When artist, Nicole Jeffords, learns that a reputable psychic who often works with the police has had a vision that the remains of a fifty-year-old male may be buried under an artist's studio in Austin, she becomes convinced that the studio in quest...
There was no way I could ask Roy all the questions I wanted, so I made my excuses and left, thinking there'd always be a next time. Janet led me to the door and hugged me goodbye. It was clear she wanted me gone as badly as Roy, who couldn't keep his hands off her. Awkward! Those two needed to be alone 24/7. I remembered how hungrily Roy had moved his lips over Janet's neck, how the two couldn't stop touching each other. I was a terrible detective. I couldn't believe a whole year had passed with me asking questions about Victor's possible demise, and I'd never thought to look up Roy. He even had a Facebook page, Roy Gottlieb, who lived in Dallas and was single.
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Roy's Facebook picture
I studied his page carefully. He was an architect, not an airline pilot, had worked on projects in the Arab Emirates and Qatar, had conservative politics, and apparently, according to the pictures on his page, had a daughter who looked like she was in her twenties. He was an avid skier, a big ice hockey guy, loved dogs and the Cato Institute (in that order). Not a Trump fan, despite being Republican. Outdoorsy, lots of friends, smart, an insatiable reader. That was about it. One thing jumped out at me. Among his friends was Helen Sprouse, Victor's old receptionist.
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Helen Sprouse aka Darla Nolan
She had changed her name and was now Darla Nolan, but it was the same person, the same face. I had a quick look at her page, but there was very little information on it. She was married, lived in Austin, loved clothes, fashion, music, books. That was it. I sent her a friend request, excited at the prospect of seeing her again. She looked pretty wild in her photo. I wondered what had caused the transformation, dumpy to outrageous, and what she did now. Then I went back to Roy, noting that he looked a good ten years younger than his sixty-four years. Had he been taking Victor's herbs, perhaps little snippets of whatever was growing in the shed behind the house? Janet told me the combination on the lock had been changed, and also something else she had noticed: the police seemed to drive by the house at least two, three times a night, as if they were surveilling it. My theory was there was magic in the shed – perhaps the Bukh was buried there? – and a small army of people had been organized to defend it, delegates from the foundation in Toronto, trusted gardeners and yard men, Betsy who was the property manager, the police in their silent cruisers, Roy who drove down from Dallas every few weeks. Now that Janet was on such cozy terms with Roy, I assumed she would learn everything there was to know about what was hidden in that shed. I couldn't wait to question her.
