The Girl With the Dragonfly Tattoo: An Austin, Texas Art Mystery (The Michelle Hodge Series Book 4)

by Roslyn Woods

  "He's almost asleep," she said as her best friend reentered the room.

  "It's good timing! We can eat and visit while he sleeps," Margie said. "I'll put him in his bassinet and we can keep and eye on him with the iPad."

  "Oh, too bad!" said Shell. "I barely got to hold him."

  "If you'd really like to hold him, you could come over and walk the floor with him at two in the morning," Donald suggested.

  "Haha! Not funny," Margie interrupted. "I do most of it, so you don't get to complain!"

  Shell put the baby in his mother's arms. “Too bad I had to work today,” she said to her red-headed friend, “or I would have come over and helped you with the food.”

  “Oh, it was easy with Donald home today. The recipes were simple, and my brother did the hard part—getting the meat and the slaw!” she replied. “After I put him down, which one of you is going to catch us up about what happened at the gallery last night?”

  Margie had only quit working at the gallery a few weeks before Max’s birth. She knew the ins and outs of the place well, and she knew a great deal about the artists represented there since she had worked as a sales assistant and docent.

  “Shell better tell you,” Dean answered. “I got there after all the excitement was over.”

  “Well,” said Shell, when Margie had returned and the couples had seated themselves around the kitchen table, “you heard when I called you earlier about what happened last night. Today, there was a little more confusion. I called the hospital and learned Edwin Baird went by another last name—a name they wouldn’t give me. I’m trying to get Dean to go with me over to the art studio on Burleson Road later. I just want to see what the building looks like.”

  “What studio?” Donald asked, pouring wine into Shell's glass.

  “The old man,” Dean answered, “Edwin Baird—we think that’s his name. Anyway, he gave Shell a card with the address of his studio. He wanted her—with Billie, I guess—to come over and look at his work. They were going to show it in the gallery. Only he had his attack, so it didn’t happen.”

  “I just want to know if there’s any information at the studio that will help me to reach his daughter,” said Shell. “Apparently the old man either gave me a fictitious name, or he was sporting two.”

  “Two names?” Margie asked, passing the coleslaw to Dean.

  “I think it’s possible that Baird was only the name he put on his paintings.”

  “But how will you get contact information if he can’t meet you there?” Margie asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s possible we’ll get some kind of a break.”

  “The old man talked to Shell before he died,” Dean said, just clarifying. “He wanted her to tell his daughter something, and she’s got no way of reaching her or even finding out who she is.”

  “Well, I hope you find something at the studio,” said Donald. “The hospital wouldn’t help?”

  “The administrator said they can’t give me any information,” Shell answered.

  “That’s odd,” said Donald. “Maybe they're looking into his death.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Shell gazed out the kitchen window and noticed that is was still light at eight p.m. “I love the long daylight hours of summer,” she said.

  A full half of the strawberry cream cake had been consumed and raved about, and the empty dessert plates were on the counter. Shell had just filled the Carters’ sink with hot, soapy water, and Dean was scraping the dinner dishes into the compost bucket and carrying them over.

  “Shell,” he said quietly, “you go visit with Margie, and I’ll get these done. You’ve been working all day already.”

  “I think I should help you. I noticed Margie and Donald look sleepy, and in a little while, she has to nurse the baby again. Let’s get these done and let the new parents have the rest of the evening to themselves. I don’t think Max is letting them get much rest.”

  “Whatever you think,” he agreed, stealing a quick kiss. “We have another bottle of wine at home.”

  “Sounds nice,” she said, “but first, maybe we can take a drive down to Burleson Road.”

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, August 4, 8:55 p.m.—Shell

  It was a two-story, metal building overlooking the road and a field from its front and a parking lot from its back. It looked rather industrial, and Shell noticed the ground floor had no windows. The second and third stories did have windows, but they were high, appearing only to be there to provide light to the spaces.

  Shell rolled down her window for a few seconds and listened. Heat rushed into the car, and she could hear the building’s air conditioners humming. If she turned her head, she could see the lights of Austin beginning to show in the skyline up north. They were a few miles southeast of downtown.

  There were still a few cars in the parking area, even though it was nearly nine o’clock. Several of the windows on the second story were lit, but it wasn’t quite dark outside. A door on the ground floor said Business Office, but the window was dark. Another door appeared to lead to a stairwell. It had been propped open, and a burly man in blue overalls was coming down the stairs carrying a piece of furniture. It appeared to be a desk chair, and now he was carrying it a few yards to a U-Haul truck. In a moment, another man came down the stairs carrying a banker’s box.

  “You don’t want to try to go into the building tonight, do you?” Dean asked. Shell could see his jaw clenching, and she wasn’t sure what he was worried about.

  “No,” she answered, “but I’d like to sit out here for a while. I guess I wanted to see how to find the place, but I also have a feeling something could be happening here. Do you mind just sitting here for a while with the car idling?”

  “No. It’s too hot to do otherwise. But are you looking for something specific?”

  “No. I just think maybe we’ll see something.”

  “Maybe you’ll see someone suspicious lurking around?” he said.

  “Don’t make fun. I’m just noticing.”

  “I’m not really making fun. It just seems unlikely we’ll see much sitting here, but I want to do whatever pleases you.”

  “You don’t have to try very hard,” she answered.

  “I feel like I do. I feel like I messed up so much two months ago that I need to make it up to you every day.”

  “You don’t,” she said, noticing some lights on the second floor had just gone out. Maybe the movers.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “That’s you. I’m not laying out requirements. This worrying about making up to me’ll get old, you know.”

  “I should have listened to you. Trusted you,” he said, and Shell knew he meant what he was saying.

  Her mind started playing over the trouble they’d had two months earlier. She had gone to Dallas to visit her cousin and been unhappy that Dean couldn’t join her. When he had been freed up from his business obligations, he had gone on up to Dallas, hoping to surprise Shell by joining her for breakfast with her cousin. But when he arrived at her hotel room, he found her standing in the doorway with her arms around her ex. Dean had left, gone back to Austin, heartbroken. He refused to listen to her explanation when she got home. The truth was, she hadn’t been alone with her ex. She had been standing in a doorway congratulating him and his fiancée—who was there too—when they asked for her blessing on their engagement.

  The ensuing break up had been ugly. Dean told Shell to move out of the house she had originally rented from him—the house they had been living in together. Four days later he had accidentally learned the truth about what he saw in the hotel room. In the meantime, Shell had been kidnapped.

  “Dean, I don’t know how I would have reacted to seeing you in a similar posture. I have to admit it looked bad. Maybe I’d have been just as untrusting of you if our positions were reversed.”

  “But you think you would have listened to me if I tried to explain,” he said, still blaming himself.

  “Yes, I thi
nk I would have. That does hurt, but you have to remember that you have trust issues because of your childhood and your youth. I don’t blame you.”

  “But you’re not the same, Shell. You’re not as open as you used to be.”

  “Give me some time, Dean. I admit I was hurt. I don’t feel as secure that you’ll be on my side if—if things should be difficult between us. I’m afraid you won’t believe in me. And I don’t think it’s exactly conscious. It’s just a feeling I can’t shake.”

  “I know. Once you’ve been hit, you flinch when someone lifts his hand to greet you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is what happened to me when I saw you with someone else,” he said. “It’s a vicious circle. Will we ever get back to the place we were?”

  “I don’t know that it was such a good place. You hadn’t said you loved me.”

  “You hadn’t said you loved me.”

  “So at least we’ve got that.”

  “But you don’t seem as happy as you did before.”

  She knew it was true. She knew that the early happiness of their relationship was gone, replaced by a different sort of tenderness that carried with it a kind of insecurity that Shell hadn’t been able to overcome during these two months.

  “Neither do you,” she said.

  “We were ecstatic.”

  “I know,” she answered, swallowing a lump in her throat.

  It was at that moment—when Shell was reflecting that maybe the loss of their early euphoria was probably inevitable—that she saw someone coming down the stairwell and out of the building. In the fading light, she was pretty sure it was the blond man who visited the gallery that same day. Vincent Bishop.

  She quickly put the back of her carseat down as far as it would go.

  “What’s up?” Dean asked.

  “I think that’s the guy who came into the gallery today. I don’t want him seeing me.”

  “I don’t know anything about this.”

  “I haven’t had time to tell you. He said he was Edwin’s stepson, and he brought his mother with him.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Vincent Bishop. But he didn’t mention Edwin’s name.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said he’d heard from the hospital and he wanted to know what his stepdad’s business was with us.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. We didn’t tell him about the portfolio.”

  “Why not?”

  “Partly because Billie obviously didn’t want to tell him anything, and partly because I didn’t. I just felt weird about him. His mother didn’t inspire a lot of confidence either.”

  “But you’re trying to find the family.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “Okay. I get that you need to follow your instincts. I’ll tell you when he’s gone. He won’t recognize me.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s getting into a red Porche Boxster.”

  “Is he carrying anything?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” he answered. After another few moments he added, “Okay, he’s driven out of the lot. He didn’t even look in our direction.”

  “Okay,” she said, raising her seat up. “Now I do want to see if we can get into the building.”

  “You sure?”

  “What can it hurt? I can just be honest if someone asks us what we’re doing here.”

  “Honest?”

  “Yep. Someone asked us to meet him here.” She was already getting out of the car, and Dean turned off the engine and followed suit.

  The parking lot lights were obviously on timers, and they suddenly came on, startling Shell for a moment. Dean took her hand.

  “You jumpy?” he asked.

  “I guess I am.” I’m always jumpy these days.

  “We don’t have to do this.”

  “But isn’t it lucky that someone is moving out tonight? If the stairwell door was closed we’d need a key,” she said as they headed for it.

  “And a passcode. There’s a keypad on that door.”

  “Let’s just see what we can see. We could learn something.”

  “I better go first. What’s the number again?”

  “Two-twenty-three.”

  But just as they reached the sidewalk in front of the stairwell, a man’s voice could be heard from the shadows.

  “Excuse me,” the voice said, emerging from around the corner of the building in a khaki uniform. “Can I help you folks?”

  It was surprising to see a night watchman approaching them. They hadn’t noticed him when they’d parked the car earlier.

  The couple stopped and looked at the guard. “Why, yes,” Dean answered. “We’re here to meet Edwin Baird in two-twenty-three. He gave us this address and asked us to meet him up at his studio. I imagine he’s expecting us.”

  The night watchman wasn’t as tall as Dean, but he looked like a bouncer with his stocky shape, and he wore a holster with a handgun over his brown uniform.

  “Kind of a late meeting time,” he said doubtfully.

  “Yes,” said Shell. “That’s absolutely true, but he knows I work at my gallery rather late and was trying to accommodate me.”

  “Gallery, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” she answered, pulling a business card from the side of her purse and handing it to the uniformed man.

  “I see,” he said, looking down at it. “Well, the stairwell door’s open, but I don’t think anyone’s up there but the movers.”

  “Maybe we can wait upstairs?” Shell asked. “If he doesn’t show up, I can leave him a note.”

  “Okay. Go on up. What time were you supposed to meet?”

  “Nine o’clock,” Dean answered, taking Shell’s hand again.

  “Well, it’s nine-ten now,” he answered, glancing at his watch. “If he’s not here in ten minutes, I’d give up on him. I need to lock the stairwell door as soon as the movers in two-twenty are done. Normally you wouldn’t even be able to get in if the guy wasn’t here to meet you.”

  “All right,” Shell said. “If he’s not here in five minutes or so I’ll just have to try later.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Dean headed up the stairs with Shell right on his heels. At the landing they met a man carrying a chair, the shirt under his overalls soaked through with perspiration.

  “Good evening,” Dean said in a friendly way.

  “Hi. It’s not all that good! It’s hot as hell tonight!” he answered.

  “Yes, it is,” Dean agreed as the man continued down the stairs.

  The hallway was long, a sea of beige walls and industrial carpet, and the doors to the different units were fairly far apart, about every twenty feet. Each had a metal number screwed onto it. It didn’t take long to find 223. Under the number was a plastic case, and a piece of paper had been jammed into it. A name had been written on the paper in black ink. Bishop.

  Shell tried the door. Of course it was locked.

  “Hey,” Dean said, “this place really is secure.” He was looking at the keypad on the door. “No one gets in here with just a key.”

  The mover they had met on the landing walked past just then.

  “Excuse me,” Dean said to him. The man stopped and Dean continued. “Have you seen anyone going in or out of this door in the last few minutes?”

  “Saw someone here a little bit ago. Not sure if he went in or not. Is this your office?”

  “No. We thought we were meeting someone here, but he’s not around, and I just wondered.”

  “Wish I could help you,” the man answered.

  “Do you know the man who leases this space?” Shell asked.

  “Sorry. I’m just helping someone move. He’d probably know, but he’s not here tonight.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks,” Dean said. “We’ll have to call our guy tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. Good luck,” the mover replied, continuing toward an open door up the hall.


  Shell looked up at Dean. “Thanks for helping. We can go now.”

  Dean smiled before they turned to go and descended the stairs.

  “Any luck?” asked the night watchman as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “No,” Dean answered. “Hopefully he’ll call us tomorrow.”

  “Maybe he just got the time wrong. I saw an old guy go upstairs with the movers. Thought maybe he was directing them or something. Anyway, he left, and I asked one of the guys about him. They didn’t know who he was either.”

  “You don’t know who he was?” Shell asked.

  “Nope. But I just started here a couple of months ago. I don’t know all the tenants yet. Maybe it was your guy.”

  “Yes, maybe he thought we’d come earlier,” she suggested. Then she added, “We also saw a younger man here. Well, younger, I mean, maybe mid-forties.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. Thought he was with the movers too, but he wasn’t up there for three minutes before he came back down and left.”

  “You don’t know who he was?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Probably one of the tenants.”

  “Well, thanks for your time,” she said.

  “No problem. You folks have a good night,” he said, nodding a goodbye.

  Once back in the Cherokee, Dean asked Shell, “What have we learned?”

  “A lot,” she answered quietly. “The name on the door is probably Edwin’s real name. His stepson probably took his name when Edwin married his mother. I’m guessing he used Baird just for his artwork.”

  “And the visitors?”

  “I don’t know. Vincent Bishop might have dropped something off that belonged to his stepdad? Either way, he didn’t take anything. At least, he didn’t seem to be carrying anything, right?”

  “Right. What about the other guy?”

  “Seems like he could have been anyone. There’s no reason to think he was connected to Edwin Baird.”

  Dean nodded before he spoke. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to the people who visited the gallery today if you want to find his daughter.”

  “Maybe there’s another way.”

  “Maybe there is another way. The important thing is, have I earned any points?”