by Roslyn Woods
“How long has it been?”
“Since the breakup? Seven years.”
“You moved here?”
“I took an apartment for about a year. Then I found this house and started working on it and got a dog I thought would be good for Maddie.”
“It’s surprising you haven’t found someone new.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“But you don’t know that I haven’t—only that one marriage was enough for me.”
“Ah,” he said, a little downcast. He must still be thinking about his inability to get sole custody of his daughter. “I’ve been set up by friends a few times. I never met anyone I was willing to risk bothering Maddie with. She’s pretty relaxed at my house—sees every nook and cranny as hers. I’m afraid that would change if there was someone serious.”
“Yes, I think that’s wise,” Tavy said, lifting her glass to take in the aroma of the wine.
It was wise. He was making it clear he didn’t intend to get seriously interested in anyone. The wine and orchids were a peace offering. That was all. And maybe he pitied her.
“This smells good,” she said.
“Let’s see if it is any good,” said Gus, nodding at her briefly, then taking a sip. He made a face that seemed to say he liked it. “See what you think.”
She tried it and nodded.
“You said you were going to tell me about your strange day,” Gus said, surprising Tavy by abruptly changing the topic. “Was it just Maddie and Rhoda?”
“No. I met Rand Miller at the studio this morning. We couldn’t get in. It seems my father changed the entry codes to the building and studio.”
“He didn’t tell Miller?” Gus asked. “Why does that please me?”
“He didn’t tell him, but Rand said they had made an appointment to meet on Wednesday. Of course, my father died Monday night, so Rand never got the new codes. If he’s telling the truth.”
“You doubt him?”
“I don’t know that I doubt him. I just don’t trust him yet. Why does it please you?”
“Because he’s made it clear he has no respect for me and the people I’m working with. I’m not the radical left wing, but he is the radical right.”
“What?”
“He’s not sympathetic with the idea of growing food for people, and that’s just the beginning of what he’s not sympathetic with.”
“Named for Ayn Rand, you think?”
“He probably named himself!” He smiled, slightly amused, and fell silent.
“We’ll probably have to get a court order to open the studio, but it will be a while,” Tavy said.
“Unless you can find the passcode or figure it out?”
“I’ve got nothing to go on.”
Gus was thinking, not saying much. “Is that it? Is that your whole, strange day?”
“No. I had lunch with Shell Hodge, and later I took Blue to Zilker.”
“Well, both of those things seem nice.”
“Except I noticed a gray Cadillac at the park. I’d seen one before. Several times—parked on the street here and then I saw the one at Zilker. I thought it was too much. It’s not a new car, so it seemed weird to me to keep running into it. I drove past it and saw the driver, and he looked familiar, too. I thought I might have seen him at the gallery the other night. Anyway, it’s possible he’s following me.”
Gus stood up and went to the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the porch. Tavy and Blue went after and stood beside him in the dark, Blue whining a little.
“You see the car now?” he asked, looking up and down the street.
Tavy looked. Gus’s car was parked on the curb in front of the house, and in either direction there were cars parked. Two pickups and several sedans. No gray Cadillac.
“No,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be alone. I don’t know what this is about, but I shouldn’t have left you completely alone today.”
“You left Blue with me. Besides, you can’t be taking care of me.”
“Why not?”
“Because—because it’s—”
“It’s perfectly normal for a friend to watch out for a friend. Your dad wouldn’t want me to leave you alone after someone tried—”
There it was again. He was making it clear that the friendship was about his loyalty to her father. She was glad she had implied there was someone in Portland that she was involved with. She didn’t want him seeing her as a pathetic, lonely woman.
“He wouldn’t want me to be left alone? He left me alone all my life.”
“Were you really alone?”
“Well—no. I was with Mia and Tio.”
“Did they provide you with a normal family life?”
“I guess I have to answer yes to that, but I worried until I was grown that my mother would take me away from them.”
“But she never did.”
“No.”
“And if she had, maybe your father would have intervened.”
“How?”
“I think he kept tabs on you all the time, Tavy.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on the things he said about you, the trips he took to Portland, the pictures he had of you.”
“You think he was stalking me?”
“Is it stalking when you take a picture with a zoom lens of your own child? I’m just guessing, but I imagine that’s what he did. Maybe he hired an investigator to watch out for you, too. He left you with people who loved you and could provide you with a normal, family life. What you had was probably far better than what Maddie’s getting. Maybe he was wrong, but it’s possible he was doing the best thing he knew to do.”
“So why ignore me all my life?”
“I don’t know, but there’s a reason.”
Chapter 45
Tuesday, August 11, 10 a.m.—Shell
It was a cloudy and muggy ninety-eight degrees on Tuesday morning when Shell got to work. Rain was in the forecast, and she was fairly sure it wouldn’t last long, but it was vaguely depressing to have the sky dark. They had only had a few visitors to view the gallery since ten, and Billie and Leo were both there, having one of their occasional disagreements. They were snippy, and the air in the gallery was tense with their unspoken resentment.
“I think I’ll go next door for a while and talk to Mary Anne,” Shell said at 11:45, just after Billie closed the drawer behind the reception counter with unnecessary force. “I forgot to pack my lunch,” she added, “so I think I’ll have one of her scrambled egg croissants.”
“Good idea,” he said.
Usually he’d ask Shell to bring him something or to let him come along, but not today. He asked for neither a maple scone nor a cappuccino. Shell was getting no argument about her lunch break from him. He was obviously aching to march back to the office and give Leo a piece of his mind about something, and he would be only too pleased for the opportunity to do it the minute Shell left the gallery.
She always enjoyed the bakery anyway. The air was full of the smell of baking goodies, and Mary Anne was a sort of mother hen who spoiled everyone from the gallery next-door. There were a few people seated at the tables near the front windows of the establishment when Shell arrived, and the general chatter in the place was a pleasant hum.
She took a chair at one of the pastel painted bistro tables near the back—this one was lavender—hoping she was out of the way enough that incoming customers wouldn’t distract her from doing a little research on her laptop. She wanted to learn more about Edwin Bishop’s past, and she had promised to keep Tavy informed about anything she uncovered.
“You should try my blueberry and lemon pound cake!” Mary Anne said when Shell was ordering the egg croissant and an iced coffee.
“All right. I will, then!” she answered. “But just a little piece. My eyes are sometimes bigger than my stomach.”
“Okay, darlin’! You’ve got it!” Mary Anne said happily. “I can’t tell you how much I mis
s Margie! She’s the best taster! She was always giving me ideas about flavors I should try or new cakes I should bake.”
“We miss her in the gallery, too.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Oh, she’s great. Little Max is just the cutest little baby, and he’s gaining weight like a champ. You should see how we all coo at him!”
“I bet you do! I wish she’d bring him by to see me.”
“Oh, she will one of these days. He’s just so small right now, and the doctor told her babies don’t have their immunity up to par till three months.”
“So I’ll get to see him at three months?”
“I bet you will. Margie asks lots of questions about the gallery, so I know she’ll come visit even if she doesn’t come back to work before Max is in kindergarten!”
Mary Anne smiled with genuine pleasure as she listened, then asked about Billie. “Where’s your bakery buddy? He usually sneaks over here with you if he can.”
“He’s working.”
“I get it. You’re not telling me. I know what’s going on. He’s fussing with his boyfriend. I’ve seen it before.”
Shell laughed. “They don’t argue very often. It’s always something minor. I just thought I’d give them a little privacy. It’s a slow day anyway, and it gives me a chance to get a treat and visit with you.”
“Well, I’m glad they’re fussing, then!” the older woman said with a chuckle. “And how’s that man of yours?”
“Oh, Dean’s great. Working on selling a new program he’s created.”
“I’ll never understand today’s technology!” the older woman said, shaking her head. At that moment a buzzer went off somewhere behind the long soda fountain counter. “There’s some technology I better pay attention to! That’s the timer on the oatmeal scones! I’ll get them out of the oven and I’ll be right back with your food, honey.”
“Okay. No rush. I’m killing time,” Shell answered.
She opened her laptop as Mary Anne bustled away, deciding to check her email for a few minutes. On second thought, maybe I’ll have another look at California College of Arts and Crafts, she thought.
It had occurred to her earlier that a list of students who attended art school with Edwin Bishop might be worth seeing, but she was unsure of how to approach the search. She opened the site but was having no luck getting into the archives. Maybe she would have to call them, but she suddenly had another idea. She got out her phone and started texting Dean.
Do you think you could help me find some student lists from California College of Arts and Crafts from 1957 to 60? I want to know who went to school with Edwin.
She had just hit send when she sensed someone approaching her table. She glanced up, hoping her iced coffee was about to be served.
Vincent Bishop was looking down at her and smiling. “Hello, Miss Hodge. I just came in here for a coffee and noticed you sitting here!”
“Hello, Mr. Bishop.”
“Call me Vince, will you? I’m not much for formality, are you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“You’re Michelle, aren’t you? Do you mind if I call you Michelle?”
“No, I don’t guess I mind.”
“Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I’d like to talk to you about something. Would you mind very much if I sat down?”
“Uh—well, no—I guess not.”
“Thanks,” Vincent said, seating himself across from her as if it were completely natural to come up to the table of someone with whom you’d never spoken more than a few sentences and join them, uninvited, for a chat.
He was pleasant enough to look at, Shell thought. He had the grace of a man who’d grown up with advantages. He seemed well-spoken and self-assured. His blue shirt was probably carefully chosen to complement his blond hair, and it looked expensive.
He was silent for a while, his smile telling her he thought he was being admired.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Bishop?” Shell asked.
“Vince.”
“Okay, Vince. Can I help you or something?”
“Yes, actually. You see, I came by the gallery again the other day, and you weren’t there. I’ve been noticing the show from the poster in the window—the show for Evelyn Jameson?”
“Yes. The show’ll be up the whole month. I didn’t know you were interested in art.”
So he had been to the gallery the day she had seen him walking south on Lavaca. Why hadn’t Billie or Leo told her?
“I’ve always been an art enthusiast! My stepfather was an artist!”
“He was?” She hoped her surprise appeared genuine.
“Oh, yes! And he collected. I cut my teeth on the paintings of the California Impressionists!”
“Then you’ve moved on to Expressionism if you’re interested in an Evelyn Jameson piece,” Shell observed.
“Everything. I love it all.”
It wasn’t much of a leap to guess that if Vincent Bishop was at all aware of the California Impressionists, he would undoubtedly be conscious of the fact that Tavy had a Guy Rose hanging over her fireplace.
“And?” Shell asked, wanting him to get on with whatever it was he wanted to ask.
“And I’m interested in buying that blue and orange painting just inside the entrance of your gallery.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but that painting sold the night of the opening. There are others with similar color schemes, though. I think they’re all quite good. Billie Morrison, my partner, will be more than glad to show them to you. He’s at the gallery now. I’m on a break,” she added with mild emphasis.
“Oh, but I was hoping to work with you.”
The look Vincent Bishop was giving Shell suggested something beyond an interest in paintings.
“Why would it matter which of us shows you a painting you’re interested in?”
“I think you know why.”
“I don’t.”
“I find you very charming.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’m attracted to you. I was attracted the minute I laid eyes on you. Is that so bad?”
It was a little disconcerting to be on the receiving end of Vincent Bishop’s temerity, and she wondered what he had up his sleeve. Did he realize Edwin Bishop had left a portfolio at the gallery or did he just suspect? Was he angling to find out about it, or was he actually interested in her? She imagined he was used to getting his way, used to women finding him appealing, but she wasn’t one of those women.
“Let me be clear, Mr. Bishop. I’m flattered by your interest,” she lied, “but as you will notice if you look, I’m wearing an engagement ring. And that’s only one of the reasons why I have no interest in working with you for any reason that isn’t entirely professional.”
“I don’t mind that you’re engaged. I’m not talking about anything serious. A meal? A cruise on the lake in one of my boats? I can be discreet if it bothers your boyfriend.”
“No. I’m telling you as directly as I know how that I have no interest in whatever it is you want with me. Please drop the matter and speak with Billie if you’re really interested in purchasing a painting. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m working on something and I’d like to be alone.”
“In a busy coffee shop?”
“That’s right. Good-bye, Mr. Bishop.”
“Good-bye? That’s it? You’re not even going to consider—”
“I’m not.”
He looked quite disconcerted for a moment. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said, standing up and pushing his chair in. Then he turned and walked out of the bakery just as Mary Anne was approaching with a plate and a frosted glass of iced coffee.
“Who was that handsome devil?” she asked.
“Possibly the devil himself,” Shell answered.
Chapter 46
Tuesday, August 11, 7:30 a.m.—Gus
Gus had gone home after they finished the wine, but sleep had been elusive. He got up at t
wo and walked around the neighborhood, checking out cars, trying to see if anything looked unusual. There had been no gray Cadillac parked anywhere that he could see, but that didn’t mean anything. Whoever had been following Tavy may have had access to another vehicle. Or maybe they were just taking a break, trying to lull her into carelessness.
Then this morning, he had awakened worrying about the fact that there were no security cameras and no alarm system at Tavy’s house, knowing that there was no way—if she didn’t call him—that he would know if something bad was happening. Ed should have taken care of security months ago—back when he had brought the paintings and pottery to the house. Who knew the value of his stuff? He had never talked about it, but last night Tavy had said something about the paintings being worth something.
If security cameras were to be installed, maybe that could be scheduled today. He would have to talk to her whenever she was up. Was she an early riser? She had been up early the morning after she arrived, but that might have been because everything was new to her.
He decided to take a run. It was a relatively cool morning, his phone telling him it was eighty-eight degrees as he rounded the corner to Oaktree Hill. His heart seemed to lurch a little when he saw her, a full block ahead of him, heading away toward the next corner. She was dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans, her caramel hair pulled back with large clip at the back of her head, and Blue at her side. The dog was wagging her tail, and Gus could imagine what it was like for her, spending time with Tavy, goodness being something a dog senses like an odor.
He stopped running and walked, hoping to watch them for a moment or two, hoping to eventually arrive beside them without startling Tavy. He saw her bend down for no apparent reason and stroke the dog’s head. There seemed to be real affection there. He had noticed, last night, the way Tavy automatically reached down to pat Blue as they were talking. It was natural, spontaneous. Blue was getting a kind of affection from Tavy she didn’t often get from him. Maddie loved on her a lot, but Maddie was only at home part-time, and there was something a bit random in the consistency of her attentions.