by Roslyn Woods
After seeing her today with that expression of agony and condemnation on her face he had begun to doubt himself. He could hear her words playing in his head over and over again. I never dreamed you could be so arrogant. She seemed so full of her own integrity, but the image of her hand on the back of Brad Bauer’s neck would reassert itself, and Dean would be lost again in the stabbing pain that sometimes hit him in the chest, sometimes the belly, and sometimes both. Right now his head was throbbing, and all he wanted was for Shell to appear and tell him it had all been a bad dream.
Then there was the whole problem of Leonardo and Billie to worry about. He surmised that Leonardo, who probably had been having an affair with Garrett, had gotten caught up in some kind of lovers’ quarrel. It didn’t feel possible that he might have shot Garrett, but there were a limited number of people to consider as possible murderers, and Dean was worried that Shell had run straight into the nest of the killer and his lover.
Chapter 24
For the moment, Logan was glad Lindsay was home. She was feeling somewhat better, and she was hopeful about this new drug she was trying. He looked at his thirty-seven year old wife from across the dinner table, admiring her long, flaxen hair, her sensitive eyes, and he felt something like happiness instead of resentment for a fleeting moment. He remembered how he had once loved her, back before her illness had pushed him into the corner he was in. She saw the look on his face and smiled.
“I am so much better I almost feel like I’m not going to need this chair anymore,” she said.
The diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis had come suddenly when Lindsay was thirty-four. Her symptoms had started with painful and swollen joints in her fingers and toes, and quickly, over a period of only a few months, every joint in her body became painful. There were days when she could hardly move, and Logan had been upset. His whole world seemed to depend on Lindsay’s strength, and she was using every bit of it to handle her own pain. They tried all kinds of medications, but being a freelance artist hadn’t provided any health insurance, and Lindsay’s job as a part-time sales clerk in a department store—while it lasted—afforded them nothing.
Logan felt guilty. If he had just finished school, controlled his temper, he would have been able to establish a better life as an artist. He might have been accepted into a really good gallery, become known. As it was, he had been put on academic probation at Cooper Union and, in due course, they threw him out over what the school had called “violent behavior.” When he had moved back to Austin he had tried to join some galleries, but each time he had been accepted, there had eventually been some sort of altercation involving himself and either another artist or an administrator. He had agreed to pull out of the gallery both times to avoid criminal charges, the second time, agreeing to see a psychotherapist and submit to taking medication.
He had been diagnosed with intermittent explosive disorder. As long as he continued to see the therapist and take his Lithium he managed to keep himself in check. But the medication drained his energy, and he sometimes skipped a dose here and there, especially if Lindsay wasn’t paying attention, which was a lot of the time these days.
But Lindsay had always looked past his mistakes. She encouraged him to keep up with his medication, and she had told him that his condition wasn’t his fault. She had argued that if chemicals make you better, it’s because your natural chemicals are off somehow, and it had made sense to him at the time. The medication had given him the steady composure to get a job as a veterinary assistant in a local animal clinic and keep it. Then, by taking night classes over a period of two years, he had slowly acquired the credentials for a promotion to vet tech, which meant more money and health insurance.
It had been a relief to have something. But even with health insurance, the co-pays on the kinds of medication Lindsay needed were unbelievable. They had gone deeply in debt, and Logan had felt progressively more trapped and angry. He had started selling his paintings at craft fairs for anything people would offer him. Five hundred dollars meant a third of a month’s co-pay, and he would take it with a smile, but he had been seething inside.
Then Estelle had come along. She had found him by happenstance, a walk through a craft fair in Wimberly on a sunny Saturday a year earlier. She had admired his work, learned that he had gone to Cooper Union on a scholarship straight out of high school, and she offered to sponsor him. At first he had thought she legitimately wanted to promote him, but once she learned he could paint in the style of almost anyone, her other plans became apparent.
At first she just wanted him to complete two unfinished pieces she had found in her father’s cabin in Galveston. Then she had wanted him to paint an original piece “in the style of” her father. She had given him five thousand apiece, and he had been amazed. Fifteen thousand dollars meant paying for Lindsay’s medicine would be possible for months without worry. But when, eight months later, Estelle had sold the completed paintings as original Wes Travis’s, Logan had been beyond angry.
“What the hell are you doing?” he had shouted after storming into her home on that afternoon in March. “I thought you said you just wanted the paintings completed for your personal collection!”
“I did. And people liked them so much it seemed wrong to keep them to myself,” she had answered with a smile.
“For six hundred thousand dollars?” he had asked, realizing it was a good thing he was taking his medication today.
“Each. Well, actually, I only got five for one of them. But they really shouldn’t publish the numbers in the newspaper. It’s so crass, don’t you think? But yes, we made a nice little bit.”
“We? We?”
“Yes, we. You got your money, and I got mine. I realize I got a little more, but he was my father, after all.”
“Estelle, you pulled me into this without telling me what your intentions were!”
“And I intend to keep helping you and Lindsay with whatever you need. Just think of it, Logan, all of Lindsay’s meds paid for by me. All your bills caught up. No fear that at some moment down the road she’ll be suffering and no one will be there to help!”
“Who’s going to take care of her if we end up in prison for art fraud?”
“Oh, stop being so negative! We only get caught if you rat on us, and, let’s face it, it’s your word against mine that you weren’t in on it. I can easily say you were planning to defraud buyers as much as I was, and there’s your bank records to prove you took the money.”
“I could tell them what you told me.”
“Right. You’ll get off with what? Six months in prison and then probation? If you’re lucky! How’s that going to make Lindsay feel? And who’s going to pay for her meds if I get into trouble? Do you think the government is going to come forward and offer to help you? But let’s don’t talk like this. We’re friends working on a project together. I have every intention of being here for you, Logan. We’re on the same team.”
“No, we’re not. You’re on your team and I’m on mine.”
“Don’t be so cynical. Of course I’m on your team! Do you have any bills I can pay for you? I really want to clear those so you don’t have debts hanging over your head.”
On that very day Lindsay’s doctor had suggested a new drug he wanted her to try, and the co-pay was two thousand dollars a month. Logan had felt as if there were a gun to his head. He’d kept quiet, allowed Estelle to pay off his debts, and he had pretty much kept painting for her. Each time he completed a painting, she gave him another five thousand. She would bring blank canvases to him that she had found in her father’s cabin. He had apparently stockpiled a few. They were the right age, and they had endured the changes of moisture and weather that nearly forty years of sitting in a humid, Galveston environment had provided.
Estelle had even given him what remained of her father’s brushes and paints, such as they were. She had researched and found paints with the same pigments that were used in her father’s day, and she brought all of these to Logan as if sh
e were providing gifts he would be thrilled to have. On days when the weather was fine, she put Logan’s completed paintings outside to weather in the sun, and she even studied how to bake a painting to age the paint.
The barn on the property adjacent to her home was a perfect place to keep Logan’s paintings. Estelle had bought the place as soon as she found Logan with no other intention than to use it for that purpose. No one would see the paintings there, and they needed to remain unseen until she unveiled them. She provided easels and more painting supplies at the house so Logan could work there if he chose, and she had a large, gas pizza oven installed at the far end of the barn. Large canvases fit nicely inside, and the controls allowed for low temperatures over long periods of time.
Estelle had even offered to have the house improved so Logan and Lindsay could move in if they wanted to, but he had declined. The last thing he needed was for Lindsay to learn about the deal he had struck with Estelle. Instead, he had used the house as a studio, and later he’d moved the studio into the barn, adding a wall and makeshift bathroom. In the barn he could open the huge side doors for more light, and he began to think of the place as his own.
So Logan had carried the burden of his secret for a full year, and even though he had grown angrier at Estelle with each passing day, he was glad that Lindsay was home and feeling better tonight. After eating, he wheeled her chair into their little apartment’s living room and settled down near her in preparation for watching one of her favorite TV shows. But it had barely started when his phone buzzed, and he took it into the other room.
“What?” he asked, annoyed at the interruption on this particular evening.
“Well, don’t sound so happy to hear from me!” Estelle said. “I need you to come talk to me in the morning. What time do you go to work?”
“I have to be there at ten.”
“Then come by here at 8:30. We have some things we need to figure out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just things. But don’t fail to be here, Logan. I mean it.”
“Okay. I’ll be there,” he said.
Back in the living room Lindsay had paused the TV. “Everything okay?” she asked as he returned to the room.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I just have to be at work earlier than I thought. They’re doing a surgery they hadn’t planned on, and I’ve gotta be there.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I was hoping we could laze around for a while in the morning. You seem so tense.”
“I know. I am tense. There’s just a lot going on at work.”
He arrived at Estelle’s at 8:35. Cook opened the door before he knocked, and she had a look on her face that told him Estelle was not in a good mood. He didn’t really care. She wasn’t in a position to push him around too much, and despite the Lithium, he was almost crazed with anger at her.
“You’re late,” she announced as he walked into her office.
“So what is it you want?” he asked evenly.
“I’m afraid we have a problem. I heard from the gallery last night. The buyer from Arizona is going to be here this Sunday.”
“So? What does that have to do with me?”
“One of the partners is against you.”
“Against me? What do you mean? They don’t know anything—”
“I’m saying that one of the partners thinks your work isn’t up to snuff. We can’t have her at the meeting with this buyer.”
“How in hell are we supposed to stop that?”
“We just have to prevent her getting to that meeting.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“I think you can manage it. She’s a tiny little thing.”
“I’m not interfering with anybody’s attendance of any meeting.”
“You’re not as bright as you look, Logan. Once Mendoza hears that there are questions about authenticity, the word will spread like wildfire. Questions of this kind are talked about among potential buyers, and potential buyers are very often already big owners of art. People who own my father’s works will start asking questions and insisting on testing and that kind of thing. It could come out that the paintings we sold in February are…not entirely genuine. You don’t want that. It wouldn’t be good for me, or you, or Lindsay. That’s what worries me most.”
“I’m sure Lindsay was your first thought,” he said, his hands involuntarily curling into fists. He had known what they were doing was wrong. He had just hoped that the gods had been rooting for him and he would receive some kind of pass. Lindsay didn’t deserve to suffer a stupid husband any more that she deserved to suffer with R.A. His eyes fell on Estelle’s throat as they often did, and he imagined killing her, squeezing the life out of her while he enjoyed the terror in her eyes, and he gritted his teeth.
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked.
Chapter 25
Thaddeus and Cheryl Dickson’s house was in Tarrytown, one of the nicer neighborhoods in Austin. It was on Bridal Path and was, Gonzalez thought, almost a castle. The rock walls curved and twisted as if designed by a medieval architect, and Gonzalez wondered if the house had been commissioned by the Dicksons.
Wilson had Googled Cheryl Dickson’s name the previous afternoon. Several hits mentioned her as a member of a local tennis team for seniors. In this case, “senior” meant over fifty. The team members met at the Westglen Country Club, an establishment known around town as ‘pricey’ and ‘difficult to join.’
“I don’t get it,” Wilson had complained. “Don’t they want to acquire members like every other athletic club?”
Gonzalez had looked over Wilson’s shoulder at his computer monitor and chuckled. “My guess is, they want to be exclusive, and any criminal can belong if he has enough money. Looks like two Texas senators are members. That should tell you something.”
So on this Thursday morning, the first day of May, Wilson rang the bell at the Dickson’s house. They waited, thinking it was quite possible no one was home, but after a minute the door opened, and a fortyish Hispanic woman in a black and white uniform stood before them looking confused and worried. Probably illegal, thought the sergeant.
“Hello,” said Gonzalez, holding up his badge. “We’d like to speak with Mrs. Dickson, please.”
“One moment,” said the woman. She closed the door and they stood outside and waited another minute before the door opened again. This time the same woman opened the door and gestured for them to come in.
The foyer was as big as Gonzalez’s own living room, and looking through the large, arched doorway, he could see a room with a wide, twisting staircase, and beyond that room, another arched doorway approaching a parlor. The fiftyish Mrs. Dickson was standing in that doorway in a pink jogging suit and what appeared to be brand new running shoes. Her frosted hair was short and spiky, and she wore pearl earrings.
“Hello,” said Mrs. Dickson. “May I ask what this is about?”
“Hello,” the sergeant answered, flashing his badge again. “I’m Sergeant Gonzalez, and this is Detective Wilson. We’re with the Austin Police Department, and we have a few questions for you.”
“I don’t understand. Is something wrong?” she asked as she walked into the entryway.
“No, no, not really. We’re investigating the murder of Garrett Hall, and we’re looking into his connections in hopes of finding some clues about who might know anything about his last few weeks of life.”
“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, then. I didn’t know the man at all,” she said.
“But your husband did know him.”
“He knows lots of people. What does that have to do with me?”
“Mrs. Dickson, please bear with us. You don’t mind answering a few questions, do you?”
“Well, I suppose not, but I can’t imagine that it could help at all. I’m very busy, and I have an important appointment in just a few minutes.”
Gonzalez wondered briefly what important meeting she would be going to in her pink jog
ging suit. “We’ll try to not take too much of your time,” he said. “Could you tell us how long your husband has known Garrett Hall, Mrs. Dickson?”
“I have no idea. I really don’t see why you’re talking to me and not my husband.”
“Well, we’re investigating, and we have our reasons for asking questions. I doubt you have anything to hide. So, you’re saying you don’t know how long your husband has known Garrett Hall?”
She looked at him for a moment and tilted her chin upward a little. “That’s right.”
“And, where was your husband on Friday morning, Mrs. Dickson?”
“Friday morning? Last Friday morning? I don’t know. Let’s see…we were here having breakfast till we left.”
“That’s remarkable that you can call it to mind so easily,” said Gonzalez. “Most people don’t remember details like that from nearly a week ago.”
“Well, it’s not so difficult. We have breakfast every day.”
“And you never met Mr. Hall yourself?”
“No.”
“But you knew your husband had met him?”
“I heard about the fact that he’d met him after Hall’s murder was all over the news.”
“So you were with your husband till he left here at about when?”
“Till I left. I left at six-thirty like I do every Friday.”
“Oh? You left?”
“I have a standing tennis lesson at my club every Friday at seven.”
“So, when you left, your husband was still here?”
“That’s right. Drinking three cups of coffee like he does every morning.”
“And was anyone else here with him?”
“Who would be here with him?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. A cleaning lady?”
“No. If the weather is nice, we usually go down to South Padre on the weekends, so our help doesn’t come in on Fridays.”