Free Desert Exposure by Robena Grant

onto the screened-in porch.
    “Me too, in liking the outdoors.”
    “It must have been windy,” she said, and brushed at the fine sand covering the outdoor furniture. “He’s fussy about this space.”
    “We can clean it up.” Michael pushed the loveseat, hung by chains to the beams of the roof, and it moved leisurely back and forth.
    “Yeah, it wouldn’t take long.” What a nice suggestion. She turned the key in the front door and switched on the hall light, and then let him walk in ahead of her. She locked the door behind them. “Let’s go to the darkroom first.”
    “Sure,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the interior of the cabin. “Lead on.”
    Rachel stopped at the open doorway to the darkroom, her thoughts running wild, and her pulse kicking up a notch. Something didn’t seem right. Grandpa was adamant about dust, and he always closed the door behind him; rule number one of the darkroom. Michael stood close behind her.
    “Anything wrong?” he asked.
    “Someone has been here,” Rachel said, as she entered the room and turned on the overhead light. “And recently.”
    “How can you tell?” Michael peered through the doorway.
    “The door was left open. Everything seems neat and in order.” Rachel shoved a hand against her hip and grimaced. “Grandpa is messy.” She waved a hand around, assessing the small room. “The three developing trays are spotless.”
    She took stock of everything. The enlarger, safe light, fan, and then she put a hand on the front of the film drying cabinet. Could it be her imagination? Was it warm?
    “It has never, ever, looked this organized.”
    “Maybe he’d done some house cleaning, and—”
    “Nope. A photographer can’t allow dust in a darkroom. That’s why the door is always locked. He’d clean the equipment, the tub, and the floor after every use, but the room got messy with stacks of photos and boxes and bottles of stuff.”
    “Maybe the cops took those?”
    “I don’t remember that. Besides, look at Ralph.” She nodded toward Ralph who sniffed the floor, and made small guttural sounds.
    Above the old chipped tub were several clothes lines stretched end to end, and wooden clothes pins were clipped to the front line. “Grandpa uses these,” she said, touching a line. “He clips up the negatives and the photographs he favors.” The lines were empty but for the clothes pins. “There’d always be photos here. Sometimes a favorite photo would hang here until it yellowed with age.”
    “Maybe the cops took them,” Michael said.
    Rachel blinked back the sudden threat of tears, and backed toward the door, knocking her elbow into Michael’s chest. “Sorry. Um…I want to get the view from back here. I know something isn’t right, but I can’t tell what.”
    “No problem,” he said, and moved further out into the hallway.
    Rachel checked the room again. What the hell could it be?
    Grandpa had boarded up the one window, layered it with sheets of dark plastic and used tape around the edges. Not even a pinpoint of daylight could filter through. Around the door he’d added thick rubber strips at the top and bottom. Everything was intact. Her heart pounded. What is wrong ? A basket of apples sat on the floor in the corner. Sadness flooded through her. He’d often lunch on an apple, and a pot of coffee, so excited with his photographs he’d forget to eat properly. There were a half dozen apples in the basket, left over from when they’d gone to the orchard in nearby Julian a few weeks back, and they still looked pretty good.
    She walked over, picked one up and felt the hardness. The cool, darkroom must have kept the apples from going soft. She put it back in the basket. So wouldn’t that mean the door had been closed until recently? Grandpa’s rubber boots stood neatly to one side. He’d never leave without those. Another oddity, he usually washed them off outside and left them to dry on the back verandah. She bent down and a strong odor tickled