The Phantom Photographer: Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 3 (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (12 page)

With a plan for hiking and driving around Mill Valley, Michael headed out early the next day. Later that afternoon, he planned to go east into Tiburon and Belvedere, but to his surprise, he filled his entire day with the sights, sounds, and scents of Mill Valley.

For Michael, all of Mill Valley was love at first sight. He chastised himself for allowing so much time living in Marin to pass without getting to know this wonderful town that was only thirty minutes from his front door without traffic.
 

He began by walking through the grove of redwoods which graces Old Mill Park. Next to Old Mill Creek, he stood on the bones of what replaced the old saw mill where John Reed built a thriving business cutting wood mostly for use in San Francisco’s Presidio, Mexico’s military outpost. All of what is today known as Mill Valley, was deeded to Reed by the Mexican appointed governor. The property was designated Rancho Corte Madera, which translates as, Ranch of Cutting Wood. Much of early San Francisco was built with the wood that came from Reed’s ranch.
 

The land grant itself, like the one given to another European settler, John Richardson, known as Rancho Saucelito, covered a very large swath of land. In Reed’s case the land given to him in 1834 encompassed all of what is today known as the towns of Mill Valley, Corte Madera, and Larkspur from their eastern edge near San Francisco Bay all the way west to the Pacific.

Not far from the site of the old mill, Michael walked over an aging wooden bridge and headed along the narrow two-lane road called Cascade Drive. As Michael would later learn, so many of Mill Valley’s roads, which now are trafficked by cars, have never been widened since the time they were established to accommodate horses and carriages, not to mention the pressing needs of a growing population. It’s a fact that makes driving through the town’s winding hills both charming and challenging. All one has is hope that all drivers will exercise the same degree of caution around blind curves and steep shoulders that often leave little room for error.

Nevertheless, for hikers and bikers, the patch quilt of drives, trails, avenues, and lanes make for an endless variety of enchanting experiences. Michael, with his camera hanging around his neck and a photo equipment bag strapped to his shoulder, stopped repeatedly along Cascade Drive and took photos while walking up a steep street called Lovell Avenue. Relatively few homes dotted this heavily wooded area, and nearly all sat on generously proportioned lots.

The air was fresh and cool, but not cold. The redwoods kept the narrow roads and lanes well shaded. In certain spots, where bits of dust and debris that redwoods shed constantly floated to the ground, they were illuminated by rays of sun, causing them to sparkle like fairies coming out of a bright blue sky.
 

Then at one of the many turns on Lovell, Michael came upon an open vista from where he could see homes in every direction, mostly sited along embankments heading down the hillsides of Cascade Canyon.
 

What took the breath away of those athletic and ambitious enough to discover this scenic spot was the natural beauty of its surroundings. Michael was inspired, however, by a very different attribute. As he gazed through his heavily wooded surroundings, he was inspired by a bird’s eye view of dozens of homes, many of which had outside decks, some of which were adorned with gardens, pools, and gazebos. Looking behind him, he could see another row of homes going up the hill and the markings of what had to be another road circling this higher space as well.
 

The potential for spying, particularly from inside a car slipping into one of the many dugouts that allowed drivers in other cars to pass, was likely endless. Perhaps, Michael thought excitedly, he had found a phantom photographer’s paradise.
 

Less than thirty minutes from leaving the spot Michael would always think of as “Point Inspiration,” he had completed the loop, turning off of Lovell onto Elma Street, which runs along Old Mill Elementary School, which led to the front door of the Mill Valley Library, on the western edge of Old Mill Park.
 

It was nearly two o’clock, well past his normal lunchtime, but on this one day, Michael gave his appetite no thought. The library, which was built under a stand of new growth redwoods, had the feel of an old mountain lodge, complete with a huge fireplace in the center of its reading room.

On the library’s lower level, Michael was directed to the room set aside for the Mill Valley Historical Society, and a kind woman with soft blue eyes and a gentle smile led him to a collection of large ancient ledger books that held the plat maps for the entire town. It was the gold mine he suspected he had found.
 

The entire town was built around a series of pocket canyons, and its streets, like the legs of a spider, wandered up and down this land that he reasoned must have been formed by a retreating glacier at some distant point in the past. It was as if God took a mound of clay and squeezed his fingers down upon it. What he had stumbled upon was a blessed spot with an endless bounty of opportunities.
 

Having written down the numerous names of roads that looked promising, Michael returned to his car and began to explore a complex network of picture perfect opportunities that by foot would take him two days or more to cover. He went up Summit Avenue and discovered how perfectly it looked down on Tamalpais Avenue and then Myrtle Avenue; Summit also looked down on Ralston which, in turn, looked out on Marguerite, which offered wonderful views of the backs of homes on Magee. In another part of town, Rose looked down on Hazel, which offered perfect views of Monte Vista.
 

It was past six when Michael realized for the first time that in his excitement he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He went to the center of town, known as the Depot, once the terminus point for the old Northwestern Railway’s electric train service that carried passengers down to Sausalito for their ferry trip to San Francisco. The electric trains lost their business soon after the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge. All that was left now was a spacious tree-shaded town square where young parents pushed children in strollers, and others played chess or gathered at one of the three coffee shops adjacent to the Depot.

Michael found an old Italian restaurant with dark wood tables and black barrel-shaped chairs called D’Angelo. There, he feasted on his two favorites, pasta and pizza, and treated himself to two glasses of burgundy wine.
 

On his drive back home, Michael’s mind was racing with thoughts of new possibilities. Novato was devoid of opportunities compared to Mill Valley. In his chosen profession, nothing was more valuable than the ability to hide in plain sight. Michael was certain that he had found his perfect home. Knowing the why and
 
how, the only remaining questions were the when, where, and who.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

The excitement that Michael felt after his discovery of Mill Valley was tempered in the following week by the jarring realization that leaving Novato would cause certain inevitable complications.

His living space, while happily affordable, was the least of his issues. More daunting was the job he had grown accustomed to and the darkroom always at his disposal. Of course, he could keep the job. After all, living in Mill Valley, he would be going against rush hour traffic, heading north in the morning and south in the evening. Nevertheless, he was not pleased with the idea of living and working in two distinctly different parts of Marin.

If he was right, and Mill Valley was indeed a gold mine just waiting for his inventive mind and talented eye to capture, then certainly there would be far more money to be made in getting close and personal with his soon-to-be-neighbors, even if they had no idea of how Michael defined close and personal. That meant becoming part of the community and following the same pattern that had worked so well for him in Novato. Get a retail job, hopefully with a camera shop, and become active in the town’s social and business organizations.
 

Like his father, ever cautious about change, Michael decided on a half-step. He concocted a story for Milton that he had met a girl in Mill Valley who had invited him to move into her one-bedroom rental, but he added quickly, “I don’t think there is any need to change my hours. I can easily leave home in time to open the store before ten every morning. I’ll just have to get going a little earlier to do that.”

“That’s fine, Michael; I’m glad you met someone you like. I didn’t even know you were dating.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say it’s been a whirlwind relationship.”

“Well, I appreciate your loyalty, and I appreciate your wanting to stay, but there are several camera stores between Mill Valley and here, and if you ever decide to make a change, I won’t be happy for my shop, but I’ll be happy for you.”

Milton’s reaction only reinforced what Michael always believed; Cook was a kind and thoughtful man.
 

One day, Michael had no doubt, he would certainly leave the nest Milton had made for him, but not right now. In fact, not until he had proven his strong suspicion that there was a wealth of new “clients” waiting for him in Mill Valley.

The following Sunday, resolved to keep his job, but find a new home in Mill Valley, Michael drove down to Mill Valley and went to see several rentals he had circled from classified ads in the
Marin Independent Journal
. After a couple of disappointments, he headed up Hazel Avenue to a possible rental he was most interested in, principally because it sat on one of those view corridors that so fascinated him. In some respects, it was similar in appearance to his current residence in Novato, but in other ways notably different. To begin with, it was in a heavily wooded area, and below, above, and across one of the many turns in Cascade Canyon, he could see numerous other homes when gazing up and down the hillside.
 

The entire house clung precariously to its own side of the hill. It was not a good choice for anyone who was easily unnerved by heights, and this home, sitting upon a set of wooden trestles, certainly would have raised the concerns of those ever fearful of the next earthquake. But for Michael, it was exactly the location he had dreamed of during the past week. The one-bedroom unit had an ample kitchen with older but seemingly reliable appliances. It had a comfortable living room and a small bedroom with an adjacent bathroom. Best of all, there was a porch that received dappled sunlight directly overhead in the spring and summer, and was mostly hidden in deep shadows during late fall and winter. It was probably snug for two people, but ideal for Michael’s purposes. Best of all, his porch was out of the sightline of the main house.

His only remaining doubt was the home’s owner, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. She was certainly pleasant, but having mentioned that she was widowed, and living alone, would she be coming by uninvited and observing his activities a little too closely?
 

The only way to learn more was to engage her in conversation, as he so often did when selling equipment to camera enthusiasts. “Talk them up, find out their needs and interests,” Milton had told him frequently in his first months at the camera shop.