I dictated into my voice app, “Women’s personal apparel, assorted, used,” and on the next line, “quilt.”
I forced myself to look under her bed (only dust bunnies), then moved to the dresser drawers (which resulted in “more women’s personal clothing, used, assorted”). I certainly wasn’t going to list out every used pair of underwear and stretched-out bra. Before I left the room, I lifted the mattress off the box springs and found a two-inch scorpion. I yelped and dropped the mattress, then realized it was dead. I lifted it again, glad I hadn’t missed an eleven-by-seven-inch sealed manila envelope and an old 20-gauge shotgun. I checked to make sure the safety was on and leaned the gun against the wall. I rummaged through the bedside table. I added heating pad, family Bible, and shotgun shells to the inventory, along with the gun. I flipped through the Bible to see if the birth of Gidget’s daughter was recorded, but no dice. I left the manila envelope on the bed, unopened for now.
I decided to inventory art next. Room by room, I lifted the paintings from the wall hangers and catalogued each title, artist, and date with a brief description. Many of them were dedicated to Gidget on the back, with lots of love and thanks. They were all originals. I recognized names, like Robert Rauschenberg, and the list of artists themselves was a starting point for research into her life. Some of the pieces were so stunning they belonged in a museum or at least a gallery.
I had a sudden realization. Ralph obviously had no idea about the value of the art. Greyhound didn’t appear to know it existed. Gidget had been living hand-to-mouth, art rich and cash poor. Had she sold just her Rauschenberg, she would have been in high cotton the rest of her life. We’d have to get an art appraiser out here, and hold an auction. The inheritance taxes on these would be so high that most of them would probably have to be sold off to keep them from bankrupting the beneficiary—me.
I decided I preferred Gidget’s work over the others. So much so that I spent an hour rearranging all the paintings to create a gallery of her abstract watercolors in her bedroom. Seen together, they told the story of her heritage: the homestead, a church, a mule and plow, a family picking cotton, and—my favorite—a nighttime landscape with fireflies and a blood moon. I made Gidget’s bed and unpacked my suitcase into her drawers, then moved the bag into the closet. It helped bring the rest of the room up to the standards of the majesty on the walls.
Gertrude was a trooper, napping in whatever room I worked in. I rewarded her with a bite of my Quest bar when I stopped for a late lunch. I was sick of them, and I really needed to make a run back to the Quacker to get the rest of my food.
I tackled the spare bedroom next. Gidget had taken me into it last spring. It didn’t have a bed in it, but it did hold a standing clothes rack and box after box after box of her personal belongings. She’d set up an easel in the corner to the right of the window, and clean brushes and bowls sat on the drop cloth at its base. There was a cheap set of shelves beside the easel. Three exquisite hand-painted birdhouses perched there, two of them finished and one partly done.
I spent the next two hours meticulously cataloguing her personal items. Notwithstanding the financial value of the art, these were Gidget’s treasures. The seventies bell bottoms that she’d shown me and the padded shoulders of her eighties power jackets, the stacks of albums holding photographs of her with artists and at openings. In some of them she was wearing the clothes on this very rack, receiving from the artists the paintings I’d found in this house.
Again, a light bulb went off. The provenance—if that was the right word—of the paintings was proven in these photographs. They’d be important evidence to the appraiser. I leaned closer toward a picture. It was Andy Warhol and an ethereal Gidget in a flowing white linen gown and macramé belt. He was holding a square package wrapped in brown butcher paper and twine, beaming, and she looked giddy, her head on his shoulder and arms around his waist.
I hadn’t seen an Andy Warhol in the house. I would have flipped out if I had. But this picture suggested I should keep my eye out for one. I pulled the plastic album sheet away from the picture, very slowly, and it made a ripping sound as the adhesive released. I tried to pry the photo up, but the adhesive wouldn’t let go. I went to the kitchen for a knife, then carefully sliced between the picture and the page when I returned to the spare bedroom. The album gave up the photo. I flipped it over. ANDY AND ME, 1982, HOUSTON. I studied the background in the photo. It appeared to be the front of a townhome with pink bougainvillea. I’d seen it in other photos. Gidget’s place? Maybe I could get an address from some of her old records, whenever I found them. Talk to neighbors. Learn about the Gidget outside the gallery scene. I was getting more and more excited about the possibilities.
I flipped another page in the album. Folded sheets of paper with handwriting and signatures on them and honest-to-God envelopes with stamps and post markings. Letters addressed to My beautiful Gidget. The plastic sheeting gave way with a ripping noise and I fished the letter out. Could these be love letters from the father of Gidget’s baby? Had I found him? My heart slammed in my chest. I unfolded the first one. The handwriting looked familiar for some reason, and I flipped over the paper monogrammed with the name ANDY WARHOL and on the back signed Andy. I held the paper, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger, then scanned the letter quickly. He was talking about a painting that he had almost completed.
Could he be the father? I had an impression he was gay, but maybe not.
I pulled out another letter from the album. It looked like there were about ten altogether. I compared the date on the envelope to the one I had just read. It was several months later. I examined the remaining letters and compared them all. They were all the same size and shape, with the same handwriting, and were in date order covering roughly a one-year period.
I unfolded the second letter and read it quickly. It was reporting progress on the painting and professing undying love and friendship. He asked Gidget if she wanted to accompany him to an opening in Paris.
I kept reading the letters. From the flow it appeared that Gidget didn’t join Andy in Paris, and the content remained largely the same. He loved her madly. He missed her. He was working on the painting, his gift and homage to her. And he couldn’t wait to see her again. Each letter also included tidbits about his social life and the other things he was working on. The last letter said, I loved seeing you and The painting is exactly as I dreamed it would be, only better. The date of the last letter was November 3, 1986.
My hands levitated with the notes, like they were holding air. These letters from Andy to Gidget about this supposed painting, these were artifacts of tremendous value, historically, even if the painting didn’t exist. And they were hidden away in Gidget’s Wendish family home. A never-before-seen Warhol painting hinted at, and a friendship not previously documented. I felt a thrill of discovery at the same time as an irrational jealousy. She’d kept this information private for a reason, and I didn’t want to violate her wishes. But if it turned out to be relevant to my search for her daughter, how could I keep it quiet? He was a larger-than-life pop-culture icon.
I replaced the last letter in its envelope and carefully put them back in the order I’d found them inside the album, then smoothed a page with one last loving touch. Gidget and Andy, 1986. My adrenaline surged. I tethered my laptop to my phone’s signal. I Googled Warhol. A fact jumped out immediately. He’d died only three months after his last letter to Gidget. My chest tightened. I narrowed my search to his sexuality. The signal hung up for a moment. “Come on, come on,” I urged it. When the results showed up on the screen, I read greedily. Multiple sources claimed he was celibate, possibly a virgin. They cited his devout Catholicism, and speculation was rampant that if not for his faith he would’ve been out as a gay man.
I sighed.
No mention of a pregnancy or baby or daughter or of being a father. But the letters did talk about secrets and things only the two of them knew. Maybe they were referring to secrets he was keeping for her, n
ot secrets about Andy and Gidget. It was impossible to know, but tremendously exciting. I took a picture of the photo of Andy and Gidget, and emailed it to the blog. “Oh, the Possibilities . . .” I titled the post.
I shut the album and stood, my knees cracking, my hips aching. Gertrude snuffled in her sleep. I arched my back, stretching. All I had left in this room was the stack in the corner, but it was enormous. When I got to it, though, I saw that it was one large piece of furniture covered by a sheet. Armloads of clothing had been draped on top of the sheet. Once I’d catalogued the outfits and moved them to the hanging rod, I removed the sheet to reveal a black safe.
“Yay!”
Gertrude wagged her tail but didn’t open her eyes.
It looked like my Papa’s gun safe. Tall. Bolted to the floor. Hinges on the left against the wall. A combination lock. I jiggled the handle. It didn’t budge. I stepped back from it. Now that the long dresses and sheet were gone, I saw two round-toothed disks on the floor and a pile of metal filings. I took a closer look at the hinges and realized someone had tried to cut them open. Maybe Gidget had forgotten her combination?
I heard a ding from the direction of the bathroom. My phone. Still puzzling over the safe and the obvious attempt to break into it, I grabbed my phone from the bathroom counter. Or tried to, anyway. It fell to the tile floor.
“Oh no,” I groaned.
Gertrude galloped in to see what the problem was, skidding the last few inches and overshooting my phone. I picked it up and turned it over. The screen was shattered but intact.
I shook my head. “This is why you always spring for the OtterBox, Gertrude.”
She leaned her head back trying to get a look and toppled sideways.
I was able to read the message even though the screen was toast, but just barely. It was a thank you from Ralph that I’d let him know about the mail. I sent him back a quick message. Well, I sent it back quickly after typing it slowly. The shattered screen really gummed things up.
“Ralph, this house is holding MILLIONS in original art. And a treasure trove of letters between Gidget and Warhol, who claims he painted her portrait!!! We need to talk. Later. For now, what’s the safe combination? Also, someone tried to cut it open. Do you know anything about that?”
Then I remembered the envelope unopened on the bed. I didn’t know how I’d forgotten it—except for the fact that in the last year my brain was an absolute sieve. I hustled back to it. Maybe the combination was in there. I pried the flap open and dumped the contents out on her bed.
There were a number of papers—legal documents. I looked at the first one. A Power of Attorney granted to Lester Tillman. A Last Will and Testament. A Bill of Sale for her part in the ownership of the Montrose Fine Art Gallery to Lester Tillman for $50,000. The will and bill of sale were executed on the same date, six years ago. The power of attorney was dated “as of” a year prior to that. I cringed. I sincerely doubted that $50,000 was the true value of her ownership unless the place was going out of business or close to it. I’d have to check. I paged through the will. In it, she’d left everything in a charitable trust to be used on behalf of causes benefiting the arts in Houston with Lester Tillman as the trustee. I smelled something stinky, and there wasn’t a dead rodent around. I moved Lester Tillman up on the list of people I wanted to talk to about Gidget.
My phone dinged, interrupting me before I had finished going through the envelope. Ralph, again: “WOW, my hands are shaking as I type this. About the combination: I don’t know, and No. Be careful!!!”
As I walked down the hallway, I thought about the unlocked back door and had to agree with him. Sometimes people read about a death in the paper and took advantage of empty houses—ransacking them when they knew the owners would be gone. Gidget’s death had been a big wave in a small pond.
A man’s voice called, “Anybody here?” from inside the house, and a door shut. Heavy footsteps approached in the hall. My heart leapt in my throat. I remembered the shotgun in the bedroom, but it was too late. The rack of clothes blocked the closet, and a tower of boxes did the same to the window. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. I flexed my knees and rocked up on my toes.
A large, doughy face appeared in the top of the doorway, one I recognized.
“Loopy?” I said.
“Lumpy,” he corrected.
My heart rate slowed, but it converted to anger. I gritted my teeth, fighting to control it. “I didn’t hear you knock.”
“Well, I—I just stuck my head in and called.”
“Next time, knock.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “If you could be so kind, I need to get decent.”
“Oh, sorry.” He backed up fast, his boots loud. As loud as the silence that followed.
I stalked into the bedroom and found a housedress in the closet. I threw it on like a robe, snapping it from sternum to waist. I met him back in the living room.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Ms.—”
“Mrs. Hanson.”
Confusion flickered across his face. “Mrs. Hanson, where’s Mr.?”
I didn’t soften my words to make it any easier for him. “Dead.”
“Oh, golly, I’m so sorry.” He didn’t look it. In fact, he looked . . . optimistic.
“I was just going to say you sure are a pretty woman. You look like that Mexican actress that used to live in San Antonio.”
I didn’t smile. “Thank you. Now, are you here for something?”
“Well, I saw your car out front and, um, I wanted to see if I could help you out any.”
I thought about it for a second. My first inclination was to say no and send him packing, but he was the nearest neighbor. One who kept a very close eye on things. “Have you seen anyone other than me coming in and out of the house since Ms. Becker died?”
He pulled at his bottom lip, and I smelled the smoke as he tried to come up with an answer that I would like. “Well, there’s Jimmy, he comes by regular.”
I held up a hand. “You mean Jimmy Urban?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody else?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Ms. Becker didn’t get a lot of visitors.”
“Did you visit Ms. Becker?”
His face turned pink at the edges. “I can’t say I did all that often, but I was around if she needed me. I was the one who found her all those years ago when she first came back.”
In my mind I pictured a possible Mrs. Lumpy at home and tried to decide whether or not she would be happy with Mr. Lumpy’s visits to me. I decided she wouldn’t care one way or the other. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that wasn’t unusual for people who worked with their hands, I’d found. Assuming he worked at all, and didn’t just spy on me.
“Did you see who dropped her off, or when? Back then, I mean.”
“I saw a big van one day. Coming and going. That’s why I dropped in that next day. But I reckon that was about five years ago or more.”
“And you haven’t been here, except when you’ve come by to see me, since Ms. Becker died, have you?”
He shook his head.
“I have somewhere I need to be, but I do thank you for stopping by.” I held the front door open.
He tipped an imaginary hat and walked to it.
I said, “If you need to visit again for any reason, please call first. Or at least knock.”
“Sure thing.” He made one last attempt to look down my housedress.
As I closed the door, a hot flash exploded through my body. I wondered how much longer men like Lumpy would keep coming around, comparing me to Eva Longoria and trying to sneak a peek down my top.
Not very long, I thought.
Chapter Ten
Saturday morning came early again, and my stomach exploded in butterflies. I was meeting Rashidi today. I thrashed the covers off of me, and Gertrude moaned in protest. Well, if I was going to have to drive to Brenham for dinner, I needed to get started around here. I got the coffee going and put my cheek down on
the cool tile countertop. I woke from a lock-kneed, drooling doze when the percolator started burbling. I was sore from yesterday, and I hadn’t even moved to the barn on my inventory yet. I poured my coffee and took it to the living room. I’d spread the envelope’s contents there one last time before bed. After Lumpy left, I’d had a chance to look at the last few things in it. I held up the first one, an old picture of Gidget, probably known as Anna back then, and another little girl in the rumble seat of an exquisite antique sports car. The man standing beside it had a proud look on his face. Did Gidget have a sister? I tilted the second one into the natural light streaming in from the windows. The same man, a woman about his age, Anna, and the other little girl, in a small wooded clearing with a straw picnic hamper. They were sitting on a checkered cloth with a picnic spread out in front of them, big smiles on their faces. The last picture was more recent, but still old. Gidget—in her twenties?—at the gallery, with what looked like Lester, and another woman with short dark hair. The back said LESTER, JULIE, AND ME.
Gertrude strolled into the living room and executed a mobile upward dog pose.
“Nice form.”
She looked from me to her food bowl.
“Nice try.”
She huffed.
“All right, because you said please. And because we’re going out to the barn this morning, and you’ll need your strength.”
Gertrude pranced behind me to the barn half an hour later. I’d poked my head in there once the day before. It was dark and smelled like manure. But this morning, I threw open the double doors facing the house and flooded it with light. Hay bales were stacked along one side with a few bags of livestock feed thrown in a pile beside them. Tools with rust-tarnished surfaces and weathered wooden handles hung from the wall. The barn’s second story was a U-shaped loft. A ladder perched against it near the tool area. Three stalls made of open slats of wood lined the facing wall, but there were no animals inside them. At least, no farm animals. From Gertrude’s immediate interest in the area, rats and other critters I wasn’t so sure about.
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