Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

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Alex Lightwood Mystery Series

You can read the first few chapters on the blog.

Excerpt from One Click in the Grave

Book 2 in the Alex Lightwood Cozy Mystery Series

Chapter 1

This was supposed to be an easy shoot. One to ease me into my new business adventure. The subjects were slow moving and therefor easy to capture in my sights. A couple hours tops, the client had promised and offered a generous fee for the few shots this would take. In and out. Easy, breezy. Payment upon completion.

What they forgot to take into account was my grandmother.

“Nana K? Do you need those glasses to see?” I asked her. She was wearing star-shaped, rainbow-colored glasses which were ridiculous in their own right, but the lenses were also causing a nasty glare in camera.

“No. But they do enhance the outfit. I’m not losing them,” she answered, slamming her thin lips into a pout.

Her “outfit” consisted of a form-fitting rainbow unitard with interspersed sequins, a plethora of brightly colored plastic necklaces and bangles, and chunky bedazzled wedges that added a few inches to her five-foot-nothing frame. She colored the tips of her spiky white hair to match the rainbow pattern. For my mother’s sake, I hoped it wasn’t permanent.

“You can keep the glasses, but I’m popping the lenses out. They’re causing a glare I’m not in the mood to edit out in post-processing,” I said, snatching the glasses from her face before she could protest and popping the plastic lenses into my hand.

“You break ‘em, you bought ‘em,” my loving grandmother said.

“They’ll be fine.” I handed her back the frames. “Now, what did you have in mind for the portrait?”

Normally, I would be the one directing the subject of a photo shoot. Or gently nudging, as I prefer to think of it. However, with my spirited 80-going-on-18-year-old grandmother, I knew she’d want to call the shots. Literally.

The other members of the Aged Pine Retirement Community had all chosen unassuming activities to engage in for the annual yearbook photo shoot. Beatrice Cornwallace showed me her knitting. Ethel Mayburn laid out a hand of bridge. Harold Martingale met me at the little fishing pond on the property. My grandmother, on the other hand, looked like she was about to strap on some roller skates and join a derby.

As I waited for her reply, I held my breath and thought about what lead me to this exact place. If you had asked me a few months ago if I’d still be in Piney Ridge, the teeny-tiny town in teeny-tiny Maryland that I left right after graduation, I’d have laughed in your face. If not for a douche canoe of an ex-boyfriend who ruined both my career and my personal life by blacklisting me from the photojournalist community, I’d still be living in New York. Or off on a shoot in an exotic locale. His lies and cheating prompted me to tuck tail and return to my childhood hometown to try to piece my life back together.

What I thought would only take a few weeks—surely the industry would realize they made a terrible mistake and bet me to return—had now turned into several months. And although I’d never admit it to my conniving ex or my ambitious eighteen-year-old self, I didn’t actually mind it.

“Think we could find a cigar?” Nana K asked, pulling my attention away from thinking about a name for my new photography business. Since the first responder calendar shoot, residents had been tentatively asking when I was going into business so they could officially hire me for their events. Not a bad problem to have since my photojournalism income was now nil, and I had a needy betta fish to support.

“A cigar? You don’t even smoke!” I said.

She shrugged a bony shoulder. “Yeah, but these old biddies don’t know that. I like to give them a shock. Keeps them alive.”

“Or you could give them a heart attack.”

“When it’s their time, it’s their time.” She noticed my gaping expression. “Oh, don’t be such a prude, Alex. Death is a constant companion around here.” She looked toward the residential buildings. “I bet Harold has a cigar hidden in his room.”

“Nana K, I’m kind of on a timeline here. Do you have a plan B?” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

She pursed her lips like a disgruntled teenager. “Fine. I guess by the wishing well will do. I can pretend to climb in the bucket.”

Faster than I would have thought possible for an octogenarian in three-inch wedges, she took off toward the front of the building. I grabbed my gear and scrambled after her, hoping I reached her before she fell down the well.

I caught her just as she leaned headfirst into the small well. I grabbed the elastic belt around her waist and yanked her back to standing.

“Aww. I wanted to see if I could reach any change,” she whined.

“You know those are other people’s wishes,” I said.

Her smile broadened as she shrugged. “How would they know? Half those wishes no amount of pennies in a dinky old well will help come true. No twentysomething Clark Gable look alike is going to come strutting through the lobby looking for a sugar mama.” She turned to the grouping of apartments behind her and yelled, “You hear that, Doris! You’re wasting your pennies!”

If I had a penny, I’d wish for Doris to be out of earshot.

“Hey, maybe you could pretend to be making a wish,” I said, trying to get Nana K back on track for the portrait. Her allotted time was almost over, and I’d yet to take a single picture.

“Perfect,” she agreed.

I gave a sigh of relief and stepped back