1 Depth of Field by Audrey Claire Page A

set it on his desk and used a key from his pocket to unlock it. The key reminded me of my shop. “I spoke with Ollie Sandstone about the key to my shop. He said the key has never left his supervision. I also spoke with my landlord. He claims no one but him and Ollie had a copy, and his is still with the others to the various buildings he owns in town.”
    Spencer looked up from the file box. “You’ve been asking around? That’s not a good idea, Makayla.”
    I bristled. “I haven’t been ‘asking around’ as you put it. I talked to two people that had to do with my studio.”
    He eyed me, and I hoped my trying to question Susan and her friends didn’t count enough in my own mind to reflect as a lie on my face. I hadn’t gotten very far, after all.
    Spencer held up a key. “The locks have been changed, and now I’m the only one with a key. When I’ve finished my investigation and determined you’re safe, I’ll give it to you.”
    “When you’re finished? Who knows how long that will be?” At his frown, I bit my tongue. “I’m sure you’re great at your job, but I need to get back to work. No one is paying me as long as I can’t take photos. All of my equipment is in my shop, including my cameras and my laptop. Now I regret thinking they were safe there.”
    “Go through these pictures with me,” he said, “and I want to do one more sweep of your studio before I release it to you. I must be thorough.”
    I started to sense the pressure that must be on him. “How new are you to Briney Creek?”
    He grunted and pulled a stack of photos from the box. I winced, seeing there was absolutely no organization or protection for them whatsoever.
    “Two weeks,” he said, and my sympathy for the poor man increased.
    “Well, let’s hop to it.” I sat down and drew a stack toward me. Handling each photo with care, I separated them into piles of events and then locations and models. When that was done, I began to sort through each stack more slowly. Shots of town hall and the mayor, along with the crowds of tourists and citizens of Briney Creek at the last summer festival topped one good-sized stack. There were shots of The Donut Hole, inside and out, the gym, just the outside. I had hopes of setting up the project for John’s advertising campaign soon.
    Spencer picked up a photo and frowned at it. “What’s this?”
    I stood and moved around the desk, standing close to him. A deep breath brought in his aftershave lotion and the shampoo he must have used that morning.
    “Makayla?”
    I gave my head a shake and focused on the picture, then smiled. “Oh, that’s Inna Brinlee. Just caught her on the street and clicked.” Inna had stuck her tongue in what at the time I had thought of as a Gene Simmons move, but now that I looked at the picture again was more a mocking of Miley Cyrus. “You haven’t met her?”
    “I have,” Spencer said, but he tapped the blurred background. “I mean these people.”
    I pointed. “John Brinlee, Allie Kate Brinlee, and Alvin.”
    John was just exiting the gym, and Allie Kate stood with Alvin on the front, obviously talking. Because the picture was blurred in the background, as intended to cause Inna’s vivid personality to stand out even more, we couldn’t make out the others’ facial expressions or even their posture.
    “Do you have a clearer shot of this?” he asked.
    “Maybe on my computer.”
    “Okay, we’ll take a look later.” He eyed me. “You don’t go there without my accompanying you. Got it?”
    “What would it matter if you’re the only one with the key, sheriff?”
    He was not amused with my sass, and I returned to my seat to continue looking through photos. Although I had physicals of virtually everyone in town—most indistinguishable among festival crowds—we found nothing significant, and I was disappointed I couldn’t be of more help.
    “Well, it was a long shot,” Spencer assured me. “I still have some questioning to do and motives to