I reached up to lay a finger over his lips. “Not that kind of bad, Paul,” I said. “I mean your-worst-nightmare bad. You thought tearing down my house was going to release the darkness inside of Jesse? Wait until you see the darkness it’s released in me. Come here. I’ll show you.”
I grabbed his tie, opened the door to the photography studio, and pulled him inside after me.
veintiseis
“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Maitland,” the man behind the desk said, beaming, as we walked in. “I’d almost given up hope.”
“Sorry we’re so late.” I smiled at him. “My husband had a business meeting. Do you mind if I set this down over here?” I indicated the sports bag over my shoulder. “It’s heavy.”
“Oh, please, allow me.” The man—taller than I’d expected, even though Becca had warned me—hurried out from behind the shiny black lacquer desk to relieve me of the bag. He set it where I’d been meaning to, next to a black plaster statue of a young female ballerina, standing in third position. Her tutu was of real black tulle.
“You must work out,” the man said to me, laughingly, because the bag weighed so much.
“I do. Are you Mr. Delgado?”
“I am.” He extended his right hand. He had short-cropped graying hair that looked as if it had probably been dirty blond at one time, and a sizeable gut. “James Delgado. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Maitland.”
I tried not to let my nausea show as I slipped my fingers into his. “Same here.” His hand felt like any other hand, even though it had killed Lucia Martinez, one horse, and for all I knew, many other innocent creatures as well.
He wore wire-rimmed glasses and had the large, raw-knuckled hands of someone who’d worked, at least for a while, outdoors—or possibly in a stable. He looked a bit like Santa Claus, as the beard, glasses, and belly had prematurely aged him. According to the small business owner’s license CeeCee had found for him online—after much complaining—James Delgado was thirty-five years old.
Looking at him, it would be impossible to guess he was a child killer.
Paul, it was clear, had no idea.
“This guy’s the photographer?” he asked in a loud whisper, directly in my ear. Even though I’d let go of his tie as soon as we’d walked in, he was still sticking to me like glue. He seemed confused, probably because of the bit just before we’d come in, where I said he’d released something in me. He still didn’t understand that what he’d released in me wasn’t anything flattering.
I shot him the kind of annoyed glance a rich wife would give her hapless husband.
“Yes, dear. Remember? We talked about this.”
“We did?” Paul was much slower than Jesse to pick up on my cues. He stood looking around the gallery, which, like the wall outside, was painted black. This made the photographs on the wall stand out more starkly. Even the floors and ceiling were black.
How daring, I’m sure a young Jimmy Delgado had thought when he’d come up with the concept.
I gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mr. Delgado. My husband, Victor, was in meetings all day. I didn’t really get a chance to discuss this with him.”
“I understand.” Delgado gave Paul a sympathetic smile. “Such a shame you’re only here for the weekend, Mr. Maitland. And for a conference, too! Carmel is simply beautiful this time of year. But don’t worry, I’ve assured your wife I can squeeze in your girls. I happen to have had a cancellation tomorrow—the birthday girl has the flu—so it’s fine if you want to drop your adorable daughters off for some headshots. You and your wife don’t even need to stay if you want some private time. My assistant and I are used to wrangling rambunctious multiples.”
After that speech, I had to dive into my bag for the antacids, so I didn’t get to see Paul’s expression as he echoed, “Multiples?”
“That’s right, darling.” I dug my phone from my purse, too, as well as the antacid tablets, then scrolled to the photo the triplets had taken of themselves and set as my screensaver the day before. “I’ve set up an appointment for Mr. Delgado to do some headshots of your daughters.”
Paul only looked more confused than ever.
“I e-mailed Mr. Delgado some photos of them earlier,” I went on, “and he wrote back right away. He thinks they’ve got real modeling potential. I think so, too. Don’t you?”
I showed Paul the photo of Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail. He took my phone and stared at the photo without a single flicker of recognition.
“Uh, sure, honey,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
It was obvious from his expression that he’d not only never seen a photo of the triplets before in his life, but that he was hurt—hurt that the only reason we were in the studio was to con Delgado, not for me to take off my clothes and give Paul a professional eight-by-ten glossy print of myself in my naked glory, perhaps posing with a tastefully positioned feathered fan.
If Paul was reading CeeCee’s newsletter, he was skipping any entries about Debbie, because they always included a photo of the triplets.