by Roslyn Woods
“You have.”
Chapter 6
Wednesday, August 5, 9 a.m.—Shell
While Dean took his morning run with Sadie, Shell went through the phonebook to search for Edwin Bishop. She found an Edward Bishop, and a lot of other Bishops, including a Vincent and a Colleen, but there was no Edwin to be found. Her online searches revealed no Edwin Bishop in Austin, Texas either. How was it possible?
“Dean,” she asked later, seated at the table in their terra cotta-colored dining room, on this hot, Wednesday morning, “I can’t find him. I’m pretty sure he went by Bishop.”
Dean came around the table and looked over her shoulder at the laptop while putting a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice beside her.
“And no Edwin Baird?”
“Again, some Bairds, but no Edwin Baird.”
“Have you checked county records? If he owns property, you should be able to find him there.”
Dean was a technology wizard as far as Shell was concerned. He had been running a website design business when she met him. It was only recently that he had sold the business. Now he was focusing mainly on software design, something he’d had success with in the past.
“How would I do that?” she asked.
“Just Google county records for Austin. You’ll find him if he owns property,” he said, seating himself across from her and opening the Austin Chronicle.
Sadie and Bitsy whined at Shell’s feet, wanting their morning attention. If it wasn’t raining, they were pretty sure she was supposed to play with them in the backyard.
“I just don’t get it! He has to be here!” Shell said, frustrated. She reached down with her right hand and idly rubbed Sadie’s soft head while she kept her eyes on the monitor.
“I agree,” Dean answered, “but he apparently didn’t want to be found. He may have set up a corporation and filtered everything through it so he could be anonymous.”
“What name would he give a corporation?”
“A name we can’t guess.”
“What about his home address? Wouldn’t it have to have his name on it?”
“Not if his corporation owns it. It could have any name he wants on it.”
“I feel so guilty about this!” she said.
“Why? You’re not responsible for the fact that he dropped the artwork off with you and gave you no way to reach his daughter.”
“But it wasn’t what he intended, and the work is worth so much.”
“Let me think about it. Maybe we can figure some way to find her.”
She downed the last bite of her bagel and finished her orange juice. “Come on, girls!” she said to the dogs. They ran ahead of her, excited by the prospect of chasing tennis balls and frisbees.
In the backyard, as always, Shell admired Dean’s vegetable garden. It wasn’t big, but the plants were growing well, and she was glad each time they made a salad from his heritage tomatoes and Armenian cucumbers.
A few minutes into the dogs’ exercise, Dean came outside. “Already hot out here,” he said, looking at the garden along the back fence.
“I know, but they need a little play,” she answered. “I’ll bring them in soon.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I think we can go talk to whoever runs the business office at the studio on Burleson. Maybe they’ll be there early in the day and they can help us.”
She liked his use of the word “us.” Maybe he was going to make good on his promise to support her efforts.
“What if they’re trying to help keep Edwin’s anonymity?” Shell asked.
“I like how you’ve started calling him Edwin!” he said, smiling at her familiar way of dealing with the name problem. “If they don’t tell us anything, then it’s a dead end. Eventually, we may have to resort to contacting Vincent Bishop or investigating him.”
“Well, we all know how families can be when someone dies! Edwin Baird asked me to talk to his daughter,” she said. Bitsy was dancing and yipping with her eyes fixed on the ball, encouraging Shell to throw it again. “One more, Bitsy,” she said, and she tossed it.
“If you don’t mind waiting for me to water the garden, I can go with you,” Dean suggested. “You have the day off, so we can see what we can see. Then maybe I can take you to a nice lunch somewhere. How’s that?”
“If we remember I have my self-defense class at four. Lunch sounds lovely, though,” she answered, slipping her arms around his waist, breathing in the minty fragrance left from his shaving lather. “I appreciate your help.”
“I’m just happy for the excuse of spending most of the day with my favorite person in the whole world,” he whispered into her hair.
The morning drive down to Burleson Road, south on I-35, was fraught with heavy traffic. Austin was definitely getting worse as far as the traffic situation was concerned. Growing by leaps and bounds, the city’s roads weren’t being expanded to accommodate the increasing number of vehicles. Traffic jams were a daily occurrence, and Shell was glad she wasn’t making the drive alone.
“You have any ideas about what we should say if we find someone in the business office?” she asked.
“Just that you had a meeting with the guy and he didn’t show up. You have some things that belong to him, and you don’t know who to give them to.”
“I don’t want to give Vincent a heads-up about it, though. He clearly knows about the space since we saw him here.”
“Okay. No heads-up for Vince! Let’s try not to worry. We’ll just make an effort to get Edwin’s contact information and go from there,” he said, smiling agreeably.
“Okay.”
Finally, the traffic thinned out as they headed east toward Austin Bergstrom Airport. The buildings got more industrial and residential housing disappeared. At last, Dean pulled the Jeep into the parking lot on Burleson Road. In the bright light of morning the building looked even more impenetrable than Shell remembered from the night before.
“Don’t you think it’s odd there are no windows on the ground floor except in that business office?”
“I don’t think it’s odd. I think it’s built to be secure. These steel buildings are nearly impossible to break into. There are steel doors set in steel frames. That stairwell door requires both a key and a passcode. And there appears to be only one door for getting into the ground floor units, which I assume also requires a key and a passcode. We saw last night that even the individual units require both keys and passcodes. The whole building has to be temperature controlled by those units you hear humming, because what other ventilation is there? No, your old friend picked a secure building, so what was the necessity of that?”
“Very valuable artwork, if it’s still here,” she answered, opening the car door.
“You think it might be gone?” Dean asked, taking her hand as they walked toward the building.
“I imagine it’s here, but I wonder what Vincent Bishop was doing here last night.”
The office door was closed, but Shell knocked on it anyway, noticing the keypad above the knob, Dean standing next to her encouragingly. In a moment the door opened and a small, bald man with round spectacles opened it.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I’m looking for some contact information for one of the tenants here,” Shell said. “Are you the person I should talk to?”
“Why, yes, I am,” he said, stepping back so Shell and Dean could walk into the air-conditioned office. “I’m Joseph Wathen, by the way.”
“Oh, I’m Michelle Hodge and this is Dean Maxwell. I’m one of the owners of the Westside Gallery.”
“Gallery, huh? Which space are you talking about?” the stubby little man asked, making his way back around a large desk before turning to gesture that the two of them should pull up chairs. Dean quickly looked around and found a wooden chair for Shell that he placed in front of the desk. In a moment he had found another for himself.
“I was supposed to meet a man in number two-twenty-three last night,” Shell began, “but
he never got here. I’m wondering if you have any contact information for him.”
“Let’s see,” said the little man. “Two-twenty-what?” he asked, opening a rolodex. It had been a long time since Shell had seen anyone using one of those.
“Three. Two-twenty-three,” she repeated.
“Oh, yes!” he said, after a moment. “And why is it you need to see him?”
Somehow, it seemed to Shell, the man was feigning ignorance of the identity of the tenant of two-twenty-three.
Why would he do that?
“Well, we had some business to discuss, and I don’t have any contact information.”
“Hmm,” said the man. “Can you tell me what the man does?” he asked, squinting at her suspiciously.
“He’s an artist. I was going to look at some of his work.”
“And you say you own a gallery?”
“Yes,” Shell answered, reaching in the side of her handbag for a business card. She handed it to Joseph Wathen.
He examined the card for a moment, nodding only slightly. “His name?” he asked, looking back up at her, his eyes still narrow slits behind the round spectacles.
Here was where Shell didn’t know what to say. Should she say Bishop or Baird? She would have to just jump in with both feet and hope for the best.
“Edwin Bishop,” she said.
“Yes, well,” he began, his eyes opening again, “he’s been leasing with us for quite some time. Years, actually. I can give you a phone number. Call him and he can give you any other contact information. It’s odd he didn’t give it to you in the first place.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was just an oversight. He gave me the address here and a time to meet him, but as you probably know, he’s older, and he must have forgotten.”
“Yes, that makes sense. Seems to me he and I were commiserating about our bad memories only a week ago! Old age, you know. Enjoy your youth, that’s what I tell my kids. Well, I’ll write it down for you, then,” he said, writing for a moment and handing her the number on a yellow sticky note.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Wathen.”
“You’re very welcome. Now, you two stay cool!” he said as they stood.
“Thanks,” said Shell. “We’ll try.”
Chapter 7
Thursday, August 6, 2 p.m.—Tavy
Thirty-nine-year-old Octavia Bishop arrived in Austin on a Thursday. It was the sixth of August, and it was hot. So hot, in fact, that she sat at a table inside the airport and pondered how she would bear her stay here. She had never liked heat.
The airport table was strategically placed in front of an establishment that appeared to sell barbecued meats. Pork, chicken, sausage, beef. The sign over the opening in the wall where the food was prepared read, The Salt Lick: Tastiest barbecue in America!
Hmm. How could someone eat hot meat in a climate like this?
Portland had been a lovely 76 degrees when she had embarked on this voyage, and here it was 104 with eighty-two percent humidity. The walk on the ramp from the plane to the gate had been suffocating.
Tavy texted Mia. Arrived safely. I’ll send pics after I get settled in. Super hot here.
The mirror in the airport restroom told her that she hadn’t melted yet. She took off the overblouse she had put on for the flight, revealing a sleeveless blue tank top, and a small, teal and green dragonfly tattoo on her left bicep. Her shoulder-length brown waves still had a little poof, and her mascara had only smudged a little under her green eyes. She didn’t know why she was touching up her lipstick and dabbing pressed powder on her nose. Only the lawyer was meeting her today. No one else knew her in this town.
Tavy picked up her handbag and laptop and went back to the table in front of The Salt Lick. She sat down and messaged the attorney while trying to block out the distant sounds of a country and western singer who was standing at a microphone in a lounge a few businesses ahead of the meat place. Tavy saw the performer as she walked past the bar, a small woman in a short denim dress and cowboy boots.
It’s just too hot for cowboy boots, she thought, shaking her head.
She followed the signs past the bar and a bookstore and down the escalator to the luggage carousels. The suitcases from Southwest flight 2876 hadn’t arrived yet, and she stood in front of the big turning roller pad watching a cardboard box and someone’s flowered overnight bag make the trip around seven times. Each time the items disappeared from sight through rubber flaps in a wall, Tavy looked up again at the enormous electric guitar sculpture that decorated the carousel’s middle. Her guess was that the brightly-painted thing must be made from welded pieces of metal, but it looked a lot like paper mache.
It had always been her plan to come here. Even as a child she had known she would come to Austin someday. Someday, when this or that happened and it was possible. But a lot of time had passed, and a lot of things had happened. College had happened. Her marriage and divorce had happened. And she had thought about it, wondered about her father, wondered why, wondered if he cared about her at all.
Her mother had said not. He had not. He had run off with a student, someone “young and ridiculous.” Someone named Bambi. Someone who had no brain at all and would never question him or provide him with a child to be responsible for. Someone for whom he had left his profession teaching art at Reed College and probably married. Thirty-seven years ago, some young woman and become Bambi Bishop.
Her mother’s derision had been painful. She had laughed about it once when Tavy was twelve and she had suggested she might go see her dad. Minerva Bishop had cackled and said, “Oh yes, Octavia, and you’ll get to see Daddy and your stepmom, Bambi Bishop! What a hoot! You know you’re nothing to them, don’t you?”
She certainly knew she was nothing to Minerva. Yet Octavia’s father had supported her mother. She had never worked. Being a good-looking woman, she had drifted from one relationship to another, lived in nice houses for two or three years at a time, bought nice cars. Even married a few times. And she had taken trips. Lots of trips. All the while, the money kept coming in. It was as regular as clockwork.
Tavy had been farmed out to boarding schools a few times, and when those had proved unworkable, she had lived with her nanny, Tia Amelia, and her nanny’s husband, Tio Emilio, and attended public and private schools in Portland. Tavy had lived with them because her mother was always off on a trip somewhere, or dating some new man, or busy buying a new house, or moving to a new apartment, or something.
But Tavy had been grateful. Grateful that Tia Amelia and Tio Emilio were always there to come home to. They loved her, and she loved them. They had not been blessed with children of their own, and Tavy had become their little girl. When she was tiny she had called Tia Amelia “Tia Meeyah,” later, “Tia Mia.” She had never cried for “Mama” as children do. It was always Mia. Tio Emilio, whose name she had pronounced, “Tio Meeyoh,” became her surrogate father’s name. “Come to Tia Mia,” Mia would say when she picked her up as a toddler. Or, “Let Tio Mio carry you,” when she was tired.
They were the only family she had. In their late twenties when Tavy was born, Mia had devoted her life to being a good nanny, though—seeing the way Minerva neglected her baby—Mia began to think of herself as Tavy’s mother. She was careful to show a measured deference to Minerva because she was unable to stand the idea of losing her relationship with Tavy. Tio had completed a degree in landscape architecture in the mid-eighties. He had gone into business and done well. They didn’t need the income Mia earned being Tavy’s nanny, but she never quit.
One of Tavy’s biggest fears in childhood had been that her mother would fire Mia. She imagined scenarios where she would run away from her mother’s house and live in Mia and Tio’s basement, and the authorities would never find her. As she got older, Tavy realized that Minerva Bishop probably couldn’t believe her luck in securing a nanny who was so dependable. She herself hardly needed to be around her child at all.
In high school, Tavy dyed her brown hair black an
d wore black eyebrow pencil, hoping to look more like she was actually Mia and Tio’s daughter. In truth, she had looked Goth rather than Mexican, but she liked having the same color hair as Mia. Her mother put a stop to the hair dyeing when she was sixteen, but Tavy dyed it again when she went to Reed College, and by then she was seventeen, and her mother had ceased to care.
“And I’m not calling you ‘Mom’ anymore. You’re not my mom!” Tavy had shouted during one particularly difficult argument.
“Good! Call me Minerva. I’ve always hated hearing you call me Mom! You make me feel old.”
In a few years the hair dyeing became too much of a chore, and Tavy abandoned the practice. She finished four years of college and went on for a master’s in education to become an elementary school teacher. It was a career for which her mother had no respect, and maybe that was one of the reasons she picked it. She met and married a nice young man—Kurt Valentine—in the teaching program. The marriage had lasted five years. When he went back to school to get a degree in administration, he met another potential principal with a curvy shape and platinum blond hair. She had become his Valentine, so to speak. That had been the end of the marriage. Tavy was twenty-eight.
A big guy standing beside her at the carousel tried to strike up a conversation.
“This damn heat!” he said, smiling at her. “How do you keep from wilting?”
“Huh?” Tavy had been lost in thought when the line-backer guy had addressed her. “Oh,” she answered, just catching up with the present, “I just got off the plane.”
“So did I. I immediately start sweating whenever I land in Austin.” He had an accent she associated with the south, a sort of lengthening of vowels that stretched his words. She noted his footwear.
It could be that you’re wearing cowboy boots in a hundred and four degree weather.
“You travel a lot?” she asked, just being polite.
