Photo Finished

Book 1: Snapshot of NYC Mystery

by Christin Brecher

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

While some people escape into books or music, Liv Spyers escapes through her camera’s lens, which inspires her to jump into things she might otherwise have no business tackling—like moving to New York City. Hustling to make her dreams come true as a portrait photographer, she runs a pocket-sized studio below her grandparents’ West Village brownstone and key shop, where she also lives and works part-time. All of which still has her down to the end of her savings as the holidays approach. Everything changes in a flash, however, when elite events photographer Regina Montague invites Liv to shoot with her at New York City’s most exclusive socialite event of the year—the Holiday Debutante Ball! Liv snaps up the opportunity, convinced that a job with Regina will launch her career. But when her fabulous new gig ends with the murder of billionaire Charlie Archibald and Regina framed for the crime, her dream job may never develop. Once Liv begins to focus on her photos from the ball, she’s convinced they reveal Charlie Archibald’s real killer. Now between cracking the world of high society and the attentions of a handsome stranger, she must hustle once again to expose the killer before she gets cropped from the picture!

Release date: October 25, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

My greatest joy has always been taking photos. Some people escape into books. I escape into my camera’s lens. It’s fair to say that a sealed metal box that does no more than capture light and turn it into pixels can inspire me to jump into things I might otherwise have no business tackling. Without it, for example, I might never have landed in New York City.

I never know where this town will take me, but I love sharing the moments along the way. Like an Instagram photo I recently took while wandering Soho. In this image, I was excited to capture two New Yorkers who happened to look, at the same moment, toward a multi-story mural painted across a building. One person’s head tilted as if seeing true beauty; another folded his arms as if seeing the opposite. Together, they told a tale of people with different dreams, thrust together by happenstance, and captured by a passing stranger.

At the end of the post, I added my usual shameless plug: Visit me @livspyersphotography or in person at my studio in the West Village to see my portrait work. I’m ready to capture YOUR story!

A snapshot of me: The morning I posted this little gem, I was under layers of blankets in my chilly ground-floor apartment in the West Village. Thanksgiving was one day away, the tealights tacked to my ceiling were still on, and I realized I’d fallen asleep while watching Bridgerton for the third time. I had an important workday ahead and planned to celebrate the holiday season that night with my oldest friend, Maria Ricci, at her annual Wild Turkey party in Brooklyn. I was feeling both prosperous and broke, aglow and obscure; basically, I was feeling like thousands of other Manhattanites trying to turn their dreams into reality.

No sooner had I hit Share than I heard a knock at my front door. I slipped out of bed and threw on a bit of lip gloss, because you never know who might be walking down your street in New York City. I knew the face that would greet me on the other side of my front door, however, and it was not going to be Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

At the second knock, I headed out of my bedroom and into my office. Like everyone who works from home these days, my morning commute is an easy one. With only a step across the threshold of my tiny bedroom’s door, I leave home-sweet-home and arrive at Liv Spyers Photography, my small portrait photography studio. All that divides my private life and my business is a silky red privacy curtain that I pull across my storefront’s window when the workday is done. My studio is a modest-sized, rectangular room that Maria and I painted white from top to bottom the first week I moved in. After studying numerous DIY YouTube videos, I’d installed a piece of sheetrock between the unsightly entrance to my bedroom and my studio space that also worked double-duty as a backdrop for my clients’ photo shoots. Add a couple of catchlights to give my clients’ eyes a little sparkle, a small desk with a visitor’s chair, and a compact kitchen and counter space along the opposite wall, and you have arrived at Liv Spyers Photography.

I don’t mind living like a size-ten foot in a size-five shoe, because a year ago I was still in my quiet, hometown suburb of New Jersey off Exit 83 on the Garden State Parkway and working at Starbucks after having had to drop out of college. For the record, abandoning my education was for financial reasons. But even with a head start over my peers on joining the “real world,” I found very few outlets for my photography ambitions. Before I knew it, my friends from home had tucked their diplomas in the back of their closets, moved out, and had even started to indulge in things like craft cocktails instead of White Claws. I scraped and saved but joining them seemed impossible on a barista photographer’s income.

My fate changed, however, when my grandparents moved their ground-level storefront, Carrera Locksmiths, to a converted space on the first floor of their townhouse. Granny and Poppy had bought their four-story brownstone way back in the 1970s when New York City was bankrupt, and you could buy real estate in their area for next to nothing. These days, the buildings around them were gloriously renovated and the streets were filled with high-end restaurants and boutiques, but neighbors still needed basic services that were less glamorous.

With a neon sign that reads KEYS in their front window, they’d run a well-oiled enterprise for decades, but when the cost of never-ending home repairs became too much, they decided to seek the extra income.

Enter: Me. Taking a page from their enterprising spirits, I convinced them to turn a blind eye to zoning rules to allow me to both live and work in their original commercial space. In exchange for a small family discount on rent, I watched my grandparents’ store for them when they needed an extra hand.

I consider myself fortunate that my family all think they are getting a great deal in this set-up. In addition to living in a city that inspires my imagination at every step, I have hung my own shingle and declared my ambition to be a portrait photographer. Yes, my savings were nearly depleted, and I still had a long way to go before Liv Spyers Photography was New Yorkers’ go-to place for portrait and events photography. And no, I hadn’t had time to attend all the A-lister parties and fabulous clubs I’d hoped I might have by now. But due to my studio’s street-level window display, I’d booked five family portraits for holiday cards during September, four yearbook photos in October, and when this particular morning began, I had high hopes for growing my head-shot business.

Unlatching the deadbolt, I opened the door. As I suspected, my grandmother, with her thick black Italian hair, still its original shade at eighty, was waiting for me.

“I made cinnamon muffins,” she said, holding up a tin with a beaming smile. “You look skinny.”

It truly wasn’t until my first childhood sleepover with Maria, in my suburban New Jersey town of aboveground pools and Instagram-worthy holiday lawn décor, that I realized that waking up to a family member reeling off breakfast options is unusual, but this is what we do. The occasional forfeiture of privacy in exchange for good food is a solid family tradition.

“I have never looked skinny in my life,” I said.

“Thank you again for opening the store for us this morning,” said Granny, walking right by me and buttering a muffin, which I devoured. “Poppy’s moving slowly these days, and I want to get to Yonkers for a good Stew Leonard’s turkey before the rush, and then to the Bronx to pick up the sausage from Arthur Avenue for my stuffing.”

“Take your time,” I said, beginning to pack my camera bag with items for my morning’s shoot, including a portable tripod, light reflector, and an external flash I’d recently invested in for location jobs. “I’ll be back here with time to spare.”

“You’re an angel,” Granny said, giving me a kiss and a pat on the cheek before tying the sash on her housecoat for the short walk back upstairs. “Poppy’s opening that old safe we got in a couple of days ago. The owner is convinced he’s inherited something special. He’ll be focused, so remind him to eat.”

“Does anyone know what’s inside?” I asked, always curious when these jobs came along.

“You never know what you’ll find,” she said, an adventurous smile stealing over her wrinkled face.

“Maybe an old baseball card worth a million dollars?”

“Or a love letter,” she answered as I gave her a hug and shut my front door behind her.

Two more muffins later, I released fourteen pounds of hair from a ponytail, not really, but really, and scuttled to the shower. As the first dash of cold water from the old pipes slapped me awake, I focused on my morning’s headshot session with a client who was climbing the ladder in the financial world. I’d landed the gig through OneShot.com, which I’d joined a couple of weeks earlier. It’s a one-stop-shop for people to find and book photographers. In exchange for a cut of our fees, I had access to their customers and a web page upon which I could showcase my work. This was my first booking through them. With a good review from this morning’s client, I hoped to build a new source of income. Now that December was around the corner, I was banking on bookings through the service to get me through the winter.

I dressed in my usual black leggings, which I paired with a white button-down. The blouse looked smart with the collar flipped up and my camera strap around it. I slipped on my Doc Martens, which hold me up better than any shoes on days I’m on my feet for hours. Adding a welcome couple of inches to my overall height, they also give me an average sight line when I navigate the subway.

With only minutes to spare, I pulled back my red silk curtain so that passersby could see the inside of my studio. I grabbed my parka from the floor, threw my camera bag over my shoulder, and opened the small, wrought-iron gate that led to the sidewalk. I breathed in the late autumn air. Fall, with its billowing clouds, call for sweaters, and its scent of leaves is my favorite season. I smiled as I noticed that the flaming yellow leaves from the trees on my block had fallen by the thousands during a rain shower the night before and had transformed bags of garbage and discarded Amazon boxes into autumnal bliss. It was as if someone had splattered paint across the world with an enormous paint brush.

By the time I hit the 1 train at the height of the morning rush, I was jostled between corporate types, couriers, school kids, folks heading home from night shifts, and others heading out for day shifts and looking tired already. English, Spanish, and languages I couldn’t identify floated up and down the train’s car. Most of the comments were on their phones. Some nodded off for a few precious minutes. Others were checking the time and looking nervous.

Without warning, the train made a turn and I almost fell into a group of school children on a field trip gathered beside me. I noticed one boy pull out a rubber band from his pocket while his friends began to tear small pieces of paper and roll the fragments into pellets. I wondered who their targets were going to be. Their classmates sandwiched around them seemed to be the easiest marks.

It’s not that I was condoning bad behavior, but I was impressed with their aim and their clandestine moves. Their victims did not notice they had been attacked, and I could see that the boys felt wonderfully rebellious. I’d basically decided not to rat on them to their teacher when a man who was standing by the door to our car cried out.

All eyes turned to him as he slapped the side of his neck. He was quite a vision, and instinctively my camera crept up to my chin. At least a full head taller than the rest of the passengers, he was dressed in a tuxedo. And not the rent-a-tux kind. He gave off a vibe that didn’t fit with the rest of us plebes. I don’t usually take photos on the subway—our shared space is already about as intimate as most people can handle—but the contrast between this guy and the early morning work rush was gold. Risking it, my finger casually clicked the shutter button. Then I lowered my camera like a submarine’s periscope that had gone back below sea level.

Meanwhile, the man rubbed his neck and scanned the crowd for the culprits, who had already shoved their missiles back into their pockets. His eyes landed on mine, and I was frankly shocked that he could think I, a grown woman en route to a job, would have flicked him with a rubber band. I hadn’t been on a lot of dates lately, but I would never stoop so low for a man’s attention. Rather than return his look with the evil eye, however, I cocked my head toward the boys. I was pretty fed up with them, too.

At that, the guy winked at me. Seriously. Of all the brazen moves. Don’t get me wrong. His perfectly trimmed hair, and dark eyes, offset by a nose that leaned slightly to the left somehow worked, but I knew enough not to pick up guys on the subway. Especially those who looked like they still hadn’t been home from the night before.

To make matters worse, when the train pulled up to the Eighty-Sixth Street stop, I had to pass the guy to get out.

“Excuse me,” I said, pushing my way toward the exit.

As I elbowed through the crowd, I put on my best don’t mess with me expression. Unfortunately, as I reached the door a stampede of new passengers began to board the train, shoving me into him. After our awkward eye catch, it was the last thing I wanted, but there I was, smushed against him.

“Hey there!” he said.

To be clear, his words were not a come on. They were a cry for help because, due to our close proximity, my unruly hair had become tangled around the guy’s coat button.

I pulled my head, which only served to make things worse while sending shooting pain to my skull. The two of us then twirled around each other with a couple of rounds of “Sorry,” “Ooops,” and “How did that happen?” to try to separate from each other more delicately, but of course that only made things worse. As we negotiated our hair-vs.-button debacle, the other commuters began to audibly express their impatience with us.

I don’t like it when people push me around or get one up on me, so I shouted out a general “Give us a minute!” to the crowd. Inside, however, I was feeling a little rocked. I heard the doors beside us begin to close. I couldn’t be late for this job. I pulled the last, stubborn strands away with a tug that made my scalp feel on fire. Then, I spun around and leapt from the car to the platform as the doors slid toward me from both directions like a guillotine.

Immediately, I knew something wasn’t right. I felt lighter and it wasn’t because of the strands of hair I’d lost. I quickly ran my right hand down my side, my gut sinking as I did. I realized the worst had happened.

My camera bag was gone.

“No!” I screamed, chasing the subway car as it pulled away and banging on the doors as I did.

Through the car’s window, I saw Tuxedo Man holding my bag. I was always so careful on the subway, but in one stupid move, I’d lost my precious, precious camera and my valuable equipment with it. Although I had a backup camera of lesser value at the studio, every other important accessory for my location shoots was in that bag. Even if I found a good deal online, I was in no position to make the investment to replace them.

Feeling as if I’d been physically shot, I walked up the stairs to Eighty-Sixth Street to put my head back on straight. Standing on the sidewalk with trucks and busses whizzing by me, I called my client.

“I won’t be able to make it this morning,” I said.

I began to explain what had happened, but he cut me off.

“It is what it is,” he said, “but if you want to make it in New York, you have to have balls and be willing to use them. Nobody has patience for sloppy work or cancelled appointments.”

It was low—and crude, and maybe even a bit sexist—but he was right. There was no room in this great, big, wonderful City for excuses. If I wanted to be in the game, asking for pity would get me nowhere, even if my ingenious idea to expand my clientele through OneShot.com had died before I’d met my first client.

I headed back down to the tracks and stopped at the ticket booth to file a missing-property form. A sign told me that the booth agent would be back in fifteen minutes. I waited thirty, and then waited another twenty minutes while the agent called his colleague at the next station. To my dismay, no one had dropped off my camera. I was told to fill out a property-loss form online, but from the expression on the agent’s face I could tell he didn’t hold out much hope.

When I finally reboarded the train back home, the downtown subway cars were much less crowded. I got a seat and checked my phone. Sure enough, my morning’s client had already given me a negative review. When the doors opened at my stop, I exited and headed home. My heart was heavy as I walked up the stairs to open my grandparents’ store.

“Finally. I’ve been waiting here forever,” said a female voice behind me. She had a British accent. I love a British accent, but this one didn’t exactly sound like the Queen of England.

I turned around, in no mood for a lecture from a stranger about being five minutes late to open the store. I found below me a woman in a bright red, floor-length kimono, topped by a fur bolero and finished off with pointy white booties upon which not one yellow leaf from my sidewalk had dared to attach itself. Some sort of fancy, old-school, cigarette holder was glued to her bottom lip, and I could see that Botox was her friend. She was a portrait photographer’s dream subject. She also looked familiar, but I could not make out how I knew her, which was odd given her unforgettable appearance.

“I need a copy of this key,” she said, waving a key that hung from an ornate gold key ring, adorned with a lion’s head.

Before I could invite her up, her phone rang. Rather than climb the stairs to follow me into the store, she began to pace the sidewalk.

“This is Regina,” she said. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes with the name Gitanes across it, popped one into her holder and lit it. “Talk to me, Manjeet.”

Regina Montague. Of course.

I’d seen her face when I’d browsed the websites of the most successful commercial photographers in town. In my defense, she looked a good fifteen years younger online.

“Bollocks!” said Regina into her phone. “What do you mean she quit? The bloody fool. What about Alfredo or Simon? They might do.”

Hearing her words, the heart-thumping rush I’d felt when the train had pulled away with my camera bag returned. This time, however, I felt excited rather than panicked. My ex-client had reminded me this morning that I had to have balls. Up my ball game, I’d venture to say. My future with OneShot.com didn’t look bright, but who needed that side-hustle when Regina Montague had just stepped into my life? I willed myself to ignore the fact that when I’d arrived in New York I’d sent my portfolio to every reputable studio, including hers, without receiving even the courtesy of rejections. If I could add Regina Montague to my résumé, my credentials would skyrocket. I knew that within the span of an hour, I’d gone from losing my equipment to envisioning myself taking photos for the Met Gala, but I also knew I had nothing to lose by trying.

As Regina continued to groan into her phone, I hopped down the stairs and headed to my studio. I unlocked the door to the scent of freshly brewed coffee and Granny’s cinnamon muffins. The inviting aromas bolstered my confidence. I’d been in a hurry this morning, but I was glad I always left the studio looking suitably professional.

“Met Gala, Met Gala, Met Gala,” I said, projecting my dreams into the universe.

After a few minutes, which I spent trying to look busy, Regina finished her call. Remaining in my studio, I waved at her through the window. There was a terrifying second when she looked as if she might walk away, but then she sighed and plunged her phone back into her pocket. She opened the gate as if touching the entrance to a sewer and forged ahead in what seemed to be brave steps for her, down the two stairs to my humble workshop.

She paused at the front window, which was a breathtaking moment, but which also made me feel smaller than I’d expected. Through her eyes, I became painfully aware of how modest my business was. The window’s display was filled with baby photos, family photos, and several portraits that showed off my skill. The six more artistic photos I had indulgently hung along the wall behind my desk now seemed oddly out of place. The images were of people I observed in Manhattan, both day and night, living their lives. I liked to think of them as spontaneous portraits in contrast to the more structured work I did with clients.

Nonetheless, Regina needed a key and, therefore, she needed me. She opened the door, my door chimes jangling with her.

“I thought you were the key girl,” she said.

“I’m just filling in this morning at my grandparents’ store,” I said, pointing upstairs and cringing inside. “It’s not hard to copy a key once you learn how to use the machine. But I’m a photographer. This is my studio.”

At first, she looked at me as if I was one of those photographers in Times Square who rips off tourists, but then, my heart fairly dropping, she headed to my small collection of street-life photos.

“Huh. I like these,” said Regina. She waved her cigarette in their direction and made general circular motions. “You have some style. The people look natural, the lighting is excellent, and there’s energy in them. And your subjects clearly didn’t know they were being photographed. These cheesier studio things over here”—she now waved toward the bread and butter of my life—“they suggest that you have what it takes to make anyone look good.”

“Thank you?” I said. “Pish,” Regina said.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation outside,” I said, swallowing hard. “Are you looking for an extra staff photographer? Because, you know, I’m available.”

Regina crossed her arms and flared her nostrils. I fought every impulse to offer her a muffin. Instead, I flipped up the collar of my shirt to the ceiling and put my extra camera around my ne. . .