The Phantom Photographer: Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 3 (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (25 page)

After a long period of silence as they drove north toward Novato for their weekly Costco run, Sharon, driving while Eddie stared out the window, she looked over and said, “I know where your mind is right now; you’re thinking about Michael Marks’ homicide.”

“Well, you have to admit, it’s an odd case.”

“What murder isn’t odd?”

“True, but this was a lovable chubby guy, who volunteered to take pictures whenever he was asked. You take a case like that fashion model last year, or Rob’s gossip columnist the year before, you figured someone might be out to get either one of them, but from what little I’ve been told about this guy, he was Mister Personality. The only thing I’ve heard about him so far is that everybody wanted to buy him a drink. Not your usual target for a bullet to the back of the head.”

“I suppose the
Marin IJ
called; they must be doing a story on this.”

“Of course! I told them very little, which in this case was easy, since I don’t have much to tell. I just kept it generic, open investigation, gave them a rundown of what we know, our finding the murder weapon, some residents recall hearing what they thought might have been a car backfiring or perhaps a gunshot. I told them there were many more questions than answers at this stage, yada, yada. I think they’re looking to do a Sunday lead feature. A kind of ‘Who was Michael Marks’ angle.”

“Yeah, Eddie, who was Michael Marks?”

“That’s what I’ve been staring out the window asking myself. I mean, really, who the hell was this guy? I suspect more than just your happy community volunteer.”

Sunday afternoon, Eddie took a drive over to the Mill Valley Depot to meet Ted for a cup of coffee. They had met twice previously, both times at an annual cookout Rob threw for all his local community reporters. While Eddie never liked Warren Bradley, Rob’s deceased Sausalito community reporter, who was more gossip columnist than reporter, he liked Ted and his Tiburon/Belvedere peer, Sylvia Stokes. Both were of retirement age and both enjoyed the opportunity to write for their local paper.
 

Ted was waiting at an outdoor patio table. He greeted Eddie with a small wave and a tired smile. “You see the
IJ
this morning?” he asked, before Eddie had a chance to sit down.

“I did.”

“Well, when people around here see that front page, anyone who did not know yet about Michael’s murder will sure as hell know now.”

“Murder’s a big deal in this county; I don’t need to tell you that, Ted.”

“I was at the bar at Bungalow 44 last night. The place was buzzing. After the
IJ
gets read, it’ll be buzzing that much more. I saw they mentioned you a lot, even though you didn’t have all that much to say.”

“Ted, you know I try to save the good stuff for Rob and you guys.”

“I know, Eddie, our being a weekly doesn’t always make that easy.”

“The timing’s been right a couple of times,” Eddie said with a sly smile. “Who are you going to interview for your story about Marks?”

“A lot of people I could interview, but I’ll tell you who is at the top of my list, Walt Douglas. He’s the owner of Walt’s Cameras over on Miller Avenue.”

“Not too many camera shops around anymore.”

“True, but he’s got a couple of things working in his favor, cheap rent and a loyal following of people both here and around the Bay Area. There are still those who love the art of print photography.”

“I didn’t know there were a lot of people who still do that.”

“Oh, there definitely are. Michael was one. He worked part time with Walt for as long as I can remember. But, Eddie, you do know why Michael was one of the town’s favorite topics of conversation?”

“You mean all the great photos he took at local events, never charging for his work and all that?”

“Sure, yeah, people appreciated that, but that wasn’t why they all talked about him.”

“What was?”

“His money, that’s what kept everyone guessing. I thought you knew.”

“Ted, what do you mean, his money?”

“Well, I’m a little embarrassed because it’s probably nothing more than the gossip of people with too much time on their hands, but people like Ethel Marion, you know Ethel, she’s been Mill Valley’s city clerk for God knows how long, we were always having a good chin wag over how Michael could afford to live here working just a few days a week at the camera shop. I mean, you go back forty or fifty years and Mill Valley, Sausalito, nearly all these towns were home to just plain folks. People who helped build homes, build bridges, build ships, and pave roads. I’m sure your folks told you all about those times.”

“Ted, that was pretty much the lives of my parents and grandparents as well.”

“Well then, you know, from the mid-seventies on it all changed. You’ve got to have some real money to live in a town like Mill Valley now. Ethel and I and a hundred or so others are just leftovers from another time. Hell, my dad bought the house I live in today for less than three thousand bucks. Today, that house is worth over two million.”

“But Marks was single, and his landlady, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. probably gave him modest rent increases just to have someone she knew and trusted next door.”

“Where he lived wasn’t what had everyone scratching their heads, Eddie. It was how he lived.”

“How was that?”

“Well, for starters, people would see him at a different restaurant every night. Balboa, the Bungalow, D’Angelo, El Paseo; do you have any idea what a steak dinner costs there? I know because Michael took me there a few months ago. He’s taken Holly there as well. They’ve got a two-pound Texas rib eye at El Paseo for eighty dollars. Of course, you can eat cheap and get the twenty dollar hamburger with a glass of water.”

“Wow! I didn’t know. With a five year-old at home, and on my salary, Sharon and I don’t get out to eat too often.”

“And if you did, I don’t think your first choice would be an eighty dollar steak. But hold on, there’s more,” Ted added excitedly. “At least once a year he’d hop over to Paris for a couple of weeks. Well, no, not every year, sometimes he’d go to the South Pacific. Places like Tahiti and Bora Bora. He brought back pictures of him and some lady friend staying in these places they call ‘over the water bungalows.’ Incredible spots. I asked him one day when he took me out for lunch what one of those places cost, and casually he says, they start at about nine hundred a night. I figured that was less than what he earned from a week of working part time at the camera shop.”

“Well, this must have had a lot people scratching their heads. Ted, you’re not shy; didn’t you ever ask him how he could afford a place like that?”

“Sure, I asked. I’m too old to be shy. Others, like Ethel, poked around as well.” He always had a quick explanation. A surprise inheritance, cashing in some Apple stock, a shared patent he held on some new photography device. Who the hell knows? But it’s funny when I think of the number of old timers, who would pull me over and say, ‘Where do you think that guy gets all his money?’ I’d always give that innocent smile of mine and shrug. Truth is, I had no idea.”

“Ted, one other thing, have you heard anything about funeral plans?”
 

“Yeah, Tuesday morning at eleven up at Mt. Carmel Church.”

“Would you mind going? I was going to ask Holly and Sylvia to go as well.”

“No problem, I was planning on going. And I’m always happy to see two of my favorite ladies. How about you, Eddie?”

“People tend to shut up around cops, but when they see a kindly, sympathetic face they open up like they’re standing in front of the pearly gates.”

“One of the few benefits of growing old. You look harmless.”

“Ted, can I pay for your coffee?”

“Don’t worry about it. I enjoyed our conversation. Eddie, you know what the difference is between a journalist and a busybody?”

“No, what?”

“A journalist gets paid to be a snoop.”
 

When Eddie got back to Sausalito, he went straight to Holly’s apartment on Caledonia Street, just two blocks south of Smitty’s. Holly came to the door and said, “Eddie, what are you doing here? I’m trying to do my yoga.”
 

“Real quick, I need a favor.”

“Sure, pal, whaddya need?”

“Michael’s funeral is Tuesday at eleven over at Mt. Carmel, could you go snoop around for me? Take Sylvia if she can join you.”
 

“Sure, we’re both always up for a good funeral. What is it you’re looking for?”

“Nothing I can say specifically. I’m starting to think that Michael had a side business none of us knew about.”

“What might that have been?”

“I don’t know at this point, maybe drugs; we certainly have enough dealers in Marin. From what I’ve learned from Ted, he had a lot of extra money. Crime and cash are often kissing cousins.”

“He was kind of a sport.”

“If we can get closer to the source of his money, it might take us down the path to his murderer. Just see what you hear. Right now, I need leads to follow.”

“Okay, but do me a favor; call Rob at the office tomorrow and tell him. You know how the Fuhrer likes to keep me chained to my desk.”

“Not a problem.”

“Eddie, I really hope you can catch this guy. The Michael Marks I knew was a pretty great guy.”

“I appreciate that, Holly, but I think there’s a reasonable chance he wasn’t a great guy to everyone who knew him. Remember what I was saying the other night, we know the how, the where and the when, we need two more pieces: the why, and the who.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

Monday morning, Sheriff Jack Canning called Eddie into his office for an update on the investigation. Eddie anticipated he would do that from the moment he had picked up the Sunday edition of the county’s only daily,
The Marin Independent Journal
, and saw Michael Marks picture above the fold on the front page with the headline, “Beloved Mill Valley Photographer Murdered.”

Even though he had been re-elected last year to a fourth term as sheriff, Canning, in truth, was always running. The sheriff thought highly of Eddie’s work, but leaned on him on those rare occasions when his department was facing a high profile case.
 

“So, what’s the story with this photographer? I hate seeing headlines like the one the
IJ
ran Sunday,” Canning began.

“Just starting to drill down into it, Jack, but there is reason for hope.”

“Why is that?”

“I think the guy might have been involved in something shady.”

“Really? The
IJ
made him out to be the patron saint of community volunteers.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time those bloodhounds followed the wrong scent.”

“Tell me more.”

“I did a couple of interviews over the weekend with people in Mill Valley who knew him reasonably well, and for a guy who made a piss poor income and lived modestly, he often spent extravagantly. So the obvious question, where did that money come from? He was a cheap dresser, he lived in the same small in-law suite up on Hazel Avenue for decades, but at the same time he was helping to keep several of Mill Valley’s top restaurants in the black. Not to mention trips to Tahiti, Paris, and more.”

“What are you thinking, drugs, extortion, embezzlement?”