The Diva Goes Overboard

Friends are coming for breakfast with their lively kids who have trouble sitting still. I’d like to make a breakfast board. Any ideas about what I could put on it?

Coming Up Blank in Childs, Maryland

Dear Coming Up Blank,

How about a pancake and waffle board? Line up the pancakes and waffles along the edges and fill the middle with all sorts of wonderful toppings like berries, nuts, fruit, and chocolate. Be sure to get some savory items in, too, like bacon and sausages.

My heart pounded. “Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. Besides, if he stole Stella, why would he have the picture?”

“Then why did he hide the photo?” asked Nina.

“It could be Stella’s aunt with her child and Stella. Maybe the photographer can identify them.” There was someone else who might know—Myra Chatsworth. However, since Orson had gone to the trouble of hiding them, it was worth looking into the identities of the three people in the photograph before I started questioning Myra.

There wasn’t anything disturbing about the picture. Just a little girl looking adoringly at a baby and the woman who likely was the mother. Anyone looking at it would assume that the woman was the mother of the two children. But there was no way that the woman was a young Myra.

I could hear Stella guiding the movers upstairs and quickly hid the photos in my purse before reassembling the frame that held Stella’s photo and propping it on the desk.

Nina and I got out of the way as the movers shoved furniture aside to make room for more.

“Is the store open yet?” asked Stella.

“Actually, I was thinking of opening it this week. I believe the employees are ready to get back to work.”

“Great. I’m going to have quite a few things to sell.”

“Call me when you’re ready. I’ll be sure it’s open when you need it. There’s extra room in the storage in back, so anytime is fine.”

Nina and I headed home. She stopped at her house to collect the dogs, who were happy to romp in my yard with Daisy. Mochie yawned and stretched. After a bite to eat, he watched the three dogs from the sunroom in the back of the house, unconcerned about them.

I brought my laptop to the kitchen table while Nina sliced banana walnut bread and made decaf coffee.

The backs of the photos were stamped Ludlow Family Portraits, Alfonso Ludlow. A quick search for Ludlow Family Portraits yielded loads of results. The studio had been in business about thirty to forty years earlier in Baltimore, Maryland. The Web site showed photos of babies, young children, and doting parents with their offspring. On the remote chance that someone might answer the phone, I called the number.

Nina set coffee in front of me along with a slice of the banana walnut bread. As I expected, my call ended abruptly with a recording that told me the number was not in use. I looked up Alfonso Ludlow. That search yielded a different phone number. I tried calling it.

“Hello?” The male voice sounded elderly and soft.

I put the phone on speaker so Nina could hear. “Hi. This is Sophie Winston calling. I’m looking for an Alfonso Ludlow who was a photographer in Baltimore.”

“Is this one of those weird calls? What do they call them? Spam?”

“No, sir. It’s not. I live in Old Town, Alexandria, Virginia, and I found a couple of your photographs.”

“Well, that’s nice. How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to identify the woman in one of the pictures. She’s holding a baby, maybe about six months old, and a little girl in a pink dress is fascinated by her new sibling or perhaps cousin?”

“That describes an awful lot of the photos I took. I wouldn’t be able to say who they were unless I saw it.”

“I see. Could I text a picture of it to you?”

“Through a mobile phone?”

“Martha,” he called. “Can you get a text on your phone?”

Someone replied, but I couldn’t make out what she said.

“Okay. She gave me this number.” He rattled it off.

I took pictures of the two photographs with my phone and texted them to him.

“Where? Oh, there.” I heard the intake of a raspy breath. “Oh. That was a terrible matter. Saddest thing I ever heard of. I never expected it. You know, a photographer often sees things through his lens that make him wonder. But I had Mr. Harris pegged as a gentleman. Probably because he worked for a bank. You expect bankers to be honest, solid people.”

“Who is Mr. Harris?” I asked.

“Oh! Well, he’s the one who murdered his wife and stole the children in this picture.”