by Roslyn Woods
Change the subject. Think about anything but fathers and daughters.
“So gardening is one of your hobbies,” she said. “What else do you do?” She was looking out the window again, this time catching a glimpse of a statue—maybe fourteen feet high—of a man in a suit of armor next to an enormous electric guitar. Behind these, on a shabby building, she saw a sign that read Saxon Pub.
“I teach at the community college. Ag science. During my off hours I garden, train Blue, and do woodworking. Your dad was encouraging me to do more of that.”
“So it’s doctor, not mister,” she said.
“I guess, but it’s a meaningless distinction as far as I’m concerned. I like mister just fine.”
“You went to school in Texas?”
“No, UC Davis.”
“And how do you train Blue?”
“I take her to a Schutzhund training once a month, and I train her at home, too. She needs some kind of work to keep her happy. I don’t have a sheep ranch for her, so the training helps.”
“And she likes it?”
“She loves it.”
“And you said my dad was encouraging you to do more woodworking?”
“Yeah. He’d seen the cabinets I’d built for my kitchen, so he gave me a few projects.”
“Oh?”
“The headboard in your master. The clock in your living room. The cabinets in your kitchen and the two baths.”
“What?”
“He wanted them redone. Except the clock. That I did from scratch. Designed it to look like the old Stickleys.”
“Wow. I thought the headboard was an antique.”
“It is—was. He wanted me to make it bigger, so we designed a new center for it. I inserted an additional piece of oak, and your dad drew the dragonfly which I transferred onto a piece of maple and embedded in the oak. It was a little work, but he liked how it turned out.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
They drove in silence for a while, Tavy barely taking in the buildings they were passing on south Lamar as they approached the downtown area of Austin. Her first real glimpse of this city was going to be this trip to the morgue, and she wished it could have been different. She wished she’d come here often, spent time with her father, walked along this river, met this man and his daughter. She wished they had all been friends.
“Oh!” Tavy said as they crossed the bridge just above Riverside. “It’s a huge river!”
“Not exactly huge,” Gus told her, “but wide enough. That’s the Colorado—not the other Colorado—but our Colorado. Of course, in this part of town we call it Lady Bird Lake.”
Peering through the window she saw a footbridge, perhaps a hundred yards east of the bridge they were on. People were walking across the wide expanse of water, laughing, taking pictures of the colorful kayaks in the water beneath them, maybe fifty of them dotting the river, all gliding eastward.
“So is it a river or a lake?” she asked.
“Both, I guess. It’s a river, but it’s been widened by damns on both ends, creating a reservoir. We used to call it Town Lake, but that got changed a few years ago because Lady Bird Johnson was so instrumental in beautifying it.”
Tavy didn’t speak for a while, just watched the water until Gus turned the car onto another street and headed east along the north side of the water.
“Gus,” she began, trying to plan her words, realizing it was time to ask the question that had to be asked, “why do you think someone would want to kill my father?”
He didn’t answer for a few moments. “I don’t know, but I should have known something was wrong. He changed a few months ago. After years of being pretty active, he suddenly started having headaches and being sick a lot. I thought it was old age, or maybe something worse. Cancer or something like that.”
“Did he see a doctor?”
“I wanted him to, but he was stubborn. Said he was planning to go in next week, said he had an appointment, kept putting me off. He often had me take him places, but he wouldn’t ask if he thought I was working or if he thought it might be an imposition. He used cabs mostly, so I had no idea if he actually went in, and last weekend I’d just decided it was time to insist. Too late, though.”
“He didn’t drive his car?”
“Nah. I thought he would, but he didn’t. Just bought it about six weeks ago, and there it sat.”
“Why? Why did he buy it?”
“I thought he was going to use it, but he never even offered to. Had the thing delivered. Picked it out online.”
“Did he never drive?”
“Oh, he used to drive, but he quit a couple of years ago. Said the traffic was too much for him. He donated the old car to Food is Free and started using Uber. Drove the new car around the block once a week or so, just to keep the battery charged.”
“Gus, I think my birth certificate said he was born in thirty-six. So, was he seventy-eight?”
“I reckon—let’s see—he would have been seventy-nine in October.”
“Years ago I figured out that he was thirty-seven when I was born.”
“A lot like me. When Maddie was born, I mean, I was thirty-nine.”
She looked out the window, automatically calculating his age at fifty-one or two. They were stopped again, this time at the corner of San Antonio and Cesar Chavez, and she didn’t want Gus to see her face. She didn’t want him to read the pain that must be visible there.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Just a little shaky for some reason. I’ve had a headache for a couple of hours.”
“Have you eaten today?”
“A couple of gingersnaps this morning before the police came.”
“You’ve gotta eat.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“No. Let’s stop and eat.”
“I don’t even—”
“We’re right here at a pretty good restaurant. It’s just normal food, but we can look out the window at Lady Bird Lake. It won’t take long. Is that okay?”
“I—I guess.”
“I get that hungry I can’t even think!” he said. “Besides, we’re at the Radisson. Maybe we can get you a room for tonight.”
The parking garage was beside the restaurant, and he drove the car up the narrow drive and found a spot on the fourth floor.
Tavy looked at the clock in the dash. 2:22. She really did feel strange, as if she were in a dream sequence, the places around her vague. Before she knew it, Gus was outside the car, opening the door for her, and she was getting out on autopilot, feeling dazed.
“Tavy? You don’t look well.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t look beautiful. You’re pale—”
“I—”
“Whoa!” he said, his hands gripping her biceps and lifting her upright as her knees bent beneath her. “Here, let me help you inside.”
“No. No, thanks. I’m okay now,” she said, trying to stand. “I just got a little dizzy for a minute and my knees—”
“Well, you’re as limp as a dishrag! At least take my arm,” he said.
“Okay. Thanks,” she said, unable to keep from leaning on him a little.
The elevator was cooler than the garage, but the Radisson was cooler still, and as they walked from the lobby into the restaurant, Tavy realized the lower temperature was helping her to come out of her daze.
The large dining space had floor to ceiling windows that faced the lake. The decor was minimalist, red and white, with large, round light fixtures that harkened back to the seventies. The waitress, in a white shirt and black slacks, led them to a wooden table near the huge windows, and there was something soothing about both the room and the green water of the river and oak trees beside them. Tavy could see a group of orange kayaks close to the center of the river from here.
“It’s really quite lovely,” she said as Gus pulled a chair for her.
“I think so, too. Someday you should
try walking the trail they put in beside the lake.”
“It sounds pleasant. Do you bring Blue here to run? I see a yellow dog running along down there.”
“Yeah, I’ve been known to do that. Maybe you can join me sometime. Maybe when the weather cools off.”
“Thanks. I’d like that, but you’ll have to slow down for me.”
“How about I just walk?” he asked, his eyes briefly amused.
“That would be best,” she said, smiling at him. Was he flirting with her? No. No, he wasn’t a flirty sort of guy, even if he did wear cowboy boots, and she could see he was chiefly sober, somber even.
The waitress came back with menus. Tavy noticed her tattoo—mostly covered by her shirt collar—a snake’s body coiled around her neck, the red-eyed head coming out of her rolled up shirt sleeve. “May I bring you beverages? Iced tea? Wine? A mixed drink?”
Tavy felt a shiver run down her spine. It was probably a daily mixed drink that had killed her father, and it was possible Gus was the person who had mixed it. Why wasn’t he sick?
“Just tea for me,” Gus was saying.
“Yes, me, too,” said Tavy.
“And could you bring us the cheese appetizer with that?” he asked.
“Sure,” she responded, walking away, and Tavy noticed his grave expression, his eyes on the lake. “You’re upset,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Because of the poisoning, or because you mixed drinks with him?”
“Both.”
She didn’t speak for a few moments. “How could it have gotten into the gin?” she asked.
“I’ve been puzzling about it since you told me. Someone had to come into the house and poison the bottle—someone who knew he was a gin and tonic man.”
“You don’t drink gin?”
“I get a mild allergic reaction to it. Probably the juniper berries.”
“Which is what they use to flavor gin, I guess?”
“Right.”
“And you don’t know who might have been in the house?”
“Me, Maddie, Florencia, Vincent—”
“Rand Miller?”
“Sure.”
“Anyone else you know of?”
“There was a friend who came by. I don’t remember his name, but I met him once a while back. Also, his ex-wife, Colleen. He was nice to her, in spite of everything.”
“Colleen? Does she have a nickname?”
“I don’t know. He always called her Colleen.”
“Not Bambi?”
“What?”
“Just something my mother told me years ago.” Tavy was beginning to suspect her mother’s stories about her father. Maybe none of them were true. “Do you know how many times he married?”
“Twice. Your mom and Colleen. He said twice was enough for him.”
So her name really wasn’t Bambi. At least, he hadn’t called her that to Gus.
“Once was enough for me,” she said.
“Me, too.”
They didn’t speak for a while, just looked at the menus, and in another minute the server was back and placing the cheese plate on the table between them. “You decided?” she asked.
“Yes, actually,” Gus said. “I’ll just have the hamburger.”
“Okay, and you ma’am?” she asked.
“The Asian chicken salad,” Tavy answered.
“I’ll be back with your order shortly,” said the girl with a smile, turning to go.
“You need to eat,” Gus said to Tavy, nodding toward the appetizer plate.
“Okay,” she answered, “but you should eat, too.”
“I don’t really have an appetite,” he said.
“I know, but I’ve never liked eating alone.”
“Okay,” he said, taking a slice of cheese and biting into it.
Tavy followed suit and drank more of her tea while the two looked out the windows at the water and trees.
“I need to tell you something,” Tavy said after a couple of minutes.
Gus looked at her but didn’t speak before she continued.
“A woman came to see me this morning, but our visit was cut short when the police arrived. She told me about a portfolio of artwork of my father’s. Apparently, he wanted her to have a show for him at her gallery. Anyway, the police got there before we’d had a chance to talk any more than that, and she left. On her way out she handed me a card with a strange note on it.”
“Really?”
“I have it with me,” she answered, digging in the side of her purse. In a moment she had retrieved the card and handed it to Gus.
I’m very worried about something. Please call me.
“Who is this woman?” Gus asked, turning the card over and seeing it was a business card for The Westside Gallery.
“She’s one of the owners of that gallery,” Tavy answered.
“I think you’d better contact her.”
“Right away?”
“I would.”
“Now?”
“We’re waiting for our food anyway, and this little corner is pretty empty. No one will mind if you’re on the phone.”
Tavy took her cell from its pocket in the side of her purse and tapped in the numbers Shell Hodge had written on the card.
“Hello?” she heard the woman say.
“Hi, Shell? This is Octavia Bishop.”
“Yes! Oh, I’m glad you called!”
“Yes, well, I’ve only just gotten a little time. They’re calling the house a crime scene, so I’m staying at a hotel tonight.”
“I see. I need to talk to you, but I’d like very much to speak in person.”
“I’d like to, but I need to go to the morgue this afternoon. I was going anyway, but now that there’s going to be an autopsy, it’s sort of urgent I go today.”
“I see. You can’t meet now, and I have to work at the gallery tonight. There’s an opening for a new artist,” Shell said, pausing. “Maybe you could come? You could see the gallery your father was planning to show in, and afterwards we could talk?”
“Sure, but I don’t have a car. I suppose I can get a cab.” At that moment Gus started nodding and pointing at himself to indicate that he’d drive her to meet Shell. “Actually, I have a friend here who can bring me,” she said.
“Perfect. The opening starts at seven and should end at about nine-thirty.”
“I’ll be there. If it’s too late for my friend, I’ll call a cab.”
“Great,” said Shell.
“See you later, then.”
Chapter 18
Friday August 7, 3 p.m.—Sgt. Gonzalez
Gilbert Gonzalez was in the passenger seat of the big, unmarked car. Wilson drove as he always did, steadily impatient with Austin traffic, always ready to use the siren.
“The desk told me the doctor will be expecting us,” the sergeant said. “There’s no rush.”
“What’s to ask? We know the guy was poisoned. We know it was arsenic.”
“There’s plenty to ask.”
“Teach me, master,” said Wilson.
“Take it down a notch,” Gonzalez said, annoyed.
“Sorry, but it seems to me we’ve got the guy staring us in the face.”
“How do you mean?”
“He admitted to mixing the drinks. Those techs are going to confirm his fingerprints on the bottle.”
“You think he looks stupid enough to poison someone and not take care of the fingerprints?”
“Yeah. Maybe he thought the guy would die in his sleep and there’d be no toxicology, no doctors asking questions about an old guy passing on.”
“Maybe. But it would have been easy to cover his tracks just to be on the safe side.”
“Some people are stupid.”
“Can you identify a motive?”
“Not yet, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think it does.”
“We’ll find out why he did it,” Wilson said.
“If he did it.”
&
nbsp; Seton Medical Center’s ER smelled vaguely of bleach. The waiting room was surprisingly crowded, and the woman at the counter wasn’t at all impressed by Wilson’s badge. “Give me a minute,” she said, picking up the phone and punching in a number. She turned her face away from the counter when she spoke again, but Gonzalez could still hear her.
“The detectives are here,” she said.
Only moments later, the doctor himself came through the double doors that led from the ER’s waiting room. He was wearing scrubs, his gray hair oddly juxtaposed against a young looking face. “Officers,” he said, holding his hand out to shake the hands of the detectives. “I’m Dr. Pritchard. Byron Pritchard. Please follow me.”
The office was small, and there were a few stacks of medical books and a tray containing files and papers on the desk. The computer monitor was lit up as if the doctor had been using it only moments earlier. He gestured for the men to sit down across from him as he seated himself and turned off the monitor. “I know you have a job to do,” he said, “but this is an ER, and I’m sure you can imagine that I’m really busy. My shift starts in fifteen minutes, so I need this to be quick.”
“That’s fine,” said Gonzalez. “We just need a few answers.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Why did you order a toxicology report for Edwin Bishop on Monday night?”
“There were obvious reasons to do that. I noticed transverse white bands across the beds of his fingernails, his skin had typical dark patches that are associated with arsenic, and he smelled of garlic. That’s three signs of it. I wasn’t positive, you understand, but I thought he should be checked.”
“So you ordered a toxicology report. What can you tell from that?”
“As I said, I was pretty sure it was arsenic before we got the results. The important thing, I would think, that is, from your perspective, would be how long he was being poisoned to show that kind of change to his nails and complexion. We’re talking many weeks.”
“I see. How many weeks?”
“Eight? Nine? Maybe more. And there was something else.”
“Yes?” the sergeant asked.
“He had cancer. The autopsy will make that clear, but I’ve spoken with his oncologist—a Dr. Ramson. It was pancreatic, and he wasn’t doing too well with it. He’d been in treatment for six months, according to our discussion.”
