Karen Harper - Chasing Shadows

Her spacious room with a balcony overlooked the sparkling bay crowded with boats. She unpacked a bit and took a fast nap. She’d done next to nothing yet, but she felt tired. She knew it was her emotions that needed calming as much as her body. For starters, merely being with someone as compelling and attractive as Nick was a challenge, let alone the task she was facing. She popped a dark chocolate ganache as if it were a pill.

She took a lightning-fast shower, changed her clothes and spread her notes out on the king-sized bed. She’d written four pages of them on her lap as Nick had described the people he wanted her to interview. And first thing in the morning, they were going to Shadowlawn to meet Jasmine.

She called Darcy’s number and talked to Lexi, telling her there were tourist trolleys here just like the ones in Naples they’d gone on last summer. Lexi was going to play miniature golf and eat out with Jace later that evening, but they hadn’t seen him yet today. Then Claire hurried downstairs to meet Nick.

He was waiting for her in the lobby, still on the phone, but he got off as she approached. “Hey,” he said, “don’t want to rush things for you, but Jasmine says Winston Jackson’s art photography shop just down St. George Street is hosting a series of St. Johns River pictures, including some of Shadowlawn. You could see them, meet with him informally before setting up an interview. It’s a short walk from here, but I’m starving, so how about we grab something on the way?”

“Sounds good. I’d like to schedule an interview with him. He may be more objective than the two men who worked for Francine, and it’s best to start with a neutral witness. I know he was a sort of advisor to her about the mansion, but he wasn’t on her payroll. On checking out Winston Jackson and on the food, you read my mind.”

He did seem to do that sometimes. Which, considering how attracted she felt to him, was not necessarily good in this still awkward, strictly business partnership.

* * *

“You mean, you aren’t coming in?” Claire asked Nick as they approached the Jackson Photographic Art Shop after grabbing salads and pizza at a picturesque place called Pizzalley’s.

“I might set off alarms. You can say you’re working on Jasmine’s behalf to get an interview without a lawyer present. But you can say I’ve retained you if he starts asking questions. I’ll sit on that bench over there and get caught up on phone calls.”

“That’s fine,” she told him. “Thanks for not hovering. You’re right that I need to do this myself, with you and Heck assisting when needed. I won’t report everything I’m thinking to you as I work on this. I need objectivity for my report to mean much. Enjoy the sun and the tourist parade.”

The first of two large, framed photos in the window of the shop was of the famous Spanish fort Castillo de San Marcos that still guarded the waterfront here. Each detail of shade and sun, each crevice on the parapet of the solid stone blocks—the photo was a work of art with the blue-green bay, crystal sky and banks of clouds behind it.

Before she went in, she took off her sunglasses and studied the other large, framed photograph labeled simply, St. Johns River Scene. It seemed panoramic with its depth and details. The silvery Spanish moss drooping from the gnarled cypress trees hanging over the curve of riverbank, the patterns of mottled shade on the gray-brown water. She could almost feel and smell the place. There was something otherworldly about it that gave her the shivers.

A man’s voice behind her said, “Immense beauty and primeval rot. Taken last month yet timeless.”

She turned to face a man her height. His hair was shoulder-length and mussed, and he wore dark-rimmed glasses and a flower-patterned shirt that looked Hawaiian.

“Lots more like that inside,” he said. “I’m hosting a juried show, but I never reward my own work.”

“You are Winston Jackson.”

“Guilty. Win Jackson, photographer, collector, movie buff, local historian. And you are a lady with a pink sling that clashes with your stunning Titian hair.”

She hooked her sunglasses over the sling and extended her hand. Bright! Talented! Eccentric! were the words that buzzed in her brain to describe him. He wore the sort of glasses that darkened in the sun because here, under the awning, they were lightening to show intense brown eyes. His mouth was full, his nose a bit crooked, but he emanated intelligence, like a slightly mussed professor.

“I’m Claire Britten. I’ve been retained to gather information about the loss of Francine Montgomery in the hope of helping settle certain legal issues for her daughter, Jasmine. I’ve been told you knew—and know—them both, and I’d be grateful if you could spare me time for an interview, not today, but soon, perhaps tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

He held her hand a bit too long. His grip was steady. Were long, thin fingers part of being an artist? He gave her a little courtly bow from the waist.

“Of course,” he said, releasing her hand. “Anything to help Jasmine, the estate and the unique treasure she’s now been entrusted with. Have you seen Shadowlawn yet?”

“No, I haven’t. Soon.”

“Well, at least let me introduce her, that is, the mansion in some of my work inside. Shadowlawn’s ambience and provenance are definitely feminine. Several others are viewing the photographs, and I only stepped out for a moment, when I realized they weren’t going to buy. Even artists must be practical, you know.”

They went in, and he introduced her to his assistant, Len, a young African-American man who was cleaning what appeared to be a large antique camera with accordion folds behind the lens. Three people perused the hanging works, and “Please call me Win, not Winston,” escorted her to the back of the large display area with two huge photographs of the most magnificent white-pillared, two-story plantation house she had ever seen. It looked as if she could walk from under the gnarled live oaks framing the photo, push aside the Spanish moss and stride right up the velvet green grass into the double doors.

“Gone with the Wind revisited,” she whispered, awed at the stunning photograph.

“Better than Tara,” he insisted. “This place is real. And endangered. I’ll do whatever I can to help Jasmine save it. And save herself.”

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