“No wonder you got nervous when you found out the police were looking for a photographer working in the pictorial tradition.”
“Nervous? I was frantic. I couldn’t believe someone had figured it out.”
Vivian studied the image of Clara Carstairs’s body. It was rendered in sepia tones. The picture had been printed using a variety of special effects and tints. The modern furniture behind the ornate sofa in the Carstairs mansion had been painted out and replaced with the scene of an ancient Greek temple.
The photos of the Attenbury and Washfield murders had been manipulated in a similar manner. Attenbury appeared to have been killed in an ancient Roman bath. Washfield looked as if he had been stabbed in an Egyptian pyramid.
“I call the series Dreams of Antiquity,” Fenella said.
“Such a terribly old-fashioned, outmoded style,” Vivian said.
“It’s art,” Fenella hissed. “Fine art. The real thing. I do not make sleazy photos for the front page of a scandal sheet.”
“How did you and Deverell come to know each other?”
“The first time he walked into my gallery there was a spark between us, a certain something. I showed him some of my early work, imaginary death scenes. He had the eye of an experienced collector. He saw my potential but he sensed that my vision could only be truly realized if it was inspired by the reality of death.”
“I get it. He seduced you by pretending to praise your talent.”
“He was my muse.”
“No, he used you as an accomplice to his own crazy murders. You had the connections he needed to get into the homes of his chosen celebrity victims.” Vivian turned to face her. “I suppose it was easy to convince him to go after me.”
“He was thrilled at the thought of killing you. I admit he was becoming very unstable there at the end. I knew the time had come to get rid of him but I thought the least he could do was remove you first.”
“You must have panicked all over again when you found out he had not only failed, he had also managed to get himself arrested.”
“That night was the worst night of my life,” Fenella said grimly. “I thought my only hope was to disappear. I packed a bag and drove to a hotel in L.A. I checked in under another name. I kept the radio on all night. At dawn I heard that Morris had been struck by a hit-and-run driver while attempting to escape. The case was closed. I could hardly believe my good luck.”
“You’re going to botch the job of killing me, you know. You lack the skills needed to cover your tracks.”
“Shut up.”
“Look at how you bungled the business of murdering Toby Flint. You can’t even figure out how to get rid of your damaged car.”
“You were the reason everything went wrong,” Fenella shrieked. “You deserve to pay.”
“You’ve been jealous of me from the first moment you viewed my pictures.”
“That’s a lie. You’re not a real artist. You’re a fraud.”
Vivian smiled. “You know I’m good, a lot better than you ever were, and what’s more, I’m working in the modern style. You’re the one who started the rumors about my crime scene photography, aren’t you?”
“I couldn’t let the other galleries hang your pictures. The only way to stop them was to make it clear that you were just a scandal sheet reporter with a camera.”
“I’m assuming it was Toby Flint who told you about that side of my career.”
“He came to me for money one day shortly after you’d turned him down. He was still mad at you. He said something about how much he’d done for you and now you wouldn’t even give him a small loan.”
“Why would Toby think you would give him money? How well did you two know each other?”
“We were lovers once a long time ago. We both had dreams of becoming true artists with our cameras. Toby actually sold a couple of pictures in good galleries. But in the end his gambling addiction destroyed him.”
“You never made it as an artist, either. That’s why you ended up running a gallery, isn’t it?”
“The damned modernists have ruined photography. The so-called experts don’t appreciate true art. Curators and galleries wouldn’t even look at my work.”
“Hey, trust me, I know the feeling.” Vivian glanced at the door at the end of the gallery. “Is that your darkroom?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Yes, I mind. This has gone far enough. Time for you to stage your dramatic exit.”
“How do you plan to manage that?”
“Simple. There’s going to be another fire. My gallery this time. When they find your body in the ashes, no one will notice the bullet hole.”
Fenella raised the pistol.
Vivian averted her eyes, aimed, and triggered the flash of her camera in a single, practiced move.
The magnesium filament flared, a brilliant, dazzling, white-hot explosion of light in the shadowed room. For a critical few seconds Fenella was effectively blinded.
Vivian threw herself toward the nearest painting on the wall, the framed image of the Clara Carstairs murder scene. She was pretty sure the very last thing Fenella would do was shoot holes in her elaborately manipulated work of art.
Fenella pulled the trigger of the gun once and then a second time. But she was firing blind, the gun aimed vaguely in the direction of where Vivian had been standing a few seconds earlier. Both shots struck the back wall.
Fenella paused, blinking furiously in an effort to clear her vision. She started to turn toward the wall of paintings.
Vivian hurled the sturdy Speed Graphic as if it were a medieval weapon.
Fenella’s vision returned in time for her to see the heavy object flying toward her. She screeched and reeled back, instinctively raising a hand to block the blow.
The big camera did no serious damage but it threw her off balance. She yelped and lurched to the side, stumbling a little in her pumps.
Vivian launched herself at Fenella, who was now so panic-stricken she seemed to have forgotten how to work the gun. She bolted for the door and succeeded in getting it open.
Vivian managed to grab a fistful of Fenella’s jacket.
“Let me go,” Fenella screamed.
She stumbled out onto the balcony, dragging Vivian with her. Fenella whipped around and clawed at Vivian’s face.
Vivian let go of the jacket an instant before Fenella’s nails raked her eyes.
Fenella was unprepared for the sudden release. She lost her balance and fell hard against the old railing. The rusty metal fasteners groaned in protest. There was a wrenching, splintering sound. An entire section of the rotten railing gave way.