by Roslyn Woods
“Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”
“Always at Zilker Park?”
“Usually. Sometimes I go to Lady Bird Lake.”
“Did anyone see you? Did you greet anyone you knew?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it. I can’t remember.”
“How long did you walk?”
“I don’t know. An hour? I try to do three or four miles.” He rubbed his face on his shirtsleeve.
“And afterwards?”
“I went home and took a shower.”
“Was anyone home?”
“Yes. Sure. Billie was there. Are you about done?”
“I’m almost through with my questions. Changing the subject a bit, do you know why Mr. Hall didn’t have some kind of burglar alarm or surveillance in a home with so many valuables?”
Leonardo Parisi sighed and shook his head. “He was working on that. He’d called some services in and was trying to decide which one to use. He would have had surveillance and an alarm system in a matter of days, only he was too late.”
Chapter 11
Shell took aspirin first thing on Saturday morning. She had awakened with a dull headache, and Dean was already gone, taking Sadie for her morning run. Bitsy was still curled up in her little bed.
Shell went about her morning routine, putting fresh food and water out for the dogs, showering, dressing in jeans and a pretty blue top. She blew her hair dry and applied her usual light makeup. The woman in the mirror looked fine, but she was feeling low.
Snap out of it, Shell, she thought. Yesterday morning you were happy. You can’t let Garrett’s murder shake you up so much that it ruins every good thing in your life. There is so much to be thankful for.
“Let’s go for a drive,” Dean suggested as he came in from his run with Sadie. “It won’t help anyone if we stay inside and feel down about Garrett.”
“Where to?” Shell asked, busying herself with making breakfast while Bitsy jumped around her feet hoping she would drop some random bit of food.
“I don’t know. We can look at wildflowers and go to lunch somewhere. Maybe find a walking trail? The weather is perfect.” Shell and Dean had really enjoyed finding walking trails all over and around the city. It was one of the things Shell loved about Austin. They were everywhere, paths of nature in the middle of nearly two million people.
“Yes,” she answered. “We could go out to Dripping and have lunch at Thyme and Dough.”
Thyme and Dough was a funky little bakery/sandwich shop a few miles west of Austin in Dripping Springs. They had enjoyed lunch there earlier in the spring.
“Let’s do that, then,” said Dean, happy to see Shell was willing to make an effort to enjoy their day in spite of the miserable day they’d had yesterday. “I’ll just take a shower. Save me some coffee?”
“The early bird gets the worm,” she teased.
“I’ll be really quick,” he answered.
“I’ll wait for you. I’m just making us some breakfast tacos.”
They took Sadie and Bitsy and two long leashes. The dogs were happy for a day out and jumped willingly into the car while letting out a few excited barks.
“By the way,” said Dean as he got into the driver’s seat, “I messaged Gonzalez. He’s meeting me at Austin Java at five.”
“This evening?”
“Yeah. We’ll just have coffee and I’ll explain about Carmen. You can come if you want.”
“I think you’ll handle it better without me,” said Shell. Some conversations were just better one-on-one. “Did he say anything about Detective Wilson coming along?”
“I specifically said I wanted to talk to him without anyone else there.”
“I hope he has a heart.”
“Yes. Me, too.”
They were silent for a while, just driving out of the neighborhood, taking in the beauty of Hyde Park in spring. The yards were green, the trees large and variegated.
“I’m wondering where Estelle lives,” said Shell. She was determined to enjoy the day with Dean despite her hurt feelings about the trip to Dallas, despite her sorrow about Garrett, despite her fear for Carmen. “She has a ranch out there somewhere,” she added, as they headed in the direction of Dripping Springs. It was about thirty miles from downtown Austin, and the wildflowers along the way promised to be spectacular. “I wouldn’t mind doing a drive-by.”
“She’s certainly a curiosity,” said Dean.
“She is, and I wonder about how rich she is. Wes Travis’s paintings sell for five and six hundred thousand. Larger canvases have gone for more than that.”
“Why so much?”
“I think his prices were high when he was alive, but after he died, people who collect western art started bidding him up, and rich buyers from Japan who’d moved to the States and bought ranches started fanatically collecting him. They drove the prices up just like the Chinese and French wine.”
“I’ll bet she’s listed,” said Dean. “Try Googling her.”
Shell pulled her phone from the pocket in her purse and tapped in a search for the name Estelle Travis. There were lots of hits.
“Oh my,” she said. “She’s all over the place!”
“Maybe narrow it down with just her name and Dripping Springs,” Dean suggested.
“Okay,” she answered and tapped the phone a few more times. In a few moments she said, “Here it is. She has a place on Bell Springs Road with the very original name of ‘Travis Ranch.’”
“I know where Bell Springs Road is. There’s a winery somewhere out there. We’ll drive past town before we come to it.”
“I wonder if it’s really secluded,” said Shell, a little concerned. “I don’t much want her to see us.”
“I doubt she will. Besides, she doesn’t know my car, and we’re both wearing sunglasses. Very unlikely she’d recognize us even if she did see us.”
As they headed south on I-35, they passed splashes of bluebonnets on the embankments, and after they turned west on the 290, they reached the outskirts of the city. Fields began to appear that were blanketed in blue. These particular wildflowers always made Shell think of her mother and the drives they took during her last year, before she got too sick to do much. She tried to think of those drives as happy times she and her mother had shared, but she missed her so much she still felt a deep sadness when she thought of her.
Dean reached across the seat well and found Shell’s hand. “These wildflowers always make me think of my mom,” he said. “She loved wildflowers, all wildflowers actually, but the bluebonnets…They were special, I guess.”
“My mother loved them, too,” Shell answered. “We drove through the hill country a lot that spring before she got too sick to leave the apartment. I know Texas claims them as the state flower, but we had lupines all over the hills around Sacramento, too. She’d always loved them.”
Dean squeezed her hand. It was something they shared, this missing of their moms, and Shell was feeling so close to Dean she almost forgot the fact that she would be going to Dallas alone on Monday morning.
“Here’s Dripping Springs,” he said.
She noticed the little restaurant as they drove through town, taking note so it would be easy to find on their way back for lunch. Dean drove on through town, looking for the turn off.
“I think Bell Springs Road is getting close,” he said.
“The map program says it’s the next right turn,” said Shell, glancing down at her cell.
There it was. They turned onto a smallish, paved road and slowly drove along. “Oh look! The sign says this is a truffle farm!” said Shell, looking off to the right.
“Yes, I read about the guy who started it,” Dean answered, slowing down. “I don’t think he made it, somehow. Even this sign looks like it’s seen better days.”
“It seems like a romantic idea though, doesn’t it? A truffle farm in Texas hill country?”
“Yes. Yes, it does.”
Fields of flowers appeared and went wh
ile they watched for Estelle’s ranch. Finally, just before they reached the winery, they saw it.
“There it is! Travis Ranch!” said Shell.
The gate was an ornate, welded collection of old gears from ancient farm equipment and wagon wheels, and it was all framed by weathered wood pieces that looked almost like driftwood. It was a beautiful gate, and the house beyond it was large and hacienda-like. The exterior was made from varying shades of caramel-colored limestone, and the tile roof was burnt sienna. It was pretty far from the road, maybe a quarter of a mile, and horse pastures circled the perimeter of the place with clean, board fences. Shell could see a few thoroughbreds grazing.
“Looks like a nice ranch,” said Dean.
“How big do you think it is?”
“No telling. This fence along the road looks like it’s six hundred feet or more from corner to corner, but who knows how deep it is or if it widens at the back? If she’s got ten horses, she needs, I don’t know, maybe ten acres of divided pasture. I’m sure they supplement with feed, though.”
“Maybe we could take that little side road to see how far the fence goes back?”
“I don’t see why not,” Dean answered. “Do you see a ‘No Trespassing’ sign?”
“I don’t. If someone complains at us we can say we’re looking for a walking trail.”
Dean turned right at the dirt road that was just past Estelle’s pasture fence and followed it a ways. It was brushy, and there were lots of oak trees along the shoulder. In a while they came to the back corner of the property. As Shell looked up she could see a small, white farmhouse on the hill beyond Estelle’s property, and beyond the house, higher yet on the hill, a weathered, gray barn.
“It looks kind of deserted up here,” said Dean.
“Doesn’t look like anybody lives here anymore,” Shell agreed.
“You wanna let the dogs out for a little bit?”
“On leashes. I’d hate it if Sadie took off after an armadillo or something.”
“Okay,” said Dean. “Leashes it is.”
He parked the Jeep beside the road on a flat area behind some trees and bushes. “Okay, Sadie,” he said, pulling the longer of the leashes from the cubby in the well between the seats. Sadie let out an excited bark, and Bitsy yapped happily.
“Come on, Bitsy!” Shell called and hooked the leash to the little dog’s collar as well.
They walked up the hill behind the deserted house and approached the old barn. Shell guessed that it might be eighty or a hundred years old. It probably hadn’t been used to house animals for a long time. It was a longish barn with a high peak, and on the right side, as the roof angled toward the ground, was a door. As she moved closer to it she became more and more aware of a strange feeling. She stopped and stared.
“What is it?” Dean asked.
“I recognize this barn.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve seen this barn before.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Dean, but I’ve seen it before.”
“Barns have a tendency to resemble each other.”
“No. You see that little door at the side in front?” she asked. Dean looked up the hill at the building they had been approaching. It was still about a hundred yards ahead of them, but he could see the door she was talking about.
“Okay. I see it,” he said.
“I knew it had a red handle before we got this close. I was thinking, ‘There’s that door with the red handle.’ How could I be thinking that?”
It was an odd little door. In fact, Dean had never seen a door like that on the front of a barn. Maybe someone had made an office in there sometime or other and added an entrance. It was the kind of door you would put in a farmhouse, not a barn, but it was unpainted and weathered, and it had blended in from a greater distance. Up this close you could see that the door’s handle was quite red.
“That is pretty weird,” said Dean. “Any chance you came up here when you were driving your mom around hill country?”
“We came through Dripping Springs, but we never came up Bell Springs Road. And we usually went up toward Marble Falls when we went looking for flowers. I know it seems strange, but I’m sure I’ve seen this barn. I just don’t know how that’s possible,” she said, racking her brain to remember. How was it she knew this door? Had she seen the barn on some trip she had taken back in college?
“Do you want to see if we can look inside?” Dean asked.
“No,” Shell answered, suddenly feeling slightly cold as the blood drained from her face. “I’m actually changing my mind about walking here. I think we should go back to the car.”
“Shell,” Dean said, a little worried. “You’re as white as a sheet. What is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m starting to think maybe it just looks deserted. Maybe someone actually lives here.”
Dean looked back at the small white house with the broken window.
“It really doesn’t look like it, but we don’t need to stay here. Let’s go down to that park in town—”
“Let’s do that,” she said, turning back and hurrying toward the car.
Dean caught up with her and managed the dogs and the leashes. As they drove back down Bell Springs Road, he kept taking sidelong glances at her. Shell could feel the looks he was giving her, but she was too involved in her own reaction to talk about it.
After they got down to the park in Dripping Springs, Dean parked the car and turned toward her. “I’m right here,” he said. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know what happened to me back there.” Even now, her heart was racing and she wanted more than anything for Dean to take her away from Dripping Springs. “I feel…breathless or something. My chest hurts a little.”
He looked at her searchingly for a few moments. “Shell, I think what happened yesterday was very traumatizing to you. You didn’t react strongly then, but now you’re having a sort of panic attack. This is very normal and happens to people who’ve had shocking experiences.”
It made sense. Who freaks out over a red door handle? So what if the barn looked familiar? Maybe she did see it sometime when she was in college. Dean was lifting a lock of her hair and putting it behind her ear so he could see her eyes more clearly.
“Look at me, Shell,” he said softly, and she looked up. “You’re okay. I think I’d be able to tell if you weren’t. Let’s get out of the car and walk and try to get some fresh air for a while.”
Shell nodded at him but didn’t speak. Her voice was gone for the moment. The dogs were getting antsy and whiney, and she found herself opening the door and getting out. Dean did the same and got the dogs leashed up while Shell leaned against the car. He brought Bitsy’s leash to her and put it in her hand.
“You think you feel up to walking? I don’t want to press you.”
“Yes, I think I can do it.”
They walked rather slowly around the green part of the little park, just letting the dogs move around. In a few minutes, Shell spoke.
“I’m getting better. I don’t know what that was, maybe a panic attack as you say, but I’ve never experienced anything like it. It felt the way I’d imagine a heart attack would feel.”
“Well, I’m just guessing, but I’ve read a lot of psychology, and it makes sense that you could be projecting your shock onto an event or object that’s completely unrelated. It’s a normal thing that’s hard to sort out when you’re experiencing it.”
Somehow the words comforted her. “Thanks. When you tell me I’m experiencing something normal it makes me feel calmer.”
Dean reached for her hand as they walked along. She wondered if he could feel the rapid pulse in her wrist, but if he did he didn’t say anything about it. There was no denying it. He had a soothing affect on her.
She could see how she might be unconsciously stressing about more than just the murder, as if that wasn’t enough. She had recently put her inheritance into a business she n
ow feared would fail, and a friend who had played a big part in making that business succeed was no longer in this world. She could be left with nothing. When she added in the fact that everything was reminding her of losing her parents, she knew her panic made complete sense. Still, the picture of the red door handle kept recurring in her mind’s eye, and she couldn’t deny that there was something eerie about it.
Chapter 12
Gonzalez, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and jeans, was already waiting at Austin Java City Hall Café when Dean Maxwell found a parking place a little north on Lavaca. It was warm, and the sergeant had opted to sit at a table outside with a good view of the Willie Nelson statue across the street. He was drinking a glass of tea and watching for Maxwell just as he saw him approaching on the crosswalk.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Maxwell said as he reached the table.
Gonzalez stood up and shook his hand. “I’d have ordered you something if—”
“No worries. I’ll just be a second.”
The sergeant nodded as Maxwell went into the establishment. He had thought it was surprisingly quiet in there for a Saturday, but perhaps that was because it was so close to the dinner hour for most people. They weren’t looking for coffee shops. Outside, weekenders up from San Antonio, down from Dallas, and over from everywhere else, were strolling along 2nd Street. Over by the statue, someone seated on the sidewalk was strumming a guitar and singing “Crazy” while passersby mostly ignored him. He wasn’t too bad. Once in a while someone dropped a few coins in the cowboy hat at the singer’s feet.
Gonzalez was tired and would so much rather be spending his afternoon with Emelda and the twins that he could taste it. If he could get this over quickly he could be home in time to help with the big family dinner and the twins’ birthday, but he reminded himself that his case was important. After screwing up by arresting Dean Maxwell last October, he felt a certain obligation to meet him when he asked—even if this was the fourteenth birthday of Miguel and Luis—and he was a little curious about the request.
Maxwell returned with a bottle of mineral water and sat across from the sergeant.