“A few,” Gordy replied. “I think it was like four or five, but I don’t remember exactly. There’s a display on top that tells how many pictures had been taken. I just noticed that the number wasn’t zero.
Floyd helped himself to a coffee refill, and looked through the pictures again.
“I’ve heard we have better coffee than the courthouse,” Gordy said.
“Most people don’t call the brew at the courthouse coffee,” Floyd replied. “It’s closer to coal oil. The only thing it’s got going for itself is the high caffeine concentration.” Floyd turned the picture of the man against the tree a different direction and shook his head. “I wish there was a little more definition to this print. We might be able to see some distinguishing mark that could tell us who it is.”
The sound of footsteps preceded Barb appearance at the end of the pharmacy counter. “Ms. Rolfes is here for her pictures. I assume one of you would like to talk to her.”
Martha Rolfes was wearing a one-piece swimsuit covered by an unbuttoned pink blouse and a pair of running shorts. Floyd guessed her to be in her middle thirties. She had a deep tan and short brown hair that was sun-bleached almost blonde. She looked at Floyd with curiosity as he approached the counter.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, obviously concerned at the sight of Floyd’s uniform. Martha Rolfes’s eyes went to the badge and then grew wide as her hand covered her mouth. “My god, who’s hurt? I only left them a couple hours ago to shop.”
“Your family is fine. I need to ask you about some of the pictures you had developed.”
Martha let out a deep breath and composed herself. “You nearly scared me to death. I left my husband and the kids at the lake to water-ski. I thought something had happened to them.”
“You dropped these pictures off for developing,” Floyd said as he laid out all the pictures except the first five. “Are these all the pictures you took?”
The woman looked through the pictures briefly. “I guess… I’m not the photographer in the family, but these are all pictures of Bill and me with the kids. Is there some problem with them?”
Floyd set the first four pictures down, and held the bloody picture back. “Are any of these familiar to you?”
She looked through them quickly and shook her head. “I don’t recognize any of the people or the places. Should they look familiar?”
“They were the first four pictures on the roll of film you had developed.”
A wave of revelation appeared on the woman’s face. “Of course! The pharmacist helped me get that old garage-sale camera operating. He said the roll of film in the camera was partially used, so I just told the kids to finish off the rest of the film and we’d all be surprised by what might be on the first part of the roll.” She looked through the pictures again. “So the mystery is solved! Somebody was taking pictures while they were in Japan.”
“Did you notice how many pictures had been taken on that old roll of film before you started using it?”
“I think five had been taken,” she said before pausing to visualize the camera in her mind. “Yes, I’m pretty sure it was five.” She looked at the four pictures on the counter and then looked at Floyd, “I guess that one of them must not have come out.”
“I guess one didn’t,” Floyd said. “You said you got the camera at a garage sale. Where was the sale?”
“Well, it was last weekend, over the Fourth of July. We got it from a house a few blocks back toward the interstate and south of here. I don’t know the address, but I could point it out to you if it you wanted.”
“Would it be okay if I kept these old pictures?”
“They don’t mean anything to me,” Martha said with a shrug.
“I parked a couple blocks from here,” Floyd said. “Give me a second to get my car and I’ll follow you there.” He leaned close to Barb and whispered, “Blow up numbers four and five. I’d like to see them in greater detail.”
Floyd followed Martha Rolfes’s red Chevy Yukon down a road running parallel to Pine City’s Main Street. She stopped in front of an older bungalow with green siding and white trim. Floyd knew the owners — Alex Solstad had played football with him in high school and now worked at the feed mill. His wife Karen was a few years younger, but also a graduate of Pine City High School. Staring at the house, Floyd had a sinking feeling. The last time he’d been at their door was to tell the Solstads their son, Ken, had been killed in a car accident.
Martha Rolfes met Floyd at her rear bumper. “It was this house. They had the garage open and the driveway was full of tables. I bought the camera and a couple of sweatshirts to keep at the cabin.”
“Where are you staying?”
“We bought a cabin on Cross Lake a couple years ago. Some schoolteachers owned it, but when their daughters grew up they decided to put it on the market. The sign in the driveway still says Plauda. We planned to change it this week, but we’ve been too busy having fun.”
“I’ve seen the sign,” Floyd said, having driven the road hundreds of times. “Do you have a phone?”
“No,” Martha said, shaking her head. “We decided that we’d just use our cellphones when we’re up here. I’m afraid I don’t even know the numbers.”
“I know where I can find you, but I don’t think we’ll need anything more. Have a great vacation.”
Martha looked nervously at the house. “There was another picture, wasn’t there? Otherwise you wouldn’t be so interested.”
Floyd smiled. “You should’ve been a detective.” He walked to the house and knocked on the door. When he looked back, Martha Rolfes was sitting in her car watching him.
Karen Solstad opened the door, her expression quickly changing from blank to surprise. “Floyd! I didn’t expect to see you here.” She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the door. “C’mon in.” Floyd followed her into the living room where she motioned for him to sit in a chair with carved wooden arms and a brocade-covered cushion. The living room was cozy and overfilled with older, well-kept furniture. There was a slight scent of cigarette smoke in the air, but the ashtrays were empty.
Karen was a big-boned woman with hair dyed the color of redwood. It was tied in a short ponytail. She wore an oversized Minnesota Twins T-shirt that was almost as long as her denim shorts. Her sturdy legs ended in a pair of tattered tennis shoes.
“I heard I missed the big garage sale last weekend,” Floyd said as he sat down. “Did you do well?”
“We sold over two-hundred-dollars worth of stuff, and cleaned out a whole lot of old crap that was collecting dust.” She sat back in the chair and studied Floyd’s face. “You don’t care how the garage sale went. What’s up?”
“I did want to talk about the garage sale. Did you run it all by yourself, or did you get together with a couple of families?”
“Sue, from next door, brought over a few things, but most of it was just stuff Alex and I accumulated over the years. I decided it was time to clean house. I can’t say Alex was too excited about having all his crap sitting out on tables for the neighbors to see, but I gave him a chance to throw any of it in the garbage before the sale started.”
“Do you remember selling a camera?” Floyd asked.
“Sure,” Karen said with a confused look. “Was it broken or something? If it doesn’t work I’ll refund their money.”
“They put new batteries in and it worked fine. Who owned it?”
Karen’s eyes darted around the room nervously, like she was trying to avoid the question. Her eyes settled on the dark wood fireplace mantle where a picture of a young man in uniform stood. “It was in Kenny’s stuff. I figured we’d been hanging onto it long enough now. I cleaned it all out and sold it.”