up the stairs slowly, all my senses on high alert. If I heard as much as fly go by, I would be out of there. I reached the landing and stopped again, trying to get my bearings. I was already inside the studio, I realized. That meant it took up the entire upper floor of the building. I could make out a shape—the outline of a chair.
Suddenly, the dark shadow moved. It wasn’t a chair at all, but a person in a crouch. He thudded into me hard, and I went sprawling to the floor. I leaped back up, looking about frantically. Footsteps were racing down the stairs. The intruder was already on his way out. A second later, the downstairs door slammed shut. A reverberating silence followed.
My pulse slowed until I felt pretty sure that I might not die of a heart attack after all. But I had to get out of here fast. Whoever had run out could come back any minute. I groped my way toward the stairs and was halfway down when I stopped. Whoever that was, he was long gone. I had probably scared him as much as he had me.
He
? Why had I automatically thought it was a man? And then I noticed the smell of aftershave, a detail my subconscious had obviously picked up before I’d become aware of it.
Other than the fact that this person was a man, I knew nothing. What had he been after? Was he looking for photos? Or did he want something else? I stood still and thought. There was no way I was going to leave without at least taking a quick look around. I climbed back up.
I felt my way along the wall until I reached the windows. They were covered in thick feltlike fabric—blackout drapes. I made sure they were tightly closed, and when I was certain that none of the outside light shone through, I turned on my flashlight and swung the beam around.
The studio was the size of a bachelor apartment. Against one wall was a roll of white background paper stretching from floor to ceiling. Photo lights were everywhere—spotlights, umbrella lights and floodlights. There were power packs and camera stands, and the floor was a jungle of cables. McDermott must have spent a fortune on his hobby. How did he explain to his wife where all that money was going? Could she really have been oblivious to it? I found that hard to believe.
Along the opposite wall was a plush reclining chair, which conjured up images of nude models posing seductively. I looked around for cameras or photos, but there were none that I could see. How strange, so much lighting equipment and not a single camera or photo, not even a file cabinet where they might have been stored.
Probably in the darkroom
. I spotted two doors along the far wall and I tried the first. I shone my light around the floor and caught a dozen or so silverfish running around the base of a toilet.
Yuck
. This bathroom needed a good scrubbing. I shut the door, disgusted, and tried the next one. I swept the beam of light around. It was a small galley-type kitchen. On one counter were two plastic containers filled with liquid. Developing solutions. Above stretched a clothesline from which hung a dozen or so photos. I stepped closer. Each was a picture of Emma in various stages of undress, Emma posing, pouty and sultry, reclining on the chaise I’d noticed. I focused the beam of light on one of the pictures. It was seductive, yet innocent. For all her curves and the maturity of her body, Emma had a childlike innocence about her. Her expression was sweet, trying to look sexy and not quite succeeding. Nobody could have called those pictures pornographic. Still, I could understand her not wanting them to get around, especially in a small town, where the morals were more rigid. I was about to grab them when I stopped. I had somehow lulled myself into believing I could take them, but now that I was faced with it, I was hesitating. Before making up my mind one way or another, there was something I wanted to do.
I moved on to a stack of photos at the far end of the counter.
I should have brought gloves.
I glanced around for
Suddenly, the dark shadow moved. It wasn’t a chair at all, but a person in a crouch. He thudded into me hard, and I went sprawling to the floor. I leaped back up, looking about frantically. Footsteps were racing down the stairs. The intruder was already on his way out. A second later, the downstairs door slammed shut. A reverberating silence followed.
My pulse slowed until I felt pretty sure that I might not die of a heart attack after all. But I had to get out of here fast. Whoever had run out could come back any minute. I groped my way toward the stairs and was halfway down when I stopped. Whoever that was, he was long gone. I had probably scared him as much as he had me.
He
? Why had I automatically thought it was a man? And then I noticed the smell of aftershave, a detail my subconscious had obviously picked up before I’d become aware of it.
Other than the fact that this person was a man, I knew nothing. What had he been after? Was he looking for photos? Or did he want something else? I stood still and thought. There was no way I was going to leave without at least taking a quick look around. I climbed back up.
I felt my way along the wall until I reached the windows. They were covered in thick feltlike fabric—blackout drapes. I made sure they were tightly closed, and when I was certain that none of the outside light shone through, I turned on my flashlight and swung the beam around.
The studio was the size of a bachelor apartment. Against one wall was a roll of white background paper stretching from floor to ceiling. Photo lights were everywhere—spotlights, umbrella lights and floodlights. There were power packs and camera stands, and the floor was a jungle of cables. McDermott must have spent a fortune on his hobby. How did he explain to his wife where all that money was going? Could she really have been oblivious to it? I found that hard to believe.
Along the opposite wall was a plush reclining chair, which conjured up images of nude models posing seductively. I looked around for cameras or photos, but there were none that I could see. How strange, so much lighting equipment and not a single camera or photo, not even a file cabinet where they might have been stored.
Probably in the darkroom
. I spotted two doors along the far wall and I tried the first. I shone my light around the floor and caught a dozen or so silverfish running around the base of a toilet.
Yuck
. This bathroom needed a good scrubbing. I shut the door, disgusted, and tried the next one. I swept the beam of light around. It was a small galley-type kitchen. On one counter were two plastic containers filled with liquid. Developing solutions. Above stretched a clothesline from which hung a dozen or so photos. I stepped closer. Each was a picture of Emma in various stages of undress, Emma posing, pouty and sultry, reclining on the chaise I’d noticed. I focused the beam of light on one of the pictures. It was seductive, yet innocent. For all her curves and the maturity of her body, Emma had a childlike innocence about her. Her expression was sweet, trying to look sexy and not quite succeeding. Nobody could have called those pictures pornographic. Still, I could understand her not wanting them to get around, especially in a small town, where the morals were more rigid. I was about to grab them when I stopped. I had somehow lulled myself into believing I could take them, but now that I was faced with it, I was hesitating. Before making up my mind one way or another, there was something I wanted to do.
I moved on to a stack of photos at the far end of the counter.
I should have brought gloves.
I glanced around for
Similar Books
