Her Last Letter

by Nancy C. Johnson

  I handled the faded negatives as carefully as possible with shaking fingers, trying not to smudge the images. I tilted them up to the light. At first, I couldn’t even guess at what I was seeing, and then it became agonizingly clear. Kelly, naked, her body parts flagrantly exposed, was with a man, his genitals also open for viewing. Considering the angle of the shots, they must have taken the photos themselves. But I couldn’t see the man clearly, his face was turned away or looking down, the top of his head cut off . Even squinting, I couldn’t tell anything for sure. I placed the film back in the container, then flushed the toilet in case Trevor was standing outside the door.

  He wasn’t.

  I hurried to my darkroom and hid the film canister at the rear of a drawer. Leaning back against the counter to steady myself, I closed my eyes. I could still see the images. It could have been Trevor. It could have been, but I wasn’t sure. As soon as it was safe, and with sufficient time to do it right, I’d develop the negatives into prints.

  I found Trevor sitting in the kitchen, his face in his hands. He straightened as I walked in, glanced toward me, then away. His face seemed swollen, as if he’d been crying.

  “I’d appreciate it if you could at least be honest with me,” he said. “I know you’re lying. Caroline did not bring that over.”

  I didn’t bother to reply.

  “How long has this been going on? What did he do? Stop over when I was out of town? And it went too far?”

  “No.”

  “Just tell me the truth, Gwyn. You don’t have to worry. I won’t leave. I know you’ve been having some serious emotional problems, and I haven’t helped. I’m not around like I should be. You going to him … it’s probably my fault. So I’ve decided to forgive you, because we’re married, and we made a commitment to stay together. I made a commitment to you. And I’ve kept my end, because I love you.”

  “Is that right?”

  His mouth hung open. “What? How many times do I have to say it? How could you believe anything else?”

  I turned, walked away, afraid I would blurt everything out.

  “Gwyn, don’t turn your back on me. We need to talk.”

  “I don’t feel like talking.”

  I continued to my studio. He didn’t follow me. A few minutes later I heard the side door slam and saw Trevor backing his Cadillac down the drive. I watched as he turned into the street and sped away.

  It was my chance. I ran to the garage and grabbed Kelly’s bear out of the Jeep, carried the bear upstairs. I stopped to find a pair of nail scissors, then entered the room containing Kelly’s bedroom furniture. I shut the door and sat on the bed.

  I unzipped the plastic bag and eased out the bear. On the way home from the old house, I’d discovered something. The seam along the left side of the bear didn’t quite match the right. It appeared to be hand-stitched. I picked up the scissors and snipped away at the threads.

  Roosevelt was the bear’s official name, but not its original. As a toddler, Kelly had called her favorite toy, teddy, like most children. But the halting words issuing from her baby lips sounded less like teddy, and more like, tee dee. She’d decided to rename the bear after entering kindergarten. During a history lesson, her teacher glowingly explained the origin of the teddy bear, how it was named after President Teddy Roosevelt and his one particularly unsuccessful bear hunt in the wilds of Glenwood. From that day on, Kelly had asked our family to call her teddy bear, Roosevelt. We had, and that’s why I didn’t remember. Kelly, I suspected, may have found the name change difficult, and eventually reverted back to her original and beloved, T.D.

  I carefully opened the seam to expose the bear’s stuffing, then slipped my fingers inside and poked around, working my way toward the center of the bear’s belly. I hit pay dirt. One by one, I pulled out the items, laying each of them out on the bed. Before me was a U. S. passport, a slip of paper wrapped around a key, a compact roll of cash, and a folded airline ticket.

  I picked up the ticket. The designated airline was Alitalia, the destination Milan, Italy. It was a one way ticket, the departure date, October sixth, the day after Kelly died. The name printed on the ticket was Lydia M. Linden. It didn’t sound familiar.

  I put the ticket down and picked up the passport, and as I did, several items fell from it, a driver’s license, a social security card, and a photo of Kelly’s smiling face. I studied the photograph for a moment, then examined the driver’s license. An identical photo of Kelly appeared there, but instead of Kelly’s name, the name listed was again, Lydia M. Linden. The passport held Kelly’s likeness also, but again with the wrong name and wrong date of birth, likewise the social security card.

  Obviously, Kelly had planned to fly off to Europe with fake identification, but was murdered a day before it could happen.

  I picked up the roll of cash, five one hundred dollar bills. I wondered if this token amount could be from the cash Kelly had withdrawn a few days before her death. According to bank records, she’d withdrawn three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all in cash, the majority in one hundred dollar bills. We’d never figured out what she’d done with it, but now I wondered if possibly she’d forwarded it to another bank account, maybe to her destination in Europe … under her new name.

  I looked at the key wrapped in paper, unfolded the paper and studied it. Kelly’s handwriting was on the paper, but I could make no sense of what she had written. It appeared to be a code of some kind.

  4 TL HE 3 TR IS 2 TL ME 1 TR STP.

  I fingered the key. I had no idea what lock this key might be meant for either. The only thing that did appear familiar was the actual words interspersed within the code, HE … IS … ME, and the numbers in a backwards sequence, 4, 3, 2, 1.

  He is me. What was that supposed to mean?

  I placed the items in Kelly’s drawer. Though the code made no sense to me, I wondered if it would to Craig. But I’d have to wait to find out, until he contacted me again.

  Trevor showed up later, carrying a pizza box. He placed it on the kitchen table.

  “We have to eat,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  We ate in silence until finally Trevor set his slice of pizza down and his stillness drew my attention. “I’m sorry,” he said when I looked up. “I’m sorry I lost it. If you say nothing’s going-”

  “Stop.”

  He did, and stared at me.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to talk right now. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Later, we watched television, Trevor on one side of the room, me on the other. Occasionally he’d look over at me, but didn’t speak. He finally rose from his chair and started up for bed, saying only “goodnight” as he passed by me.

  It was one o’clock in the morning before I felt safe enough to enter my studio. I closed the door silently behind me and then stepped into the darkroom. Opening the drawer, I drew out the film container and held it. I stood there, thinking. These were color negatives, and I didn’t have the proper chemicals on hand to make color prints. More than that, I rarely worked in color, preferring to work in black and white which allowed me use of a safelight.

  I listened for any hint of movement upstairs, then reached over and locked the darkroom door.

  Because I was printing color negatives on black and white paper, I would have to use a special paper, Panalure. And as with color, I would have to do the developing without a safelight, without any lights at all, in total darkness. I lifted my hand and stared at it. It was shaking. I sighed deeply, then began.

  With the lights still on, I mixed the developer, diluting it with water according to instructions, then poured thirty-two ounces into my graduate, a measuring device. My four trays sat before me on the counter, clean and empty, ready for use. The first tray would contain the developer, the second the stop bath, the third the fixer, and the fourth I would use to wash the prints. I had done it all many times, but only a very few times in total darkness, and never as nervous as I was, with the st
akes so high.

  I filled each tray, then looked around to check my bearings. I decided to do a preliminary trial run.

  Eyes closed, I pretended to position the invisible sheet of eight-by-ten photographic paper in the easel, remembering I would need to set the enlarger’s height for proper magnification before actually turning out the light. I then pretended to turn on the timer to expose the paper. Eyes still closed, I carried the nonexistent paper to the first tray and felt for the edge of the counter, located the first pair of tongs.

  Normally, a photographer would use bare hands, especially in a situation like this. But I’d developed an allergy to the chemicals. Even a brief exposure brought on severe swelling and itching. Hardly worth it, considering I was fairly adept with tongs.

  I secured a corner of the imaginary paper, then pretended to dip it into the developer and to agitate the tray. Timed perfectly, I moved to the next step, the stop bath, repeated the process with a clean set of tongs, then finally, placed the print in the fixer. After the fixer, I opened my eyes. The rest I could accomplish, without harm, with the light on.

  There were two strips of negatives, each with five frames. I looked them over and chose a frame with a fairly decent head-shot of the man, then transferred the remaining strip to a clear negative sleeve, for possible use later. I took another deep breath.

  Before beginning in earnest, I listened once more for any sound from outside the door, then reassured, positioned the frame in the negative carrier, adjusted the composition of the image and the focus on my enlarger.

  I gazed around to get my bearings, then turned out the light. I waited for my eyes to adjust, making sure no light from any source had infiltrated the room. But it was as if I were blind.

  I pulled out a sheet of Panalure paper, held it by one corner, then secured the one remaining sheet. Positioning the photographic paper in the easel, I suddenly stopped ... froze. Had I remembered to re-adjust the f-stop to f-8, my normal working aperture? I’d been experimenting with different settings earlier in the week. No, of course I’d remembered. I was worrying for nothing.

  Familiar with the position of my enlarger timer, I hit the switch-projecting light through the negative onto the paper for real.

  Carefully, I slid the paper from the easel, then locating the tongs, gripped a corner of the paper. I eased the sheet into the developer and began to time the process, continuing to tightly hold onto the edge of the paper, knowing that if I let it go, I wouldn’t be able to see to pull it out again.

  At that precise moment, I heard a loud thunk. But it had come from outside the house, on the roof. Probably a tree branch had fallen as wind picked up outside.

  I listened for a moment, hoping the noise hadn’t awakened Trevor, then, the timing for the development process complete, lifted the print. I could tell immediately from the weight of it that nothing came out with the tongs. Blindly, I poked around the tray searching for the paper, but couldn’t find it.

  I tried not to panic. But it was all taking so much time. Trevor could wake up and begin searching for me.

  Finally, I located the print and lifted it out. I felt around for the next clean pair of tongs, again secured the print and let it slide into the stop bath. I released my breath, realized I’d been holding it.

  I completed that step and the next without a problem. I turned on the light.

  To my utter dismay, the print was ruined, the images too dark to tell anything. The enlarger light had been too bright. I looked closely and saw that the enlarger lens aperture was set to f-4, not to f-8. Now I had only one sheet of Panalure paper left.

  I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, my skull throbbing from the tension, and began again.

  This time, I worked more slowly, hoping to compensate for the gaps in my thinking that might cause me to fumble simple, but crucial details. Silently, I talked myself through it, told myself to be careful, to stop and consider … to make sure … to get it right.

  This time, when I turned on the light, the print lying submerged in the tray revealed everything.

  Wolfgang. Wolfgang and Kelly. Not Trevor … not Trevor.

  I let my body sway back against the counter. For a moment, I allowed myself a grim sort of gratitude. It wasn’t Trevor. It wasn’t him after all. He hadn’t had sex with Kelly, and then murdered her. It had to be Wolfgang. Everything pointed to him.

  I perched onto my stool, my stomach a big painful knot, my head pounding. I reached for the print and pulled it from the tray. But God. My poorLinda. Married to that sick, sick monster. I had to get her out of there. I had to get her the hell out of there-fast.

  I picked up the phone, then stopped. What would I say to her? You didn’t call Linda in the middle of the night without a very good reason. And Wolfgang would certainly ask what was up. I couldn’t think of a thing that would get my sister out of that house. I couldn’t mention the negatives, not over the phone. Wolfgang might overhear us. And Linda would need something more incriminating than the negatives anyway, no matter how damning they were, to believe her husband was a murderer. Unfortunately, Craig was the only one who could provide the remainder of the proof.

  Sue. I could call her, have her remove Linda from the house, forcibly if necessary. But Sue would ask why it was necessary. She’d know Linda was in no immediate danger. Her people were watching and listening in twenty-four seven. And if I did tell Sue about the negatives, her next question would be to ask who gave them to me. She was smart. She might guess that Craig was involved, and then she’d be watching me like a hawk, and Craig would come nowhere near me.

  I stepped out of the darkroom. It was late, very late, past three. My eyes kept closing involuntarily. Maybe I should get a few minutes sleep. I’d be able to think clearer if I got a little rest. Just lie down for a couple minutes. Then I’d be able to figure all this out….

  Chapter 23

  “Gwyn. Gwyn?” Trevor’s hand was on my shoulder, shaking me. My eyes snapped open. “What time is it?”

  “Seven … a little past. I wanted to say goodbye before I left for work. What are you doing out here?”

  I didn’t remember falling asleep on the couch, but I had. “I don’t know.”

  He kissed me on the cheek. “Call me later. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay?” he asked again.

  “Yes.”

  He started for the door, looked back, then closed the door behind him.

  I leapt up and ran for the phone. Linda didn’t answer, so I called back every few minutes until she finally picked up fifteen minutes later.

  “What?” she asked exasperatedly.

  “Geez, I call to ask you to go to breakfast with me and that’s what I get?”

  “Breakfast? Since when do you ask me to go to breakfast?”

  “I don’t know. Today.”

  “Well, you’re lucky I’m even up. Sorry, but I can’t. Wolfgang and I are heading out to ski.”

  “You are? Where?”

  “Cloister Ridge. Did you see how much snow dropped last night?”

  “No.”

  “At least twelve inches. Should be spectacular. I’d talk longer, but I need to finish dressing.”

  “Can I go?”

  She was silent for a moment. “Well, I suppose. You really want to?”

  “Sure, it sounds like fun.”

  “One sec. Let me mention it to Wolfgang.”

  She’d covered the receiver. I could hear only muffled voices.

  “No prob,” she said. “In fact, Wolfgang can bring the snowmobile now that we have a third. You know, I would have asked you to go in the first place, but this is all very last minute. Do you want us to pick you up?”

  “No, I’ll meet you. I have a couple of things I want to do first.”

  “Okay, see you out there.”

  I left a message for Trevor on his cell, gathered my equipment, then started out. Snow was still falling steadily. As I pulled the Jeep onto the highway, a snowplow, yellow light
s blinking, roared past. Even in this weather, I calculated I could make it to the ridge in under a half-hour.

  Snow continued to descend in whirling flakes as I turned onto the narrow mountain road that cut off from the main highway. Only four-wheel drive vehicles could make it up this god-awful stretch of road on a bad day, and this was going to be one of those days. Ahead of me, two sets of tire tracks dug into the heavy snow blanket. I assumed the tracks belonged to Wolfgang’s Subaru and the flatbed trailer he’d be hauling behind it.

  My Jeep bumped up, then slammed down over what must have been a sizable log buried beneath the snow. Only my seatbelt kept my head from hitting the roof. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, slowed to less than ten miles an hour.

  It was another three to four miles of rough going through thick pine forest before I spotted the Subaru and trailer parked off to the side of the road. Wolfgang was sitting atop the snowmobile, backing it off the tilted flatbed.

  I parked, climbed out, then trudged through the Subaru’s tracks toward him. I noticed Linda still inside the car.

  “Hey there,” Wolfgang called out, smiling at me. “You picked a great day to join us.”

  I couldn’t look at him now without seeing the eight by ten glossy of him sitting on his knees, his erection visible, Kelly’s fingers reaching out, stroking.

  “Yes, a lot of snow.”

  Linda opened her car door. “Gwyn, come sit with me.”

  I slid behind the steering wheel, then glanced uneasily at my sister.

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  “What?” I said, startled.

  “That we were going telemark skiing. You must have read my mind. You never call that early in the morning.”

  “Yes … strange.” I watched Wolfgang through the rearview mirror. He was gunning the snowmobile, veering around in circles. “You know,” I said, “the weather’s looking really nasty. That road was in pretty bad shape.”

  “Funny. Wolfgang said the same thing, only he thought it was good, keep the others away.”