Page 51 of Capturing You
“Have you met him?” Brooklynn asked. “He is your relative, after all.”
“After the murders, he disappeared. Our grandmother sent him away. She changed his name. She won’t tell anyone where he is, not even me.”
Brooklynn started to say something, then must’ve thought better of it.
She didn’t believe him, that was clear. But he wasn’t going to confirm her suspicions.
“I’ve been given permission to go through the family’s things,” he said. “You haven’t. If I can’t trust you?—”
“I found something you might find interesting.”
“I doubt there are any clues in the family photo albums.”
She set the top one aside and picked up the one she’d been perusing when he walked in.
These weren’t family photos, he realized. In fact, he’d never seen this album before.
“The picture on the bookshelf made me curious,” she said, turning page after page.
As she flipped through the pages, he saw mostly adults, some posed, some caught mid-conversation. They were at events—dinners, meetings. Some showed outdoor gatherings downtown or at the small town common.
Her remark registered, and he looked at the photo on the bookshelf that she’d indicated earlier. It was a posed shot of his parents, probably taken a few years before their deaths. It had a brownish background, the kind one would find in a studio. “What’s special about that picture?”
“The photographer. Arthur Whitmore.”
Forbes lifted the frame and peered at the tiny gold logo in the bottom corner.AW Photography.
“He was my mentor.” Brooklynn pointed to a photograph in the album of a bunch of men and women posed shoulder to shoulder in two rows. There was a line of windows on one side of the room. Ornate crown moldings told him this wasn’t some bland meeting room.
“A lot of the people in these pictures are locals who’ve been in Shadow Cove as long as I can remember. This”—she tapped one of the faces—“is your…is Charles. Your uncle, I guess.” She flicked her gaze to Forbes, but he didn’t reply. “I recognize him from the other album. Thought you might want to know some of his acquaintances.”
Forbes had already spotted his father. He leaned closer to the book, but he didn’t recognize a single person in the photograph. “Who are they?”
Had Brooklynn come across a real lead?
Had one of the people in that photo been involved in the smuggling scheme? Had one of them been behind his family’s murders?
Brooklynn tapped a face in the back row, a tall middle-aged man with a square chin and a receding hairline. “That’s Graham Porter. He owns the Wadsworth Inn, that big beachside hotel south of downtown.”
Forbes remembered seeing the place. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow had been born in Portland, which explained the name.
“How long has he owned it?”
“As long as I can remember.”
The name was familiar. “Didn’t he need you for something yesterday?”
“I called him back this morning. We’re on the Old Home Days committee together.”
“Did he ask where you were? Was he overly curious?”
She considered the question, then shrugged. “He did ask where I was, but I don’t think he really cared about the answer. His booth will sell lobster rolls, and so will Logan’s—he owns Webb’s Harborside. Graham wanted me to tell Logan he’d have to offer something else.” She shook her head. “As if everyone should bend to Graham’s will.”
“Was he surprised that you refused?”
“Maybe? I can’t believe he even asked. Since Logan signed up before he did, I suggested the Wadsworth could sell something else.”
Maybe Graham was more interested in Brooklynn’s location than he’d let on. Maybe the lobster roll situation was an excuse to try to figure out where she was. “Go on.”
