The Point of Death: An Austin, Texas Art Mystery (the Michelle Hodge series Book 1)

by Roslyn Woods

  “I guess I was, but I was mostly worried about Tabitha for some reason. She got away from me and kept growling and nipping at him.”

  “She’s a good doggie.”

  “Sorry about giving away your pictures.”

  “It’s okay. I’d already downloaded them,” she said. “I better get Tabitha’s crate so we can take her after the police come. Where’s Donald?”

  “I think he went out the back in search of Jeremy.”

  “You don’t think he went after him?”

  “Well, sort of, yes.”

  “Oh, no! What if Jeremy has a knife or something?”

  “I don’t think he did.”

  “If he hurts Donald, I’ll kill him!” Margie said, getting up and running out the back herself.

  She saw the sledge hammer on the porch floor, evidence of how Jeremy had gotten into her house. Then, making her way around the side, she could see where he had hit the gate with the hammer and how the latch hung loose there. It had been cleanly knocked from the screwholes in the fence.

  Margie hurried to the front sidewalk. Which way? She remembered that in the past Jeremy had parked north on Chicon when someone had given a party on the street and he couldn’t get into the driveway. Tonight, she imagined that he had parked his car up a ways to keep from being identified near her house. That meant he’d had to run some distance to make his getaway. The question was, had Donald seen him and chased after him, or was he just looking around the neighborhood in hopes of spotting him?

  She hurried north along Chicon, hoping she had chosen the right direction, but the lighting was patchy, and there were places where she could hardly see.

  Where are you, Donald?

  Images were going through her head of finding him injured on the side of the road, and she found herself running at full speed where the light would allow her a sure enough footing.

  Then, up ahead, she saw a figure coming toward her through the darkness. She stopped for a moment, breathless.

  Please don’t be Jeremy!

  And then she caught sight of broad shoulders and dark hair as the figure moved under the light of a street lamp.

  “Donald?”

  She hadn’t realized she was crying. Perhaps it was just the cumulative effect of Shell being in danger, of finding Tabitha hurt and whimpering, and of Donald chasing Jeremy in the darkness. The relief at seeing him upright, walking toward her, made her knees feel weak as the tears flowed.

  “Margie? Honey, are you okay?” he asked, seeing her face in the lamplight.

  It seemed completely natural that he should embrace her when they met, and they stood that way for a few moments saying nothing at all. Finally, Donald spoke. “Everything’s okay. Don’t cry.”

  “I was scared,” she said into his neck.

  “You’re safe. I’ve got you,” he whispered.

  “I was afraid he’d hurt you! I was afraid he had a weapon or something!”

  “Nah!” Donald said, still holding her close. “He ran off like a scared rabbit, but he had too much of a head start on me. I saw him get into his car and squeal off.” He kissed her cheek. “If I’d known what kind of reception I’d get for chasing a bad guy, I’d have found a way to do it sooner,” he added.

  Somewhere in the distance a police siren was wailing. Was it getting closer? Margie didn’t know. She looked up at Donald as he spoke, “We should go back now.”

  Suddenly, the police car was much closer, lights whirling. “Yes,” she answered, forcing herself to let him go. “Shell will be worried.”

  “After the police go, do you think you and Shell should take Tabitha to the animal hospital while I try to get your kitchen door closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can manage by yourselves, or do you feel too upset?”

  “I’m pulling myself together,” she said. “Shell is like the Rock of Gibraltar.”

  “Then I’ll go get my tool box and see if I can get the door closed till we can get a repairman over here,” said Donald.

  “That would be a big help, Donald.”

  “I aim to please,” he said, and he found her hand and held it all the way back to the house.

  The red and blue police lights were blinding, and Margie had to shield her eyes as she and Donald approached Shell and the police officers.

  “He’s gone already,” Shell was telling one of the officers at the door.

  “Did he get in?” the policeman was asking.

  “Oh yeah, and he was here a long time. Where were you guys?” Shell asked.

  “We were on another call, ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  They trounced around the house for a while and found the sledge hammer on the back porch and the broken latch and padlock on the gate.

  “Was the intruder wearing gloves, ma’am?” asked a policewoman.

  “No. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and he has a name. It was Jeremy Bird. I saw him. I spoke with him. The nine-one-one lady will have our conversation recorded.”

  “Okay. It won’t hurt that we can fingerprint the hammer and the things he touched in the house.”

  “No, I guess it won’t. He turned on lamps. I don’t really know what else he touched.”

  “Do you know where this man lives?”

  “Yes. He’s staying with Brigitte Gersten on Circle S in south Austin. The street number is seven thousand fifty-two. He’s been staying with her since last Tuesday.”

  “And you own this house?”

  “No. This house is a rental lived in by this lady,” she said, nodding toward Margie. “I’m just visiting and was here alone when Jeremy got here. She and her friend, Dr. Carter, chased after him when they arrived, but I think he was too far ahead of them. Is that right?” she asked, looking at Donald.

  “That’s right,” he answered. “I saw him get into his Corvette and drive off.”

  Chapter 36

  The animal hospital kept Tabitha for observation that night, but the ultrasound showed no internal damage, and Shell breathed a sigh of relief as she and Margie headed for the apartment.

  They drove in silence, weariness having taken a toll on both of them. Finally Margie spoke.

  “I’m really sorry I let Jeremy into our lives, Shell. You shouldn’t have had to deal with what he did tonight.”

  “How could you know? I thought he was a nice guy at the beginning, too.”

  “But I should have put my foot down weeks ago.”

  “You might not have met Donald. I mean, if you hadn’t been trying to keep Jeremy from bothering you that night, you’d never have asked to sit by him.”

  “I guess you’re right. Since tomorrow and Wednesday are my days off, he’s asked me to meet him for lunch.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Not sure. Someplace close to his work so he can have a leisurely lunch.”

  “I’m going to see Sergeant Moore in the morning.”

  “Donald thinks you should.”

  “I think he’s right, and I’m glad he’s spoken to the detectives already.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just hope, I guess.”

  Jeremy’s words kept going through Shell’s head in a loop all night long, and they continued as she drove to the police station the following morning.

  She’s got hundreds of knives. She says they’re fast. Fast and sharp.

  She could see the picture of Lacy standing in her doorway, a palette knife in her hand. What had Jeremy meant? Maybe he just meant the effect of knife painting was “sharp.”

  Perhaps he had been arrested last night. She had given the officers Brigitte’s address. Maybe the mysterious web was unraveling right now, but there was something she had to know.

  Detective Gonzalez saw her into the interview room, and she sat at the same metal table where she had been seated one week earlier.

  “Well, Miss Hodge, I’m happy to report to you that your co-op is being released today,” said Sgt. Moore, seating himself and dropping a file
folder on the table. “You and the other students will be able to go back to work over there.”

  “Who’s going to be directing?” Shell asked.

  “I have no idea about that. I just know our work there is finished.”

  “Has it been announced?”

  “We’ve returned the keys to a Dr. Moreno in the art department, and I assume she’ll inform the students when the university is ready to appoint another director.”

  “Okay. I’ll ask her.”

  “So, why are you here today, Miss Hodge?” he asked.

  “Two things. First, I want to know if Jeremy Bird was arrested last night, and I want to tell you that my friend who leases the house he broke into—Margie Maxwell—does want to press charges.”

  “I can tell you that Jeremy Bird has been arrested. The arrest is being treated as separate from the murder investigation, of course, but I’m trying to decide how to approach questioning him since we’ve got him in custody.”

  “I see, but you have to realize he was connected to Dr. Leone, and—at the very least—he knows something about her murder.”

  The sergeant nodded while looking at her steadily. “And the second thing?”

  “I also want to tell you what I’ve learned about him, Brigitte Gersten, Irving Jansen, and Lacy Michaels.”

  Sgt. Moore shuffled through the papers in his file, and Shell was close enough to see him stop at a familiar list. It was the names and addresses Gina had given to him, the same list Shell had in her pack.

  “What is it you want to say about Bird and the other three?”

  “Jeremy Bird was working for Dr. Leone. He was watching her husband to see what he could learn about his affair with Lacy Michaels.”

  “How do you know this?” he asked.

  “I’ve been talking to people and they’ve been telling me things.”

  “Okay. Start at the beginning.”

  So Shell told Sgt. Moore the long story of how she learned the different details related to Doris Leone’s murder.

  “And I think,” she said when she was winding up her narrative, “you might still find something interesting in the lockers at the co-op.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Something telling.”

  “They were all padlocked except for one.”

  “Which one?” Shell asked.

  “The one next to yours with the initials L.M.”

  “Lacy Michaels.”

  “You think it’s significant?”

  “Yes. I’ve never seen it without a lock on it. She mentioned on Saturday that she wanted to get into her locker at the co-op. It sounds like she was able to get in there and remove her stuff. When did you see that it was empty?”

  “We went by for another look yesterday.”

  “Some time between Saturday night and yesterday she was able to get in there and get the items in her locker.”

  “How?”

  “I imagine she was able to copy Dr. Leone’s keys.”

  “What about the alarm code?”

  “If she was seeing Jansen, she was probably able to find where Dr. Leone had it written down.”

  “Who else would have it?”

  “Gina Sanguinetti.”

  He nodded slowly, thinking it over.

  “Miss Hodge, would you do me the favor of texting or calling me if you learn something new?” asked Sgt. Moore.

  “I’d be glad to,” she answered, taking out her phone and plugging in the number he gave her. He put her number in his phone as well.

  “And stay out of trouble,” he added.

  Sgt. Moore hadn’t been very forthcoming about what he and the detectives had determined up to now, and Shell couldn’t tell if they were doing anything at all on the case. She had done what she could, suggesting possibilities and telling them everything she had been able to learn.

  It was possible the local news was being strung along by the police, but they kept reporting the same story. There were no leads in the mysterious murder of Doris Leone. It was upsetting, and Shell decided to drive in the direction of Tarrytown as she left the police station.

  It was cold and still again today. No wind, and a cloudy sky that just stayed and seemed to suggest rain, but none was in the forecast. The neighborhood looked the same as the last time she had driven by Doris Leone’s house. There were fewer cars, though, since the memorial had passed and the relatives had gone home. It was also a weekday, and people were presumably working. Not that it was much of a neighborhood for cars parked on the street. It clearly wasn’t. Most of the homes had at least two-car garages, and some had three and four. Cars on the street suggested gatherings of friends, out of town guests, and the help.

  She drove slowly, taking note of every vehicle parked in a driveway or on the street, even from a distance of a half-mile on either side of the house. A Mercedes, a Honda, a Toyota. Not too many American cars in this neighborhood, but when there was one it was a high end Cadillac or some kind of SUV. Occasionally, she saw a car that obviously belonged to staff—a beatup red Datsun from way back when, a green Saturn from the late eighties, an old Ford pickup with a lawnmower in the bed. And then she saw what she was looking for.

  It was parked about a quarter of a mile west of Irving Jansen’s house. It wasn’t too noticeable where it sat against the curb. Don’t notice me, it seemed to say. It was a black Jetta, and the first three letters on the license plate were UJN. It was all Shell needed for now. She drove on to Enfield and headed back toward town, back to the east side.

  It was noon. The driveway on 18th Street was empty, and she parked a distance away from Lacy’s house to avoid being immediately spotted. She hoped it wouldn’t take her long.

  There were no neighbors on the street, but a student on a bicycle rode by, clearly focused on getting to class at top speed. Not bothering with the front door, Shell went through the ratty gate at the side of the house, unlatched because there was no latch at all, and even the fence itself appeared to be rickety and useless.

  The back was overgrown, and there was an old, rusted garden table here covered with coffee cans and two dead plants. She went up the steps and found the screen door to the back porch unlocked. She went in. One of Lacy’s large abstracts was leaning against the house here, a medley of triangles and squares in different values of Payne’s gray, cadmium red, and Prussian blue on linen. She tried the door that led into the kitchen. Locked.

  Under the mat, no luck. She reached up and felt all along the doorframe. Same. Just a thick layer of dust. She turned, rubbing her hands on her jeans, and looked at the array of coffee cans and yogurt tubs Lacy had been saving. Yes, it was hard for an artist to toss out things that could be useful in a studio, but this was a bit ridiculous. There were hundreds of them. Maybe she had a hoarding problem.

  Shell started checking under this can and that tub, but she found no key. Back down the steps she went to the metal table. Not under the pots. Not under the coffee cans. She looked up and saw the junction box on the side of the house and tilted her head. She approached it and reached on top, allowing her fingers to feel along until they found something.

  Too easy. I should have checked here first, she told herself. Back up the steps and onto the porch. The key fit into the lock with ease and turned like a hot knife in butter. She was in.

  The familiar aroma of turpentine and incense filled her nostrils as she closed the door behind her and took in the room. It was an old-fashioned sort of farm kitchen that was completely square and surprisingly big for such a small house. Two walls held cabinets with a sink and free-standing range. The fridge was on the wall opposite the back door, and it stood next to the door that led into the living room. From where she stood, Shell could see the front door where Lacy had stood on Saturday night and told her how Brigitte hated her.

  It was clear that Lacy didn’t use the kitchen for cooking. All along the floor of the bare wall, canvases were lined up, three and four paintings deep. They all appeared to be abstract work
s in varying colors of the rainbow, except for one. One was painted mostly in shades of Naples yellow, sap green, and burnt umber and depicted an ancient-looking, powerful tree.

  My painting, she thought, her heart pounding. She took my painting from Dr. Leone!

  Astonished, she turned to look around the room. Paint cans had been placed on the counters, and on the round table in the kitchen’s center was a series of coffee cans literally filled with pointed palette knives of differing heights. Very pointed. Beside them on the table was a whet stone and a file.

  Jeremy’s words echoed in her head again. She’s got hundreds of knives. She says they’re fast. Fast and sharp.

  Shell reached for a palette knife, just barely touching a blade, but she drew her hand back quickly. “Oh!” she said involuntarily as a drop of blood appeared on her finger tip. They were razor sharp.

  At just that moment there was a sound at the front door, and Shell wasn’t sure if she should grab her painting and run, or confront Lacy. Too late now, the door was opening. She moved to the other side of the refrigerator and pulled her phone from her pocket, flicking off the sound. Sgt. Moore had asked for a text, and he was about to get one.

  I’m at Lacy Michaels’ house. Found razor sharp palette knives in her kitchen. I think I need help. Please hurry.

  It sounded as if Lacy had dropped onto the sofa, and Shell decided she had best text Margie, too.

  I’m in Lacy’s house. 18th Street near Chestnut. 1837. Danger.

  She hit send and pushed her phone back into her pocket. In another moment Lacy was up, and her shoes were clicking on the wavy wood floor. The sound was coming closer, and Shell could only stand there and wait.

  Lacy came through the kitchen door. She was wearing a red blouse, and her face looked puffy and flushed. She was about to open the refrigerator door when she saw Shell and nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Shit!” she said after shrieking and jumping backwards.

  “Hello, Lacy,” Shell answered calmly.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes red, as if she’d been crying.