by Roslyn Woods
And what kind of friend was he being to Ed by not letting her apologize? Here he was with an opportunity to help his best friend’s daughter, and he was treating her as if she were unforgivable for coming to a logical conclusion. He was the one who should be apologizing, trying to help her understand.
If he was honest, he’d have to admit to himself that his overreaction to her distrust was rooted in the fact that he found her to be extremely appealing.
No, not just appealing, he thought. I’m completely bowled over, and it scares the hell out of me.
It was a realization he had been resisting. All these years since the divorce, he had avoided everything beyond friendship with women. No one had tempted him to unsettle his home. Maddie was pretty much in charge of the way things were done at his house, and she should always feel the comfort of knowing nothing would change with her dad.
And that’s the way it’s going to stay, he decided, trying to calm himself.
His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at the holder on the dash where it lit up. Amy. He wouldn’t answer.
Amy Clauson, the new teacher at ACC with the big brown eyes, had asked him for a ride to Corpus Christi. How old was she? Maybe twenty-seven? To him, she seemed just a little older than Maddie. It seemed she had developed a crush on him, and he didn’t know quite how to deal with it. “Sorry, but I’ll probably be leaving the gathering early,” he had said. “I wouldn’t want you to be depending on a ride from me.”
“It’s okay,” she had replied. “I can get a ride back with one of the other teachers.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I have a sick friend, and I don’t know at what point I may have to turn around and go back to Austin,” he had lied. “I wouldn’t want you to be stuck in the car with me. You’d miss the meetings. New teachers really need to be there. Let me ask around and find you a more dependable ride,” he had offered. Surely she would take the hint.
“Oh, okay,” she had said, downcast. “I’m really sorry about your friend.”
Then he had called one of the older teachers. Millie. Good old Millie had immediately agreed to give Amy a ride. “Oh, what a great idea. She can help me drive,” she had said.
Gus didn’t even feel guilty about hurting the girl’s feelings. He only felt bad about Tavy. Tavy, with the caramel-colored hair and those conscious, green eyes.
Was she safe? He had convinced himself that she’d be fine with new locks on all the doors and Blue there to protect her. But he shouldn’t have left. He should have cancelled, gotten someone else to facilitate the meetings, said he had an emergency. He wondered if, even now, Millie would handle it. No. He couldn’t do that at this late hour. Not before getting himself down there and getting the first meetings for everyone started. Then he could go home. He really wanted to be home right now.
Along about San Marcos he pulled the car off the I-35 and parked in a Starbucks parking lot so he could walk around and get over a wave of nausea. Every time he thought of Ed being poisoned, of himself being the one who mixed his afternoon drinks, it hit him. He’d been doling out a daily dose of death, and he blamed himself. Why hadn’t he seen the signs?
He had. He had just thought they meant something else—something he couldn’t convince Ed to get checked with a doctor. Why hadn’t he insisted? What kind of friend had he been? An awful one. A really, really awful friend.
He went back over to the car and took his phone from its holder on the dash. He would call Tavy’s landline. At least he could check on her, tell her he was sorry about last night. Ask her if Blue was being a bother. And then he was pacing beside the Toyota Sequoia, counting the times the phone rang. Four, five, six…Please leave a message after the tone.
“Hey, Tavy,” he said. “If you’re there, would you pick up? It’s Gus.” He waited. Nothing. It was pretty early. Where was she?
He remembered overhearing Rand Miller as he’d left the house on Friday, how he had suggested she call him if she needed anything at all. That guy just irked him. Sure, she was Ed’s daughter, and maybe that did make her Miller’s client, but he could sense Miller’s attraction to her, and he didn’t like the idea one bit.
And now I’ve driven her right to him, he thought.
He dialed the landline again, waited for the voicemail message, “Hey, me again. Listen, I’m really sorry about the way I acted last night. I hope you’re doing okay today. I hope Blue isn’t being any trouble. Maybe we can talk later. I’ll call you.”
Then he got back in the car and headed for Corpus Christi.
Chapter 39
Monday, August 10, 3:15 p.m.—Shell
The University of Texas held good memories for Shell. A feeling of nostalgia came over her as she stepped into the office of Gloria Moreno, the professor and advisor who had helped her complete her master’s degree six years earlier.
Dr. Moreno was a heavy-set woman in her mid-sixties with a round face and a certain style that could only be thought of as artsy. The sheer, silk tunic she wore over her denim skirt floated a little when she walked around her desk to hug Shell. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “It’s been too long!”
“Yes, I know. I keep telling myself I should come by,” said Shell, “but then, it doesn’t happen! I know you’re busy, too.”
“Yes, but never too busy to stop what I’m doing for you, Michelle. I heard the opening for Evelyn Jameson went well, and I was sorry I couldn’t attend. I keep hearing wonderful things about that new gallery of yours!”
“Yeah? Well, thanks. It’s been pretty upsetting really, since Garrett died.”
“Yes, I know. But we move on. Garrett would want you to do that, wouldn’t he?”
“I guess so.”
The older woman signaled Shell to sit in the chair across from her desk, and she did, while glancing around the office for new things posted there. It hadn’t changed much.
“Have you begun to recover from—” Dr. Moreno paused, searching for words as she seated herself behind the big desk.
“The kidnapping?” Shell asked. “Yes, sure.”
“Somehow, you’re not convincing me.”
The younger woman looked at her former professor for a few moments before answering. “I still have some—I don’t know what to call them—panic attacks, I guess.”
“Are you seeing a counselor?”
“Yes. And taking a self-defense class. Anyway, I think time is what helps people most. That’s what I’ve read.”
“I’m not sure that’s right. It sounds like you’re experiencing post-traumatic stress. It’s real. It’s not something that just goes away.”
“Hmm.”
“You have to take care of yourself.”
“I think I have to conquer it.”
“Yes, if you can, but don’t expect to just fix it. You’re going to carry it around for a while.”
“Anyway,” Shell said, hoping to change the subject, “I need to ask you about a couple of other things.”
“Okay.”
“First,” Shell said, pushing a wisp of blond hair from her face, “we’d like to know if you have any graduate students who’d be interested in working at the gallery. We’re sorely missing Margie!”
“Yes, I imagine. She must have had the baby.”
“Yes, a beautiful little boy.”
“I’m glad for her,” the professor said.
“Anyway, we can’t pay much, but I would think it would be a good experience for anyone planning to go on with their art.”
“Let’s see, I do think I have a couple of possibilities for you. I’ll check with them. How many positions, and what kind of hours?”
“Two or three positions. We’re open ten to eight Monday through Saturday, but we can be flexible to make their work fit their schedules. Whenever they can come in, we can probably use them. We’ve worn ourselves a little thin having to cover every hour between the three of us since Margie quit.”
“I can imagine. I’ll call you about this after I check.
You said there was something else you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes,” Shell answered slowly. “I want to ask you about someone you might have met a few years ago—someone who died recently.”
“Oh?” Dr. Moreno asked.
“Yes,” Shell answered. “Did you ever meet Edwin Baird?”
“Edwin Baird? Not the artist who disappeared back in the eighties!”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t heard about his death. In fact, I didn’t know he was still alive. I thought he might have died years ago.”
“No, he died quite recently. A week ago today, in fact, and right here in Austin.”
“It wasn’t in the papers?”
“No. It’s been deemed a suspicious death, probably a murder. I think the police are keeping it quiet. I’m trying to learn what I can about his history. I suppose an announcement will come out soon, but his identity is confusing.”
Dr. Moreno leaned back in her office chair and looked at Shell for a few seconds before she spoke.
“Why?” she asked. “Why is it confusing?”
“Because he used a pseudonym for painting. His real name was Bishop.”
“I see. I didn’t know, but why are you so interested?”
“Because I met him just before he died. I’m trying to help his daughter with some loose ends. We really don’t know why he dropped out so long ago, and his daughter didn’t know him at all. It’s a complicated story.”
Dr. Moreno nodded slowly. “I met him once when I was still a graduate student in Ann Arbor. The university had brought him to speak at a dinner that was given for the grad students in the art department. I remember he wouldn’t allow pictures to be taken, and I really wanted one. He was already becoming famous in the art world, and he was very attractive. It was all hush-hush that he came to speak to us at all. Of course, back then, no one had cell phones with cameras, so making a stipulation like no pictures at a private gathering wasn’t as hard as it is today.”
“So you met him.”
“Yes, just the once. I thought his work was amazing, but it wasn’t long after—maybe two more years—that he dropped out. No one knew where he’d gone.”
“No one? He lived right here in Austin! Surely there were people here at UT who knew him!”
“Yes, likely there were, but they’re not here now, and I wasn’t here then. That was thirty years ago! It’s possible old Dr. Ellis might know something about him, though. I can give you his number. He retired after his wife died—ten or twelve years ago.”
“Thanks. I’d just like to get some answers.”
“I’m glad if I can help. I hope he knows something,” Dr. Moreno answered. She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a card before copying down a name and number on the back of one of her own cards. Handing it to Shell, she said, “Here you go. You want to see him today?”
“If I can.”
“I’ll call ahead to let him know you’ll be coming by his place.”
Just then, someone knocked on the door. Dr. Moreno stood up and added apologetically, “That’ll be my four o’clock. I’m sure the words independent study must bring back some memories for you! I guess I have to get back to work.”
“Oh, too bad. Yes, I do remember those days. Funny, it doesn’t seem so long ago!” Shell said, standing up.
“Because it was really only a few years. Five, if I’m counting right,” the professor answered, coming around the desk.
“I hope to see you again soon, then,” Shell said.
“Yes. Please remember to come by again, Michelle. And let me know if you’ve had any luck.”
Christopher Ellis lived south of Enfield and slightly east of Mopac in a Colonial Revival home with a circle drive, a lush, green lawn, and an enormous oak tree that shaded the entire front yard. The two story structure was white with a symmetrical design, and the doorway was flanked by sidelights that sparkled in the dappled sunlight.
Dean might not approve of the wasted water it took to keep the large lawn green, Shell mused, but it was rather pretty to look at, and it made the place feel cooler than most parts of town during the hottest part of summer. She rang the bell in front of a large, black door with its decorative crown pediment, the sound of a small dog barking as she waited.
She needn’t have been intimidated. The old professor himself opened the door. He was a slim man of medium height, completely bald, and his brown eyes were intelligent.
“Miss Hodge?” he asked as the little dog barked beside him.
“That’s right,” Shell answered, judging the man to be nearing eighty. “Dr. Ellis?”
“Yes. You’ve found the right place. Please come in,” he said. “Hush now, Bailey!” he added. “You’ll have to excuse my very scary watchdog, Miss Hodge.”
The chestnut-colored chihuahua stopped barking and wagged his tail.
“Easily done,” Shell answered. “We all need watchdogs, I think.”
“Yes, I agree,” he said, gesturing for her to come inside.
It was a large house with the kind of spiral staircase Shell remembered from Gone With the Wind descending into the foyer.
“Gloria told me you were one of her favorite students from years gone by,” he was saying as he motioned for her to follow him into a large, sunny-yellow sitting room. The coffee table had a low bowl of yellow roses in its center, and the general interior had the look of a photograph from Elle Decor.
“That was kind of her,” Shell said, noticing a large and beautiful, life-sized portrait of a woman over the fireplace. She was young, dark-haired and striking in a long white gown, and the depiction appeared to be an example of perfect draftsmanship combined with an impressionistic paint treatment. The pose made Shell think of Whistler’s Symphony in White, but the paint and colors were more like Sargent’s Lady Agnew.
“And she said something about Edwin Baird,” he added, signaling toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She sat in the blue and white wing-backed chair beside an end table that held a lamp with a base that looked like a poodle.
“May I get you something to drink?” Dr. Ellis asked.
“Oh no. I’ve just had something,” Shell answered. “I really just need to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Well, it’s nearly five! I want something, you see, and I hate to drink alone.” He smiled as he turned to a bar a few steps away, a mahogany piece with a silver tray on top. It held several crystal decanters and a couple of labeled bottles containing what appeared to be scotch and vodka. “Vodka tonic? Or just tonic water? Club soda?” he asked as the little dog wagged his tail and looked on expectantly.
“Tonic water would be nice,” Shell answered.
“Good,” he said as he dispensed ice from a bucket into two crystal cocktail glasses and proceeded to pour the drinks. His own received a liberal dose of vodka. “And I’m afraid you get nothing, Bailey,” he said apologetically to the dog.
In a short while, he turned and handed a glass to Shell.
“Thank you.”
Dr. Ellis lifted his glass slightly. “To Edwin,” he said.
Shell smiled and nodded at him before sipping the drink. “You knew him?” she asked after a moment.
The man seated himself in a stuffed yellow club chair opposite Shell and took a sip of his drink, the dog seating himself beside him and staring at Shell. “In a manner of speaking,” the former professor said. “Edwin Baird was more of an acquaintance than a friend, but I liked the fellow well enough. I hadn’t heard of his death before Gloria called just now.”
“You actually knew him? I was thinking maybe you would have seen him around, but actually knowing him!”
“Yes, the man himself!”
“So, can you tell me what you knew about his real name and his decision to change it?”
“No. Did he change his name?” the professor asked, his brows drawn together.
“Well, yes. His real name was Bishop. Edwin Bish
op. He used Baird as a painting name after he moved to Austin.”
“How did you learn that?”
“I met his daughter and looked into his background. He went to school in San Francisco at California College of Arts and Crafts.”
“I never knew where he went to school,” the professor answered, “but CCA makes sense, since he came from California. I knew he’d studied with Hanson Puthuff privately. I could see the influence, though he had his own style, too, and his portraits were really more like Sargent than anyone else.”
“Really?”
“As you can see,” said the man, gesturing toward the painting over the fireplace beside them.
“Is that—” Shell began, stopping to think and staring at the piece above them, “—is that his?”
“Oh, yes. He thought my wife would be a good subject. As you can see, she was.”
“Stunning.”
“But I always wished I’d painted it. She loved that painting. It was a little hard on me, being an artist, that another man painted her better than I ever could.”
“I suppose that could be difficult.”
“What’s more, he gave us the painting. Wouldn’t let me give him a dime for it,” he said, swirling the clear liquid and ice in his glass and staring at it. “I tried later, you know. I wanted to at least pay for it. But by then—by then he was already becoming known, having shows in New York. I couldn’t have paid him what it was worth. Not till later. Not till my mother died.”
So Christopher Ellis had inherited. It explained a professor having a fine home in one of the best neighborhoods Austin had to offer.
“I suppose you and Edwin Baird discussed your work with each other?”
“Some. He and I showed our work together with some other artists at The Pecan Street Gallery. That was before the world fell down and kissed his feet. After that, Edwin Baird was wanted everywhere, and our little gallery was—just the place he started, I guess.”