by Roslyn Woods
“Look at this, Billie,” Shell said, tapping the guest book.
“I guess I was looking for Edwin. I didn’t see E.A. Bishop,” he said. “And of course! No address!”
“But don’t you see the name under E.A.?” Shell asked.
“Oh my!” he said as his eyes fell on the name a few lines down. “Armen Hanoian. You don’t think—”
“Look at the A. See that curling serif? It’s just like the serif on A. Smith on August fourth. And the leader called him Armen.”
“Let me see that,” Billie said, leaning over the book and suddenly flipping the pages to August 4th. Yes, it did look like the same handwriting. “Wow! It really seems like the same hand. He has been around too much! But what could he want? He left early the other night, right after we started keeping an eye on him.” Billie stopped speaking and thought for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible he’s been at the gallery because he thinks it’s amazing!”
“Right!” Shell said sarcastically. At Billie’s offended expression she added, “Yes, it’s a good gallery, but that doesn’t explain his coming to the hospital on Monday night. And it doesn’t explain signing in with different names. If we’re right. It’s too much of a coincidence. There’s something wrong about that guy.”
La Condessa Restaurant was nestled snugly between a parking garage and a designer watch store on the corner of Guadalupe and 2nd Street. The two women were seated inside, sheltered from Austin’s heat and humidity. They were pleased to get a corner table by large windows. Shell sat across from Tavy, facing the interior of the restaurant while Tavy was treated to a view of Austin passersby on the street.
“I’m told the tortilla soup is quite good,” said Shell, admiring the turquoise and orange mural on the wall opposite their table.
“That sounds perfect to me. That’s all I need, and an iced tea.”
“I think I’ll order that, too,” said Shell. “Then we can get down to talking about the things I need to tell you.”
“Yes. I have some things to talk to you about, too, Shell.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It’s been pretty weird at my father’s house over the weekend.”
Shell was leaning forward and listening intently when she noticed an oddly dressed woman being seated at the table beside theirs. The woman’s back was to Shell when she was seated, so she couldn’t see her face.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Shell told Tavy. “I was worried when you didn’t answer my text, and then when I got your message I made myself calm down. Did something happen?”
“Yes, and I really need to hear what you think when I tell you the details.”
The woman at the other table turned, and Shell could see her profile. Was she eavesdropping? She was older and wore a denim skirt and an untucked paisley blouse that was gathered at its round neck. Large sunglasses made it nearly impossible to determine who she might be, and Shell thought the oddly crisp hairstyle looked strange with the Bohemian clothes.
A tallish server came up to the table. He looked like a rugby player to Shell, but he wore his black hair in a matador’s bun at the back of his head. “Are you ladies ready to order?” he asked.
“Actually,” said Shell, “I’d really rather sit in the bar. Could we do that? Could we sit up there? The light is too bright for me here by the windows. I didn’t expect it to bother me, but I’m afraid I just can’t sit here.”
The young man looked discomfited for a moment before he collected himself. “Certainly,” he said, nodding an assent. “Please follow me.”
Shell picked up her purse, and Tavy followed, a surprised expression on her face. They climbed a short flight of stairs past the dining area and entered the bar, taking in a shocking bull’s head that was mounted on the wall behind the counter.
After they were seated at a small table against a wall, the server said, “To drink?”
“Iced tea for both of us,” said Shell. “And can we order?”
“Yes.”
“We both want the tortilla soup.”
“Tea and two sopa de tortillas. That’s all?”
“Yes, with some salsa and chips, I think.”
“May I recommend the guacamole tasting?”
“Yes,” said Shell. “Let’s do that. Sure.”
The server nodded and turned to go.
“I’m glad we’re alone up here,” said Shell, weighing in her mind whether or not to mention her reason for moving tables to her friend.
“Yes, this is quieter,” Tavy agreed. “Anyway, you were right. I did need to be careful. Someone tried to kill me on Saturday night.”
“Oh, my God!” Shell exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”
It didn’t take Tavy long to describe her experience on Saturday night, ending with waking up on the back patio with Gus trying to revive her.
“But what exactly had happened?” Shell asked.
“Someone turned on the gas in the old range, but they didn’t light any of the burners. The carbon monoxide was making it hard for me to wake up. Thank God Gus listened to his dog and came in and got me out of the house!”
Shell was full of questions, and Tavy proceeded to go over the details of her day on Saturday, from seeing the police at the station, meeting her stepbrother, finding the box of baby things, confronting Gus about his police record, and winding up in the hospital.
“How did Gus get into the house?” Shell asked.
“He had a key.”
“Oh,” said Shell, surprised.
“My dad had him keep an eye on the house when he was away. That’s what he told me.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes, actually, I do.”
“Well, it makes sense, but do the police know he had a key? They’re going to want to look into him further if they know he’s had access to the house all along,” said Shell.
“I know. Gus told me to tell them about the key if I wanted to. He told me not to hide anything.”
“You don’t think he could have had anything to do with your father’s death?”
“No, I don’t,” she answered sadly. “I was angry when Sergeant Gonzalez told me that Gus had some sort of arrest history. Later on, Vincent—my stepbrother—also told me he had a police record, and I was upset. You know, you think someone has kept something important from you, and you feel bad. I was tired, exhausted really, and I overreacted to learning about it. Of course, now I realize it was something innocent. At least, more innocent than what I accused him of. I know tiredness is no excuse. I should never have accused my father’s best friend of something so heinous! I’m guessing it’s possible he has an alcohol problem.”
“But what makes you so sure he hasn’t done something more sinister? Like poisoning your father or trying to hurt you?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s a good person. I just feel it.”
Shell could see that Tavy was remorseful. “Dean likes him, too. He thinks he’s a good guy. I’m sure you can explain to Gus that you’re sorry and you were exhausted and everything.”
“No. I think relationships are just too complicated for me. You mess up, and then there’s all this residue you can’t seem to get rid of.”
Shell nodded, a wave of sadness coming over her. She knew about mistakes leaving residual difficulties.
The server was back with a large tray containing the iced tea, chips, several small bowls of guacamole, and two steaming soup bowls. He put the tray on a nearby table before carefully placing each item on the table in front of the two women.
“Thank you,” Shell said.
“Is there anything else I can get for you ladies?” he asked.
“This looks great,” she replied, and he turned to go.
“Anyway,” Tavy continued, “I tried to apologize to Gus. I even asked him to eat dinner with me at my house yesterday. It was so humiliating! He brought Blue over—that’s his dog—to stay with me for a few days, and I was bustling around making dinner for two. I even had a
bottle of chardonnay in an ice bucket on the counter! I asked him to stay and he said it was a bad idea. He said I couldn’t take back what I’d said.”
Shell listened and nodded sympathetically. “You know, he may get over it. He obviously cares what you think. That’s good, right?”
“Yes, maybe.”
They started eating, and Shell found herself not particularly hungry even though everything tasted good. Her mind was still puzzling over Tavy’s troubles.
“You’re nice, Shell. I’m sorry to be unloading on you like this.”
“You’re not unloading. It’s normal to talk about something like this with a friend.”
“Yes,” said Tavy with a smile, “but you hardly know me.”
“And yet, I feel like I’ve known you for years. Your father brought us together.”
“That was sort of an accident, though, wasn’t it?” Tavy asked.
“Maybe it was, but sometimes I think fate plays a hand.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I’m not sure. Sometimes I almost do.”
“I’d like to believe in something. I’d like to believe things were meant to be, but I guess I don’t. Still, I’m glad we met, and I appreciate your listening.”
They ate in silence for a while before Shell leaned forward to ask a question. “Why are you keeping Gus’s dog?”
“He suggested I’d be safe with her there. She’s a good watchdog.”
“Evidently. And Gus seems concerned about your safety.”
“And he’s away for a couple of days.”
“Where to?”
“Some out-of-town meeting for the community college where he teaches.”
“Ah! Yes, Dean told me he’s a teacher at ACC. So you’re watching his dog?”
“No. His dog is watching me, and watching out for me,” said Tavy with a smile. “I love dogs,” she added, “and I think Blue is about the sweetest dog I’ve ever met.”
“I know how you feel. Dean and I have two wonderful dogs, and Sadie saved my life twice. I can’t explain how much I love her. Not that I don’t love Bitsy!”
“But I can guess how you feel.”
“Yes. It sounds like you’ve experienced it,” said Shell. “Are you all better now?”
“Yes. The carbon monoxide exposure was minimal, and I slept all night at the hospital on Saturday. It’s weird, but that’s the best sleep I’ve had in such a long time that I felt better yesterday—more able to cope with everything.”
“I’m glad you got some sleep. What about last night?”
“I slept because I was still tired—presumably—or I relaxed because Blue’s bed was on the floor beside me. Oh! And I got the locks changed yesterday morning and Blue made sure we were alone in the house.”
“That’s good. When did Gus leave?”
“He said he was leaving early this morning. He didn’t call or anything.”
“I see,” said Shell. “I hate that you don’t have someone close by to call on if you have trouble.”
“I have Sergeant Gonzalez’s card, and he put my number in his phone.”
“Yes, you should call him if you feel something’s wrong. But you could also call us. I’d come running with Dean! He’s big and strong.”
“Thanks, Shell.”
“Do you have any guess about who could have tried to kill you?”
“No. Who would do that? Who has an interest in my death?”
“I don’t know, but someone must. Someone killed your dad, and this happened right on the heels of his murder. That painting in your living room is worth a lot of money.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you learned anything about your dad? About who he was?”
“If you’re talking about his art career, yes. Rand Miller told me yesterday. I was so amazed! But I still don’t know why he was hiding his identity. Rand suggested he didn’t want my mother to find him. Maybe he thought she’d take all his money or something. I just don’t see what she could have done that would make him have such a great need to keep her from finding him. What in the world could she have done to him?”
“I don’t know,” Shell answered, “but there had to be something. Unless he was hiding from someone else.”
She paused and looked across the bar. The bartender was standing under the bull’s head, its shiny eyes watching her as the young man polished a beer glass behind the counter. Shell shivered.
“You ladies need anything over there? More tea? How about a mojito?” the man asked.
“No thanks,” Tavy answered.
Is he listening to us? Shell wondered, feeling vaguely sick. It was happening. The unbidden panic that had plagued her these past two months was rising in her chest.
Tavy lowered her voice and leaned across the table toward Shell. “Who?” she asked. “Who else could my father have been hiding from?”
“Maybe the person who poisoned him,” Shell answered, pressing her hand against the table to keep it from shaking. Why was this happening now? “I just don’t know enough to even guess.”
“Things are really odd here,” Tavy said quietly. “Rand and I met at my father’s studio this morning.”
“And?” Shell asked, Tavy’s face blurring in front of her.
“The passcodes have been changed. Someone—probably my father—changed the passcodes. We can’t get into his studio.”
“Do you think his stepson might have them?” Shell asked, trying to stay focused.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Rand.”
“I’ve been to the studio,” she whispered.
“Have you seen inside?”
“No. Your father gave me the address just before he died. I was able to get upstairs because someone was moving and the stairwell door was open. I went to see if there was some chance I could get some information about finding you.”
“Why me?” Tavy asked, leaning closer. “Why were you trying to find me?”
“Because, Tavy. Your father had given us the artwork, and I needed to return it to his family.”
“But how did you know he even had a daughter?”
“Because he told me he did,” Shell answered, her left hand rising to rub her temple.
Tavy looked at Shell and went quite still. “He did?”
“He asked me to tell you something.”
“When?” Tavy asked.
“At the hospital. That night. A nurse came and got me. I was in the waiting room in the ER.”
“What did he say?” Tavy was whispering now.
“He said, ‘Tell my daughter I’ve always loved her. Promise you’ll tell her.’ So I did. I mean, I promised.”
Tavy’s eyes filled with tears. After a few moments she got up. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
She walked past the bar area while Shell stared down the steps from the bar at the restaurant tables. She was waiting, knowing her friend had rushed to the ladies’ room, imagining her catching her breath, fighting back tears. She would have turned and followed her if she hadn’t been so dizzy, if her vision hadn’t been so blurry, if the lights from the windows in the restaurant below didn’t hurt her eyes. What had triggered this panic? Was it just talking about Edwin?
She turned her face toward the wall beside her and willed her eyes to focus on the huge, round leaves of a tall plant on the ledge by the table. She was in no condition to try to help anyone else. What was she thinking, trying to help Tavy? Dean was right. She was fragile. She hadn’t recovered.
As the room traveled around her, she had the feeling that someone brushed past her, but her dizziness was too great to turn and look. She waited two minutes for the feeling to pass before she stood to follow Tavy. As she stood, she noticed that the woman who had been seated near them in the dining room below was no longer at her table. Shell turned and hurried to the ladies’ room, almost at a run, bumping into the woman herself as she came out of the restroom.
“Excuse me,” the woman said,
her hand rising to the top of her head the way a lady might grab her hat in the wind.
That voice. I know that voice.
Shell looked as the woman tugged at the edge of what must be a wig and adjusted her tilted sunglasses.
“My fault,” Shell answered, hurrying on to the restroom. “Tavy!” she called as she opened the door.
“Yes?” She was standing at a sink, drying her eyes with a paper towel.
“Are you okay?” Shell asked.
“Yes. Just trying to pull myself together.”
“Did that woman who was in here bother you?”
“No. Why would she?”
“I—I don’t know. I had a sense of something being off.”
“I know the feeling,” said Tavy. “I’ll be okay. I just can’t figure my dad out. I just can’t.”
“But you will. I want you to come back to the gallery with me.”
“To see the portfolio?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 38
Monday, August 10, 9 a.m.—Gus
Gus was kicking himself as he headed south. How many times had he been invited to dinner by a beautiful woman? And she was Ed’s daughter.
Yes, the words had burned. He had been hearing them repeating in a perpetual loop since she spoke them.
It would have been awkward, wouldn’t it, to tell me about your criminal history right after I learned my father was poisoned?
But last night as he lay awake, he realized he’d been unfair to Tavy. How could he blame her for thinking he might be responsible for her father’s death when he himself had admitted to getting fingerprints all over the liquor bottles? How was she to know how to sort out the stories the cops, Rand Miller, and Vincent Bishop had told her about his arrest record? Three sources had condemned him, and she had only just met him. Even Florencia had unwittingly contributed to his condemnation.
Yet Tavy had sorted it out. She did seem to realize he hadn’t killed her father. Now it would be hard to repair the damage he’d done by refusing to let her apologize, maybe impossible. She had already started dinner, for God’s sake! He had refused her kindness, and she probably wasn’t even recovered from being attacked the night before. She was alone in a strange town with the horrible knowledge that her father had been murdered and someone wanted her dead.
