The Double Exposure Murder

Chapter One“S ay cheese and give me a big smile for the camera.” I snickered at my silliness and pressed the shutter release on my trusty Olympus. Though I knew there would be no red eyes, bunny ears over the head, or outrageous mugging, I checked the photo and snapped three more frames of my subject. “Looking good, sweet sixteen.” I stole onto the next-door neighbor’s property and took a few photos of 16 Clover Lane’s side yard. A male cardinal popped out from between the blooms of the various-colored petunias along the side of the house and strutted onto the grass. It stopped in a streak of sunshine and pecked at the ground. Another popular line used by photographers slipped from my lips. “Watch the birdie,” and I took a photo of the handsome poser. I pulled my camera’s lens cap from the back pocket of my jeans and clipped it onto the Olympus. “This should do it,” I said, finishing the job of photographing the house inside and out for a portfolio of photos that Brooke would place in the real estate listing. I slung the camera strap over my shoulder, wiped trickles of perspiration from the back of my neck, and gave thanks that the weather, often a photographer’s nemesis, hadn’t spoiled the shoot. Though the day started with platinum-gray clouds that threatened to release a downpour on my hometown of Garland, by noon, the skies had cleared and bestowed a radiant day upon our northeast corner of Orange County, NY. Mother Nature had supplied ample light to show off the beautiful features of the house and grounds. Sixteen Clover’s cheerful daffodil color would charm prospective buyers, its backyard would provide a sanctuary for its new owner after a long day at work, and its interior would be a warm gathering space for family and friends. I delighted in the beauty and tranquility around me, two qualities Brooke’s realtor might use to describe the gem that had been the home of Brooke’s great-aunt for decades. Sharp barks and growls ruined the moment and scared the bejeebus out of me. Two German shepherds charged toward me, spittle dripping from their mouths. I hustled into 16 Clover’s side yard and gave the pair a cheerful greeting. “Hi, good dogs.” The muscular duo barked and strutted back and forth a few yards from me. I guessed the wire of an invisible dog fence lay somewhere in the ground between us. A descriptive line flashed in my head. No need for a security alarm. Fierce, sharp-toothed guard dogs live feet away! I doubted the intimidating shepherds would be featured in the realtor’s listing. The teen who owned the dogs was mowing the grass on the other side of his house. How soon will he get over here and call off this fearsome twosome? I took a few backward steps, my objective to reach the kitchen door before the dogs decided pouncing on the stranger would be fun and worth the beeps and shocks their special collars would emit when they breeched the no-crossing zone. “Don’t worry, Robyn. Chief and Major won’t bite.” Though pleasant and reassuring, the voice startled me. With the barking and my fixation on not concluding the photo session on a tragic note, I hadn’t heard Brooke Gibson come up behind me. “The neighbor put in one of those invisible fences a month ago to keep these guys out of my yard. You liked sniffing around my patio, didn’t you?” Brooke cooed to the dogs. “You guys better behave when people come to look at the house. I won’t be happy if you scare away potential buyers.” The woofs ceased, and tail wagging commenced. One of the pooches walked over to the row of arborvitae that separated the neighbors’ backyards. He gave a sniff to the tree on the end, lifted his leg, and relieved himself. Brooke clicked her tongue. “You’re lucky those are your trees, Chief. You’d be carted off to dog jail if they were mine.” His avoidance of canine prison elicited a woof from Chief. He and Major sniffed over the ground, an investigation that took them deep into their own yard. Brooke walked into 16 Clover’s backyard and stopped a few feet away from the arborvitae. She gestured toward the shed in the near corner. “Can you spruce up the shed? Give it a digital fresh coat of paint?” I regarded the wooden structure’s faded forest-green exterior. “No. That would be misleading. Besides, the shed’s condition won’t dissuade anyone interested in the house. The new owner might even remove or replace it.” “Frank said the same thing. He and I had a debate about whether to paint it. I thought we should, but Frank said it would just be extra work and money that won’t add to the selling price. I don’t know. I spent a lot of money and time on this house. I planted all the flowers and had the hardwood floors refinished. I haven’t had the time to paint, but maybe I should do the shed. I want everything to be perfect.” “Forget the shed. I’d say mission accomplished.” “Maybe. I really don’t need another project on my plate. I mean, I’m honored Aunt Olive trusted me to be her executrix, but it’s been madness planning the wedding and handling her estate.” Brooke and her cousin had inherited 16 Clover Lane a few months earlier after their great-aunt Olive passed away, three weeks before Frank proposed to Brooke. “I have so much to do. You don’t have a metal detector, do you?” The request amused me. “No. Sorry.” “I have to rent one so I can locate the pins that were put in to mark the corners of the property. I don’t know where my yard ends and the Wheelers’ begins, and I want to be able to tell the realtor. I have to start packing up my condo. Figure out what gifts to give the wedding party—” I interrupted before she gave me a five-minute recital of her to-do list. “Have you considered cutting the madness in half by not selling the house? Buy out Jessica’s share and start your married life here?” Brooke pulled a comical sour expression. “This house is too small. I couldn’t live with a man with only one full bathroom. It’s old, too. It was built in nineteen sixty-two and has been showing its age for a while. Frank bought a house last year that’s bigger and has plenty of space for him to have his man cave and me a lady lair.” We’d become immersed in our conversation and hadn’t noticed the sound of the lawn mower had grown closer until the noise almost drowned out Brooke’s remark. We turned and spotted the neighbor bearing down on us with his push mower. The lean, long-legged kid, distracted by the music coming out of his earbuds, wasn’t mindful of obstacles in his path. Brooke yelled and waved her arms at the kid. “Davey! Watch where you’re going!” The sandy-haired teen stopped, shut off the mower, and pulled the buds from his ears. “What’s up?” He rubbed his hands over his black T-shirt and shoved them into the pockets of his khaki cargo shorts. “You almost hit us. Be careful.” “Sorry.” Davey dipped his head in embarrassment. Brooke had a final warning for him. “Stop daydreaming and pay attention.” “Yes ma’am.” Davey restarted the mower and continued along 16 Clover’s side of the arborvitae. He made a sharp right turn at the row’s end and disappeared into his yard. Brooke, twenty-seven years young, scowled at the teen’s back and started for her back door. “One of your students?” “No. Davey attends Sacred Heart, but he’s got the same attention span some of my kids have.” Brooke taught math at Garland High School. “I do love my students and am proud they all passed my classes. Summer break is here!” She pumped her fist in celebration of the end of another school year, which would officially conclude with a commencement ceremony the next evening. “Outstanding. Congratulations.” Brooke held the kitchen’s screen door open for me. “I guess you’ll be busy this summer taking senior portraits of some of them.” “Yeah. I already have a few booked. I expect I’ll get more calls after July Fourth.” “Your sister always puts the word out to juniors the last week of school, and I’ve told a number of my students how awesome you are.” Brooke laughed. “I like saying my accountant took my engagement photos and my photographer does my taxes.” “Please keep spreading the word. When I did your taxes in March, you mentioned you had started working two or three shifts a week at the Town Tavern—” “Because I have a wedding to pay for!” Brooke gave her arm a “victory” pump. “Are you picking up more shifts now that it’s summer, or are you keeping your schedule light?” Brooke had earned extra cash the last few summers by waitressing at the local restaurant. “I’m doing the usual number of summer shifts. I’ve been doing Sunday brunches and Wednesday and Friday nights, but I’m adding Sunday and Thursday nights starting this weekend, but only until mid-July. Then my waitressing days will be over forever, and the countdown to the wedding begins.” Brooke pulled her phone from her shorts’ pocket, tapped her finger on the screen, and swiped it across the screen a few times. The movement made the pear-shaped diamond ring on her left hand catch the streak of sunlight coming through the garden window and produced a brief twinkle. “You have to see my gowns. I had the final fitting on Monday.” “Gowns? Plural?” “Don’t have a heart attack, boomer.” “Hey! I’m not a baby boomer. I’m a proud member of Generation X.” “Whatever. You’re still two decades older than me.” Brooke winked. “I’m teasing. You’re forty-six, right? That’s the new thirty. You should know that all of us millennial brides are buying two gowns now—one for the ceremony and one for the reception. I can afford two dresses, so don’t worry. Besides, I’m only getting married once.” I withheld a snarky remark about pop culture’s silly “new” age assignments. “You’re right. You should have everything you want on your wedding day.” It wasn’t my place to lecture Brooke on how to spend her money, though the expense of two dresses she’d wear a few hours and then put into storage seemed extravagant to my conservative sensibilities. Though she was a client of both my accounting and photography businesses, I also considered Brooke my friend. I wouldn’t spoil her excitement with my middle-aged caution. Brooke handed me the phone. “I’m wearing this for the ceremony.” On the screen was a photo of Brooke in a gown that fit her like a second skin. “You’re gorgeous. The dress is spectacular.” “It’s perfect.” Brooke’s tiger-brown eyes flashed with delight. “There are more photos, plus a few of my reception dress.” I studied the photo of Brooke in her bridal-white gown with a sweetheart neckline, figure-hugging mermaid silhouette, and three-foot train. Then I glanced at three additional photos of her in the dress before I landed on a shot of her in a halter-style dress with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. “Very pretty. Looks comfortable for dancing the night away.” “Frank and I’ve had two dance lessons so far. We have a few more sessions. Judi still has to teach us the fox trot for our first dance as husband and wife. It’ll be amazing. I can’t decide how I want to have my hair. Loose like this,” Brooke fluffed her golden-blonde locks, which fell an inch below her shoulders, “or up in a bun.” She gathered her hair up and held it behind her head for a moment. “My mom says a bun, to show my face, but I like it down. So does Frank. Maybe I’ll do up for the ceremony and down for the reception.” Brooke went on to share more details of her big day, from the reception venue to the dinner menu, to the color scheme and floral arrangements, and then she showed me a photo of her cousin and two future sisters-in-law in their bridesmaids’ gowns. When she finished, she gave me an abashed look. “You’re not offended I didn’t hire you to be the official photographer, are you? You didn’t think I’d ask you because you took our engagement photo, did you?” I gave an honest response. “Not at all. I’ve never shot a wedding professionally. I’d have to start with a few casual backyard ceremonies before I could take off the training wheels and work a formal affair.” “I wouldn’t mind, though, if you brought your camera and took lots of candid pictures.” Brooke gave her remark a sly twist. “So I have to work for my prime rib dinner and vanilla chiffon cake?” I gave an exaggerated sigh to make sure Brooke knew I was teasing. “I guess I don’t mind. It’ll be a good excuse to get up if you stick me at the bad table.” “Ha ha. No bad tables at my wedding. Unless you think sitting with your sister and brother-in-law is terrible.” “Not at all.” I volleyed one more tease. “I’ll hardly be at the table—with all the candid photos I’ll be snapping.” Brooke gave her hand a dismissive wave and took the phone from me. “How soon can I see the photos? I need to get this house on the market.” It was Tuesday afternoon; we were both busy the next few days, so I suggested we meet Saturday morning. “Perfect. Let’s meet here and bring your camera in case I want some more shots. You won’t squawk if I want the photos touched up, will you, Ms. Cavanagh? You won’t say it’s misleading?” “Only if you want the paint color of the house changed. You won’t quibble over a drooping petunia, will you?” “If it’s obvious.” Brooke smirked and ducked into the hall. We were almost at the front door when it swung open, and Jessica King, Brooke’s cousin, bounded into the house. “Hi, Robyn. Are you done taking the photos or just starting?” “Finished. Have you started your summer break?” “Yep. All my little sweeties were promoted to the second grade last Friday. So many tears on the last day. Theirs and mine.” Jessica’s eyes, which were more innocent fawn than Brooke’s tiger confident, grew misty. Brooke brushed past Jessica to get to the door. “No one cried on my last day of school.” Jessica stepped into the living room. “I’m sure they were all crying on the inside.” I thanked Brooke again, slipped out the front door, and started down the front path to the road. Brooke’s and Jessica’s voices carried through the pair of open casement windows in the living room. “You moved everything. Where’s the cabinet where Aunt Olive kept the liquor?” There was a hint of a whine in Jessica’s voice. I guffawed at the remark. Five o’clock was an hour and a half away, but why not start happy hour a little early? “I cleared out the clutter for the photos and for showing the house. Buyers need to be able to picture their furniture in the space.” Brooke’s response was delivered in an authoritative tone. “I thought you wanted to keep everything the way Aunt Olive had it?” “I changed my mind. There was too much in the room.” Davey was still at work in the next yard. I spotted the dogs on the deck. One of them met my gaze and barked. The other dog raised himself so his front paws rested on the railing. He barked and dropped to all fours and paced across the deck’s wood planks. When I reached my car, which I’d parked across the street so it wouldn’t be in the photos, I took a final glance over Brooke and Jessica’s great-aunt’s house. It was a charming home with much to recommend itself, despite its age and size. It would make a fine home for a single person or a young couple who didn’t mind sharing a bathroom and didn’t need caves and lairs. “Clover Lane today, maybe an estate overlooking the Hudson River, tomorrow.” I imagined the photo shoot: a best-selling novelist standing on her home’s manicured lawn, the historic river in the background. I colored in a few details, entertained the fantasy of a high-profile photography job for a moment more, and got in the car. “Don’t worry, sweet sixteen. You’ll always have a special place in my heart.” I laughed and drove away from 16 Clover Lane.