by Roslyn Woods
“Why?”
“I just think we do. He lied about coming into the gallery on Tuesday.”
“Okay. Point him out to me.”
They headed into the main gallery, Shell searching the thickening crowd for Dean as she looked for the white-haired man.
“Where?” Billie asked.
“He’s over there by the orange and red pieces.”
“Hmm,” Billie answered under his breath. “He does look familiar. I think I did see him at the hospital.”
“Keep an eye on him, would you? I have to go call Dean.”
“Why’s that? Shell, are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry, sweetie!”
“Of course I’m okay. I’m just a little worried about Dean. He said he’d get here early, and he’s forty-five minutes late!”
“Oh, honey, he’ll get here in a minute. There’s probably traffic.”
“Not on surface streets. It’s well past five—seven-fifteen in fact! Something’s delaying him.”
“Okay. But stop worrying. It’s Friday! There are any number of reason’s he could be delayed! He’s fine. Go call him and drink a glass of wine!”
“I will,” she said shakily as she turned to go back toward the conference room.
“Well, look at that!” said Billie happily. “Look who just walked in!”
Shell looked toward the door at that moment, relief flooding her as Dean scanned the crowd and caught sight of her. She stood still and watched as he sifted his way through a group that had stopped near the door.
“Hey there,” he said as he reached her. “Sorry I’m late. The Dell guy just wouldn’t leave, and I had a hard time—Shell, what’s wrong?”
Billie was smiling and turning to talk to a guest, forever the host enjoying the party, and Shell was too relieved at the sight of Dean to worry that Billie had forgotten to keep an eye on the old man.
She slipped her arms around her fiancé for a moment. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Honey, you’re shaking,” he said quietly, pushing her away so he could look at her face, then taking her hand and drawing her to the hallway that led toward the conference room. She allowed him to lead her there, and then beyond it to the office. Dean flicked on the light. They went inside and he drew her into his arms. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I was just—”
“You’re still trembling,” he said, lifting her chin so he could look into her tear-filled eyes. “It’s something,” he insisted. “Tell me.”
“I—I guess I started freaking when I realized you were late. I know it’s not sensible—I just started noticing my heart beating a little too fast. That’s all.”
“And now?”
“Don’t make me explain it any more,” she said, laying her face against his chest.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry I was late. I should have called or texted or something. I just didn’t think you needed me since you said there would be food, and I figured I’d be in plenty of time to see the show.”
“It’s okay, Dean. I’m fine,” she repeated, but she could still feel her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Did you eat?”
“Not yet. It’s been busy.”
“Stay here. I’ll bring you something.”
She sat on the desk as Dean left the room, taking deep breaths and willing herself to calm down. Against the wall beside her she suddenly noticed Edwin Baird’s portfolio—the clear imprint of the letters EB on the side—reminding her that Tavy was to come into the gallery tonight, and causing her a moment’s consternation. Had Billie been looking at the portfolio again? It should be locked safely away. She looked through the open door into the hall and noticed movement there.
“Dean?” she asked, approaching the opening.
Once at the door she saw the white-haired man she had spoken with earlier. Mr. Smith. He appeared to be looking at a painting hanging on the wall outside the office door, and she wondered if he had been looking into the office.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“No, no. I’m just admiring this landscape,” he said, his voice gravelly.
Why does Billie get so distracted?
“It’s not part of the Jameson show. The things in the hallway were all painted by the gallery owners and tend to stay up.”
“This one’s very good. Very much in the tradition of the California Impressionists. Someone named Hodge? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“I like it better than the other stuff,” he answered, turning to walk down the hall toward the entry and stopping briefly to look at one of Leo’s paintings while Shell frowned after him.
She turned back into the office and walked around the desk. In the left hand desk drawer she found the closet key on a coiled, purple bracelet. She picked it up, stepped over to the closet, and unlocked it before picking up the portfolio and carefully setting it inside with the stored paintings. Then she locked the door again.
I must have a word with Billie about being more careful, she thought.
In a couple of minutes Dean was back. “This isn’t a meal, but it will help,” he said, handing her a plate with some cheese and grapes on it.
“Thanks. That actually looks good.”
“And we can go out for a late meal when this is over.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll have dinner after ten like the Europeans,” he said, smiling at her.
It was another twenty minutes before Shell was herself again, her heart rate normal. She noticed when the old man left the gallery, and that seemed to help in calming her nerves. Soon she was doing her job again, mingling with the different guests, and generally making sure that everyone was having an enjoyable time.
She checked on Gino and the servers and occasionally took a sip from her wine glass. The pretty purple coil of the closet key around her wrist gave her a sense of security about the portfolio while she enjoyed the party. Now she was talking to Evelyn Jameson and her husband while Dean conversed with some of the art lovers in the crowd. Leo and Billie were definitely networking, and several visitors were talking about purchases when Shell heard Dean saying something unexpected.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!”
She turned to behold a tall man, nearly as tall as Dean, with a full head of dark hair, just graying at the temples, standing beside Octavia Bishop.
“Why, Dean! You old scoundrel,” the man was answering, with a laugh, “I guess these Austin art shows’ll just let any old cowboy in!”
The two men were shaking hands heartily and smiling. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Octavia Bishop,” the man added.
“Tavy, this is my friend Dean Maxwell. He’s also one of the trainers in my Schutzhund club.”
Dean was shaking Tavy’s hand and exchanging pleasantries while Shell was extricating herself from her conversation with the Jamesons. In a moment she approached them and Dean put his arm around her.
“Gus, Octavia,” he said, “this is Shell Hodge, my fiancée.”
The two women were smiling. “Tavy and I met earlier today,” Shell said, “but I’m happy to meet again, and I’m also happy to meet you, Gus.”
“Likewise,” he said, his eyes going more serious. Of course, he knew the reason for Tavy’s visit here tonight, and Shell guessed it was he who had taken her to the morgue this afternoon.
“We were just admiring the beautiful colors in the paintings of your featured artist,” Tavy said cordially.
“Yes, I like her colors very much, too,” Shell replied. Then in a lower voice she added, “Maybe you and Gus can take in the show for a few minutes and we can leave a little early to talk. I’ll have my partners lock up without me.”
“Yes,” Dean chimed in. “In fact, Shell and I are going to grab a bite when this winds down. Probably just something light down the street. Would you like to join us?”
Gus looked at Tavy, a question in his eyes.
“It’s great by me,”
he said, “if you’re up for it.”
“Of course,” she replied.
Chapter 21
Friday, August 7, 9 p.m.—Shell
Shell felt a little disloyal to Mary Anne when she gave business to Halcyon, but it couldn’t be helped tonight. Jensen’s Bakery wasn’t open after seven p.m., and Shell and Dean didn’t want to ask Gus and Tavy to try to park somewhere new in the downtown area. Halcyon was a short walk from the gallery.
The nine-o’clock hubbub of the place was milder than Shell had expected, so that was good. The four sat at a table near the west door of the establishment, Shell and Dean facing the main part of the lounge across from their companions, light glistening off the bottles behind the bar and generally complementing the sparkle of the patrons. Austin’s nighttime crowd differed greatly from that of the daytime.
In the downtown environment, Shell had a new view of Tavy. She liked her, but—looking at her tonight—she realized that this woman with the sensitive green eyes wasn’t in a very strong state. Though lovely, she looked worried and edgy. Maybe it was the fact that she had visited the morgue this afternoon, or maybe it was coming to Austin for the first time and being bombarded with the fact that someone had poisoned her father. Whatever it was, Shell wondered how much more she could take. She feared giving her even more to worry about, but there was the issue of her safety to consider. Someone had killed Edwin Baird, and Shell thought it was likely his death had something to do with his work and the art in his home.
“How’s Blue doing?” Dean was asking Gus. Shell thought it was a lucky coincidence that the two men were already acquainted through dog training. Later she would be able to get Dean’s read on Gus’s character. For now, she would have to be careful about what she said in front of him.
“Great. We’ve been practicing her attack commands.”
Dean laughed. “Now if there was just something to attack!”
Gus smiled. “She has a sweet nature, but her instincts are protective, too, so she enjoys learning Schutzhund. How’s Sadie?”
“She’s fine. You know, she’s also doing search and rescue. That group meets once a month. It’s been a great outlet for her. Maybe Blue would like that, too.”
“I’ll bet she would,” said Gus. “You’ll have to give me the meetup information.”
Shell didn’t want to think about it. If Sadie hadn’t done both Schutzhund and search and rescue, she herself might not be sitting here tonight. As far as she was concerned, Sadie had saved her life twice, though Dean had also played a huge role in her recent rescue.
“And your gardens?” he was asking, probably realizing that talking about Sadie’s training was reminding Shell of her kidnapping.
“They’re doing great,” Gus answered. “It’s pretty hot, so the tomatoes aren’t setting fruit right now. I’m still harvesting some, but after a week or two I’ll have to wait for the temperature to go down to get the fall crop.”
“So you grow a garden, too?” Shell asked, looking at Gus and trying to smile, trying to get her thoughts focused on something other than her kidnapping.
“He does,” Tavy—directly across from Shell—answered for him. “He even grows vegetables at my father’s house!”
“Well,” said Dean, “it’s a much better use of space than lawn! Shell and I are thinking about reducing our grass so we can expand the vegetable garden. My sister cans for all of us, so we’re able to stock up on most of the things we grow, and our friends are benefiting from organic food. This year, we weren’t able to use all the tomatoes Margie canned last August.”
“Maybe you’d like to donate to our project,” Gus said.
“What’s your project?” Shell asked.
“Food is Free,” he said. “It’s a collective of gardeners who provide food for people who need it. We’ve just recently connected with a group that makes meals for the homeless, so our canned vegetables won’t go to waste,” he added. “These folks make soups and stews all winter, and in spring and summer they provide some of the best salads the city’s got to offer!”
“Eat your heart out, pricey restaurants!” Dean laughed. “Let me know how to join. I’d like to be part of that,” he said, glancing at Shell.
“It sounds wonderful,” she added.
They all ordered beverages and sandwiches, and Shell wondered if it was going to be awkward to try and talk to Tavy about anything serious tonight. Maybe it wasn’t as urgent a matter as she had at first thought. Tavy would be staying at a hotel until tomorrow, so there was little likelihood of her being in any immediate danger. The house had been there for a long time without any apparent theft, and right now, whoever had killed Edwin Baird was probably aware of the fact that the house had been designated as a crime scene. It was likely to be left alone till things settled down, wasn’t it?
Shell looked across the table at her new friend, puzzling about how much to tell her just as Dean and Gus started discussing the finer points of composting the best garden soil. She leaned forward.
“I’m sorry this isn’t turning out to be the best time to talk about anything,” she said quietly.
Tavy nodded as if she agreed. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“I wish I could, but Dean and I are going to a wedding over in Galveston. We won’t be back till late Sunday night.”
“Could we meet Monday?” Tavy asked.
“Yes, sure.” What more should she say before then?
The men were having their own conversation, but Shell didn’t want to say much in front of Gus. She leaned across the small table and whispered, “I was quite taken with the painting over your fireplace,” looking very directly at her new friend.
It was code, and she hoped that it would be enough to make Tavy aware of the fact that she should look into the attribution of everything on the walls in her father’s house. Perhaps it would be easier on her to learn about her new home if she did some of the research herself.
“Yes,” she answered, frowning. “I like it, too.”
Shell bit her lip. “So yes, let’s get together Monday. Shall I come by, or should we meet?”
“Why don’t I come to the gallery and we go to lunch from there?”
“Good idea.”
So it was settled, and the evening went on with no revelations at all.
Chapter 22
Saturday, August 8, 7:36 a.m.—Tavy
Tavy awakened with a start. Where was she? Light was peeking into the room from somewhere, and she could hear the vague whine of water running through pipes deep in the wall behind her head. Oh yes, she was in a hotel in Austin, Texas, and her whole life had been turned on its head. How late was it?
She turned slowly and blinked at the green numbers on the clock on the nightstand. 7:36. She’d had a fitful night of sleep, not really drifting into a real slumber until about five a.m., but this had been the least interrupted sleep she’d had since hearing about her father’s death last Tuesday afternoon. Two and a half hours.
She sat up on the side of the enormous bed and rubbed her head, the headache she’d had yesterday still with her. First, a shower. Then she would call the police station.
She slipped her feet into the sandals she’d left beside the nightstand and padded over to the desk where her phone had been charging all night. Three messages.
One was from Mia and had come in at two a.m.—only midnight in Portland’s time zone—but Tavy still smiled for a moment. Mia was a night owl in spite of all her efforts to become a morning person. Right now, the time difference made it too early to call her back. Call me in the morning, Mia had written. I’m worried about you.
The second message was from Sgt. Gonzalez. We’ve finished with your house. Please come by my office to pick up the keys.
The third message was from Chad Baker, the man Tavy had been seeing off and on back in Portlnad. I can’t stand it that you’re gone. When can I come and see you? I can get a flight tomorrow. Please call me.
Tavy texted Mia: I’m fine. I have a busy morn
ing. I’ll call you tonight. Don’t worry about me. Everything is fine.
She wanted to ignore Chad’s message. Hadn’t she told him their relationship was going nowhere? Why couldn’t he see she was never going to fall in love with him?
I need to be here on my own, Chad. Thanks for being a friend. I’ll call you when I get back to Portland.
He messaged back immediately. Don’t you think you could use some help?
This time she did ignore him. What was left to say? Leave me alone?
An hour later Tavy was sitting in the Starbucks on the ground floor of the hotel. People were exiting the elevator and walking through the Starbucks on their way into Dine for breakfast. Dine—the place she’d had lunch with Gus just yesterday.
It must be some kind of conference, she decided, from everyone’s mode of dress. Men in suits and ties and women in dress slacks or skirts with jackets and high heels. Their clothes made her think of Gus’s decidedly casual approach to dress. She liked his Levis and western-cut shirts. Even his cowboy boots seemed appealing, and she wondered for a moment when that change had entered her perspective.
Looking at the clientele of this hotel made her glad she wasn’t here for a conference. She wasn’t sorry to be sitting here in cotton capris and a lemon-colored tank top. Her attire was much more appropriate to the Austin climate than the garments of the business world.
She had attended plenty of conferences as an educator, but these folks looked more like the movers and shakers of commerce. She couldn’t imagine that it would be pleasant work, but then, she thought ruefully, it was probably more fun than being involved in her father’s murder investigation.
Gus had offered to pick her up this morning, but she had told him she needed to do a few things on her own. There was something about Gus. He kept popping into her thoughts. It had been a long time since she had trusted a man, and he was a little too perfect as far as she could tell. The fact that she found him attractive was somewhat disconcerting. There was certainly enough going on in her life that was disconcerting. She didn’t need to develop an infatuation with her neighbor.