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.”