Jude clicks on the website.
It’s minimalistic with a simple header and a small portfolio, along with a short bio and contact information that includes an email address and a phone number.
Even though it’s a Saturday morning, I give him a call.
He answers after the second ring.
“This is Len.”
“Hi, uh, Len? My name is Selah Whitlock. I’m a junior at Foggy Hollow High. My good friend, Spencer Calloway, took your photography workshop last winter. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t make it because of a previous obligation.”
Jude leans back in his chair, looking slightly amused by my preamble.
“I remember Spencer,” Len says. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering … well, I found this disposable camera, and I’d really love to have the film developed. But there’s no photo lab here in Foggy Hollow that develops film, and the nearest place is in Greensboro which is a four hour drive. I was wondering if you had a way to do it?”
“A disposable, huh? How old?”
“The mid 1990s.” 1995, to be exact. But I’m wary of giving him the year. To someone born and raised in Foggy Hollow, it would stick out like a sore thumb. According to Len’s bio, he’s lived his whole life in this town.
“I’m not sure how well the pictures will turnout, but I could give it a try. Do you want to drop it off?”
Twenty minutes later, Jude is parking along Maple Grove Road. Len Ebely’s small, weathered home hides behind a magnificent tree with leaves like fire. Past the tree, we find a sagging front porch and a single car garage, currently open with no car. Instead, Len stands in front of a worktable wielding a welder as sparks fly, the electric sizzle of scorched steel drowning out the sound of leaves crunching underfoot as we approach.
As soon as Len spots us, he stops. The torch extinguishes. He lifts his protective mask onto the top of his head and there he is, a middle-aged white man with wheat-blonde hair and a matching scraggly beard.
“You came fast,” he says, pulling off his work gloves.
After brief introductions, Jude hands him the camera.
Len turns it over in his hand. “These were popular when I was a kid.”
“Do you think the film will develop correctly?” I ask.
“It looks in decent condition. The pictures might turn out foggy, but I guess we won’t know until we try.”
I wipe my palms on the thighs of my jeans. What if the photos do turn out, and Len comes upon an incriminating picture? What if he goes to the police and Jude and I get arrested for obstructionof justice? What if we’re dragging poor Len Ebely into a crime scene? The questions keep spiraling, but I hold my tongue. Why open a can of worms if it doesn’t need to be opened? These could very well be benign photographs. But then, why hide the camera?
“Any idea when they’ll be done?” Jude asks.
“I’ve got some projects to finish up here, but I should be able to get around to them tonight or tomorrow. I’ll give you a call when they’re ready.”
Jude nods, cool as a cucumber, and shakes Len’s hand.
I stuff my own inside the pockets of my jeans, positive their clamminess will give us away. I don’t exhale until we’re back in Jude’s car.
“Now we wait,” he says, turning his key in the ignition.
“My favorite,” I reply with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
My phone vibrates.
The message is from Mrs. Calloway.
I text her back, letting her know I’m on my way.
Then I look at Jude, an idea dawning. One that might make the wait a little less painful. “On a scale of one to ten, how good are you with glitter?”
