Romancing the Brush: An Austin, Texas Art Mystery (The Michelle Hodge Series Book 3)

by Roslyn Woods

  “Sometime? Why can’t we just go see her?”

  “Because, Dean. We just can’t. At least, I don’t think we can.”

  “Don’t decide that until you’ve been around her for a while. It might feel perfectly natural to suggest a visit. Hell, we can manufacture another reason to go up there if that makes it more comfortable for you.”

  “I’ll just see how it feels when I see her,” she said. “I don’t want to make something up. That wouldn’t feel right.” Suddenly, Shell was feeling exhausted. The weight of Dean’s choice to stay in Austin and the experience at Garrett’s, the gallery, and the police station suddenly landed on her in such a way that she felt she could hardly stand up. “I’m going to bed, I think, right after I call Jan back and tell her you’re not coming. I better call Rita, too. I’m pretty tired,” she said.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” said Dean. “Will you stay awake for me?”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said, looking searchingly into her face. “Just a few and I’ll finish up with this.”

  Chapter 9

  Going just by the colors—the cerulean and titanium sky and the cliffs in Naples yellow and burnt sienna—it had the look of a Wes Travis. Logan stepped back and considered the effect of his last few strokes, a palette in his right hand, a brush in his left, his dark head with its long braid tilted in a look of deep concentration. It was more than the colors. The composition was right, the degree of light was typical, and the almost pointillist texture was just what he wanted.

  Sometimes the forty-four-year-old was pretty sure his work was better than Travis’s. Sure, the lucky bastard had drama, but he did too, and it was impossible to keep himself out of his work. He tried to be Travis, to channel him, but he wasn’t Travis. He was Logan Bryant, and he needed money.

  He swished his brushes in the turpentine and rubbed them clean with a rag. It would be months—maybe seven or eight—before this one could be shown, but he wouldn’t sign it before Estelle had a chance to make suggestions. And she would make suggestions. Logan was sure of that.

  He looked at his watch. In another hour he needed to be at the hospital. Lindsay was coming home today. He almost dreaded her homecoming, dreaded seeing her tortured body sitting in its chair. She was the picture of his incarceration. Because of Lindsay and her illness, he was never going to be free again. And yet, he had once loved her. He even seemed to love her still, now and again. It was just that, most of the time, the responsibility made him feel like a cornered animal. Maybe if he could just get some money ahead he could stop feeling so angry, so much like killing someone.

  He took the smock off and dropped it over the back of the chair before picking up his keys. He took a backward glance at the painting before going through the door, inserting the skeleton key, and turning it in the lock. Then he got in the old Ford van and headed down to Estelle’s. It only took three minutes to get there. He stopped at the ornate western gate and tapped in the code. The gate opened slowly and he drove in, pulling around past the east horse pasture and going to the back. He parked near the guesthouse.

  Cook came to the backdoor of the main house a couple of minutes after Logan rang the service bell.

  “Hello!” she said, her round cheeks lifting themselves up to her eyes as he greeted her. “Ms. Travis is in the study.” Logan reflected that this young woman didn’t even have a name. Estelle preferred to call people by their function. He followed Cook into the house and down the hall with its colorful wool runner, a hand-woven mix of Mexican and Native American symbols. The walls were covered by various paintings, among them two of William Wendt’s and a Frederic Remington. It was obscene, this display of wealth.

  “Well, there you are at last,” said Estelle as he walked into the room.

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Of course. I knew you’d be coming around about now to ask for something.”

  “Yeah. Well, it’s Friday and I pick up Lindsay this afternoon. I need some money for this month’s meds.”

  “You do?” she asked sweetly. “What have you done to deserve it?” She was a hard woman. She reminded him of his mother.

  “I’m pretty much done with this one,” he answered.

  “Did you sign it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, why didn’t you bring it?”

  “I figured you wouldn’t want anyone else looking at it,” he answered, disgust apparent in his voice.

  “Cook? Cook has no idea!”

  “Well, then, why give her an idea?” Sometimes, Estelle was so stupid. He thought about strangling her for a moment, how her throat would collapse in his hands, how her eyes would bug out.

  “Okay. I see your point. Shall I go up and look at it?”

  “Not right now. I have to pick Lindsay up in forty-five minutes, and I have to get the prescription.”

  “Well, gee, that’s really too bad, isn’t it?”

  “You know, you made me a promise, and I think I hold a few cards. I don’t have to do this, and I know what you’ve been up to,” he said, his brown eyes flashing only a fraction of the anger he felt.

  “Actually, you really do have to do this. Your precious Lindsay won’t have the co-pay for her meds if you don’t, and everything you’ve done so far makes you just as culpable as I am, so don’t think you’re going to convince me that you’re going to rat on me.”

  “Just give me the money, Estelle. I don’t have time for you and your horseshit.”

  “Just be patient.”

  “No. I’m not going to be patient. I want it now and I’ll continue to do what you want. That was the deal, and that will continue to be the deal unless you want things to change in a way you won’t like at all.”

  “Well, aren’t you cute? You do have a spine. That’s adorable. Okay. Let me see,” she said, opening the center drawer in the massive birdseye maple desk, “two thousand?”

  “Five thousand.” She had no idea how angry he was today, how close he was to snapping.

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Don’t get all tight on me now. The deal was five K apiece. It’s nothing to you.”

  “Oh yeah! You’re right!” she said, smiling to herself.

  She fingered the money in her desk drawer. Then, slowly, she counted it and lifted it into the air. “I seem to have it right here.” She held the cash out so Logan would have to cross the room, and he did. But just as he reached her, she pulled her hand back. “Wait a minute,” she said, “when are you coming back?” He was pretty sure he could crack that wrist just by grabbing it and twisting.

  “Two days. I have to work tomorrow. This is enough for the meds and my rent. That’s all. I still have to make a living.”

  “How about I triple it? Would you still have to work?”

  “Yes. I get healthcare through my job and Lindsay won’t qualify otherwise.”

  “Well, gee, that’s too bad. I was hoping to employ you full-time.”

  “Not gonna happen, Estelle.”

  “Because?”

  “I’m not going to be at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day. I have a legitimate job.”

  “As a vet tech?”

  “So what?”

  “You can’t make much at that.”

  “That’s not the point, but you should pay me more anyway. You’re as dependent on me as I am on you,” he said.

  “Okay. Five thousand,” she said, smiling. She wasn’t going to give him any more. She was just entertaining herself. “See you in two days and I’ll give you a critique.”

  Chapter 10

  Back at the station, Gilbert Gonzalez was going over his notes and trying to decide what to do next when Wilson leaned his head in the open office door.

  “Crime scene examiner says she just sent the report over,” he said.

  “Bring it to me as soon as you’ve got it,” said the sergeant.

  “Okay.”

  “I wanna know why no one heard the
gunfire. That doesn’t make sense. We need to get over there and talk to the neighbors again.”

  “Right. When?” Wilson and Myers had already gone up and down the street knocking on doors and asking people if they had heard anything unusual on Friday morning. Nothing had come of it. The typical answers were, “That was when I was showering,” or, “That’s when all the truck deliveries are made on the next street over.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Saturday?”

  “When would you like to start asking questions, my dear girl? Would you like to wait till next week?”

  Gonzalez shook his head at Wilson’s blank look. “You may go,” he said. “But I want you ready to hit that street tomorrow at nine sharp.”

  “Okay,” Wilson said again before going back to his desk.

  Gonzalez turned, woke up his computer, put his earbuds in, and selected the Leonardo Parisi interview. He figured he might have missed something there. He skipped over the preliminaries—his introduction of himself, Wilson, and Parisi—and passed up the earliest questions. In a moment, Gonzalez could hear his own voice, but the camera was focused on Parisi. The sergeant noticed again that the younger man was short and lean with a thick head of black hair and smooth, even features.

  “How long have you known Garrett Hall?” he heard himself asking.

  “A few years.”

  “How many years?”

  “I don’t know. I met him when I was in graduate school, so, maybe thirteen years ago.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Right here at the university in Austin. He was a guest lecturer there, talking about Expressionism the first time I heard him.”

  “You remember the subject. Must have made an impression on you.”

  “He did. I was blown away. All the students were. He made the topic come alive. We all went out for beers with him after the lecture.”

  “But you developed a friendship?”

  “Not right then. I met him again about three and a half years ago. I was working in Dallas at the DMA and he came in as a consultant about a purchase that was being made.”

  “The DMA?”

  “Dallas Museum of Art.”

  “A purchase?”

  “Yes, the museum was buying some Italian Renaissance works, and he came in as a consultant on their authenticity.”

  “So he was an expert art authenticator?”

  “He always said he wasn’t, but he was known for having a knack, and he knew a hell of a lot.”

  “So, then what happened?”

  “We talked at the gallery and then we talked some more and we went out for a glass of wine. Kind of like before.”

  “Only this time?”

  “This time we really became friends. He thought he could help me with my plans for my art and my career.”

  “And he did?”

  “Sure. Yes.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “Just advice, guidance.”

  “What was the nature of your relationship, Mr. Parisi?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Were you…involved?”

  “No.”

  “So why did he help you?”

  “Friendship? He was a very nice person. He helped people. I was an artist. He felt a special inclination to help artists.”

  “Our research shows that you and Garrett Hall shared an address in Dallas. So… you actually moved in with him for a time?”

  Here, Parisi paused before answering, looking from Gonzalez to Wilson and back again. “I rented a room in his home because I needed a place and he had a spare bed and bath. You don’t have to be lovers to live under the same roof.”

  “Okay. And you lived with him for how long?”

  “Two years.”

  “Did he have any romantic relationships with other people during that time?”

  “How would I know? I wasn’t there every second of every day. I just lived there, used the kitchen, worked, and had my own life.”

  “Do you know of any enemies Mr. Hall may have had?”

  “Not really. His brother Winston died about a year ago, but he was around when I was living there. He came over every once in a while. Anyway, he had a wife and son. The son is, of course, a grown man, so he was in his life, and I got the impression they didn’t get along very well. I didn’t pry into his personal matters. I can’t think of anyone else who didn’t like him. Everyone pretty much liked him.”

  “What is the nephew’s name?”

  “Something Hall.”

  “Do you know the mother’s name?”

  “Alice.”

  “Were you on good terms with Garrett Hall when you moved out of his Dallas home?”

  “Sure.” Parisi stopped and shook his head before continuing. “You just don’t get it, do you? He was like a father to me.” Here he looked up and his eyes filled with tears. “He helped me, guided me like a son. Yes, I loved the man. I’ll always love the man. But we were just friends. Dear friends.” He lay his head in his arms on the table for a few minutes and his shoulders shook. Gonzalez handed him a box of tissues and waited to continue with his questioning when he looked up again.

  “Okay. When did you and Mr. Morrison become involved?”

  “About a year ago if that’s any of your business! I don’t see what my relationship with Billie has to do with what happened to Garrett!”

  “I’m just trying to get some perspective, Mr. Parisi. Let’s see…where was I? Oh yes, you got together with Mr. Morrison, and within a year you decided to move to Austin and start a new gallery with Michelle Hodge. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.” Parisi was rubbing his eyes with some tissues.

  “And you did. You came to Austin and rented a building from—”

  “Thaddeus Dickson.”

  “What was your agreement with Mr. Dickson?”

  “Well, he’ll tell you different, but he was desperate to rent the place out. It was infested with rats and roaches and the plumbing was dripping everywhere. We even had to redo the wiring and put in two new restrooms. There was nothing salvageable. The place had to be completely gutted.”

  “Why would you rent such a place?”

  “Location. Size. Availability. And Tad Dickson seemed very happy we wanted the place at first.”

  “But you had a lot of repairs.”

  “Yes. We made a deal. We’re to fix the place up and pay rent for two years. At the end of the two years we get an option to buy the property at a fixed price. So even if inflation makes it much more valuable, he’s already promised to sell it to us for the price he named in the contract. He made us that deal to lure us into renting. The gallery partners weren’t the only ones feeling good about the agreement. Tad felt pretty damn good about it, too.”

  “But Mr. Dickson changed his mind?”

  “Yes. He decided he didn’t like us very much, started coming around uninvited as if we didn’t have a lease to ‘check on the work.’ And he’d complain. He didn’t like where we’d put the restrooms. Did the doors have to be so wide? I mean, it’s as if he doesn’t know about wheelchairs! I’m telling you that man was making our lives a living hell.”

  “And you got low on money?”

  “Well, yes, it was costing thousands upon thousands of dollars to bring the building up to code and make it attractive enough to house artwork. It was like building a house from scratch. A very expensive and beautiful house, and our money was disappearing like water through a sieve. We got to a point where we didn’t have enough for the next month’s rent and we hadn’t even opened yet.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I called Garrett and told him our troubles. I asked him to become a partner and put in as much money as each of us had. I figured that once we opened and started selling stuff we’d be in the black again.”

  “He thought so too?”

  “He did. He came down to Austin, looked at our numbers, and agreed to become a partner.” />
  “And your financial troubles were over?”

  “Yes, and he dealt with Thaddeus. He explained what his lawyers would do to him if he threatened us with eviction again. We weren’t even late on that payment, by the way. We had a five-day leniency clause in our contract, which if we missed meant a fine—not eviction—and Thaddeus acted as if we’d committed murder because we were a day late. He threw a fit. He said, ‘You’ve got seventy-two hours and I’m bringing the police in here to throw you out.’ Of course we really had four more days before even the fine could be demanded. But anyway, the day after he threatened us was when Garrett joined us, and the first thing Garrett did was have a little talk with Tad.”

  “And that put a stop to your problems with the landlord?”

  “Yes. Thaddeus got religion, started acting pleasant again. He was afraid of what Garrett could actually do if he messed with us. It was a relief. But I have no idea what happens now.” Parisi stopped talking here and closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb.

  “Headache?” Gonzalez heard his own voice asking.

  “Yes, and please don’t pretend you care, sergeant.”

  “When was the last time you visited Hall’s home?”

  “I don’t know. Recently.”

  “Who else was there at the time?”

  “Just me.”

  “Just a visit?”

  “Just a visit. He was a friend, damn it!”

  “And what about your other friends? Which of them had been to his house?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Ms. Hodge, Mr. Morrison—”

  “We had a party there the night the gallery opened. It was really just for us. Margie Carter and her husband were there, too, and Shell’s boyfriend, Dean.”

  “And since then?”

  “I don’t keep track of who visits Garrett!”

  “Where were you this morning, Mr. Parisi?”

  “At what time?”

  “Say, between six and nine?”

  He took a deep breath and rubbed his teary eyes. “At six I got up and drove to Zilker Park. I took a long walk like I often do.”

  “How often?”