Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Harriet
I see Kip the next morning at the grocery store. He’s with a pretty young girl with bleached-blonde hair and a black tank top, all very motorcycle chic. Is she in the Snag Tooth Riders’ orbit? Or are these just two people who love the motorcycle look but not the life?
I watch them compare bagged potatoes to single potatoes. He looks up, seeming to sense me watching him, and smiles. I wave. He goes back to the discussion.
It’s hard to imagine him as a killer. It’s honestly hard to imagine anybody at all as a killer, even Harlan. But maybe I’m just na?ve. Clearly, somebody’s killing people. I know those accidents are not real accidents.
I’m heading out to the parking lot when I get a call from Bo Richardson. “Manny says you’ve got a request. That it’s a matter of life or death,” he says. “Color me intrigued.”
“Hey, yes, thanks so much for calling me back. Do you think Alexandru and I could stop by? We won’t take up much of your time.”
We arrange to stop by around six, after I get off work.
I head home after work, switch out my outfit, and try to make my exit as stealthy as possible, but Granabelle flags me down from atop a ladder. “I hear you were out on the town with your handsome boss last night!”
“It was just work stuff,” I say.
“Why don’t you invite him for dinner?” she says.
“We’re not having some random dude in here for dinner,” Mom says.
“He’s not some dude; he’s her boss and paramour.”
“So not my paramour,” I say.
“Glad to hear it,” Mom says. “Any man who was in cahoots with your father is sketch city. I don’t care if he’s a prince.”
“If you were to marry him,” Granabelle wonders aloud, “would you become a princess?”
“Princess of the idiots,” Mom says.
I was twelve when James was stolen away from us, too young to really understand adults, so I don’t know if Mom was as jaded and cynical back then or if her attitude came from having lost a child.
But right now, I love that she’s one of the few people in town not falling all over themselves for Alexandru.
The conversation devolves from there, with Granabelle yet again floating the idea of a photo shoot at Kingston Manor. “I would be happy to unveil his renovation project to the world through my Instagram account!”
Bo Richardson’s photography studio is located on the bottom floor of a refurbished warehouse on the posher north side of Ashwood.
“What do you imagine we’ll see in these photographs?” Alexandru seems surlier than usual.
I put the car into park and turn to him. “Remember how you told me that if you go for a month without feeding, you ‘hit the edge of your restraint’?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s four days from now. Are you starting to feel the effects?”
“Best we settle on a culprit,” he says.
“That’s not a no,” I say.
“And that’s not an answer to my question,” he says.
Hangry, I think.
“The photographs. Fine. What I’m hoping to see is somebody acting suspicious around the champagne tower table during the twenty minutes between when they finished building it and when it fell.
Maybe Whitney the wedding planner. Maybe Kip the bartender.
Maybe Harlan the rich jackass or one of the guests on our short list. There has to be some photographic proof in there. ”
We get out.
“I thought your admin friend was going to be giving you the photos from the insurance company.”
“We went out to lunch, and she said she’d try and get it. I haven’t heard from her yet. It’s a little tricky to do that sort of thing. She has to wait for some other excuse to go into the archives. So, I say let’s strike while the iron is hot. Bo offered to possibly help, so let’s go for it.”
The inside of Richardson Photography is all concrete floors and high ceilings.
Scattered vintage props—a velvet chair, a fainting couch—dot the space, along with sheer curtains and lots of moody lighting.
The walls are plastered with giant photos of happy brides and grooms in seemingly uncensored moments.
Bo comes out from behind a desk at the end of the space that holds several computer monitors. He’s in all black except for his bright red suspenders, which he doesn’t really seem to need to hold up his pants, but there you are.
“I’ll admit, I have a hard time believing any photos of ours are a matter of life and death,” he says with a wary glance at Alexandru. “But that’s what Manny told me you said.”
“Just between us,” I say, “Alexandru and I believe that somebody is staging accidents at area weddings.”
Bo raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Are you talking about the deputy mayor’s death?”
“We believe that was the one accident where the culprit lost their opportunity to retrieve their equipment,” Alexandru says. “That is why the villagers see it as an assassination attempt.”
Bo blinks, and I make a mental note to talk to Alexandru about calling people villagers and peasants. “Umm... but the Gazette said it’s the motorcycle gang.”
“We disagree,” I say.
Bo’s brows knit thoughtfully. “I know that you’re something of a hobbyist when it comes to true crime, but this is real life. Do you have any proof of your theory?”
I grip my tablet. “There have been at least ten recent incidents staged to look like accidents. People would’ve thought the stairway collapse was due to poor maintenance if they hadn’t found that hydraulic device.”
Bo ponders this, looking alarmed. “The curtain fire at Glassworks Galleria. And when the dance floor caved in. My god.”
“And of course, the champagne tower collapse. That’s why we’re so eager to see the photos. We feel like there could be a clue there.”
“How so?”
“The timeframe where the culprit could’ve monkeyed with the table is just twenty minutes, and we think you were taking pictures of the groomsmen in that area most of that time.”
Bo looks upset. “Do you feel that my crew or I am in danger?”
“We plan to get to the bottom of this quickly,” Alexandru says. “We will be eliminating suspects within the week.”
I shoot him a glance because that sounded a bit weird, honestly.
Bo looks ashen, not that I can blame him. He’s been at a lot of those weddings, rubbing elbows with a killer.
I say, “We’re interested in all of the photos from when they brought out the table to when the collapse happened. Even photographs that have only part of the table visible could be a great help to us.”
“Well, I can certainly make an exception here—this is all very troubling.” Bo strolls back behind the desk to stand in front of one of the monitors. “Can I ask who your suspects are?”
“We’re still gathering data,” I say.
He shoots a nervous glance at Alexandru, who is following his movements like a dog following a kid with a plate of steak. “So you don’t have any suspects?”
“We’re working it out,” I explain.
“I get it, you don’t want to say. I suppose I could pull up what we have for the champagne tower photos. Do you want to see my photos from the wedding where Deputy Mayor Kazan died?”
“Were you taking photographs after the collapse?” I ask.
He frowns at the monitor and taps a few keys.
“Photos of the aftermath could be very helpful!” I add. “We might even be able to see the culprit trying to find the device!”
“Obviously, I wasn’t shooting after the collapse,” Bo says, ever so shamey. “I was helping the victims... It was chaos. Terrible. And poor Deputy Mayor Kazan…”
I ask, “Do you recall anybody who seemed to be pawing through the debris in a way that didn’t make sense? As if they were trying to retrieve something rather than help?”
“Maverick Cooper asked the same thing, and I’ll tell you what I told him: I was working on pulling a beam off of Glenda Shepherd’s legs, and that’s where my attention was. Wait.” He looks up. “That groom falling off the balcony out at the Creighton Inn—so you’re suggesting that was a murder?”
“Yes,” Alexandru says, gaze sharp on Bo.
“I didn’t shoot that wedding. It was Roy with Manny assisting, but they were both pretty upset.
Roy felt a little bit responsible because he had been urging them to do comical poses up on that balcony.
Of course, that’s sort of a tradition with couples.
These two people were just starting their lives together… Roy couldn’t work for a week.”
“We understand that your employee, Valerie, was also blamed for that curtain fire at the Glassworks Galleria,” Alexandru says.
“That was bull crap,” Bo says. “The whole thing about lens cleaning fluid. They didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We heard there was talk of a lawsuit.”
Bo continues scrolling through images. “Valerie was pretty upset. One specific person was circulating that rumor, and she wanted to bring them to court.”
“Harlan?” Alexandru says. “Did you instruct her not to sue?”
Bo pauses what he’s doing and looks up. “Harlan owns half of Ashwood, including one of the top wedding venues. You bet I instructed her to back down.”
“Did Harlan ask you to do that, or did you do it of your own accord?” I ask.
Bo hesitates—just long enough. “I don’t see how this is relevant. I thought you came here to see champagne tower pictures.”
“We did, and we still want to see them,” I say quickly.
“We’re just curious about these incidents.
You tend to be at a lot of weddings, and you observe people with a photographer’s eye.
Did you ever notice anything strange? Somebody looking around somewhere where they shouldn’t be?
Or acting nervous or suspicious? Anything off at all? ”
Bo exhales. “I photograph hundreds of weddings a year. Emotions run high. People drink. Cry. Pass out. Fight. Marry people they shouldn’t. Pretend to feel things they don’t. Pose for photos as if they’re having carefree moments that are anything but.”
I look over at Alexandru, curious what he’s getting from all this, because from where I’m sitting, someone needs to take a break from the wedding photography business.
“What about the vendors?” I ask. “Caterers. Planners. Tent crews. Bartenders.”