Read Online A Photographic Death by Judi Culbertson - Free Book Online Page A

wondered if 7:45 a.m. was too early to call him, then decided to take the chance. Sometimes I suspected Bruce lived in his office, keeping his cottage on the sound only for seduction. He was a quintessential bachelor and ladies’ man, despite severe scoliosis that had curved his back and kept his height at under five feet.
    He answered his office phone on the first ring. “Delhi!”
    “How did—you must have caller ID.”
    “I prefer to call it Scottish second sight.”
    “Whatever. Listen, I need a favor.”
    “What a surprise.” But he chuckled to soften the blow. “Do you want to stop by? My first class is at 9:10, but I’m here afterward. We could have lunch.”
    “No, I need to see you before then.”
    “What are you mixed up in now?” Bruce had been immeasurably helpful when my friend Margaret, the original owner of Port Lewis Books, had been attacked, helping me interpret clues I didn’t understand.
    “It’s nothing like that. I just need a favor.”
    “Oh, is that all.” He laughed again. “See you in ten.”
    I T T O O K M E closer to twenty minutes to reach the campus, park in the visitors’ garage, and get to the literature department. When I entered Bruce’s beautiful office, I saw that he had set out two cups, a teapot, scones, and jam.
    “Bruce! You didn’t need to—”
    “This is my usual pre-seminar snack.” He came around his polished desk and kissed me lightly on the mouth. Then he indicated the shellacked wooden chair across the desk from his own. “Sit.”
    I sat down and watched him pour me a cup of tea and nudge the sugar and cream close. He made sure the butter was also nearby. His caretaking brought me close to tears. When you’ve spent your life making sure everyone else has what they need, being cosseted this way will do that to you. That, not having gotten much sleep, and feeling emotional about what you’re going to ask.
    I looked around his office and found a lead-in to our conversation. Two hand-tinted photographs from the south of England that I had taken on an earlier trip hung above the waist-high bookcases that ringed the room. I had been given a show in one of the small gallery rooms in the library and Bruce had insisted on buying them.
    He reached over and set a box of tissues next to my scone.
    I looked at him. We already had napkins.
    “I keep them for girls who claim I’ve ruined their lives by giving them a D. You have that look. Is it Colin?”
    “Oh. No. No more than usual.” I put down my teacup and told him the story of Caitlin, from her imagined drowning, Jane’s hypnosis, and my certainty that she was alive. Because he was expecting me to, I managed not to break down.
    Bruce listened gravely, nodding once or twice.
    “So I need to use the darkroom.”
    “You need to do a whole lot more than that, Delhi.”
    I nodded meekly.
    “I always wondered why you stopped taking photographs, but I didn’t know you well enough to ask. I just assumed you’d moved on to better things, and the next time we talked it was rare books. What I don’t understand is why you let this situation drag on so long.”
    His clear blue eyes were stern. I was that student deserving of a D.
    “Because we believed what the police told us. Colin wanted us to just get on with our lives and I went along. The story of my life: I just went along.”
    “I don’t believe that.” He glanced at his understated but expensive watch. “I’ll walk over and show you where the lab is. It’s in Staller.”
    “Wait!” My voice cracked with panic. I already knew where the darkrooms were. “You said there were other things I needed to do.”
    “There are.” To my relief, he settled back into his chair. “You need to go to Stratford-upon-Avon, back to where it happened. You have to talk to the police and find out everything you can about their investigation. Read all the newspapers. It won’t be pleasant. Ask a lot of questions. See if you can locate this so-called nanny. Most of