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

by Roslyn Woods

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” said Gonzalez.

  Maxwell set the bottle of water on the table and leaned toward the older man. “I want to talk to you about Garrett Hall’s cleaning lady. Let me just preface this by saying I know the woman. We recommended her to Garrett.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s a good person, almost a relative to me as she was one of my mother’s closest friends for six years before she died, and now she takes care of my house and Shell’s house, and well, we really love her.”

  “You’re about to tell me to go easy on her because she’s undocumented,” said Gonzalez.

  Maxwell looked taken aback for a moment. He looked the sergeant in the eyes for five seconds and sat up a little straighter in his chair before he answered, “That’s right.”

  “Why not tell me this in front of Detective Wilson?”

  Maxwell didn’t hesitate. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Because?”

  “I don’t know. A malevolent look in his eyes, maybe a little too much time spent staring at my girlfriend.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s not such a bad guy, Mr. Maxwell. Young, a little reckless, that’s all.”

  “He was openly gloating when you arrested me last fall. It doesn’t bode well for the way he might treat another person who’s also innocent.”

  “Some people don’t think undocumented residents are innocents.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Maxwell said, looking directly at the sergeant. “I know this woman. She’s a fine person who took the only road that was there for her—”

  “You don’t have to tell me about the plight of the Mexican. Look, I believe you Mr. Maxwell,” said the sergeant. “Is she the woman I met at your house last fall when Wilson and I came by?”

  “Yes.”

  “She looks a lot like my sister Inez. If I remember right, she makes a very fine pan dulce. I don’t intend to report her to Immigration, but I’m going to have to ask her some questions.”

  “Does Wilson have to be there?”

  “I don’t know about that. Do you think she can tell me if anything is missing from the house?”

  “Yes, if it’s anything like an art object or a vase, or really anything else probably, she will have noticed it within seconds of entering the room. She’s uncanny that way. But she’s going to be very afraid of you.”

  “I understand. Look, I’ll try to make it easy on her, but I can’t promise Wilson won’t be there, and I can’t promise it’s going to turn out that she won’t be identified by Immigration. I can only tell you I’ll do my best to keep that from happening.”

  “You don’t think Wilson might turn her in himself?”

  “No.”

  “Because?”

  “Because he values his relationship with his boss.”

  Maxwell’s jaw clenched and Gonzalez stared steadily at him for a few moments before the younger man answered. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” said Gonzalez, standing up. “And now, my wife is expecting me to man the grill and make burgers for a rather large group. Likely some of them are illegal, too.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Maxwell said standing and shaking Gonzalez’s hand.

  “I may call you to help out with the interview. I might need her to walk through the house with me. Would she handle it better if you were there?”

  “I’m pretty sure she would.”

  “Her name?”

  “Carmen Espinosa,” Maxwell answered.

  “Okay. I’ll have to think about it, but you may be hearing from me in a day or two.”

  Maxwell nodded. He watched as the older man walked over and stood with a few other pedestrians at the crosswalk before heading across toward the statue. Once across he noticed him stopping for a moment at the feet of a guitar player and dropping a couple of bills in the hat. Then he saw him turn and head up the street.

  Chapter 13

  It was Monday morning, and Thaddeus Dickson was pacing while he tried to reach his lawyer on the phone. The sixty-year-old landlord was more than a little perturbed. Word was out about the shooting death of one of the partners from The Westside Gallery, and he needed to talk to the lawyer now.

  “You have reached Richard St. John and Associates. Please leave a voicemail for the party you would like to reach. To speak with Richard St. John press one,” a monotone voice was droning in his ear. “To speak with Gerald Ferguson, press two…” He looked at his phone and pressed the one.

  “This is Thaddeus Dickson, and I want my lawyer to call me back!” he shouted into the receiver before dropping it into its cradle on the acrylic desk in front of him. He was annoyed. Lawyers were hired for the very purpose of being there when you needed them, and he couldn’t imagine what could be more important than the call he was trying to make. Why the hell didn’t he have a personal number for reaching this guy?

  He loosened his tie, walked across the thick carpet to his office door, and called his secretary. “Gertrude! I need you in here.”

  She looked up, a tiny, birdlike woman of fifty with glasses that perched rather low on her nose. Her gray hair was rolled into a sort of donut at the back of her head, and she quickly poised herself and went into Dickson’s office.

  “Those fellas at the gallery may have a problem keeping their lease. I’m trying to reach Richard St. John, but if he doesn’t call me back in ten minutes, I want you to find me another lawyer.”

  “What happened at the gallery?” Gertrude asked.

  “I got a call from Cheryl,” he answered, “and she said it was on the news after I left this morning. You didn’t hear all weekend?”

  “I was taking care of my mother over in Elgin, Mr. Dickson. I haven’t been following the news.”

  “Well, we were down at South Padre and didn’t get in till late last night, so we didn’t hear either. Apparently, Garrett Hall was shot and killed on Friday.”

  “That’s terrible! Who would do such a thing?” Gertrude asked.

  “They don’t know who did it. The thing is, Garrett Hall was the character who joined the partnership at the gallery in February, and he was the one who gave them the money to make rent. My guess is, someone is going to inherit the portion of their account that was Garrett Hall’s. That means their funds will be depleted, and I doubt they can keep up their payments.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Cancel the damn lease!”

  “Do you have a list of possible lawyers?” asked Gertrude, remembering he was going to fire Richard St. John in five more minutes.

  “That’s your job. Just find me somebody good.”

  The secretary nodded and left the office, hoping against hope that Richard St. John would call soon. She didn’t know where to begin, but she opened Safari and Googled real estate attorneys. Before she’d had five minutes to search, the front door to the office opened and two men walked in. The older one was Hispanic, medium height, and appeared to be in charge. The other was quite tall with an ash blonde crew cut. They wore semi-dress clothes with ties but managed to look a little untidy, Gertrude thought.

  She stood up. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes. We’re from the Austin Police Department. We’d like to speak with Mr. Dickson,” he said while holding up his badge.

  “Certainly,” Gertrude responded. She asked the officers to sit down in the waiting area and walked back into Mr. Dickson’s office. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there are some police officers here, and they would like to speak with you.”

  Thaddeus looked at her for five seconds. “Okay,” he said, tightening up his tie, running a hand through his white hair, and seating himself behind his desk. “Send them in.”

  Gertrude stepped back and opened the office door further. “Mr. Dickson will see you now,” she said to the detectives.

  The sergeant stood first and walked into the office followed by Wilson. He had already taken
in the modern lines of the place. Very new, very high tech, very pricey.

  “Mr. Dickson?” Gonzalez asked.

  “That’s me. Please, sit down. What can I do for you?” Thaddeus Dickson asked without getting up but gesturing toward the chairs across from his desk.

  “Thank you,” said the sergeant as he and Wilson seated themselves. “I’m Sergeant Gonzalez, and this is Detective Wilson of the Austin Police Department. We understand you’ve had some dealings with Garrett Hall of The Westside Gallery. Is that so?”

  “It is. The Westside Gallery is housed in one of my buildings.”

  “And you’ve met with Mr. Hall on how many occasions?”

  “Oh hell, I don’t know. A few. Is this about the murder?”

  “I’m sorry, yes,” said Gonzalez. “How did you hear?”

  “My wife called me a few minutes ago. I guess it’s on the news. Where did it happen?”

  “He was shot to death in his home, Mr. Dickson.”

  “Well I’m very sorry to hear it,” he said, frowning a little.

  “Anyway, you knew him. Could you fill us in about what was going on with the gallery?”

  “I only know about the lease. What would you like to know?”

  “You rented the place to the original three partners. Is that correct?”

  “We signed a two-year lease.”

  “And what was the arrangement?” asked Gonzalez.

  Dickson seemed to think about this for a minute. “Well, I have lots of deals going all the time. I’ll have to look at my records.”

  “Really? You can’t give us a rough overview of the terms?”

  “Well, let’s see…They needed to outfit the place as a gallery and pay the rent for the two years.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, actually, they have an option to buy the building at the end of the two years.”

  “Does that mean they’re first in line?”

  “Right. We have a fixed price in the option, I believe.”

  “So they’ll have the option to buy the building at a price that’s already been named in two year’s time?” asked Gonzalez.

  “Unless they fail to keep their end of the bargain in terms of rent. Or if they damage the building, I can evict them, of course, as is customary.”

  “Any problems with the arrangement?”

  “Well, they made some changes I didn’t like. They also thought they could get me to handle the wheelchair ramps and resizing of a few doors. That wasn’t going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why? It wasn’t my business. It was theirs. They were responsible for the improvements they needed. These are very inexperienced business people.”

  “So what happened?”

  “They made the improvements, spent quite a bit—or what they thought was quite a bit—and almost couldn’t make their rent, so I was very patient about it and gave them a little time to get their act together.”

  “Really? That’s not the way I heard it, Mr. Dickson. I heard there were threats about eviction before they’d even started up.”

  “I was just trying to make them see the business world is a serious place and you actually have to come through on your promises. I didn’t want them to get all established and then fall apart because they weren’t prepared.”

  “You preferred for them to fall apart before they were established. That sounds awfully generous, Mr. Dickson.”

  “I thought so.”

  “How much time did you give them?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember the exact amount of time.”

  “Does three days ring a bell?”

  Dickson sat at his desk and glared at Gonzalez. “I really don’t remember the exact amount of time.”

  “So how did they get their payment?”

  “They got a new partner with some capital.”

  “Mr. Hall?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I imagine you were happy about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Gonzalez didn’t like Thaddeus Dickson very much. He wondered what other business arrangements he was working on.

  “Can you tell us where you were on Friday morning between five and nine?” he asked.

  “Well, let’s see,” said Dickson, “I usually have breakfast with my wife and then come into the office at nine.”

  “Is that what you did on Friday, Mr. Dickson?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think it was.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “No. I’m sure I had breakfast with my wife and came in at nine.”

  Chapter 14

  Dean didn’t want to tell Shell that he was spending a lot of time worrying about Garrett’s murder. She had enough on her mind, and if she knew he was worried, that would probably worry her more. But he had wondered about the murder when he couldn’t sleep during the night, and he had wondered about it some more when he had gone running with Sadie the past two mornings. It had occurred to him that Shell’s connection to Garrett could mean she was in some danger, and Dean’s experience the previous year with his estranged wife’s murder didn’t make him feel particularly calm. Shell mattered too much.

  So when Dean got up at six on Monday morning, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to take Sadie with him when he went for his run. He liked the fact that when he wasn’t in the house, she was. Sadie was a great watchdog and protector, and she had saved Shell’s life six months earlier. Today he would run alone, and later today, between his morning appointments and after Shell had left for Dallas, he could take both of the dogs to the park for a half hour of play.

  It was only mildly cool this morning. He liked running in the early morning while Shell was still sleeping, her lovely face nestled in a pillow. She kissed him back sleepily and barely answered when he whispered, “I’ll be back in a half-hour.”

  The neighborhood was just starting to hum, especially over on Duval where trucks had begun making deliveries. He heard an occasional backfire, the squeaking of brakes, and the beep-beep of trucks backing up. He decided he should run by Garrett’s house on Avenue H, wondering if the crime scene tape was still up, but his thoughts were mostly focused on Shell today.

  He was worried about her. She had been stressing about her financial situation. He was sure of that. He had tried to reassure her without saying too much, afraid he was assuming too much responsibility for her, afraid she would feel trapped or think he was presumptuous about their relationship. He didn’t want to screw things up with her, and he had tried from the very beginning to take it slow, give her time to get over that horrible relationship she had been in last year. But now that she was upset about her financial situation, he thought maybe he should just talk to her about it. Once they were married, even engaged, she would stop worrying about her bank account. He had considered explaining how much money they had, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of appearing to try to persuade her in his favor with that. Everything seemed complicated.

  Then this trip to Dallas had upset her. She had wanted him to go with her and he had refused because of the client he had rescheduled two times already. Sometimes he wished he had just quit doing websites back when Shell had started the gallery. He could have helped her more, and the websites weren’t necessary for their income situation. His software was still selling really well, and he’d tweaked it recently so that he was picking up more accounts without even trying. Money was coming in, and his savings account was paying well enough now that they could live very well off the interest alone. If he hadn’t been working he could have gone with Shell today without even thinking about it.

  The fact was, he felt a little insecure with Shell. She acted as if she loved him, but she never said much about her feelings for him. When he told her he needed her she would usually answer, “I need you, too,” but that wasn’t the same as initiating words of affection. She was unreserved in her physical response to him, and if it weren’t for that, he’d have felt much less like he had a chance to make things pe
rmanent with her.

  His plan to take her to California was all about two things: telling her he loved her and asking her to marry him. He wanted to do it soon, before Margie’s baby was born, because he knew once that happened Shell would feel the need to be around to help, and Margie would be furious if he took her away for even a week after Pierre arrived.

  He’d even had a ring made. He had overheard Shell and Margie talking about diamonds one day back in December, and Shell had said something about never getting over seeing the movie Blood Diamond. He decided then and there he’d go for something else. He took a setting of sapphires from one of his grandmother’s necklaces to a jewelry artist in Wimberly and asked about making a ring. He had borrowed one of Shell’s rings—her mother’s wedding band—to get her size, and when he’d come home he had found her in tears. She couldn’t find her mother’s ring. He had laughed and said he’d found it in one of the dresser drawers and slipped it in his pocket thinking he would take it to her but he had forgotten. Then he’d taken it from his pocket and slipped it on her finger. When he kissed her she’d had tears in her eyes. At that moment he had wanted, almost desperately, to tell her he loved her and wanted to marry her, but he feared pressing her. Instead he apologized. Could she forgive him? “I’ll always forgive you, Dean,” she’d said, and that answer had made him happy for days.

  He rounded the corner of 43rd and Avenue H just as a car pulled away from the curb in front of Garrett’s house. It was the red Ford Escape Leonardo and Billie drove. He wasn’t sure which of them it belonged to, and he couldn’t see if both of them were in the car. The house itself still had crime tape stretched across the opening of the front porch, and as he approached, he could see the little bathroom window was still open just an inch.

  Chapter 15

  The drive to Dallas would take about four hours if Shell missed traffic, and waiting till ten would help her miss the worst part in Austin. She got up early and threw the Frisbee and tennis ball for the dogs before having a bagel with Dean. After breakfast he suggested they have another cup of coffee. He was clearly feeling a little bit down, and she was, too. From the time Dean had been released from jail, last October 31st, the two of them had never been apart for more than a few hours at a time.