“How long will it take?”
“A few minutes.”
“Can you e-mail them to me in, say, an hour?”
“Probably. Is this about Teddy Fay?”
“The idea is, I’ll look at them, and if one of them could conceivably be Teddy, I’ll send them to Lance, and he can show them to Teddy’s former coworkers for ID.”
“Makes sense to me.”
She gave him her e-mail address. “I’ll be standing by.”
“Later.” He broke the connection.
Holly called Lance.
“Lance Cabot.”
She explained about the photographs she was going to send.
“Excellent,” Lance replied. “How soon?”
“Maybe an hour or so; check your e-mail.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Yes; I think we’re about done here.”
“You’re giving up?”
“Our stay is nearing its end, and we have not been able to identify Teddy. Our best shot is that he’s Robertson, Pemberton or Weatherby; if we can’t get an ID from these photos, then we have nowhere else to go. Our well is dry.”
“That’s discouraging.”
“Well, we’re discouraged. I want to have one more dinner with Irene Foster, though. Maybe we’ll glean something from her.”
“And her boyfriend? Pitts?”
“I think he may have already sailed for home.”
“You’re satisfied that he’s not Teddy?”
“He isn’t, unless Teddy knows how to grow hair on a bald scalp. Pitts doesn’t wear a toupee.”
“All right, call tomorrow. I’ll send the jet for you at, say, noon the day after.”
“Good.” She hung up and called Irene.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Irene, it’s Ginny; how are you?”
“Very well, thanks; are you still on the island?”
“We leave on Saturday. I was hoping that you could join us for dinner tonight at the inn.”
“Love to; is Harry invited, as well?”