by Amanda Quick
“Sorry,” he said in equally low tones. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I’m used to being awakened in the middle of the night.”
“Yeah?”
“I pay the rent with my crime-and-fire-scene photos, remember? They mostly occur at night. Besides, I haven’t slept well since that bastard Deverell tried to gut me with a very large knife.”
“You live an adventurous life, Miss Brazier.”
“So do you, Mr. Sundridge. Why are you prowling around my house in the middle of the night?”
“I’m up because Rex and I got a feeling that something had . . . changed.”
“In what way?”
“Ever had the sensation that someone was watching you?”
“Funny you should ask. I’ve had the feeling a lot lately. Figured it was just nerves. Why?”
“In my experience, it’s usually true,” Nick said.
Vivian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you think someone is out there right now? Watching this house?”
“That’s what it feels like. Rex seems to think so, too, and when it comes to this sort of thing, he’s usually right.”
“Well, there could be a logical explanation.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s after midnight and your car is parked in front of my place. I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Graham across the street is watching to see if you really are going to stay here all night. By tomorrow morning the whole neighborhood will be speculating about our relationship. Well, not exactly speculating. They’ll be convinced we’re having an affair.”
“Are you worried?”
“No. Everyone around here has already concluded that I enjoy a rather unconventional lifestyle.”
He nodded. “The Muscle Beach clients?”
“Right. So, what do we do now?”
“Rex and I are going to take a look outside. If someone is hanging around, Rex will flush him out.”
Rex started barking furiously. He scratched at the door.
Nick hit the switch that doused the porch lights.
“Stay in the hallway,” he said to Vivian. “Don’t go near any windows.”
“I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go outside—”
She was interrupted by the stunning sound of shattering glass in the living room.
Nick raced across the kitchen, Rex at his heels. By the time they reached the living room, the flames of the incendiary device were already leaping high, seizing on the swaths of gossamer drapery that Vivian used to control the studio lighting.
“My camera,” Vivian yelped.
Frantically she tried to push past Nick.
The tripod and the big view camera were inches from the flames.
“Too late,” Nick said. “This old cottage is all wood. It’s going to come down fast. We need to get out. Now.”
In the light of the rising tide of fire, Vivian’s striking face was etched in anger and frustration. To his relief she did not argue.
“Yes,” she said.
She turned on her heel and sprinted into the front hall. He followed hard behind her with Rex. At the door Vivian paused to yank open the coat closet. She grabbed a trench coat, slung the leather strap of a camera over her shoulder, and seized a metal lockbox and a portfolio case.
Nick took the portfolio case and got the front door open. Rex dashed outside, barking furiously. Vivian was right behind him. Nick raced after them, gun in hand.
Lights came on in the cottage across the street. The front door slammed open.
“Call the fire department,” Nick ordered.
The figure on the front step ducked back inside. Other doors along Beachfront Lane opened.
“Mrs. Spalding,” Vivian said. “She lives in the house next door. She’s a little hard of hearing.”
“I’ll get her out,” Nick said. “Rex. Stay.”
Rex took up his post at Vivian’s side. Nick loped up the walk to Mrs. Spalding’s front door.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Rex had ceased barking but other dogs took up the chorus. Lights came on in the rest of the cottages. The night was in chaos.
Mrs. Spalding opened her door garbed in an aging bathrobe. By the time Nick got her out of the house a small crowd had gathered in the lane. Vivian’s cottage was fully engulfed now.
Fire trucks arrived on the scene. Nick turned to make sure that Vivian was still safe.
A flashbulb exploded. He closed his eyes but not before he was partially dazzled by the glare.
“Damn it,” he said. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“This is my night job, remember?”
He was dumbfounded. “It happens to be your house that is burning down.”
“It’s a fire. It will sell, provided I give the picture some context. Otherwise one burning building looks a lot like any other burning building. Context is the key to a fire photo.”
As he watched, rendered momentarily speechless by her ice-cold nerve, she pressed the button that ejected the hot flashbulb. The used bulb hit the pavement near his feet and shattered. In a single, fluid motion, Vivian took a new bulb out of the bulging pocket of her trench coat, inserted it into the camera, and fired off another shot.
And another.
She loaded film and flashbulbs with the skill of a marksman firing a rifle.
A thought hit him, driving out his astonishment.
“Forget the fire,” he said. “Get the crowd.”
She did not look up from her work. “I always get a few crowd shots.”
“We want lots of them. Try to get everyone you can.”
She did pause briefly then.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because there’s a chance he’s here in this crowd. Firebugs like to watch.”
“I’ve heard that,” Vivian said. “But if he’s after me, he’s not a firebug, he’s an assassin. Why would he risk sticking around?”
“I’ll explain later. For now, just concentrate on the crowd shots.”
“You bet. The expressions on the faces of the people watching a fire are always more interesting than the flames anyway.”
Nick shook his head. “You’re amazing.”
She ignored him to slam a fresh film holder into the camera.
Chapter 14
Twenty minutes later she used the last film holder. She swung around to look at Nick.
“We need to get to the night editor at the office of the Adelina Beach Courier,” she said. “My car was in the garage. It’s a burned-out hulk by now. We’ll take yours.”
“You want to go to a newspaper office? At this hour?”
“With luck Eddy will let me use his darkroom.”
Nick took one last look at the scene. The fire crew had the flames under control but it was clear there would be nothing left to salvage after things cooled down. The crowd was starting to dissipate. He had tried to get a look at every face but in the end there had been dozens of people milling around in the street. Several had arrived by car, drawn by the fiery light in the night sky. They had all watched, fascinated, as the beach cottage burned. The raw power of fire never failed to awe and fascinate.
“We’ll have to give a statement to the fire chief first,” he warned.
“I’ve barely got time to make the morning edition,” Vivian began. She broke off when a man in a uniform strode determinedly toward her.
“Chief Bridges,” he said by way of introduction. “I understand you were renting this place, Miss Brazier?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Any idea what happened here tonight?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Vivian asked. “Someone tried to murder me.”
The chief glanced at Nick.
“She’s right,” N
ick said. “Someone lit a fuse, stuck it into a bottle of gas or some other flammable liquid, and tossed it through the living room window.”
Bridges scowled. “You sure about that?”
“Positive,” Vivian said.
“I hear you’re a photographer,” Bridges said. “That means you had a lot of film and chemicals around, right?”
“Yes,” Vivian said, “but I assure you, I’m very careful. That fire did not start in my darkroom if that’s what you’re implying. Mr. Sundridge is right. Someone threw a homemade firebomb through my front window.”
“We’ll take a look in the morning,” Bridges said. He sounded doubtful. “Nothing we can do tonight. How can I reach you? The cops will probably want to talk to you, too.”
“We’re going to find a hotel,” Nick said. “Tomorrow I’ll give you and the chief of police a call.”
Vivian looked at Bridges. “I’ve got a great shot of you fighting that fire. It will be on the front page of the Courier if you let us leave now. But time is of the essence here.”
“Me? On the front page?”
“It’s a very powerful shot,” Vivian promised. “You’re going to look terrific.”
“Huh. My wife will love that.”
“It will also impress the mayor and the city council,” Vivian said.
Bridges hesitated and then waved one hand. “All right, on your way. Don’t forget to call headquarters tomorrow.”
“Right,” Nick said.
He took Vivian’s arm and steered her through the crowd to where the customized Packard was parked at the curb. When he opened the door on the passenger side, Rex leaped into the front seat and took up his usual position.
“It’s the back seat for you tonight, pal,” Nick said.
He patted the small compartment behind the front seat that had been custom-made for Rex. The dog obligingly moved. When Vivian slipped into the passenger seat, he rested his head on her shoulder. She reached up to scratch his ears.
“The Courier office is on Park Street,” Vivian said. “Hurry. It’s late but with a little luck I can still make the morning edition.”
Nick shook his head and got behind the wheel. He fired up the engine and put the Packard in gear. “Should I point out that you’re wearing a nightgown and a pair of slippers?”
“I’m also wearing a trench coat. Don’t worry about my modesty. All Eddy will care about is the photo.”
He pulled away from the curb and took one last look around the street. The excitement was over. There were only a handful of people left. Whoever had thrown the firebomb through the window would have disappeared by now.
“Do you really think that we’ve got a chance of identifying the person who started that fire?” Vivian asked.
“Maybe,” he said.
She glanced at him. “I won’t be able to develop all of my pictures tonight. If Eddy does let me use his darkroom he’ll only allow me to process a couple of photos, just the ones that will look good in the Courier. I’ll have to wait until I can find a darkroom in Burning Cove to develop most of the crowd scenes.”
“It’s a long shot anyway.”
“Got a piece of paper and a pencil?”
“Glove box. Why?”
She opened the glove box and took out the small notebook. “Photo editors are more likely to buy if you do the hard work of writing the headline and caption for them.”
Ten minutes later Nick pulled up to the curb in front of a nondescript office building. A small, middle-aged man with shaggy hair and a pair of spectacles opened the door. He reeked of cigar smoke and alcohol.
“Vivian,” he said. “What have you got for me?”
“House fire,” Vivian said. “Here’s your headline.”
She handed him the slip of paper she had torn out of the notebook.
Eddy scowled at what she had written. “Mysterious Arson in Neighborhood Where Dagger Killer Was Captured. Coincidence?” Eddy looked up. “Damn. I’ll buy a couple of shots. The Dagger Killer may be dead but he still sells papers. Let’s see the prints.”
“I need to develop my pictures first. My darkroom went up in flames tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah, go on.” Eddy waved her down the hall. “You know the way.”
Vivian disappeared through a doorway. Eddy eyed Nick.
“Is she wearing a nightgown under that coat?” he said. “And slippers?”
Nick smiled. “Yes.”
“Photographers,” Eddy said. “Anything for a picture.”
Chapter 15
It was almost dawn before they got on the road to Burning Cove. Vivian’s rush of nervy energy was starting to fade. In its place came a dose of reality. Someone really had tried to kill her tonight.
“Mind if I ask what’s in that lockbox you grabbed on the way out of the house?” Nick asked. “Cash? Jewelry? Valuable papers?”
Vivian took her attention off the view of the highway that she had been contemplating through the Packard’s windshield and glanced at Nick.
He was piloting the car with the ease and skill of a man who was accustomed to controlling a powerful vehicle; a man accustomed to controlling a lot of powerful things, she thought. A gun. A dangerous-looking dog. His secrets.
At the moment the dangerous dog did not appear fearsome. He was braced in the cramped back seat, savoring the scents carried on the breeze. It was obvious that he loved riding in the car. Vivian reached and gave him a couple of pats. He spared a moment to lick her hand.
It was going to be a long drive. She had never been to Burning Cove but she knew that it was situated on the coast nearly a hundred miles north of Los Angeles. She had seen the newspaper photos of celebrities enjoying the pleasures of the exclusive seaside community. The town was far enough away from the city to have its own personality but close enough and glamorous enough to serve as a playground for movie stars, socialites, wealthy industrialists, politicians, and the occasional mobster.
The light, early-morning coastal fog was retreating rapidly, giving way to the golden warmth of the California sun. On any other morning, Vivian thought, she would have enjoyed the road trip with its spectacular views of rugged cliffs, inviting beaches, and the vast expanse of the dazzling Pacific Ocean. This was the magical, mythical California; the real-life fantasy that had induced so many people to find the start of Route 66 in Chicago and follow it all the way to the edge of the country. This was the California where anything was possible, the place where the future was being invented.
But this wasn’t any ordinary morning. The beach cottage she had called home for nearly a year now lay in smoking ruins along with almost all of her photography equipment. She tried not to think about the expensive view camera that she used for portraits and her art work. It had been destroyed along with all of her props and lights. She had been lucky to save the sturdy Speed Graphic, her portfolio, and the contents of the lockbox.
And then there was her sweet little speedster—her very expensive little speedster. Her father had given it to her shortly before she announced her plans to become an art photographer. She could not afford to replace it. At best she might be able to buy a secondhand Ford or Hudson. She had to have a vehicle. She could not do her work without one.
“My future as an art photographer is in that lockbox,” she said. “It’s where I keep the negatives of my art photos.”
Nick downshifted for a curve. “Are you going to continue doing the newspaper work while you build your art career?”
“If necessary. But it’s stressful. I work freelance so I have to sleep with the radio tuned to the police band all night. And then, when I do get a salable shot, I have to develop it fast and get prints to editors who might buy them. That’s not the worst part, however.”
“What’s the worst part?”
“Keeping that side of my work a secret from the people who run the
galleries and museums. They make the rules when it comes to art photography. As far as they’re concerned, an artist who dabbles in photojournalism is not a real artist.”
“So you’ve been living a double life.”
“Yep.” Vivian shrugged. “It’s always been hard to make a living as an artist.”
Nick smiled fleetingly. “I don’t think I’m ever going to forget the sight of you coming out of the Courier darkroom wearing a leather apron over your nightgown.”
Luckily her nightgown was fashioned of cotton, not diaphanous silk or rayon, Vivian reflected. The gown, the trench coat, and slippers were the only clothes she had been able to salvage. She had removed the coat to develop the photos but she was wearing it again now. There was nothing else she could do until the stores opened.
Nick was in better shape because he had been wearing his trousers and a shirt when the firebomb exploded. In addition he’d had a spare pair of shoes in the trunk of his car. There was no getting around the fact that they both looked very much the worse for wear, however.
“The first thing we’re going to do when we get to Burning Cove is find a darkroom so that you can develop the rest of those pictures that you took tonight,” Nick said.
“I think the first item on our agenda had better be shopping for some clean, nonsmoky clothes.”
“Good point,” Nick said.
“Also, I need to telephone my sister and tell her about the fire. There’s a chance the Courier story will go out on the wire because of the Dagger Killer connection. She may see it in a San Francisco paper later today. Thank goodness my parents are still out of the country. At least I don’t have to explain things to them.”
“What are you going to tell your sister?”
Vivian thought about that for moment. “For now, I’ll just say the house fire was an accident and that I’ve decided to take a few days off to recover from the shock. I’ll tell her I’m hoping to get some good landscape shots while I’m recuperating in Burning Cove.”
“You don’t want her to worry about you.”
“No. She’s got enough on her mind at the moment. There’s a lot going on.”