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

by Martin Brown

  “Well, people who watched him from a lot closer than the two of us had one question they asked over and over again, where did he get all his money? Certainly not working as a sales assistant at a rundown camera shop that never seemed to make much, if any, profit.”

  “It obviously begs the question.”

  “But you don’t know the half of it; wait until I tell you about Eddie’s interview with one of Michael’s victims…”

  Holly filled Sylvia in on what Eddie had learned earlier in the day from Juliette Parker. Afterward, she broke down the list of six that Eddie wanted to be sure they intercepted before or, more likely, after the ceremony. She later did the same with Ted, and finally with Rob, promising to show them all photos of their targets in the parking lot of the church fifteen minutes prior to the service.

  All of Rob’s reluctance about two plus hours of Holly’s and his workday being devoted to Michael’s service disappeared the moment he realized that The Standard might have the inside track on a major Marin County crime story. There was nothing that better held the attention of his readership than a local murder mystery.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The sun was shining brightly on the day of Michael’s funeral. Holly and Rob arrived shortly before Ted and Sylvia. When together, the four of them did one more quick run-through of their individual assignments and took a few minutes to familiarize themselves with the faces of those they were hoping to speak with after the service.

  When they stepped inside, they discovered that the church was nearly full. Each of them slipped into separate pews, with mourners moving a little closer to each other to make space.

  All four of them were apprehensive about what they might discover. Sylvia thought about her shocking conversation a year earlier with Mrs. Bukowski regarding the strange behavior of her deceased super model daughter. What might have been Michael’s secrets and was his family’s life equally dark?

  At that same moment, Ted Dondero looked toward the front of the church, where a painted plaster statue of Jude, the patron saint of all lost causes, stared back at him. Was there a sign of hope here that the mystery of Michael Marks would begin to unravel? He prayed to St. Jude that it would.

  Holly was anxious for the service to start and finish, to find out if they might actually root out any information of value. She knew that they had another busy day waiting back at the office. She said a little prayer that their time spent here would be rewarded.

  Rob never entered a church without thinking of the priest, now long gone, who helped guide him during the difficult days when he lost his grandfather. “One day soon, the peace of the Lord will come upon you, my son,” Father Dugan said with that gentle warm smile he always wore.

  Rob took a deep breath and enjoyed the feeling of peace inside the sanctuary as the sun shone through its high windows. Once again, he felt the wisdom of his grandfather, who often told him, “Patience and persistence will move you closer to success.”

  The service, lasting just under an hour, was mercifully brief. Neither Caleb, nor Barbara, nor Michael’s younger brother, Christopher, chose to come forward and speak about the deceased.

  Walter stood to pay tribute to the man he had come to know over their many years together. “He came in early,” Walt said, “and stayed late. I’ve never worked with anyone more fiercely devoted to the power and magic of photography.”

  “He had a deep love of humanity,” Walt continued, appearing a bit unsteady on his feet, causing others to wonder if he had imbibed at too early an hour of the day. “He took such joy in getting to know the people of Mill Valley. He wanted to know something about each one of us. I’m sure that many of us do not have the time or perhaps the interest to know our neighbors, but Michael was someone for whom friendship, in and of itself, was its own reward.”

  The priest invited others to speak, and there was a long and awkward pause. Good God, Holly thought, is that it? One speaker? At that moment, Holly had an idea. If there was a victim or victims of Michael’s in the church, perhaps a few more tributes to him and the, “power of photography,” might encourage them to come forward after the service to express their disdain for this false saint who had lived among them. If for no other reason than to straighten her out regarding the fact that she was clearly misinformed about Michael, perhaps this gambit would pay a generous return.

  Suddenly, she rose and announced, “I have something I’d like to add.” The presiding priest invited her to stay where she stood, “One of the blessings of this church is everyone can be heard from wherever they stand.” Most of the attendees turned, curious to hear what she had to say.

  Watching her, first in surprise, but then in admiration, Sylvia, Ted, and Rob quickly realized what she was doing and decided that they too would follow suit. Perhaps each of them would be sought out after the service. Better than having to find just one individual in the crowd.

  Holly briefly explained how she had gotten to know Michael, and then added, “He took great pride in his work. He was simple and complex at the same time. I felt I knew him and didn’t know him at all. There were times that it was clear to me that he would go to any length to capture the perfect image, one that might not mean all that much to the casual observer, but was of great importance to both him and his subjects.”

  Sylvia strained her thin voice to be heard, uncertain that the priest’s assurance that all could be heard wherever they stood was indeed true. She asserted her belief that, while she had a love to tell stories with words, “Michael did much the same with his pictures. Through the lens of his camera, he caught people at moments they seemed totally unaware of his presence. It would be fair to say that was the magic in what he did. Showing the world a side of us that no one, even we ourselves, would recognize.”

  Ted explained that, “While he earned modestly, he knew how to live grandly. And isn’t that the real secret to enjoying life? Do the work you enjoy doing and tease out a successful living, while never abandoning your art. I asked him more than once how he was able to do so much with such a modest income; he would just smile proudly and say you have to, ‘make the most of every gift you are given.’ Probably when he died, he took most of the secrets of his success with him, but I’ll always value the time we spent together.”

  Then Rob, the fourth and final member of the team to introduce himself, wondered, as they all had, what might entice the right person or persons to come forward and bring a piece of the puzzle that they did not have.

  He was flying blind and hoping to get the right result. Not an unfamiliar feeling when you’re in the business of telling a story that needs to be presented because you’re up against a deadline, while at the same time, you have yet to figure it out. Just let it rip, string words together, and hope you hit a nerve.

  “Every time I met with Michael to review his choices for the Mill Valley Picture of the Week, he never wanted to push me toward one image over another. As though all the photos he brought me were his children, all equally significant in his eyes. Michael spoke to the world through his pictures.

  “I asked him once what he so loved about his work, and he said, ‘People reveal themselves in candid pictures in ways they never could or would when asked.’ He certainly lived by the rule that one picture was worth a thousand words. If he had been less generous, many of the images he caught were probably worth more than he could have ever imagined. But through his generosity, he proved to us time and time again, it is not making money that matters, but the opportunity to pursue your art.”

  Holly, Ted, Sylvia, and Rob gave each other smiles, knowing from the audible “ahhs,” at the end of each one of their brief comments that they had made a pleasant impression on most of the mourners, and hopefully angered a select few. If nothing else, they had made themselves known to the attendees.

  As they followed the crowd down to the community room where the Mill Valley Chamber had provided a light lunch buffet in honor of all the years Michael had served as a volunteer to the organiz
ation, the four of them knew there was no guarantee that any of the people they were looking to interview, with the likely exception of Michael’s family, were in attendance. Having come into the church just minutes before the start of the service, they spent most of the service looking at the backs of heads, and then needing to focus on their impromptu remarks, they were too distracted to pay close attention to any of the many faces staring back at them.

  When they hit the reception, all four of them were on their game. And they jumped in, expecting nothing and hoping to be surprised.

  Rob recognized Fred Winters the moment he reached his hand out to shake his. Of course, Rob let him introduce himself. Fred quickly launched into his feelings about Michael, barely pausing to capture his breath.

  “I was his step-father for many years,” Fred declared.

  Rob smiled, determined to listen rather than speak.

  “I’m sure his mother appreciated what you had to say about her kid, but believe me, that little son of a bitch had a terrible mean streak.”

  “How so?”

  “Let’s just say he took pictures of people during intimate moments.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I should know, he tried to shake me down, but it fell apart when his mom found out about my girlfriend, and then his damn photos were worth nothing to me.”

  “Good God, I guess there was a lot I didn’t know about Michael. I hope what I said didn’t offend you.”

  “It’s okay; I’m sure you’re not the only one who knew very little about the real Michael Marks.”

  “How long ago did he try to shake you down over these photos he took?”

  “It was the mid-eighties, just after he had spent a year living with Barbara and me. Nice way to thank me for all my hospitality. Trust me, the kid was a real little shit. When I saw he was killed, my first thought was that he finally took pictures of the wrong guy.”

  “Couldn’t you have been the wrong guy?”

  Fred gave a dismissive half laugh and said, “Believe me, buddy, if I was going to kill the prick, he would have been dead a long time ago.”

  Rob thanked Fred for his, “words to the wise,” and moved on, while most of the mourners were still gathered in groups discussing the unsettling stories they had heard regarding Michael’s violent demise.

  Sylvia intercepted Barbara, whose eyes were rimmed with tears and who, now in her seventies, looked exhausted with grief. She thanked Sylvia for the kind words she’d said about her son, and added, “I was a terrible mother. I left my son, his brother, and their father for a man who was wicked in so many ways. I was in my thirties and still young and dumb. I certainly wish I knew then what I know now.”

  Sylvia, who long ago concluded that she must be perpetually blessed, or cursed, with a kind face that encourages others to share, smiled and insisted, “Oh, my dear, you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  “Oh, but I do; I must. What I did shattered my family. Nothing was ever right after I left. My boys resented their father at first, as if he had done something to push me away. I never explained I was to blame, not him. I met another man I thought was so attractive. He made me feel beautiful and desired. Fred Winters and I lasted fourteen years. In the balance, I lost everyone who really mattered to me. My husband, Caleb, never speaks to me, and now Michael’s brother Christopher blames me for Michael’s death as well.”

  “Why in the world should he do that?”

  “Caleb instilled in both boys the thought that everything that goes wrong in this world began with my departure. Call it my original sin.”

  Barbara, sobbing, excused herself, explaining that she needed to use the restroom.

  “Do you need me to come with you?” Sylvia asked.

  “I’ll be alright; I just need someplace I can go and hide for a short time.”

  As she walked away, Sylvia wondered if that was the most profoundly unhappy individual she had ever met.

  Holly, having intercepted both Caleb and Christopher, was busy drilling down, hoping to learn anything that might be of use.

  “I appreciate what you said about Michael,” Caleb began. “He was a good boy, although I think he was deeply hurt by his mother’s desertion.”

  Holly, in spite of having admitted to Caleb that Michael had mentioned the story of Barbara’s desertion on more than one occasion, urged Caleb to share his view of the family’s fracture.

  Caleb talked of missed opportunities. “Nothing in our lives was the same after Barbara left. I was a broken man; even Michael and his younger brother Christopher grew apart. We had what I thought was a pretty happy home, but it all went away.”

  Wow, Holly thought, this guy has been chewing on this for better than forty years.

  Christopher, tanned, still youthful in appearance, and betrayed only by the gray hairs that covered his sideburns and wrapped around his ears, was standing just a couple of feet away. He struck a pose of detached indifference, while attempting to hear everything being said. Holly wasn’t buying his feigned disinterest. So, she looked over to Christopher and said, “I’m sorry about your brother. You must miss him, huh?”

  “We were not particularly close.”

  “Are you single, like your brother was?”

  Christopher was tempted to ask what business was this of the short woman with the bright smile, but her manner appeared too innocent for him to push back so hard. Instead, he played along.

  “Like Michael, I never married; we Marks men aren’t all that lucky in love.”

  “I don’t see how that can be,” Holly said, as Caleb drifted away toward the buffet table. “You’re both bright and handsome. He had a different body shape…”

  “You mean fat?”

  “Let’s say stocky,” Holly said with a flirtatious smile.

  “Did you enjoy working with him?”

  “I did; he was always upbeat and he certainly loved his work. I guess you didn’t get to spend much time with him?”

  “We lived separate lives. I stayed in Fresno where we both grew up. He moved up to Marin just after finishing college.”

  “What line of work did you go into?”

  “I got my dad’s love of numbers. I went into investment consulting. Financial analysis, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “I do, actually. Everyone wants to understand how to make their money work better…to help create a more secure future.”

  “I suppose,” Holly said, her eyes beginning to glaze over. Nothing bored her like the topic of money and investing. At this point in her life, she had convinced herself that she would never have a good relationship with money, and therefore, people who worked in finance held no interest for her.

  “Well,” Holly said, anxious to move on to more interesting guests, “If I ever have any money, I’ll be sure to look you up.”

  Joanne Hill approached Rob to thank him for the wonderful words he said about Michael.

  “Do you know anything about the investigation into Michael’s murder?” she asked with a bright smile.

  “I’m a friend of the lead investigator in the case, Eddie Austin, why?” Rob asked, being his ever cautious self.

  “Well, Michael and I knew each other…we dated over a period of two years. I visited his home frequently. Let’s just say, spending the night, I came to realize that Michael kept a lot of cash in the house. I was tempted to ask why that was, but I decided not to. I’d be happy to talk to your friend about what I saw. I don’t know if that will help.”

  “It might.”

  “That cash was the first thing I thought of when I heard he had been killed. I’ll rest easier knowing I told someone about it.”

  At the other end of the room, Ted discussed Michael’s murder with Walt, who enjoyed a plate of tuna salad, egg salad, and bean salad, while he explained that the popular photographer’s murder was all anyone in town could talk about.

  “Ted, you know I have a nose for news…”

  “You mean gossip,”
Ted responded in his teasing fashion.

  “Call it whatever you want; you know there are times when empty gossip turns into hard news.”

  “Agreed…”

  “Well, it seems the most popular theory about Michael is that he must have been into something bad. Some people are insisting that this was a mob hit.”

  “A mob hit! In Mill Valley? You have to be kidding!”

  “I think that’s pretty far-fetched, but just about everyone would like to know where his money came from.”

  “I never knew that was such a popular topic,” Ted said, hoping the lie he had just told was not too obvious. He dreaded the thought that Walt would come to think of him as a fellow trader in the currency of local gossip.

  “In fact, Al D., you know the retired rocker who lives in Blithedale Canyon? I ran into him Saturday night at the Sweetwater, and he says that he wasn’t the least bit surprised that Michael was shot.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he was a little tipsy; he loves those Long Island Iced Teas, you know.”

  “And…”

  “He says to me in that raspy voice of his, ‘That boy of yours, you know the chubby one with the camera around his neck all the time? He was some piece of work.’ So I ask him what he meant by that, and he says, ‘He was shaking people down.’”

  “You mean blackmail?” Ted said, raising his voice.

  “Keep it down, Ted. You don’t know what kind of people might be here. Yeah, blackmail, I figure the guy is crazy, drunk, or both, but it would explain how you could have a lot of extra money all the time and wind up taking a bullet to the head.”

  “You think Al might have been one of Michael’s victims?”

  “Well, Al likes to play the field, and he did seem very pleased that Michael was no longer with us…”