by Roslyn Woods
“Sure. After cursing and threatening and banging on the kitchen window. He even went around and tried to make his key work in the back door. I just went in the bedroom with Tabitha and waited till he gave up. I’m definitely getting a padlock for that side gate!”
“What kind of threats?”
“He said I’d effing better let him in or he was going to make me very sorry.”
“That’s awful! You should get a restraining order!”
“I don’t want to go that far. He’s just mad, and he can’t believe he’s been found out.”
“What a jerk!”
“Yeah,” she said. “On a brighter note, I heard from the bank today.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I got my loan for culinary school!”
“Oh, Margie! That’s great!”
“Yes. It’s an eighteen month program, and most of it will be here in Austin, but my first two months are in Paris!”
“I’m so happy for you! You’ve been wanting this for a long time!” Shell exclaimed.
“I’ll just have to figure out what to do with Tabitha while I’m gone. Also, I hope I won’t disappoint my brother by doing this.”
“Why would it disappoint him?”
“He paid for a lot of my BA in Sociology, that’s why.”
“So you think he wants you to become a social worker?”
“Or maybe do graduate work in the area.”
“I bet he just wants you to be happy.”
“I hope so.”
Chapter 6
Shell got two emails early the next morning. One was from the university saying they had temporarily cancelled all the classes taught by Doris Leone while a replacement was sought to cover her courses. The second message was from Gina. She sent it to all members of the co-op saying their building was now designated as a crime scene and was to stay closed for the rest of the week.
At least, thought Shell. Who knows when it will re-open?
Shell normally attended one class on Wednesdays. It was Aesthetic Theory, and it had been taught by Dr. Leone. She decided to use her day trying to learn a few things.
“You busy today?” Shell asked Margie as they were having coffee and French toast at Margie’s small table.
“Planning to go the pet store this morning to get a crate for Tabitha, and I have an appointment to take her to the vet right after I get it. She’ll have to stay overnight so they can watch her after the surgery.”
“Wow. You’re really on this. I’m glad.”
“But I’m worried about her. I don’t want her to be scared.”
“She’s been managing on her own for a while. I’m sure they’ll be really sweet to her, and she’ll have medication to keep her calm,” Shell said.
“I know you’re right. I’m just starting to feel attached to her. Anyway, after I get home I’m free till tonight. Then there’s a lecture at the LBJ Library at seven that I’ve been planning to go to. It’s called, ‘Sylvia Plath, Her Friendships and Her Poetry.’ I got tickets a couple of months ago for me and Jeremy—I know, what was I thinking?—but I thought you might use his pass?”
“Do you know anyone else who’s going?”
“Anna Chavez, my cake decorating buddy. She’s an undergrad, but she has to go for a class. I was happy I’d already bought tickets when she told me about it.”
“I know I’d enjoy it, but I can’t go. I’m glad you at least have Anna to sit with! I promised Patrick I’d have dinner with him tonight if he’d help me do some sleuthing. But, I could use your company this afternoon after I get back from my trip to Dr. Leone’s house. I was thinking I’d see if my painting is there. Could you go with me after you leave Tabitha with the vet?”
“Why do you need to go to Dr. Leone’s house?”
“Because she said she was going to take my painting home to examine it. Then she was going to bring it with her to our meeting yesterday, only it wasn’t in the classroom when I found her, so where was it? I think it’s possible her husband knows and might be able to find it for me. Anyway, that’s my plan. I called Gina awhile ago and got the address.”
“Well, good luck,” Margie said, pausing with a furrowed brow. “You don’t think her husband could have killed her do you?”
“I have no idea, but I might learn something when I talk to him.”
“Do you think it’s safe?”
“Even if he killed her, what reason would he have to kill me?”
“You’re really freaking me out, Shell.”
“There will probably be family there by now. It’s been almost twenty-four hours. I really doubt he’ll be alone at his house.”
The sky was gray, but there wasn’t any forecast of rain as Shell headed west on Enfield. She had purchased a vase of white roses at the florist on 6th Street, and their aroma filled her car with the memory of her father’s funeral seven years earlier. Why did you have to die so young? she thought. Losing him had been the hardest thing she had ever faced, and Dr. Leone’s death was bringing it all back.
She brushed a tear from her face and turned on the radio, trying to distract herself.
“…body was found yesterday afternoon at Eastside Art Co-op. The victim is Dr. Doris Leone, professor of art at UT and three time gold medal winner of the prestigious Oil Painters of America award. Dr. Leone was married to the fiction writer, Irving Jansen. Officers at the scene had no comment at the time, pending an ongoing investigation. In other news…”
Shell turned the radio off, but her mind was racing. She hadn’t been aware of the fact that Irving Jansen was a fiction writer. Dr. Leone had never mentioned it, and she wondered if he was successful. That could explain the opulent neighborhood.
The house was on Bridal Path west of Exposition Blvd. Shell parked her car on the curb a couple of houses east and across the street from Dr. Leone’s house and waited for a few minutes. There were a few other cars on the street. One looked familiar, a red Chevy Malibu, and she wondered if someone she knew was visiting with Irving Jansen.
The dwelling itself was a pretty, stone house placed on a large, tree-lined lot with an expansive lawn and a winding flagstone path that led to the front door. Although it appeared to be quite large, it had a Tudor cottage look about it, with an arched front door, long narrow windows, and a rather steep roofline. The lawn was brilliant green rye, and the path that led to the door was lined with hundreds of purple and white pansies. Shell imagined Dr. Leone loving the place, carefully selecting the flowers and plants that decorated the borders, making a home with the man she must have loved.
Suddenly, the large front door opened and the willowy figure of a woman appeared. She seemed to be crying, and she was hurrying to the red car that was parked on the street a couple of houses east of the professor’s home. I thought those were your wheels, Brigitte. But why are you here?
It took a couple of minutes for Brigitte Gersten to start her car and drive away, and Shell sat watching the door of the house while a few more minutes ticked by. Well, it’s now or never, she thought at ten-sixteen, picking up the vase from where she had secured it against the passenger seat by leaning her backpack against it. She tucked her phone and keys in the pocket of her jacket after locking the car. Then she headed across the street and up the sidewalk that approached the house.
A dark feeling came over her when she reached the flagstone path. She wondered if it wasn’t just the clouds moving in, but she felt the same sense of dread she had experienced yesterday when she was searching for her teacher at the co-op. Still, she knew she must make an effort, and she kept walking toward the home’s entrance. She lifted the iron knocker and tapped the door a few times as she looked behind her at the empty street. Then she waited.
It seemed an awfully long time had passed before she heard the sound of someone unlocking the deadbolt on the door and turning the handle, but when the door opened, a red-eyed Irving Jansen was standing there with a quizzical look on his face. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Hello. Dr. Jansen? I’m Michelle Hodge. I was a student of Dr. Leone’s. I met you at the gallery opening at the co-op.”
“Oh, yes. You look familiar. I see you’ve brought roses. Come in.” He pulled the door open further so she could enter, and as she did, she was overwhelmed by the fragrance of flowers. Just inside the door was an entry, and just past that was a dining room whose table was pretty much covered with vases of flowers.
“A few people from the university are already sending flowers, too,” he said. “They started arriving last night, and several vases were delivered this morning. A young woman from the co-op just came by with these chrysanthemums. I don’t suppose you know her?”
“Can you give me a name?” Shell asked, playing dumb while she put the vase she carried into Irving Jansen’s outstretched hands.
“I think she said it was Bridget?” he said, turning to carry the vase the few steps to the table.
“Oh, that would probably be Brigitte,” Shell answered. “She kept the attendance for our art class at the co-op.”
“Yes, I think she said something like that.”
“Dr. Jansen,” Shell said, “I feel terrible about what happened. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to come by. Dori would appreciate it, I’m sure. You were taking her class?” he asked, but he seemed tired. Shell realized he was being polite in spite of his own sorrow.
“Yes, at the co-op, and I was in the master’s program at UT. She was my advisor. She was also looking at one of my paintings to help me with the direction of my work.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding but appearing to be far away.
“Dr. Jansen,” she said, realizing she must ask her question quickly, before her chance passed, “is there a possibility that one of my paintings is here with you? You see, I gave Dr. Leone one of my pieces to examine.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” he answered, frowning. “You can check her studio if you like. It’s at the end of this hallway here. I’ll lead you to it.”
As Dr. Jansen walked ahead of Shell down a dark hallway that led past several closed doors, she realized she was alone with him. No one was visiting with him yet, no family had come to console him. At the end of the hall was a door he opened into a large room with big windows, several easels, a table for supplies, and a desk. Shell was immediately aware of the aroma of paint and turpentine. On two of the easels were paintings Doris Leone had clearly been working on, and the third easel was empty. A table against the wall in front of the easels held several pottery canisters containing paint brushes and palette knives, and there were a number of lidded jars of various painting mediums. A short, wooden tray held tubes of paint, some newish, and some curled up and almost empty. A palette with paint on it was sitting there, a thin film of waxed paper wrapped around it.
She stood right here painting yesterday morning or the night before, Shell thought, and she expected to return to her work last night. The north light from the windows was perfect, and she could reach back to the table behind her as she worked. Here is the rag where she squeezed excess paint from her brushes, and the brushes lying beside it are the ones she was using for these paintings.
Shell swallowed as she felt a lump forming in her throat. Dr. Leone had been so alive, and the paintings she was working on were beautiful. One was a floral still life, its hues dissolving impressionistically and making the viewer feel she was looking at it through tears. The other painting was a landscape, a field with a house in the distance, and trees like Pisarro’s. The branches stretched across the foreground and fuzzed into a cloudy sky of zinc white and light ultramarine blue. Under the table and leaning against the wall were canvases. Lots of canvases, and Shell wondered if they were all the work for Doris Leone or if her own painting might be among them.
“Feel free to look through everything,” said Dr. Jansen, gesturing to the artwork on the floor before adding, “and there are a few in the closet here,” he said, running a hand through his pale hair and looking around the room. “Her desk is a mess, and I know I’m going to have to tackle that soon. I just don’t know when I’ll be ready to face it,” he added, his voice rough.
Shell looked up at him. He was tall and on the lean side with slightly peppered, white hair that was thick and curled around his ears. A striking man, no mistaking it, and Shell imagined how he must have captured Doris Leone’s heart, back when she was only twenty-two, and he was probably only forty. “I’m just so sorry,” she said quietly.
Irving Jansen pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said and turned to leave the room.
Shell watched him go. If his hair had been darker, he’d have looked to be much younger than his years, but today his shoulders were more rounded than she had remembered them. He seemed to be genuinely unhappy, and she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. In a few moments the clicking of his shoes on the wood floor grew faint, and his dark shadow shortened and disappeared as he turned the corner at the end of the hall.
Shell looked around the room, a wave of melancholy squeezing at her throat. She knelt on the floor and started pulling the canvases apart. One after another, her eyes fell on wonderful paintings. So much color, so much life.
They were all the work of Doris Leone. Eventually she stood up, shivering a little, walked to the closet, and opened its heavy door. More paintings were leaning against the wall on the floor. A few were large, and some were much smaller and surely much older. Shell was able to see a development in Dr. Leone’s style from these, but she wasn’t able to find her own painting or the work of anyone else.
She turned from the closet and looked at the desk. Leaning sideways, she glanced down the hallway to make sure she was still alone before taking a step toward the massive mahogany piece. This is where she graded papers, planned her lessons, made her calls, she thought as she rolled out the chair that was tucked under it. The wheels squeaked slightly under her weight when she sat down, and she looked into the hall again. She was still alone.
There were stacks of papers and books on the desk, a haphazard mess, as far as she could tell. Yet she knew that there were certain types of people who knew where every paper was laid in the clutter, and she smiled through her sadness, thinking of Doris Leone and her artistic nature.
There was a desk blotter here with a calendar tucked into it. Shell shifted a few papers and looked at the days. Here was yesterday, Tuesday, January 22, 2008. “TCEW at 8:00/JB at 11:00,” was lightly penciled in. Maybe phone calls yesterday morning? She hadn’t had another moment to think about it when she heard a step on the wood floor approaching the hall, and she quickly stood up and put the papers back as they had been. In another few moments Irving Jansen was back in the room.
“I keep asking myself,” he said, without preamble, “why did she go so early yesterday?”
Shell looked up at him as tears filled her eyes. It was bothering her, too, and not just because she wanted to know what happened. She was feeling a great deal of responsibility. If Dr. Leone hadn’t come to the co-op early and alone, she would still be alive.
“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” said Shell, her own voice rough now, but she felt an urgency about telling Irving Jansen. “She was going to meet me to talk about my work at one. When I got there—”
“It was you, then! I mean, it was you who found her?” he asked, his brows drawn together in a look of surprise and wonder.
“I’m afraid so. I’m so sorry—”
“Only she didn’t,” Dr. Jansen interrupted, shaking his head.
“She didn’t?”
“She didn’t go at one,” he answered. “She said she had to be there at eleven.”
“Eleven? But we were to meet at one!” That explains the penciled note on her calendar.
“Maybe she was meeting someone else,” he said. “She went out early. I think to her office at UT. Then she came back at about nine-thirty and we had breakfast together. She said she ha
d a busy day ahead of her.”
“Did she keep a date book? Maybe a schedule on her phone?”
“The police have everything. They’ve got her phone, her purse, whatever books were with her, and her car. They’re coming over here to look through the house this afternoon,” he said, a haunted expression on his face. “I know they think I did it. They think I followed my wife over there and killed her, but I didn’t.”
He seemed so grieved that Shell felt he must be telling the truth. “They would have to have hard evidence to accuse you, wouldn’t they?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, young lady,” he said, as if coming to consciousness. “This is not your burden. Did you find your painting?”
“No. I didn’t see anything but beautiful paintings by your wife.”
“Yes. She was an amazing painter,” he said, his eyes filling again. If he wasn’t genuinely grieving, he was a great actor. “I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good husband.”
Shell didn’t know what he meant, but she felt a need to say something.
“My father died when I was seventeen,” she said. “I’ve always thought I wasn’t a very good daughter.”
“But I’m sure your father was proud of you,” he said. “A beautiful, beautiful girl like you,” he added gazing at her face and allowing his eyes to slowly travel down the length of her body.
If he had stopped with the words and not let his eyes linger on the most feminine aspects of her figure, Shell might have felt he was just trying to be kind. But he hadn’t stopped, and she experienced a sudden surprise and revulsion. What he had just said, combined with the way he had looked at her, could only be deemed inappropriate at the least. “I’m afraid I’ve stayed too long,” she said. “I have a class in just a few minutes.”
“Oh yes, sure, but do come by again anytime. I’d love to talk with you about Doris,” he said, a strange and unreadable expression in his eyes.
“Yes. I’ll do that,” said Shell, but she was lying. She would never willingly put herself into a situation where she would be alone with him again.