The Girl With the Dragonfly Tattoo: An Austin, Texas Art Mystery (The Michelle Hodge Series Book 4)

by Roslyn Woods

  “Sure. You need any help?”

  “No, no. I just need to sweep up the mess. It won’t take a minute.”

  She hurried back to the kitchen, embarrassed by the scattered debris, and found the broom and dustpan. She was sweeping up the broken pottery and trying to gather her thoughts when Vincent Bishop leaned his head into the kitchen.

  “Is that the kettle I hear hissing?” he asked.

  “Yes. I was going to have a cup of tea. I know it’s hot out, but I’m from Portland. It’s a cooler climate and I’m in the habit of drinking hot tea year-round.”

  “You mind if I have some, too?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” she answered.

  He stepped into the kitchen, instantly opened the appropriate cupboard and took out two mugs. Then he went to the pantry for tea bags, but of course—except for a few canned items—the pantry was empty.

  “No tea?” he asked.

  “It’s still in the bag on the counter. I’m afraid I only bought one box of a brand I like. I’m going to have to get used to what’s available in Austin.”

  “Oh, you just have to learn to navigate a new city. We have everything here, I think. Anyway, I’m sure this will be good,” he said, pulling the box of Taylor’s Yorkshire Gold from the brown paper bag. “This brand is Dad’s favorite—unless you prefer this organic decaf tea I see in here.”

  “No. I just use that for iced tea.”

  “I’ll just get the teapot, then.”

  He reached up to the top shelf in the cabinet with the mugs and pulled down a turquoise teapot with a raised dragonfly on its side. It was the first time Tavy had seen it.

  “Shall I fill it with hot water first the way the English do?” he asked.

  Tavy felt almost as if she were the intruder now. This home was obviously very familiar to Vincent Bishop. Clearly, he’d been here with her father many a time, and he was making it manifest with every move. He even knew her father’s favorite brand of tea.

  “Yes, why not?” she said, watching as he gracefully filled the vessel with the boiling water, looking up at her occasionally and smiling.

  A little burning sensation was rising in her chest. What was it? Oh yes, envy. He was the child who had taken her father from her when she was tiny. She looked at him and felt only her own pain, realizing he was one of those people who had always been golden. He was nice-looking, suave, and probably rich. He hadn’t gone through childhood wondering what was wrong with him. Everyone at every turn had told him he was perfect, and Tavy couldn’t help hating him a little.

  Yet, he seemed nice. “I saw some gingersnaps in that bag,” he said. “Is it possible you’re as fond of them as he was?”

  “I—I think I just got them because I knew he liked them,” she said. “And I like them too, of course.”

  “Do you mind if we have some with our tea?” he asked.

  “That sounds good,” she said, still trying to get her bearings. All he’d had to do was enter the house to take charge.

  She emptied the dustpan into the trash bin under the sink, then put the broom away in the tiny broom closet Florencia had shown her. Behind her she could hear Vincent pouring the boiling water from the turquoise teapot into the sink before setting it on the counter by the stove.

  “Now for the tea!” he said, adding three teabags to the pot and pouring more water into it from the copper kettle. “I’ve loved tea since I was just a small boy,” he continued. “Dad used to take us to Cornwall in summer. That’s where I learned to love tea and biscuits!”

  “Cornwall?” Tavy asked.

  “Yes, to see Grandma and Grandpa. Such lovely people! God, I wish we could see them now! Of course, Grandma only made loose leaf tea. She was so English, that grandmother of ours!”

  Tavy didn’t know she was silently clutching the counter.

  “Octavia? Are you okay?” Vincent asked.

  “Yes, yes I’m fine.”

  “Well, anyway,” he went on, “we had the loveliest tea parties. Of course, as you know, Dad remembered those tea parties from his childhood in Oakland, too. He always wished his parents would move back to the States. I always wanted them to move right to Austin where I could be near them.”

  “Why do you think they went there in the first place?” Tavy heard herself asking while her heart beat in her ears.

  “Oh, you don’t know? She had back surgery there, and her doctor said she would do best living by the sea. She’d inherited the home place, such as it was, from her parents. It wasn’t much, of course, but she loved it, and I did, too, but it was tiny. Once I’d been there, you can just imagine how much I wanted to go back and be with them!”

  She didn’t speak for a moment. “Yes, I can just imagine,” she said quietly.

  “Listen, I think you look like you need to sit down,” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I think I should.”

  “Have I said too much? Have I upset you?”

  “No, no,” she lied. “I—I think I’m just tired or something. I haven’t been sleeping well.” And I didn’t know anything about my grandparents till an hour ago. Now I learn all of this!

  Vincent took her arm and guided her into the dining room. “Sit here,” he said, pulling out the same chair she had been sitting in only two days earlier when she was conversing with Madison Kerr. “I’ll bring your tea, and you should eat some of those gingersnaps. A little sugar in your blood might make you feel better.”

  “Okay,” she said, not really thinking, allowing herself to be hypnotized by Vincent’s easy movements.

  In a moment he was putting the pretty teapot on a trivet in front of her and she could hear him opening the box of cookies and getting a plate while she watched steam rising from the spout.

  What’s wrong with me? He’s trying to be nice.

  “I feel like an idiot!” he was saying as he set a mug, napkin, and teaspoon in front of her. “What was I thinking? I’ve overwhelmed you! Please forgive me, Octavia. I should have listened to Rand.”

  “What did he say?” she asked, though she didn’t really care what Rand Miller had said. She was just filling the emptiness between words, trying to appear normal when she was completely dumbfounded. Vincent Bishop had known her grandparents. He had been close to the people who belonged to her.

  “He said that coming here was probably a lot to take. He said it was probably shocking to learn that Dad had been murdered and that I should give you some space. I was just selfishly wanting to meet you, and I imagined we could be a comfort to each other—”

  “Please don’t be sorry,” she said. “Of course I needed to meet you. Of course I did.”

  He brought a honey bear from the sack in the kitchen and placed it beside Tavy’s mug. “I’m going to guess this is for your tea?” he asked, and Tavy nodded. “You want milk?”

  “No, thanks,” she answered, watching him as he seated himself across from her at the rectangular table and looked at his watch. “Just three more minutes and this tea will be nicely brewed. I always brew small leaf tea bags for four minutes. Does that sound right?” he asked.

  “I—I think I just play it by ear,” she answered.

  “Oh, well, you must be an artist like Dad was! I have to time things. Have a gingersnap, Octavia,” he said, pushing the plate of cookies toward her. “Would you like to tell me about yourself?” he asked.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s see. I think I want to know everything. What do you do?”

  “I’m a teacher,” she answered quietly, feeling like a fraud.

  “Oh. That’s what Dad used to do. Teach, I mean.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What’s your field?” he asked.

  “Elementary education.”

  “Oh. Are you an instructional theorist? Direct an education department or something?”

  “No. I’m an elementary school teacher.” But not really. Not anymore. I don’t know what I am.

  “I’ve alway
s admired people who teach children. Do you love it?”

  “Much of it, yes.” That was a good answer. No elaboration. “What about you? What do you do?”

  “I’m in between gigs right now. I was in marketing, but I’m trying something new at the moment.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it before it materializes.”

  “I see,” she answered, though she didn’t.

  “Do you have hobbies?”

  “I paint. I garden. I like to cook. Your turn,” she answered.

  “My goodness! You sound so domestic! I love cars and boats. And, you won’t approve, but I’m afraid I’m into whiskey and cigars!” he exclaimed as he poured the tea into the mug that sat in front of her, just as if she were visiting him in his house, not he in hers. “I know I’ve interrupted your day, Octavia,” he added. “I’ll just stay another five minutes and go. I just wanted to see you and introduce myself. I realize now that I’ve rushed in.”

  “Not at all. I’m just sorry that I’m too tired to be my usual self.”

  “Well, we’ll meet again soon,” he said. “That’s for sure.”

  “Yes. We need to see the lawyer. He’ll want to read the will to us.”

  “Yes,” he answered, smiling at her again and tilting his head. “You’re really very beautiful, Octavia. Dad didn’t tell me. Are you married?”

  “Divorced. You?”

  “No. A near miss or two. Boyfriend?” he pressed.

  “Yes,” she lied. Chad didn’t really count, but Vincent didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know she had no one but Mia.

  “In Portland, I presume,” he said.

  “Of course,” she answered. “You?”

  “No one presently.”

  She broke the seal on the honey bear and squeezed the golden liquid into her tea. “And your mother?” she asked. “Isn’t she here in Austin?”

  “Why, yes she is. She’d like to meet you, too.”

  But I really don’t want to meet her.

  “I wonder if she’ll be at the reading of the will?” Tavy asked.

  “I believe so, though Rand said it will have to be put off until the investigation is finalized. Oh, but it is interesting who’s included! Me, mom, you, and Angus Kerr. I believe there’s something left to the cleaning lady, but I can’t remember her name, and maybe another person or two,” he added.

  “Angus Kerr?”

  “Yes. I understand Dad left him something substantial.”

  “Oh,” she said, completely taken aback. Rand Miller had told her that her father had left her the house on Oaktree Hill, the car, the lake house, the art, and three hundred thousand dollars. What else was there to leave someone? Was there more money, and had it been broken up between all of these people?

  “It is surprising, considering Kerr’s history.”

  “What history?” This was the second time today someone had mentioned Gus Kerr’s history, and she wanted some answers.

  “I don’t know much about it. Just that he’s been arrested a few times. Dad had to bail him out more than once.”

  “Bail him out?”

  “That’s right. I never understood the friendship. I like my friends to be normal citizens, but Dad was always like that. Befriending weird people. Maybe you should drink your tea,” he suggested. “You seem a little shaken up. It will help you. I’m really sorry I didn’t call ahead or something.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine,” she said, but she did take a sip of the sweetened liquid before she continued. “I’m just a little surprised.”

  “Again, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  He sat in silence for a while, just drinking his tea and looking at Tavy. “Your mother?” he asked.

  “My mother is in Portland, too.”

  “And she’s well?”

  “Yes,” she answered. As far as I know.

  “That’s good,” he said. “I’ve always liked this little house. It’s so much nicer than it was when Dad bought it. He’s made lots of improvements.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Really? From whom?”

  “Rand.” She didn’t want to mention Gus. Not now. Not now that she felt so bad about him.

  In a few more minutes Vincent stood to go and carried his cup to the kitchen. “It was lovely meeting you, Octavia. I hope you’ll call me if you need anything,” he said, pulling his wallet from the side pocket of his cargo shorts and searching for a card. “My number’s on this card. Let me know if there’s anything at all you need. Now I’ll see myself out,” he added.

  But she stood and followed him to the door. “Thanks for coming by, Vincent. I’ll see you soon,” she said and watched him head up the street toward a red car.

  Chapter 26

  Saturday, August 8, 4 p.m.—Armen

  Armen watched Vincent Bishop leave the house. He saw that the woman was in there. Maybe a relative who had shown up because of Ed’s death, he guessed, or maybe she was a mistress or something. All he knew was that she’d arrived on Thursday, and she was in his way. He needed to see inside the house. He needed to see if the painting was gone.

  He thought about yesterday’s phone call with Harris and how he was chomping at the bit to get the painting. The deadline had been moved up a few days, but Armen knew he couldn’t count on that. He couldn’t count on anything. He had been counting on Edwin coming through and giving him two paintings. That hadn’t worked out, and really, he deserved everything.

  His mind traveled back through the years. Art school. So much time together. Such a friendship he and Edwin had back then!

  I made all his success possible. It was me. All me. Everything depended on me. Everything.

  His mind turned back to the woman in the house. He hadn’t seen her up close, but it didn’t seem like Ed’s style to be fraternizing with a woman half his age. A relative, then. What was her angle? Maybe she needed to be told, or maybe something needed to happen to get her out of his way. He couldn’t wait much longer.

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, August 8, 4 p.m.—Shell

  Shell took a couple of minutes to get online. Seated at the big desk in the huge hotel room, she shivered. The air conditioning was set too low, she thought. Either that, or I’m upset about Dean.

  She typed in a search: Edwin Bishop, Reed College. He didn’t come up at first. But once at Reed College’s site, she clicked Archives and typed his name into the search bar. A photograph appeared in a matter of seconds, with a caption. Edwin Bishop; Studio Art; Faculty, Individual; Painting Workshop Hanson Puthuff; Bishop, Edwin A. [1967-1978 at Reed].

  In the photo, Edwin Bishop was a young man with dark hair and an appealing face, still recognizable as the man she had met on Monday night, his likeness to his daughter undeniable.

  So, Edwin Bishop had left Reed in seventy-eight and didn’t appear on the art scene in Texas until eighty-four as Edwin Baird. That was when he had taken the art world by storm.

  Shell continued her search, clicking on his name and finding a short bio deeper in the archives. Edwin Bishop had gone to California College of Arts and Crafts in San Francisco. He had joined the San Francisco Art Association and had become a private student of Hanson Puthuff. Her knowledge of Puthuff’s work made clear his influence on Edwin Baird.

  How many minutes she had been reading she didn’t know when she heard the door unlock and Dean come back into the room. She wasn’t going to look at him now, not now when she knew he was angry. She didn’t think she deserved it, and she didn’t know how to deal with it. She kept her eyes on the screen even though she could no longer see it.

  He sat on the bed behind her, waiting for a while, but she didn’t speak.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked, finally.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to tell me about it?”

  “I don’t think you’re interested.”
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  “Oh, I’m interested. I just don’t know how to get through to you.”

  “Because—”

  “I think it’s because you have integrity, Shell. I get it. Let me do it with you, at least. I can’t let you drown in it, so I have to do it with you.”

  “That’s what I’ve wanted all along,” she said, turning to look at him.

  “Have you been crying?” he asked, his dark brows drawn together.

  “No,” she said, but her eyes looked full.

  He stood and took her hand, pulling her up from the chair and into his arms. “I can’t stand feeling we’re at odds. It tears me up,” he said into her hair.

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m sorry I was mean.”

  “I don’t think you were mean—well, maybe you were a little mean. I know you want to help me, Dean. I know you’re worried about me. It’s just that the only way to help me is to be with me.”

  “I’m sorry I said you were bullheaded.”

  “I’m sorry I called you a control freak.”

  “I’ll do better.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “I’m a slow learner.”

  “I don’t think I can do it without you, Dean.”

  “That’s good,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I can’t do it without you either.”

  Shell had a sudden memory of the night Dean rescued her, how he brought her home from the hospital and held her all night. All that night, and many nights after, he had told her she was safe, that everything was going to be all right. Had she told Dr. Shapiro about that? Was that something they should talk about?

  She thought of Tavy again. Tavy, all alone with no one to tell her everything was going to be all right. And it was possible she was in danger. Shell looked up at Dean.

  “Do you think I should call Tavy?” she asked.

  “To tell her about the painting?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could call or send her a text maybe.”

  “I was considering that.”

  “After that, we better get ready to go to the wedding. We need to be down there in an hour. The wedding’s at six, and then there will be dinner and dancing till late. Maybe you can steal away and call her later on, too.”