When Vivian studied her subject through the viewfinder she saw an unconventional woman infused with an intense sensuality and a taste for adventure. The final picture would violate all the traditional rules of a formal portrait but she was sure the client would be thrilled.
“I can’t wait to see it,” Anna said. “You made me feel like Amelia Earhart.”
Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, had been lost at sea several months earlier. The search for the wreckage of Earhart’s plane had been officially called off but hints that she and Noonan had survived continued to surface in the press. The public’s interest showed no signs of waning. Dead or alive, it was clear the daring lady pilot was on her way to becoming a legend.
Anna unwrapped the borrowed scarf and handed it to Vivian. “It will be interesting to see how Jeremy reacts to the portrait.”
“Jeremy?”
Anna grimaced. “Jeremy McKinnon, the man I’m supposed to marry. He’s a banker. Swears he’s madly in love with me. Maybe after he sees me in the aviator jacket he’ll have second thoughts.”
“You’re hoping Jeremy will take one look at your portrait and decide you’re not the woman he wants for a wife?”
“It will be easier if he’s the one who changes his mind,” Anna said. “I’d rather not be the one to do it this time.”
“This time?”
“I’ve already wriggled out of two engagements. I’m afraid my family is starting to see a pattern. To be honest, Miss Brazier, I find the thought of marrying Jeremy or anyone else very depressing.”
Vivian smiled. “I understand. Don’t worry. When Jeremy sees this portrait, I can promise you that he will realize that if he goes through with the marriage he will have to deal with a very modern woman.”
“That should do it,” Anna said cheerfully. “Between you and me, I’m certain that Jeremy is terrified of modern women.”
Vivian ushered her outside and watched her drive off in a racy little convertible. When the car disappeared around the corner she closed the door and, after a moment’s hesitation, locked it.
It had been two days since the encounter with Morris Deverell in the Penfield Gallery but she was still feeling deeply uneasy. The fact that there had been no arrest in the Dagger Killer murders in spite of Detective Archer’s optimism did nothing to calm her nerves.
She went back into the studio, took the film holder out of the camera, and hurried into the darkroom. She could not wait to see the results of the portrait. Anna Frampton was an important client who moved in fashionable circles. If she was pleased with the finished picture there would be referrals.
Vivian filled the trays with the chemicals and the stop bath, closed the door, pulled the black curtain around the workbench, and turned off the lamp. Working in the dark, using only her sense of touch, she started to open the holder to remove the film.
A draft of air under the door made her stop abruptly. Instinctively she closed the holder while she tried to understand what had just iced her nerves. The front door was locked. So was the kitchen door. But she had left some windows open. The studio would have been unbearably hot otherwise; the client would have been damp with perspiration halfway through the sitting.
I should have closed and locked the windows.
This was ridiculous. She was overreacting.
She stood very still, listening intently. She thought she heard a floorboard squeak. The sense that she was no longer alone in the house built rapidly until it became overpowering. She could hardly breathe. The urge to run, to hide, to escape surged through her. She was trapped in the darkroom. She had to get out. Now.
She put down the holder and reached for the edge of the heavy curtain.
The door of the darkroom crashed open just as she started to pull the thick fabric aside. A man loomed in the entrance, silhouetted against the daylight streaming through the windows of the kitchen behind him.
Morris Deverell had a dagger in one hand. She didn’t need to employ her inner eye to sense the waves of sick excitement emanating from him. He smiled.
“How did you figure it out?” he said.
He did not wait for an answer. He lunged forward, the point of the dagger aimed at her midsection.
A strange sense of intense focus flashed through her. Time slowed. It was as if she was observing the scene through the lens of a camera.
She yanked the blackout curtain back into place just as Morris rushed toward her.
He yelped in fury when the point of the dagger ripped through the fabric. For a few seconds he struggled to free the blade even as he used his free hand to haul the curtain aside.
Vivian was waiting, the tray of developer in her hands. She hurled the strong chemicals straight into his face. Morris grunted and reared back, instinctively raising his free hand in a belated attempt to protect his eyes. She followed up with the tray of fixer.
“You crazy bitch,” Morris roared. He wiped frantically at his eyes. “You’re a dead woman. Do you understand? You’redead.”
