Chasing Shadows. Karen Harper

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      “You are Winston Jackson.”

      “Guilty. Win Jackson, photographer, collector, movie buff, local historian. And you are a lady with a pink sling that clashes with your stunning Titian hair.”

      She hooked her sunglasses over the sling and extended her hand. Bright! Talented! Eccentric! were the words that buzzed in her brain to describe him. He wore the sort of glasses that darkened in the sun because here, under the awning, they were lightening to show intense brown eyes. His mouth was full, his nose a bit crooked, but he emanated intelligence, like a slightly mussed professor.

      “I’m Claire Britten. I’ve been retained to gather information about the loss of Francine Montgomery in the hope of helping settle certain legal issues for her daughter, Jasmine. I’ve been told you knew—and know—them both, and I’d be grateful if you could spare me time for an interview, not today, but soon, perhaps tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

      He held her hand a bit too long. His grip was steady. Were long, thin fingers part of being an artist? He gave her a little courtly bow from the waist.

      “Of course,” he said, releasing her hand. “Anything to help Jasmine, the estate and the unique treasure she’s now been entrusted with. Have you seen Shadowlawn yet?”

      “No, I haven’t. Soon.”

      “Well, at least let me introduce her, that is, the mansion in some of my work inside. Shadowlawn’s ambience and provenance are definitely feminine. Several others are viewing the photographs, and I only stepped out for a moment, when I realized they weren’t going to buy. Even artists must be practical, you know.”

      They went in, and he introduced her to his assistant, Len, a young African-American man who was cleaning what appeared to be a large antique camera with accordion folds behind the lens. Three people perused the hanging works, and “Please call me Win, not Winston,” escorted her to the back of the large display area with two huge photographs of the most magnificent white-pillared, two-story plantation house she had ever seen. It looked as if she could walk from under the gnarled live oaks framing the photo, push aside the Spanish moss and stride right up the velvet green grass into the double doors.

      “Gone with the Wind revisited,” she whispered, awed at the stunning photograph.

      “Better than Tara,” he insisted. “This place is real. And endangered. I’ll do whatever I can to help Jasmine save it. And save herself.”