Secrets in a Still Life

by Kari Ganske

  I lowered them. "That was interesting. From start to finish." I turned to him. "She volunteers here? What does she do?" I certainly couldn’t picture her wearing the firefighter gear. Nor could I picture anyone effectively fighting fires in a tube dress and stilettos.

  "She helps in the office sometimes," Linc said absently. "And rides the truck in the parades."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like an amazing contribution."

  "We take what we can get," Linc said.

  We farewelled the humane society lady and the pups before resuming our conversation.

  "Do you believe her?" he asked as he closed the bay door.

  "About being with Mike the afternoon of the murder?" Linc nodded. I shrugged. "I don't know. If she is telling the truth, then both Mike and Crystal are off our suspect list."

  "It's such a bold thing to lie about. Does she honestly believe people don't notice a flashy sports car like Mike's parked in front of her house? Not many people drive that kind of car in Piney Ridge. I mean, I noticed," Linc said.

  "Cheaters stay in a constant state of denial. They think they’re so discreet. Some cheaters even deny it when you catch them red-handed. Then they gaslight you into believing you didn't actually see what you saw. They build on the fact that you don't want it to be true," I said, my voice rising with each sentence.

  "Why do I get the feeling we aren't necessarily talking about Mike and Crystal any longer?" Linc asked.

  I shook my head and attempted a smile. "Sorry. I had a bad experience right before coming back home. It's still a little raw."

  "You caught your boyfriend cheating?" Linc asked quietly as we walked toward the door to the office. He propped it open so Fang could run between the two areas.

  "Ex-boyfriend. Very ex. And yes. He cheated with a younger colleague at his magazine. A younger colleague with much bigger breasts and much less travel-weary wrinkles than I have." I waved a hand to clear the entire room of the memory. "But I'm over it. Or at least mostly so."

  "I'm sorry," Linc said.

  I shrugged. "It happens. I'm more angry at myself for denying it for so long. There were definite signs before I actually caught them. But I believed his excuses."

  "So, you think Missy and Mike knew about each other’s affairs?" Linc asked, bringing the conversation back to the present. I appreciated him for changing the subject before the tears of humiliation, anger, and hurt welling unbidden in my eyes spilled over. I'd shed enough tears for Wreck-It Rick, I didn't want to spend any more emotional energy on him. I brought myself back to the present too.

  "In a town as small as this, I don't see how they didn't." Remembering Crystal's comment about Missy's affair, I asked, "Do you know Becky? Could we talk to her?"

  "She'll be in later this week for her calendar shoot. We could approach her similarly to Crystal today," Linc suggested.

  I nodded. "That could work. Even if Crystal is lying about their alibi, Becky and her husband could both be suspects. Think we could get the husband—what's his name?"

  "Danny," Linc supplied.

  "Think we could get Danny to come consult on a few shots? Be a second shooter? Not for Becky's turn, of course," I suggested.

  "Oh no. We told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was no longer welcome on the premises."

  "No exceptions? Even to clear me of murder?" I asked, trying to nail the puppy dog eyes.

  "No exceptions. I think Chief Duncan and I scared him so bad, he has PTSD even driving past the place."

  "Fine."

  I dropped into a chair in the office. Linc automatically brought me a stool to prop my ankle on, then went to fetch me a bag of ice. I mulled over how I could weasel my way into talking to Danny. Honestly, Becky was the stronger suspect—a woman scorned and all that. But Danny could have blamed Missy for the end of his marriage. I needed to learn more about Becky and Danny's relationship prior to their breakup. The best place to do that would be to follow my mother to one of her many clubs. The mere thought gave me hives, but I'd suck it up. Especially if prison was the other option.

  Linc came back with the ice.

  I smiled up at him. "Thanks."

  I reached for the bag, but he knelt down beside my leg. He rolled my sock down to look at the bruise, still blue, but fading to green around the edges. Linc ran his fingertips lightly around my ankle before braceleting it neatly between his thumb and middle finger. He chuckled lightly and gave it a little squeeze, replacing his fingers with the ice. He'd always been fascinated by my petite frame. I could never understand why—it's just genetics.

  When he looked at me, his expression was guarded, but dark. Serious.

  "Whoever cheated on you, Alex, is the stupidest man alive."

  Chapter 17

  On Saturday morning, I looked out at the clear blue sky dotted with cotton-ball clouds drifting in the slight spring breeze and frowned. I'd secretly hoped for rain. Or a tornado. Or the apocalypse. Anything to get me out of moving. Moving meant commitment and permanence.

  It meant defeat.

  Even my stupid ankle felt a lot better so I couldn't use that as an excuse.

  "Even though I’d prefer you stay, we couldn't have asked for a better moving day!" my mother exclaimed happily when I finally dragged myself out of bed and toward the inevitable.

  "Don't remind me," I mumbled around a mouthful of cereal.

  "Now, Peanut, if you don't think the loft is right for you, you can always stay here. Your father and I have loved having you home again, especially after so long away."

  And there it was—the rock to match my hard place. If I didn't move, I'd still be stuck here. I loved my parents and had missed them equally as much. Staying at their house also meant the added benefit of my mother's cooking—not good for my waistline but perfect for my appetite. But being a thirtysomething living out of my childhood bedroom screamed failure even more than moving into a Piney Ridge apartment. I ought to take out a neon sign that read "Pathetic."

  "Thanks, Mom," I said. "I really appreciate it. But Lash needs more space. She's fiercely private, and us sharing a room isn't working."

  As I threw the last few things into a box, I reminded myself it had been less than two weeks since I'd been back in Piney Ridge. I couldn't actually expect to put my entire life and reputation back together in that short a time. Not to mention that I'd been dealing with other problems—a wrecked sign, a hurt ankle, a murder. You know, the usual.

  When I heard the beep outside, I grabbed the box from the dresser and met Colleen as she was coming up the walk. True to her offer, she'd managed to borrow a truck. Colleen took the box from my hand after we exchanged greetings, and that started a sort of assembly line for the rest of the boxes. Luckily, I hadn't unpacked much since I'd been home, so it was only a matter of moving the already full boxes from the garage into the back of the truck.

  "Where's the rest of it?" Colleen asked after my corner of the garage was emptied.

  "That's it," I said. If I thought looking at my belongings stuffed into the back of the Fiat was bad, looking at it taking up just over half of the truck bed was even worse. The "Pathetic" sign blinked on and off a few times in my mind, just to remind me it was still there. I thanked my past self for not calling Linc to help; this was one embarrassing moment he wouldn't be privy to.

  "Gah, I wish I had the willpower to have so little stuff. My house is so cluttered, I'm about to classify myself as a hoarder."

  "This is going to look absolutely ridiculous in that large, gorgeous space," I said forlornly. I hugged Lash's bowl a little tighter to my chest.

  "Are you kidding? This way you can always see the amazing woodwork. It won't be covered in junk!" Colleen said. I looked in awe at my friend, wishing I could bottle some of her optimism.

  "We do still have the bed frame and mattress. That'll take up a little more room," I said. But only a little. I was using my childhood twin bed until I could afford an adult-sized one.

  "We'll follow you over there, Peanut," Mom sa
id, shooing my father into their car. "We can't wait to see it! The way Nana K talks, it’s an oasis."

  "Come on," Colleen said, bumping my shoulder. "I'll bet once you have these boxes unpacked, you'll fill more space than you expected."

  The unpacked boxes did not fill a lot of the space at all. Nearly all the kitchen cupboards were empty. My clothes closet remained only half-full. The entire place echoed from lack of furniture as we talked. The only upside? We finished in less than two hours.

  My parents went out to get some lunch and groceries as Colleen helped me unpack the last few boxes.

  "These are really great," Colleen said as she unpacked some framed photos. "I really need to remember to print more photos. All my recent shots are in phone jail at the moment. Or on social media, scrolled through and forgotten."

  "As are most of mine. Although not on my phone, but on my computer." I walked over to pluck a frame out of the box. It was an eight by ten of the sunset over the Saharan sand dunes. I'd always meant to print it larger and hang it over my bed, but once I moved in with Rick, I'd never gotten around to it. He preferred signed football memorabilia and generic art prints to my work. That should have been red-flag number one that our relationship was doomed from the start.

  "I forgot to ask if I could hang pictures," I commented now. "It almost feels like sacrilege to hammer a nail into this wood."

  "I'm sure it's fine. It adds character, right? And you could always fill the holes in later. Make this place your home, Alex. Even if it is temporary."

  I smiled at her. "I missed you, Colleen."

  "Missed you too."

  We were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Hello?" a voice called. "It's Mrs. Anita."

  "Hi, Mrs. Anita!" I called. "Come on in."

  I smelled the fresh baked apple pie before Mrs. Anita even rounded the corner. My mouth salivated.

  "I've brought a welcome-to-the-neighborhood pie. I hope you like apple," she said, presenting the most perfectly browned apple pie. The top crust boasted a lattice-work pattern with a little capital A in the center. I carefully took the offered pie with the potholders Mrs. Anita brought. Good thing because I didn't have any. I added them to my mental shopping list.

  "Thank you so much. You didn't have to do this," I cooed. I placed the pie on the kitchen counter since I didn't have a table.

  Mrs. Anita looked around the space with a bewildered expression. "Feel free to find Bobby or one of the farmhands when you need help hauling up the furniture."

  "I just have a bed frame and mattress. My father and I can handle that," I explained.

  "Oh, okay," Mrs. Anita said slowly. Then laughed. "When you said you travel light, I didn't think you meant this light."

  "My apartment in New York was about the size of a postage stamp. And I wasn't there very often anyway."

  "Feel free to make this place feel like home. If you want to hang pictures or add throw rugs, that might help make it homier. We just ask that you don't paint the walls."

  "Oh, thank you! I was going to ask about hanging pictures," I said. "And I have no intentions of painting this wood."

  Mrs. Anita smiled and started making her way to the door. I followed. "If you need anything, just holler. We're usually in the market or the fields until dusk, then at the house. You'll find the contact numbers in the lease."

  "Thank you so much. This whole thing is really very kind."

  Mrs. Anita patted my shoulder. "We're happy to have you."

  Colleen already had the pie cut by the time I walked back to the kitchen area.

  "Help yourself," I said, laughing.

  "I did. Want a piece?"

  "Of course. We'll have to eat standing up. Or sitting on the floor."

  Colleen shrugged. "Grab your computer. Since Mrs. Anita said you could hang pictures, we should pick some more recent shots too. Make good on the promise to print more. And I need some too."

  I booted up my computer while sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor by the fireplace. Colleen joined me with two slices of pie. "Too bad we don't have ice cream," she quipped. I added that to my growing shopping list.

  "Let's start with your reservoir shoot and work backward from there. I'm sure you got some amazing local shots. Maybe you could even convince Mrs. Anita to let you set up a little display in the market. She's done it for other local artists," Colleen said.

  "That's a great idea. And would help supplement my income. I got the quote from the mechanic." I rolled my eyes. "Apparently Fiat parts are hard to come by. I asked if I could pay with the promise of my firstborn son, but that was a no-go."

  "Do you need a loan?" Colleen asked.

  I looked up from my keyboard. "Thank you so much for offering. Really. But I'm okay. I have some savings from my last pro shoot. And the mechanic has a payment-plan option. I can't drive the stupid thing until I take that stupid safe-driving class anyway, so what's the difference."

  "Tell me how you really feel about it," Colleen laughed. Then she pointed to the screen where I was scrolling through my flagged shots from the reservoir. "Oh, that one is lovely."

  She pointed to one with the water lapping against the rocks on the reservoir edge. I had lain on my belly to capture the exact moment the small waves broke against the shoreline. The angle made them seem larger than they really were. Colleen pulled the laptop into her lap to get a better look.

  "You took this at the reservoir? It looks like ocean waves," Colleen remarked.

  "It's all about the angle and the lens." A bright bit of bokeh caught my eye in an otherwise darker part of the frame.

  "What's that?" I asked, pointing to the bright spot. Colleen zoomed in.

  "Hard to tell," Colleen said. She put her face inches from the screen. "Probably some kind of metal. Jewelry, maybe?"

  "Let me see." I pulled the laptop back in front of me. I used the exposure and dehaze sliders in the editing software to bring down the glare a little bit. The shape of a locket came into focus. Goose bumps broke out over my arms.

  "Looks like a locket," Colleen confirmed.

  "I think so too. Guess who shoved a locket into my face the day I took these pictures?"

  Colleen's eyes went wide. "Missy? Shut up. We have to go look for it!"

  "I'm sure the police already collected it," I said, but my heartbeat threatened to pump right out of my chest.

  "But what if they didn't? What if it's evidence?" Colleen asked in a hushed tone.

  "Then we should call the police and tell them about it," I said without any conviction. I didn't trust Chief Duncan as far as I could throw him.

  "You don't even believe that," Colleen said, reading my tone perfectly. "Besides, we need to verify that it's there and that it belongs to Missy before we call the police. Otherwise, they'll think we're idiots."

  "Too late for that," I said, thinking of how Chief Duncan looked at me that first night. I saved the files, closed the program, and shut the laptop cover. "Okay. Grab my camera. Let's go look for a locket."

  Chapter 18

  We opted to park in the reservoir parking lot since that path was more worn. My ankle felt loads better, but with moving today, I didn't want to press it. I texted my parents to tell them we were going out "for supplies." Yes, I was thirtysomething, but I didn't want them to worry if they came back to an empty apartment. And, given their history of missing children, they would definitely worry. We made our way to the spot where I'd taken the picture. I sat on a tree stump to rest my ankle and pointed in the general direction.

  "Somewhere over there," I said, massaging the aching muscle. Probably I'd overdone it today what with moving and now hiking. I made a mental note to ice it when I got home. If I could find ice in my new place.

  Colleen poked around in the grass and rocks. Then her head popped up suddenly. "I think I found it!"

  "Don't touch it! Let me take a picture of it first. That way, in case it is Missy's, we will only be in a little bit of trouble from the police," I said. I limped over to Colleen a
nd shot from several angles.

  "We should have brought gloves," Colleen said in a hushed whisper as if we were superspies.

  I replied in my normal voice. "For what?"

  "There could be fingerprints on it! We don't want to contaminate the evidence when we touch it. 'Cause we're totally gonna touch it, right?"

  I looked down at the locket. The smart thing to do would be to call the police. Of course, if this did turn out to belong to Missy, Chief Duncan would find it super suspicious that I was once again the one to find it. Definitely not a plus in the Alex is Innocent column.

  On the other hand, if I didn't tell them about it and it did turn out to be evidence, that looked just as suspicious. Rock and a hard place. Again. I'd found myself in that particular spot too often for comfort lately.

  "Find a stick," I said. "A pointy one."

  "Are we going to poke at it?" Colleen asked with a chuckle. "People usually do that with dead bodies not jewelry."

  I scowled at her. "If I can see the front, I could tell you if it belonged to Missy or not. Then we can decide if we're going to open it."

  "Fine," Colleen conceded. She disappeared into the brush returning a moment later with a pointy stick. "Will this do?"

  I took it from her and bent down to turn it over. But between the weight of the camera around my neck and trying to balance on one foot, I almost tipped face forward into the dirt.

  "Let me do it," Colleen said. She took the stick and easily flicked the locket over. Not only was it Missy's locket—the engraved MVP on the front clearly visible—but the chain was also broken. I took several more pictures, making sure to get one of the clasp still locked tight.

  "Of course, Missy would switch her initials so the moniker read MVP. Who else would be so vain?" Colleen asked.

  "It's hers all right," I confirmed, still staring at the locket.

  Missy was definitely wearing it when I saw her at the salon. Was it on her body when they found her in the woods? Only her leg was visible in the picture, so that didn't help. I closed my eyes to conjure the image of Missy's body on Sunday night as I swept the flashlight to her face. Thinking about it like a photograph helped me remember the details my mind tried desperately to forget. I pushed aside the blood and bruises to focus on Missy's neck. I was almost positive it was clear—no necklace. Which would make sense if it were in the grass when I took the shots by the reservoir.