33. Grant’s Photographs

In the silence that followed, Kathy thought, Catrina Somers was placed in bed and covered up lovingly. Respect. But if Shaye’s murder was part of the twisted ritual, the killer had bungled it badly. She fell and struck her face on a coffee table and was left to die alone. If the killer believed the legend, they would know they were cursed.

Kathy ran through the suspects. Deborah, who despised Shaye, would not be inclined to stay and hold her. Madeline, the long lost sister, was unaware of the bizarre history, or was she? Ashbury knew what spoiling the ritual could mean to a believer, but he might still have panicked, forgotten about the honor part and fled. He didn’t strike Kathy as a brave man.

As she ran through scenarios in her head, Ashbury went on talking about the ceremony. When she regained her focus, he was insisting that contemporary Stormonts concentrated on the more romantic aspects and certainly didn’t inflict all the gory details on their fiancés.

“Well that is enthralling,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t hear her revulsion. “Thank you for sharing it with me.” She tapped notes into her laptop and closed the lid, then fanned herself with a hand. “Phew! Enough of that for now.”

Shifting gears, she asked about his photography. “I noticed you have several boards on Pinterest about photography. Is that a hobby?”

“Oh, I got into that in high school. It seemed like a good way to meet girls,” he said jauntily, but his cheeks colored.

“I was a bit of a poser, wearing cameras around my neck, but I was genuinely interested and quite good at it. At university the girls were more adventurous and I did some nude photography. After the novelty wore off I could see I wasn’t getting anything special, but I was fascinated by the human body. I studied classical drawings and sculptures and took a class on anatomy in school.”

Kathy filed that away. He would know exactly where to stab a girl to go straight to the heart.

“I like the human form, and you’ll see from my beach shots I like to capture casual stuff, people being comfortable in a natural environment. I love the way sunlight hits the body and highlights flesh and bone.”

Had Shaye been one of the adventurous girls? Kathy decided to press her luck.    “Did the girls at university know you were keeping pictures of them?” she asked nonchalantly.

Ashbury was taken aback. “Absolutely! I was in my romantic phase, or so I thought. I wasn’t very good, but I was sincere. There was no social media then, so I wasn’t posting them anywhere. I kept them for my private collection, but I always gave them copies if they asked.”

Kathy nodded amiably. “Do you still have the pictures?”

“They’re in an album somewhere,” he said vaguely. “I’ve thought about scanning them, but they’re from a time when I was a different person. I wanted to be an artist, but I’m destined to be a tech nerd.” He’d regained his humor. “Those pictures are relics of the past,” he said dismissively and reached for a pretzel.

It was time to ask about Catrina. “Were the girls all good friends? I don’t think I’d have been so brave when I was at university,” she said. “Although it would be nice to have a picture to show my kids I was once young and fit.” They both laughed.

“I knew most of them from class,” he agreed, “Or my study groups, or friends of friends. That’s how I shot Catrina.” Kathy jumped at the word, then felt foolish.

“She first came along with another girl and then decided to have her own session.”

“Are we talking about the same Catrina? The one in your study group and the one who . . .,” Kathy hesitated, and he finished for her.

“Died? Yes,” he said. “That was so sad. I didn’t know her well, but I liked her. Actually, I took pictures of her out at the Channel Lane Point cottage she was renting. I’d forgotten all about that. It was probably about a week before she died.”

Kathy sat up straighter. “Wow,” it came out involuntarily. Steady Kathy. “I, um, I saw you had some pictures of a little cottage. Don’t sound too interested. “It’s a pretty place, eh?”

He was unconcerned. “Let me see. The first pictures I took of Catrina were on the beach and she made a good model, but something went wrong in the developing. The pictures were awful, blurred and blotchy. She suggested we reshoot indoors, and that cottage had beautiful light. She actually suggested doing some nudes,” his head was down. “She wasn’t comfortable outdoors, but she was interested in trying it inside. So having to do a reshoot was not such a bad thing.” He seemed unconcerned that he was speaking so lightly of a girl who was murdered about a week later.