A photograph is usually looked at—seldom looked into.
—Ansel Adams
WE ALL STUDIED the photo of the lovely young woman with dark hair, a coyly cocked head, and a come-hither expression that appeared as if she couldn’t decide whether to look innocently lascivious, or lasciviously innocent.
She appeared to have light-colored eyes under a veil of dark hair, though we all agreed there was no way to be sure, because the photoshopped image had been artfully drained of strong hues, rendering everything in a muted sepia tone.
“This is supposed to look like a vintage photo, but I don’t know if it really is one,” Leo Rollins said. “It’s hip to put filters on photos or selfies. That kind of software is built into some phone apps.”
“But what if it really is an old photo?” Seymour countered. “I mean, huge Margaret Keane eyes like that haven’t been fashionable since the 1970s.”
The woman in the photo wore nothing more than an opaque bedsheet and false eyelashes. Her full lips were painted to form a heart, and the eyebrows had been shaped to complete the wide-eyed “baby doll” look working overtime to convey both naiveté and sensuality.
“No,” Fiona said after donning her reading glasses. “This is a vintage photograph. I see enough old magazines at flea markets to know. This looks like something out of a late-1960s issue of Cosmopolitan.”
“It could have been made to give that impression,” Linda pointed out.
I looked to Brainert for a comment, but he remained silent, arms folded, angular features locked in a grim expression.
Something was wrong here. This wasn’t like Brainert. He always enjoyed giving his opinion, especially when it involved a mystery.
“Let’s focus on the eyes,” I suggested, trying to stay positive and keep the discussion going. “Camille Paglia once wrote that it doesn’t matter whether a Hollywood movie is set in the past, the present, or even the future; you can usually pinpoint the decade it was filmed in by the women’s eye makeup. I’m sure the same rule applies to photography.”
“This girl’s look is very Twiggy,” Aunt Sadie said.
Joyce Koh, the teenage daughter of the Korean American man who owned Koh’s market, made a face. “She’s scrawny, but I wouldn’t call her a twig, Ms. Thornton.”
Sadie laughed. “No, no, dear. You’re too young to remember. Twiggy was a person. A fashion model from the 1960s who was famously thin.”
“You’re right, Ms. Thornton, before my time!”
“Mine, too, thank you very much,” Linda said. “But Milner and I did enjoy binge-watching Mad Men. It reminded us how cool those times were: the fight for civil rights, the British Invasion, Woodstock, free love—”
Free love? Jack snorted. That’s a giggle. Love never comes free. There’s always a cost.
“It was an ugly time, too,” Bud said. “And I’m speaking from experience, not a television show. We had the draft. The war in Vietnam. The assassinations of JFK, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy.”
“That’s right.” Sadie nodded. “There were riots, drugs everywhere, those Manson murders, chaos on college campuses—”
Best of times, worst of times? Jack quipped. I think I’ve heard that one before. I mean, the start of the Great Depression wasn’t so bad when you consider Gallant Fox winning the Triple Crown. Then there was the end of Prohibition, a real cackle—the rise of the Nazi Party, not so much.
“Let’s get back to the picture, shall we?” I said, pointing out that there was one more visual clue in the portrait—the odd diamond-shaped window that backlit the subject. I pulled up another photo and sent it to everyone.
“I found this Polaroid in Emma Hudson’s apartment. It is so blurry I can’t make out the woman’s face, but that distinctive window behind her suggests it was taken in the same spot as that author photo. What do you all think?”
“Seems the same to me,” Linda said, and Milner nodded.
Fiona loudly cleared her throat. “I probably have the most experience here with architectural integrity. You all know, Barney and I meticulously researched authentic high Victorian colors for our inn—”
“Of course we all know,” Seymour muttered. “You’ve told us a thousand times.”
“In my expert opinion, Penelope, it is the same window!”
“What about this date written on the back?” Bud asked. “Does that mean anything?”
“Excellent question!” Seymour stuck his nose in his phone. A moment later he looked up with a grave expression. “On that date in history, the Weather Underground detonated a bomb at the Pentagon in protest of the Vietnam War.”
There you go! Jack cracked again. Best of times, worst of times!
I gritted my teeth and took a breath. “I think we can dismiss the Weather Underground from this investigation. What I do know is that this Polaroid is a real vintage picture, and it was in Mrs. Hudson’s possession.”
Milner scratched his head. “I seem to recall Richard Avedon said his photographic portraits were more about him than they were about his subject. Maybe we should consider what the photographer was trying to say about himself through the author portrait. What was he trying to portray?”
Linda frowned at her husband. “Who said the shutterbug was a man?”
“She’s right,” Seymour said. “In my opinion, Bunny Yeager was the greatest glamour photographer of all time.”
Suddenly, Fiona cried out. “I’ve got it!”
“What?” I leaned forward. “Do you see a breakthrough clue on the photo?”
“It’s obvious, Pen!” She pointed to my copy of Shades. “There is always a photo credit on the back cover flap of hardcover books, right under the book designer’s credit. Contact the photographer—whether it’s a him or her—and you’ll have your answers!”
Seymour rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of—”
“Excuse me, Tarnish,” Fiona huffed. “You have a problem with my idea?”
“Not the idea. The photo credit. Look for yourself.”
Seymour passed Fiona his copy of the book. She eagerly flipped to the back flap and frowned. I didn’t need to look; I already knew.
“What’s it say?” Bud asked.
“Dead End, that’s what.”
“The postman’s right.” Fiona sighed. Then, as primly as she read our weekly minutes, she shared the words aloud: “Photo by Jessica Swindell.”
That news seemed to deflate the room.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s forget about the photo and focus on the text. Seymour? If you please . . .”