by Roslyn Woods
“Leo.”
“So you got out of the car?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“And you walked into the house?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“What happened once you were in the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you imagine might have happened?”
“I—the dogs were barking,” she answered slowly. “I started packing, and the dogs were barking. That’s all I’ve got.”
“You were packing? Why were you packing?”
“I guess I was going somewhere else.”
“Where else? Where would you have been going? Home?”
“I don’t know. No. I don’t think so. We were too messed up then.”
“But the dogs were barking.”
“Yes.”
“Where? Where were the dogs?”
“At the door.”
“The garage door?”
“The front door.”
Suddenly Shell was shivering, and the dizziness that had been an intermittent visitor since the kidnapping came over her. She clutched the arm of the leather sofa.
“Who was at the door?” Dr. Shapiro pressed.
“It was only the police.”
“Only?”
“I thought it was Dean. I saw Wilson in the porch light, and I thought he was Dean,” she said, tears filling her eyes.
Dr. Shapiro let the moment pass while her client got through it. “You wanted it to be Dean,” she said, finally.
“Of course,” Shell answered, “but I knew it couldn’t be him. That would have meant he wanted to listen to me. That would have meant he believed in me enough to hear me out.”
“And he wasn’t ready for that?”
“No, I guess not,” she answered bitterly.
“You’re still angry.”
“No. It’s all over now.”
“And yet, I sense some vexation.”
“No. I’m not vexed. I’m not,” Shell insisted. “That’s over. We’ve worked it out.”
“Okay. I’ll accept that for now,” Dr. Shapiro said gently. “We’re out of time, anyway, Shell. I think this was a good session. You’ve remembered something about that night.” She paused as Shell reached for her handbag. “How is the self-defense class coming?”
“Fine. It’s fine,” Shell answered, and she stood up. “Next time, then.”
“Yes. Next time. Take care, dear.”
Chapter 10
Thursday, August 6, 3:30 p.m.—Tavy
The keys were held together on a simple aluminum ring, and there were five of them, each with a label. House, Honda, Lake House, Gate, Studio.
Tavy stood on the front porch looking at the door with its Craftsman lines, its hammered copper knocker, its rectangular, levered door handle and deadbolt. These Craftsman homes had been all the rage in Portland for a while. Maybe everywhere.
From the road it looked larger than she had expected. It was the sort of house that was, except for the garage that was set back a bit, perfectly symmetrical from the front. There was a door in the middle with a large window on either side of it. She had taken in the porch in front, the steps leading directly to the entrance, and the stained glass details in the top panes of either window. Dragonflies and leaves.
The steps that led up to the porch were red brick, and the house itself was painted an olive green with darker green trim. The door had a cherry finish, and three small, rectangular windows at the top, too high for Tavy to see inside.
She looked at the keys in her palm, her heart racing, then back at the suitcases Rand Miller had deposited to the left of the door. It was time. She picked the key that was labeled House and pushed it into the lock. It turned easily, and she heard a satisfying snap as the bolt released and the door pushed open. She turned and waved at Rand who had said he’d wait in front till she was inside. He waved back.
Please go away. She knew he was only trying to be kind, but she needed him to give her some space.
It was cool and dark inside. The windows were covered by wooden shades that had been closed, and the paint on the walls was a deep color she couldn’t yet make out. She turned to a window and twisted the wand on the shade, allowing a little light into the room. The first thing she noticed was the fireplace. It was in the wall just opposite the door and was surrounded by a wood mantel carved with vines and leaves. The tile immediately around the mouth of the fireplace was a muted turquoise with little dragonflies printed into the clay.
There was a cognac, leather couch, and there were two arm chairs covered in a green and gold paisley brocade with burgundy and turquoise details. The round, wooden coffee table and end tables were cherry-stained oak, as was the Craftsman hutch against the north wall. Inside she could see pottery vases of all shapes and sizes glazed in tints of turquoise, salmon, green, and gold. The lamps on the end tables had hammered copper bases and had—all three of them—stained glass shades with a dragonfly theme.
Tavy sank onto one of the armchairs and stared into the house, taking in the shine on the wood floors and the painting over the mantel. Trees at sunset in tones of green, coral, and aqua. Even in the darkened room, she could see that the wall behind the painting had been painted her favorite color, a deep teal, and the total effect was one of taste and charm.
Perhaps I’m more like my father than I ever thought possible.
After a few moments she came to herself and realized she had left her luggage on the front porch. She went back out and pulled the cases into the area beside the entry. Then, leaving them there, she went to see the rest of the house.
The kitchen was beyond the fireplace wall. There were cherry-stained cabinets, an antique copper sink, and dark granite counters. The stove appeared to be a refurbished antique—a Wedgewood range that had been finished in a deep robin’s egg blue, and the modern refrigerator was the same color. Beyond the fridge was an opening in the wall to one side of a bank of cupboards revealing a dining room, and past the kitchen toward the back of the house was another large room.
Tavy imagined it had once been a sun porch, later enclosed with walls and large windows. It was air-conditioned and very pleasant! There was an easel and chair set up in such a way that the painter could look down on the lush garden from here, and there was a small wicker settee and coffee table near it.
The door that led out to the backyard was glass at the top. Even this window had a lovely stained glass dragonfly pattern in the top panes. Tavy walked to it and stood looking out before she opened it and stepped out into the Austin heat.
It was too hot to spend time in the garden now, she decided, but she wanted to see it. Raised beds contained verdant plants. She knew them all because of Mia and Tio. They had always grown a large vegetable garden, but this was different. The whole of the yard, perhaps two thousand square feet, was covered in raised beds with perfectly-tended gravel walkways. The beds themselves contained tomatoes and peppers, cucumbers and squash, green beans, okra, and sunflowers. Each time she turned a corner in the yard she saw another beautiful display, including citrus trees and a grape trellis whose red grapes hung over her head temptingly.
And then she turned a corner and nearly jumped out of her skin. Sitting before her, on a wooden bench, was a dark-haired girl, perhaps twelve years of age.
“Oh, my!” Tavy said, unconsciously putting a hand over her heart. “You scared me!”
“You scared me, too. And don’t talk so loud! I don’t want my dad to know I’m over here.”
“What?”
“My dad. I’m fed up with him and his rules, and I’m trying to stay away from him. Don’t worry. Ed doesn’t mind. He lets me come over here whenever I want.”
“What?” Tavy asked again, looking quizzically at the girl. She was wearing cutoff jeans and a pink tank top. Her tanned arms were dotted with freckles, and her bare feet were tucked under her knees on the bench. Flip flops had fallen haphazardly on the gravel underneath. The child’s face was a little red, and Tavy wondered if
she had been crying or if the heat was getting to her.
“Who are you, anyway?” the girl asked.
“I’m Tavy.”
“Well, I’m Madison,” she said. “Could we go inside? I tried the door a while ago, but it was locked. I’m roasting out here.”
Tavy didn’t know what to make of the child, but she was tempted to agree she should come inside. She did, indeed, appear to be overheating. Aside from her cheeks being quite pink, wisps of espresso-colored hair were stuck to the skin around her large, blue eyes.
“I only just arrived myself,” Tavy answered. “Edwin isn’t here.”
“No shit. He would’ve let me in,” said the girl. “He usually leaves the back open for me. I can show you around. How do you know him?”
“He’s—uh—a member of my family.”
“Oh. Well, let’s go in before we die,” Madison said, heading in the direction of Tavy’s new house. Then looking back she added, “By the way, cool tattoo! I love dragonflies!”
Tavy was at a complete loss. “Won’t your father mind?”
“He won’t. He loves the old guy. They’re buds. Old Ed is like family to me, too. Like a grandpa, really. He’ll be really glad we met.”
Tavy found herself following the slender child back into the house, noticing that she was only about an inch shorter than she was herself. “Maybe we should tell your dad,” she suggested doubtfully.
“Oh, he’ll figure it out soon enough,” Madison answered dismissively. “I’m just giving him time to cool off. He was pretty mad.”
“Why?” Tavy asked as they went in the back porch door.
“He says I’m too young to have a boyfriend. I told him that’s crazy! Every girl in my class either has a boyfriend or is in between boyfriends if she isn’t gay.”
“How old are you?” Tavy asked.
“Almost thirteen. Old enough, right?”
“Well, I don’t think I had a real boyfriend till I was at least fourteen.”
“Late bloomer, huh? Well, you turned out okay, Tavy. I’ll say that!”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll show you where everything is! Here’s the kitchen,” she announced with a laugh. “Like you didn’t know this is the kitchen!” she added while opening a cupboard door that revealed deep teal-colored drinking glasses. She took two out and put them on the granite counter and turned toward the refrigerator. “Let’s see if Florencia left us anything good in here.”
Madison opened the refrigerator and squealed with delight. “She did! I love that lady. Lemonade!” she said, looking back at Tavy. “If you check out the pantry you’ll find a canister with gingersnaps. Ed loves ’em!”
“Who’s Florencia?” Tavy asked.
“Cleaning lady. Sweetest lady ever!”
Tavy dutifully turned toward the only door that might lead to gingersnaps and opened it. It was a walk-in pantry with shelves on three sides. There were plenty of canned goods, and a few cereals and cellophane-wrapped pastas. She found a yellow canister and opened it. Sure enough, there were gingersnaps inside.
“You want ice in your glass?” Madison was asking.
“I guess so,” she answered. “Is there ice?”
“Of course there’s ice!” said the girl, and Tavy could hear the familiar sound of an ice dispenser grinding. “I personally like chipped ice. You want your lemonade on rocks or chips?”
“I don’t know. Rocks, I guess.”
“So, tell me about you,” Madison said, pulling a turquoise Fiestaware salad plate from one of the cabinets. Tavy could see that the air-conditioning was having a good effect on her. Her pink face was a little less rosy, and she pushed a long dark lock over her shoulder before she washed her hands at the sink.
“I want to know more about Ed first,” Tavy said, deciding it was time to take a little more control of the conversation.
“Ed? What do you want to know?” Madison dried her hands on a dish towel that was hanging on a hook by the sink before grabbing a handful of gingersnaps from the canister and plopping them on the plate. “We can sit in here,” she added, tilting her head toward the dining room before adding another handful of gingersnaps to the plate.
Tavy picked up the lemonade glass with “rocks” and followed her, noticing another hutch in the dining room, its shelves filled with turquoise, green, and persimmon-colored pottery and crystal glasses. Along the north wall, another cabinet, built in the same style, was apparently a liquor cabinet, the top boasting a lush Christmas cactus.
“Well, let’s see,” Tavy said, pausing. “When did you see him last?”
“Last week. I stay at my mom’s half the time, so I go a week at a time without seeing him,” Madison answered before popping a cookie in her mouth.
“I see,” said Tavy. So the girl probably didn’t know that Edwin Bishop had died because she had been away at her mother’s.
Just then, Tavy became aware of a man’s voice in the backyard. She looked at the girl who was making a face of mock horror. “Oh, shit! Hide me!”
That wasn’t going to happen, and she didn’t mean it anyway, because she didn’t move from where she was, just put another cookie in her mouth and picked up her glass.
“Madison! Madison!” They could hear the back door opening and the heavy steps of a man who was presumably Madison’s father. “Madison! You can’t just come over here and—”
Tavy turned wide eyes to look at him as he stood in the kitchen doorway facing the dining area.
“Hello,” she said, trying to smile.
He was tallish, maybe six-one. His nearly black hair was combed back from his suntanned face, and there was a hint of gray at his temples. His eyes were the same ocean-blue as Madison’s. When he spoke, his voice was deep.
“I—you—must be—Octavia?” he asked, apparently stunned.
“Yes. How did you know?” Tavy asked.
“Octavia?” Madison asked. “You’re Octavia?”
“Yes.”
The man continued to stare without speaking for another moment. “I’m so sorry!” he said. “Maddie just comes over here at will, never asks, and—I’m really sorry! It won’t happen again.”
“I didn’t mind,” Tavy said, standing up and extending her hand. “I go by Tavy.”
“Angus. Angus Kerr. Call me Gus,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Okay.”
“Okay. Glad to meet you, and again, I’m very sorry about this.”
“I meant it when I said I didn’t mind. Your daughter was very welcoming.”
“Right,” he said, signaling Madison by a tilt of his head that it was time to go.
“Well, we were just getting to know each other!” the girl said angrily. “She sure is nicer than you are! If Ed was here, he’d tell you to let me stay!”
Gus put a hand on the back of his neck and grimaced as if in pain. Then he took a breath and said, “Maddie, we need to go. I’ll talk to you about it when we get home.”
He gave Tavy another apologetic look and pulled the back of Maddie’s chair so she would get up. “Okay, okay!” she said, standing up, but openly pouting. Her father put his arm around her and was about to usher her out when she reached back and grabbed a few gingersnaps from the table.
“Maddie!” he said.
“She’s nice. You can see on her face she’s glad for a growing girl to have some cookies.”
“Really? Which is it? Are you growing, or are you grown?” he asked.
Madison rolled her eyes in disgust, shook her father’s hand off her shoulder and walked out the back door ahead of him. She hadn’t relinquished the gingersnaps.
Gus started to follow but looked back at Tavy, “We won’t be coming in and out your back door like this. Ed—Ed had a sort of open door policy with us and we got used to—Anyway, I just want to assure you—”
“Please don’t worry about it. I hope we can talk again sometime,” Tavy said.
“Okay, then,” Gus responded, and he turned to go.
; She followed as far as the sunporch and watched them make their way through the vegetable garden to the back fence. Gus opened a gate there that Tavy hadn’t noticed before, and he and his daughter went through, closing it behind them.
He hadn’t said how he knew her name.
Chapter 11
Thursday, August 6, 3:30 p.m.—Shell
Ella Montagne was right. Two days after their phone conversation, Shell watched the glass entry door of the gallery open and Sergeant Gilbert Gonzalez and Detective Thomas Wilson walk in.
She was standing behind the elbow-high, gray marble countertop, staring dumbfounded at the officers. Gonzalez stood just above medium height, with graying black hair, while Wilson was Dean’s height—about 6’3”— and muscular with a sandy-colored crewcut. When the hospital administrator had said that the police might contact her, the homicide detectives she’d had to deal with only two months earlier were the last people Shell had expected to see.
“You just can’t seem to stay out of trouble, can you, Miss Hodge?” asked the sergeant.
Shell had been involved in several investigations since she had moved to Austin, and each time, Gilbert Gonzalez had been part of it. A wave of dread washed over her as she looked at him.
“It seems to find me,” she answered. “What kind of trouble have I wandered into now?”
“Is Billie Morrison here, too?” Gonzalez asked, ignoring her question and glancing around at the creamy walls and colorful paintings in their immediate vicinity.
“Yes, he’s in the conference room, and Leo should be here in an hour.”
The fifty-year-old sergeant was well aware of who her partners at the gallery were. The three of them had been involved in a complicated murder case of his quite recently.
“We need to talk to you and Morrison. Parisi wasn’t here when the old man came in Monday night, was he?”
“No.”
“Just you and Morrison, then.”
“Someone has to handle the gallery while we talk to you. I’ll call Leo and see if I can hurry him up. Can you wait a few minutes?”