by Roslyn Woods
“Everyone calls me Shell,” the other responded, taking her hand for a moment.
“Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“Oh, no thanks. I’ve already had two cups,” said Shell, seating her trim self in a brocade chair across from the one Tavy was taking.
“How long did you know my father?”
“Not long. Not long at all. That’s partly why I’m here. I need to explain, I guess.”
“Please do.” Tavy was feeling a mixture of curiosity and apprehension about the conversation that was coming, and she didn’t know why. She was also noticing the lines and shadows in the younger woman’s face, the fullness of her mouth and the natural arch of her brow. It occurred to her that she’d like to paint her portrait if only she had her oil paints here in Austin. Miss Hodge was leaning forward, a serious expression in her blue-green eyes. Her lips parted briefly, as if she were about to speak, but she closed them again. She seemed to be struggling with her emotions, a struggle Tavy herself was experiencing this morning. She waited until Michelle Hodge found words.
“Your father came into my gallery on Monday night carrying a portfolio,” she said, finally. “He wanted to show us his work, and we were quite pleased at the chance of having a show for him.” She paused before she went on, “It was actually not the very first time I’d seen him. He’d been to the gallery before, but I hadn’t known who he was at the time, so it might as well have been my first encounter with him when he came in on Monday night.”
Tavy nodded but wasn’t sure she was understanding.
“We wrote up the receipt,” Shell continued, “and all three of us were about to sign it—that was Billie Morrison, one of my partners, your father, and myself—but before we could your father became ill. My partner called an ambulance, and we followed to the hospital.” Her voice had become rough as she uttered the last sentence, and it was almost a whisper when she continued. “Unfortunately, it didn’t go well. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, I heard that he died at the hospital,” Tavy answered quietly, her fingers nervously traveling over the fibers in the raised surface of the armchair, and she swallowed, wishing she’d brought a coffee tray to the table between them, if only for the distraction of picking up a mug or stirring milk into it.
“Anyway,” Shell continued, her voice normal again, “I want to return his work to you as soon as you’re ready to put it somewhere safe. I’m a little uncomfortable carrying it myself. If you should ever decide to show it, we’d be honored if you thought of our gallery.”
Honored? What is she talking about?
“Okay,” said Tavy, frowning. “Is the work of much value?” she asked.
“Value? Oh, yes! I’d have brought it to you, but what if I’d had an accident and something happened to it?”
“Really? I thought artists often had a hard time making much of a living.”
Shell stared for a few moments before she spoke again.
“But not in your dad’s case, of course. His rise in success is certainly something every artist aspires to!”
“His rise in success?” Tavy looked at Shell quizzically. “My father’s income came from teaching, didn’t it? Painting was a side thing, I thought.”
“Teaching?”
Tavy ignored Shell’s question.
“Can you give me an estimate of the portfolio’s value?”
Shell paused and appeared to be looking at Tavy with a mixture of confusion and concern. “Excuse me,” she said, “but are you Edwin Bishop’s only daughter?”
It was Tavy’s turn to stare for a moment. “As far as I know!” she answered bluntly, aware that the frustration she was experiencing must be completely apparent. “I just heard two hours ago that he has a stepson.”
Shell appeared to be confounded by this information. She paused and looked at her hands before she spoke again. “His work,” she began, looking up at Tavy and speaking slowly, “is valuable because of his renown and—”
Just then a telephone began to ring, it’s shrill sound startling Tavy from her focus on her visitor’s words. She considered ignoring it, but the volume was quite high, presumably because her father had turned it up to its maximum. She looked at Shell apologetically and said, “Excuse me just a moment,” before she got up and walked into the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Miss Bishop? It’s Rand Miller.”
She might have guessed. Other than Michelle Hodge, he was the only person to call her on the landline since she had arrived yesterday. He sounded harried.
“Yes? What’s up?”
“I’m stuck in traffic on thirty-five. I’ll get there as fast as I can, but the police are probably on the way already. They just called me.”
“Why? Why are the police on the way?”
“Because there was a problem with your father’s blood work.”
“A problem?”
“They’re telling me he was poisoned. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to deal with them till I get there. Don’t let them do anything just yet. Tell them I’m on the way.”
At that very moment the front bell rang and there was a loud knocking on the door. “Okay, Mr. Miller. Later, then.”
She hung up without waiting for his reply.
“The phone was my father’s lawyer calling. I’m afraid I know who’s at the door,” said Octavia, looking at Shell as she stepped back into the living room. “It’s not good. I’ll have to deal with it.”
She headed for the entry, feeling her hands tremble a little bit from the shock of the information she had just received. She opened the door and beheld two men in white shirts and navy slacks. Each of them held up a badge, and Tavy noticed the tie of the taller one was slightly crooked.
“Miss Bishop?” asked the shorter man with the graying black hair. “I’m Sergeant Gonzalez with the Austin Police Department, and this is Detective Wilson. May we come in?”
“What’s going on?” Tavy asked, stalling for time. It wasn’t that she wanted Rand Miller to get there before she spoke to the officers. She just needed to get her bearings.
“Are you Octavia Bishop?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m very sorry to be bothering you at a time like this Miss Bishop, but I’m afraid your father’s death is being looked into as a homicide. The toxicology report is telling us there was arsenic in his blood.”
She stood there, clutching the doorframe.
“May we come in?” the sergeant asked again.
“Yes,” Tavy answered, recovering herself enough to take a couple of steps backward and allow the officers to enter the house.
In another few seconds, the two detectives had walked into the living room and were standing in front of Michelle Hodge, the older man’s face registering something that looked like surprise to Tavy.
“How interesting to see you here, Miss Hodge,” he commented.
“Yes. I did a little research and found Miss Bishop.”
Gonzalez gave the blond woman an arch look and his eyes narrowed. Then he turned back to Tavy, ignoring Shell, and said, “We’d like permission for some CSI people to come into the house and examine all ingestible items for possible arsenic contamination. Will you agree to that, Miss Bishop?”
“I—I don’t know. My father’s lawyer is on the way over. He just called and said you were coming.”
“Yes, we’ve spoken with him. A Mr. Miller?” the sergeant asked. She noticed he had a small scar above his left eyebrow, and his peppery hair was growing white at the temples. He reminded her of Tio, the only man in her life she had ever been right to trust.
“Yes. Rand Miller,” she answered.
“How well do you know Rand Miller, Miss Bishop?”
“Not well. I’ve spoken with him on the phone three or four times, and he picked me up at the airport yesterday.”
“And you’re going to take his advice about whether or not to allow us to examine the foodstuffs and beverages in your house? Aren’t y
ou at all interested in learning where the poison might be?” Gonzalez asked.
“I’m just trying to grasp the idea that my father was poisoned,” she answered, her voice rising with anxiety. She wanted to cry on this man’s shoulder, to tell him how horrible this was. She wished that Mia had come to Austin with her, that she wasn’t so alone, that this man who looked like Tio would speak more softly and tell her everything was going to be all right.
“I’m really sorry, Miss Bishop,” he said, taking in Tavy’s distress. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out at you like that. It’s the job. Makes an old cop like me act bad.”
Now he was being sympathetic. It made her feel guilty. He thought her emotions were about loving her father, but she didn’t love her father. The emotions were coming from somewhere else, and she didn’t have time to sort it out in her head right now.
“I don’t know why it would be a problem for you to look, actually. I certainly don’t see why it would,” Tavy answered glancing at Shell with a question in her eyes, as if she might have an answer for her, but the younger woman’s expression was unreadable.
“Well, then, if we have your permission,” said the sergeant, “I’ll go ahead and have Detective Wilson call in the team. It’s actually just a couple of techs, so don’t worry about an all-out invasion. Do I have your permission?”
“Yes. I guess so,” she answered and watched as Sgt. Gonzalez nodded at the younger officer, signaling with a tilt of his head for him to go outside to make the call. Detective Wilson turned for the door without a word, and the sergeant looked back at Tavy. “You say you just arrived yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Where from?”
He sounded as if he was just making idle conversation, as if he hadn’t just told her that her father had been poisoned, that she shouldn’t trust his lawyer, that she wasn’t alone in a strange place with no one to turn to. He wasn’t acting a thing like Tio.
“Portland,” she answered.
“Oregon?”
Tavy nodded but didn’t speak. She swallowed. “Where would it be?”
“What?”
“The arsenic.”
“We don’t know. They’ll check beverages first.”
“I’ve been drinking the lemonade that’s in the fridge.”
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“At the moment, I feel pretty weird, but I doubt it’s the lemonade.”
“How often do you visit Austin?”
“This is my first time here.”
“He must have been the traveler, then.”
“No. No, I never saw him. Not since I was two.”
The sergeant paused, frowning. “And you came now because?”
“Because the lawyer called me and said I was to come here and bury my father,” she answered without reserve.
“I see. Well, there will be a full blown autopsy now that we’ve got this initial report,” he said quietly.
“So it will be a while before—”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
She looked up and caught Shell Hodge’s sympathetic expression.
“I imagine we should talk later,” Tavy said, looking directly at the gallery owner.
“Yes,” said Shell. “I was just thinking I should leave.”
“I have your number,” said Tavy.
“Yes. Don’t hesitate to call, Miss Bishop—I mean—Tavy.”
Shell Hodge stood and pulled a business card and pen from her purse before she continued, “I’ll just write my other number here on the gallery’s business card.”
Tavy watched as the blond woman wrote on the card and the investigators waited. Then, as she walked past her toward the door, Shell pressed the card into her hand and gave her a look that seemed expressive of something, but Tavy knew not what.
Her own head was spinning. She heard the door open and close as the woman departed, and she sank into the brocade chair she had been seated in earlier.
“Are you unwell?” asked Sgt. Gonzalez.
“Just a little dizzy,” she answered. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”
“I see,” said the detective. “Do you mind if I poke around in cupboards while we wait for Detective Wilson and the other investigators?”
“Won’t you damage evidence or something?”
“I know how to look around without damaging evidence.”
“Okay. Whatever. I don’t have the strength to think right now.”
“I understand, Miss Bishop. I’ll just check the dining room and kitchen, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine,” she answered.
The sergeant nodded slightly before he turned and walked through the opening that led into the kitchen. Tavy’s eyes fell onto the card Shell Hodge had pressed into her hand.
I’m very worried about something. Please call me.
Chapter 15
Friday, August 7, 11 a.m.—Shell
Shell was driving north on Lamar, astonished that Octavia Bishop hadn’t seen her father since she was two years old. It was quite apparent that she didn’t even know the name he used on his paintings or anything about the life he had led from the time he left Portland.
Shell was tempted to drive straight home to talk to Dean, but she didn’t want to worry him. He was still too upset by her kidnapping two months earlier to feel comfortable with the fact that she was being drawn into another mystery. Besides, he had an important meeting this afternoon with someone from Dell Computers, and she didn’t want to fill his head with these new developments just now. He already knew—since Gonzalez and Wilson had visited the gallery—that Edwin Baird had been poisoned. What he didn’t know was the fact that arsenic was the agent of the old man’s undoing. Neither did he know that Octavia Bishop was in the middle of everything having never known her father or even visited Austin. And he didn’t know that Shell had as much sympathy for her as she actually did. Shell was quite sure he would be wanting her to get rid of the portfolio and wash her hands of the matter.
Maybe she’d just keep her newfound knowledge to herself for a while, let it percolate and talk to him tonight after the Evelyn Jameson opening at the gallery. She needed to help Billie and Leo with preparations anyway.
She crossed the river and turned east on Cesar Chavez, stopping at San Antonio as the light changed from green to yellow. As always, people were walking along Chavez, carrying briefcases, backpacks, or purchases, hurrying in the busiest part of Austin’s downtown. On the north side of the road, construction was going on. A long line of large barrier blocks had been placed to keep people off the former sidewalk and narrow the street. On the south side was the river, pedestrians were moving along, some of them shading their eyes against the bright sunshine. If she looked up from here she could see Silicon Labs, one of Austin’s many computer-based business buildings, climbing toward the sky. Ahead was City Hall, and beyond it, an array of highrises that seemed to change daily with the city’s growth.
Shell reflected that Austin had grown on her like a vine, twisting itself into her psyche. It was home now, the place she had gone to college and met Margie, the place where, not yet a year ago, she’d met Dean. She was here, right now, and she had much to be grateful for. But nothing made her more aware of her good fortune than learning about the murder of Edwin Baird and the emotional cyclone Octavia Bishop was caught up in.
She turned north on Lavaca and crossed 2nd Street and then 3rd. A parking space was just opening up south of 5th, not far from the gallery. Shell quickly angled into the spot, glad it was just a short walk and the sun hadn’t yet reached its highest point in the sky. Locking the car, she glanced down the street toward the river and caught a glimpse of a lean man with fair hair walking away. Vincent Bishop? It certainly looked like him, but she wasn’t sure from this distance. She was tempted to follow even though there was a lot of work to do today.
Biting her lip, and slinging her bag over her shoulder, she headed in his direction, just wanting to make sure of his identi
ty. He kept heading straight toward the river and crossed 4th Street while she stayed far enough behind to remain unnoticed. If he would just turn his head she could catch a view of his profile. That should do it.
Her phone dinged. She pulled it from the side pocket of her purse and glanced down at the screen. Dean.
How did it go? Let me know you’re okay.
She was just arriving at Halcyon, the bar and coffee place that was always busy, and she didn’t want to go inside. Instead, she stepped under an awning and called Dean, trying to keep her eyes on the retreating figure ahead of her.
“Hi,” Dean said.
“Hi. I’ve just parked near the gallery. Everything went fine.”
“You met her?”
“Yes. She was very nice. An extremely pretty lady, and the house was lovely, too. Just a beautiful, Craftsman bungalow.”
The figure had turned, but she had lost him without the glimpse she’d needed to identify him. Disappointed, she turned and started walking north toward the gallery.
“And? Did you tell her—” Dean began.
“No. Gonzalez and Wilson arrived just after I did. I ended up leaving before I’d had a chance to explain anything.”
“Well, at least you’ve met her and found the place. Maybe you can calm down now.”
“Calm down?”
“I think it’s upsetting you.”
“No, it’s not. Anyway, I’ve hardly gotten anywhere because she doesn’t know, Dean. She doesn’t know the value of her father’s art or that someone might be after it.”
“You can call her later.”
“Yes, I will."
“Okay. Honey, I can’t think if I don’t know where you are. Next time, message me right away, okay?”
“I’m sorry. I left earlier than I’d planned, so I thought you wouldn’t be expecting to hear from me yet.”
“I guess I was anxious about you.”
“You’re going to have to get over this, you know.”
“I’ll never get over worrying about you when you’re visiting the home of a murder victim.”
