Depth of Field

by Michael Blair

  Depth of Field

  Depth of Field

  A Granville Island Mystery

  Michael Blair

  A Castle Street Mystery

  Copyright © Michael Blair, 2009

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Shannon Whibbs

  Design: Erin Mallory

  Printer: Webcom

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Blair, Michael, 1946-

  Depth of field : a Granville Island mystery / by Michael Blair.

  (A Castle Street mystery)

  ISBN 978-1-55002-855-3

  I. Title. II. Series: Castle Street mystery

  PS8553.L3354D46 2009 C813’.6 C2008-906215-9

  1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

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  For Pamela …

  Author’s Note

  Many of the locations in this book — Granville Island, Sea Village, Bridges Restaurant, and various marinas — are real, although not necessarily as portrayed. All events and characters, however, are entirely fictional and any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead or undecided, is purely coincidental.

  chapter one

  It was Tuesday, a little past nine in the morning. The fog outside my third floor office window was so thick you could scoop it up with a shovel and cart it away in a wheelbarrow. Unusual for Vancouver in June — virtually unheard of, in fact — but given the winter we’d just been through, nothing would have surprised me weather-wise. The environmentalists blamed it on global warming. The conspiracy theorists blamed it on scalar weaponry run amok. I just groused.

  I was alone in the studio, feet up — definitely not unheard of — coffee cup nestled in my lap, wondering where the hell everyone was, when I heard the elevator rattle to a stop and the door bang open. I dropped my feet to the floor, startling Bodger, who’d been cat-napping on the sagging leather sofa against the opposite wall, tattered ears twitching as he dreamed of fat, complacent mice — or the cat treats I kept in my desk drawer, which were a lot easier to catch.

  “Well, it’s about bloody time,” I said, as I went into the outer office.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Oops,” I said, looking at a shapely blonde. “Sorry. I was expecting my associates.”

  “That’s quite all right,” she said.

  The top of her head was level with the tip of my nose. She had sharp, emerald-green eyes, nice cheekbones, and a wide, generous mouth painted the colour of cherry Jell-O. I guessed she was thirty-five, give or take.

  “Can I help you?” I asked hopefully.

  “I’m looking for Thomas McCall,” she said, surveying the chaos. We were relocating on the weekend and the studio looked as though a giant child had thrown his toys about in a fit of temper.

  “You’ve found him,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to hire you,” she said. Her voice was light and slightly scratchy, as if her throat were lined with fine sandpaper. A smoker, I thought, although she didn’t smell of tobacco. In fact, her scent was faintly reminiscent of marshmallow, simultaneously sweet and musky and powdery.

  “I’d like to be hired,” I said. “Never mind all this. We’re in the throes of moving to a new location. Come into my office. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t sit there,” I said, as she looked down at the sofa and Bodger looked up at her. “You’ll get cat hair on your skirt.”

  She was wearing a three-quarter-length black leather coat, narrow at the waist, flared at the hip, and an above-the-knee black skirt. Her patent leather lace-up boots, also black, had long, pointy toes and three-inch stiletto heels. I placed a straight-backed chair in front of my desk, held it for her as she sat down. She crossed her legs with a whisper of nylon. She had very nice knees.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” I asked again, as she unfastened her coat, revealing, I couldn’t help but notice, a very impressive superstructure.

  “I’m sure, thank you,” she said.

  I went around my desk and sat down. “So, how can I help you, Miss …?”

  “Waverley,” she said in her scratchy voice. “Anna Waverley. And it’s missus. Or at least it will be until my divorce becomes final.”

  “Miz, then,” I said.

  She smiled. She had a very nice smile, revealing near-perfect teeth, except for one slightly crooked upper incisor, to go with the nice knees and impressive superstructure. Her complexion was clear and smooth, no telltale crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth. I revised her age downwards half a decade, and wondered why she wore her hair and dressed in a style that made her look older.

  “In any event,” she said. “I got the house in Point Grey, the condo in Whistler, and the boat, which I’d like to sell. I don’t see any reason why I should pay a broker’s commission, so I thought I’d sell it privately, which is why I came you. I need photographs to send to prospective buyers. I tried to do it myself with my little digital camera, but I didn’t like the way they turned out.”

  “Okay. That —”

  “Except it has to be done right way. This evening, if at all possible. I’ve already lined up a potential buyer I’d like to email the photos to, but he’s leaving for Hawaii first thing in the morning.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. We’d recently purchased an almost-new Nikon digital SLR that was compatible with all our older Nikon gear, lenses and flashes and such. “What’s the name of the boat?” I asked. “And where is it?”

  “It’s called Wonderlust — with an ‘O’ — and it’s at the Broker’s Bay Marina at the west end of Granville Island.”

  “I know the marina,” I said, adding, “I live on Granville Island.”

  “Oh, do you?” she said. “How convenient. Will you be doing it yourself, then?”

  “Yes, probably,” I said. No sacrifice was too great.

  “Would eight o’clock be all right?” Ms. Waverley said. “I could meet you there.”

  “That sounds fine,” I said.

  “I really appreciate you doing this on such short notice, Mr. McCall.” She opened her purse and took out a plain white business envelope, from which she removed a pair of keys with a paper tag and a wad of fifty-dollar bills. “I wasn’t
sure how much you would charge. I hope you don’t mind cash.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “But it isn’t necessary to pay in advance. We’ll invoice you.” I took our standard work order form out of my desk drawer.

  “If you don’t mind,” Ms. Waverley said, “I’d prefer to pay in cash. It leaves less of a paper trail.” She smiled her very nice smile. “You know how it is with divorce.”

  “I do,” I said. I slid the work order form back into the desk drawer.

  After we’d agreed on an amount, to which she insisted on adding another fifty — “For the inconvenience,” she said — she returned the balance to the envelope, tucked it into her purse, and stood. “I’ll see you this evening at eight, then,” she said, holding out her hand.

  I stood and took her hand. It was warm and strong, and ever so slightly work-roughened, perhaps by a hobby; I couldn’t imagine her doing manual labour. “Where can I reach you if I, um, need to reach you?”

  “My cellphone number is on the key tag.” She indicated the keys on the desk. “In case I’m running late, you can let yourself aboard.”

  I walked her out into the studio. She jumped a little as the stairwell door opened and Bobbi Brooks, my business partner, came into the studio. Bobbi’s eyebrows went up as Ms. Waverley went into the elevator.

  “I’ll see you at eight,” Ms. Waverley said. The elevator door rattled shut on her.

  “Who was that?” Bobbi asked, as she followed me into the office.

  “A new client,” I said.

  “How lucky for you,” she said.

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “Her hair wasn’t real, though.” She sat down on the sofa next to Bodger, who grunted softly as she picked him up and cuddled him in her lap. “Or her boobs, probably,” she added.

  “Could’ve fooled me,” I said.

  “Not exactly a challenge. What did she want?” Bodger rumbled contentedly as Bobbi stroked his ears and I explained the job. When I was done, she said, “Not a problem. I’ve got nothing on till later this evening.”

  “Um,” I said. “I thought I’d handle it.”

  She sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting what’s-his-name about his catalogue shoot?”

  “What’s-his-name” was the ex-Honourable Walter P. Moffat, former Member of Parliament for Vancouver Centre, the riding that encompassed downtown Vancouver and Granville Island. Wally the One-Term Wonder, as the media had dubbed him after he’d been roundly trounced in the most recent exercise in democratic futility, was a pal of Mary-Alice, my sister and our new junior partner, and her husband, Dr. David Paul. Moffat had contacted us through Mary-Alice about producing a catalogue of his art collection, which he evidently intended to send on tour to raise money for his wife’s charitable foundation, something to do with children. However, first thing that morning a man named Woody Getz, who’d said he was Mr. Moffat’s manager, had called to say that something had come up and Mr. Moffat couldn’t make it.

  “How lucky for you,” Bobbi said again, when I told her.

  “Yes, indeed.” She smiled. “Here, deposit this someplace safe,” I said, and handed her the cash Ms. Waverley had given me.

  Cradling Bodger, she lifted her backside off the sofa and straight-armed the money into a front pocket of her jeans. Safe enough, I supposed. I certainly wouldn’t have tried to take it away from her. While Bobbi wasn’t what you’d call strapping — strapping implied, to me at least, a certain amount of, well, upper-body development and Bobbi was, truth be told, almost as flat as a boy — years of schlepping heavy photographic equipment around had made her as strong as many a man her size, stronger than some. Moreover, she had recently begun to study some form of martial art.

  “Moffat hasn’t changed his mind about the catalogue, has he?” she asked worriedly.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.” Neither of us had any idea what type of art Mr. Moffat collected — it could be dryer lint and chewing gum collages for all we cared — but business was a bit slow and we needed the work. “His manager just said he couldn’t make it tonight, nothing about rescheduling.”

  The phone on my desk warbled. I pressed the speakerphone button. “Tom McCall,” I said, just to be reassuring.

  “Tell me it isn’t so,” my sister Mary-Alice said.

  “Okay,” I said. “It isn’t so.”

  I could hear car horns in the background. She was calling on her cellphone, likely stuck in traffic on the Lions Gate Bridge. She normally didn’t come in until after the worst of the morning rush hour was over, and usually left before the worst began. The unseasonable fog had thrown rush hour off schedule, I supposed, without much sympathy.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” Mary-Alice said, in her best schoolmarm voice.

  “That’s right.” I assumed she was referring to the cancellation of the appointment with the ex-Honourable Walter P. Moffat. “But whatever it is, it isn’t my fault.”

  An exasperated sigh hissed from the phone speaker. “I just got off the phone with Jeanie Stone.” Jeanie Stone was vice president of the British Columbia Association of Female Forestry Workers, the BCAFFW, for short.

  “Oh-oh,” Bobbi said under her breath.

  “Tell me you didn’t let her talk you into doing a nude calendar,” Mary-Alice said.

  “Okay. I didn’t let her talk me into doing a nude calendar.”

  “Well, she seems to think she did,” Mary-Alice said.

  “Actually,” I said, “she didn’t have to.” Bobbi groaned. I glared at her across the desk. “Anyway, they won’t be nude,” I said. “Not really. It’s just pin-up girl stuff. With axes and chainsaws and logging machinery covering the important bits.”

  There was a momentary and very pregnant silence, followed by, “Oh, for god’s sake, Tom.”

  “Look, Mary-Alice. I know it’s lame, but —”

  “Lame? It’s bloody crippled. Ever since those damned women in England started it, it’s been done to death by everyone from senior ladies’ knitting circles to female hockey players.”

  “Relax, Mary-Alice,” I said. “It’s for a good cause, remember.”

  All proceeds from sales of the calendar were going to the Stanley Park restoration fund; on December 15, 2006, the one-thousand-acre, densely forested park had been savaged by a freak windstorm that had destroyed as many as ten thousand trees, leaving gaping wounds that would take decades to heal.

  “Anyway,” I added, “Jeanie’s the client, isn’t she? If she and the other members of her association want to do a pin-up calendar, who are we to argue?” Before Mary-Alice could reply, the phone bleeped, indicating another call. “Hang on, M-A.” I pressed the flash button before Mary-Alice could object. “Tom McCall,” I said.

  “Tom,” another female voice said. “It’s Jeanie Stone.”

  “Hi, Jeanie,” I said.

  “Tom, you guys want this job or not?” She was also calling on a cellphone, maybe from the middle of the woods, if the poor quality of the connection was any indication.

  “Oh-oh,” Bobbi said again, even more under her breath.

  “Yes, Jeanie,” I said. “We want the job.”

  “Then maybe you could get your sister off my case.”

  “She’s just thinking about what’s best for your organization’s image, Jeanie,” I said.

  “What she thinks is best,” Jeanie said. “Look, I get that she doesn’t like our idea for the calendar, and maybe she’s right that it isn’t all that original, but it’s our damned calendar, Tom. If we wanna do it in our skivvies, we’ll bloody well do it in our skivvies. Or stark effing naked, for that matter. You guys aren’t the only photographers in town, you know.”

  “I know, Jeanie, but —”

  “Tom, I gotta go,” Jeanie interrupted. “I’ll come by the studio about seven, seven-thirty this evening. We’ll work it out over a beer or two.” The line went dead.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bobbi said. “She won’t fire us
. She likes you.”

  “She does?”

  “God knows why.” She pointed a finger at the phone. “Mary-Alice.”

  I pressed the flash button to switch back to Mary-Alice’s call. “M-A? You still there?”

  “Where the hell else would I be? The traffic hasn’t moved a goddamned inch since you put me on hold. This fucking fog. Whoever heard of fog in June?” I heard the bleat of her little Beamer’s horn. Mary-Alice wasn’t the most impatient person on the lower mainland, but she was a close third. “Who were you talking to? Jeanie, right? God, men,” she added disgustedly. “You just want to see her naked, don’t you?” She then became the second person inside of a minute to hang up on me without letting me get a word in.

  My fancy ergonomic chair wobbled and creaked as I slumped back with a sigh. The chair had been a parting gift from my co-workers at the Vancouver Sun when I’d left almost ten years before to start my own business, and it was showing its age. I knew how it felt, if I may be permitted to anthropomorphize.

  “Do you want to see Jeanie naked?” Bobbi asked.

  “What? No, of course not.”

  “Why not? She’s very attractive. For a lumberjack.”

  “She’s not a lumberjack.”

  “Lumberjill, then.”

  “She’s a ‘forestry worker.’ She drives some kind of big machine that bites trees off at the roots.” Bobbi was right, though: Jeanie was attractive, very much so, in a fierce and brawny kind of way, and I thought she’d make a very interesting study in black and white, clothed or not. I just didn’t want to arm-wrestle her.

  “If you want, I’ll talk to her,” Bobbi said. “So you can go shoot Ms. Phoney Boobs’s boat.”

  I shook my head. “I’d better do it,” I said. “Mary-Alice has really got Jeanie’s feathers in an uproar. Would you mind doing the Waverley job?”

  “Sure,” she said with a shrug. “No problem.”

  “Thanks. All right, let’s get to work. We’ve still got a lot of packing to do before the movers come on Saturday.”