by Roslyn Woods
She had a flash of memory just then. In her mind’s eye she could see a view before her of dark pavement, and she suddenly felt a sharp pain just inside her left elbow. The memory was so abrupt, it stunned her for a moment.
“Are you okay?” the young woman beside her asked.
Shell swallowed and rubbed her arm before she answered. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “I just remembered something.”
“You’ve been attacked before, too?”
“Yes.”
“I wanna be ready next time,” the younger woman said. “If there is a next time.”
The general chatter in the room was softening as the women—fifteen by Shell’s count—became aware of the instructor taking position in front of everyone.
“Hello!” he said in a friendly voice. “I think I introduced myself to everyone as you came into the studio, but I’d like to thank you all for coming to the class today. In case you missed my name, I’m Riku Hayashi, and this is an introductory class in self-defense for women. My company offers classes of this kind all over Texas, so if you find the instruction useful, perhaps you will look into finding us and furthering your training in your home city. Please take one of my cards before you leave today.” He smiled rather politely at everyone before he continued. “Now, some of you may think being ready to defend yourself will never be necessary, but that’s what everyone who’s never been attacked believes.”
The introduction continued, and before Shell knew it, the instructor was introducing her to the other students and asking her to help him demonstrate how to get away from an arm grab.
A wave of nerves came over her as she stood beside Riku, but when he grabbed her arm, her own automatic response surprised her. She had practiced the simple move many times with Bryan and the other students in Austin, but it was strange to realize she could accomplish it successfully with another teacher and different students present.
The instruction progressed to turns and breakaways, and Shell helped demonstrate both with the instructor and with students who were trying the moves for the first time. A full half hour into the session, Riku Hayashi asked Shell if she wouldn’t mind demonstrating an elbow strike.
“I think I can do it,” she said, tentatively.
“Okay!” he said loudly so the other students could hear. “Michelle has agreed to help me demonstrate what to do when an abductor grabs you from behind. There are many ways to react to this, but an attacker won’t be expecting the move she’s about to perform. We’re going to imagine she’s walking along—perhaps it’s night—and someone comes at her. What does she do? I’ll be the bad guy, and Michelle is going to be walking along minding her own business when I come up behind and put my arms around her waist and try to carry her away. Now don’t really hurt me, Michelle. Just show the students the move!”
Everyone laughed at this, but the laughter died down as Shell started walking and Riku came up behind and wrapped his right arm around her waist while his left hand came around and covered her mouth as he lifted her off the floor. “Now watch what she does,” he said.
She turned her whole upper body and threw her right elbow at Riku’s jaw, just stopping short of it. The students clapped.
“If an abductor doesn’t expect that,” Riku said, putting Shell down, “and he won’t, that’s going to really knock him off his pivot. If he doesn’t drop you with the first strike, he will with the second,” he said. “Now let’s do that one more time, Michelle, and show the class how you would strike twice.”
It was the same move really, but this time when Riku got his arms around her waist, she threw her elbow in the direction of his jaw and repeated the movement. Again, the students applauded.
“Thanks, Michelle,” Riku said, putting her down and turning toward the class. “Now, let’s talk about this for a minute. Whose fault is it that an attacker came up behind this young woman and attempted to carry her away?”
No one spoke. Shell didn’t know what answer Riku was hoping to get. She knew what Bryan Moto had said at her first class. It was the fault of the person who put herself in harm’s way.
“Is it her fault?” he asked.
“No,” someone murmured, and a few others repeated the same.
“That’s right. It’s the attacker’s fault,” Riku said, reinforcing the answer. “It’s never your fault when someone does something, anything, violent to you. Self-defense is just your way to take your power back in a dangerous situation. Now, let’s try that exercise again.”
Chapter 34
Sunday, Aug. 9, 11 a.m.—Tavy
The locks were changed on Sunday, but not before the police came. They dusted for prints per Tavy’s request, and the techs shook their heads that the doors not only didn’t have an intruder’s prints, they had no prints at all. Someone had been more than careful, the surfaces of knobs and tables carefully polished. Only the knobs on the stove and the backdoor revealed prints. Angus Kerr’s. Tavy imagined the law enforcement people doubted her—believed she really had tried to take her own life.
After Gus brought her home, having locked the place before following her to the hospital the night before, he and Tavy went around the house searching for signs of theft. Nothing appeared to be gone. Even the box of baby things she had found in her father’s closet remained on the coverlet of the bed, undisturbed.
She walked into the sun room and the laundry nook, the place where the feeling of being watched had been so intense yesterday. There was a closet in here, and she opened it.
Yes, someone might have stood inside this closet in front of the mops and the vacuum cleaner. She certainly hadn’t opened the door yesterday, and it would have been a good place to listen through its back wall, too, as she was quite sure the closet shared a wall with the master bath.
But why would someone want to do that in the first place? Hadn’t Shell told her that the paintings on the walls were quite valuable? If the person who had killed her father had wanted them, why were they still hanging on the walls? If someone had the ability to get into the house while she was away, why hadn’t they just helped themselves to the paintings and left?
“I think you should keep Blue with you for a while,” Gus said after they had checked all the rooms. “She’s a good watchdog. You won’t be surprised by an intruder if she’s in the house.”
Had he forgiven her for her accusations the previous day? She couldn’t tell, but he was being kind anyway, offering the dog to give her some protection.
“Between you and Blue, my life was spared.”
“Just Blue. She insisted I check on you. I wouldn’t have checked—”
“I’m sorry about what I said yesterday,” she repeated. She couldn’t tell him that she was lashing out because she had allowed herself to feel attracted to him—that it was hard to learn he hadn’t told her about important things.
“It’s okay,” he said, but he looked out the window, and she could see the damage she had done by her lack of faith.
“What about you? Won’t you be missing your dog?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll actually feel better knowing she’s with you than I would if she was with me. I owe it to Ed to—anyway, you need to be safe.”
“Well, I do think she’d make me feel safe, but I’ll only agree to keeping her for a few days.”
“Okay. We can talk about it again in a few days.”
“After the locks are changed, I’ve got some things I need to do away from the house. Could she come over later?”
“That’ll be fine. Just let me know.”
The rest of the day was taken up with the police, the lock and key man, and Tavy’s search for answers.
As soon as Gus and the others had left the house, she called Rand Miller.
“I need to see you,” she said, when he had answered the phone. “Something very weird is going on over here.”
“I can meet you somewhere, or I can come to your place,” he said.
It was Sunday, and Tavy didn’t know where
she might have a quiet conversation with her father’s lawyer, but she felt a need to get out of the house, and now she would be able to lock it with keys only she had. In the end, Rand Miller suggested that they meet at a coffee shop on South Lamar, one of a few in town with the same name. Kerbey Lane.
It was located in a strip mall near several other eateries and businesses, and the parking lot was crowded with cars. It was two when Tavy arrived, hot as usual, and Rand Miller was waiting for her in the patio in front, a black briefcase in one hand.
“I see you’re driving the car,” he said as she approached him. “That’s good.”
“Why is it good?”
“I just think it’s good to have wheels so you can get used to your new town. Shall we go in?” he asked, opening the door of the busy establishment.
“I’m not sure it’s my new town,” she answered as she went in. “I may be leaving soon. I don’t know what I’m doing yet.”
“I know, but there’s no need to make a rushed decision is there? You might decide you like it here.”
“Maybe,” she said as a waiter with long blond dreadlocks and a hot pink shirt and plaid pajama bottoms approached them.
“Two?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rand answered, allowing Tavy to precede him as they followed the young man.
They were seated at a booth with a wooden table and brown vinyl seats, and two of the servers were standing not far from them, apparently trying to work out the harmony for a song. It seemed this was just their day job. On any other afternoon, Tavy might have enjoyed listening to them, but today her mind was on what had happened the night before. She waited until Rand had ordered coffee and pie for himself and the iced tea she had asked for before she spoke.
“I’m not trying to make a rushed decision,” she said, “but I’m feeling pretty uncomfortable here.”
“Maybe I can fix it. What’s making you uncomfortable?” Rand asked.
Tavy mused that it was just like a man to think he could swoop in and fix things for her. Leaning forward and lowering her voice, she answered, “Someone tried to kill me last night.”
“What?”
“I haven’t been sleeping well. Really, I’d only gotten a few hours sleep since I learned my father died. Last night I decided to take a couple of sleeping pills and turn in early.”
Rand Miller’s pale eyes narrowed with concern as he leaned forward, listening intently. “Please go on,” he said.
“I woke on the back patio with Gus Kerr trying to wake me. Thank God he decided to check on me when his dog started acting like something was wrong at my house.”
“Wait. I’m missing something.”
“Someone had to have been waiting inside my house when I got home from shopping—waiting there till I went to sleep. Then they opened the oven and turned on all the burners but didn’t light any of them. You know it’s an old gas range. When Gus found me, the house was filled with gas, and he carried me out and called an ambulance.”
“Oh, my God! Did you call the police?”
“The doctor at the hospital did. The police came there, and they called Sergeant Gonzalez, and he and Detective Wilson came to the house this morning with their fingerprint crew. They couldn’t find anything. I half think they believe I actually tried to kill myself.”
“Tavy, I’m so sorry! I had no idea! Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did. I called you this morning.”
“But you should have called me right away! I could have stayed with you at the hospital, managed the police!”
“I managed them fine on my own.”
“But you were alone! You know no one in Austin!”
“Actually, I know Gus and his daughter. I know a woman with an art gallery. I know my stepbrother. A little.”
“You know all of these people a little, as you say.”
“Including you!”
“Yes, but I’m your lawyer.”
You’re my father’s lawyer, she thought, but she didn’t say the words.
“I need to ask you about Gus Kerr and my father,” she said, changing the subject.
“Oh, Gus Kerr!” he said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, he’s a difficult one for me. I’m sorry if I was rude the other day. I don’t like that guy. I don’t trust him.”
“Why is that?”
“It doesn’t occur to you that he had every opportunity to hurt your father?”
“He was his neighbor, but—”
“And now he’s your neighbor,” Rand said with a significant nod.
“You don’t think he was the one who tried to hurt me?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Why? Because of his record?”
“Yes,” he answered, registering surprise at her knowledge of Angus Kerr’s record, “and because of his interest in your father’s will.”
“Tell me about that,” she said, her voice dropping again.
So Vincent was right. Gus did stand to inherit from my father, even if he said he knew nothing about it.
“He gets a bequest that’s nothing to sneeze at,” said Rand, “and it’s very likely your father told him about his intentions to leave him something. I don’t want to accuse him of anything. I just want you to watch your step.”
“You’re saying you think he knew? And what? He wanted to hurry things along, so he poisoned my father?”
“I think he could have. I know your father had some sort of affinity with the man. I don’t know why he liked him. I didn’t consider it my business to ask. I just think Kerr’s inheritance gives him a motive to—”
“What would he stand to gain by killing me? And why would he save me if that were the case?”
“Maybe he wanted to almost kill you or just give you a scare. Maybe he’d like to attach himself to you because you stand to inherit a great deal.”
“What do you mean, Rand?”
“To attach himself to you romantically.”
“And what do you mean by ‘a great deal’?” she asked, confused.
“This is why I thought we needed to talk. You see, the other day when you made it clear you didn’t know your father, I realized there could be a lot you don’t know about him.”
“What don’t I know?”
“Your father had a—another identity. He was an artist, Tavy. A famous artist. It’s true he dropped out years ago and focused on his collecting, but that was because he realized it was going to be impossible to keep his real identity separate from his name as an artist. He didn’t want your mother finding him and causing him trouble, so he set up a corporation to manage his activities, including ownership of his homes and his art.”
Tavy sat facing Rand with a stunned expression on her face. Could it be? Her father had two identities?
“Who was he?” she asked.
“He was Edwin Baird.”
She couldn’t believe the words she had just heard. Even she, who knew relatively little about the art world, was familiar with the name Edwin Baird.
“No,” she said.
“It’s true. He made quite a bit of money as an artist, Tavy. And he also invested in art. His collection is locked up at his place on Burleson, and there are a couple of valuable paintings at your house, not to mention the pottery and glass collection. That’s worth—I don’t really know how much it’s worth, but my estimate is quite high. It’s not even in the same ballpark as the art, though.”
There was a long silence. Tavy didn’t know quite how to take the information in. After a while she asked, “How much am I inheriting?”
“I think I’ve told you about everything. I just haven’t explained anything about the value of the art,” he said. “It’s worth a great deal. A few pieces—not many—have been left for individuals named in the will. They’re worth plenty, but nothing like your inheritance,” he said, pulling a piece of paper from the briefcase. “This list isn’t itemized, and I’m no appraiser, but I think you may need to get your head around the idea that you’re a wealthy
woman. The lake house address is here, and I’m going to go ahead and give you the keys. You can stay there if you’re feeling afraid in the Austin house. Oh. And there’s a small piece of property in Cornwall.”
“England?”
“That’s right.”
Tavy looked at the list. It was just as he had said. The last item on the list read, All but a few items in the studio are to be yours.
“Where did he make the money he used to buy art?”
“He continued to paint and sold his paintings one at a time to private collectors through a dealer. Then, instead of putting his income in a savings account or the stock market, he invested in art.”
She looked up at Rand, shaking her head. “But why me?” she asked. “Why did he ignore me all my life and then leave me so much?”
“I don’t know. My father talked to him extensively at the beginning. Maybe he knew some things I don’t know, but we’ll never know now.”
“Can you tell me who else knows about my dad’s dual identities?”
“I don’t know who knew. I imagine Angus Kerr did, but I can’t be absolutely sure about him. Ed’s ex-wife and stepson had to know because they were living with him when he became famous as Edwin Baird. And there were people who knew him in art school. There had to be others, but I don’t know anything about who they would have been. And, the truth is, your father was very secretive about his identity after he quit having shows. He established himself as a quiet, regular guy who lived in a middle-class home and painted a lot, though privately. My father told me that even before, when he was openly pursuing his art career, your father shunned cameras and did everything he could to stay out of the limelight. That’s what made his dropping out possible. People had no idea that Edwin Bishop was Edwin Baird.”
“And all so my mother couldn’t find him? Isn’t that weird?”
“It is.”
“She must have threatened him or something.”
“Maybe. Again, if only you could talk to my dad.”
“I wish I could.”
