by Roslyn Woods
“How long had he lived here?” Shell asked.
“I don’t really know. A long time, I think,” she answered, looking back at Shell. “It seems so remote.”
“Did he live here with Colleen and Vincent?”
“No. I guess he moved here after the break-up. Gus said my father called himself a virtual hermit for years after his second divorce.”
“But he was painting.”
“Evidently!” Tavy answered.
“You’re right. It looks fairly bare in here,” Shell observed, noticing the empty walls, the shiny cement floors with only one area rug under the sitting room furniture. “It’s sort of elegant and minimalist—not unstylish in a Mid-Century Modern way. I see picture hangers around this room. It looks like some large pieces were taken down.”
“They’re probably among the paintings in the studio or the house in town.” Tavy suggested. “But where did he paint?”
They walked into the narrow kitchen, then through to an open dining room with a large picture window that faced the screen of trees down by the water’s edge.
“Ah!” Shell said when they entered the room.
Instead of a dining table was a well-used easel, beside it a simple wooden chair. Paint spatter marked the tarp that was spread under the easel and chair like a large area rug, and coffee cans filled with brushes and palette knives were perched on the small table that had been pushed against the wall near the window.
What surprised them most, however, were the many photographs on the walls of this room. They were all framed, mostly 8x10s or larger, and they were all pictures of Tavy—Tavy as a child, Tavy as a teen, Tavy in cap and gown, Tavy looking up at the camera. There was a picture of a man holding a baby in his arms, and Tavy knew immediately that it was her father holding her.
And on the easel, was a canvas and a finished portrait of Tavy in a sleeveless, turquoise top. She looked serious, not much younger than she was today, and the blurred image of a dragonfly was visible on her left bicep.
She sank onto the paint-spattered chair and stared.
“I think I’ll look around outside for a bit,” Shell told her.
Tavy knew she was giving her some time alone—time to take in what she was seeing for the first time—the irrefutable evidence that her father had never forgotten her. She needed to shed the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
“Okay,” she answered, and Shell went back through to the room by the entry. Tavy heard her opening the sliding glass door and shutting it again.
It was uncertain how much time had passed before she heard a sound. It didn’t startle her. She assumed it was Shell returned from her stroll outside the house.
“Shell?” she called without turning from the painting on the easel.
“No, not Shell,” said a man’s voice.
A hand covered her mouth and an arm went around her and the chair, anchoring her against it while she tried to break free.
“Just hold still and you won’t get hurt,” he said. “You understand? And stay quiet. I don’t want to hurt you.”
By now Tavy’s heart was racing and she was struggling to breathe.
“Just settle down! I mean it, Octavia! You get loud and I swear I’ll hit you with my fist. That’ll hurt. You don’t want that. Besides, you don’t want me to ruin that pretty little nose.”
Tavy quit moving and sat still, though her eyes were wildly searching for something, anything, she could use as a weapon.
“That’s better,” he said, loosening his grip on her mouth.
She gasped for air and it was several seconds before she was able to speak.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Vincent?” she asked.
He laughed and stood up. “You’re a little spitfire!” he said. He was standing in front of her now. “You’re really very sexy. You know that, don’t you?”
“You make me sick!” she said, standing up herself.
That was when Vincent slapped her and knocked her against the chair and onto the floor.
“You see,” he said. “I said I didn’t want to hurt you, and now you’ve made me angry.”
Blood seemed to be pouring from above Tavy’s brow where her head had hit the edge of the chair, but the slap stung more than the cut at that moment.
“Why? Why are you doing this?” she choked, her shoulder hurting from the rough landing against the hard floor.
“Because you’re robbing me of everything,” he said. “And because I’ve hated you all my life!” he added.
“You won’t get away with this, Vincent,” she said huskily, trying to see through the stream in her eye. “I’m not alone, and people know I’m here!”
“Oh, I know about your pretty little friend. I was here when you arrived. So, you don’t need to worry. I’ll take care of her. By the time people start looking for you, you’ll both be at the bottom of the lake, and I’ll be in Mexico with some very valuable artwork.”
Tavy’s hands were above her head as she lay face down on the paint tarp on the cement floor. Somehow she lifted herself enough to grab a leg of the chair in each hand and heave it at Vincent. It hit him in the knees, but it didn’t knock him down.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s it!”
She didn’t know what he hit her with, but she felt a sharp pain at the back of her head and everything went dark.
Chapter 63
Saturday, August 15, 11:30 a.m.—Gus
The Schutzhund club was known for switching out training locations, and today was no exception. They liked to work with the dogs on large grassy areas, and some of the members had nice places for their practice. After a morning of instruction and workouts, most of the members sat down to a lunch prepared by the hosts. It was all very friendly, and it was at one of these lunches that Gus had become acquainted with Dean Maxwell.
Today Dean wasn’t here, but there was another reason the workouts weren’t enjoyable. Gus was feeling awful about the way Tavy had spoken to him when he had gone by to get the dogs. He had suffered all yesterday after he had nearly kissed her and Rhoda had interrupted. Tavy had seemed angry, and he wasn’t sure if it was about what he had almost done or if it was about Rhoda. Why she had walked away in such a hurry was a mystery to him, and if Shell hadn’t been spending the night with her, he’d have been over there to clear it up last night.
He would have talked to her about it this morning, too, but her friend was still there. He told himself to be patient. Wait till tonight when she was alone. He knew he was going to have to face up to whatever the truth was. It was too late for him to do anything else.
Sadie returned after an attack drill with today’s instructor, and Blue’s turn was up. They were given fass commands and they pounced on an assistant who was dressed in protective padding, biting into the foam clothing until the cut command was given. Both Sadie and Blue were managing the commands with obedience and talent, but Gus’s mind was elsewhere.
“Your turn Blue. Go!” he said, and she darted forward to the waiting instructor.
Sadie stood at Gus’s side whining.
“What is it, girl?” he asked, looking down at her. She barked and appeared to want to return to the Sequoia. “You wanna leave already?”
The dog barked again, seeming to urge him that it was time to go.
A thought returned to him—a thought that had been gnawing at him since Thursday night. What if Armen Hanoian wasn’t the one who had tried to kill Tavy? What if someone else wanted her dead?
Blue returned to his side and the other club members were clapping. She had done well.
“Come on, girls. Let’s go!” he said. Then turning to Sam Peterson, another member who was standing nearby, he said, “Would you give everyone my apologies? I’ve been called away and won’t be able to stay for lunch.”
“Sure. I hope everything’s okay,” Sam said.
“I hope so,” Gus replied, picking up his backpack and hurrying to the car without leashing up the dogs.
; They were in the Toyota in no time, pulling out onto Lime Creek Road and heading in the direction of Booth Circle. His phone dinged to signal him that he had received a text, but he was moving too fast to stop and look at it. Finally, he came to a stop light and cross traffic. He glanced at the phone. The message was from an unfamiliar number.
Something is wrong here. Please help!
Gus pulled over to the shoulder and went around the cars in front of him, running the light and swerving around opposing traffic. Cars honked, but his mind was on one thing: getting to Tavy and Shell as fast as he could.
He pressed the call button on his steering wheel.
“Siri! Dial nine-one-one!”
Sadie barked and Blue whined anxiously. They had to hurry.
Aside from the Corolla parked on the drive, the place looked just as he remembered it—neglected from the outside. He had known that Ed had allowed it to get that way deliberately. He was less likely to be robbed if the place looked run down.
There was no sign of life or movement.
Gus opened the door to let the dogs out, shoved his phone in his pocket and ran for the front door.
It was unlocked.
“Tavy?” he called. “Tavy? Are you here?”
The sliding glass door that looked out on the back of the property was slightly ajar, but the dogs were running around the house as if someone were still inside.
Gus hurried through the rooms, turning left toward the bedrooms which appeared empty and hurrying back toward the kitchen and dining room to the sound of Blue and Sadie barking. They had found something.
Getting there seemed to take forever, like he was running through molasses. “Tavy!” he called.
She lay face down on the floor, a broken chair next to her, a brilliant red circle soaking weirdly into the tarp beneath her head.
“Tavy!” he cried, dropping to his knees beside her, his heart in his throat. “Tavy!”
He turned her over gently. Her face was covered in blood. He felt her throat for a pulse, but she moaned before he had found it and her eyes opened.
“Gus,” she whispered. “You have to help Shell.”
“I have to take care of you!”
“No,” she said weakly. “I think it’s just a little blood. I’ll be okay. Help Shell. He’ll kill her.”
“The police are on the way,” he said. “And an ambulance.”
“Go, Blue,” Gus commanded. Then looking up, he saw that Sadie had already gone ahead.
“Hurry, Gus!” Tavy said.
Chapter 64
Saturday, August 15, 11:20 a.m.—Shell
As she went out the sliding door, Shell noticed that Tavy must have unlocked it. She walked around the house, checked out the condition of the patio, found an ancient barbecue pit, and located a dry fish pond a little distance from the house. Edwin had found himself a rather beautiful place to live all those years ago. It sounded to Shell as if he had only wanted to escape another bad marriage and find a place to paint.
It was an interesting property. Completely obscured from any neighbors by trees, the house was also mostly hidden from the lake by a barrier of more cedars. She decided to walk down to the water.
There was a rough path surrounded by grasses and a few wildflowers, but she was able to get to the barrier of trees and go through them to the water in a short time. There, tied to the floating dock, Shell was astonished to see a motorboat.
In the distance she could see that each residence along the water appeared to have its own private dock. She didn’t know much about boats. This one looked like a ski boat, less than twenty feet long, with Dyna-Ski was printed along the side. The interior looked new, and she could see that keys were in the ignition. Behind the seats, a piece of canvas tarp covering something was visible. She stepped a little closer and realized the something was the corner of a large picture frame.
The realization that someone was in the house came over her suddenly. She pulled her phone from her pocket and frantically searched in her contacts for Gus’s number. There it was.
Oh please! Please let this number be correct! And please hurry, Gus!
She texted as quickly as she could.
Something is wrong here. Please help!
She pressed send and typed 9-1-1 into the phone, but it was too late.
“Hey, Michelle!” a man’s voice called, and she looked up to see Vincent Bishop approaching from around the bank of cedars.
She froze for a moment. Of course, he was stealing paintings from Edwin’s house, but what had he done to Tavy?
“Hello,” Shell said cautiously. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“No, I guess not,” he answered, stopping a few feet short of the dock. “I’m surprised to see you here, too. How do you like my boat?”
“It’s nice. I was just wondering who left it here.”
“It was me. Sometimes I come over here and spend a few hours at Dad’s place. Nice and secluded. Right?”
“Where’s Tavy?”
“Octavia was in the house admiring her own portrait. Really, don’t you hate it when a woman is vain? Or maybe I shouldn’t say that to you. You’re probably just as bad,” he said with a laugh.
Shell felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean was? What have you done, Vincent?”
“Oh, it’s Vincent now, is it? No more ‘Mr. Bishop’? And suddenly you have an interest in one of my boats!”
“What have you done?” she asked, again, swallowing.
“Well, let’s see. I’ve tried my hardest and it hasn’t been good enough.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about never getting what I want. Not from Dad, not from Octavia, and not from you.”
“Tell me!” she said, stepping off the dock and onto the path, her anger rising.
“Well, if you must know, I’ve poisoned my stepfather, Michelle, and I tried to put my stepsister to sleep, but she just wouldn’t die. I’m afraid I’ve been a little messy today. It wasn’t my fault, you understand. She’s so smug, isn’t she? She just can’t keep her mouth shut. I’m afraid she’s a lot like you. And just between us,” he said in a loud whisper, “I actually hate her.”
“You’re the devil,” Shell said, brushing past him in a rush to get to Tavy.
But he wasn’t going to allow that.
“And you’re a little bitch!” he said.
She felt a sudden jerk and the phone she still held in her hand flew. His left arm was around her, his hand covering her mouth and nose while his right arm came around her waist and jerked her off balance. Her weight fell into him, but she went into automatic mode. She must have practiced this move a hundred times by now. With a twist of her upper body she turned, throwing her right elbow into the jaw of her attacker. Once, twice. They were solid hits. She could hear the watery, cracking sound of the second blow. Vincent staggered, his grip loosening as her feet found the ground again. She turned around in time to see the rage in his eyes before his arms went around her again, but now she was in perfect position to thrust her right knee into his groin. This time, he went down, releasing a howl of pain.
And then, out of nowhere, Sadie came sailing through the cedars like a winged wolf. She was on Vincent in a flash, tearing into the arm he’d lifted to cover his face and neck.
“Help!” he cried. “It’ll kill me!”
Shell watched for a few moments before she stopped her. “Cut!” she said. “Guard, Sadie!”
The dog released Vincent’s bloody arm and crouched beside him, the fur on her neck bristling and her teeth bared. Gus was running in their direction, Blue just in front of him.
“Cut, Blue! Guard!” he said. “You okay?” he asked Shell.
“I’m fine—”
“Tavy needs you. She’s hurt!”
“Come help me with her,” she answered. “The dogs won’t let him go anywhere.”
Chapter 65
Saturday, August 15, 4 p.m.—Shell
/> Gonzalez was in the hospital waiting room when Shell returned after taking the dogs to her house. She could see him through the glass doors as she approached the building, and she had a curious feeling of affinity with him. She had decided, after her kidnapping, that Gilbert Gonzalez was a good man.
“Hello, Miss Hodge,” the sergeant said when she walked into the waiting room.
“Hello, Sergeant Gonzalez. I suppose you’re here to see Tavy?” she asked.
“I’ve already seen her. I was actually waiting to see you.”
“Oh. Okay. She was awake?”
“For a little while. I think she’s sleeping now,” he answered.
“Remember when concussion victims were supposed to stay awake?”
“Not anymore,” Gonzalez replied. “They say rest helps them heal.”
“I was surprised they let Dean sleep after his.”
“Yes, times have changed,” said the sergeant. “Anyway, she looks pretty good. A few stitches above her brow and a bump on the back of her head will heal quickly enough. I need to talk to you. There’s another waiting room through the hall here. It’s empty. I’ve already asked the receptionist if we can use it.”
“Lead the way,” said Shell, and Gonzalez turned and walked through open double doors to a corridor which led to a smaller waiting room. They seated themselves in cobalt blue chairs on opposite sides of a bare coffee table. The overhead fluorescent lights were humming slightly.
“This is almost as nice as our interview room downtown,” Gonzalez observed.
“But it’s not so easy to record the answers of your interviewees,” Shell replied with a slight smile.
“I might want you to come down and make an official statement on Monday. I’ll need a statement from your friend Octavia Bishop as well.”
“Okay. What do you need to know?”
“I need to know what Vincent Bishop said to you this morning.”
