The Phantom Photographer: Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 3 (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (2 page)

“I know. He could probably sell his work as a stringer to the dailies, the
Marin Independent
, the
San Francisco Chronicle
, the
Oakland Tribune
.”

“I asked him about that,” Rob said, giving a crooked smile. “He said it would feel too much like work. To be honest, I can’t really figure the guy out. I’m just glad I can afford his price.”

“You mean FREE!”

“Holly, you know me too well.”

Of course, Rob and Holly weren’t the only two individuals who tried to figure Michael out, a man who lived well with no obvious source of significant income.

Speculation about Michael was a popular topic from city hall to the chamber of commerce, from the Rotary Club to the Mill Valley Preservation League. Just about everyone had a theory about Michael, and most were convinced they were in possession of the one true story.
 

Very few were aware how widespread these theories and rumors were. Michael knew of several of them and made no effort to help separate fact from fiction. He took great pleasure in being the subject of gossip and played his own part in adding to the mystery. He often alluded to wonderful things he had accomplished in the past. Playing an essential role in the creation of software that was incorporated into what today is known as Instagram; or sharing in the development of components that supplied new breakthroughs in the advancement of electric car batteries; and many other myths. His admirers were uncomfortable pressing for specific details. It was as if they feared real answers might end the joy of their idle gossip and speculation. Undoubtedly, the truth would be far less interesting.
 

Michael, his countless admirers concluded, was simply an individual of considerable wealth, who happily ignored social conventions that others felt compelled to follow. In his triple X sweatpants, you might choose to think of him as poor, but when he calls for the check after completing two martinis and a three-course dinner at Bungalow 44, and perhaps offers to buy you a drink as well, he can only be considered eccentric.
 

“The poor, as a rule, don’t carry platinum American Express cards,” Ted Dondero explained to Ethel Marion, while they enjoyed a lunch of deli sandwiches prepared moments before at the take out counter of the Mill Valley Market, steps away from Ethel’s city hall office.

“I have no doubt that you’re right about that,” Ethel responded, while waving a pickle to help make her point, “but doesn’t it strike you as odd that Michael Marks has no obvious means of support?”

“Not really. Mill Valley, as well as much of Marin, has many people who could be considered, how would you say?”

“Unique?”

“Exactly, Ethel! No one knows the source of their wealth, but they live in nice homes and enjoy comfortable lifestyles. You could imagine they made their money moving illegal drugs, but in this part of the world, they’re most often estate babies who become a little more eccentric with each passing year.”

“Well, that’s not the town we were raised in,” Ethel said, as she shook her head, which for the last dozen years had been covered by an unruly mop of gray hair.
 

“No, it certainly is not. We’ve seen a lot of change over the past seven plus decades. My dad’s first job was as an engineer on the old electric train that ran between here and Sausalito.”

“And my dad,” Ethel added, “was a welder who settled here in the early forties when he worked building Liberty Ships for the war effort in the Pacific. That was when a house off Blithedale was selling for eighteen hundred dollars. Even in the fifties, when you and I were growing up, homes were about fifty-five hundred or less.”

“Imagine what our parents would think if they were alive today to see a two-bedroom one-bath home on Sycamore selling for a million dollars or more.”

“Ted, as far as Michael is concerned, the mayor and city council think he hung the moon. They’ve all requested, usually going through me, print copies of photographs he’s taken of them at one event or another.”

“The guy who owns the
Standard
, Rob Timmons, thinks Michael is the best of any photographers he’s ever had. Can’t blame him for being happy with Michael’s work; he gets a top-notch photographer for what I assume is nothing more than a thank you.”

“Well, that’s the same compensation you get, isn’t it, Ted?”

“True, but I don’t mind. The kids are grown and out, and Gracie passed four years ago. What am I supposed to do with myself? I’ve got a wonderful home with no mortgage, thank God. I’ve got my teacher’s pension, and during all those years working at Tam High as an English teacher, I fantasized about being a newspaper reporter. Granted, it was about covering stories that were bigger than planned renovations to Old Mill Elementary, or socialite receptions at the Mill Valley Art and Garden Club, but it’s fun and it keeps me active and sharp. We both have to think about staying sharp; of course, you’ve got all this,” Ted said, while looking around in amazement at Ethel’s office.
 

“I know it’s a mess.”

“I wouldn’t call it that. Let’s call it organized chaos.”

Remarkably, there were only a few people in all of Marin County who were able to answer such questions as: How long had Michael lived in Mill Valley? When did he first volunteer to take photos for various organizations, groups, clubs, and others? Why was he so generous with his time?

Their reluctance to ask hard questions was a vulnerability that Michael perceived the first time he arrived in Mill Valley. Here, he could enjoy a wonderful life, while pursuing the business that provided the real source of his wealth: tracking wealthy individuals behaving badly. It was true that most of his photos he generously gave away. But there were those who paid dearly to see that the images he captured forever stayed out of the public’s hands.
 

It was a very good life until the day it all came crashing down.

CHAPTER
THREE

Thirty years before that fateful day, Michael left college with little hope of employment, and a substantial amount of school debt; he concluded that he had not worked the system, but rather the system had worked him. From that time forward, he resolved to take a different approach to life. He would be respectful of his elders’ advice, but only he would choose the path he would travel.

The unreliability of adults first came to him at age fourteen, when his mother, Barbara, left him and his younger brother, Christopher, age twelve, and their hapless father, Caleb, for a charming and attractive man who made a good living selling corporate liability insurance. Michael’s father, an in-house accountant for a local shoe manufacturer in the family’s hometown of Fresno, California, made the mistake of considering this engaging gentleman, Fred Winters, a friend. To that end, he invited Fred, who spent a good part of his year on the road, to come to his home, meet his family, and have a, “good home cooked meal.” The salesman not only admired Michael’s mother’s meatloaf, but he greatly admired her as well. One night during one of his brief visits, Fred helped Barbara by drying dishes as she washed.

Suddenly, Fred positioned himself so close behind Barbara that she could feel the warmth of his body. For Fred, Barbara was an intoxicating blend of disciplined domesticity and unrealized desire. He could not resist the urge to put his lips perilously close to the back of her ear as he whispered, “Make an excuse that you need to go to the store and I’ll leave in my car and follow you.”
 

Fred was uncertain if this bold attempt would be greeted with a sudden slap, be ignored, or actually acted upon. Barbara had no reaction other than to give a slight shudder as she rolled her shoulders back to relieve the tension of her own suppressed desires, as she began to consider long-held but never realized possibilities. Carefully, she placed the last cleaned glass in the dish rack. Taking a kitchen towel, Barbara dried her hands and walked into the living room.
 

To Fred’s delight, he could hear Barbara from the dining room, where Caleb held court tutoring both his boys through their homework assignments, say, “There are a few items I need to pick up for the morning. I’m going to run out and get them before the grocery closes.”

Fred, without missing a beat, then added, “And I should be getting back to the motel and get some sleep. I have to drive up to Oakland in the morning. The life of a road warrior,” as he shook his head in false regret and gave an innocent smile.

Caleb, deep into ninth grade algebra, looked up, gave a far off smile, wished Fred a good night, and gave his wife a nod and a wave. With that, they were gone. As Barbara got to the door of her car, Fred was ready and desperate to take her right there, but simply said excitedly, “Follow me.”
 

For the short, three-mile drive on a dark country road, he frequently checked his mirror to see if her courage had held and she was indeed still behind him. She was and she followed him right to the door of his bungalow at the Wonderland Motel, where the two of them spent nearly the entire night pleasuring one another. Before leaving town early the next morning, she drove by the house, and inside the screen door, she placed a remarkable twelve-word note: “Caleb, I am leaving you. Tell the boys I love them, Barbara.”

In the following months, Fred, more out of caution than guilt, avoided Caleb, even though it put his company’s account in jeopardy. He continued his romantic pursuit of Barbara, who, for the time being, lived an independent life, sharing a two-bedroom apartment in the California Central Valley town of Lodi, just a forty-five-minute drive south of Sacramento, but a comfortable two and a half hours north of Fresno.
 

Not long after, when Fred took a position with a new firm, selling the same insurance products as before, Barbara followed him to his new home in Novato, in the northern end of Marin County. After what she called, “careful thought,” she had made her decision to leave her husband and two sons with little more than a file box of recipes and her best wishes for their future happiness.
 

Reasoning that she could not forgive Caleb if the situation had been reversed, Barbara avoided their anger for many years by keeping her contact with the family to a minimum. She sent the boys holiday and birthday cards with small checks enclosed with her suggestion that they “buy something fun;” other than that, there was nothing else.