by Roslyn Woods
“We’ll just step into the bakery next door. Can you come over and talk to us when Mr. Parisi arrives?”
“I think so. Yes, I’m sure I can. Can you tell me what this is about?”
“It’s about the man who died Monday night.”
“Yes, I figured. But why call you in for a man who’s had a heart attack?”
“Who told you he had a heart attack?”
“It’s just a guess. He was clutching his chest and—”
“Let’s just say it was more sinister than a simple heart attack,” said Gonzalez, and he and the younger detective turned to go, but the sergeant looked back at Shell as he reached the door. “We’ll fill you in as much as we can after you’ve answered a few questions.”
Leo was always dapper in his work attire. Today he was wearing a blue and white seersucker suit with a white shirt and a blue and yellow striped tie.
“You look sharp!” Shell commented as he came over to give her a hug.
“How you holding up? How is it going with the counseling sessions?” he asked, appearing to be genuinely worried about her because of what had transpired earlier in the week.
“I’m fine, thanks. The session this afternoon was—it was fine. Tell me about your suit,” Shell answered, hoping to steer him away from a conversation about her emotional state.
“Well, I like it, too. It’s new,” he said. “Billie picked it out.”
Leo wasn’t a large man. His features were even, and his skin was smooth and olive-toned. Billie had described him to her a year earlier as “the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” Shell had agreed that he was indeed a nice-looking man and left it at that. Billie did have a tendency to speak in superlatives, but she had grown to like Leo as much as she did Billie. In addition to being equal partners with her in their ownership of the Westside Gallery, they were friends who had stood by her when she and Dean had broken up, and she would always be grateful to them.
“But I’m afraid the suit might be overkill,” Billie interjected, teasing, “to wear that jacket on a day that’s probably already a hundred and two. That’s why I opted for a cotton vest over my own shirt. You didn’t mention my look, Shell.”
“You jealous?” Leo asked.
“Well, yes, a little,” Billie answered, smiling at him.
“Well,” Shell said democratically, “you both look great.”
“And now,” said Leo, rolling his eyes at Billie, “time to get down to business. I’m not particularly happy about the police interview that’s about to happen.”
“There’s really nothing to be done about it, Leo,” said Shell. “Apparently, Edwin Baird’s death is being looked at as a murder. There’s no other reason to be sending these investigators.”
“Well, I figured as much when you called, but I want you to know, I don’t like those guys. Yes, they came around and shook our hands and acted all sheepish and everything after Dean rescued you from your kidnapper two months ago, Shell, but they handled Garrett’s murder investigation abominably! They all but arrested me, and I don’t think I need to remind you that they’re on their own side, not the public’s.”
“It’s out of our hands, Leo,” said Shell. “We didn’t ask for this. We’re just answering a few questions.”
“I know,” he said, frustrated. “I don’t want them pushing either of you around.”
He did, finally, agree that he could manage on his own at the gallery while Shell left with Billie to speak with the detectives.
She and Billie headed over to the bakery, apprehension filling the atmosphere around them. The guitar player was outside again today, leaning against the wall and strumming while singing softly, “Last Thing I Needed First Thing This Morning.”
“Shell, darling, I agree with Leo,” Billie whispered as they stood on the sidewalk in front of Jensen’s, the sweet smell of cinnamon sugar blending with music while cars whizzed by. “I don’t think we should tell them anything they don’t need to know!”
“Why not? We haven’t got anything to hide. We never dealt with Edwin Baird once in our lives before Monday night!”
“Let’s get the lay of the land, sweetie. Look how horrible they were to Leo two months ago, making him feel like a murderer when all he was doing was trying to protect a decent person’s anonymity! Why help these cops?”
“Let’s just play it by ear, shall we? I don’t feel inclined to be secretive. We have to remember that Gonzalez isn’t all bad. He was good about some things. We can’t hold him responsible for not knowing who to trust.”
“Yes, okay. Play it by ear. You listen to your feminine intuition, and I’ll listen to mine,” he said conspiratorially, and he straightened his plaid bow tie before opening the door of Jensen’s for Shell.
She just shook her head to herself. In another moment they were inside and taking in the ice-cream pastels of the bakery’s decor while they searched for the officers. Gonzalez and Wilson were seated at a little pink table for four that was located toward the back of the establishment, and they were both facing the door. They really looked like cops sitting there next to each other, watching the door in the white shirts and blue slacks that were supposed to look civilian. You could have guessed their line of work from a mile away.
Wilson stood up and pulled a chair for Shell while Billie pulled one for himself.
“Hello. Thanks for coming,” said Gonzalez. “You want coffee?”
Shell noticed a peach-colored mug in front of the sergeant, a mint green one in front of the detective. Two small white plates sat there, too, empty but for a dusting of confectioner’s sugar and a few crumbs.
“Not right now,” Billie answered. “What’s this about? You’ve really interrupted my afternoon chores. I’d barely gotten two of my calls made before Shell told me we had to take time out for you guys.”
“This is about a man who died of unnatural causes,” Sgt. Gonzalez answered, leaning on an elbow and frowning at the younger man, “and, other than the hospital personnel, you two were the last people to see him alive.”
“First, what do you mean by ‘unnatural causes?’ What exactly are you talking about?” Billie asked.
“The man who came to your gallery the other night died at Seton Medical Center of poisoning. Pure and simple. What can you tell me about that?”
Billie’s hands went to his face in horror. “Oh no! Poisoning?”
“What can you tell us about your encounter with him?” Gonzalez repeated, this time looking at Shell.
“He looked tired when he showed up,” she answered, frowning. “I was worried about him. He was interested in showing some work in our gallery.”
“And?”
“And,” Billie answered, “while we were talking about it he started having some sort of attack. I called nine-one-one, and Shell tried to comfort him till the ambulance got here. Then we were so upset we followed. We waited in the ER until we learned he had died.”
“And Monday night was the first time you’d seen the man?” Gonzalez asked Shell.
“No. I’d seen him before at the gallery, but just at a distance. We never spoke before Monday night.”
“Did he come in alone?”
“Of course he was alone!” said Billie.
“But before,” said Gonzalez. “When you saw him in the gallery before.”
“Monday night he was alone, but before, I don’t know,” Shell answered, thinking. “Let’s see—It does seem like he was with someone. A man. A younger, fair-haired man.”
“You didn’t speak?”
“I just can’t remember. We have hundreds of people coming through here at different times.”
“Do they sign in? Do you have a guestbook?”
“Well, yes,” she answered. “Yes, we do, but I don’t know the date he would have come in. There are literally hundreds of signatures for July alone!”
“I might still need to see them.”
“Of course,” she answered. “We can make copies of the last few months for y
ou, if you like.”
“Yes, we would,” the sergeant said. “Wilson can pick them up in a couple of hours.”
“Okay,” Billie said. “I’m at the gallery till seven, so I’ll see it gets done.”
“So, were you interested in his pictures?” Wilson piped in with a question.
“Yes,” Billie answered, registering surprise that Wilson could talk. “Yes, we were, as you say, interested in his pictures.”
“Why?” Gonzalez wanted to know.
“He was Edwin Baird. A famous artist!” Billie answered.
“Baird?” asked Gonzalez.
“Right.”
“So why would he give you a fictitious name?”
“Fictitious?” Billie asked.
“The name on his driver’s license is different.”
“I don’t get it,” Billie said.
“Mr. Morrison, the name on his ID was not Edwin Baird. Can you tell me if that’s all the two of you knew about him?”
“Yes, pretty much. What was his real name?” Shell asked.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to divulge that. This is an ongoing investigation.”
“You’re telling us,” Billie interrupted, “that the man who told us he was Edwin Baird was an imposter?”
“I don’t know if I’m saying that or not,” said the sergeant.
“Well, then, can you at least tell us what kind of poisoning it was?” Shell asked.
Sgt. Gonzalez smiled. “Well, thanks for your time. Detective Wilson will come by in a couple of hours for photocopies of the guestbook pages. Can you have them ready for him?”
“I guess so,” said Billie.
“Later then, Miss Hodge, Mr. Morrison,” the sergeant said, standing up. Wilson followed suit without speaking but nodded at both of them.
Shell turned and watched them walk out of Jensen’s Bakery just as Mary Anne, the owner, came up to their table.
Shell had always liked the older woman. She was a sort of motherly lady, tall, round, gray-haired, and always pleasant. Today she gave Shell a big smile before she spoke.“You kids want anything? I can’t believe the cops are talking to you again!”
“It’s not funny, Mary Anne,” said Billie, annoyed. “And yes, I would love to have an iced mocha and a biscotti. I think I deserve a treat after that miserable encounter.”
“What about you, darlin’?” the owner asked Shell.
“Just a decaf iced coffee. Thanks, Mary Anne.”
“Then you better bring me two biscotti,” said Billie. “Shell always eats half of whatever’s on my plate.”
“You got it, honey.” The older woman smiled again and headed back toward the counter.
Billie leaned sideways and whispered to Shell, “I think you did great!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t tell them about the portfolio or the studio! You surprised me!”
“I probably should have, but they didn’t ask. Besides, they know we’re good people and they still wouldn’t tell us how the man was poisoned,” she answered, biting her lip.
“I know. Did you notice how well I hid the fact that we already knew that Edwin didn’t go by Baird?”
“I did notice,” she answered, giving him a little smile. “They’ll be back, Billie. I’m sure of that. We better get Leo used to the idea. And I expect you to behave in a more gracious way next time. I don’t know about Detective Wilson, but I think Sergeant Gonzalez is actually a good man. Even Dean has forgiven him for his own arrest. Leo’s not ready yet, I get that, but Gonzalez isn’t evil. He got it wrong for a while. That’s all.”
“He got several things wrong. You don’t trust him to get it right yourself! If you did, you’d have told him more.”
“Just tell me you’ll be nice when they come after the photocopies of the guestbook.”
“I wasn’t mannerly?”
“No, you weren’t. Promise.”
“Oh, all right! But you’re planning to find out some stuff about Edwin Baird yourself, right?”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“I know you. You can.”
Chapter 12
Thursday, August 6, 4 p.m.—Tavy
There were only two bedrooms, but each was of reasonable size, and there were two bathrooms, which was nice for a small house. Everything surprised Tavy. The second bedroom had a full bed, and, though clean and very tidy, she thought it had a lived-in feel, unlike the master, which she guessed her father must have used.
Yet the master looked like a room out of a magazine. The bed, clearly an antique, was queen-sized, which she thought unusual. Antique beds tended to be full-sized at the largest, but this was bigger. It looked old, with a symmetrical wooden dragonfly—made of some blond wood—embedded in the center of the deeper-toned oak. The bedspread, a quilt covered in appliqué dragonflies, was teal, wine, olive, persimmon, and gold. And above the bed was an oil painting of a green trellis covered by mounds of wine-red roses.
Tavy stood at the door, awestruck. How could it be? She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that was hung on the wall over the dresser, a craftsman affair in cherry-stained oak. Each little drawer pull was a copper dragonfly. And in the glass, the dragonfly tattoo on her arm almost mocked her.
Did he share my fascination with dragonflies?
Beside the mirror was a flat-screened television with no visible cords, and a remote control sat on the dresser beneath it. The room seemed quite perfect.
She walked through to the bathroom. It had clearly been remodeled in the style of the period, but it had a modern shower and garden tub. Over the tub, an entire wall was tiled in a mosaic of roses and leaves, a tiny dragonfly here and there. She opened the medicine cabinet and found it entirely empty. She checked the drawers of the vanity. The same. New and clean, as if they had never been used.
Tavy abruptly turned and went back into the master bedroom. The closet was across the bed from her, and she went around to it. Slowly opening the door, she paused before looking around its edge. It was dark inside, and she felt for a switch. There it was. She snapped it on, taking in the aroma of cedar even before she saw that it was a walk-in with empty rods and cedar-lined shelves. Entirely clean and untouched. It didn’t make sense. The dresser was the same. Clean and empty.
She hurried into the second bedroom and looked at it again. This one was different. Charming, but a little smaller, with green walls and more craftsman furniture. The bed was antique for sure, with a simple terra-cotta coverlet. There was a full bookshelf. The Girl of the Limberlost, Little Women, Black Beauty, Lassie Come Home—books she had loved as a child. Why did he have them? Had he bought them for Madison, the neighbor girl who had said he was like a grandfather to her? There were more books, too. Books that must have been his. Books she wanted to take time to look at, but not now.
She opened the closet and turned on the light. Here, at last, were her father’s things. Clothes, shoes, ties, boxes stacked on the shelves, the silver edge of a laptop, its power cord beside it, neatly rolled and held together by a thick, rubber band. A rather large, black case, probably a camera case, was on the shelf, too. She shut the door, vaguely relieved, but unwilling to look more closely at his personal things just yet. Yes, he had lived here, and she was still full of questions, but she was too overwhelmed to seek answers now.
The living room beckoned her back, and she went, sinking onto the sofa and staring, bewildered. She was exhausted and upset, and she needed to call Mia.
And then the phone was ringing. Where was it?
She got up and followed the sound into the kitchen. It was there, just a modern, gray, cordless telephone, attached to the wall. She picked up the receiver and pressed the talk button.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, Miss Bishop. I’m so glad I caught you.” It was Rand Miller.
“Oh. Hello.” Please leave me alone.
“I thought, since you’re alone and all, maybe you’d like to have dinner. I could drive y
ou around Austin a little and take you somewhere for good food.”
Tavy couldn’t explain her reactions to herself. Here this lawyer was trying to be helpful, probably feeling real sympathy for her isolation in this new place, and she only felt resistance. She realized she didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to eat with him, didn’t want to encounter the city for the first time with him.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” she answered, “but I think I’m just a little too tired tonight. Really, I’m just very tired.”
“Yes. I see,” he said, pausing. “Are there any questions I can answer for you?”
“I’m sure there are, but I’m not ready to ask them. Maybe another day.”
“Yes, of course. Certainly. Well, you have my number, and you should feel free to call me at any time.”
Tavy’s eye had just caught a door she hadn’t yet opened. The kitchen had three doors and two outlets to other rooms. A door to the pantry, a door to the porch, an entry to the dining area, and an opening into the living room. And then there was this door she hadn’t noticed before.
“Thanks. I appreciate it, Mr. Miller. I do. I’m just exhausted right now.”
“Okay. Well, remember. Any time. Day or night.”
“Thanks. Thanks very much. You’ll be hearing from me,” she said before hanging up.
Deciding the new door she had been looking at must lead to the garage, Tavy headed for it. It had a deadbolt. She turned it and pulled the copper knob. Darkness and heat. She felt for a light switch and snapped it on.
It was a two-car garage with four steps that led down into it. The walls were lined with shelves. There were boxes, a tool box, a small table saw. On one of the shelves, Tavy could see empty wooden crates. Food is Free was printed on the side of one of them in black paint.
But the thing that commanded her attention was a teal-colored Honda CRV parked in the garage’s center. It looked shiny and new to Tavy, but she drew back and closed the door again, turning the deadbolt and staring at it.
Overload. I’m too affected by all of this.
Returning to the living room and pulling a suitcase into the master bedroom, she lifted it onto the bed and unzipped it. Then, without thinking, she began to unpack, putting things in the empty closet and dresser and noting that she must pick up some hangers. For twenty minutes she moved by rote, putting toiletries in the bathroom drawers and medicine cabinet, arranging her clothes in drawers, plugging her cell to its charger and finding an outlet near the dresser. On a small desk near the window, she placed her laptop, noting that everything was almost too efficient in this house. In a while, she repeated her actions with her second suitcase, drawing out her zippered bag of paint brushes, watercolors, and a pad of art paper. She carried them to the sun room and placed them on the chair beside her father’s easel, beginning to feel a little more sane but not sure why.
