Page 38 of Close Up

The light, early-morning coastal fog was retreating rapidly, giving way to the golden warmth of the California sun. On any other morning, Vivian thought, she would have enjoyed the road trip with its spectacular views of rugged cliffs, inviting beaches, and the vast expanse of the dazzling Pacific Ocean. This was the magical, mythical California; the real-life fantasy that had induced so many people to find the start of Route 66 in Chicago and follow it all the way to the edge of the country. This was the California where anything was possible, the place where the future was being invented.

But this wasn’t any ordinary morning. The beach cottage she had called home for nearly a year now lay in smoking ruins along with almost all of her photography equipment. She tried not to think about the expensive view camera that she used for portraits and her art work. It had been destroyed along with all of her props and lights. She had been lucky to save the sturdy Speed Graphic, her portfolio, and the contents of the lockbox.

And then there was her sweet little speedster—her veryexpensivelittle speedster. Her father had given it to her shortly before she announced her plans to become an art photographer. She could not afford to replace it. At best she might be able to buy a secondhand Ford or Hudson. She had to have a vehicle. She could not do her work without one.

“My future as an art photographer is in that lockbox,” she said. “It’s where I keep the negatives of my art photos.”

Nick downshifted for a curve. “Are you going to continue doing the newspaper work while you build your art career?”

“If necessary. But it’s stressful. I work freelance so I have to sleep with the radio tuned to the police band all night. And then, when I do get a salable shot, I have to develop it fast and get prints to editors who might buy them. That’s not the worst part, however.”

“What’s the worst part?”

“Keeping that side of my work a secret from the people who run the galleries and museums. They make the rules when it comes to art photography. As far as they’re concerned, an artist who dabbles in photojournalism is not a real artist.”

“So you’ve been living a double life.”

“Yep.” Vivian shrugged. “It’s always been hard to make a living as an artist.”

Nick smiled fleetingly. “I don’t think I’m ever going to forget the sight of you coming out of theCourierdarkroom wearing a leather apron over your nightgown.”

Luckily her nightgown was fashioned of cotton, not diaphanous silk or rayon, Vivian reflected. The gown, the trench coat, and slippers were the only clothes she had been able to salvage. She had removed the coat to develop the photos but she was wearing it again now. There was nothing else she could do until the stores opened.

Nick was in better shape because he had been wearing his trousers and a shirt when the firebomb exploded. In addition he’d had a spare pair of shoes in the trunk of his car. There was no getting around the fact that they both looked very much the worse for wear, however.

“The first thing we’re going to do when we get to Burning Cove is find a darkroom so that you can develop the rest of those pictures that you took tonight,” Nick said.

“I think the first item on our agenda had better be shopping for some clean, nonsmoky clothes.”

“Good point,” Nick said.

“Also, I need to telephone my sister and tell her about the fire. There’s a chance theCourierstory will go out on the wire because ofthe Dagger Killer connection. She may see it in a San Francisco paper later today. Thank goodness my parents are still out of the country. At least I don’t have to explain things to them.”

“What are you going to tell your sister?”

Vivian thought about that for moment. “For now, I’ll just say the house fire was an accident and that I’ve decided to take a few days off to recover from the shock. I’ll tell her I’m hoping to get some good landscape shots while I’m recuperating in Burning Cove.”

“You don’t want her to worry about you.”

“No. She’s got enough on her mind at the moment. There’s a lot going on.”

“Big society wedding?”

“Yes. It’s amazing how much work is involved. So many decisions to be made. Between you and me, I’m hoping she calls the whole thing off.”

Nick shot her a sharp glance. “Why?”

“She thinks Hamilton Merrick is Mr. Perfect but I’ve got my doubts.”

“Why?”

“On the surface Hamilton does appear to be Mr. Perfect but he is not ready to settle down. Frankly, I don’t think he’ll ever be ready to make a commitment and keep it. I’m pretty sure he’s being pressured by his family, just as I was pressured by mine. Just as Lyra is now feeling pressured.”

Nick was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his tone was oddly neutral.

“Got a Mr. Perfect of your own I should know about?” he asked.

“Nope.”

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