“I do not,” Gertie protested.
“This is supposed to be casual,” Ida Belle said. “No one watches television that way except in the movies. Sit up right or slouch like a normal person, but this whole sex-kitten thing is not going to fly. Not only that, the outfit already goes against that lonely-old-woman thing. That pose might get your Facebook account banned for soliciting.”
Gertie looked over at me, apparently wanting me to weigh in. Damn.
“I agree with most of what Ida Belle said,” I said. I happened to watch television with my legs hanging over the side of the recliner, but I didn’t see a good reason to mention that now.
Gertie slung her leg off the recliner and moved into a normal sitting position. “Party poopers.”
Ida Belle lifted the camera and took a picture.
“I wasn’t ready!” Gertie protested.
“I know,” Ida Belle said. “That’s why I took it. I don’t want you posing.”
Ida Belle took a couple more shots of Gertie sitting in the chair, some with her holding the remote and making an attempt to look forlorn. Then Gertie popped up from the chair.
“Now, let’s take some girlfriend shots,” Gertie said.
“What?” Ida Belle said. “No.”
Panic coursed through me. “I can’t.” And then my automatic out hit me. “I can’t risk having an image of me online. Ahmad’s facial recognition software is as good as the CIA’s. Maybe even better.”
“Then it’s me and you,” Gertie said to Ida Belle. “Hand Fortune the camera.”
Ida Belle glared at both of us and I motioned to the camera. “Come on. It’s for a good cause.”
Finally, Ida Belle relented and sat on the couch. I passed her the bowl of popcorn that we’d made for a prop earlier and popped the top on two beers.
“Let’s see some smiles, ladies,” I said and started snapping some shots.
Gertie gave me a big grin and held up her beer as if giving a toast. Ida Belle managed to almost not grimace, then downed half of her beer in a single swig. I took about ten shots, then Gertie called it done and declared we were moving into the kitchen for the next round.
“I thought we were done,” Ida Belle groused to me on the way back to the kitchen.
I handed her the camera. “Apparently not.”
“I heard that,” Gertie said. “These pictures are that final hook that will snag the catfish. Everyone knows men love to eat, so pictures of me preparing baked goods should seal the deal.”
As I was fond of Gertie’s baked goods, I couldn’t really argue with her in theory. The problem was the practice end of the equation. Gertie put on mittens, grabbed a pie off the counter and opened the oven.
“Wait,” Gertie said. “I’m not in position yet.” She bent over holding the pie. “Get one from behind. I want the tattoo in the shot.”
“I’m not taking a picture of your butt,” Ida Belle said. “And that is final.”
I could see her point, but I also knew Gertie wasn’t coming up from that oven or out of those clothes until we finished with the pictures. “Give me that,” I said to Ida Belle.
She passed me the camera and leaned back against the kitchen counter, shaking her head. I moved behind Gertie at an angle where I could get both the tattoo and the pie and took some shots.
“Get a close-up of the tattoo,” Gertie said.
It wasn’t even worth arguing over, so I stepped closer and focused the camera on Gertie’s back end.
“I knocked, but no one answered. The door was unlocked.” Carter’s voice sounded from the kitchen doorway.
I took a startled step backward, almost dropping the camera. Gertie jerked upright, but between the too-tight pants and her being bent over for longer than usual, she lost her balance and stumbled backward. I couldn’t catch her or I’d drop the camera, so I did what any smart person would do and moved out of the way. She threw her hands up, trying to regain her balance, and the pie went soaring across the kitchen and directly at Carter.
Reflex made him try to catch it, but pies and Frisbees don’t exactly perform in the same way. He managed to grab hold of the pie with one hand, but the pie tray bent in half and most of the pie continued its forward journey and smacked right into Carter’s chest, scattering pieces of crust, filling, and meringue all over him.
Never one to miss a golden opportunity, I lifted the camera and took a picture.
“Nice,” Ida Belle said and gave me an approving nod.
Carter stared at the three of us, and for the first time since I’d known him, his expression was impossible to read. If he had laughed, yelled, or arrested us, I wouldn’t have been surprised by any of them. He stared for a bit longer, his hand and most of his shirt covered in pie, then finally he lifted his hand and ate a piece off his thumb.
“I’m going to use your bathroom,” he said, “and then I need to talk to Fortune.”
He whirled around and stalked out of the kitchen, bits of pie trailing behind him.