“Which is what made it possible forothersto write it,” she said.
They drove for a while without talking, and it wasn’t until they reached town that Peter spoke. “You’re right, Gwen, and I don’t know why I’m arguing with you about it. I’m just making excuses, I guess. If it makes any difference to you, I do feel guilty about some of the work I did. Very much so.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
“I especially hated selling pictures of celebrities with their kids. It always felt sleazy, so I stopped doing that. And there was one night I was sitting in my car outside a certain celebrity’s house because of a tip I’d gotten that she was dating an A-lister. I was determined to break that story because I really needed the money.”
“What for?”
“Hospital bills for my mother. My dad got in a bad car accident and needed long-term care, which wasn’t covered by their insurance.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. But regardless of why I needed the money, I still felt like a stalker.”
“Did you get the photo that night?” Gwen asked.
“I did,” he replied. “And it paid well, but I felt horrible about what I had to do to get it.” He glanced at her. “That’s why I wanted this bookdeal—so that I could get out of that racket. But maybe it’s no different, being a biographer. It’s still an exposé of someone’s private life.”
Gwen considered that. “I disagree. Books are important, and if they’re well researched and you’re writing the truth, they’re important records of historical figures. Photographs are important too, under the right circumstances. And Scarlett deserves to have a comprehensive book written about her life, so I appreciate what you’re doing. I think I’m just too close to everything—a bit emotional about it since I saw that newspaper clipping. I’m sorry. I was a bit judgy back there.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he replied. “I deserved it. I was the lowest of the low.”
She inclined her head in a casual manner, hoping to lighten the mood. “I wouldn’t go that far. There are worse things a person could do for a living.”
“There’s always something worse, isn’t there.” Peter pulled into the museum parking lot and drove around to the back, then shut off the engine. “Thanks for today.”
Gwen gathered up her purse and removed her seat belt. “I should be the one thanking you—for suggesting we talk to Joan. And for driving.”
“It was my pleasure.”
She opened the car door and got out. “Now, I’m going inside to make a few phone calls.”
“To whom?” he asked, leaning across the console.
“A few more of Scarlett’s friends from high school,” she replied. “Someone might know something. And then I’ll call the museum in Valdez, Alaska. With your permission, I’d like to email a copy of the newspaper clipping and see if anyone has any record of it or if they know the name of the young man who rescued the baby. If he’s still alive, he might know something. I’d crop Scarlett out of the photo, of course.”
“That would be helpful,” Peter said, seeming surprised.
“I could also try and track down the photographer. Have you tried that?”
“I did, but he passed away in 1982, so that was a dead end. And I was hesitant to ask the Anchorage newspaper about the photograph because I didn’t want to tip my hand. If someone recognized Scarlett, they might republish it, and again, my book would no longer be groundbreaking.”
“I understand.” Gwen glanced toward the tennis court, then made a move to shut the car door. “Will I see you inside?”
“Probably not. I’m going to head back to the hotel and write for a while. I’m a bit behind.”
“All right. I’ll see you later.”
When she returned to her office on the ground floor, members of the International Scarlett Fontaine Fan Club were just stepping off a double-decker bus from Halifax. Before she knew it, the museum was packed. She was grateful that Susie had the tour under control because she wanted to make those phone calls and contact the museum in Valdez right away.
The following morning, Gwen sat down at her desk, switched on her computer, and opened her email. A steady flow of messages flooded her inbox. While she scrolled down, scanning for anything urgent and quickly deleting junk mail, she sipped coffee in her travel mug. Then she caught a name. Douglas Warren—the curator of the museum in Valdez. She rolled her chair closer to the screen and read his reply.
Dear Ms.Hollingsworth,
I received your message and the image you sent. I’m afraid I don’t recognize the young man in the photograph, but I’ve only been living in Valdez since 1996. I have therefore taken the liberty of reaching out to some residents who survived the earthquake in 1964and continue to reside here. If any of them can identify the man in the picture, I will most certainly let you know.
Best, Douglas
