Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  I stared in disbelief. “Is that a—peephole?”

  I leaned in to put my eye against the opening. Thankfully, the adjoining motel unit was empty. After replacing the medallion, I grabbed handfuls of hanging clothes, pulling them across to cover it. Then I closed the door.

  As an afterthought, I dragged over a chair and placed it in front.

  “When did you find this?” I asked. “It isn’t…your handiwork, is it?”

  He glowered at me, then moved the chair back to its original position. “How the hell did you arrive at that conclusion? I had nothing to do with it.”

  “We have to report it.”

  “We can’t. If my own daughter thinks I’m responsible, what will the police think?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Dad—that minor criminal record of yours doesn’t include anything unsavory, does it?”

  “Of course not,” he blustered. Then hesitated. “Define unsavory.”

  “Never mind,” I grumbled. Overcoming my initial distaste, I opened the closet door and moved the clothes aside to take another look. “How old do you think this is?” I asked, with my face pressed against the peephole. “If it’s been here for years, you’ll be off the hook. But we still have to report it because—”

  A rap on the motel room door caused me to jerk backward. I stumbled. Instinctively, I grabbed the hanging clothes to break my fall. That sudden movement was too much for the ancient clothes rod. With a ripping sound, it detached from one side of the closet.

  I stumbled backward, still clutching the clothes. The wire hangers slid off the rod’s broken end, one after the other. Within seconds, I was on the floor, covered in clothing, hangers, and decades of lint.

  The closet was now empty, the medallion gleaming like the lost gold of the Incas.

  The rapping on the door resumed. Rat-a-tat-tat.

  “Anybody there?” came a woman’s voice. “Frank?”

  Puffing air through my mouth in a pathetic attempt to shift a woolen scarf that was draped across my face like an overly friendly boa constrictor, I struggled to make myself heard. “The closet—”

  “Be right there,” my father hollered pleasantly, heading for the door. “Get up,” he said, prodding me with the toe of his cowboy boot.

  “The closet,” I hissed, sticking out my foot to keep him from reaching the motel room door. “Close the door.”

  I had trouble estimating the force required to deter him while weighed down by mounds of clothing and a woolen snake. Not only that, but a dozen cheap wire hangers were digging into my thigh.

  Frank went down like a ton of bricks.

  “Oof,” he gasped. “Crikey—whadda you do that for?”

  A key rattled in the door lock.

  “I’m coming in, Frank,” the voice called. “Are you all right? What was that noise?”

  With a superhuman effort, I flipped onto my hands and knees to crawl over the mounded clothes to the closet.

  The hangers, now a tangled clump of bent wire, dug their hooks into me. Dragging that mess behind me, I made it to the closet door, stretching up one hand to close it. It banged against the end of the broken rod and remained open a crack, but the medallion was hidden.

  I collapsed onto the floor with my back against the closet door seconds before the motel room door opened.

  A woman’s curly brown head poked through the opening. Her red-lipsticked mouth dropped open as she took in the scene.

  “Hello,” I said wanly while untangling a hanger from my arm.

  “Oh, my.” She surveyed the room with a hand to her throat. “Am I interrupting anything?” Stepping warily into the room, she kept one hand on the doorknob behind her. In case of a hasty retreat, I assumed.

  Frank jumped to his feet with surprising agility, then uttered a curse under his breath and vigorously rubbed one knee. “Birdie, this is my daughter, Verity. She dropped by to…” He looked helplessly at me.

  “To organize this wonderful wardrobe that you’ve been kind enough to provide my father. He really appreciates it.” I held up a Christmas-themed sweater with what I hoped was an appreciative look. I gave it a fond pat.

  Birdie’s face brightened. “How nice to meet you, Verity. Your father’s told me so much about you.”

  “Likewise,” I said while surreptitiously shifting a pile of hangers from under my left hip.

  “Really?” Her shiny face took on an even brighter gleam.

  My father shot me a side-eyed glance that could have melted glass.

  Serves you right, I thought, smiling angelically before adding, “Oh, yes. Many times.”

  “Well. I’ll let you get back to it, then. I only dropped by, Frank, to let you know I’m on my way to the market so, if there’s anything you need…” Birdie lifted her shoulders suggestively before turning her attention to me. She studied my face intently.

  I smiled weakly, hoping the hangers hadn’t drawn blood.

  “Please don’t trouble yourself,” Frank said.

  “Well,” she said again. Birdie seemed to be a woman of few words, and she liked those ones a lot. “Why don’t I pick up a few of those maple donuts you’re so fond of?”

  My father smiled weakly. “If you have to.”

  I glared at him. “My father’s quite appreciative, I’m sure.”

  Birdie smiled again. “Well. I’m off.” She gave us a cheery wave, then furrowed her brow at me—she seemed to zero in on my right eye—before turning to the door.

  I sighed in relief, tossing the festive sweater over my shoulder.

  At the door, Birdie suddenly turned, lips pursed, then pointed to the broken rod protruding from the closet door. “Is there a problem with the—”

  I grabbed the sweater and held it up, blocking her view of the closet. “Just look at the stitching. You don’t see this kind of workmanship very often.”

  “—coffee maker?” Birdie asked.

  I swiveled my head. She was studying the bureau with the microwave and coffee maker, not the closet.

  “The last tenant complained the coffee wasn’t good,” Birdie continued.

  Frank shook his head repeatedly. “No. It’s great.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Well—” she said, stepping over the threshold.

  He tried to close the door.

  Birdie slapped a hand against it. “I almost forgot. That previous tenant also claimed they left a laptop behind.” She chuckled. “People forget the darnedest things. You haven’t… seen anything like that, have you?”

  Frank stared at her, his mouth hanging open. “Ah…ah…”

  I hastened to step in. “I’m sure Frank would have told you if he’d found a computer in the room.” I tried to chuckle, but my throat was too dry from the lint.

  “Well.” Birdie gave our surroundings a searching glance. “It’s not the first time they’ve mentioned it. I’m afraid they’re insisting on a proper search. Thing is, I’m worried the police might get involved.”

  I heard my father swallow hard.

  “I could do it right now.” Birdie shrugged apologetically. “If you’re not too busy?”

  “Nooo, we’re not busy,” I said. “Just let us get some of these clothes out of the way first to make it easier for you.” I swiveled my eyes to the door while tilting my head at Frank. He took several seconds to catch on, but then positioned himself by the entrance.

  “Well—”

  “Thanks, Birdie,” my dad said, closing the door in her face. We waited, holding our breath, until we heard her heels clicking away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I rose to my feet with a hanger hooked through the sleeve of my hoodie. While working it out of the fabric, I said, “You have to tell Birdie about the peephole. She’ll find it anyway.”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  He worked his lips while thoughtfully regarding the closet. “Because there’s more to it.”

  “Such as?”

  My father gave another fu
rtive glance out the window. Then, after locking the motel room door with a rattle of the chain, he dropped to his knees to slide a silver laptop out from under the bed.

  I gaped at it. “Where did that come from?”

  “I found it at the back of the closet this morning. Behind a loose section of paneling.”

  “You stole it.”

  “No. I told you. I found it.”

  “That doesn’t make it yours. You have to turn it in. Tell Birdie you took another look around after her visit and found it. It’s not all bad. There might even be a reward.”

  He looked dubious, so I added, “Birdie will be so proud.”

  Frank glowered at me, then placed the laptop on the bed and flipped it open. “I can’t turn it in. Look.”

  Puzzled, I bent to peer at the screen.

  He pulled up a video.

  “Do we have time for YouTube?” I asked, knowing what even a single kitten video could lead to. We might be there for hours.

  Except my father wasn’t looking at kittens. Not that kind, anyway.

  The video showed the same room I’d been gawking at minutes earlier—the one adjacent to my father’s. “Is that live?”

  “No. It’s a recording.”

  “Of what?” I asked, not certain I wanted to hear the answer.

  “Nothing much. People walking around.”

  “Then why—”

  “There’s a bunch of recordings like this on the laptop. Somebody set up a camera that feeds into this computer. If the police see this, they might get the wrong idea. At least, I should watch all the videos to make sure—”

  “Of what?” I asked in an icy tone. “Camera angles?”

  “Stop that. It’s not what you think. I only turned it on to take a look.” He hesitated. “See who it belonged to, that is.”

  To myself, I muttered, Uh-huh.

  “But then I found these videos,” Frank continued. “That gave me the idea to look for a peephole. And now…” He shrugged, looking worried. “How would I explain it?”

  I pointed to the screen. “Are you telling me this thing’s been filming activities in your neighboring unit the whole time you’ve been living here?”

  “I think so.”

  I walked to the closet, flinging open the door for a closer look. Now that the hangers and clothing were all on the floor, it was easy to scan the walls. I checked every corner. Nothing. “Where’s the camera, then?”

  “It must be next door. It’s not here. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Great.” Flopping onto the bed with my hands on my knees, I tilted my head back to stare at the stained ceiling tiles. How I was going to explain this to my upright—and occasionally uptight—law-enforcement boyfriend? I rehearsed a few scenarios.

  Jeff, honey—my dad accidentally videotaped other motel room guests, through a peephole, using a stolen laptop. That’s not a problem, right?

  While Jeff had never been anything less than welcoming to my dad, he was well aware of the more dubious side of Frank’s character. I believed my father was telling the truth about his closet discovery, if only because who would make up a story like that? I wasn’t quite as confident about Jeff’s response to it.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll call Lorne and tell him we have a slight computer problem and ask him to drop by to take a look. He’s great with computers. He’ll know how to find that camera.”

  Looking dubious, Frank thumbed his ear. “Do we have to tell Lorne?”

  “I trust him. We’ve been through a lot together.”

  “But he’ll bring Emy, won’t he?”

  “Of course he will. They’re a package deal. Anyway, I wouldn’t keep this from my best friend. She’d never forgive me.” I felt a smirk twitch my lips and fought to suppress it. It was a losing battle. “You know, when you think about it, it’s actually pretty funny.”

  “Very funny. Not as funny as your face, though.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He jerked his head at the mirror by the front door. Puzzled, I ambled over for a look.

  Oh. No wonder Birdie stared at me. Two green smudges bracketed my right eye. I rubbed at them with no discernible results. “That medallion’s made of copper, isn’t it?” I asked with a sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How was I supposed to know you were going to plant your mug right on it?”

  “Well, excuse me. I’m new to surveillance work.”

  Which wasn’t exactly true, I thought.

  Pulling my cell phone from my bag, I tapped out a rapid text.

  I need the team at Sleepy Time Motel.

  Then I added a bat-signal emoji.

  B right there, Emy replied.

  What about Ethan? Lorne texted.

  Tell him to knock off for today. We’ll start early tomorrow.

  Check. On our way.

  Once the team had arrived, I pushed aside the coffee maker to make room on the bureau for the laptop. With my father pacing in the background, I explained the problem to Lorne and Emy. We contemplated the computer.

  “The easiest thing would be to wipe the hard drive,” Lorne said.

  My dad swiveled to face him. “We can’t do that,” he blurted.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I broke in, “Frank has to return this thing.” I glared at my father, who rolled his eyes. “Preferably with the contents intact.”

  “Do you want to delete the videos, then?” Lorne asked.

  “No. We can’t do that either. They could be…evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  “Who knows? But we have to be able to prove Frank knew nothing about it. If the camera switches on while the police are checking the laptop…” I shrugged. “It won’t look good.”

  My father raised his hands in a Hello! type gesture.

  “Then what?” Lorne asked.

  “Can we disable the camera?”

  Nodding, he pulled over a chair. “We should be able to do that from here.” He tapped a few keys, frowned, then tapped a few more. Lorne slumped back, puffing out a breath. “Problem.”

  “What?”

  “See this icon?”

  I leaned over his shoulder to peer at the screen.

  “That’s the camera,” he said. “It shows up as a device linked to this computer. But when I try to eject it, it pops right back.”

  “How can we get rid of it, then?”

  “We have to find the actual camera. Otherwise, it will keep on loading videos.”

  I bit my lip, hoping the pain would distract me from the unease twisting my gut. What were we getting into? “That sounds complicated.”

  Lorne shook his head. “It’s not. Basically, we just need to turn it off.”

  “Does it have an on-off switch? Or a plug we can pull?”

  He mulled this over, studying the screen. “Probably not.” He tapped a few more keys. “I assume it’s transmitting wirelessly. The camera will have a power source, but I won’t know what it is until I see it. If all else fails, we can take a hammer to it.” Pushing his chair back, he stood. “So—where is the camera?”

  “We don’t know. Except that it’s not here. It must be next door.”

  “We’ll have to search that room.”

  “I don’t see how, unless you happen to have one of those picklock thingies.”

  “I’ve been meaning to get one of those,” Lorne muttered, then brightened. “There are plenty for sale online. Should I order one?”

  “We don’t have time for that.” My unease mounting, I turned to my father. “Maybe you could persuade Birdie you need to see that room for some reason. You could—”

  “No,” he said loudly. “Forget it.”

  “There’s a simpler way,” Lorne said. “The bathroom windows on these units face the ravine at the back. No one will see me if I go in that way.”

  This was getting worse and worse. I bit my lip. “Okay, but make it quick.”

  Lorne w
ent out the door, then darted around the end of the motel to the back. Emy and I huddled around the laptop screen, which still showed an empty room. My father continued to pace.

  Within minutes, Lorne texted us.

  I’m in.

  I clicked on the full-screen option to make the video larger. “Where is he?”

  “He must still be in the bathroom,” Emy said. She sucked in a quick breath. “Oh, no. Look—someone’s coming in.” She pointed to the screen, where the unit’s front door was opening.

  A middle-aged man wearing a blue suit and aviator sunglasses stepped into the unit, then closed the door. He turned, facing the camera, displaying a pair of enormous ears.

  “I don’t believe it.” I pointed at the screen. “That’s Nigel Hemsworth.”

  Emy stared at the laptop, her mouth slack. “What’s he doing here?”

  Nigel had a rectangular object under his arm, about two feet by three feet, wrapped in brown paper. He propped it up on the sofa, then turned to a wall mirror to straighten his tie.

  Frank stopped pacing to stare at the screen over my shoulder. “That guy looks familiar.”

  “I showed you his picture,” I said. “He’s the village art dealer who’s trying to muscle in on Ryker’s inheritance.”

  “Yeah, but—” my dad said. “Something else.” His brow furrowed. “Wait—does he own a Mercedes convertible?”

  “As a matter of fact, he does.”

  “That’s where I’ve seen him. He brings it into the garage for oil changes every other week.” Frank whistled. “He puts a lot of miles on it.”

  “We have to get Lorne out of there,” Emy said, texting frantically on her phone.

  I paused her hand. “Stop. You can’t send a text. It’ll chime on Lorne’s phone when it’s delivered. Nigel will hear it.”

  “What should we do?” she whispered, watching the screen.

  Meanwhile, in the neighboring unit, Nigel strolled to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Is he…humming?” Emy asked.

  I pricked up my ears to hear the unmistakable strains of comic opera. “When was the last time you heard somebody hum Gilbert and Sullivan’s Three Little Maids?”