Snapshots: The Dupree Case

The fat man came into view again under the San Francisco streetlamp as another patch of fog drifted past like puffs of smoke from the devil's cigarette. I reached for my own pack of Marlboro Reds, not remembering that I had quit until my hand found an empty pocket. Damn. This city is hell on an ex-smoker.

I checked my watch. High noon. Right on time, my client emerged from the revolving door of the hotel across the street, wearing the red raincoat we'd agreed upon. She looked left, then walked right.

My gaze shifted back to the fat man. Sure enough, he raised a camera and began snapping shots as my client moved down the sidewalk. After several snapshots, he walked in the same direction on the opposite side of the street at a surprisingly brisk pace. Ah, I understood. He was trying to get a comfortable distance in front so he could shoot her face.

With a camera.

I hoped.

I maintained a similar distance as I stalked the stalker. More snapshots. My client seemed oblivious, but she had spotted him the previous day and the day before that without letting on. She was good. He was, too. He didn't have much time to set up his shots, but I could tell that he was getting clear, unobstructed views.

But to what purpose? My client claimed not to know anybody in San Francisco, and few knew she was here. She hired me over the phone after the second straight day of stalking. I didn't detect fear or anxiety in her voice; she sounded wronged. He had intruded on her space and she wanted it back.

My client suddenly stepped inside a trattoria for lunch. The stalker waited outside for five minutes, then stepped inside. I swore and moved my Hush Puppies forward but he walked out before I could get there and rushed off in the opposite direction. I spared a quick glance inside. My client was buttering a slice of bread. Assured of her safety, I took off in pursuit of my quarry. He was going for the cable car. I jumped on just in time.

After a short ride, the fat man deboarded at Union Square and took off down Market Street. He stopped in front of a shop, unlocked the door, and entered. I looked at the sign: Gutman Studios. The door was unlocked and the light was on, so I walked in.

"Can I help you?" The fat man looked up from a desk where he was connecting his camera to a computer.

I glanced around. The artwork was mostly oils on canvas--cityscapes. "I saw you taking pictures earlier. Are these your work?" I gestured at the walls.

"Yes. You looking to buy?"

"What were you photographing earlier?"

He shrugged. "Sidewalks. People. Streetlife. Why do you ask?"

"People?" I inquired. "Or one particular person?"

He looked at me sharply, then sank into his chair with a sigh. "She saw me, didn't she?"

"You're kinda hard to miss. Why were you doing it?"

"Have you seen her? She's amazing! Look," he opened a file and pulled out some photos. "See how she dresses? How she holds herself? She looks like she's from the '40s, like she doesn't fit in with everyone else, but she does fit in with the city. She belongs and doesn't belong at the same time."

He was right. She walked through the city as if nobody else were there, as if it were hers alone. "She's like a ghost," I muttered.

"Right! That's it exactly. When I saw her the other day, I knew I had to do her."

I gave him a hard stare.

"No, man. I'm talking about painting. Come here." He pointed at a canvas. It was her, wearing a stylish coat and hat, walking down a busy sidewalk. She and the city were grayscale; the other people and cars were in color. It was far from finished but it was stunning.

"So, you don't know her? You're only taking her picture so you can paint her?"

"Yeah. I'm not a stalker. Okay, okay, I guess I was stalking her, but I only wanted her picture. I don't know her name and don't want to know it. I have all the pictures I need; I won't follow her anymore, okay?"

I reached an understanding with the fat man, then walked outside and rang up my client. We arranged to meet for coffee near her hotel.

She was already seated at a booth when I walked in. Once again, she stood out from the crowd. She belonged in another era. Glamorous. Nobody was glamorous anymore. She was. But there was something more this time. I felt like I knew her. I knew I had never seen her before; I would have remembered. Nevertheless, I couldn't shake the feeling.

"Ms. Dupree?"

She looked up. "Mr. Cardigan? Please, sit down."

I sat and ordered coffee and a scone from the waiter.

"You said that you had solved the case?"

"Yes, ma'am." I explained how the artist had been struck by her countenance.

"Countenance?" She smiled. "I didn't know anybody used that word anymore, Mr. Cardigan."

"It fits you. The fat man said you evoke another era and that's what he was trying to capture. I agree with him, if you don't mind my saying."

She sipped her coffee. "No, I don't mind. I even understand, I think."

My own coffee arrived. It was black, strong, and hot; the scone was flaky, fruity, and nutty. I tried not to read too much into that. "Do you? Can you explain?"

"I'm not sure I can. I've never lived in San Francisco, but I feel at home here. No, not at home. Alive, maybe."

"You don't feel alive other times?" I was curious.

"Not the way I do here. It's complicated." She paused. "Do you believe in past lives, Mr. Cardigan?"

"I never gave it much thought before. But today...maybe I do. You seem very familiar to me, though I know we've never met."

"No, we haven't. I would have remembered. I'm not sure that I believe in past lives, either. Or destiny. But I admit that I feel those forces at work when I'm in this city." She looked out the window. "It's a special place to me."

"It can continue to be," I assured her. "The fat man won't follow you again. He doesn't know your name or where you're from; in fact, he doesn't want to know. It reinforces the image of a ghost."

"A living ghost," she mused. "I like that. It captures how I feel in this city."

"Far more preferable to being a dead ghost," I agreed. "The food tastes much better."

She laughed. "I agree! I couldn't bear the thought of being in this city and not eating. Each meal is special."

"You should meet my friend Danny," I told her. "He is a purveyor of special meals."

"Maybe next time I'm in town," she stated. "I fly out tonight."

"Give me a ring; you have my number."

"And your PayPal account. You'll be paid in full for your services, plus a bonus."

"The bonus isn't necessary, Ms. Dupree. I took care to overcharge you in the first place."

She laughed. "I like you, Mr. Cardigan. I hope I am stalked again on my next visit."

"Let me know when you're coming and I'll make all the arrangements."

She smiled. "I'd like that. Goodbye, Mr. Cardigan."

"Goodbye."

She left money for the bill and walked out of the cafe and out of my life. I felt certain, however, that I hadn't seen the last of Lily Dupree.