by Roslyn Woods
He came out of the bathroom and announced, “I’m going for a walk,” and went out the door without waiting for her reply. They hadn’t had a real disagreement since their breakup two months earlier, and Shell sank onto the edge of the bed hugging herself as if she were cold. She needed him. Maybe she was fragile, but even if that were true, she was going to do what she could for Tavy.
She stood and unzipped the suitcase with trembling hands, pulled out her laptop, and carried it to the desk with tears in her eyes. She would not let Dean’s controlling behavior keep her from helping her new friend.
Chapter 24
Saturday, August 8, 12 p.m.—Tavy
Florencia was a petite lady of about fifty-five years. She was slim, and her black hair was short and brushed back from her face, small gold studs in her ears. Tavy guessed she must dye her hair to keep it so dark, almost black, but it looked quite natural, and her smile was friendly even if her eyes were sad.
“Hello,” she said when Tavy opened the door. “I feel like I already know you, you look so much like your dad!”
“I do?”
“Oh, yes! As much as Jane Fonda looks like Henry! Anyone would know you belonged to him!”
Tavy swallowed. The words made her feel strange. Gus had told her she looked like him, too.
“Oh, no!” Florencia continued. “I’ve made you feel bad! I’m so sorry!”
“No, no, it’s just—I don’t remember him, you see.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain it to you,” she assured Florencia. “Not that I understand it myself. Please come in,” she said, stepping back and pulling the door open wide. “We should sit down first, I think.”
“Yes, okay,” Florencia answered, finding a spot on the leather sofa while Tavy took a seat in a brocade chair.
“How is it you don’t remember him?” Florencia asked directly.
“He left when I was two. He and my mother divorced and I was given to understand that he remarried and moved to Austin. He sent child support. That’s all as far as I know.”
“But he went to see you in Portland!” Florencia said.
“No, never.”
“How is that possible? Gus drove him to the airport! He was going to see you! Lots of times!”
“Maybe he has another daughter somewhere.”
“Another daughter named Octavia?”
Tavy stared at Florencia. It was the third time someone had been surprised by her revelation that Edwin Bishop had basically abandoned her to the ministrations of her indifferent mother. First, Rand Miller had been surprised, then Gus. Now Florencia. And it was the third time someone had suggested there had been trips to Portland.
“What do you mean he came to see me?”
“He said he was going to Portland to see his daughter. I helped him pack. He always took his big camera.”
Tavy had seen the camera case in his closet.
“He never came. I never saw him.”
Florencia was staring, too. “There were photographs.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they? How is that possible?”
“I have no idea. You can check his computer.”
Until now it hadn’t occurred to Tavy that there was anything on Edwin Bishop’s computer that might interest her. Photographs of her?
“You’ve seen the photos?”
“Yes. I’m just thinking about it now, and I don’t remember any pictures of you together. He showed me several pictures of you that he kept in his wallet.”
“This can’t be right,” Tavy said, unbidden tears filling her eyes. Why was she crying? She didn’t love him. She didn’t. He’d left her. Why did it matter to her to think he carried pictures of her in his wallet?
“Baby pictures, and a picture of you that had to be recent,” Florencia said quietly.
“How recent?”
“You looked just like you do now. I could see your tattoo,” Florencia said, glancing at her arm.
“I got it when I was eighteen,” Tavy answered, feeling a little queasy. It wasn’t possible. “They took the computer,” she added.
“They took it? Who took it?”
“The police. They took it for the investigation. His wallet—I guess it will be with them, too. I assume he would have had it when he was taken to the hospital before he died.”
“You’ll get them back,” Florencia said quietly, her eyes concerned.
“Yes, eventually. But when can I see those pictures? How am I going to get answers about this?”
“Maybe the lawyer will know,” Florencia said. “Or Gus. He might know something. They were so close.”
A strange, niggling anger toward Gus was rising in her chest. How could he? How could he have known about her father having pictures of her and not told her? And what was this about his history that Sgt. Gonzalez had mentioned? Was he the one who had something against her father, something that might make him want her father dead?
“Wouldn’t there be some hard copies somewhere?” Tavy asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe in the books. Or maybe in the boxes in the closet. Of course, there’s the studio. He took things to the studio sometimes.”
Florencia remained on the sofa when Tavy stood and went to her father’s bedroom door and stared at the bookshelf. “These books?” she called back to Florencia.
“Yes. I think one of those books is an album.”
Tavy went into the bedroom, her heart pounding. In a moment, Florencia followed her and stood at the door.
“You’ll get fingerprint dust all over you, Octavia,” she warned.
“I don’t care. I have to look at these.”
“Here. Come into the kitchen. Let me clean off the album with a paper towel and we’ll sit on the couch. Is that okay?”
“Okay,” Tavy said, but she didn’t release the book. She carried it into the kitchen and set it on the counter.
Florencia got a paper towel from the stand beside the sink and dampened it under the faucet. Then she rubbed it across the outside surface of the book while Tavy washed the gray dust from her hands at the sink.
“Are you ready?” Florencia asked.
“Yes.”
They went back into the living room and sat on the sofa, Tavy taking the album and opening it in her lap while Florencia watched beside her.
“Have you already seen these?” Tavy asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Tavy opened the album, its plastic cover cold in her hands. The first page had a five-by-ten black and white photo of a woman on it. It looked to be fairly old. The woman was striking, with large eyes, a printed scarf stylishly thrown around her neck, the wind blowing. Under it, the words, Your grandmother, Lois Osborne Bishop 1935 (the kindest person I ever knew), had been printed in black ink.
“Who is this book for? Who put this album together?” Tavy asked.
“I just know that picture is your father’s mother. So it seems like the book is for you. Why else would it say ‘your grandmother’?” Florencia asked.
“How do you know it’s my father’s mother?”
“He had a small picture of her in his wallet. He showed it to me a while back,” she answered. “But I’d have known that woman was related to you anyway. She looks a lot like you.”
Yes, she looked so much like her that Tavy almost couldn’t take it in. She’d never seen a photograph of her grandmother before. She turned the page. Pictures of her grandmother with a man in uniform. The man looked to be medium height, and he had a pleasant face. Then there were pictures of a little boy—perhaps four years of age—with the two of them. Some of the photos were candid, some were posed in a studio.
Tavy turned the page. Multiple pictures of the boy and his parents. Pages and pages from his childhood. Each page had a hand written caption. Most of these were probably taken in 1943 and 44. Or, Not sure when these were taken. Maybe 1950. Toward the back of the book were older pictures. Your great-grandparents
Ava Carey Bishop and Thomas Alfred Bishop. Your great-grandparents Paul Andrew Osborne and Emma Parish Osborne. The last pages revealed a complicated family tree with the names and roots of grandparents, aunts, uncles and greats going back four generations.
There were no pictures of Tavy in the the book, but the word that haunted her was Your. Your grandmother. Your great-grandparents.
Had he compiled the photographs for her? Was there anyone else?
She closed the book, realizing it was a treasure. She had never had pictures of her father or any of her forbears. Her mother’s parents, still living as far as Tavy knew, were so rigid and unkind that her mother had rejected them—and all her extended family—in her youth. Tavy had met them as a small child. It wasn’t a good experience. Her mother was just like them.
They cleaned the house together. Florencia had brought a sack full of clean rags and two empty spray bottles. They watered down the white vinegar Tavy had purchased at Wheatsville and wiped everything down. Florencia vacuumed the area rugs and damp mopped the wood floors while Tavy dusted all the pottery and glass, noticing for the first time the makers’ names printed on the bottom of each piece. They were mostly Roseville, Rookwood, Faience, Moorcroft, and Lalique. She was familiar with the names, but she knew little about them, only that the pieces were beautiful.
She decided to dust the frames of all the artwork on the walls, starting with the painting over the fireplace that was tilted just slightly. Reaching for the edge of its simple frame, she caught sight of the signature. Guy Rose. Hmm. That was familiar, too. She remembered that Shell Hodge had indicated she was quite impressed with the painting, and Tavy turned and headed into the bedroom in a rush. On her first day here, the red rose trellis in the painting over the bed had caught her eye, but only because of its beauty and the subject matter reminding her of Mia’s rose trellis in Portland. Today, she was looking for a signature. Yes, it was the same. Guy Rose.
Rand Miller had mentioned the fact that there was valuable art in the house. But why was there no alarm system if that were the case? She would have to ask Gus about it. Maybe he would know.
“I think that’s about it,” Florencia called from the living room.
Tavy went out to her. “Thanks so much for coming on your Saturday. It was so kind of you—”
“It’s the least I can do. Your father was wonderful to me.”
“I need to pay you—”
“No. Your father paid me more than he should have these past four years. I’ve already been compensated.”
“That doesn’t feel right. I think I should pay you.”
“Absolutely not. Call me if you’d like me come back. I have Fridays available after I do Gus’s house. His usually takes me two hours and then I come over here, but I understand if being a woman living alone means you may not need anyone at all.”
“Actually,” said Tavy, “for the time being I’d like you to keep coming if you don’t mind. I have a lot to take care of right now, and I don’t know how much time it will take. Plus, maybe you can help me understand a few things I find confusing.”
“Okay. Thanks. My number is under Capello in the little phone book in the drawer. Your father had me put it in there.”
“Okay. I think Rand Miller may have sent it to me by now. I asked him to do that yesterday.”
“Well, now there’s no need,” Florencia replied.
“Until Friday, then.”
“Yes, and call if there’s anything I can do, or if there’s going to be a service.”
“It will have to be put off for some time. The autopsy changes everything.”
“Yes, Gus told me. I’m so sorry!”
Yes, Gus seemed to be very much involved in her father’s life, and Tavy had some questions for him. She might also want to give him a piece of her mind.
Chapter 25
Saturday, Aug. 8, 2:30 p.m.—Tavy
After Florencia left, Tavy put the album on her nightstand, feeling for the first time a sense of family with her father. She could hardly believe how much she looked like his mother, and she realized his boyhood pictures looked very much like her own childhood photos. She was still mystified about the photographs her father had theoretically taken of her, and she decided she would go through every box in her father’s closet and turn every page of the books in the shelves until she found something. Where were they, and when had he taken them?
She stood up and went to the closet in her father’s room, opened the door and flicked on the light. Everything looked as it had before the police came. Only the camera case and computer were gone.
She pulled a little step stool from the corner and stood on it, reaching up and opening boxes till she found one filled with the letters. Then she carried it to the bed and sat on the coverlet, carefully opening the box as if a snake might crawl out.
A vague bouquet of lavender wafted up from the envelopes. They were arranged in order by date, and she opened the first one.
August 12, 1978.
Dearest Edwin,
I’m getting better. The incisions have healed completely, and your father makes sure I walk every day. The doctor says he expects me to make a full recovery. My worst problem now is that I tire rather quickly, and the pain medicine makes me terribly lazy.
Have I thanked you for what you did? Every day I think about it, and I can’t imagine how you came up with such a sum. Who knew a college teacher of only a few years could have saved so much? At any rate, I’m very grateful!
How is that beautiful little girl? Kiss her for us my dear boy. Tell her that her grandma and grandpa think of her every day and wish we could all be together.
It is cold here. The beaches of Cornwall look like a storybook to me, and it is wonderful to be home again, though I miss you, as always. We can’t wait till you can come and see us!
Love to you, Mother
Tavy was wondering just how much Gus knew about her father’s parents when she heard a sound coming from the front porch.
She went to the window and peeked through the blinds. There was nothing happening outside that she could see. Even the street looked fairly empty, nothing visible but a gray Cadillac parked a few doors down and a red car up the street.
By now, there must be many people, perhaps the whole neighborhood, aware that their neighbor was dead. The crime scene tape had probably been removed only hours earlier. Perhaps there were people who thought the house was empty and that it would be a good time to burgle the place.
And, she thought, someone poisoned him, someone who might not know that I’m here in his house.
Yet it seemed to be such a pleasant neighborhood as she looked through the wood blinds, trying to shake off her nerves. Whoever had poisoned her father must be conscious of the fact that the police were looking into his death. Wouldn’t that person see a threat in coming near the house only days after his death?
She might just be experiencing a normal level of anxiety after a traumatic event. Yes, that was it. Her estranged father had been murdered. Her system was reacting.
She turned and went back into the kitchen, deciding she needed a cup of tea and a sandwich from the fixings she had purchased at Wheatsville. Maybe her hands were trembling because she needed to eat.
She rinsed and refilled the copper kettle that sat atop the refurbished gas range and turned on the front burner with the aid of a small, gas torch, realizing the burners lit just like the ones she remembered in Mia’s house when she was a child. Opening a couple of cupboards, she found the dishes and took a Fiestaware plate down, the feeling of wariness hanging on. The hairs on her arms stood up as she tried to concentrate. She lifted the plate to carry it to the opposite counter just as she was startled by a sound at the front door again. This time, the plate fell to the floor, shattering loudly, but she was too affected by the sound on the porch to care. Whoever was there must have heard that. She rushed to the door and opened it almost angrily, ready to confront her intruder.
A man was standing in
front of her with his hands in his pockets, tall, close to her own age, and blond. He wasn’t dressed like a burglar. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and loose-fitting, khaki cargo shorts, sandals on his feet. A pair of sunglasses was peeking out of a shirt pocket, and one of the earpieces hadn’t quite made it in.
“Hello?” Tavy asked, frowning and confused. He didn’t look at all like a criminal.
“Hello. I was trying to decide whether to ring the bell or use the knocker,” he said, smiling. He was nice-looking, with perfect white teeth and deep-set brown eyes. “I think I used the knocker before realizing the bell would be better.”
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“Not yet, but you will,” he answered with confidence. “I’m your brother, Octavia.”
Tavy stared for a moment before she spoke. “My brother?”
“Well, technically, your stepbrother. Your dad married my mom back in seventy-eight. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
Tavy was astonished. She had only learned she had a stepbrother a little over twenty-four hours earlier. Somehow she had pictured him as small and dark-haired, and she had anticipated meeting him at the reading of the will, not sooner.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked, feeling too surprised to be gracious.
“Rand told me. He wanted me to wait, give you a little time to assimilate, but I told him you had a right to meet your brother.”
“Yes, well—uh—won’t you come in?” she asked awkwardly. She stepped backward and opened the door wider, still staring at the person before her. Why hadn’t Rand Miller warned her?
“Why thank you,” he said, stepping over the threshold. “I don’t mind if I do.”
Tavy closed the door and passed him on her way to the kitchen. “I’m afraid I just dropped a plate on the floor and broke it all over the place. Won’t you sit down while I pick up for a few seconds?”
