by Roslyn Woods
“But you could talk to your mother.”
“I probably won’t do that.”
Rand Miller nodded slowly before speaking again. “We should go to the studio. You should have a look at what’s there.”
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Okay, if I can be finished before noon. I’m meeting my artist friend for lunch.”
“We can meet at the studio at ten. An hour should do it.”
“Perfect.”
Chapter 35
Sunday, Aug. 9, 5 p.m.—Tavy
After her visit with Rand, Tavy went by Wheatsville and picked up some organic chicken breasts, some rice and vermicelli, some fresh asparagus and crusty french bread. Once home she’d find a couple of tomatoes in her father’s garden and slice them to serve with a little fresh mozzarella, basil, and her own vinaigrette. She would invite Gus over to eat with her by way of apology for behaving badly yesterday. She knew there was simply no way to thank him for saving her life, and despite what Rand had said, she was convinced that Gus Kerr wasn’t a bad man.
An hour later, she was home and the chicken breasts were roasting away in the oven with bits of butter and lemon peel jammed into slits she had made in the meat, the aroma of sage and lemon filling the house while she browned broken pieces of vermicelli in butter. In a few minutes she was pouring in chicken broth and adding rice to make pilaf. She prepared the asparagus with olive oil and margarita salt for a quick roast, which she planned to do when the chicken was done, and she sliced melon and strawberries for a mildly sweet dessert she would top with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and gingersnap cookie crumbs.
When the fruit was chilling in the fridge, she walked out the back and went through the gate into Angus Kerr’s garden. There were orange trees here and several beds of corn almost ready to harvest. A freshly tilled bed boasted small cabbage plants Gus must have planted quite recently.
Tavy knocked at the back door and waited while Blue barked, taking in the fragrance of the herb bed near the steps to the back door.
“Hi,” Gus said, a moment later, the door opening almost soundlessly, his eyes unreadable.
“Hi,” Tavy said.
“I have Blue’s things ready for you. I can carry them over.”
“That would be great,” she replied, smiling. “I can help.”
Gus didn’t smile, though he wasn’t unfriendly. “I’ve got it.”
She watched him turn from the door and gather up a dog bed in which he’d placed a small bag of dry food, two bowls, and a leash. She held the door open for him and let him pass ahead of her, Blue running past them both and waiting at the gate with her tail wagging. Tavy followed to the gate and opened it, then rushed ahead to her own backdoor to unlock it with the keys she had latched to her belt loop.
“Something smells good,” Gus said as he walked through the kitchen and into the living room.
“Yes. I’m cooking. I was hoping I could persuade you to stay and have dinner with me. I even bought a bottle of Chardonnay.”
He set the dog things down in front of the fireplace while Blue rushed around the house, probably searching for Ed.
Gus looked at Tavy standing in the doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen, his face still somber. “It’s probably not a good idea.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I understand why you doubt my integrity. It just makes it a little bit hard to be friends.”
“You won’t forgive me? I said I was sorry.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You were honest. And the apology is kind of you—but—it’s hard to forget the inclination. I don’t blame you. I know I look like I’ve done something wrong. There’s no reason why you should trust me.”
“But I do, Gus.”
“I haven’t said I didn’t poison your father, Tavy.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“I believe you.”
He gave her a half smile and shook his head a bit sadly. “Like I said, I appreciate the sentiment. I know it’s well meant. Tonight’s a bad night for me anyway. I’m getting ready for a meeting I have to facilitate for the college. School is starting soon. In fact, I’ll be leaving early in the morning, so it’s good you’re going to have Blue with you. We do a two day retreat every year before classes start.”
“You’ll be gone two days?”
“All day tomorrow, tomorrow night, and home again late Tuesday night.”
“Where do you go?”
“Corpus Christi. We stay at a resort with a conference center. We have meetings, swim, take walks on the beach. It’s a nice break from the heat before we have to buckle down and work in hundred-plus temperatures. I’ll keep my cell with me, in case there’s trouble here, or you have a problem with Blue.”
“What do you normally do with her when you’re gone?”
“Doggie spa. She loves it, but she’ll be doing good work here. You should be safe.”
“I see,” she answered. She felt like he’d kicked her in the stomach, refusing her dinner offer, but she guessed it was her own fault. He was leaving, and she’d gone out on a limb by asking him to stay. Part of her acknowledged she had probably earned this, but the rebuff didn’t feel good. It had been a long time since she’d asked a man to eat a meal with her. Probably, women asked him to have dinner with them often. Probably, this meant nothing to him, just another invitation from a lonely woman. There were probably lots of women. Women at the college. Women he’d soon be walking with on the beach in Corpus Christi. What had she been thinking? Maybe there was even a special woman he hadn’t told her about.
“See you in a couple of days,” he said, heading past her toward the back door.
She followed him with her eyes to the kitchen door.
He turned and looked back at her when she said nothing.
Noticing his look, she said, “Right. See you,” not willing to appear interested anymore. “Thanks for saving my life last night. Have a nice retreat.”
Did she sound bitter? She hoped not, and at the same time she wanted him to be sorry he had refused dinner with her. She would never ask again.
Chapter 36
Monday, August 10, 10 a.m.—Tavy
The trip to the studio was easy. Tavy utilized the maps program on her phone and found herself traveling east on 290, crossing under the I-35 and exiting at Burleson while the morning sun burned down on her car and the heat waves rose from the dark pavement in front of her.
The building was bigger and more industrial than she had expected. This place looked like a fortress. From this side of the building, she could see only two outside doors on the ground floor. She parked the CRV beside the white Buick before getting out and locking the car.
Rand was standing in the shade beside the building and talking with a security guard in a khaki uniform whose hat was in his hand, his bald head shiny with perspiration. It was already ninety-two degrees at only ten in the morning.
“…last Monday night,” Rand was saying as she approached the two men. “The police think it may have been murder, but that’s still up in the air at this point.”
“Murder?” the guard asked. “How did he die?”
“It looks like arsenic poisoning.”
“Well, doesn’t that beat all? I can’t believe it! A few days ago we were shootin’ the breeze about how damn hot it is, and then he’s gone, just like that!”
“Yes, it’s been quite a shock.” Rand turned and nodded a greeting to Tavy as she stopped beside him. Then he turned back to the security guard and spoke again. “Joe, I’d like you to meet my client, Octavia Bishop. She’s Ed’s daughter.”
“Oh, hello,” said the guard, turning toward Tavy. “I’m so sorry, Miss, about you losing your dad and all. He was a nice man. A truly nice man.”
“Thank you,” she answered, shaking the hand he offered her, not sure what else she should say.
“I guess we’ll just go on up,” Rand said.
<
br /> “Right, sir. See y’all in a few minutes.”
“I assume you have your keys?” Rand said, turning to Tavy.
“Yes, right here,” she said handing them to Rand and following him as he walked toward the door, a card he’d pulled from his shirt pocket in his left hand.
He punched the numbers into the keypad on what appeared to be a stairwell door. The red light on the side remained lit, and the keypad made a beeping sound as words appeared in the display. Incorrect Passcode.
Rand shook his head and punched the number in again. The keypad beeped, and the display flashed the words Incorrect Passcode again.
“Hey, Joe!” Rand Miller called. “This keypad isn’t letting me in. Anybody else having a problem today?”
“Not today,” Joe said, coming toward them. “Let me try it.”
Rand handed him the card, and Joe typed the numbers in only to hear the beeping sound Rand had gotten earlier.
“You use this passcode before?” the guard asked.
“Several times,” Rand answered.
“Someone must have changed it,” Joe said.
“Damn!” said Rand. “I bet he did it last week. We had planned to meet on Wednesday, and he said he had some information to give me. He must have planned to give me his new code.”
“It’s no problem, sir. I can use mine to get you upstairs. Let’s just hope he didn’t change the keypad up there,” the guard said, glancing upward. “I don’t have any codes for individual units.”
“Let’s hope!” said Rand, clearly frustrated.
The guard typed something into the keypad and a sound like a bell came from it. This time, a green light appeared beside the unlit red one, and Rand stepped forward and put Tavy’s key in the lock. It turned, and the door opened with a loud click.
“Thanks, Joe,” he said.
“I hope your code works upstairs.”
“Me, too.”
It didn’t. Rand was beside himself. “I don’t know what to do!” he said. “I was the only one with codes for these doors. Now what?”
“What about talking to the manager, or the owner of the building?”
“That’s all we can do. But I don’t think he’ll let us in. We would have to get a court order, and I don’t know why any judge would think it’s important for us to see the contents of this studio.”
“Why? That’s crazy!”
“Yes, maybe it is, but people will try all kinds of things to get to artwork as valuable as your father’s. The owner of this building may be suspicious of us. Your father chose this place exactly because he wanted to keep people out.”
“But you’re my father’s lawyer!”
“And you’re his daughter. There’s a murder investigation going on, and the will won’t be executed until that’s all settled. The owner of the building may feel that without a passcode it’s prudent to keep us out until the investigation is over.”
“They know? They know about the murder investigation?”
“Yes. I called the office, and the police had already been here, already made it clear to them that your father had been murdered. The man also said that people had come around, but no one had gotten in. They’re careful. You have to give them that.”
“You mean I’ll have to wait till the investigation is finished to see what’s in this building?”
“That could be right. The office is empty this morning. I’ll have to call again and see.”
Chapter 37
Monday, August 10, 11:30 a.m.—Shell
“You’re going out to lunch?” Billie asked, surprised by Shell’s announcement. “You just got here!”
“Yes, at ten,” she answered. “The same time you got here, Billie. And I’m going to lunch for an hour or two. So what? I never go to lunch! You and Leo, on the other hand, often go to lunch and I cover the gallery. Today, it’s my turn.”
“Oh, well, have it your way, then,” Billie said. “But don’t think I’m not going tomorrow!”
“I know you will,” said Shell with her usual smile, knowing full well Billie didn’t really mind her taking a little time to talk to Octavia Bishop. “If we hired a helper, the three of us could all go to lunch sometimes.”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I thought I might ask you to call Dr. Moreno at UT. Maybe we could get an intern or two to help out. I really miss Margie.”
“I do, too. I could do that. I’ve been wondering about seeing if anyone in the art department knows anything about Edwin Baird anyway. I spent a little time on the computer looking up his history after Tavy told me he had worked at Reed. I’d like to ask around.”
“About Edwin Baird or Edwin Bishop?”
“Both. Dr. Moreno has been in the department a long time. She might know a thing or two about his rise to fame back in the eighties. She might know something about his history.”
“There’s an idea! Now we’re getting somewhere!”
“Not exactly, but I’ve learned enough to have someplace to start asking questions. By the way, where do you think Octavia and I should go to lunch?”
“Oh gee, let’s see, dearie…Does she like Mexican food? I like La Condessa. It’s a bit upscale from standard fare. And it’s not too far from here.”
“Yes, okay. Maybe we’ll go there. I’ll see if that sounds good to her.”
“I love the tortilla soup! Sopa de tortilla! It’s the yummiest I’ve had, darling, and Leo adores it, too.”
“I’ll pass the recommendation on,” she answered. “Tavy should be here any minute, so I better start watching for her. I told her she could park in the loading zone for just a sec, and I’d run out.”
“Shell—does she know? Does she know what her dad wanted us to do?”
“Of course. But she hasn’t seen the work, and I don’t think she knows its value.”
“So that’s what you’re talking about today? The value of her father’s work? Is that all?”
“We’ll probably talk about the murder and the paintings that are in her house. We were planning to talk on Friday, but it was a little awkward, and I thought she seemed too vulnerable right after going to the morgue.”
“And will you see if she’ll still let us do a show?”
“I don’t think that would even be legal at this point. I’m not angling to get something from her, Billie. I just want to do right by Edwin Baird—do what he asked me to do.”
“Why wouldn’t it be legal to let us do a show?”
“Because, there’s a murder investigation going on. The person who inherits the work will get to decide about that. Much later.”
“But who inherits?”
“How should I know?”
“Why wouldn’t it be his daughter?”
“Because there could be other people named in the will. You know that. We’ll just have to wait and see, and I’m not going to pressure her.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to pressure her. Sometimes you really hurt my feelings,” he said, pouting. “I’m not heartless, you know. Is she doing okay?”
“Like I said, she seemed a little shaky the other night. And I know you’re not heartless. You just get a little over-exuberant when it comes to the gallery. Anyway, I imagine things may have calmed down by now. Tavy had a lot to take in when she arrived in Austin.”
“Yes, I imagine she’s feeling a bit raw,” he agreed. “By the way, did you ever look up that guy’s name? That guy who came in the day after Edwin died?”
“Yes, but he signed in as A. Smith. Somehow, I think he made up that name. The group leader called him Armen, and his entry in the guestbook was the only one with the initial A for the first name. Everyone else wrote their names out. That’s how I found his signature in the guestbook.”
“And you think it was the same man who came to Evelyn’s show on Friday?”
“And the hospital on Monday night. I’m almost positive.”
“And you said you thought he’d come in here before?”
“I don’t know about
that. I thought Edwin had been here with his stepson, but I don’t remember Armen. So many people come through, and they often fail to sign the guestbook, so how can we remember?”
“I gave photocopies of all the guestbook pages since April to Detective Wilson the other day, but I didn’t see anything that jumped out at me,” Billie said. “Maybe we should look through all the names now,” he added, walking over to the podium where the guestbook was opened to today’s date. “We’re looking for Edwin, Vincent, or A. Smith. Any of those names. Let’s see. Just go back a few pages and—what would the date be when you saw Armen in the gallery? Tuesday the fourth?”
“That’s right,” said Shell. “I was talking on the phone to the lady at the hospital when they came in, and I saw him. Later he rushed out, and the guitar player outside said he’d hurried down the street. Unfortunately, I missed him.”
“He didn’t stay long on Friday night either,” Billie said. “What do you think he wants?”
“I haven’t got the foggiest notion.”
“Is this it?” Billie asked, pointing at an entry. “A. Smith? Let’s see—There are nine entries between ten and ten-thirty, and only one whose first name is only an initial. Hmm.” Billie frowned thoughtfully.
“And the lady with the group called him ‘Armen.’ Unless someone else in the group was A. Smith, and our guy didn’t sign in at all, that’s his signature.”
“Why don’t you start checking for the other names at about the beginning of June,” Shell suggested. “I know Edwin came into the gallery with Vincent somewhere in early summer.”
Billie thumbed through the pages, scanning the handwritten signatures and addresses. “I just don’t see it,” he said.
Shell walked over and stood beside him. “All right, go back to May, then.”
Still, nothing was found. “Let me look,” she said, and Billie stepped sideways.
Shell ran her finger down the pages starting in early May. Nothing…nothing… Here it was. E. A. Bishop on May 23rd. But hadn’t they come in together? Vincent hadn’t signed in. And what was this? An Armen Hanoian signed in that day as well. Armen Hanoian?
