Read Online A Photographic Death by Judi Culbertson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judi Culbertson
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all you have to find out who sent you that note, and why.”
“I’d thought about going to Stratford when it came.” I’d also wondered how I was going to pay for a plane ticket at premium prices, and accommodations. My finances were nearly on empty and would only sink further as revenue from my book business decreased while I was away. Maxing out my credit cards wouldn’t be that hard.
The boardwalk Gypsy’s prophecy came back to me then. I was surrounded by people with money and didn’t have any myself. Ben and Patience, Marty Campagna, my friend Bianca Erikson. Even Colin had some reserves. Why not me? Had the Gypsy’s words become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Why couldn’t I have found my passion in the stock market?
“Have you made plans yet?”
I sighed and told him the truth. “Being a bookseller is like being a poet. Long in satisfaction, but lacking in cash. I’ll find a way to pay for it though.”
His blue eyes in his rosy, white-bearded face were sympathetic. “Well, I’ll give you fifteen thousand dollars. No strings.”
“You can’t, Bruce, you’re Scottish.” I meant it as a joke, which I assumed his offer was.
He laughed. “I’m serious. I live modestly and I have more money than I know what to do with. Who do I have to leave it to? Besides needy poets. I might as well do something interesting with the money while I’m alive.”
“I can’t take it.”
“I said, no strings. You don’t even have to invite me over for a down-home meal.” There had been a brief time last summer when Bruce had become amorous, thinking we would make an engaging pair. I had been briefly tempted at dinner one night, imagining us as an artistic couple floating in a gondola down the Grand Canal. Me in white organza, Bruce in his straw boater. We were both relieved when it didn’t happen.
I knew I should refuse the money. But I couldn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
“I HAVE TO meet someone at Staller. I’ll walk you over with you, but I don’t know anything about getting into the lab. I have a feeling it’s just for faculty and students.”
“That’s okay. I know where it is. I’ll be fine.” But I was disappointed; I’d imagined Bruce as so powerful, so all-knowing, that he could say the magic password and get me into the darkroom. If I couldn’t get in to develop the film myself, I would have to find a specialist somewhere. The film was too old and too important to mail it to some Internet site and hope for the best.
As it turned out, Bruce ran into a colleague outside the Staller Center for the Arts and I went on into the plain concrete building. I saw by the directory that the darkroom was on the fourth floor, and the photography department on the level below. I went to those offices first and found one that was dark, its door locked. The name on the placard outside said “Annalisa Merck.”
When I reached the brighter, open area, a secretary was just arriving. “Oh—you startled me!”
“Sorry. Is Ms. Merck in yet?”
The secretary, younger than I was, consulted a schedule. “She has a studio class at noon. You could try a little before twelve.”
That gave me three hours. Maybe.
Feeling the way I had when I was in junior high about to steal a lipstick from Rexall Drugs, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, and worked my way through the pale green cinder-block corridor. What was I doing ? If I got caught sneaking into a darkroom . . . If they found out I was Colin Fitzhugh’s wife . . .
Before I reached the reception area, I came to a door that I was sure led into the darkroom. I moved to it and tried the knob. Locked . But of course it would be. They couldn’t risk people opening the door by mistake and spewing light everywhere.
Like riding a bicycle, darkroom techniques are second nature once you’ve learned them. I was sure that the past twenty years had brought new techniques, new chemicals that could ruin fragile celluloid, but how hard could developing this
“I’d thought about going to Stratford when it came.” I’d also wondered how I was going to pay for a plane ticket at premium prices, and accommodations. My finances were nearly on empty and would only sink further as revenue from my book business decreased while I was away. Maxing out my credit cards wouldn’t be that hard.
The boardwalk Gypsy’s prophecy came back to me then. I was surrounded by people with money and didn’t have any myself. Ben and Patience, Marty Campagna, my friend Bianca Erikson. Even Colin had some reserves. Why not me? Had the Gypsy’s words become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Why couldn’t I have found my passion in the stock market?
“Have you made plans yet?”
I sighed and told him the truth. “Being a bookseller is like being a poet. Long in satisfaction, but lacking in cash. I’ll find a way to pay for it though.”
His blue eyes in his rosy, white-bearded face were sympathetic. “Well, I’ll give you fifteen thousand dollars. No strings.”
“You can’t, Bruce, you’re Scottish.” I meant it as a joke, which I assumed his offer was.
He laughed. “I’m serious. I live modestly and I have more money than I know what to do with. Who do I have to leave it to? Besides needy poets. I might as well do something interesting with the money while I’m alive.”
“I can’t take it.”
“I said, no strings. You don’t even have to invite me over for a down-home meal.” There had been a brief time last summer when Bruce had become amorous, thinking we would make an engaging pair. I had been briefly tempted at dinner one night, imagining us as an artistic couple floating in a gondola down the Grand Canal. Me in white organza, Bruce in his straw boater. We were both relieved when it didn’t happen.
I knew I should refuse the money. But I couldn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
“I HAVE TO meet someone at Staller. I’ll walk you over with you, but I don’t know anything about getting into the lab. I have a feeling it’s just for faculty and students.”
“That’s okay. I know where it is. I’ll be fine.” But I was disappointed; I’d imagined Bruce as so powerful, so all-knowing, that he could say the magic password and get me into the darkroom. If I couldn’t get in to develop the film myself, I would have to find a specialist somewhere. The film was too old and too important to mail it to some Internet site and hope for the best.
As it turned out, Bruce ran into a colleague outside the Staller Center for the Arts and I went on into the plain concrete building. I saw by the directory that the darkroom was on the fourth floor, and the photography department on the level below. I went to those offices first and found one that was dark, its door locked. The name on the placard outside said “Annalisa Merck.”
When I reached the brighter, open area, a secretary was just arriving. “Oh—you startled me!”
“Sorry. Is Ms. Merck in yet?”
The secretary, younger than I was, consulted a schedule. “She has a studio class at noon. You could try a little before twelve.”
That gave me three hours. Maybe.
Feeling the way I had when I was in junior high about to steal a lipstick from Rexall Drugs, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, and worked my way through the pale green cinder-block corridor. What was I doing ? If I got caught sneaking into a darkroom . . . If they found out I was Colin Fitzhugh’s wife . . .
Before I reached the reception area, I came to a door that I was sure led into the darkroom. I moved to it and tried the knob. Locked . But of course it would be. They couldn’t risk people opening the door by mistake and spewing light everywhere.
Like riding a bicycle, darkroom techniques are second nature once you’ve learned them. I was sure that the past twenty years had brought new techniques, new chemicals that could ruin fragile celluloid, but how hard could developing this
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