The Phantom Photographer: Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 3 (Murder in Marin Mysteries)

by Martin Brown

  Suddenly, Fred positioned himself so close behind Barbara that she could feel the warmth of his body. For Fred, Barbara was an intoxicating blend of disciplined domesticity and unrealized desire. He could not resist the urge to put his lips perilously close to the back of her ear as he whispered, “Make an excuse that you need to go to the store and I’ll leave in my car and follow you.”

  Fred was uncertain if this bold attempt would be greeted with a sudden slap, be ignored, or actually acted upon. Barbara had no reaction other than to give a slight shudder as she rolled her shoulders back to relieve the tension of her own suppressed desires, as she began to consider long-held but never realized possibilities. Carefully, she placed the last cleaned glass in the dish rack. Taking a kitchen towel, Barbara dried her hands and walked into the living room.

  To Fred’s delight, he could hear Barbara from the dining room, where Caleb held court tutoring both his boys through their homework assignments, say, “There are a few items I need to pick up for the morning. I’m going to run out and get them before the grocery closes.”

  Fred, without missing a beat, then added, “And I should be getting back to the motel and get some sleep. I have to drive up to Oakland in the morning. The life of a road warrior,” as he shook his head in false regret and gave an innocent smile.

  Caleb, deep into ninth grade algebra, looked up, gave a far off smile, wished Fred a good night, and gave his wife a nod and a wave. With that, they were gone. As Barbara got to the door of her car, Fred was ready and desperate to take her right there, but simply said excitedly, “Follow me.”

  For the short, three-mile drive on a dark country road, he frequently checked his mirror to see if her courage had held and she was indeed still behind him. She was and she followed him right to the door of his bungalow at the Wonderland Motel, where the two of them spent nearly the entire night pleasuring one another. Before leaving town early the next morning, she drove by the house, and inside the screen door, she placed a remarkable twelve-word note: “Caleb, I am leaving you. Tell the boys I love them, Barbara.”

  In the following months, Fred, more out of caution than guilt, avoided Caleb, even though it put his company’s account in jeopardy. He continued his romantic pursuit of Barbara, who, for the time being, lived an independent life, sharing a two-bedroom apartment in the California Central Valley town of Lodi, just a forty-five-minute drive south of Sacramento, but a comfortable two and a half hours north of Fresno.

  Not long after, when Fred took a position with a new firm, selling the same insurance products as before, Barbara followed him to his new home in Novato, in the northern end of Marin County. After what she called, “careful thought,” she had made her decision to leave her husband and two sons with little more than a file box of recipes and her best wishes for their future happiness.

  Reasoning that she could not forgive Caleb if the situation had been reversed, Barbara avoided their anger for many years by keeping her contact with the family to a minimum. She sent the boys holiday and birthday cards with small checks enclosed with her suggestion that they “buy something fun;” other than that, there was nothing else.

  Caleb’s anger expressed itself in his clear displeasure when either of the two boys broached the subject of their mother. And so they adjusted as best as they could to her all but total disappearance from their lives. On occasion, Caleb considered asking a woman out on a date, but he was apprehensive as to the boys’ reaction. He committed himself to doing all things masculine with his sons; from weekends spent hunting deer, to learning camping, wilderness and survival techniques, to even setting up a target range behind the house where both boys became crack shots.

  And as happens between a job and your children’s school, the next couple of years passed quickly. Michael did well in school and was accepted to UCLA, the campus of which was a three-hour drive due south of their Fresno home. Michael, for all his feigned enthusiasm for life at home with his dad and brother, was secretly thrilled to leave what he thought was a depressing environment. As for Christopher, two years away from his own high school graduation, he felt the disappointment and resentment of being the only child left in what was now a two-person household.

  At Michael’s graduation from UCLA, Barbara made one of her rare appearances. She and Caleb carefully avoided coming within ten feet of each other. She promptly dismissed any inquiries Michael made regarding her sudden departure, more than seven years earlier. Barbara gave the casual and, by now, often stated self-assessment, “I was a lousy mother and you and your brother were lucky to be rid of me.”

  Michael never believed that. He took it as her way of dismissing the consequences of her departure and assuming family life would have been worse with her than without. But he asked himself repeatedly: What was the point in confronting her about this or anything else? Instead, Michael told her that she was beautiful and that he would like to photograph her. Barbara was flattered and suggested that he come visit her at the home she shared with Fred in Novato.

  Two months later, Michael, just shy of twenty-two, arrived at Barbara’s front door for what was intended as a brief two-week visit. He was surprised to discover that she and Fred, the man his father would only refer to as, “that treacherous traveling salesman,” lived in a comfortable home on a cul-de-sac off of San Andreas Drive, which backed up to the picturesque open pastures adjacent to the Mt. Burdell Preserve. Now, with several months’ worth of unanswered inquiries regarding job opportunities mailed to prospective employers in the Fresno area, and the inviting landscape outside his mother’s door, Michael began to wonder if Marin was not more to his liking.

  Fred and Barbara had a three-bedroom house, how much of an imposition could it be, Michael reasoned, if he was to stay there for a time and look for work in the area? Degreed in anthropology, Michael applied for a position as a salesclerk at a camera store in a nearby strip shopping center, which was a manageable walk from Fred and Barbara’s home. He had no doubt that his presence would be at least somewhat of an imposition, so Michael carefully couched his desire to his mother and undeclared step-father in the most diplomatic terms possible.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll have to wait for a teaching position to open up at the community college down in Fresno; meanwhile, I’d like to get a job nearby and at least cover my living expenses. I would not want to be a burden to either of you.”

  Fred could tell by the quiet tears that Barbara shed that it was apparently and regrettably payback time, so although he preferred to have nothing to do with what he considered his wife’s past mistakes, he thought it wise to at least attempt a positive view of this development. Therefore, he took the lead, sensing Barbara wanted to hear his thoughts before she spoke.

  “If it’s okay with your mom, Michael, it’s okay with me,” Fred said, in as loving a manner as he could muster.

  And so it was resolved that Michael would pursue this position, and if he was happy there, it was further agreed that he would begin to look for a place of his own after three months’ time, in which he would make a “sincere effort,” Fred suggested, “To save a portion of his weekly earnings.”

  Michael took to photography with the enthusiasm of a future composer hearing a symphony for the first time. He worked at the camera shop eight to ten hours a day, six days a week. At night, he studied books on photography that he borrowed from the shop.

  The shop’s owner, Milton Cook, saw himself in Michael thirty years earlier when he first fell in love with photography.

  “It’s addictive,” Milton warned, while enjoying Michael’s increasing passion.

  Michael was particularly taken with black and white photography, which had a strange way of capturing a hidden truth that was often missing, he thought, in color photography.

  This was all prior to the advent of digital photography. In addition to shooting film negatives, Michael learned the art of darkroom photography and the different aspects of a photo that could be teased out, simply by variations in the
print process. Sharper contrasts often evoked more striking images, softer ones a more reflective reaction on the part of the viewer.

  The power of photography was astounding. Less than a year after completing his studies in anthropology, Michael concluded that he could better understand the human condition through the lens of his camera than through any textbook.

  When Milton began his introduction to the use of a telephoto lens, Michael’s world opened that much further. Between understanding different camera bodies, the quality and functions of various lenses and filters, and the artistry of the darkroom, Michael discovered a person inside himself he never knew was there. Part scientist, part artist. He learned that he was a lover of the many aspects of the human condition and a person who could be lost for hours in the fine details of capturing an evocative image.

  Between his long hours at the store and the pursuit of his photography in most of his free time, an entire year passed for Michael, nearly unnoticed. That same year was a slow and uncomfortable one for Fred, who had disciplined himself to say nothing to Barbara regarding his growing discomfort over having Michael’s presence in his home. But with each week seeming to move slower than the last, and his growing weary of hearing about one more new thing Michael had learned about photography, Fred gave in to his desire to recapture the solitude of his life with Barbara and simply stated what had long been on his mind; it was time for Michael to move on.

  As with most of his sales calls, before making his pitch to Barbara, Fred considered carefully what needed to be said.

  “Michael’s a terrific kid, but his two-week visit has now extended beyond twelve months. I’d like us to get back to the privacy we had before he arrived.”

  Barbara had silently wondered when Fred would raise this issue. She, too, had grown weary of her son’s enthusiasm and his presence, but could not bring herself to mention this to Fred. She’d also wondered for many years if he thought of her as a terrible mother. Suggesting it was time for Michael to leave might only serve as further evidence of that.

  She was so pleased to have left the life she lived in Fresno, but she carried the weight of years of regret for the abrupt decision she had made.

  Reluctant to simply agree with Fred, Barbara took the middle path and said, “Let me talk with him.”

  Fred was sorely tempted to say more, but the salesman in him had sharply honed listening skills. He sensed the weariness in her voice with the situation. He told himself to wait two weeks and see if this intolerable situation might at last be on its way to a satisfactory resolution.

  A few days later, Barbara arranged to come by the camera shop and take Michael out for lunch. She went through a series of delicate suggestions that the time had arrived for him to move out into a place of his own. With his lunch hour nearing an end, and the conversation mostly focused on what Michael called, “the coming revolution of digital photography,” Barbara decided it was time to stop her subtle suggestions and get to the point.

  “Fred would like to know when you’re planning on moving out.”

  “You mean getting my own place?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I had no idea he wanted me out. You guys have such a big place; I didn’t think I was in the way.”

  “I think it’s more about his privacy. He’s just not used to having other people living with him. And to be fair, Michael, you were supposed to look for your own place within a few months of starting your job. It’s now over a year!”

  “Yeah, sure, okay. Tell him I’ll start looking. Can you give me a couple of weeks?”

  “Of course, dear. There’s three weeks until the end of the month. Why don’t I tell Fred that you’ll be out by the first day of next month?”

  Barbara and Michael’s parting after lunch was awkward. He was distracted, and she was relieved. He was miffed with Fred, and she felt some guilt knowing that she had been less than honest in placing all the blame for Michael’s eviction on the man who had originally come between her and her family.

  Michael went back to work with only one thought on his mind: the anger he felt toward Fred. For several years after Barbara’s departure, Michael had secretly asked God to strike his rightful vengeance against the man who had led his mother astray. Fred was a thief who had come into their home, gained the trust of his kind-hearted and hapless father, and stolen his mother away. Through his studies of anthropology, Michael was certain that had these been more primitive times, his father would have come one night and simply murdered them both.

  Back at the shop, Milton quickly read that something was both distracting and distressing his young protégé, so after an hour’s hesitation, he finally asked, “Michael, what’s bothering you?”

  As if he had stuck a pin in a balloon. Michael let loose with all that had happened to his family since the night his mother disappeared with Fred.

  “My dad woke in the morning, and when he found she was not there beside him in bed, he went and opened the front door to see if her car was out front. When he did, he saw a note stuck inside the screen door. Can you believe it was only twelve words! My dad looked like he had been hit over the head with a two by four. He walked around in a daze for the next two months.”

  Michael was thankful that for the thirty minutes it took him to tell his story, no customers wandered in on what had turned into a rain soaked afternoon. By the time he was done, Milton said softly, “Son, I can tell you’ve been through an awful lot. Let me make some calls and see what I can do. There’s always someone around here with a half empty house looking to rent a room.”

  If Michael hadn’t been such an honest, bright, hardworking young man, Milton might not have been so determined to help. But he was, by far, the best store assistant he had ever had, and he was only too pleased to work his community contacts on Michael’s behalf.

  One week after their lunch, two weeks before Barbara’s suggested move out date, Michael packed his things and made sure to leave when he knew Fred would be at work. He wanted to have as little contact with the man as possible.

  Milton gave Michael a step up in three important ways: he identified a perfect garage apartment at a reasonable rent, he connected Michael with one of his Novato chapter Rotary pals, who sold him an aging Honda Civic for twelve easy monthly payments, and unwittingly gave Michael some advice that allowed him to strike back at the man who had stolen his mother away and crushed what Michael had told himself was an otherwise happy home.

  During that rainy afternoon when Michael shared the story of his mother’s desertion, Milton put an arm around his shoulder and said, “I’ve known guys like this Fred character. Their behavior always catches up to them.”

  “How so?” Michael asked with red-rimmed eyes.

  “They’re philanderers, son. I’d bet my home that he’s cheating on your mom right now. Believe me, this Fred guy is someone who does whatever the hell he wants. For God’s sake, you think a decent man seduces a friend’s wife and then leads her astray like that? I might be an old fashioned guy, but trust me, this guy’s rotten. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Just you watch; people like him always come to an unhappy end.”

  For the first time, Michael began to wonder: If this were indeed true, how could he use Milton’s theory to assure Fred found himself with at least some of the pain he had caused others? There had to be some way to do that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mid-morning on the first Sunday after he began life on his own, Michael parked his car a quarter of a mile from Fred and Barbara’s home. From there, he walked out onto the green pastures of the Mt. Burdell preserve and found a comfortable and secluded spot behind a rock outcropping. He opened his camera bag and removed the Nikon 35mm camera that Milton had sold him at his cost and then placed on a twelve-month payment plan. He unscrewed its regular lens and replaced it with a high power telephoto lens. He unwrapped a turkey sandwich and began to enjoy his lunch, while he waited patiently for Fred to come out onto his deck to enjoy his Sunday paper,
while sitting in the sun and sipping his coffee.

  The night before, Michael thought back to the year he spent living at his home and observing, among other things, Fred’s Sunday routine. He began with a late breakfast, around ten-thirty. Then, sometime between eleven and noon, he sat down with the Sunday paper out on the back porch, weather permitting, until the early afternoon. That was followed by a visit to the nearby YMCA for a workout, a swim, and a visit to the sauna.

  If Milton was right and Fred was possibly having an affair, his rendezvous might occur in two places: at work, or at the gym. At both locations, he would not run into Barbara; she did not work at his office, and she loathed the noise and the smell of a gym. Fred had given up the job of being a traveling salesman more than three years ago. Office affairs are certainly common, but a good deal riskier than a casual hook-up with an aerobics classmate.

  Michael used the time, while Fred read his Sunday paper, to practice with his new telephoto lens and see the degree of clarity he could get in pictures from three hundred feet from his target.

  Whenever using a lens this powerful, the shooter has one of two options, either bring a tripod, impossible while attempting to do what he was now doing, or have a steady surface to lean your camera on. In this case, the flat rock behind which he had burrowed was perfect.

  By two-thirty, Fred had put down his paper, gone inside, and was likely preparing to leave for the gym. Michael packed his things, got back to his car, and drove beyond Fred’s home and parked near the intersection of San Andreas and San Marin Drive.