Semblance of Guilt

By Claudia Riess

Ellen Daviss husband left her for another woman. Post-divorce, shes trying to reassert her independence and lands a job as a reporter for her local newspaper. One of her assignments is covering weekly items on the police blotter, which is how she gets to know Lieutenant Pete Sakuraa handsome, witty Japanese- American Ellen is drawn to immediately.

Another of Ellens assignments is interviewing for the papers Around The Town column, and in this capacity, she meets Graham and Sophia Clarke, newcomers to the community. Hes an administrator at Columbia; shes his beautiful Greek wife. Ellen and Sophia become fast friends, so it comes as a great shock when Sophia ends up dead.

Sophia Clarke is found murdered, and to all appearances, Ellen is the last person to have seen her alive. When Ellens fingerprints are found on the murder weapon, shes arrested, and evidence steadily mounts against her. Ellen takes matters into her own hands as her romantic feelings for Pete intensify. Closing this case could either save Ellen or lead to her destruction.

A determined amateur detective wholl garner fans with her refusal to either back down or give up.
Kirkus Reviews.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480827875

Claudia Riess

Claudia Riess, award-winning author of seven novels, is a Vassar graduate who has worked in the editorial departments of The New Yorker and Holt, Rinehart and Winston, and has edited several art history monographs.

Book preview

Escape

A sharp pain from the nick in her chest jolted Ellen from her numbing inertia. She moved quickly from Sophia’s room, feeling the tears coming, holding them back, postponing them as she ran silently down the hall. She descended the steps with blazing deliberation, her pace quick and even, her focus on reaching the front door and disappearing into the sheltering night. She could feel her eyes, static-wide in bewildered alarm, betraying her attempt to appear in total control. Still, she focused straight ahead, concentrating on her goal, hearing her friend Anna call her name but moving through the sound, pacing herself to simulate haste without flight as she sliced through the clear zone of the foyer and pushed open the storm door. Midway across the porch she collided with an incoming guest, all pearls and black silk, the woman’s staccatoed Shit! like a gunshot in an open field of combat.

Picking up speed, she hurtled down the bluestone drive, anticipating the sound of the engine starting up even before she could spot her car.

1

Eight weeks earlier

W hatever you do, don’t delete Mrs. Federman, Ellen Davis announced, dropping her Around the Town column onto the managing editor’s desk. It would break her heart. She threw a bash on her ninety-fifth birthday; even had a man doing card tricks.

She could have a man and shuffle cards at the same time? Damn limber for a woman her age. Sorry. Lew Wexler gave a helpless shrug, obviously unrepentant. Any other stipulations?

Not any more, Ellen said, with a smile of forbearance.

Coffee, then. The editor rose from his chair and headed to the table against the wall where the automatic brewer was shining its ready light.

Joining him, Ellen fell into her long-playing role of helpmate by dislodging two Styrofoam cups from their stack and filling each of them with coffee. She was about to hand Lew his, then decided to take another of her small but symbolic steps toward individuation. She stirred a spoonful of powdered cream into her cup and raised it to her lips, leaving him to fend for himself.

Lew straightened his back, his narrow chest expanding to fill out his cotton knit shirt. He lifted his cup of steaming black coffee in the manner of a toast and took a cautious sip.

At five-foot-four, Ellen was accustomed to looking up into men’s faces, but even in her sneakers she was the same height as Lew, making eye contact with him difficult to avoid, especially at such close range, which was when he sought it most. Her gaze swept down his pear-shaped body and halted at his left foot. Any special assignments?

Girls’ varsity tennis at three-thirty over at the high school. Tomorrow night at eight the rookie contingent of the Joffrey Ballet will be tripping the light fantastic in the junior high auditorium. Also, an interview with a new couple in town—the Clarkes. Get their phone number from Subscriptions. Mr. Clarke came in ostensibly to order one, but pumped me for info on all things local. They moved into the old Halsey house and are apparently gung ho on integrating into our suburban haven. He’s on staff at Columbia University but decided to settle down in Westchester, away from the madding crowd of Manhattan. Good candidates for your column.

Ellen nodded and accidentally looked up, right into Lew’s receptive brown eyes. To busy herself she took another few sips of her coffee, the hot drink only making the stuffy room more uncomfortable. It was obviously management’s policy to turn off the air-conditioning system according to date rather than prevailing weather, without allowing for beach days in October. That it?

Don’t forget to pick up the weekly police data. He winked, as if the suggestion of crime provoked unsavory ideas.

You’ll have it Monday afternoon, she said, pretending not to have noticed.

Good. Now, how about that dinner at my place? He gave the contents of her T-shirt and blue jeans a quick proofread. Tonight, maybe?

She couldn’t very well tell him she didn’t care for his personality or the shape of his ass. I’m not ready for the dating scene yet, she said, which was also true.

C’mon, Lew urged. It must be ten months you’ve been separated, two as a free agent. When will you be over your period of mourning?

Ellen forced a smile at this review of her divorce. I’m not ready, she repeated with more conviction.

In an unexpected display of concern, Lew patted her forearm. "You know, Ell, you were a godsend to The Greendale Chronicle," he said, in what must have been his best hospital voice.

Thank you, she mumbled, confused at being hurtled from the singles bar to the intensive care unit. "I guess you guys were desperate to hire anyone, she added with forced levity in an attempt to find some middle ground. I mean, after two of your reporters—what was that, twenty percent of your staff?—quit."

You kidding? I consider us damn lucky to have snagged you. In the eight hours a week you spend in the office, you manage to do almost as much revision work on our weekly rag as a full-time editor. Plus you do a bang-up job as writer slash reviewer. You’re a natural, Ellen. A cub reporter who takes on the lion’s share.

Thanks, but you had nothing to go on when you hired me, Ellen said, squirming from Lew’s hyper-enthusiasm.

Of course we did. You did a super job on your trial assignment, your coverage of the—

"Eighth grade’s adaptation of South Pacific." She placed her cup on the table.

Of course. That, and your résumé.

My résumé consisted of nothing but my B.A. and my job as my husband’s office manager.

Lew shifted his weight. Well, it was the longevity of the job.

"Fourteen years. Proving my reliability. Except I didn’t get a letter of recommendation because I didn’t give him two weeks’ notice—‘Well,’ I asked him, ‘just how much notice did you give me?’ She felt like a standup comic prattling on after the routine had flopped. He still calls me with questions on how to encode his insurance carriers. I could give him the wrong answers and ruin his practice, but then he couldn’t keep up with the alimony. Besides, she added, embarrassed by her breach of long-standing loyalty and annoyed with herself for providing Lew with so much personal information, he’s one hell of an ophthalmologist."

She hadn’t quite gotten the hang of juggling the bitterness with the sadness, or where to draw the line publicly. Kevin had moved out of the house and in with his surgical nurse without leaving Greendale, where he also practiced, and sometimes she imagined the whole town was feeling sorry for her and she had to prove she was unharmed and still laughing.

Lew put down his cup and placed his hands on her shoulders. She backed off and his arms dropped to his sides. Ellen, he said, I’m sorry I pressured you. You just take your time. I’m here when you’re ready.

Ready for what? she shot back. His hurt look made her realize she’d gone too far. Listen, I’m in a rush, she offered in apology. I’ve got a class at two.

He cleared his throat. Right. Over at Iona. Your graduate Lit course. Taking up where you left off, or something.

Yes, she said, hoping his innocuous or something did not sum up her future.

She retrieved her leather tote bag from the chair opposite Lew’s desk and headed for the door. Exiting, she sang Well, see you! jauntily into the air, even though the mild swipe to her ego she knew should not have affected her had just brought her close to tears.

2

A warm breeze faintly smelling of pine drifted through the screen window of Ellen’s study as she typed her concluding comments on the previous day’s tennis meet:

While Bernstein’s slice serve and Henry’s crackling volley may have been the galvanizing shots, it was the overall court coverage and determination that secured the team’s win over Oakdale.

She raised her eyes from her notes and glanced out the window. Her study was on the second floor of a Colonial and overlooked the front yard, an informal arrangement of pines and rhododendrons divided by an asphalt drive. From the window she could also see a few of the houses across the lane, and her attention was drawn to the one opposite her own, where her neighbor was playing a form of basketball in his driveway with his four-year-old son. The boy sat atop the father’s shoulders, dropping a basketball into the hoop mounted on the garage door, his father retrieving the ball and sending it back up to him for another shot.

Only as her cell phone rang did Ellen realize she was smiling. She plucked the device from the tote bag at her feet. Hello, she said, as she began the routine of shutting down the computer.

Morning. Got on your workout clothes? It was her friend Anna Mangione, who two days prior had gotten Ellen to sign up with her for an exercise program at the Omni Health Club across town. Anna was the only doctor’s wife whose friendship had remained constant, aggressively so, after Ellen’s divorce.

I’m still in my robe, Annie. What time is it?

Nine-thirty. Just making sure you’re not going to stand me up.

I’ll be at the club at eleven.

This’ll be interesting. I’ve shared my deepest secrets with you, but never my personal trainer.

Ellen laughed. I don’t know why the hell I’m doing this.

"Because you’re a good sport. I’m doing it because if I don’t lose twenty pounds the health spiel I give patients will lose its credibility, and Mount Vernon Hospital will be looking for another nutritionist. So, how’s it going?"

Okay.

Listen. Tony asked one of the guys he’s been interviewing for his practice to come over for dinner tonight. He’s single, hot, and unlike Tony, too young to think of himself as the god of proctology. Can you come?

First my boss, Wexler, now you. Why does everyone think a woman who hasn’t had sex in over twenty-four hours must be starved for it?

Who’s talking sex here? We’re talking lasagna. I’m making enough to feed an army.

So call in the troops.

And anyway, Anna went on, undaunted, you were so damned faithful all those years, you deserve—

A medal? Hey, I can’t fill the gap with a man like he’s a rented movie. Sorry, don’t mind me. I don’t mean to be an ingrate. Besides, I’ve got a lot of reading for my course tonight.

Okay, so I’ll freeze the lasagna and put Tony’s prospective partner on ice.

You’re great to put up with me, Annie. I should be over my Post-Marital Syndrome any time, now.

Speaking of which, you never told me if you went to see Janet Beekman.

Yes, and thanks for the referral. Ellen had found it easy to unburden her frustrations and resentments to the counselor because she seemed more a woman’s advocate than a psychologist. Dr. Beekman had a comforting approach: she blamed the Patriarchal Society for everything. I had four sessions. It’s about all I can afford.

I’m sure that’s all you need. Meet you at eleven. Try not to look too svelte. It’ll discourage me.

They rang off and Ellen went to scrounge around her bedroom for some appropriate attire, coming up with a pair of gray tights and sweatshirt from the shelf in her closet. She tossed them onto the bed then stuffed a clean change of underwear, black jeans, white V-neck shirt and plain black flats into a spare canvas bag for after the workout. That done, she removed her terrycloth robe and hung it on the hook of her bathroom door.

As she stepped back into the bedroom she caught her nude reflection in the full-length mirror of her closet door and paused, not so much to appraise her body as to acknowledge it. She ran her fingers through her auburn hair, marking how the full, shoulder-length cut emboldened the soft line of her jaw. With a circling motion she felt the measure of protective bone surrounding her shallow-set eyes. In the light filtering through the gauzy white curtains, what she usually perceived as imperfections seemed not to make her less desirable, but more approachable. Her breasts were asking to be cupped gently and lifted, just a little, to an admirer’s lips. Her slender waist in contrast to her rounded hips and thighs seemed to strike a delicate balance between frailty and strength—the one waiting to be encircled, the other, to encompass and hold.

She envisioned herself in a gray tailored suit with the tie of a white silk blouse draped casually over the lapel, and beneath the classic attire, a scanty lace bra and panties the color of her flesh. She imagined her hair in lustrous disarray and a conservative gold knot earring winking in the light streaming in from an office window, the light also shining on a group of framed diplomas hanging above a bookcase filled with important novels, mostly by women, with her own critical volume, maybe on the works of Jane Austen, nestled among them. She saw herself removing a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses from her warm hazel eyes and looking up from the pages on her desk to greet a young man in jeans and college sweatshirt, come to plead for admission to her literature course, presently overenrolled.

She ran her hands up and down the front of her body, swirling over her breasts until her nipples were taut, even as questions intruded themselves. Did she define her body in terms of the masculine gaze? Did her scholarly ambitions arise from conviction, or was she out to elicit praise from the generic lover or father? If she purged the male point of view from self-assessment would she, paradoxically, become mannish herself? Tough, brash, unpretty?

Her hands swept down her belly, meeting at her center. With only the most tentative pressure of her fingers, the questions of identity and validity were reduced to the simple need of being brought to climax. She viewed this with a kind of detached curiosity, amused at her pretense of having been above it all, and then, for a brief and ungraceful twitch in time, she let herself forget everything.

Ellen turned her car into the long bluestone drive, passing between the brick pillars at its entrance. She veered left where the drive split to form a circle and pulled up behind a mud-spattered white compact, the same genus as her Honda. Farther up along the perimeter a red Jaguar glistened in the afternoon sun.

The Halsey house was a sprawling three-story Colonial revival, with weathered natural shingles and painted white trim. She had been there before, about five years ago, when the Halseys had given a fund-raising party for the hospital. A broad, bare wooden porch wrapped around the front and south sides of the house. She remembered having seen the porch bedecked with wicker furniture and giant pots of geraniums. Hemlocks, taller than the house, bordered the property, isolating it from its neighbors.

Ellen slid out from behind the wheel, dragging along her leather tote. She slung the bag over a shoulder, smoothed her shirt into the waist of her black jeans and shut the car door behind her. On her approach to the entrance of the house, she noticed that the other two cars bore North Carolina license plates.

She stood before the oak-paneled door and looked, without success, for the bell as an alternative to the imposing lion’s-head knocker. Using a knocker had always seemed to her more like ordering someone to come to the door than requesting it. She raised the heavy brass instrument and gingerly struck it once. The door was opened almost instantly.

"Hello. You must be from the Chronicle. A gangly man she guessed was in his early forties added a disarming smile to his greeting and extended his hand. In answer to her polite nod: One forty-five, right on schedule. I’m Graham Clarke."

She grasped his hand. Ellen Davis. Welcome to Greendale.

He ushered her in, swung the door shut and escorted her through a small vestibule to the entrance of the living room.

A couch and loveseat upholstered in a nubby, cream-colored fabric stood at right angles to each other. The couch was up against a wall beneath the room’s latticed windows. Empty bookcases lined most of the remaining wall space. On a teak coffee table a toaster, blender, salad bowl and lamp shared company. Cartons, sealed and unsealed, were scattered about the floor.

‘All along o’ dirtiness, all along o’ mess,’ he tossed off, gesturing toward the room.

Her look asked the question.

Kipling’s ‘The Heathen,’ he answered, with a seductive smile, as if erudition were a pheromone. Then, Sophia! he called to the top of the stairs. "It’s the Chronicle reporter!"

He was wearing chinos, an open-necked blue, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and loafers. His fine, light brown hair was combed straight back off his high forehead. Intense brown eyes gazed out from behind round-framed horn-rims. His nose was long and narrow; lips, thin but expressive. Ellen thought he looked like a British character actor.

I hope this isn’t inconveniencing you, she said. I can come back another time.

Well, I hope you will, that is, for a strictly social visit, he said, just as a young woman appeared on the second-floor landing. Ah, here she is, he announced.

The woman had on a formless gray sweatsuit that failed to conceal her fragile grace. Her long, thick black hair, pinned back behind her ears, looked disproportionately heavy. She extended a slender hand to Ellen as she stepped off the bottom stair. Hello, I’m so happy to meet you.

Ellen grasped her hand. It was cold. She resisted the impulse to squeeze it in both her own to warm it up. Hi. Ellen—Ellie—Davis.

My wife, Sophia, Graham said, putting an arm around the woman’s shoulder and giving her an affectionate tug to his chest.

Sophia hesitated then side-stepped out of his embrace, talking at the same time, drawing attention away from the motion. Please excuse this place. I’ve only arrived yesterday, along with the furniture. Her voice was soft and refined, with the hint of a foreign accent. There was an artistic, delicate quality about her. The clear sweep of her brow, the large brown eyes, the slender aquiline nose and the lips defined in garnet against the palest skin contributed to the aura.

My wife stayed in Pembroke to oversee the selling of our house, Graham elaborated, with a fleeting look of entreaty directed at Sophia. "I bunked with a physics professor I met while I was in Manhattan for my interviews. I stayed with him until the closing of this house two weeks ago. He slipped his arm around Sophia’s waist. Her body stiffened, then relaxed, leaning into his, seeming to give into itself, despite the uncertainty still written on her face. Ned’s a great guy, the type who’d give you the shirt off his back. He made me feel at home from day one."

Ellen smiled. Sounds like the kind of professor who’s adored by his students. She turned to Sophia. So, you didn’t see this house before you moved in?

Oh, yes, I saw it at the beginning of the summer, when Graham phoned to say he had found something he liked. She straightened up, this time with confidence. Nikolas Andros—my financial adviser—and I flew out here at once.

A fleeting frown swept across Graham’s brow. Imagine, the man actually popped over here from Greece to favor us with his business acumen.

Now, Graham, Sophia gently admonished, you know he’s often in New York on business. And, after all, he is my godfather."

Of course, Graham replied. Lucky for me, he confirmed my judgment about the house, he added with an edge of sarcasm. He turned to Ellen. But shouldn’t you be taking notes? He nodded toward the living room, and the couple waited for Ellen to precede them.

Ellen skirted the cartons to get to the loveseat. She lowered herself into it.

You seem tentative, Graham said, as he and Sophia stood over her, his arm still clasped about her waist.

I just came from my first session of circuit training, Ellen said. I’m not sure what parts I can count on.

Graham smiled wryly. Changing the shape of your body makes you feel like you’re changing the shape of your life. What could be better?

I take it you work out yourself?

Not at all. I have a couple of proselytizing colleagues.

Ellen uttered a token laugh. At the moment I’m interested in improving my column, not my life, she said, rummaging for her pad and pen in the oversized tote bag that sat in her lap.

Sophia slipped from her husband’s enclosure and perched on the edge of the couch.

We have red wine, beer and diet Coke, Graham offered Ellen. We can also put up some coffee.

Water would be great, actually, Ellen said.

Coming right up. He turned to his wife. Anything for you, love?

No, thank you.

Graham gave a lighthearted bow, clicked his heels, and departed on his errand.

Ellen turned to Sophia. You have a beautifully subtle accent.

Sophia smiled. I’m Greek. You’re not supposed to hear the accent. My childhood tutors tried to eliminate all traces of it.

Graham mentioned Pembroke, and I noticed your North Carolina plates—did you live there long?

Graham was Director of Financial Aid at Pembroke when I married him, Sophia said, pressing a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. That was nine years ago. I was twenty-one. This has been our first move.

Ellen jotted down the information. And where did you two meet?

Athens, Graham answered, entering the room. I was on vacation, taking a mid-semester break. He handed Ellen the glass of water.

Sophia ran her hand over the cushion beside her, looking down at her fingers fanning out against the rough fabric. I don’t know why we have to be written up, she said. It embarrasses me. And really, Graham was never one to seek publicity.

She means I was never one to wander far off campus, he said. Well, I’m turning over a new leaf, and your newspaper column is a good way to get me out of my shell.

He’s even applied for membership in a social club, Sophia said, lifting her gaze to look directly at Ellen.

We’re starting a new life, Graham said. He raised an invisible glass. And here’s to that new life, darling, he pronounced, standing over her, his legs up against her knees.

Sophia finally looked up at him. Yes, here’s to us, she said, with a smile that seemed to Ellen more compliant than spontaneous.

Despite Sophia’s initial reluctance, an hour later there were more facts in Ellen’s pad than she needed for her column. Aside from the complete history of Graham’s career—how he’d gotten his degrees in philosophy, then administration—and his positions, first at Pembroke, then at Columbia, where he was now Assistant Dean of Admissions, Ellen’s notes included all the details of Sophia’s and Graham’s first encounter. According to Graham: "I saw her standing in front of a Correggio—the Guardian, it was—at the National Museum. She was lost in thought, and I took advantage of this by making an incredibly awkward pass. By some miracle it worked. She allowed me to spirit her off to the cocktail lounge at the Athens Hilton, just across the street. I was lucky. I caught her on a day she wasn’t being watched over by an aunt or some other family chaperone."

While Graham was expounding, Sophia had periodically looked uncomfortable, glancing around the room in an obvious attempt to focus elsewhere. Other moments she came across as high-handed. This attitude in and of itself did not seem unnatural. Ellen could picture Sophia giving orders to a housekeeper or putting a waiter in his place. Directed toward Graham, imperiousness seemed out of the ordinary. Even Graham’s body language attested to that. He’d seemed nonplussed, abruptly shifting his weight on the couch when Sophia, in clipped speech, brought up the subject of her new job with the shipping firm of Krinos and Barker. I’ll be a receptionist and an occasional interpreter, she’d said, her back ramrod straight. Nikolas has business connections with them and recommended me for the position. He’s really pleased with my desire to work for the first time in my life. She’d seemed confident until Graham began warning her about her innocence being no match for the dangers of Manhattan. Her body listed toward his then, as if to safe harbor, but she pulled away, as if the call of independence was irresistible. I’m going to give it a try, she’d said with determination, her eyes tinged with fear; his with—what?—nervousness, reproach? Surely something more than simple concern for her safety.

Ellen skimmed through her notes. There seemed to be no gaps in her coverage, except those that would be improper to try to fill. She stowed her pad in her tote. Thanks for being so forthcoming, she said. Especially considering how anxious you must be about getting started with your unpacking.

On the contrary, Graham objected. We’re grateful you’re going to help put us on the map, not to mention your having provided us with an excuse for delaying our ghastly chore.

Ellen rose from the loveseat. It’s been my pleasure, she said, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. I hope we can meet again, less formally. She extended her hand as the Clarkes rose to their feet. Maybe I can show you around town, give you a guided tour, she added, her eyes resting on Sophia, who took the proffered hand and squeezed it gently before her husband seized it for a more vigorous handshake.

I would like that very much, Sophia said. My job will be part-time, at least at the start, and Mr. Krinos is quite open regarding my hours. I’ll be able to adapt to your schedule very nicely. She smiled. I hope your offer is serious.

Of course it is, Ellen said, making the first move toward the exit. Wait, she said, halting mid-step. I took up so much of your time, why don’t I help you out with some of this? She gestured toward the unopened cartons. That is, if you don’t think it’s too nervy of me.

Masochistic is more like it, Graham said. It would be great, but we don’t put friends to work, especially new ones.

Well, now I insist. I’ll write nice things about you only if you let me help.

Graham whistled. That’s another story. In that case, we yield. He glanced at Sophia, who gave an enthusiastic nod of approval.

Ellen slipped the bag off her shoulder and dropped it alongside the couch, out of the way.

Graham approached one of the larger cartons. Let the games begin, he announced, before ceremoniously ripping off the masking tape.

Ellen was emptying her second carton of books and CDs, setting the items in stacks on the floor and loveseat. She’d been given carte blanche on how to arrange them in the bookshelves and was wondering where to begin.

She looked at the gathering assortment and realized that depending on where she’d place things, they’d be given new emphasis, perhaps exert new influence. If, say, she commingled Graham’s CDs with Sophia’s—he’d said she hated the contemporary composers like John Cage, she’d come back with a remark about his bias against Taylor Swift—would it aggravate the couple’s differences or mend them at some inchoate level of being? If she displayed the book on ancient Greece dead center in the bookcase, would Sophia’s past history take precedence over Graham’s? She felt uncomfortable with the power, however illusory. How about I just put things randomly onto the shelves. You can arrange them at your leisure.

Graham looked up from the floor in the corner of the living room, where he was sorting through a heap of magazines and journals. You mean you’re not going to make us a card catalogue? he inquired with mock disappointment. He grinned. Don’t give it a thought. Throw the stuff wherever. He turned to Sophia. How’s it going, sweetheart? You seem distracted.

Sophia looked up from a carton labeled LVING RM/FRAGLE from which she was removing an object wrapped in newspaper. Along the cushions of the couch some of the carton’s contents already lay: a ceramic vase, a plate enameled in vivid blues and yellows, a small bronze reproduction of Rodin’s The Kiss. I’m doing fine, I’m just reliving the past, she said. The best of it, she added, her intent enigmatic.

Ellen delivered her empty cartons to the laundry room, the area assigned for disposals. She returned to the living room to begin the task of placing her items in bookcases. She decided to stack the tallest books, those that couldn’t be placed upright on any of the shelves, on the bottom ones. Lifting two such oversized books from their pile on the floor, she noticed the dust jacket of the book exposed. It froze her attention. On the jacket was a stark black-and-white photograph of a man’s torso, which seemed to be metamorphosing from the thick trunk of a tree, the transplant seamlessly crafted.

Of equal interest to her was the title of the book, printed in lowercase at the bottom of the dust jacket: visions: the photography of michele clarke. Transferring the books she was holding to the crook of one arm, she opened to the inside cover, where, in bold script, handwritten in black ink, it read:

To my darling Graham,

The eye beholds. The mind constructs.

The camera serves.

Be true to your visions.

Yours,

M

Was this Graham’s ex-wife? He’d given no indication of one, but, then, why would he have? She turned a page and came upon the formal, published dedication:

To Bennett, the ideal model, whose beauty

facilitates art.

Curious, she placed the books she was holding on the couch and returned to Michele Clarke’s book. She opened to about mid-volume and began turning pages. The photographs, all black-and-white, were surrealistic montages. In one, a close-up of a woman’s expressionless face, an eye had been replaced by the image of a total solar eclipse, the black circle of the sun analogous to a dilated pupil. In another, a muscular nude was lying facedown in the dunes, one side of his body transformed into the landscape. In another, slender fingers, like tendrils, were woven into—grafted onto—the sinuous maze of a climbing vine.

Michele Clarke’s style, while captivating, was also disturbing to Ellen in its use of the model, treating him purely as form, an experiment in visual irony. Although integrated with other structures, the individual was fragmented and alone, unconnected to any fellow creatures.

With her thumb holding her place in the book, she turned to the back cover, hoping to find some biographical data on the photographer. Instead, there was a photograph of a woman’s face, captioned by an italicized credit: M. Clarke/self-portrait. It