled. “We don’t have anyone by that name in our records for last night.”
“What? That’s impossible! We called the ambulance and followed it! I spoke to him after he was admitted, I was in the room when he died, and I also spoke to a woman at the desk in the ER about him! I’m the one who gave her his name.”
“We go by the information in the person’s effects, honey. Is it possible the gentleman gave you an incorrect name?”
“I—I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’m not supposed to tell you this, miss, but we had a man here last night who died, and his name was Edwin. But it wasn’t Edwin Baird. That’s all the information I can give you.”
“You’re telling me he had another last name?”
“If it was him, that’s right.”
“But what was it?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to answer that, honey.”
“But what do I do? I have some valuable property that belonged to that man! I need to return it to his family.”
“I just don’t know what to tell you,” said Ella Montagne. “I can’t help you.”
“But—”
“It’s possible the problem might solve itself. Someone may contact you.”
“Why would they even know to contact me?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now. You have a nice day, okay?”
Shell ended the call, disappointed, and walked into the main gallery to see if her guests needed assistance.
“Either I’m counting wrong, or one of us is missing!” the woman in charge was saying in a booming voice.
“It’s Armen,” a lavender-haired lady responded. “He said he remembered something and had to leave.”
“Well, doesn’t that just beat all! He was so interested in joining us at the last minute, too!” said the leader.
Shell walked out of the main gallery and hurried to the entrance, making her way through the door and out into the morning sun. She looked up and down the sidewalk. There were certainly people on the street, but she recognized no one.
“You looking for somebody?” asked the guitar player she’d noticed on her arrival. He was still seated against the wall, and Mary Anne had obviously brought him coffee and a scone, so he was taking a break from music-making.
“Yes, actually. A man who left in a hurry,” she answered.
“White hair?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I just saw him hot-footin’ it down toward the river. Kinda fast-movin’ for an old guy—like he had an emergency.”
Shell peered south toward 4th Street. There was a crowd of people in front of Halcyon, a hybrid coffee shop and bar, Mary Anne’s biggest competition, but there was no white-haired gentleman visible.
“Well, thanks,” she said, turning back toward the gallery discouraged.
She went inside and looked at the guestbook. There were nine new entries since ten o’clock. Someone in the group had signed in as A. Smith.
It was only an hour later that a familiar-looking man and an older woman, whom Shell didn’t remember, came through the glass door of the gallery’s entry.
“Hello,” the man said to Shell. She guessed he was around forty-five, and he was about six feet tall with blond hair and deep set, brown eyes. He was well-dressed in jeans and a pale green shirt with a white linen jacket. And Shell was pretty sure she had seen him before. The woman who stood beside him was older, possibly sixty-five, with a bubble of puffed-up blond hair and makeup that made her look rather brittle, but her pearl jewelry looked understated and expensive.
“Good morning,” Shell responded. “Welcome to the Westside Gallery. Feel free to look around, and let me know if I can answer any—”
“You can answer, actually, ma’am,” he interrupted. “I’m here to ask you about my stepfather.”
Shell had not yet learned to feel comfortable being called “ma’am.” She knew it was southern and was considered a respectful form of address, but having come from California, it always sounded a little off to her. He was saying it with his Texas accent in a way that hardly seemed courteous. She waited without speaking till he continued.
“Seton Medical Center called me last night and told me my stepfather died there after visiting your gallery here.”
It was a surprising revelation, and the accusing look he was giving Shell was also unexpected. He hadn’t bothered to introduce the woman standing beside him, and his curt manner made Shell not want to introduce herself.
“And they told you that my associate had called an ambulance?” she asked, pressing the intercom button behind the elevated part of the gray marble counter so Billie and Leo would know what she was dealing with.
“That’s right. And that a woman with long blond hair and a tallish man had followed the ambulance to the hospital. I’m here to ask if that’s really what happened.”
“That’s correct,” said Shell, somewhat doubtful about the man standing before her.
Just then, Billie came into the foyer from the hall that led to the conference room and offices carrying a thick stack of papers. He came around to the back of the counter and stood beside Shell, plopping the papers down rather noisily to make his presence known.
; “I was the woman,” Shell continued. “Your stepfather was admiring the gallery and it was getting close to closing time. It was about then that he started having a difficult time. My associate thought he might be having a heart attack and called nine-one-one.”
“Yes, that’s right!” Billie joined in. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, as if this was purely a social visit from the odd pair. “I’m Billie Morrison, and it seems as if you’ve already met my business partner, Michelle Hodge. We’re just so glad you’ve come by. It was a very upsetting experience we had last night, and I can only imagine what you’re going through!”
“And you followed the ambulance to the hospital even though you didn’t know my stepfather,” the blond man continued, frowning as if he thought something was fishy here.
“That’s right,” Shell answered. “My partner and I found his trouble very upsetting.” She decided not to explain further. “I’m so sorry about your loss.”
“Was there anything specific my stepfather wanted from you?” the man pressed.
“What would he want?” Billie asked. “Other than to look at the gallery, I mean? Unfortunately, he didn’t even sign in.”
“Oh? That was all he was here for? Just looking at the gallery?” the man asked, looking directly at Shell.
For some reason, she decided to go along with Billie’s deception. She couldn’t bring herself to be honest. “It’s what most people want when they come into a gallery,” she answered, hedging. “Should we have expected something else?”
“He didn’t leave anything with you?”
“Do you mean, like a cane or something?” Billie asked. “I noticed he limped a little, but I didn’t see a cane,” he responded. “He did ask us to call him a cab when he got to feeling bad, so I’m guessing he came here in a cab. If you’re looking for his cane, my best guess would be that he left it in the cab he arrived in. I suppose you could call the cab service, but of course I don’t know which one he used. Is that what you’re looking for?”
Shell hoped she looked as sincere as Billie did right then, standing there speaking to these unexpected people.
“No,” the man answered, sounding relieved. “No, I just wanted to thank you for trying to help him. I’m sure you did your best—were just being kind,” he said. “I’m sorry if I came off as abrupt. We’re still kind of in shock.”
“Oh, don’t apologize,” Billie said with a wave of his hand. “It’s completely understandable. You’re going through something difficult,” he answered. “I wish there was more we could do for you and your—” he interrupted himself, looking at the woman beside him, searching for what to call the poofy-haired lady.
“My mother,” the man said. “I’m sorry, this is my mother, Colleen Bishop.”
Mrs. Bishop didn’t offer to shake hands with Billie or Shell, but she smiled when she finally spoke. “We really only came here to find out exactly what happened to my ex-husband. You see, we were very close. It was good of you to get him to the hospital—to try to get him some help. Thank you, dear.”
“You’re very welcome,” Shell answered, “but my partner and I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. By the way,” she added, afraid she would miss her chance to get a vital piece of information, “I think I missed your name.” She walked around the counter and offered to shake the man’s hand.
“Vincent Bishop,” he replied, taking her hand in his. She couldn’t help but notice that he was appraising her appearance. “I feel like I’ve seen you before,” he added.
“Perhaps you’ve been to the gallery?” she asked, quite sure he had been here sometime fairly recently.
“I don’t think I would have forgotten you,” he said.
She could see that there was interest in his eyes, and she tried not to show her own distaste for it. Why wasn’t he saying straight out that he had been to the gallery? Shell was convinced she had seen him there before, and with Edwin Baird.
“Art shows? Music events?” she suggested. “We often have quite a crowd here, and there’s no shortage of places in Austin where someone might have seen me,” she added, and she gently pulled her hand away and offered it to Colleen Bishop.
“Yes, it must be something like that,” he said as his mother shook Shell’s hand.
“Will there be a service for your stepfather?” Shell asked, turning back to Vincent Bishop and trying to sound cordial.
“I don’t know. I think so, but he was kind of a hermit, so there aren’t many folks who’d come. Are there, Mother?”
The older woman spoke again. “No, there aren’t. But the people who knew him like we did loved him very much.”
“I see. Well, I do hope you’ll let us know if there’s a service,” Shell said, handing Vincent Bishop one of the business cards they kept on the entry counter.
“Yes, I will,” he answered. “And thanks again.”
They turned to go, Vincent Bishop allowing his mother to hang on his arm a bit. As the door closed behind them Billie made an observation.
“If she didn’t wear such high heels, she might not need to use her son as a walker.”
“Yeah,” said Shell. “Even at my age I resist heels that spiky.”
“And I hate to be catty,” he added, “but really! Don’t you think her makeup was a bit overdone?”
“It was,” Shell agreed.
“Well, darling, that was fun! They remind me of those people in The Grifters. Only, Angelica Huston was much better-looking as a blond than Colleen Bishop is. On the other hand, Vincent could give John Cusack a run for his money.”
Chapter 4
Tuesday, August 4, 5 p.m.—Shell
Shell was looking forward to dinner with Margie and Donald when Dean arrived at the curb in front of the gallery. She noticed that the musician was gone when she came out the glass door and waved goodbye to Leo, who was staying with Billie until closing time.
Margie, Shell’s best friend from college and Dean’s younger sister, had introduced Shell to Dean almost a year earlier, and she and Shell had gotten caught up in a mystery that had threatened to send Dean to prison.
“I’m looking forward to seeing the baby,” Shell said as she got into Dean’s Jeep.
“Me, too,” he replied. “We haven't seen him for a whole week. But I still want to call him Pierre!”
“But you can’t. They want us to call him his real name."
Pierre was the name Dean, for no real reason, called all little boy babies, and he had started calling his sister’s unborn baby the name as soon as they had been told she was to have a boy. Margie and Donald had even taken to calling their unborn baby Pierre right along with him. It had actually been a little disconcerting when they had named the child Maxwell, Margie’s family name.
“It smells good in here,” Shell said, changing the subject.
“Because I’ve already been to Micklethwait and picked up barbecued brisket, ribs, and coleslaw. Margie said she was making baked beans and dessert, so I think we can just go straight there.”
“I wish Margie wouldn’t try to cook when she’s got her hands so full of Little Max! We could have picked up the rest or I could have baked something last night.”
“Not last night.”
“I guess not,” Shell admitted.
“Anyway, you know she loves to cook, and Donald was home helping her all day today.”
“I think you’re just looking forward to her strawberry almond cream cake!” she answered.
“Guilty.”
The house was on 16th Street just a mile east of the university. The neighborhood was an odd mix of old houses and new, and Margie and Donald’s was one of the former. It was fairly small and about eighty years old, but the couple had worked on it, and it was now quite a comfortable place. It had been painted a cheery yellow, and Shell loved its purple front door.
She climbed the brick steps to the entrance carrying the coleslaw, and Dean carried the barbecued meats and a bottle of red wine.
“Oh,
wow,” said Donald, as he opened the door and noticed the wine. “Am I happy to see a bottle of wine! Margie’s hardly let me have a drink since we learned Max was on the way, and now she’s nursing. She thinks it’s unfair that I can and she can’t.”
“Well, it is unfair,” said Shell, laughing and agreeing with her friend, “but maybe she can have a little bit. We want to celebrate Max’s great check-up!”
“Yes,” Donald said as he pulled the door open wide for them to enter the living room. “He gained another eleven ounces!”
It was pleasantly cool inside, and Margie was sitting in the middle of the cameo-backed settee with the baby in her arms, her little Yorkie mix standing by her feet, wagging her tail.
“Hi guys!” she said in a low voice as Shell handed the coleslaw to Dean and went over to look at the baby. Dean put the food and wine in the kitchen while Shell sat by Margie and looked at Max.
"Gosh," said Shell, "I think he's bigger than last time!"
"Can you really tell he's bigger?" Dean asked as he returned to the room.
"Sure, she can," Margie answered. "He's growing by leaps and bounds. Here, Dean. You’ve hardly ever held him, and I need to get a pan out of the oven.”
She put the baby in Dean's arms and chuckled at his look of horror.
"I don't know how to do this," he said.
“I can take care of everything in the kitchen,” said Donald.
“But I want you to get a picture of Max with his aunt and uncle. I'll be right back.”
“Okay,” said her husband, turning to get the camera from its place on top of the bookshelf.
Shell had a moment of thinking she wasn't actually Max's aunt yet, but she didn't say anything. She knew that even if she never married Dean, Margie would still think of her as the baby's aunt. The two friends had thought of themselves as sisters since the genesis of their friendship.
Dean was nervous holding his nephew. Looking at Shell he said, “Maybe you better take him.”
“I will, but let Donald get a picture first.”
In another minute a few shots were taken and Dean carefully handed the baby to Shell.
