Depth of Field
(A Makayla Rose Mystery – Book 1)
Copyright © November 2014, Audrey Claire
No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story line are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
A Makayla Rose Mystery
(Book Order)
Depth of Field
Multiple Exposures (Coming Soon)
Distortion Control (Coming Soon)
www.authoraudreyclaire.com
Chapter One
“Well, it ain’t like the dude has any other prospects,” Inna Brinlee quipped, and I almost choked on my hazelnut gourmet coffee. I didn’t believe the strong, black brew was anything but ordinary grocery store fare. Frank Trevor, the owner of The Donut Hole where I currently sat, called it gourmet; I didn’t argue. No one cared one way or another. We all knew our choices were limited in this small town unless we wanted to drive the fifteen miles to the nearest chain store coffee shop.
Upon moving to Briney Creek I had discovered Peony Trevor’s mind-numbingly wonderful donuts and other pastries, and I was not inclined to complain. Hitting this shop in the morning before opening my own across the street had become a morning ritual. I couldn’t be persuaded to change it based on Frank’s pretense.
Inna, the eighteen-year-old who found no reason ever to bite her tongue, much to my amusement, was referring to one of The Donut Hole’s patrons who had announced he had just become engaged.
“Inna, you shouldn’t judge people based on their looks but on their character,” I instructed as a responsible adult. Funny how I lectured her on such a topic. The teenager had dyed her hair stark black, parted it down the middle, and wore severe makeup—the color of which reflected her mood on any given day. She had stamped herself with myriad tattoos, and everything from cheetah spots and bones to roses and butterflies blanketed her arms. On days when she wore tank tops, I got a good view of the wings above her back bones with the phrase “embrace your dreams” stamped between them. One might take Inna for a typical Goth chick until she decided that day was one for buttercup yellow. My assessment of the girl was that she did what she did for shock value. The same went for the words that fell from her lips.
“What?” she protested to my teasing chastisement. “You thought it too. Besides, I wasn’t talking about how he looks. That old guy must be a hundred, and all he does is gossip like an old lady.”
“I had no such thoughts,” I told her, “and everybody’s a hundred to a teenager. Ollie’s closer to seventy if a day.”
She shrugged and moved on down the counter to serve another customer. While I savored my donut, which tasted like a mixture of sugar and heaven, I balanced out this purchase with another plain donut. Everyone knows it’s better to eat a second donut to offset the first. Hey, don’t judge a woman with an addiction. I kept my indulgences to once a day and felt satisfied with that for now.
Every once in a while I told myself I would join the local gym, but it hadn’t happened yet. My reasoning was the decision would spring upon me and direct my feet to an exercise routine that would transform my wide hips and fleshy thighs to a svelte and sexy physique. Okay, I wasn’t holding my breath.
That morning, at just before eight a.m., The Donut Hole was quite lively as usual. While there were at least two other decent restaurants in the small town, as well as a diner, none matched Frank and Peony Trevor’s fresh donuts. In fact, a rowdy group of four gentlemen, who seemed to be on friendly terms with Frank always took siege upon the table near the front window of the restaurant. Men in their fifties at least, with occupations ranging from volunteer fireman to road crew, devoured plates full of Peony’s glazed twists. They reminisced about the good old days, and sometimes they convinced Frank to leave his post at the stove to hobble on his cane to their table and join in.
The entire time I sat at the counter which surrounded the stove, sink, and other workspace in a large square in the center of the restaurant, the bell above the entrance jingled. Customers came in for their orders, snatched a bit of conversation from other customers and the proprietors, and went on their merry way.
I loved everything about Briney Creek, being so radically different from New York where I had been born and lived most of my life, and even though I had been here only three months, I planned to stay a long time.
“Makayla, are my pictures ready yet?” Grace Jacobs appeared at my elbow, catching me sneaking a lick at a bit of glaze on my thumb. “Mama is coming in to town next week, and I want to surprise her with an album.”
“Not yet, but I will definitely meet the deadline I gave you.” Photography was an art form to me, and I took my work very seriously. Grace had come into the shop with her husband and three-year-old son to sit for portraits. I had taken more photos from various poses than I needed to, but Grace wanted prints, developed from film rather than digital; a woman after my own heart. I wanted to pour over the work and give her perfection. She would be pleased, no doubt about it. “How about I give you a call on Friday?”
She touched my shoulder and offered a smile then gathered her order and left. I had no more excuses to sit on my rump, and I downed the last of my coffee. “Guess I better get going.”
Inna moved to my position again and wiped off the counter. “Have fun. I won’t see you tomorrow.”
I stopped upon turning away. She was my morning entertainment. “What do you mean? Tell me you’re not quitting, Inna.”
She rolled her eyes. “No way. I need the money if I’m going to get out of here.” Inna had shared that she planned to go away to college when she finished high school. She had mentioned New York, but she hadn’t named any particular school, and I wondered how solid the plan was. This was her last year. “School starts, so I’m switching my schedule to late afternoon. Unless you want to come in twice a day, I might not see you.”
I shivered feeling my hips widen even with the suggestion. “Donuts twice a day? Oh no, I couldn’t without sobbing each time I pass a mirror.” I winked at her. “Maybe I’ll move my daily treat to afternoons. It might be time to eat a healthier breakfast anyway.”
Inna appeared doubtful. I pretended I had no idea what she insinuated about my willpower with that raised eyebrow alone. We said our good-byes, and I headed toward the door. As I walked, I spotted Peony standing at one of the tables, wiping it down. Head bowed, her eyelids kept drooping closed while the newborn strapped to her front kicked tiny feet. I smiled in sympathy. Poor thing must be exhausted, having to keep early hours running a business and a baby robbing her of much needed sleep all night. Even as I bee-lined to her, whispering a few encouraging words to hang in there, I noted the dark circles around her eyes and felt, well, jealous. I would give up a few hours rest every day for the rest of my life in exchange for a family, a loving husband and a couple sweet babies. At thirty-four, the biological clock ticked away, growing louder and louder with each passing year.
I stepped out into the sunshine and was struck anew with the beauty of the day and the freshness of the air. While The Donut Hole, my shop, and others lined Main Street and traffic was moderate, the area was nothing like New York City. Clean streets, large flowerpots outside every commercial establishment, and even the alleys appeared safe to travel along by day or night. Perhaps I peered through the proverbial rose-tinted glasses, bu
t Briney Creek was just what I needed to escape my checkered past.
Toward Westchester Avenue and a few miles down the road was the area named Hillrise, where citizens of higher financial status lived. In the opposite direction, one passed Vineberry Road. Only one mile beyond led to my apartment complex, which allowed me to walk to work. I’m sure you’ve already guessed. I never did.
“Makayla Rose.”
I stopped at the voice and turned to find Ollie Sandstone approaching. He wore his usual ratty gray-blue coveralls, too big and long-sleeved. I had always wondered how he wasn’t sweltering in the North Carolina sun. I offered him a smile. “Ollie, I heard you asked Talia to marry you. Congratulations.”
He came to a halt before me and scratched the back of his head. The red flush at his neck said he wasn’t used to the attention, not when it came to his own life. Ollie, as Inna had pointed out, liked to spread gossip about everyone else.
“Uh, yeah, thanks.” He shuffled his feet and glanced down at his scuffed shoes, caked with what I hoped was dirt from someone’s lawn. Ollie worked as a landscaper for folks in Hillrise and for the apartment complexes like mine. That was probably how he tended to learn so much. He was just everywhere. “I wanted to ask if you could do the pictures and things. I don’t have a lot of money…”
I clapped my hands. “Of course, Ollie. You leave it to me. I can put together a very reasonable package for you to commemorate your special day. I also know of a company where I can send photos off to be blown up. You can place a large one of the two of you on your wall at home.”
He blinked at me, obviously horrified. “I don’t want to see my head big, Makayla Rose.”
I suppressed a chuckle at his reaction. Ollie had long since gone bald on the top and most of the back of his head. Tufts of wiry silver hair stuck out in points around the sides and matched the small sprouts coming from his ears and nose. His wrinkled liver-spotted skin had darkened from many hours in the sun, which couldn’t be good for his health, but he didn’t appear to care. His homely looks coupled with the choice in attire, an outfit I couldn’t recall seeing him change, was what prompted Inna’s comments to the effect that he had no options other than his argumentative—for lack of a kinder word—fiancée.
“Whatever you wish, Ollie,” I assured him. “Also, remember, I told you? Rose isn’t a part of my first name or the middle one. It’s my last name.”
“Oh, right,” he rushed to say. “I’m sorry. Well, I’ll have Talia to give you a call.”
“I look forward to it,” I lied and started across the street.
My studio consisted of a showroom/office area, a dark room, and a bathroom. Outside, when I had arrived and leased the place, I had arranged for a sign company to paint the name “Rose Photography” on the window in script. I had stood out on this sidewalk the day I signed my new lease, knowing I had made the right decision. Then out had come the tripod and the film camera to capture it all. Not my storefront. I of course had a few shots of that, but rather the street beyond, the hair salon next door, the Laund-O-Rama needing repair at the time but I liked the realness of the sight—and then the jewelers. Using natural illumination at twilight, I had taken shots of the other side of Main Street, including the bookstore on the corner, the massive gym in the middle, owned by Inna’s parents, and my personal favorite, The Donut Hole. In my shots, I believe I had captured the souls of local citizens, tourists, pets, and even birds still perched upon the trees as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Now that fall would soon be upon us, I looked forward to creating a visual story all over again because I had heard the rich, crisp colors were not to be missed in Briney Creek.
Shaking myself from reliving the emotions involved in performing my work, I recognized that this was the beginning of another day, and I had clients waiting for me to produce. I couldn’t hang outside all day. There were bills to pay and a reputation to build upon. Just because my competition wasn’t fierce, that competition being the photography section at the drugstore in the next block, it didn’t mean I could relax.
I stuck my key in the lock of my front door with a broad smile on my face and excitement stirring in my heart. Something else new had been in my mind lately, and who knew, with a little luck I might see another change. Finding a happy tune playing in my head, I began to whistle, and when I say whistled, I mean I blew mostly air with a burst of sound every now and then.
Twisting the knob, I pushed the door inward. The door stuck against something, and I frowned and pushed harder. “Don’t tell me I’ll need to get someone to raise the door higher so it doesn’t stick on the carpet.” I couldn’t remember having that issue the entire time I had been in Briney Creek. Then again, it had rained a couple days, and the wood might have swollen.
I ran through the options in my head while I struggled. Had I come across any ads for a handy man, or did the hardware store offer services of that type? I couldn’t recall. One thing was certain. I might be good at developing pictures, but I was not the type for household repairs unless you wanted things worse.
Exhausted, I stopped struggling against the door and just stared at it, as if that would fix the situation. Inspiration did not strike me, and I glanced toward the salon. Thinking of the proprietor, I doubted she would help or could for that matter. Besides, with the amount of cars filling the small lot, Louisa might not have time.
I tried peering into the interior of my shop, but I could see nothing. The narrow gap didn’t provide enough area to scan, and the lights were off. The switch lay against the far wall—of course. One would need to walk inside and cross in front of the window to the right side wall. I had deliberately not placed anything within that path, and wouldn’t you know I had shut the blinds as tightly as they could go.
I was of half a mind to turn back and run across the street to ask for Frank’s assistance. He might be a couple inches shorter than me, but he was a thickset man with enough strength to put his shoulder into it and get the door open.
No, I was not a wuss. I could do this myself. Makayla Rose was nothing if not independent and strong.
I hunkered down with my shoulder to the door and gave a mighty push. A whoop of delight escaped me when something shifted inside, but then seconds before the door flung wide open and hit the opposite wall, it occurred to me, the floor…Does. Not. Shift!
I fell to my knees, and light from outside flooded the tiny office space. My precious pictures were everywhere, books from the shelf scattered, piled. Vandalism? I scrambled to my feet and rushed to get the lights. If even one of the prints was stained or bent, someone would pay. I would be sure of that. Already reaching into my purse with one hand to search for my cell phone to dial the police, I was fingering the wall for the light switch with the other. Then it hit me that I didn’t have enough books, photos, or papers to pile to such a height on the floor.
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 sho
cked 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.
1 Depth of Field Page 1
