by Roslyn Woods
“Sounds like this could really happen! I haven’t been back to California in five years! It’ll be so fun!” she said, feeling considerable excitement over the idea. “I’ll ask Billie if he can make it work on the schedule as soon as our meeting is over this morning.”
“How soon do you have to get to the gallery?” Dean asked.
“Not till ten, but I need to change before I go,” she said, glancing down at the T-shirt and jeans she had put on after her shower. She always liked to do her yoga exercises and put in a few minutes with Sadie and Bitsy before dressing for work at the gallery. She worried that the dogs weren’t getting enough playtime now that she was working so much, and they were very important to her. “The meeting isn’t till eleven, but Garrett wants to talk to us about the paintings before Estelle and Enrique Mendoza get there.”
“You know what it’s about?”
“Oh, yeah,” she answered with a little frown. “He’s uncomfortable with the number of paintings Estelle has been stashing. He thinks it’s odd she sold three back in late February and she’s suddenly surfacing three more for sale.”
Estelle Travis, the daughter of the famous western painter, Wes Travis, was using the gallery to present and sell some of her father’s unknown works, and the commission for the gallery was considerable. The thing was, the gallery really needed the income from the sales, and it was hard to insist on making an issue of their authenticity.
“Well,” said Dean, putting down his coffee mug, “there’s no reason why a family member couldn’t be sentimental and want to keep some unknown pieces as part of a family collection. Then if they’ve got money problems and decide it’s time to sell a few—”
“That’s what I told Garrett, but he says he’s got ‘an icky feeling’ when he looks at these new paintings.”
“Does he hold much store in an ‘icky feeling’?”
“Actually, Leonardo thinks Garrett is pretty psychic. He thinks it’s one of the reasons for his success as an art dealer.”
“It’s hard to argue with success. How long ago did Wes Travis die, anyway? Wasn’t it about nineteen seventy-five?”
“Seventy-six,” Shell answered, picking up a spoonful of sliced strawberries and dropping them into a small bowl of yogurt. “Garrett says he thinks that Travis’s work was pretty well documented at the time. He says he can’t find any references to there being any unknown pieces then.”
“What do you think?” Dean asked.
“I don’t know what to think. It’s possible she had a whole collection that she was keeping secret. I have to admit, there’s something about these paintings, even the ones we sold in February, that bothers me.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, it doesn’t make any sense, but I’m with Garrett on this. I just don’t feel right about them. Anyway, he took one of the paintings home last night and was planning to examine it. I think we should have hired an independent authenticator before now, at least for this sale, because Garrett’s the only one of us that has much experience with this, and he says he’s not a real expert.”
Shell was remembering how she had become friends with Billie the previous year while she was working at The Southwest Gallery in Dallas. She had really liked him, and when Billie and his new boyfriend, Leonardo, had moved to Austin in January, their plan to open a gallery on 5th Street and Lavaca with Shell as a partner had been a very attractive one. Everything had happened so quickly that she could hardly remember the order of things. She had become a partner, investing all but the last ten thousand her parents had left to her. The gallery had been costly to get going, and the landlord was obnoxious, but the location was perfect. Still, money issues had made things pretty uncomfortable at first, and after two weeks in, the artists decided they needed to recruit another partner. He was a friend of Leonardo’s, an artist and art dealer from Dallas, Garrett Hall. At first, Billie had been a little dismissive of him and called him “money bags” and “the silver fox” when he wasn’t within hearing distance, but Garrett had grown on all of them. He was friendly and unpretentious. He offered great ideas, and he was generous.
“I thought he was an expert,” Dean said, a frown forming between his brows.
“Well, I think he’s amazingly well-versed in the area and people actually call him in to consult, but he’s not one of those guys with an X-ray machine and a chemistry set. He says a lot of it is intuitive. I know that sounds weird, but I kinda see what he means. I mean, you look at something and you just get a feeling. Anyway, I think he has a black light, but he mostly examines works based on what he calls ‘the obvious things.’ You know, the apparent age of the canvas, the color of the stretcher bars and joints, cracks in the surface of the painting, that kind of stuff. He’s taken me on as his apprentice!”
“And the works look genuine based on all that?” Dean asked.
“They do, but he’s looking at more subtle things now. The angle and direction of the brushstrokes is bothering him.”
“It makes sense to look at those things.”
“I agree it makes sense, though I’m not sure how consistent any one artist is about those things, and these paintings are good. Really good. They look just like Wes Travis’s other paintings.”
“You’re doubtful.”
“Yeah. I don’t like Estelle Travis. That might have something to do with my reaction to the paintings, but, objectively, they’re just quite good—the work of a real talent, no mistake. The ones we sold in February bothered me a little bit, too. Leonardo had already decided to sell them when Garrett joined us, so he didn’t stop him, but I don’t think he approved wholeheartedly.”
“I’ve got a book about authenticating art somewhere in the shelves next-door,” Dean said. “I’ll take a look at it. Or you can, if you’d like me to get it for you.”
Dean had lived next-door when Shell had moved into his rental house. Now that they were together, the house adjacent to hers had become little more than Dean’s office space and library.
“Thanks. I’m pretty busy today, but maybe tonight. I’ve got so much going on right now. Margie’s car is in the shop, so I’ve got to pick her up before we go over to the gallery, and this afternoon she’s got an appointment with her doctor.”
Margie, Shell’s best friend from college, was Dean’s younger sister. It was Margie who had introduced them seven months earlier, and it was Margie who kept Shell from feeling she had no family. She was the sister Shell had never had, and after the gallery had opened in mid-February, Margie had helped out by working at the desk as a guest service agent and sometimes docent. “It’s the perfect job for me in my condition,” she had said enthusiastically. “My bookkeeping for Donald’s practice isn’t taking but about an hour a day, so I’ve got the time. When the baby arrives, though, you’re going to have to find somebody else.”
Shell had been more than grateful. It was a huge help that Margie could look after customers while the other partners managed different arrangements in the gallery. Initially, they had only opened the front section of the 4,000 square foot space. Slowly, as the partners got the rest of the building repaired, painted, and ready for the public, Margie had managed customers and even sold paintings.
“I’ll look at that book,” Dean offered, “but I’ve got a busy day, too. That client I cancelled two weeks ago, Melinda Gardner, is in a rush to get some good photos and show me what she wants on her website. I’ve gotta get over there just about when you’re supposed to be at the gallery.”
Dean had started a business as a web designer three years earlier, and his business had done well enough that he had resigned from his job at Dell and worked exclusively from home. One of the problems with the job was the fact that he had taken on a few tasks he hadn’t planned on. Today he was a photographer as well as a writer and designer for the new site.
“I’d like to look at the book and talk with you about it tonight. It’ll be interesting to hear what Garrett has to say this morning!” Shell answered.
They finished their breakfast, and just as she was about to carry her dishes from the table, her cell phone rang.
“It’s Leonardo,” she said to Dean, looking at the screen. “I wonder what’s up.” Then, tapping the phone first, she answered, “Hi, Leo. I’m just getting ready to go pick up Margie…Oh. Sure. I can run over there and check, but do you really think there’s a problem?”
Dean looked up at Shell and saw the look of concern on her face.
“Are you sure he said he’d be there by eight thirty?” she asked. “Hmm…And he’s not answering his phone…Well, it can’t hurt to run over there and check. He’s about a minute and a half from here. I’ll call you in a few minutes,” she added, hanging up.
“What’s going on?” Dean asked.
“Garrett told Leo he’d be at the gallery by now, and Leo’s freaking out. He’s got one of the Travis paintings at his house. I imagine it’s no big deal. I’ll just run over and check on him. Then I’ll come back and change.” Shell smiled at Dean, “Why do I feel like I’m going to be late today?”
“Do you want we to come with?” he asked.
“Nah. I’ve got it,” she answered, as Dean followed her into the kitchen. She grabbed her handbag and headed for the front door.
“What? No kiss?” Dean asked.
Shell laughed. “I’ll be back in two shakes!” she said, but she took the four steps back to him and gave him a light kiss. “I’m excited about our trip!” she said.
Shell pulled her Corolla up to the curb in front of Garrett’s house on Avenue H. She had only been there once for a celebratory party the night the gallery opened, but Garrett had only been living there for about nine weeks now, and another opportunity for a visit hadn’t offered itself. Looking at it now, she admired the beauty of the house. Like many of the homes in the neighborhood, it was a Craftsman bungalow. This one was painted a cheery, butter yellow with an olive-colored trim, and it was a larger version of the house she and Dean lived in right now. She loved the way Garrett had arranged walnut-stained, wicker furniture with fluffy, yellow and purple printed pillows on the front porch under the picture window.
Shell noticed Garrett’s white BMW parked in the carport as she ran up the steps. As she rang the bell she could hear Garrett’s little dog barking at the door as she stood and waited. A minute passed while the dog continued to bark. She was just beginning to notice a vague odor. Was it smoke?
She rang the bell again, this time pushing it a few times and calling, “Garrett! Garrett! Are you home?” Nothing. Just the yapping of the little dog. She went over to the window to see if she could look in, but the shutters inside were closed. She rang the bell again before pulling out her cell phone and tapping it a few times.
“Dean…answer…Oh, Dean, please answer…Dean! I think something’s wrong over here. Can you come over?”
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
Shell hurried down the steps and ran around the house to the side gate. It was slightly ajar, and she pulled it open and went into the shady backyard. Garrett’s patio overlooked a small fishpond with a rock fountain. A wrought iron table and chairs were arranged on the patio floor, and a four-foot statue of St. Francis stood in the flowerbed beside the back steps.
“Garrett? Garrett!” Shell called. She climbed the porch steps and tried the back door, but it was locked. The kitchen windows had sheer, gathered curtains over them. She couldn’t make anything out inside, but the smoky odor was stronger here than it had been on the front porch. She was looking for a rock to try breaking a window when she heard Dean calling.
“Shell! Shell, where are you? Shell!” She took the steps two at a time and hurried back to the front of the house.
“What’s going on?” Dean asked when he saw her.
“I smell something—smoke or chemicals or something. And he’s not answering the door, but his car’s here. We have to get in there, Dean!”
“Okay,” he said, coming down the front steps.
“What are you doing?”
“The back door will be easier,” he said, running ahead of her. She was only a few steps behind when she saw him lift an iron chair from the patio and slam it into the glass window of the door. The glass shattered but appeared to fall mostly inside the kitchen. Dean dropped the chair, and she could see him reaching in through the broken window to turn the deadbolt.
“I’ll go. You should probably stay here,” he said as he went into the house.
“No. I’m coming with you,” she answered, but Dean was already inside.
The kitchen was only a little bit smoky, but the odor was stronger inside.
Dean had grabbed a hand towel and was turning a burner knob on the gas cooktop.
“Don’t touch this!” he said. “It’ll stay hot for a long time.” Shell could see that the kettle’s plastic handle had melted down into the burner, and the metal had become an oddly-shaped thing that was glowing from heat.
Just then, she felt the little dog brush past her as it headed into the backyard.
“Garrett? Garrett!” Shell was calling as she hurried through the living room to the front door. She opened it to create a cross draft and turned to look back at Dean who had preceded her into the living room. He was crouched on the floor by the drafting table. He looked up at her, shaking his head. “Call nine-one-one. There’s no pulse. Better tell them it doesn’t look like natural causes.”
Seeing the expression on Dean’s face, Shell allowed her eyes to look past him into the corner just beyond the drafting table. Garrett lay there, looking as if he had simply fallen sideways, but seeing the strange, dark patch on the carpet beneath him jolted her. She was glad he was facing away from her. It wasn’t an image she wanted to remember. “Okay,” she answered, and she reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell.
Chapter 3
Sergeant Gilbert Gonzalez, a dark-haired man of about fifty, was in Allandale investigating the death of another homeless man. This one was found in Austin Memorial Park Cemetery. The death actually appeared to result from natural causes—as was so often the case—and Gonzalez was irritated that he’d had to go all the way up there just to take a look at the body when he knew good and well that his opinion was unnecessary. Coroner Clara Bentley had to be the one to determine cause of death, and she already had a team on the way when they had called him. They were wasting his time.
“Take some pictures, and let’s go as soon as Bentley’s team gets here,” he had said to Wilson after determining that there was no ID on the body. “We’ve done our part.”
And then another call came in at nine-thirty. “Damn,” he said.
He had been hoping that he and the detective could stop somewhere—maybe at Upper Crust—for a pastry before going back to the station. He looked at his cell and saw Michelle Hodge’s name printed across the screen. It felt odd seeing her name there. She had been involved a few months earlier in a murder investigation involving her boyfriend, Dean Maxwell.
Gonzalez didn’t much want Detective Wilson to know who was calling him. The tall detective with the ash-blond crew cut had been more than a little bit infatuated with the pretty Hodge woman last year. When she had made it clear she had become involved with their prime suspect, Maxwell himself, Wilson had been severely disappointed. The sergeant was fairly sure Michelle Hodge had given no encouragement to Wilson, but the young man had been upset nonetheless. It was ridiculous that he’d imagined he had a prayer with a woman like that.
“Hello?” Gonzalez answered, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
“Hello? Sergeant Gonzalez? I hope you remember me from last October? I still have your number in my phone.”
“I remember you.”
“I’ve just called nine-one-one, but since I have your number I thought maybe I should call you, too. You see, Dean Maxwell and I have just found the body of one of our friends. We think he may have been shot.”
“Where are you?” the sergeant asked.
“We
’re on Avenue H, just four or five houses south of forty-third,” she answered.
“I’m not far from there. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He hung up the phone, glad that he could see some of Bentley’s team arriving at the cemetery.
“Is that someone for the call in Hyde Park?” asked Wilson, just having received a message for Hyde Park from the station. He was looking at the screen on his phone.
“It is. We’re the closest car anyway. Better head over there.”
When they reached the house, Michelle Hodge was seated in a wicker settee on the front porch with a small dog on her lap. Dean Maxwell was pacing back and forth across the porch. An ambulance was already parked on the curb, and the workers were waiting for the detectives to show up. A man in a medical tech uniform approached the officers as they headed up the walkway and nodded to them. Gonzalez had seen him on other calls, but he didn’t know his name.
“We have the body of a white male in his late fifties,” the tech said. “He appears to have two gunshots to the chest from the left side of his rib cage. The people on the porch found him. They know the guy.”
“The coroner?” asked Gonzalez.
“On the way.”
Wilson looked as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He kept stealing furtive glances in the direction of Dean Maxwell and Michelle Hodge. Gonzalez nodded to them as he passed them and entered the house with Wilson following on his heels.
The sergeant knew he was going to need his team before he looked at the body on the floor beside the drafting table. He briefly noted the painting, the lamp, and a cracked magnifying glass lying on the floor near him. He walked into the kitchen and saw the melted teakettle, the empty Phantom of the Opera mug on the counter, the string of the teabag label dangling over the rim. Earl Grey. He noted the broken window glass on the floor from the door, and he got out his cell and called Lara at the station to get his team over there. He checked the backyard and found an iron chair lying on its side just outside the kitchen. Time to talk to Dean Maxwell and Michelle Hodge.