by Amanda Quick
Nick set the handful of personal effects out on the table and contemplated them for a long time, searching for connections. There were several envelopes marked with dates. They were stuffed with negatives and prints. The oldest packet was the smallest. It was dated six years earlier.
Nick picked up the envelope with the most recent date and dumped the contents onto the table. Dozens of negatives fell out. He sifted through them. Bodies. Fires. Movie stars partying in nightclubs. There were also a few prints of pictures that had obviously been taken from a distance. One featured two women and a famous male film star naked together on a beach. Another was a picture of two men embracing. Evidently at some point in the not too distant past Toby had decided to try his hand at blackmail in an attempt to pay off his gambling debts.
So much for the most recent images. There wasn’t much point going through the other packets. Probably more of the same.
Still, in his experience answers were frequently locked in the past.
He picked up the first envelope, the one dated six years earlier. He unsealed it and emptied the prints and negatives onto the table.
And there it was, right in front of him, the connection that made the picture complete.
“Shit.”
He had to be certain.
He picked up the telephone and asked for long distance. “The Brazier residence in San Francisco, please.”
The housekeeper answered a short time later. Nick identified himself. The housekeeper said she knew who he was because she had spoken with Lyra and Vivian that morning.
“I’m so glad you’re all safe,” the housekeeper said. “I can’t imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Brazier will say when they get home.”
“I have a question,” Nick said. “It’s very important. I know that Lyra took a phone call from someone here in Adelina Beach who wanted to know where Vivian was.”
“Really? How odd. Shortly after Lyra left town I took a call as well from someone who said he was looking for Vivian. A very nice man. Sounded quite posh. He was trying to find Vivian because he wanted her to do his portrait. He had heard about the fire at the beach house, you see. He said no one knew where Vivian had gone afterward. He assumed that she was staying in a hotel until she could find another house to rent. I had just spoken with Vivian and offered to call her to tell her about the commission but the man said it would be faster if he talked to her directly. He was in a hurry. Something about a funeral.”
“Did you tell him where Vivian was?”
“Fortunately Miss Lyra had written the number of the Burning Cove Hotel down on the notepad next to the telephone. I gave it to the gentleman. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes. Yes, it does. Good-bye, ma’am.”
Nick tossed the receiver into the cradle and headed for the door with his keys and his holstered gun, moving fast. The hot acid of something akin to panic sluiced through his veins. He fought it with every ounce of willpower he possessed. He had to stay in control because he had to get to Vivian.
Chapter 45
I know you don’t like landscapes,” Vivian said. “At least not the photographic kind. But that’s all that I have available at the moment.”
Fenella Penfield gazed at the two prints for a long time before she raised her head. Vivian braced herself for another rejection.
They were in Fenella’s back room facing each other across a long workbench that was littered with framing tools and materials. They were the only people in the gallery. The shop had been in the process of closing just as Vivian parked Lyra’s racy little speedster at the far end of the block. She had arrived in time to see the salesclerks leaving and was sure her brief moment of opportunity had closed.
But Fenella had stayed behind to view the pictures. It was obvious she was irritated and, evidently, rather desperate. One of her artists was not going to be able to deliver two pictures that had been promised for an upcoming show. Fenella needed something to go on the walls.
“I’ve changed my mind about the landscapes,” Fenella said. “And also your Finding California. Your pictures are certainly not fine art but I do have a few clients with less cultivated tastes who might like them. There are always a few unsophisticated types, the nouveau riche, at my shows. They’ll buy whatever I tell them to buy. I’m sure I can unload these.”
Talk about damning with faint praise, Vivian thought.
A tide of anger rose up, threatening to choke her. She went hot and cold all over. It was too much. On top of everything else that had happened in the past several days, the rude dismissal of her art was just too much.
She gave Fenella her most dazzling smile.
“Thank you, but I’ve changed my mind,” she said. She gathered up the prints and slipped them into the portfolio. “I’m afraid I won’t have time to develop any pictures for you.”
Fenella looked shocked. “What are you talking about? Last week you were begging me to hang those landscapes.”
“I did not beg you. I offered them to you. You rejected them.”
Fenella watched angrily as Vivian closed the portfolio. “Hold on. I need those pictures for my next exhibition.”
“Too bad. You can’t have them. By the way, I recently spent a few days in Burning Cove. I spoke to the proprietor of the Ashwood Gallery. I believe you know her?”
“Joan Ashwood?” Fenella appeared wary now. “Yes, I know her in a professional capacity. She has attended some of my exhibitions. Occasionally we compete for the same artists and photographers. Winston Bancroft, for example.”
“Yes, I know.”
Fenella frowned. “Why did you ask me if I knew Joan?”
Vivian flashed another bright smile. “Miss Ashwood was gracious enough to accept a couple of pictures from my Men series for her gallery.”
Fenella stiffened. “Is that right? Well, it’s no secret that Joan Ashwood caters to a much different clientele. Mobsters, celebrities, rich people with too much money and no taste.” She paused for emphasis. “And now, apparently, clients with prurient interests. Pay attention, Miss Brazier. If you don’t let me have those images for my show, you will never hang another picture in a respectable gallery anywhere in L.A. Your career as an artist will be ruined.”
“Face it, you’ve already done your best to destroy my career. I really don’t think there’s anything else you can do to ruin me.”
Fenella stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
Vivian hoisted the portfolio case off the workbench. “In the course of our conversation Miss Ashwood informed me that the reason I have run into so much trouble trying to persuade galleries around here to hang my work isn’t because my pictures aren’t good but because of certain rumors about me.”
Fenella looked at first as if she was going to deny any knowledge of the gossip but whatever she saw in Vivian’s expression must have convinced her that it was time for the truth. She looked deeply pained.
“I suppose you are referring to the gossip about your work as a newspaper photographer,” she said.
“Yes. Rumors which you no doubt helped spread. You certainly didn’t do anything to squelch them. I’m starting to wonder if you’re the one who started them. Maybe it wasn’t Kempton, after all.”
Fenella sighed. “The art world can be very harsh on artists who dabble in commercial work.”
“Even when they do it to pay the rent?”
“I’m afraid so. Everyone knows that all successful artists do some commercial work along the way but they are supposed to keep it a secret. Those, such as yourself, who are working in the medium of photography have an especially difficult time. The line between cheap, five-dollar-a-shot crime scene photos and true art is already extremely blurry.”
“In other words, so-called sophisticated gallery owners such as yourself, the people who make the rules, are afraid to trust their own instincts when it comes t
o judging art photography. Admit it.”
Fenella drew herself up and straightened her sharp shoulders. “Gallery owners must maintain their credibility with their clientele. If it got out that they were marketing photographs that anyone could take with a Brownie, well, you can see the problem.”
“It’s all about maintaining an image of exclusivity.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“In that case,” Vivian said, “why were you willing to hang my pictures?”
Fenella looked hesitant. Then she sighed. “If you must know, the artist who failed to deliver the pictures for my show was Winston Bancroft. I need to hang a couple of examples of art photography to round out the show. Your work is . . . good enough.”
“No,” Vivian said. She started toward the door between the back room and the sales floor. “My work is too good for your gallery.”
She could feel Fenella’s eyes burning holes between her shoulder blades all the way across the shadowed showroom. She did not take a deep breath until she was outside on the tree-shaded sidewalk. Her anger faded as she walked halfway down the block to where she had parked Lyra’s speedster. She put the portfolio in the trunk and got behind the wheel.
She had just put the last nail in the coffin of her Adelina Beach career, but now that she knew about the rumors, she realized there had never been any hope in the first place. All was not lost. She was going to have two pictures from her Men series in the Ashwood Gallery show. If they got some positive attention and maybe even sold, she would have a chance in the world of fine art.
She was still sitting behind the wheel, trying to get a handle on her plans for the future, when a cab pulled up in front of the gallery. Fenella walked out of the shop and got into the back of the taxi. The vehicle sped off.
Vivian was so preoccupied with her thoughts that it took her a moment to realize she was getting a weird feeling on the back of her neck. A tiny whisper of ghostly energy. It occurred to her that there was something wrong with the street scene in front of her.
She realized she was focusing on the empty parking space in front of the gallery entrance. What’s wrong with the composition of this picture? she thought. Something was off. The sidewalks were empty. There was virtually no traffic in the street. The elegant shops and boutiques had closed for the day.
It finally struck her that Fenella Penfield had gone home in a taxi, not her prized Duesenberg. The elegant sedan had not been parked in front of the gallery that day.
Fenella liked to be seen driving through town in the big car. She used it as a marketing device, a visual indication of the classiness of the Penfield Gallery. It sent a clear message. But evidently she had not driven the sedan to work that day. Perhaps it was in a garage for some routine maintenance.
Or repairs.
The small chill on the back of Vivian’s neck turned to ice. Don’t let your imagination run wild. Nevertheless, she could not shake the ominous sensation that was welling up from the shadows. A thought surfaced and burned in her mind—to her knowledge the Burning Cove Police had not yet found the car that had killed Toby Flint. The vehicle Jonathan Treyherne had been driving the night he attacked Nick had shown no indications of having been in an accident. The theory was that Treyherne had used a stolen car to murder Flint but as of yet there was no evidence to support that notion.
The Dagger Killer had been one of Fenella’s clients. Vivian reminded herself that was not an odd coincidence. Deverell-Feathergill had been wealthy and he had lived in Adelina Beach. Wealthy people in Adelina Beach bought art from Fenella Penfield. It made perfect sense that he had shopped at the Penfield Gallery.
Another little electric thrill swept through Vivian. The authorities had found some photographic equipment at the Deverell-Feathergill mansion, but there had been no report of any negatives or prints having been discovered in there.
She had been certain that when the police found the Dagger Killer they would find a portfolio of the death scenes.
A prickling sensation raised the fine hairs on her arms. Something wicked this way comes.
Probably not a good time to be recalling that particular quote from Shakespeare. But it ignited yet another memory. Toby Flint had mentioned that at one time he’d had dreams of a career in art photography. He had been living in Adelina Beach when he’d had those dreams. He would have encountered Fenella Penfield.
Again, so what?
Her thoughts continued to circle but they kept coming back to the simple fact that the car that had been used to murder Toby Flint had not been found.
And now the Duesenberg that was always parked in front of the Penfield Gallery was—if not missing—unaccounted for. Fenella Penfield had gone home in a taxi.
She thought about the rage in Fenella’s eyes when she had called the Men series porn.
Why do you hate me so much, Fenella Penfield? Because I’m the future of photography and you’re the past?
Vivian turned the key in the ignition and eased the speedster away from the curb. She motored sedately to the corner, turned right, and cruised slowly past the entrance to the alley behind the Penfield Gallery. There was one lone delivery truck parked behind a shop.
The fashionable street of boutiques and galleries had once been a block of stylish houses. The homes had each had garages that opened onto the alley. Most had no doubt been converted into storage facilities for the shops.
She drove on a short distance, pulled into a parking space, and stopped, trying to decide what to do next. There would be nothing illegal about taking a quick look through the window of the garage behind the Penfield Gallery. It wasn’t as if she would be breaking into the shop. You couldn’t get arrested for looking into a garage window, could you?
And surely you couldn’t get arrested for taking a photo of whatever you saw when you looked through that window, assuming you noticed something of interest.
She got out, opened the trunk, and picked up the Speed Graphic. It was already loaded with film and a fresh flashbulb. Every photographer who covered crimes and fires made sure to keep a camera handy and ready to go.
She slung the strap of the camera over one shoulder and walked briskly to the entrance of the alley. She arrived just in time to see a deliveryman emerge from the rear door of a shop. He jumped up into the front seat of his truck and drove off toward the far end of the narrow lane.
She waited until she was sure he was gone and then went quickly toward the garage behind the Penfield Gallery. Her anxiety spiked with each step. Once again she reminded herself that what she planned to do was not illegal. It was, however, very likely a waste of time.
She hurried to the grimy window on the side of the garage and peered into the gloom-filled space. The Duesenberg was inside. The stylish hood ornament was bent and twisted to one side. One front headlight was broken. There was a crack in the windshield.
Vivian got a little light-headed. She stepped back and tried to think clearly. First things first. She had to take a photo and get out of the alley. There was a phone booth on the corner. She would call Nick immediately.
A footstep behind her was all the warning she got before Fenella spoke.
“Turn around,” Fenella said. “Slowly. One false move and I’ll pull the trigger.”
Vivian shivered, a wave of shock and panic icing her nerves. Her mouth got very dry. She turned around and saw Fenella, gun in hand, standing a few feet away.
“I saw you leave in the cab,” Vivian said.
“I got out as soon as the taxi turned the corner. I told the driver it was such a nice day I had decided to walk home. Did you think I didn’t notice you in that blue speedster at the end of the block? I’m not a fool. I knew you were getting suspicious. Inside. Now. Or I will pull this trigger.”
“That would be stupid,” Vivian said. “People will hear the shot.”
“Unlikely. The
neighborhood is deserted at this time of day. Even if someone did happen to hear it, the sound would be dismissed as a backfire. Go on, into my shop. Don’t worry. I left the door open for you.”
Vivian briefly contemplated making a run for it, but Fenella was too close and the strange glitter in her eyes made it clear that she was more than willing to pull the trigger.
“If you’re going to kill me anyway, why not shoot me now?” Vivian asked.
“Shut up and go inside. There is something I want you to see.”
Vivian went up the back steps, opened the door, and moved into the shadows of Fenella’s back room. She understood why people obeyed when someone held a gun on them. It was all about buying time.
“I assume this means you never really intended to display my pictures in your next exhibition,” Vivian said.
Chapter 46
You’re wrong,” Fenella said. “I had every intention of exhibiting your photographs in my next show.”
“Why? I can’t believe you would have done me any favors just because Winston Bancroft failed to deliver a couple of pictures.”
“That was something of a story, I’m afraid. Bancroft has already delivered his photos. But I needed to convince you that I really did want your pictures for the exhibition. I wanted to make sure you were in the gallery that evening so that you could witness your failure as an artist.”
“You just assumed my photographs would not get any attention? That no one would buy them?”
“Exactly. Later you were going to take your own life. The plan was for you to retreat here to my back room and put a bullet in your head. Everyone would have assumed you could not handle the pain of finding out for certain that you were a failure.”
“You had the whole scene composed in your mind.”
“Yes. I had it all worked out.”
“Do you really think the people who know me would have believed your ridiculous story for even sixty seconds?”