Chapter Forty
Forty
“What am I looking at?” Elsie asks, frowning up at Beverley, who arrived at the Signal office early in the morning, red-faced and radiating energy. Elsie had rushed downstairs to meet her. Beverley had never visited her at the office before—something had to be seriously wrong.
“It’s the camera that was on Sharon’s kitchen table when we visited.” Beverley waves the photograph. “There’s the checked strap. The cops found it near the McKenzie murder site.”
Elsie stands, grabs Beverley’s shoulders, pushes her onto the street.
“There’s no way,” she hisses as they hurry away from the office, passing looming Think Small ads for Volkswagen, posters of Bob Dylan with flaming, psychedelic hair. “We already discounted Hank.”
There’s a pause.
“Elsie, I’m not talking about Hank.”
Now Elsie looks confused. Beverley holds the Polaroid aloft. “Whose camera is this?” she prompts.
It takes Elsie just a second.
“Shit.”