1 Depth of Field (2 page)

Light flooded the room, and I saw him.

Face down, dark hair, charcoal gray suit, a leg bent at an awkward angle, maybe the one I had shoved out of the way to get into the office. My mind went blank. Or rather I wish it had gone blank. I saw flashes from the past, heard voices of accusation, doubt, fear, and most of all guilt. No, it couldn’t be happening again.

I backpedaled toward the door, my eyes so wide they hurt, arms outstretched and seeking. My purse slid from my shoulder, but I couldn’t grab it as it hit the floor. I spun on my heel and ran headlong across my six or so slots for parking, across the sidewalk, and into the street. All I recall thinking was I had a desperate need to get away, far away and never return. I heard the horns but didn’t register their meaning. My legs kept moving, my gaze straining for salvation.

“He’s…he’s…” I muttered as I ran.

Tires squealed on the road. On some level, I saw the SUV break hard and swerve to miss me. The crunch of metal on metal was loud in my ears.

“Hey!”

A door was thrust open. A man jumped free of the fender bender and stormed over to me. At that point I was so shocked and scared, I was still moving. He whirled me around to face him like a rag doll, and my head bobbled upon my neck.

“He’s…”

A man at least six two or three dominated my vision. Narrowed silver eyes and a snarl of anger on his lips pulled me from my frenzied dash. I swallowed and tried to shake myself. His grip tightened. “What do you think you’re doing?” the man said.

“Sheriff, are you okay?” Someone in my periphery ran up to us, all concern for him. Wait, Sheriff? My knees wobbled. I remained standing with effort. The Sherriff ignored the question from the concerned citizen. His entire attention was locked on me, and my fears escalated. At least now I wasn’t running wild like a fool into traffic.

“Do you know how dangerous it is to run out into the street without looking?” the sheriff lectured. I still hadn’t opened my mouth more than to mumble one word. The man continued. “Then you cause an accident, and you think you can run off? You’re lucky I hit a parked car and that I wasn’t injured. I will—”

Maybe it got through to him at that point that I was half out of my mind. He studied my face, and as he did heat rose into my cheeks. I blinked a few times for no reason at all.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I licked my lips. We stood there staring at each other. I wanted to tell him everything that happened, but all I could make myself say was, “He’s dead!”

I didn’t mean to shout, but how else would I get him to listen or to relieve me from this madness? The sheriff did go silent, and the dark brows that matched darker hair lowered all the more over eyes I probably would have found amazing if I were not so distraught.

He was listening now, but I hadn’t gotten myself quite together yet. So I did what I could. I pointed. Back toward my shop, the door wide open, my purse hopefully still lying just inside the door.

The sheriff glanced up over my head toward the opposite side of the street. By now we had collected a crowd, and everyone else’s gaze followed the direction of my finger. Mouths fell open, murmurs rose. I imagined speculation also rolled through the gawkers, theories developed, and conclusions were jumped to. With these thoughts, my own began settling into some order, a self-preservation mechanism similar to the fleeing I’d done earlier but now with logic tossed into the mix. When I say logic, perhaps a better word would be calculation. I had nothing to do with the death of the man in my studio, and my past did not need to enter into the matter.

The sheriff started across the street, and I moved to follow. Someone grabbed my arm, and when I glanced back I found Inna at my elbow. “Dude, don’t follow him. You don’t want to see that again.”

I had to agree, but staying here felt like I was letting outside forces manage my life. Months ago, no years, I had decided never to allow that to happen again. I patted Inna’s hand and pulled gently away. Then I stepped off the curb and into the street. This time, I looked both ways, but the nosy folks of Briney Creek had actually stopped to find out what had happened. No cars moved east or west along the road.

As I watched the sheriff cross the street, a clearer mind allowed me to note his height. I liked tall men, and his build, broad-shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist with a nice bum in blue jeans. No uniform in Briney Creek, I saw, but he was packing. A
gun
I mean. At his hip. Get your mind out of the gutter.

He reached the entrance to the shop and scanned the interior. I stood behind him. My stomach muscles clenched into knots. I didn’t want to go back inside, but when the sheriff stepped gingerly in, I did too. He frowned and pointed at me.

“Stay there.”

I obeyed. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and used it to shift a few pictures. The stack unsettled and collapsed to one side of the body. He cursed under his breath. Unfortunately, it allowed me to see more of the man’s face. He was dead all right, one hand raised, palm flat, fingers slightly curled. Where I had been calm a moment before, panic stirred once again. I saw that the sheriff noticed what I did at the same time. Beneath the dead man’s hand was a picture. Of all the photos he could have clutched…this one had to be mine.

Chapter Two

The sheriff crouched over the body and spoke into a radio. When he was done, he met my gaze. My stomach dropped. Probably not because he was one of the sexiest men I had seen in Briney Creek so far, or maybe anywhere.

He stood up and presented his badge as if I didn’t know by now who he was. “Sheriff Spencer Norwood. You are?”

I rung my hands together, and his gaze flicked to them before settling on my face again. Somehow I felt like I had incriminated myself in that instant. “Makayla Rose. I run this photography studio.”

“You’re new,” he said. This wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I’ve been here only three months. I’m from New York.” I was pretty sure anyone could place a New Yorker’s dialect, especially here where most of the citizens dragged out certain words and spoke slower. I had come to enjoy hearing it. The sheriff on the other hand did not speak this way. He was a transplant like me.

“What happened?”

His words were so terse and to the point that I bristled, but I had learned not to sass the police, so I kept a lid on my annoyance. I explained having trouble opening the door and finding the body.

“So you did move the body.”

I frowned at him. “I couldn’t help it. How did I know he was there? No one should have been in here, and my beautiful pictures…” I trailed off, renewed horror striking me silent. A person had lost his life, and I complained of pictures. Something in the sheriff’s expression said he registered my lapse in concern. Just great.

A scream from the doorway caught both of our attention. “It’s Alvin! He’s dead? No, I won’t believe it.” Tears flooded the woman’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. I recognized the hair stylist from next door, Louisa Strombeck. We weren’t on good terms because the woman behaved as if she were above everyone. Or at least above me. Her shoulders shook, and she covered her mouth as she sobbed. The emotion seemed genuine, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been involved.

I shook my head, catching hold of my own emotion—that need to know the truth. The
why
. However, this didn’t involve me. I would stay out of the police’s way and let them handle it.

Then Louisa shifted her misery-filled gaze from Alvin’s body to me, and I saw the accusation before she fired it off. “You did this?”

I held my hands up in defense although she hadn’t moved. “Why would I kill Alvin Aston? I’ve scarcely lived in town five minutes.”

She took a step in my direction. “You know enough to know his last name!”

I was struck by the absurdity of this argument, over a dead body no less. Before I could share my observation, Louisa launched herself at me. I stumbled back, eyes wide. Sheriff Norwood’s strong hands settled on my shoulders to keep me from mucking up his crime scene. Someone grabbed Louisa and dragged her from the shop. Hunched over and crying her eyes out, she made a pitiable figure, but I didn’t know whether to applaud the performance or offer my condolences.

Thank goodness, additional police officers arrived, and the sheriff barked orders for the crowd to be driven back and controlled. I started to follow everyone out, but he caught my wrist before I could get too far.

“The key,” he said.

I blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“The key,” he repeated. “For the shop. We will need to process the crime scene, and I can’t release the shop for your use until then. So, I’ll have the key, if you don’t mind.”

In the confusion, somehow I had been reconnected with my purse and the keys, which I thought I had abandoned in the door when I hightailed it away from the shop. My purse was slung over my shoulder, and I found the keys in the bottom. I worked the one that unlocked the shop’s door off the ring and placed it in his outstretched palm. While he took it, Sheriff Norwood’s fingers brushed mine. His were warm and rough, indicative of a life hewn by physical labor at some point. A chill raced down my spine, one of attraction and from nervous energy. I ignored both.

“How long will this take, Sheriff? I have clients who need their photos.”

He glared at me, but I stiffened my spine. This time I would not be intimidated.

“You can look at me that way all you want, but the fact is this is my livelihood. Moving here was a big step for me, and even a few days could make or break that decision.”

“From where?” he said.

Shoot.

“New York.”

He nodded, and I had the feeling he filed that tidbit away. “I will do what I can to clear things up quickly, as long as I have cooperation. I will need to speak with you again, Ms. R—”

“Makayla,” I volunteered.

He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and scratched a note. The silver eyes met mine. “Makayla, don’t leave town.”

The bottom fell out of my world at his words, but I kept reminding myself I was fine. I started back toward my car. All that filled my thoughts was driving home and starting the day anew. Better still, why didn’t I just climb into bed again and stay there? Yes, that sounded like a plan.

“Makayla?”

He seemed to like saying it, but he wasn’t using my name in the way that I might have liked if I were not half out of my head with worry. I stopped walking, and returned to stand before him. “Yes?”

“Were the lights on or off when you opened the door?”

I didn’t know why it made any difference, but I thought about it and recalled how I’d wished I could reach the switch from the spot where I was stuck trying to enter the shop. “Off.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m positive.”

More scratching in his notebook. I wanted him to instantly find suspects other than me. Of all the shops along Main Street, why did it have to happen in mine? Did I have some curse that drew murder to me, or had I cheesed off karma in some way? Other than the obvious of five years ago, I mean. Maybe I was still paying for that.

“One more question,” the sheriff said, interrupting my thoughts. “Or two.”

I swallowed. “A-anything I can do to help.” I was aware of curious onlookers standing not too far off, held back only by other officers but no doubt straining to catch our conversation.

As we stood there, I caught sight of Louisa over near her shop, face in her hands and Allie Kate Brinlee, Inna’s mom, rubbing Louisa’s back while talking to her. A siren blast had heads swiveling, including the sheriff’s and mine. Several doors down, the medical examiner’s vehicle was trying to get through the traffic jam. The sheriff ground his teeth. “Get them moving along, Jeff,” he told one of his officers, and the man snapped to it. Too soon, the sheriff turned his attention back to me. “Did you have a personal connection with the deceased?”

I blew out a relieved breath. “No, not really. I know he worked as a loan officer at the bank. I’m leasing this place from the owner, so I didn’t have a need to work with Mr. Aston.”

He made a noncommittal sound. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not, but he could surely ask around town and know the truth soon enough. I felt bolstered to ask him if he had any further questions.

He tapped the pen against the notebook, glanced over his shoulder at the crowd, and then moved closer. His head dipped lower, invading my personal space, and my heart rate kicked up a few notches. I grew breathless. “If you didn’t know him, why was he clutching a picture of you?”

My jaws flapped, but words refused to come. I had been foolish enough to hope he hadn’t noticed that little fact. The glamour shot was to be used in my online profile on a dating website. I thought I looked pretty cute if I say so myself, and that wasn’t an opinion I held often, preferring to remain behind the camera. Printing the picture had been a whim of my vanity, but I didn’t want to explain it all to the sheriff. “I don’t know.”

He appeared skeptical but let the answer stand. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that can be useful in my investigation, please give me a call.”

“Of course, and thank you, sheriff.”

Before he could say anything else or I could somehow incriminate myself, I swept away, climbed into my car, and proceeded to be stuck with everyone else on Main Street.

* * * *

A full hour passed before I was able to make it home to my apartment. As I parked the car to walk into my building, a powerful craving came over me to have a donut. Or two or three. Since I never gave in to these notions and it hadn’t been long since I had indulged, I continued in through the faded white entrance with French window panes in the door. I lived on the first floor, and on the second, above me, the unmistakable beat of my neighbor’s music drifted down the stairs. I sighed, weary. She, Talia Johnston—yes,
that
Talia, Ollie’s intended—owned some interesting choices in exercise DVDs. By her own admission, they were what kept her spry enough to live on the second floor and skip around town faster than any other seventy something widow. In fact, as I thought of it, maybe Talia and Ollie were a good match. Both were quite fit for their ages, and I could wish to be half as spry when I got up in years.

Talia was a retired schoolteacher, and I often wondered if she had been blessed with incredible retirement benefits, or if the social security administration loved her. At least a couple times a week, she received packages from UPS or FedEx and carried them into her apartment almost before the deliveryman could leave them without bothering to obtain a signature. I didn’t blame him, and my neighborhood was a decent one. I hadn’t heard of thefts.

“Oh but murder…” I muttered to myself as I stuck the key in my door.

The music on the second floor grew louder, and Talia stepped onto the landing. I tried sneaking inside before she caught sight of me, but she must have come out specifically knowing I was there. Scanning the ceiling and corners, I found no hidden camera and turned to greet her.

“Hello, Talia.” I smiled. “You’re looking well today.”

A sheen of sweat glistened on the elderly woman’s face. She wore sky blue leggings and a white T-shirt, under which might have been an orange sports bra, but I wasn’t sure. Her stark white, frizzy hair was held back from her face with an eighties styled headband, also powder blue. A few wet tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead.

Talia glared at me, hands on spindly hips. “Ollie told me they found Alvin Aston in your shop. Did you kill him?”

Talk about cut to the chase. “News travels fast around here,” I pushed out around the now frozen smile.

She waved a hand. “All it took was a phone call. Ollie happened to be on Main Street, picking up our lunch for later. Well, did you?”

“Did I what?” I pretended not to recall her question. “I’m sorry, Talia. I think I hear my phone ringing. I’m going to have to grab that.”

I got the door open and started through it. I didn’t have a landline. My cell phone was all I needed, and no one but clients ever called me. Talia didn’t appear to want to let me go, and it felt rude to walk away while she speculated over my innocence.

“I don’t suppose you did it,” she said, “unless you, in the short time you’ve been here, became one of his women.”

That got my attention, and I spun to face her. “Excuse me?”

She smirked, knowing she had caught me. Arms folded beneath flat and saggy boobs—the sports bra wasn’t doing its job—she eyed my form from head to toe. “You would be his type. Brunette, okay figure, failing self-image.”

I drew myself up to my full five feet eight inches. “My self-image is healthy, thank you very much.”

She cocked a white eyebrow at me. “Well, one of his women did it. Susan, Louisa, P—”

“Isn’t he married?” I couldn’t help feeding into her gossip.

“Oh, knew that, did you?” She pursed her lips. “Yes, he’s married. Or I should say he
was
married. Susan’s got everything now. Hm, that might be a motive. She’s something else.”

So are you.

A ringing and buzzing started up, and at first I thought it was my phone. Then I noticed the lump near her left hip. How could I have missed it? Talia raised her shirt and peeled the leggings down a little ways. I took an involuntary step back, thinking I would see something I never wanted to see. However, she retrieved her cell phone from the spot and answered the call.

“Ollie? Yes! I saw her. The jury is still out on whether she was one of his girls. Did you get the food?” Talia continued to bellow into the phone as she started up the stairs to her apartment. I shook my head as she disappeared and darted into my place before she found more questions to drill me with.

My one bedroom apartment was sparsely decorated since moving to Briney Creek with a full living room set, including modern couch, loveseat, armchair, and coffee table. I did not own a kitchen/dining room table or chairs. My full size bed was comfortable but pretty cheap, and I hadn’t sprung for a dresser. Most of my casual clothes were jeans and T-shirts, which I folded into a giant tub in the corner of my room. Blouses and slacks were hung in the closet where I hoped the wrinkles would fall out.

You can pretty much gauge my priorities in that the walls were covered with framed photographs. One of my favorites was of the dogwood trees in full bloom in Cades Cove. I’d visited the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and in North Carolina and captured both the Cove and its fields as well as the snow-capped mountains above. While I had fallen in love with the landscape, prompting my choice to move to North Carolina, I would not repeat my mode of transportation. The rented recreational vehicle was not for me, and I stuck with my car. My travels had taken me as far as the state of Washington to photograph Mount Rainer on a day when cloud cover didn’t hide it from view. In my photo, taken with a wide angle lens, I had captured the mountain’s snow-covered tips toward the top of the frame and its majestic reflection on the water. In the foreground, most vivid were the fields of wildflowers with their fiery reds, yellows, purples, and blues. Every time I traversed my hallway, decked like a gallery, I sighed in wonder.