Blueberry Blues Read Free Page B

does this always happen to me?” I asked, pushing the paper away. “I can't look at it anymore.”
    "Bad luck,” she said. Then, “Wait. What's that?”
    "What?” I asked.
    "There's somebody by the trash can. There, in the right-hand corner. Isn't that where you found the Ipecac?”
    I squinted at the photo. I couldn't make out who it was, but there was definitely a familiar-looking bottle in the person's hand.
    "Did you get the photographer's number?” I asked Charlene.
    "No,” she said, licking a bit of chocolate off of a polished fingernail, “but I wish I had.”
    "Would you mind calling Gertrude and asking for it?”
    "A bit forward, don't you think?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.
    "When has that stopped you before?”
    She pursed her lips. “Good point,” she said, and reached for the phone.
    ***
    We arrived at Bar Harbor Photography Studio late the next morning, after stopping for apple turnovers at the much maligned Corner Bakery. Charlene had dressed up for the occasion in a chiffon-like blouse with a brilliant green sweater that made her highlighted hair glow.
    "Do you think he's single?” she asked as we stopped outside the small shop. Framed in the window were a number of landscape photographs, along with a few 'arty' shots in black and white. I preferred the landscapes to the images of rusty nails and broken-down doors, but to each her own.
    "I didn't see a ring,” I said. “Then again, I didn't look, either.”
    A bell jingled as we pushed through the door. The front room's white walls were covered in framed photographs, and a computer sat on an old wood desk in the corner. Irving appeared in a doorway that must have led to his studio in the back of the shop.
    "Charlene, right?” he asked, smiling appreciatively at my friend. “And Natalie,” he said, turning to me. “The innkeeper.”
    "Thanks so much for letting us come and see the photos,” I said.
    "I'm real sorry about what happened,” he said. “I was hoping it would be a good publicity piece for you. I did get some nice shots of the inn. If you'd like them, I can let you have them at a discount – considering the circumstances.”
    "That would be great,” I said.
    "Why don't you pull up a chair and take a look?” he asked, gesturing toward the computer. “I pulled up the album for you. You can just click through and write down the names of any photos you're interested in.”
    "Thanks,” I said, pulling up a chair in front of the computer.
    "I'll be in the back if you need me,” he said, and Charlene watched longingly as he disappeared again.
    "No ring,” she whispered, but I was already scanning the photos.
    They started out innocently enough, with islanders smiling in front of heaps of clams. I fast-forwarded to the photo of Gerald, hoping we could zero in on the person with the bottle in her hand.
    "This is the photo,” I said, tracking down the shot. We zoomed in, but neither of us could identify the person holding the bottle; his or her face was lost in the shadow of a tree.
    "Check the ones right before and right after,” Charlene suggested. I did, but there was no sign of the mystery person – or the bottle. I leaned back in my chair, defeated.
    "What now?” I asked.
    Charlene peered at the screen. “Look – he did a whole series of the pie table.” I clicked on one of the shots; it showed Charlene in her cow apron, a pie in each hand. “My God,” she said. “I had no idea I looked so enormous in that apron!”
    "It's a bad angle,” I said, flipping through the photos quickly, looking for something – anything – that might shed light on what had happened that day. I was almost to the end of the series when Charlene grabbed my shoulder.
    "Stop,” she said, pointing to the screen.
    I looked, and did a double-take. There, in the corner of the table, was the person with the bottle. Only in this shot, there was no shadow obscuring the face, and the bottle in plain view – right over one of the pies.
    "I can't