Page 96 of Close Up

“No, he used you as an accomplice to his own crazy murders. You had the connections he needed to get into the homes of his chosencelebrity victims.” Vivian turned to face her. “I suppose it was easy to convince him to go after me.”

“He was thrilled at the thought of killing you. I admit he was becoming very unstable there at the end. I knew the time had come to get rid of him but I thought the least he could do was remove you first.”

“You must have panicked all over again when you found out he had not only failed, he had also managed to get himself arrested.”

“That night was the worst night of my life,” Fenella said grimly. “I thought my only hope was to disappear. I packed a bag and drove to a hotel in L.A. I checked in under another name. I kept the radio on all night. At dawn I heard that Morris had been struck by a hit-and-run driver while attempting to escape. The case was closed. I could hardly believe my good luck.”

“You’re going to botch the job of killing me, you know. You lack the skills needed to cover your tracks.”

“Shut up.”

“Look at how you bungled the business of murdering Toby Flint. You can’t even figure out how to get rid of your damaged car.”

“You were the reason everything went wrong,” Fenella shrieked. “You deserve to pay.”

“You’ve been jealous of me from the first moment you viewed my pictures.”

“That’s a lie. You’re not a real artist. You’re a fraud.”

Vivian smiled. “You know I’m good, a lot better than you ever were, and what’s more, I’m working in the modern style. You’re the one who started the rumors about my crime scene photography, aren’t you?”

“I couldn’t let the other galleries hang your pictures. The only way to stop them was to make it clear that you were just a scandal sheet reporter with a camera.”

“I’m assuming it was Toby Flint who told you about that side of my career.”

“He came to me for money one day shortly after you’d turned himdown. He was still mad at you. He said something about how much he’d done for you and now you wouldn’t even give him a small loan.”

“Why would Toby think you would give him money? How well did you two know each other?”

“We were lovers once a long time ago. We both had dreams of becoming true artists with our cameras. Toby actually sold a couple of pictures in good galleries. But in the end his gambling addiction destroyed him.”

“You never made it as an artist, either. That’s why you ended up running a gallery, isn’t it?”

“The damned modernists have ruined photography. The so-called experts don’t appreciate true art. Curators and galleries wouldn’t even look at my work.”

“Hey, trust me, I know the feeling.” Vivian glanced at the door at the end of the gallery. “Is that your darkroom?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Yes, I mind. This has gone far enough. Time for you to stage your dramatic exit.”

“How do you plan to manage that?”

“Simple. There’s going to be another fire. My gallery this time. When they find your body in the ashes, no one will notice the bullet hole.”

Fenella raised the pistol.

Vivian averted her eyes, aimed, and triggered the flash of her camera in a single, practiced move.

The magnesium filament flared, a brilliant, dazzling, white-hot explosion of light in the shadowed room. For a critical few seconds Fenella was effectively blinded.

Vivian threw herself toward the nearest painting on the wall, the framed image of the Clara Carstairs murder scene. She was pretty sure the very last thing Fenella would do was shoot holes in her elaborately manipulated work of art.

Fenella pulled the trigger of the gun once and then a second time. But she was firing blind, the gun aimed vaguely in the direction of where Vivian had been standing a few seconds earlier. Both shots struck the back wall.

Fenella paused, blinking furiously in an effort to clear her vision. She started to turn toward the wall of paintings.

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