Read A Photographic Death Online
Authors: Judi Culbertson
W
ALKING UP
S
HEEP
S
TREET,
I knew I wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel, though I wasn’t sure what else to do. Christmas was bearing down like the Polar Express, but I was in no mood to think about shopping. Then up ahead I saw a hanging sign, “Garnet Hill Books,” the name painted around a bucolic meadow. I gave the sigh of someone dropping into an easy chair after an all-day hike. A bookstore was the one thing I needed.
The shop had a brick facade with deep blue trim, its windows filled attractively with books, though not with a Christmas theme. I looked at the titles to make sure the shop sold secondhand books, and went inside.
In many used and rare bookstores, the proprietor does not acknowledge you when you walk in, does not look up from the counter or the computer or whatever else he is busy with. Sometimes people take this for arrogance, as if their presence is an imposition. In most cases it is to allow customers the freedom to explore, so that they will not have to say defensively that they are “just looking” or feel that the gloom in the atmosphere will lighten only when they buy a book.
It was no different in Garnet Hill Books. A man in his early fifties with a head of gray curls and a red plaid shirt kept placidly pricing books until I went over to him.
“Are you on BookEm?” I asked.
Now he did look up at me, his brown eyes friendly behind gold-rimmed glasses. “The Internet dealers’ group? I used to be. I’ve fallen by the wayside lately, I’m afraid.”
“I’m Delhi Laine from Secondhand Prose. I think I’ve seen your postings.”
“Ah. Likewise. What brings you to Stratford?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
B
ACK AT HOME,
Marty would be attending the odd sale and Susie just unlocking the shop. I had forgotten it was the Saturday of the Dickens Festival and the streets would be filling up with visitors and residents in Victorian costume. I had always wanted the children to dress up as old-fashioned urchins and even offered to make costumes for them, but they never would.
Caitlin would have.
I reminded myself not to do that.
Stratford was quiet by comparison. The bookshop owner, Thad Daniels, produced a young woman Jane’s age to stand behind the counter and ring up sales, then led me to a stiff brocaded settee in front of the fireplace. He handed me a cup of Earl Grey tea.
The first time I ever drank milk in tea was one afternoon when I was at an auction and a chair hanging on a barn rail above me came loose and grazed my head. I wasn’t seriously hurt, but one of the helpers rushed to get me tea and handed me a cup heavy with milk and sugar. At first I hadn’t wanted to drink it. And then I had.
That’s the way I drink tea now when I need comfort.
I told Thad the story of what had happened here nineteen years ago, gave him a summary of my life since, and explained why I was in Stratford now. He was a good listener, smiling once or twice, nodding with understanding, filtering everything through a sharp intelligence.
“Do you have a copy of your flyer?”
“Sure.” I reached in my bag and unfolded a sheet for him.
He studied it for a long time, then shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen her. Beautiful child. I would have remembered.” He turned around to the counter. “Susan? Come here a minute. My daughter might have met her in school or at some sporting event.”
But Susan didn’t recognize Caitlin either.
It was to be expected, though I was disappointed. It would have been an enormous risk to keep Caitlin in Stratford, the place where she had disappeared. Still, Susan might have seen her at some regional teenage event or even university—but she hadn’t.
“Have you spoken with the older Clancy boy? His mother might have confided in him the way she wouldn’t with a younger lad.”
“We’re trying to reach him. My daughter’s at the Hathaway Cottage talking to someone who’s kept in touch with the family.”
“Good. And you’ll have the police investigating now.”
I hoped we would. “This is going to change our lives,” I said. “Even if we don’t find Caitlin. My husband has always blamed me for letting her drown, and now it turns out I didn’t. I’m not blameless, but I was set up. It’s just—if only. If only Nick and his brother had told the police the truth, our lives would have been entirely different.”
“How so?”
I ran my finger over the silky pattern on the settee arm, trying to find the words. “We were so carefree before. Colin wanted six or seven children, he envisioned a whole tribe. His only sister lived on the West Coast—she’s dead now—and he was in love with the idea of a big family. We assumed we could pack them up and take them anywhere, that it would be good for them to see the world.”
Thad set down his mug of tea, his third, and watched me.
“When we came home without Caitlin, we didn’t feel that way anymore. Jason was born a month later and Colin insisted I go on the pill. The pill! He never changed his mind about that, and I never got pregnant again. Three children was okay with me, but it wasn’t the life we had planned.” I leaned back against the carved wood top of the settee and closed my eyes. “We still traveled to archeological digs and universities, of course, but he never seemed to take me seriously. It was as if I hadn’t turned out to be the woman he thought. He was okay with the kids, but they weren’t the family he’d envisioned.” I thought of something else. “Except for my oldest daughter,
they
never lived up to his expectations either.”
Suddenly teary, I stopped. Why would Thad want to know my life story?
“It’s Delhi, isn’t it, Delhi like the city? Delhi, why would either of you expect life to turn out the way you’d planned? It never does, you know.”
“It must for some people.”
“Maybe one or two out of a hundred. But there are always complications—illness or death, divorce, unemployment, even war. That doesn’t include people maturing and wanting something different.
My
wife wanted a whole tribe of children too, but she found morning sickness so unbearable we only managed Susan. Instead, she fell in love with interior design and now she creates sets for the BBC.”
I laughed.
“My point is that even without this tragedy, your husband might have changed.”
I looked into the fire and thought about that. Were we just people after all?
“What are you going to do?” Thad brought me back to the bookshop, the cozy room we were settled in.
“I don’t know.”
“Why haven’t you posted the photos online? The Internet is a wondrous thing.”
“My other daughter, her twin, doesn’t want us to find her. I’ll ask her now, but—”
“Knowing her sister is alive may change her mind.”
Would it? And was it really true? I couldn’t help myself, I reached across and grasped his hands. “What if this story is another lie? Nick Clancy is a little crazy. Maybe a lot crazy. What if this is just some sick fantasy he’s dreamed up to explain why his mother died? What if he made it up for the attention?”
Thad squeezed my hands back. “But you know that his mother did dress up as a nanny and play a role. You have the photo that proves it. Your daughter remembers her too. Nick may be as cracked as the queen’s china, but the story isn’t just his.”
“No.”
We sat, hands linked by goodwill and our love of books, not caring that we would never see each other again.
B
Y THE TIME
I went back to the White Swan, the sky, which had been the creamy white of old pearls, had darkened.
Too little, too late.
But that didn’t apply to our situation, did it? Still, it was hard to keep the other ifs from swamping the boat. If only I had turned around unexpectedly and seen the nanny with my girls. If only Jane had insisted on looking inside the stroller for her promised rabbit and seen Caitlin instead. If only the police had investigated Priscilla Waters’s note and found her.
If, if, if.
Trust no one.
I should have heeded that. If I had, we might have headed in a different direction. But I didn’t.
I did think about Constable Donnelly, a young man focused on getting his education. Where had he suddenly gotten the money to head off to university? If we found him, would he admit he had been paid to look the other way? Frantic, I reminded myself that we had less than a day left. Without DCI Sampson’s cooperation, there was no way to find Donnelly. If I asked now, would Sampson tell me where he was?
Jane was waiting in the lobby, rosy-cheeked and lovely. She stood up as I came over to her. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
“The retired actress?”
“Nope.”
“DCI Sampson?”
She grinned, grasping me by the arm and steering me toward the bar. “Micah Clancy.”
“No! Really? He’s really around?”
“Actually, he’s not coming for dinner. He’s meeting us for a drink.”
“Not at the Singing Bard, I hope.” A bad joke.
“Nope, he said outside it in the alley.” She laughed at my shock. “Here at seven.”
“Well done, Jane!”
She checked her watch. “Do you want to call Daddy first?”
“You didn’t tell him?”
“I texted him that we had some news. That you’d call later.”
“Really? That’s so—” It took me a moment to find the word. “Thoughtful of you. Really thoughtful.”
“I figured you’re the one he should hear it from.”
“Thank you. Let’s go upstairs.”
She looked longingly toward the bar. “We could get a drink.”
“No, I need somewhere private.”
When we were settled in the two chairs near the window, Jane retrieved her phone from her purse and pressed a number on speed dial, then handed it to me.
“Hey-lo, kid,” Colin answered jovially.
“It’s me,” I said. “We found some things out.”
“So Janie said.”
Thad Daniels had warned me not to spring it on Colin.
“You remember the nanny that Jane said tricked her? She’s dead now but we found her son. He said she was an actress, paid to dress up that way and take Caitlin. Supposedly as a joke. But Caitlin was in his apartment all that night, then his mother turned her over to the people who paid her.”
“What are you telling me?”
“That someone
kidnapped
Caitlin. This boy’s mother. She didn’t drown.”
“Do the police know about this?”
“That’s where we talked to him, at the police station.”
“And they believe that’s what happened.”
“As far as I know.”
“And who were these kidnappers?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
Silence. Sitting across from me, Jane was biting her lip between her teeth.
“I know it’s a lot to take in. We’re meeting with the older brother tonight to see if he knows any more.” And then, stupidly, I began to cry. I rarely cry. “We should have paid more attention to what Jane was trying to tell us. We should have insisted that the police investigate more. The nanny, Priscilla Waters, even sent the police an anonymous note saying someone had taken Caitlin. They didn’t listen to
her
either. It’s all such a mess!”
“We did our best.”
“I know. But where do we go from here?”
“We hope Caitlin has a good life.”
Incredulous, I broke the connection.
“T
HINK HE’LL BE
wearing a mask?”
I smiled at Jane. “Did he sound like he would be over the phone?”
“No, he sounded nice. He was the one who suggested meeting. Like he was anxious to talk to us.” Jane shifted her elbows on the white cloth and sat up a little. Her cap of light hair shone in the candlelight. “When Marjory called him and told who we were, he didn’t seem that surprised.”
“Maybe Nick called him.”
“Maybe. But he said they weren’t in touch. Wait—is that him?”
We both looked at the tall, black-haired man who had spotted us and was moving quickly toward our table. A flash of paranoia: Was
he
coming to avenge his mother’s memory and finish what his brother had started? But he didn’t look crazed. Unlike Nick in his hoodie, he had on a suede jacket and a deep blue dress shirt that accentuated his eyes. He was even handsomer than Nick.
When he reached us, he held out his hand to me and smiled at Jane. “I’m Micah Clancy.”
Smooth.
We introduced ourselves as he sat down in the vacant chair. “Are you enjoying Stratford?” he asked pleasantly.
“Not so much. But we’re not here on vacation.”
“Ah. Why did you come?”
I looked into those striking blue eyes. “The note.” At that moment I had no doubt that he was the one who had sent it. His lack of surprise at our being here and his desire to meet with us made me sure. And if I was wrong, no damage done.
But he nodded. “I hoped it would make you come here.”
W
E DIDN’T TALK
more about it until he was holding a glass of Jack Daniel’s, which he insisted on paying for himself.
“It was a terrible thing my mother did. I didn’t realize how bad until my daughter turned two a few months ago. Then it all came rushing at me. I knew if anything like that happened to Angelique, I’d kill myself.”
The kidnapping . . . or something worse? I suddenly felt too frightened to hear what he had to say.
He took a sip of whiskey. “I should have let you know years earlier. But it was all such a muddle, my mother dying suddenly, us leaving Stratford. I spent the next few years trying to get away from my crazy father.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“Fourteen. I knew university was my only hope. But trying to do that and support myself, it took a long time.” Then suddenly he turned up his palms dramatically; maybe he was an actor. “There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”
Jane caught her breath.
“People do what they have to do,” I said. “When they can. Your note changed everything. Nick told us what your mother did. But he didn’t know anything about the people who paid her.”
Nick sighed. “I wish I did. All I know is that they had a lot of money and they weren’t English. My mother said that at least English people wouldn’t be such rotters.”
“She didn’t say what they were?” Jane’s first question.
He drank more Jack Daniel’s, looking regretful. “No. I think it was a married couple.”
“Do you know anything about the—car?” A sensitive question.
“The car? Oh.”
Perhaps Priscilla had never seen their car until she heard it behind her and turned. And then it was too late to tell anyone.
Micah moved restlessly in his chair. He might have been thinking of leaving. But he sighed and sat back. “My mother did something else. Something there was no excuse for . . .”
I couldn’t stop the flashes of alarm bursting over me.
Something to Caitlin
?
“What was it?” I whispered.
He finished the drink and set it down. “She told them that if they didn’t give her more money she was going to the police.”
Oh. He didn’t know that we had already heard that from Nick.
“They agreed, and she was meeting them to get the money the night she—the night she never came home.”
“What did you think had happened?”
“I was so
dumb
. The way the constable explained it, it just sounded like another sorry accident.”
“But if it were just an accident, wouldn’t they have found the money on her? If she had already met with them.”
And the penny dropped. “My God. I never thought of that. They never even gave it to her.”
“Either that—or they took it back.”
It was a picture you didn’t want to think about.