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Chapter Twenty
At breakfast Sunday, the Previls informed us that they'd require a picnic lunch, served in the lakeside gazebo - preheated, if you please - followed by two more hours of rappelling.
When Emma reminded them of the noon checkout time and offered to make that a lunch to go, they told us to tack on the late-departure charge, because they weren't leaving before five. I could only muster a twinge of pique, as if three days in their company had anesthetized me.
But that didn't stop me from telling Emma to add a late-departure charge plus a fee for the extra rappelling lesson. I couldn't be too hospitable... or they might come back.
While I was tempted to take a run into town to get the "news" on Janie, Jack said it was better if he did that and I stayed clear. He was right, of course.
At lunch, while the Previls and their guests were in the gazebo, I used Jack's phone to try calling the contact number for Deanna Macy, following up on the Detroit girl's disappearance. No answer.
Jack took off after that to get a pack of cigarettes from town. While he was gone, I went online to look up the Fifer Agency. When I didn't find it in Toronto, I widened my search area, but it didn't do any good. Outside the greater Toronto area, you don't find a whole lot of model agencies. There were a couple in Ottawa and a few more in southwestern Ontario, but nothing with a name close to "Fifer."
I pulled up a list of Canadian modeling agencies. Nothing. The site linked to general photography studios, so I tried that. And there I found Pfeiffer Photography Studio, specializing in children.
I clicked on the link to the studio Web site. There was no "Jordan Pfeiffer" listed. No Pfeiffers at all. The agency was owned by a woman named Francis Lang. Working under her were four photographers. One of them was Jordan McDermott.
The note had read "Jordan Fifer Model Agency," which had been shorthand, I guess, for " Jordan at the Pfeiffer Model Agency." If this photographer had been making it up, it was unlikely he'd come up with a combination that just happened to exist. So it seemed legit.
That meant he probably had nothing to do with Sammi's murder. He'd likely been passing through cottage country, seen Destiny, and decided to shoot a few rolls. She was a beautiful baby. Maybe he'd taken her picture for his portfolio.
I couldn't see how this tied into my baby-selling theory, but I had to strike every question off my list. Once the Previls and their guests left, the lodge had no one booked until tomorrow night. I could visit McDermott in the morning and be back before check-in time.
Jack returned from town with the news that Janie was dead, "breaking" it to me in private, then letting me tell Emma and Owen. Janie's boyfriend had confessed to accidentally killing her in a drunken fight. Everyone was fine with that. It seemed as if no one had thought of Sammi, and wondered how to get the news to her. It was as if she'd been gone for months, already forgotten.
At nine-thirty the next morning, Jack and I were sipping coffee in the parking lot of a strip mall on Lakeshore Boulevard, waiting for the Pfeiffer Studio to open. I didn't keep disguise materials at the lodge, but by raiding the lost-and-found chest, I'd been able to whip up my favorite disguise - me with thirty-five pounds' worth of extra padding.
Most witnesses are savvy enough to realize a criminal can easily alter things like hair color or style, eye color, facial hair. But when it comes to weight, they see it as an inalterable physical trait, like age or height. Add bags under my eyes and a weak pair of prescription glasses and, to a target who made his living photographing the unique and remarkable, I'd be utterly forgettable.
The studio - in the next strip mall over - opened at ten. At nine thirty-five, a middle-aged woman arrived and unlocked the door. Over the next forty minutes, four other people arrived, three women and a man. On the Web site, McDermott was the only male employee listed, so I paid close attention to him.
At ten-fifteen, I slipped in behind another woman dragging a screaming preschooler. The woman who'd opened the studio flew from behind the counter, a coffee mug of suckers in hand. While she mollified the youngster, I asked, "Is Jordan McDermott in?"
Without turning, she jabbed a finger toward the back hall. I shot one longing look at the suckers, then hurried off before she thought to ask whether I had an appointment.
In studio 1, two women were wrestling with a toddler who really didn't want to wear a suit and tie. I passed studio 2. Beyond it there were three office doors. The first stood open and bore McDermott's name in bright balloon letters. Inside a dark-haired man rifled through the filing cabinet.
"Mr. McDermott?"
When he turned, I knew this was not the guy who'd met Sammi. Jordan McDermott was one photographer who was clearly on the wrong side of the cameras. It would take a hunchback and facial reconstruction to make thi
s guy anything but drop-dead gorgeous.
When he turned, I smiled a welcome. He returned it with a stone-faced once-over, assessing and dismissing me in an eye blink. My ego boost for the day.
"Mr. McDermott." I extended a hand. "Liz Bowles, White Rock Times. Do you have a minute?"
He resumed filing. "I do, but we aren't hiring."
"Hiring? Oh, no, I'm not a photographer. I'm a journalist."
McDermott closed the filing cabinet and moved to his desk. "From where?"
"White Rock."
He waited.
"Cottage country," I added.
