Who Killed the Pinup Queen? by Toni L. P. Kelner

Author:Toni L. P. Kelner [Kelner, Toni L. P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Murder, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Suspense, Reporters and reporting, Media Tie-In
ISBN: 9780425232057
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2010-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

It is easier to get an actor to be a cowboy than to get a cowboy to be an actor.

—JOHN FORD

TILDA eagerly grabbed each of the formerly missing pictures as the printer spat them out, but though she really couldn’t have said what she was expecting, the reality was depressingly anticlimactic. The photos looked pretty much like Bill Hawks’s other photos—they showed lots of bosom and had other photographers in the frame.

Okay, she had to be missing something. She picked up each picture and looked more closely. The first shot: pirate, maiden, and the profile of a dark-haired photographer whose face was mostly hidden by his own camera. The second: pirate, maiden, and two photographers. Hmm . . . One of them was the same guy, now with the camera held below his chin as he decided on his next shot. The third: pirate, maiden, and the dark-haired photographer again, this time holding the camera in one hand as he leaned against a table or sideboard. Fourth: pirate, maiden, dark-haired photographer. Tilda flipped through the rest of the newly acquired photos, verifying that each of them included the same photographer. Then she looked through the pictures she’d copied from Sandra’s computer. The dark-haired stranger didn’t appear in any of them.

That had to be it. The photographer was the missing piece. She grabbed the phone to call Cooper and crow.

“Cooper? It’s Tilda.”

“What do you need?”

“Nice to hear your voice, too.”

“Tilda, it’s Monday afternoon. I’ve got until five o’clock tomorrow to get next week’s issue copyedited.”

“Shit! I forgot. Call me tonight.”

“If I can. No guarantees. Bye.” He hung up.

So much for crowing. Tilda pulled out the best shot of the guy, and looked at him closely. He looked as if he were eighteen or nineteen, or a very young twenty or twenty-one. The plaid button-down shirt with gray slacks gave no clues to his identity, and he had no rings or any other identifying marks. His eyes were dark, and he was cute enough if you liked trim guys with 1950s-style crew cuts. So who the hell was he?

Tilda looked up Bill Hawks’s number, and called him, hoping she’d get him and not the overly possessive Jazz. Luck was with her.

“Mr. Hawks, this is Tilda Harper again. I’ve got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“I was looking at some of your photos, and noticed that there’s one particular photographer in the frame for several of them.” She described him and said, “I was wondering if you could tell me his name for the caption.”

“Hang on, let me find the pictures on my computer.”

Tilda waited impatiently as he pulled his thumb drive of contraband material out from its hiding place and plugged it into his computer. “Okay, I see the guy you’re talking about, but I have no idea who he was. That shoot had guys from three or four different clubs, and that guy wasn’t in my club. I don’t even know which one he was in.”

“Oh well,” Tilda said, as if it were of no particular importance.

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