The Trouble with Tulip (24 page)

One by one, he did the same with each of the pictures, growing more and more impressed with the deft handiwork involved. Whoever had doctored these shots was a very good photographer. But Danny was better, and he could spot the small problems with shadow and depth and detail that indicated the pictures had been altered.

Finally, he chose the sharpest, most straight-on image of the man's face and enlarged it to a full 8 x 10 size. He printed off a few copies, knowing he and Jo would need them in their pursuit of the truth.

“Oh Danny Boy,” Tiffany sang from the doorway, her usual greeting.

“Hey, Tiff,” he replied. “How's it going?”

She came in and tossed her purse into the filing cabinet, complaining, as he had expected, about the day's light schedule.

“Maybe it's good, in a way,” she said. “Your ten o'clock is handicapped, so that might take some extra time.”

“Handicapped?”

“According to his mom, he's in a wheelchair. Cerebral palsy, I think. She wants the standard package, so you might have to maneuver your props around a bit.”

“Thanks. I'll see what I can do.”

Tiffany started the pot of coffee in the break area and then paused as she passed Danny's desk again.

“Danny?” she asked. “Why do you have a photo of Emma Goldman on your desk?”

“Who?”

“Emma Goldman,” she said, pointing to the photo of the woman on the streetcar, the one he had vaguely recalled as being some sort of minor celebrity. “I did a report on her for American history. She was a big union organizer back in the nineteen-twenties.”

Danny picked up the picture and studied it, finally remembering why he'd recognized her. Just a few months before, he had gone to Moore City with his sisters to see the touring production of the Broadway musical
Ragtime
. Among the posters hanging in the hallways of the theatre had been huge blowups of actual photos from that era. Danny realized now that he had seen this very picture! He remembered it because he had thought it was a good example of irony in photography, the way she sat there on the streetcar with a poster of Uncle Sam directly over her shoulder, a sharp contrast to her own antigovernment stance.

Quickly, Danny went online to do a Google image search for the name “Emma Goldman.” It didn't take long to find the exact photo, described as
Emma Goldman on a Streetcar, 1917. Recent gelatin silver print from original glass negative
. The photographer was unknown. Danny printed it out and then set it beside the one he already had.

“Well, would you look at that,” he muttered.

Sure enough, the photo from the Internet was exactly the same—except that the seat behind her was empty! The silver-haired man was nowhere to be found.

“So what's up?” Tiffany asked. “What are you doing?”

Danny snapped back from his thoughts and gave her an innocent smile.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just doing a little photography research.”

He decided to see how many of these originals he could find online. He went back to Google and this time typed in “Civil War photos.” He knew he might have to slog through a bunch of pictures, but he was determined to hunt down the original shots if it took him all day.

Jo had a good morning despite the rough start. As always when she cleaned and organized, she found herself moving into some other state of consciousness, a place where everything was under control and order reigned supreme.

She started in Edna's guest bedroom/sewing room, systematically going through every drawer, shelf, and closet to throw away, box up, give away, or set aside for a yard sale every single item she came across. Today she had thought to bring along tiny stickers and a pen, and she priced the yard sale items as she ran into them, placing them in a large box on the floor. She figured she could hold the sale either this Saturday or the next, depending on how soon she could get an appraiser to price out anything that might be of value.

At nine fifteen she took a break and sat down with the phone book, going through antiques and appraisals until she found someone who was willing to come out the very next morning. They made the appointment, and then she called Marie's real estate office to tell her she wanted to list a house for sale. Marie wasn't in, so Jo left a message; she wanted to deliver the news in person. Finally, she called the newspaper and placed a description of Edna's car, offering it at five hundred dollars above the price Sally Sugarman had suggested. This way there would be some room for negotiating and the buyer might feel he had really gotten a deal.

When she was finished with the more practical phone calls, Jo turned her attention to the college, calling first the science department and then the art department. As it turned out, a professor in the art department could see her in about two hours. Her old chemistry professor wasn't in, so she left a message.

In the meantime, she ran a few quick errands, first to the hardware store to have a key made for Danny and then to the bank to deposit her check from Sally and to put the original photos and notebook into the safety deposit box. When she arrived back to Edna's house, the next-door neighbors were in their yard, a woman playing in the leaves with two small children.

Jo watched for a moment, remembering that this was the neighbor who had first spotted Edna's dead body and called the police. She headed for the fence and gave a wave, wondering if she might be able to get any useful information from the woman.

They chatted for a good while. Jo explained who she was and what she was doing. The lady was friendly, if a little nosy, saying that her name was Betty and that she had only just moved there in the past year. She had met Edna over the fence one day, much like this, and in talking she learned that Edna frequently swam at the Y.

“I know an opportunity when I see one,” Betty said, glancing toward the kids as they began raking a pile back to its original height. “A good, consistent workout buddy was exactly what I needed. I decided to join the Y too so we could go together. The timing was perfect because my husband doesn't head off to work until nine, so he could be here with the kids in the mornings while I would go work out.”

Edna and Betty had started driving to the pool together each day, becoming more than acquaintances but not exactly good friends.

“We would talk in the car, coming and going, of course,” she said. “But swimming isn't exactly a social activity. Things remained polite but friendly. She wasn't the nicest person in the world, and a bit of a pill as a neighbor—but I sure never expected to find her dead on the floor!”

Jo nodded, shuddering at the image of Edna in her tomato-juice-filled shower cap.

“She wasn't very neighborly?”

Betty rolled her eyes.

“Well, like this,” she said, gesturing toward her children, who were laughing and screaming as they played. “The noise of my children drove her crazy. But they're just running in the yard, just being kids.”

Jo nodded, thinking of poor Sally, Edna's daughter, wondering how it must have felt to be the child of a woman who didn't like the sounds of children. No wonder Sally was bitter.

“Did you hear an argument last Friday night, the night Edna died?”

“The police asked me that too. I told them that with the window unit air conditioner, we don't hear a thing at night.”

“Did Edna have many friends?” Jo asked, hoping to hear news of a silver-haired man.

“A few,” Betty replied. “Simon was at her house a lot, of course, and the ladies from her club dropped in from time to time.”

Jo tried not to react too enthusiastically.

“Simon?”

“An older gentleman. You don't know him?”

“Sort of sixtyish?” Jo asked. “With silver hair and a mustache?”

“Yeah, that's him. I don't know if he was her boyfriend or a relative or what. I never saw them holding hands or anything, but they sure spent a lot of time together. She was pretty vague about it when I asked her. I was surprised he didn't come to the funeral.”

Jo's heart leaped. More than likely she now had a name for the man in the photos—and that name was
Simon
, the same name the women at the funeral had been whispering about.

“What about this club of hers?” Jo asked, thinking of Mrs. Chutney and Mrs. Parker. “They played Bunco or something?”

“Bunco?” Betty replied, laughing. “Not that I know of. According to Edna, it was a women's investment club. Simon was helping them make some wise choices.”

Jo blinked, her mind reeling.

“Were they earning a good return?” Jo asked.

Betty glanced at her kids and lowered her voice.

“Rumor has it,” she said, “that this guy Simon has the Midas touch. Apparently, everything with him turns to gold, if you know what I mean.”

Jo nodded, wishing Danny were in on this conversation.

“If we weren't living paycheck to paycheck,” Betty continued, “I think I would have invested with them myself.”

“So where does this Simon fellow live?” Jo asked.

“I don't know,” Betty replied. “Being new to the area, I'm not familiar with the whole town. But I don't think Edna ever said.”

“How about his car?” Jo asked, hoping she didn't sound too persistent. “What kind of car does he drive?”

Betty excused herself to pick up her daughter, who had fallen short of the leaf pile and banged her knee. By the time she had comforted her and returned to the fence, Jo's mind was filled with even more questions.

“What kind of car?” Betty asked, considering. “I don't think he had one, from what I saw. Edna usually drove him around.”

“He's got the Midas touch but doesn't own a car?” Jo asked.

Betty shrugged.

“Sometimes older folks don't like to drive.”

“But he was only in his sixties. That's not old.”

“Mom!” the boy yelled, in a tussle with his sister over the rake.

“I don't know,” Betty said, hurrying over to settle the fight. “I never saw him driving.”

“Has he been around since she died?” Jo asked.

Betty picked up her son and distracted him with a big pine cone.

“Come to think of it,” she said, looking as if she was ready to head inside, “no. I haven't seen Simon around for a couple days.”

17

A
wesome wheels, dude!” Danny said, rolling the boy toward the standard blue background.

When the mother and son arrived for their photo shoot, she confirmed that the child had cerebral palsy and that he would have to stay in the chair because of the straps that helped hold him upright. Danny had cleared away the table and props, glad to work with what he'd been presented. At least the wheelchair was cool looking, very state-of-the-art.

“My…chair…is…new,” the boy said in a garbled voice. “I…can…pop…wheelies.”

Danny laughed, glad to see a glint of mischief in the kid's eyes. If he could capture that spark, they could get some excellent photos.

“You'll have to shoot him from the neck up,” the mother said. “Can we drape something directly behind him so the wheelchair doesn't show?”

Danny hesitated, surprised at her request. He'd had a handicapped friend in college, a paraplegic, and from what he'd learned in that relationship, a disabled person's chair is often very much a part of who they are.

Still, the customer's always right. He took out the fabric he usually draped under babies and covered the back of the chair with it, tucking it in behind the kid's shoulders. He adjusted the lights and the camera and then snapped a few shots. Finally, he swung the TV screen toward the anxious mother.

“How's that?” he asked.

She studied the image for a minute and then shook her head.

“It still looks obvious that something's there. Can you go in closer and just get his face?”

Danny did as she asked, zooming in. He tried to get the kid to smile, but it wasn't easy.