“That’s right,” Nick said. There was no point trying to explain the nuances of what had happened on the hotel rooftop. The public’s impressions had been fixed in stone, thanks to the press.
“I hired Mr. Sundridge to investigate my niece’s husband,” Eleanor explained.
Linda raised her chin. “My aunt is right. My husband was planning to kill me.”
“Don’t listen to my wife,” Norburn said. “She’s mentally unstable. She needs help. I’m going to arrange for her to enter an asylum.”
“Nonsense,” Eleanor said. “The only crazy thing she ever did was fall for your lies.”
“Linda is my wife,” Norburn said. “She can’t be made to testify against me.”
“That’s actually not entirely accurate,” Nick said.
But no one was listening to him.
Linda glared at Norburn. “I won’t be your wife for much longer, Gilford.”
“You can’t divorce me,” Gilford said. “You don’t have any grounds. I’ll fight you every step of the way. All I have to do is prove you’re mentally unbalanced.”
“There is no need for a messy divorce,” Eleanor said coldly. “My lawyer will file for an annulment immediately.”
“On what grounds?” Gilford yelled, his voice rising.
“Fraud,” Nick said. “Among other things, you married Linda under false pretenses.”
“Don’t worry, Linda,” Eleanor said. “With an annulment it will be as if the marriage never happened.”
Not quite, Nick thought.
The annulment of his short marriage to Patricia hadn’t been exactly magical. The problem was that, while the proceedings in such matters were always handled privately, everyone knew there were only a handful of legal grounds that could be used to annul a marriage. Fraud was one of them. So were bigamy and incest.
But there was another qualifying reason, the one that inevitably invited the most speculation and gossip: incapacity. It could imply insanity. It could also be interpreted as the husband’s inability to consummate the marriage.
In the past year he had discovered that rumors of either condition were pretty much guaranteed to destroy a man’s personal life.
He rested a hand on Rex’s head and watched the officers lead Gilford Norburn away in handcuffs.
“Maybe we should think about moving,” he said to the dog.
Chapter 7
Adelina Beach
The picture was perfect. Just what the client had ordered.
Vivian released the shutter. She stepped back from the tripod and the large view camera and smiled at the woman posing in the big, fan-back wicker chair.
“I think you will be very pleased with your portrait, Miss Frampton,” she said. “I’ll have it ready for you on Wednesday.”
Anna Frampton rose from the thronelike chair. She had requested something in the modern style. I don’t want to look stiff and straitlaced like my grandmother, she said when she booked the sitting.
Vivian had opened her inner eye while they discussed the effect that Anna wished to project. She had sensed a daring, defiant energy shimmering in the atmosphere around the woman. At the end of the meeting Vivian had directed Anna to return for the sitting dressed in menswear-style trousers, a leather flight jacket, and a pair of boots.
Vivian had done the makeup, going for movie-star drama. She had posed Anna lounging in the corner of the big chair, one leg thrown casually over an arm, and then she had fiddled with the lights and made tiny adjustments to the drape of the trousers while she coaxed Anna into a sultry pout that would have done credit to Hepburn or Garbo.
When Vivian studied her subject through the viewfinder she saw an unconventional woman infused with an intense sensuality and a taste for adventure. The final picture would violate all the traditional rules of a formal portrait but she was sure the client would be thrilled.
“I can’t wait to see it,” Anna said. “You made me feel like Amelia Earhart.”
Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, had been lost at sea several months earlier. The search for the wreckage of Earhart’s plane had been officially called off but hints that she and Noonan had survived continued to surface in the press. The public’s interest showed no signs of waning. Dead or alive, it was clear the daring lady pilot was on her way to becoming a legend.
Anna unwrapped the borrowed scarf and handed it to Vivian. “It will be interesting to see how Jeremy reacts to the portrait.”
“Jeremy?”
Anna grimaced. “Jeremy McKinnon, the man I’m supposed to marry. He’s a banker. Swears he’s madly in love with me. Maybe after he sees me in the aviator jacket he’ll have second thoughts.”
“You’re hoping Jeremy will take one look at your portrait and decide you’re not the woman he wants for a wife?”
“It will be easier if he’s the one who changes his mind,” Anna said. “I’d rather not be the one to do it this time.”
“This time?”
“I’ve already wriggled out of two engagements. I’m afraid my family is starting to see a pattern. To be honest, Miss Brazier, I find the thought of marrying Jeremy or anyone else very depressing.”
Vivian smiled. “I understand. Don’t worry. When Jeremy sees this portrait, I can promise you that he will realize that if he goes through with the marriage he will have to deal with a very modern woman.”
“That should do it,” Anna said cheerfully. “Between you and me, I’m certain that Jeremy is terrified of modern women.”
Vivian ushered her outside and watched her drive off in a racy little convertible. When the car disappeared around the corner she closed the door and, after a moment’s hesitation, locked it.
It had been two days since the encounter with Morris Deverell in the Penfield Gallery but she was still feeling deeply uneasy. The fact that there had been no arrest in the Dagger Killer murders in spite of Detective Archer’s optimism did nothing to calm her nerves.
She went back into the studio, took the film holder out of the camera, and hurried into the darkroom. She could not wait to see the results of the portrait. Anna Frampton was an important client who moved in fashionable circles. If she was pleased with the finished picture there would be referrals.
Vivian filled the trays with the chemicals and the stop bath, closed the door, pulled the black curtain around the workbench, and turned off the lamp. Working in the dark, using only her sense of touch, she started to open the holder to remove the film.
A draft of air under the door made her stop abruptly. Instinctively she closed the holder while she tried to understand what had just iced her nerves. The front door was locked. So was the kitchen door. But she had left some windows open. The studio would have been unbearably hot otherwise; the client would have been damp with perspiration halfway through the sitting.