by Roslyn Woods
“Did you get together? Socially, I mean?”
“Not much. There were parties, of course, and I saw him around, went to some of his shows. I was envious, but everyone was. All the artists around here envied him. But, I had to admit he was a great talent. His gift was undeniable.”
“Did you ever see him with his family? Or friends?”
“I remember his wife was quite blond. Blonder than you, but I imagine it wasn’t natural in her case. I didn’t know her well at all, but we met a few times. She was a good-looking woman, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten her name.”
“Colleen?”
“Yes, that sounds right,” he answered.
“And friends?”
“There was someone who was around a lot. Someone who said he’d studied with him. He was in the gallery, too.”
“You remember his name?”
“Arvin, I think—or—something like that.”
“Armen?”
“Yes, that’s the name.”
“And a last name?”
“I’m sorry. I think it was just too long ago, but it seems like it was an Armenian name, now that you’ve jogged my memory. He worked in stained glass, as I remember, and he was quite good. The only glass artist in our little gallery.”
“They were close? Edwin and Armen?”
“I think so. But I remember having the feeling there was some jealousy there.”
“Oh?”
“I was envious of Edwin myself, so I can’t be too judgmental, but I would have called Armen ‘jealous.’”
“Envy and jealousy aren’t the same thing?”
“I suppose it’s a matter of degree.”
“Yes, I think I see. How did it show itself?”
“Well, it was a long time ago, you understand. I just recall a bad feeling about the friendship. Like something was wrong with the guy.”
“And are there records somewhere of who was in that art gallery?”
“I’m afraid the building burned down in the late nineties. I doubt that records were kept anywhere else. The place had started before computers were so prevalent, and it changed hands anyway. A lot of paintings were lost in the fire, too. Of course, I was long gone from the gallery by then—was only with them five or six years. I still paint, but I only show privately or in individual shows here and there, and the other painters from back then, well—the ones who are living and still paint—they’ve moved on, too.”
“Armen wasn’t still showing there?”
“No, no. It had changed hands, and the new owners were seeking young artists, new on the scene.”
“Mmm. Did you ever meet Edwin’s stepson?”
“No. I didn’t know there was a stepson.”
“Other friends?”
“No. But there was a dealer who came around. I think that was before Edwin became so successful and hit the galleries in New York.”
“Do you know the dealer’s name?”
“Harris Melburn.”
“You remember that name.”
“Yes, well he’s still in the business, so I’ve heard it often enough.”
“I recognize the name, too, though I’m not sure why.”
“He’s in Dallas—has one of the many little galleries there, and quite a substantial personal collection. Plus he’s a dealer, but that’s handled privately, I believe.”
“That’s gotta be it, then. I used to work in a Dallas gallery and must have heard his name.”
“If I’m not mistaken, he handled some of Edwin Baird’s work back in the eighties.”
“Maybe he would know something about him, then.”
“Yes. I’m afraid I never had any more contact with Edwin myself. I did see him once, though.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. It was a very long time ago, though. Maybe ninety-five. Up at Lake Travis in the little town of Volente. He was walking alone, and I waved and spoke to him. He said hello, said he was living abroad. I just assumed that was the truth.”
“I think he lived here, but his daughter told me this morning that his parents lived in Cornwall. Maybe he spent part of his time there.”
“Yes. That would be natural, wouldn’t it?” Christopher Ellis asked. He looked into his glass again before he spoke. “It makes me a little sad, you know, hearing he’s gone. I’ve envied him all these years, and now, hearing he’s passed has hit me almost as if he were an old, dear friend.”
“He gave you the painting,” Shell suggested.
“Yes. Yes, I think he meant to be kind. He had everything, you see. Looks, talent, glamorous wife—”
“You had a beautiful wife.”
“Yes.”
It suddenly dawned on Shell that Christopher Ellis’s wife had been attracted to Edwin Baird. It felt strange, imagining these men as young people among other young people, with all the passions of youth. What was there to say about it?
“Nothing happened, you understand,” Dr. Ellis went on, realizing that Shell had made the connection between his wife and Edwin Baird. “I just felt it, you see. He was innocent.”
“Maybe she was, too.”
“Yes, maybe.”
Chapter 40
Monday, August 10, 4 p.m.—Tavy
Blue barked and stayed by the door that led into the garage when Tavy returned from her lunch with Shell, turning back to look in her direction.
“Oh, let’s go, Blue,” Tavy said. “I know I shouldn’t have left you for so long!”
In a couple of minutes, the leash was attached to Blue’s collar, and the dog was wagging her tail eagerly as the two went out into the garage and Tavy locked the door behind them. “I know, I know. You like to run with Gus. But I can’t go that fast. I’ll take you to a park, how’s that?”
The dog barked and jumped in the passenger seat as soon as the door was opened.
“It won’t take long, Blue,” she said. “Shell told me just how to get where we’re headed.”
Zilker Park was easy to find and only a ten minute drive from the house. Parking along the curb beside an enormous green lawn dotted with oak trees, Tavy noticed a few dogs running loose and playing frisbee with some young men who looked to be college age.
There was a doggie bag dispenser near the curb, and Tavy grabbed one before walking a ways, taking in the park, and feeling thankful that there was some shade. She even released Blue from the leash for a while and let her run loose, but it was hot, and Tavy called her back after a short time and headed back to where the car was parked.
As she approached, she noticed a large, gray Cadillac pulling from the curb behind her car and moving away. Wasn’t that the car she had seen near the house two days ago? Was it possible it was just a popular model in this area, or was someone following her?
She hurriedly got Blue into the car and unleashed her, trying to keep her eyes on the car as it parked further up the road. Maybe she should just sit here in the CRV and follow the Cadillac when it moved again, but wouldn’t that make it clear she had spotted whoever it was? No, she would drive by the parked vehicle now. She would see who was there as she passed. She must take matters into her own hands. Someone had tried to kill her, someone seemed to be following her, and she was on her own.
“Except for you, Blue,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. “Except for you, I’m completely alone.”
The dog barked her agreement, seeming to understand everything Tavy said, seeming to know she had a job to do and that it was important.
Tavy started up the car and turned on the air, waiting for a couple of minutes while the gray Cadillac sat, its driver’s head visible only as a dark shape in the distance.
“Should I drive up and park behind them?” she asked the dog. “No, that would be too obvious. I’ll just drive by and see who’s in the car, then see if they follow us!”
Blue barked again, sitting up at attention in the passenger seat and keeping her eyes on the gray Caddy as if she knew exactly what was going on. Tavy pulled out from her spot
on the curb and headed in the direction of the parked car. Passing by, she could see a man, the level of his head making him appear to be medium height or shorter, his hair snow-white. Yes, she thought she had seen him before. She drove on past and exited the area, hoping she would be able to see if he was following. What on earth did he want?
All along the trip back to the house, she kept glancing at the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of the gray car. She pulled into her garage slowly, keeping the door open long enough to notice if anything gray followed and passed the house, but nothing appeared.
“Maybe I’m a total paranoid,” she told Blue as they got out of the CRV and went into the house. She stood at the ice and water dispenser at the fridge door, her mind drifting to Madison.
You want crushed or rocks? the girl had asked.
Had she come home from camp? Tavy hadn’t even had a chance to ask Gus before her accusation had ruined things between them.
“Let’s go sit in the living-room,” she said to the dog, who trotted along beside her, but just then she noticed her phone was flashing. You have two messages.
“Oh, just a minute, Blue. I’ve gotta check these.”
Blue sat down and whined as Tavy pressed the button to listen. The sound of Gus’s voice made the dog stand back up and wag her tail. His words, worried and a little awkward, made Tavy wonder. He had said he owed it to Ed to help her. Had he also decided he owed it to her father to play nice and act as if she was forgiven? She hoped he would be civil, sincere or not, but she would never repeat her offer to make his dinner. She hadn’t been at the mercy of a man’s regard in twelve years, and she had temporarily slipped up.
I have things to do, she told herself, wondering if he would actually call in the evening.
She opened the drawer where she’d found paper before. She would make a list of the things she needed to accomplish, the things she needed to research. There was the yellow notepad where she had written Shell’s number. She picked it up and noticed the smallish, leather phone book that was beneath it.
I need to go through this, she thought, taking it with her into the living room and sitting on the couch while Blue curled up at her feet. She opened it and began to skim the pages.
It wasn’t very organized. Her father only roughly alphabetized some of the names. Others were added out of order entirely.
Yes, she decided, he was an artist. And it was his book, after all—a book for himself alone. She flipped back to the beginning, deciding to look at the names carefully, and started with the letter A.
Art dealer: Harris Melburn, Art supplies: Jerry’s Artarama, AAA Insurance…
Continuing to turn the pages, she decided it just looked like a standard book with numbers and addresses of random, typical contacts anyone might have in their kitchen drawer. Roof repair. Plumber. Florencia Capello. Angus Kerr. Madison’s cell. Gus’s ex, Rhoda. Colleen. Vincent. Rand Miller. Cecelia and Armen. Emilio.
Emilio? Emilio? She read the number, her heart thudding against her ribs. No, it couldn’t be, but there it was. She hadn’t forgotten it. Tio’s cell was here, and beside it, the landline at the house where she grew up.
Tio had been in contact with her father. How could he? How could he have kept this from her? Tio, who had been so devoted to her all her life! Tio, who had read her bedtime stories, carried her on his shoulders, picked her up from school, attended every function from piano recitals to school dances! She had adored him as much as she did Mia! She felt sick.
And then a small piece of yellow paper dropped out from between the leaves of the book. She picked it up and read the words printed there.
The best day of all and a favorite thing. 15 characters.
Tavy stared at the small piece of paper. It didn’t look worn, but who knew how long it had been in this little book? What was it about?
She read the words again before setting it on the end table beside her. What other secrets did this book hold? She looked through the pages of the leather volume some more, turning at last to the end page. Here was something.
Food is Free, it read. Gus picks on Saturday and Thursday. I pick Monday and Friday. Put out before six next a.m.
Tavy looked at Blue. “It’s Monday night. Looks like we have a little work to do after dinner,” she said quietly.
Blue helped in the garden by keeping her company while a mockingbird sang on the grape trellis. Tavy picked tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, green beans, and peppers. Later, she gathered grapes and twenty-three ears of corn, all the while trying to process the idea that Tio had been in contact with her father.
“Let’s go in, Blue,” she said, feeling overheated.
It took several trips. Everything was neatly arranged in the five crates she had found in the garage, and she carried them into the living room to await being placed in front of the house early in the morning.
“I’m exhausted,” she told the dog, noting that it was only seven. “I have to take a shower before bed. You hold down the fort, okay?”
Blue barked her assent, and Tavy stroked her soft head before making sure all the doors were locked, a practice that her recent experience made imperative.
An hour later she towel-dried her caramel-colored locks and had just donned pajamas when Blue started barking. A loud knocking on the front door ensued, and Tavy hurried to look through the peephole with mounting apprehension.
In another moment she surprised the barking dog by throwing the door open.
“Madison?” she asked. “Is that you? What in the world is wrong?”
Chapter 41
Monday, Aug. 10, 5 p.m.—Sgt. Gonzalez
Gilbert Gonzalez took another sip of his cold coffee and stared at his computer screen. The report on the fingerprints in Edwin Bishop’s house didn’t tell him quite enough to come to a conclusion about anything.
Detective Wilson was tapping on the glass window of the door that separated the office from the murder room. Gonzalez signaled for him to come in.
“I think we should talk to Gus Kerr,” Wilson said.
“Not tonight. It’s already late, and the twins have back-to-school night.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why?” the sergeant asked, swiveling around in his desk chair to face the younger officer.
“Because I don’t believe Edwin Bishop’s daughter is telling the truth. She’s protecting that guy.”
“Kerr?” Gonzalez asked.
“Right. She said she thought she left the back door unlocked, but that doesn’t make any sense at all. A woman who’s new to Austin—or any town—isn’t likely to leave her door unlocked.”
“Maybe she was hoping Kerr would come over,” Gonzalez suggested. “I think there could be something going on there.”
“They’d just met,” Wilson argued.
“So you think Kerr had a key.”
“Yep. A key he got from the old guy. That’s how he got in. And if that’s how he got in, maybe he’s the one who turned on the gas. It also means he had constant access to the old man’s liquor cabinet.”
“You’re convinced the woman didn’t try to do away with herself?” the sergeant asked.
“Yeah.”
“You think Kerr put the arsenic in the gin?”
“Of course,” Wilson responded.
“And what about the ex-wife? Colleen Bishop?”
“What about her?”
“Her fingerprints were on the bottles,” the sergeant pointed out.
“But not on the gin bottle,” Wilson answered. “The gin bottle only had Gus Kerr’s prints.”
“Doesn’t that seem a little weird?”
“Why would it?”
“Because,” the sergeant said patiently, “even Ed Bishop’s fingerprints were absent from that gin bottle. I could see it if there were two people’s prints, his and Kerr’s, but only Kerr’s? It doesn’t make sense. What does that tell you?”
“I don’t know,” Wilson said.
“Someone polished the prints off
the gin bottle—and only the gin bottle—fairly recently,” Gonzalez said, tapping his pencil on the arm of the desk chair. “Otherwise there’d be multiple prints on the glass, just like on the other bottles. Kerr touched the bottle after it was polished, that’s all.”
“When would they have done that?” Wilson asked. “The doctor said the old man had been ingesting the poison for eight or nine weeks. That means someone came in and polished the bottle fairly recently.”
“They could have done it quite a while ago. They just had to do it after adding the arsenic,” the sergeant said.
“Well if it was Kerr,” said Wilson, “and if he has a key to the house, why not just remove the bottle after the old man died?”
“Exactly!” Gonzalez answered. “He’s right there with easy access from the back door. No one would have seen him go in or out, and he could have done it in the night. He could have retrieved that bottle and we’d never have been the wiser. We’d never have known the source of the arsenic. His prints on the bottles, or anywhere in the house, would mean nothing to us. So why didn’t he do it?”
“If it was someone else, they could have removed it, too, and they didn’t.”
“Which tells us,” said the sergeant, “maybe they didn’t learn he was dead soon enough to get to the liquor cabinet before people were in the house and paying attention.”
“What about Miller?” the younger man asked. “His prints were everywhere in that house.”
“But not on the liquor bottles.”
“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have polished them off the gin bottle weeks ago,” said Wilson.
“True,” the sergeant admitted.
“The old man died on Monday night. Octavia Bishop didn’t get to Austin till Thursday. That’s Tuesday and Wednesday clear.”
“Yes, but Rand Miller sent the cleaning lady over on Tuesday. Maybe it was awkward—difficult for whoever it was. Maybe something was going on in the neighborhood, made it hard for them to go in and out of Bishop’s house without being seen on Wednesday.”
