He gave a shrug. “Old magnetic tapes need to be properly stored in a controlled environment in order to extend the life of the media. High temps, humidity, water, dust, corrosive elements in the air—they can all result in a loss of readable data through decreasing the magnetic capability and damaging the binders, the backs of the tapes. I’ll do what I can.”
Angie thanked Daniel and left Mayang Photo Place. As she made her way back to her vehicle parked down the street, she checked her watch again and dialed the number for Trish Shattuck and Willow McDonnell.
Willow answered as Angie reached her vehicle.
“It’s Angie Pallorino,” she said as she beeped her car lock. She climbed into her Mini Cooper and started the ignition. “I apologize for calling at this hour, but I was hoping I could ask you guys one more question?”
“Oh, it’s not late, not for me,” Willow said. “I usually work at least until midnight most nights. Shoot.”
“That last evening in the campsite, after Jasmine left to fish downriver, who all remained in camp?”
A moment of silence. “It was a long time ago. Let me think ... the two guides, they left shortly after Jasmine to collect more firewood.”
“So there were eight of you at the camp? You and Trish, Eden, Rachel, Kathi, Irene, Hannah, and Donna?”
Another long pause. Angie turned up the heater in her car in an effort to demist the windows.
“Oh, wait, I believe Rachel then left with her equipment.”
“To shoot footage of the camp? From a nearby promontory upriver?” This was what Rachel had told Angie, and she wanted to see if it meshed with Willow’s and Trish’s recollections.
“I ... thought she said was going downriver to see if she could film Jasmine fishing from a higher vantage point along a ridge.”
“Rachelsaidthat—downriver?”
“Oh, Angie, you know, it was such a long time ago, I cannot be sure. Irrespective of what she might have said, I didn’t actually see with my own eyes which way Rachel went. Even if she did say she wanted footage of Jaz, she might have decided otherwise when she saw the light, the time, caught a good aspect, a potential visual. She was doing that all the time. She’d head into each day of shooting with a plan, but if the light shifted or something changed, she’d go with the fresh cues. It’s what made her good at her job, being responsive, watching things unfold, seeing a potential story in the patterns evolving in front of her.”
“Thanks, Willow. I really appreciate this.”
“Anytime. I’m happy to help.” A pause. “Why is this important?”
“It’s probably not,” Angie said, putting her car into gear. “But that final VHS footage Rachel shot on the last night has gone missing. I was hoping to see it for myself.”
“Maybe it’ll show up yet.”
“Maybe.”
Angie killed the call and drove home through a quiet city on this Monday night, an edginess crackling through her, a sense that something felt slightly off about the Jasmine Gulati story. The November wind gusted, and a fine drizzle plastered fallen leaves to the sidewalks.
Who were those three men who’d followed the women down the river?
Had Rachel lied?
What had Jasmine meant about the women on the trip all having secrets? Angie’s thoughts circled around what the old nurse who’d rescued her from the angel’s cradle had said.
We all tell lies. We all have secrets. A secret can own a person. A secret is powerful. But only to the degree that the truth threatens someone.
If there were indeed secrets being kept about the river trip, who would be most threatened should the truth be revealed?
CHAPTER 20
Back in her apartment, Angie downloaded the digitized files onto her laptop. Daniel Mayang had labeled each file to match the VHS tapes listed on Rachel Hart’s inventory—“Arrival in Port Ferris,” “Gathering in Hook and Gaffe,” “Camp Moments: Second Night.”
She checked her watch. She might be able to get through watching most of this footage tonight if she pushed through. She knew sleep would elude her anyway, given her anxiety over her relationship.
She turned up the gas fireplace—temperatures outside were dropping fast, the wind howling—and made a mug of cocoa. Gathering her hot drink, notepad, and pen, she settled in front of her laptop. Before she hit PLAY, she brought to mind the parameters of her investigative brief:
Jasmine Gulati’s death was being ruled an accidental drowning. So far no crime nor criminal intent was evident. Yet there were interesting questions around Jasmine herself. Her mystery engagement ring. A possible secret fiancé, one who’d never stepped forward after she vanished over the falls. A missing journal with possible erotic content. There were the three men stalking the women along the river. And there were the anomalies in the pathologist’s report—healing scars from an improperly treated shoulder injury, scars on the decedent’s pelvis. Even with an accidental death, there were always human factors at play, interrelationships that could have led to the events that culminated in a mishap.
