Harry Carvel tearfully handed Detective Morin at the police station a photo of his wife, Eunice, seated in a chair, bound and gagged. “I got this in the mail today.” His voice was barely audible. “Please do all you can to find her.”
The detective studied it and handed it to his assistant, Tom Blake. “Looks like this was taken with a Polaroid camera. Did anything else come with the photo?”
Harry shook his head. “I had a phone call. It was a man. He said to bring $10,000 to a place just outside of town . . .” His voice trailed away.
“Were there directions to the place?”
“He said Deer Creek Road, near a lake. There’s a shack there, he said.” Harry handed them a note. “I wrote down what he said.” On it was written in an agitated handwriting, “$10,000,” “Deer Creek Road,” and “shack.” Detective Morin examined the piece of paper.
“Didn’t you write down how to get there?” Blake asked.
“No. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe you know where it is,” Harry said.
“We’ll find out. When did you last see your wife?” Detective Morin asked.
“The day before yesterday. We’d gone to see some antiques. She collects them.”
The detective and his assistant accompanied Harry, who was a photographer, to his home and studio to search for possible clues.
“Do you know of anyone who might want to harm your wife?” Morin asked as they entered the studio, which was littered with arc lamps, kodachrome screens, a camera on a tripod, and color filters.
Harry shook his head. “ She’s a good woman. Wait. My stepson, Tim, was miffed that my nephew was hired on as a photographer. The studio belongs to my wife and we’re all hired hands. My stepson thought he should get preferential treatment because his mother was the boss,” he said.
“We’ll need to talk to the others,” the detective told him, and called in Tim, who was anxious to find his mother, and therefore, willing to help.
“When did you last see your mother?” Morin asked the young man.
“At about eleven in the morning when she left for the antique show with my step father the day she went missing.” A moment later, he appeared to remember something. “Actually, she called me from her cell phone. She wanted me to sign off on some supplies that were to come in that day. The cell phone connection was bad. I thought she might be outside city limits where there are fewer cell phone towers.”
“Like near the lake?”
Tim shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Anything more you could tell us that might help us in our investigation?” Morin said.
“My step father’s nephew was going to be let go. My mother was going to hire me instead.” Tim carried a Polaroid camera and this he put into his backpack.
“Going somewhere?” The detective asked him.
“Just around town to take pictures. I love photography. Just wish I could enjoy it today, but I can’t. I’m worried about my mother,” Tim said.
The detective nodded and jotted something down. He looked up and spotted an attractive brunette going into the supplies room of the studio. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Erin, my step father’s secretary. You should ask him about her. They’re inseparable.”
When Tim left, the detective said, “Whew! Interesting situation. I wonder what we’ll discover next.”
Erin was suspicious of the detective and his assistant and unwilling to cooperate. Then the words came spilling out. “Eunice nagged her husband, and reminded him everyday that he worked for her and that she was the boss of all this. If you ask me, he’s well rid of her.” The next moment, she appeared embarrassed. “I’m sorry I said that. You’ll have to excuse me. We’re all under a lot of stress.”
Detective Morin nodded. “We understand. Would you say Mrs. Carvel was a difficult woman?”
“You could say that.” Her eyes widened. “Don’t get me wrong. I hope you find her. She pays our salaries, and I need my job.”
He thanked her and let her go.
The detectives took another look at the studio equipment. “Is this the only camera you use?” he asked Harry, when they called him in again.
“I use a Polaroid for when my wife visits antique shows. It helps her decide what to buy.”
“You own a Polaroid?”
“I did. I gave it to my stepson. I’ve been thinking of buying a new one,” Tim said.
The assistant looked in all the wastebaskets. He found nothing of importance there. Then he spotted a crumpled photo in a corner on the floor, and opening it, smoothed it out. He couldn’t believe what he saw.
“Mr. Carvel,” he said. “Would you say you’re a perfectionist?”
“Yes. Very much so. What do you have there?”
“All in good time. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
The detective took his partner aside and said in a whisper, “This is not just a kidnapping. It’s much more serious. Time is key.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a case of murder,” Morin said. Under the pretext of driving Eunice to an antique show, Carvel took her to the shack outside of town, bound and gagged her, and then took the photo to duplicate a kidnapping, complete with the threatening phone call. It was odd that he didn’t need to write down the directions to the place he said his wife was being held at.”
“And the fact that the step son said the connection was poor was a clue that she couldn’t have been anywhere near an antique show,” Blake said,
“That Harry gave away his Polaroid camera to the step son he disliked was also suspicious,” Detective Morin said. “Harry was a perfectionist photographer, even when taking a picture of the kidnap victim. He was careful to bring back the discarded first picture but neglected to dispose of it properly.”
“If you ask me,” Morin said. “Eunice might already have been dead when Harry came to us for ‘help.”
