Camera Never Lies (9 page)

She stepped into the room and looked around, her gaze stopping to rest on my camera, which sat next to my laptop. This would be a perfect time to work on my questioning technique—that is, after I found out why she’d come.

“So what did you need to speak to me about?” Had she dropped something in the restroom and thought I’d found it?

“You have to destroy any pictures you’ve taken that include me.”

Now it was my turn. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have any right to take pictures of me.”

I closed my eyes, both stunned at her demand and mentally flicking through the snapshots I’d taken over the last two days. I’d been steeped in a portrait studio for so many years, I wasn’t certain that there weren’t laws on the matter.

Before I could respond, she continued. “Look, in case you work for a newspaper or magazine or even something on the Internet, I’m warning you.…” Then she glared at me.

At that instant I remembered that I’d seen her before we met in the restroom. She was the woman who had practically glared through my camera lens at me yesterday by the lake rim. I resisted the urge to shudder. How had she known where my room was? Had she followed me?

I combed my fingers through my hair and stared back. Was she hiding from someone or running from the law? Shouldn’t she have simply avoided me, rather than arouse my curiosity? I wanted to ask more about her warning but thought better of it. I was more concerned about finding Alec’s killer.

“All right.” I moved away from her and over to my camera then glanced back.

Her eyes widened, giving me the impression she’d been expecting an argument. She nodded and put her hand on the doorknob, preparing to leave.

But I couldn’t let her do that yet. I ran my fingertips over my camera. “Did you know Alec Gordon?” Even if they hadn’t released the name of the murder victim, I felt sure the news would have spread all over the lodge by now. Unofficially.

The woman stared at me, as if caught off guard yet again. “I’ve never met him, no.”

The way she said “him” conveyed emotion. My breath came quicker. I’d looked at hundreds, even thousands of people’s eyes over the years as I’d taken their portraits. I’d developed an instinctive ability to read hidden expressions. But could I use this gift for sleuthing? Emily had proven that I’d been right when I felt her glare was warning me not to take her picture.

But that gift usually showed up when I examined the photographs themselves. I wasn’t sure I could read Emily by the way she’d spoken a word.

I had to keep her talking, see if she would reveal anything. “He was a regular guest here at the lodge, you know. Do you come here often, too?”

Her brows wrinkled when she attempted her you-must-be-crazy look, the same one as the night before, except today I saw obvious fear in her eyes. “That’s none of your business.” She slipped through the door, looking like a gangly teenager with her awkward gait. It was as if she weren’t accustomed to wearing those shoes.

Strange, very strange. I decided I’d keep the name—Emily the Strange—I’d given her.

I plopped onto the bed, breathless. There was no doubt I’d read fear in the young woman’s eyes. Was she afraid I’d publish a photograph of her? Or had my question about Alec sparked the fear?

I wondered if the two things were related—something like the old saying: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

Things were strange indeed, Emily.

She was obviously more worried about her photograph appearing somewhere than she was about broaching the topic with me, alerting me she had troubles. But panic hadn’t flashed through her eyes until I’d questioned her about Alec Gordon. She hadn’t answered me, but I saw the lie all the same—she had a connection to Alec Gordon. Just how big or small I wasn’t sure, but I had to find out.

Now was the time to look through my photographs. I sat at the small desk, wondering if I would actually delete photographs of her if I found any. I loaded the files from my camera onto my laptop and began browsing through the images. Many of the nature scenes pleased me, but I kept my focus on searching for Emily. I couldn’t remember if I’d actually pressed the button that would capture her picture when I’d seen her yesterday, or if she’d given me her warning look in time. Scanning through the pictures, I was careful to avoid the ones of Alec’s body because I wasn’t prepared to face those yet.

One picture caught my attention. I zoomed in on a photo I’d taken of a copse of trees in the distance. With so many people milling about, it wasn’t easy to capture nature unhindered. Often, I’d crop the shot if people were in the way. In this particular shot, I’d caught George. I hadn’t met him yet when I’d taken it. He was talking to none other than Alec Gordon. I leaned back in the chair, considering what that meant.

George knew Alec.

I moved to the next image. Alec had turned his back to George and faced the camera. I zoomed in on George’s expression and gasped. He looked like a man who wanted to kill Alec right there and then.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

T
hey’d suggested it would take a full hour to get to the dock, which, at the time, had seemed odd to me. The distance from the lodge to the other side of the lake, where the Feldman’s Shore trailhead began, was seven miles. It would only take a few minutes for me to drive there. The trail itself was not even a mile. Now, as I stared at the trailhead that would take me to the lake, comprehension dawned—with a seven-hundred-foot drop to the trailhead, I wouldn’t hike this in record time.

Footsteps approached from behind, alerting me that I stood in the middle of the trail entrance. I stepped back rather than down. A guy stood next to me and gazed at the zigzagging trail—or at least what could be seen from our perch. I didn’t have long to wait for his reaction.

“Ooohh. So that’s why.” He said it more as a matter of fact than with a sense of dread.

As he bounded down the trail, he looked like a whippersnapper to me, making me feel old. As they say, you’re as young as you feel. At that point, I hoped my body was in better shape than my mind. I picked my way downward as people passed me both going down and coming up. Embarrassed that I was the slowest hiker, I tried to speed up but made a new discovery. My knees were not prepared for this type of descent—forty-five minutes of it—and they screamed in defiance. I was glad I’d made this excursion without Rene, who was in great shape, even approaching forty. If she saw me like this, she’d never leave me alone, calling me at the crack of dawn to make sure I did morning calisthenics.

Finally I stepped onto the dock area where the tour boat awaited. Gulping for air, I leaned against the railing until I recovered. Did they provide a helicopter lift at the end of the day for people who couldn’t make their way back? The way I felt at the moment, I hoped so. The last person in line climbed into the boat—my cue to do the same.

A gusty breeze caught my hair, whipping it this way and that, as the tour boat sliced through the pristine lake. I tilted my head back to allow full sun exposure. At such a moment, I didn’t care about the dermatologists’ warnings against too much sun—more vitamin D was in order. In fact, I’d say a tour of the lake was just what my therapist would have prescribed—that is, if I had one.

Though I’d believed I’d done nothing but bungle my amateur investigation so far, I began to see that I had clues. Nothing concrete yet, but George knew something about Alec, and Emily had stated she didn’t know him, although I thought she’d lied. But so what? Even if I managed to question all the guests at the lodge and every tourist at the park and discovered each person gave an answer or reaction that could be construed as they knew something about Alec, would it help my personal investigation? I had nothing by which to measure such vague leads.

Then I remembered the blond at the ticket counter—there was at least one person who knew zilch and didn’t seem to care that someone had been murdered. My initial reason for the tour was to organize my thoughts and take photographs. But here I sat on a boat with a captive audience, in a manner of speaking. I knew I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.

Surrounding me were people of all ages, wearing jackets or hooded Windbreakers of various shades of blues, reds, and greens, plus a few in the popular camouflage pattern. The tour boat seemed more like a small barge, lined with enough benches to seat twenty.

From his seat in the back of the boat, the tour guide introduced himself as simply Peter. He addressed us over a speaker, droning on about Caldera National Park and explaining the formation of the caldera, or bowl, when the land collapsed after the volcano’s eruption. In photographer’s heaven, I took plenty of snapshots. The color of the lake had always fascinated me—I’d never seen anything in nature that matched the striking blue.

The tour guide promised we would have ample opportunity to ask questions once he’d finished his monologue. I planned to hold him to that. He’d not been specific about topics, though he probably hadn’t meant questions about the murder.

As I gazed through the lens into the depths of the lake, I imagined what it would feel like to dive under the surface with an underwater camera. The thrill of the idea almost washed away the image of Alec’s lifeless face, which had never left me. I wondered if it ever would. Thoughts of Spencer vied for attention as well. But the images brought back to mind my objective—to gather clues and find the killer.

With each new conquest, I improved my sleuthing abilities, feeling most confident when reading emotions from behind the camera lens.

The tour guide paused. When the man who’d been hogging his attention had left his side, I gave up my spot on the boat and moseyed next to him, taking snapshots of the rim of the bowl that edged the lake. Even from inside the caldera, lofty peaks could be seen in the distance; some still boasted snow.

When Peter noticed me, I lowered my camera. “It’s just breathtaking. You must enjoy giving these tours.”

He adjusted his cap, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. “It’s a living.”

Though I thought he’d been a friendly enough guide, upon closer inspection, I decided he was a somber man. I could see him in thirty years as the grizzled old fisherman, Quint, played by Robert Shaw in the movie
Jaws
, telling tales of a great white beast rather than quoting facts about the lake-filled caldera.

But unlike Quint, who I imagined would smell like rotting fish, this man smelled of cloves. Because I’d blundered by delaying in questioning George, I didn’t want to waste time with Peter. Emily’s words came back to me:
You don’t have any right to take pictures of me
.

“Do you mind if I take your picture? You know how we tourists are.”

He shrugged.

After focusing my lens, I asked, “So what do you think about the murder?”

Even with high-speed continuous shooting and several frames per second, I knew that Peter’s expression would be difficult to determine because his sunglasses masked his eyes. Much about reading emotions could only be found there.

He didn’t answer at first, leaving me to believe he would carefully choose his words. “A helicopter crashed into the lake years ago.” He’d slipped back into my impression of Quint and his fisherman’s tales.

“That’s terrible. Were there any survivors?” I lowered my camera again, noting that Peter had avoided my question.

“No survivors.”

I wondered at the pristine lake, promoted as being one of the purest. “Were they able to remove the helicopter?”

“No.”

How could I broach a subject that he evidently wasn’t willing to discuss? It was as if he’d memorized his spiel about the lake and managed to answer questions but couldn’t be expected to make conversation. Well, at least, conversation about murder.

“You asked about the murder,” he said.

I cocked my head and nodded. Obviously I’d dismissed him too soon.

“It would have been better to die in that helicopter than to be stuffed in the bottom of a closet. That’s what I think.”

Aghast at his words, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I…um, I suppose so. But the crash was an accident, not a murder.”

“Maybe. Makes you wonder why someone didn’t push Gordon off the rim into the lake instead. A two-thousand-foot fall is a sure death and much easier to call an accident.”

I’d asked for it, now what was I supposed to do? Maybe I should come right out and ask the man if he killed Alec Gordon.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?” He tilted his head.

“Oh, no. I own a family portrait business on the coast. I’m just here for a wedding and thought I’d take a few snapshots. Caldera Lake is so beautiful—” I almost bit my tongue as I tried to stop the flow of words, sounding entirely too eager to tell him what I was doing in an effort to hide what I was doing. I held my breath, hoping he’d believe I wasn’t a reporter, although I
was
snooping.

He nodded and pulled off his sunglasses to squeeze the bridge of his nose. A faraway look appeared in his eyes. “My brother-in-law was flying the chopper at the time of the crash. He was a scoundrel. Deserved to die. Any man who’d cheat on his wife or with someone who’s married deserves no better.” His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the railing.