I rearranged the jewelry and hung a Swarovski crystal necklace on a mannequin with a black rolled-neck cashmere sweater—the combination looked stunning. Even though the big social weekend was over, I pressed a few gowns and rehung them on a rack. I chatted with customers and actually sold a scarf and a pair of gold hoop earrings. I wished I’d called the restaurant myself for a list of the reservations, but I knew Jack wouldn’t want me to interfere.

I was almost glad to see Peter Butinski come in. That’s how bored I was. He had brought in more shoes. But he didn’t return the magazine he’d lifted from Dolce’s desk.

“Have I got something for you,” he said to me. “Five fall shoes no girl can live without.” He sat himself down in one of Dolce’s padded chairs as if he belonged there. “That means you, Ms. Jewel.”

“Not for me, Peter, but I want to see what you’ve got.” When had I not been interested in the latest fashion footwear?

He opened the boxes. He was right: a girl could do worse than stocking up with his five selections—a kick-ass pair of boots in gray suede, a wooden wedge heel that could go anywhere from dusk to dawn, an updated clog, an open-back mule to wear now or later with tights, and a pump that looked totally classic but, he explained, was actually waterproof.

“You may not know this,” Peter said, “but the latest thing for fall is wearing a pair of chic socks with your strappy heels.”

“Socks, with strappy heels?” I was trying to visualize the combination.

He nodded and reached into his canvas bag. “Like these Falke over-the-knee socks in soft cotton. What do you think?”

I ran my fingers over the ribbed socks. They were incredibly soft and would look good with shorts and a pair of espadrilles.

“Fifty-five percent cotton, twenty-five percent virgin wool.”

“I love them,” I confessed, “but . . .” I was losing sight of my goal here, distracted as usual by something I just had to have. I forced myself to focus on the problem at hand. I looked at the shoes he’d set on the table.

There was just one thing missing.

“No silver stilettos, Peter?”

I expected him to tell me he could get them if I wanted them. I didn’t expect him to turn deathly pale, almost the color of gray suede.

“Wh . . . what do you mean?” he asked.

“I just wondered if you had anything like a pair of handmade silver heels,” I said as innocently as I could. “Not that I have any place to wear them like a society benefit or anything, but you never know. Always best to be prepared for any occasion, right?”

He hesitated for a moment, looking at me as if he thought I might know something I shouldn’t. Then he recovered his poise. “I have ways of special ordering any shoe you want, my dear.” Maybe he thought I might actually buy something from him. “Just let me know ahead of time. Now where’s Dolce?”

“In her office.”

“I’ll leave the shoes then and the socks. I expect they’ll fly off the shelf. Especially if you promote them. I’ll make it worth your while.” He looked at my feet. “What’s your size?”

“Eight and a half,” I said. I wondered what he had in mind. A discount on his shoes?

After he left, I went over our conversation in my mind. He knew something about MarySue’s silver shoes, I could swear he did. But what?

The rest of the day dragged by. I didn’t hear from Dr. Jonathan, Nick or the detective. I couldn’t think of how to bring up the subject of the benefit with Dolce without sounding like I was accusing her of something. So I didn’t. If Jack Wall thought it was her, let him do it. I just hoped he wouldn’t. Dolce didn’t need that kind of harassment.

The more I thought about it the more I was intrigued by the thought of MarySue returning as a vampire and going to dinner at Café Henri the same night I did. If only I was a true believer. If only I knew what perfume she wore. No, that was ridiculous. The woman whose shoes I’d seen at the restaurant was a living, breathing person, and I wanted to know who she was.

That night I couldn’t face going straight home alone. I realized I was getting hooked on fun and excitement, if you can call looking for a murderer fun and exciting. With my ankle feeling almost normal, I decided to sign up for one of Nick’s classes instead of resuming kung fu. It would give me something to do at night besides vegging out in front of my TV, and I didn’t mind the fact that it would bring me into close attention with Nick.

At five o’clock I left Dolce’s and took a bus to the Ocean View Gymnastics School on Vista Avenue. I wasn’t sure if Nick would be there. If he was, I’d observe his class and see if he really was a good teacher. If he wasn’t, I’d just sign up for one of his classes and take a chance. I didn’t think he’d mind if I just dropped in. Hadn’t he invited me to do just that? My action didn’t count as chasing men, did it? If only Aunt Grace were around, I’d check with her to be sure.

Before I committed to anything, though, I’d take a look around the gym to see if there were students swinging from trapezes or gyrating to rock music or jumping on trampolines. If there were, I’d slip out unnoticed and find another activity for my empty evenings.

As it turned out, Nick was there, wearing shorts and a “Romania the Land of Choice” T-shirt. He was just about to teach a tumbling class for children when he saw me at the front desk. “Rita, I am very glad to meet you again,” Nick said. “You came to join the class, yes?”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I joined one with adults?” I asked with a glance at the group of children waiting for him on the gym floor. I’d stand out like a sore thumb, being larger and less able to perform than everyone else.

“As you like, yes, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

“I’m afraid it would make me feel uncomfortable when I saw how well the children did and I didn’t.”

“Ah, yes, I understand. A beginning class is best for you, which meets on Wednesdays. How is that for you?”

“That would be fine. Is it okay if I watch this class this evening?” I asked, thinking I’d see what his technique was and if he was patient with the slow learners. I didn’t need anyone else in my life criticizing me for making the wrong moves.

“Of course. Many parents will watch also. And afterward we can have a coffee between classes.”

I told him it sounded good, then I took a seat on the risers with a good view of the class. The other adults there must be the parents he’d mentioned. While he had the kids doing warm-up exercises, I overheard them talking.

“Isn’t he the best? Sasha just loves this class,” one woman said to another.

“His accent is to die for, and those biceps. You can tell he’s in good shape.”

“Definitely eye candy,” another mother said, her gaze focused on the gym instructor on the floor.

They were right. Nick was even better looking in shorts and a T-shirt than in his trench coat on the night I’d met him at the airport. And you couldn’t say that about everyone. Most people got worse looking the more clothes they removed. Which was why I was in the clothes and accessory business. I made women look better.

“I don’t know any other Romanians,” the first woman said. “Maybe they’re all as hot as Nick Petrescu. My au pair has a major crush on him. He asked her out to some Romanian festival, and she’s over the moon, completely gaga.”

What? My Nick was going out with someone else? I told myself he had the right to date anyone and everyone he wanted to. As long as he didn’t take her on the vampire tour too. After all, he was only one of the three men in my life. He was new in town and needed new friends just the way I did.

By the end of the class I hadn’t made up my mind about taking a class, but I was glad I’d come. When Nick joined me, he had showered and changed into street clothes and still looked very attractive in a European way. He was totally different from the other two men in my life. One was a doctor who had the money to wine and dine me, one was more concerned that I was an accomplice in a murder, and then there was Nick, who just wanted me to meet his relatives and feed me.

Over coffee in the adjacent snack bar, Nick told me how glad he was I’d decided to take gymnastics. I was reluctant to make a commitment, so I said I’d have to check my schedule first before I signed up.

He asked if I was still interested in the vampire tour. “Don’t worry,” he said, “they do not go underground or to any stops that are seriously dangerous or frightening.”

Not dangerous or frightening? Now I was worried it wasn’t going to be authentic. “Of course I’m interested,” I said. “I can’t believe I never heard of it before.”

“Aunt Meera doesn’t advertise so much. She wants only earnest students of history or her friends on her tour. Some do wear costumes, but only to get to the spirit, you understand. What is your liking, Friday or Saturday night? It begins at eight and ends at ten.”

“Saturday would be fine,” I said.

“I will tell my aunt. She is looking forward to your meeting her. I told her of how we met at the airport, of course. And how you dropped your shoes.”

“She knows about the silver shoes?” I asked. By now I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone I knew had either seen the shoes, wanted the shoes, stolen the shoes, sold the shoes or worn the shoes. Maybe she was the one who took them. Maybe she was the one who was wearing them at the restaurant. If it was her, I was impressed at how fast a one-hundred-twenty-seven-year-old could dash through a restaurant.

“She knows about many things,” he said.

“Because of her age,” I said. “Do you know what kind of perfume she wears?”

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“I am sorry to leave like this,” Nick said, looking at his vintage Orex watch, “but I must attend schedule meeting. And after the meeting I have a, how do you say? A previous commitment.”

Hmmm. Maybe the previous commitment was a date with the au pair. “Thanks for letting me observe,” I said. “It was very interesting.”

He stood and walked me to the door. “Until Saturday then. It will be so pleasant for me, and my aunt is the same. After the tour we will taste some Romanian food and drink together.”

I stood at the bus stop feeling glad I’d made the effort to come out here and watch a class. I’d learned I wasn’t the only woman in Nick’s life. Which made me wonder what my competition was in Jack’s life or my doctor’s? So what should I do? Take a class from Nick? Return to kung fu? Do nothing? What I was sure of was that I was looking forward to the vampire tour. Even if I learned nothing about the lost shoes or came any closer to finding out who killed MarySue, I would enjoy hearing more about the history of San Francisco and how vampires had supposedly participated in shaping the city. All that from a self-professed vampire guide who’d been around a long, long time. Maybe not one hundred years, but still quite a while. For once I’d like to go out and have a good time without thinking about MarySue, Jim Jensen, Peter Butinski or Harrington Harris. Nick knew nothing about MarySue Jensen and I was glad. I had hit a dead end trying to find out who’d killed her. I wanted to forget about her, her husband and her probable killer whoever he or she might be.

But I couldn’t forget Harrington. The next day Dolce told me we’d been invited to see the dress rehearsal at the high school of Bye Bye Birdie, Harrington’s play.

“Already? Didn’t school just start this week?” I said.

“I can’t keep track,” Dolce said. “But apparently he’s been rehearsing it all summer. He’s certainly been talking about it all summer. No rest for the wicked, according to him. Even so, it’s bound to be terrible. He said so himself. But he’s invited all our customers. How would it look if we didn’t go?”

“You’re right,” I said. “We’re just one big happy family, aren’t we?”

Dolce gave me an approving smile. I was glad she didn’t think I was being sarcastic.

On Friday night Dolce said she’d take us to the play in her rental Range Rover, which was so unlike her. She explained she had to turn in the Mercedes and take the cheapest car in the lot. Maybe she was afraid I’d bolt if she didn’t make sure I went with her. But first we went across the street from the boutique to the upscale trendy bar, which was filled with Yuppies on a Friday night, what else? Dolce said she couldn’t face an amateur production without a drink first, and Aberration was well-known for the mixologist behind the bar.

His reputation was well-deserved. I ordered a Galapagos made with lemon and lime and even a splash of grapefruit juice, and Dolce ordered a wanderlust, a kind of super martini with organic vodka.

“You should come here more often,” Dolce told me, looking around at the crowd of young professionals. “Good place to meet men.”

I nodded. But what would I do with any more men? “Actually I have another date tomorrow.”

“With the doctor?” she asked.

“With Nick the gymnast. We’re going on a vampire tour of the city. It’s led by his aunt. He says she claims to be a vampire herself.”

“Rita, you don’t believe in vampires, do you?” she asked with a frown.

“Of course not,” I said. Why did everyone keep asking me that? Not even Nick believed his aunt was for real. “But I am interested in history. And since I minored in Romanian in college I will be interested to hear what she has to say about Vlad the Impaler who may or may not have been the real Count Dracula.”

When we got to the high school, I think both Dolce and I wished we hadn’t forfeited an evening of ordering drinks and munching barbecued wonton, meatballs or shrimp cocktail at the bar to come see a bunch of high school kids jump around on stage singing and dancing.

Just a glance around the little theatre told us the place was full of the parents of the actors and a smattering of Dolce’s customers Harrington had conned into coming. “What I won’t do for my clients,” Dolce murmured. Even though I didn’t need to remind her that Harrington was hardly a good customer. Harrington met us in the lobby with our tickets. For some reason he was dressed in seventies’ disco style—a bold-patterned polyester shirt that fit tightly across his chest and a pair of wide-leg pants—even though the play was set in the sixties. Close enough, I guessed. He was greeting parents and friends alike as if he were the star of the musical himself. He was the center of attention, gladhanding the adults in the lobby as if he was Stephen Sondheim at the opening of Sweeney Todd.

His sister Marsha came up and studied my hair and my outfit. I wasn’t sure if she appreciated the combination of my print dress and brown lace-up boots, which were a vintage tribute to the character of Elaine on Seinfeld who always showed up in long floral skirts, blazers and granny shoes with socks. Even if no one else realized what my fashion inspiration was on a given day, I was confident enough to wear what I liked. Maybe I’d even be credited with bringing back nineties TV-sitcom style.

“How was your date?” Marsha asked. Not a word about my clothes. I refused to let it bother me.

“Wonderful. Thanks to you, I didn’t have to worry about my hair for a minute.”

“Where did you go?”

“We had dinner at a little French place. Great food, and a jazz trio played after dinner.”

“Really? It wasn’t Café Henri, was it?”

I stared at her. “Have you been there?” Had she seen the woman in the silver shoes?

She nodded. “Sunday night. It was my birthday. You should see what my brother gave me before we went to dinner. A pair of shoes to die for. He made them himself, but you’d never know. They look like they came from Italy or someplace. The man is a genius. Well, I’d better go get a seat up front. Harrington wants my take on his costumes. I know they’ll be fabulous, but I’m taking notes for him.” She waved a small notepad and left the lobby while I stood there staring with my mouth open.

Handmade shoes? I wondered. Would those shoes have been a pair of silver stilettos? And if so, did she really believe her brother made them? I knew he was clever, but really. Wasn’t it more likely he stole them from MarySue and gave them to his sister? I should have paid attention to her perfume. I thought if I ever smelled that musky scent again, I’d know it. But now I wasn’t so sure.

I almost followed Marsha into the theatre so I could sit behind her and get a whiff of her scent, if she was even wearing any. And then what? Ask her about the shoes? If she had been wearing the stolen silver stilettos, she’d never admit it. She was convinced her brother had made those shoes himself. Maybe he had. Maybe I was the one who was crazy. By the time I’d made up my mind to confront her, it was too late. As usual. This was the story of my life these days. When would I learn to act fast and decisively? When my ankle healed? Or never?

“Are you okay, Rita?” Dolce asked when she caught up with me. “You look like you’ve had a relapse. Maybe you’re not quite recovered from your accident.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. But sometimes I do get a funny feeling.” Like when I thought about a pair of missing silver shoes. Like when I thought about how they kept slipping away from me. Like when I kept missing opportunities to snatch them back. I rubbed my forehead and wondered how soon we could leave. The music was terrible and the dancing even worse. And don’t get me started about the acting. Dolce suggested we go at intermission. If we could hold out that long. It occurred to me that it was actually convenient to have an injury like mine. I could blame it for just about anything, like inattention or fear of being arrested, fear of customers or their next of kin, fear of getting caught lying or looking guilty or fatigue or saying the wrong thing. I’d already used it as an excuse to avoid difficult questions. Yes, I could take the coward’s way out and hang on to this injury for a while.

During the first act, which was definitely still a work in progress, I shifted restlessly in my seat. I looked around for Marsha in the front row, but I never saw her. Finally Dolce and I slipped away at the break. We’d made an appearance and that’s what counted. I only hoped our customers noted that we supported the arts. I could still follow up on Marsha. All I had to do was make another hair appointment. She was expensive, and this time I’d have to pay for it myself, but if I could crack this mystery, it would be worth it.

Dolce drove me home, and I wrapped myself in a plush microfiber robe with matching slippers and sat alone in my living room with my foot up trying to put this shoe story together. If MarySue wore the shoes to the Benefit and turned up dead without shoes, how would Marsha have gotten them? Surely she wasn’t even at the Benefit. If Dolce was at the Benefit as the photos suggested, she might have taken the shoes, which really belonged to her anyway. But why didn’t she tell me? Because she killed MarySue?

If Jim Jensen killed his wife, then he possibly still had the shoes. Jim was holed up in his house while his heart healed. Which gave him a good excuse for hiding out. He was also angry, which may have brought about his heart attack if it wasn’t caused by the arrival of the shaman. Then there was Patti French, who was also annoyed with her sister-in-law and had reasons to want to get rid of her. Did she? I kicked myself, only mentally of course, for not pursuing Marsha tonight. Why hadn’t I just asked her, “Was that you in the bathroom wearing the silver shoes? And if so, what did you do with them?”

Saturday was a busy day at the shop, with lots of customers shopping for something to wear that night. What about me? Should I wear a costume as Nick had suggested others did on the vampire tour? Maybe just a black velvet dress, a cape and black boots. All of which I had in my closet. The important thing was the makeup. I’d powder my face white and wear lots of eye shadow.

Nick called me in the afternoon to make sure I was up to walking the streets of San Francisco. I assured him my ankle was feeling normal. He said he too would be wearing a black cape and he’d pick me up at seven thirty.

We parked in a lot on top of Nob Hill and joined his aunt and the group on the corner of Taylor and California Streets across the street from Grace Cathedral, the historic towering gothic church perched atop the hill.

Nick’s aunt, Meera, said she was delighted to meet me after she’d heard so much about me. She spoke with a definite all-European accent, which could have been real . . . or not. She wore a flowing black dress and carried a battery-operated candelabra and led Nick, me and about ten others on a brisk walking tour of Nob Hill where the gold rush barons like Leland Stanford, James Flood and Mark Hopkins built their mansions in the nineteenth century.

“I’ve been here since 1857,” Meera told us.

What? I was sure Nick said she was one hundred twenty-seven. But maybe even vampires lie about their age. Or maybe math was not her strong suit. I looked around the group, assembled in a circle in front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel, built on the site of the railroad magnate’s mansion which was completed in 1878 after his death, but destroyed in the fire which followed the ’06 earthquake. There I saw definite signs of amusement and even some plain disbelief on a few faces. Meera must get disbelievers on her tours all the time. She must be used to them. She certainly didn’t look the least bit chagrined. In fact, she looked just about as charged up as the batteries on her candelabra.

Before anyone could question our tour leader, Meera continued. “I became a vampire in Romania, my home country and home to others more famous than myself—Vlad the Impaler and Count Dracula. The count was jealous of my power, and he’s responsible for my becoming a vampress and for banishing me around the world to California. Of course, I was unwilling to go so far from home and family, but it turned out to be a good move for me. I arrived by ship in San Francisco, but at the time the action was all in the goldfields, so it was overland for me to the mother lode country. Long story short, since the late nineties—that’s the 1890s—I’ve lived under and on the streets of this great city. Until recently, when I moved to the suburbs. Of all the neighborhoods, Nob Hill, one of the original seven hills, is my favorite. When I retire, I intend to move back here.” She waved her arm toward the houses nestled between high-rises. “It has the best views and the biggest mansions. I’ve seen a lot of history made here. Felt the aught-six earthquake. Escaped the fire. Saved a few lives. And met a lot of interesting people.”

“But Count Dracula, he’s not real is he? Isn’t he just a character in a book?” a woman asked.

Meera shot her a stern look. “Romanians have many legends and stories, most based on true persons and facts. We have many counts, princes and kings. Only a Romanian knows for sure who is for real and who is not. It is not for me to spread rumors if I want to return to my country.”

The questioner still looked dubious. I thought I’d better keep my mouth shut even if I had a few questions. That is if I wanted to stay on our guide’s good side, not to mention the fact that I was the guest of her and her nephew.

“How does it feel to be so old?” someone asked. “Let’s see, you must be . . .”

“One hundred twenty-seven,” Meera said automatically as if she didn’t realize she had her dates off. “I feel fine. Never better. My job allows me to talk about myself and my country and the history of this city every Friday and Saturday night. I know, some of you think vampires don’t exist.” Here she gave a pointed look toward the woman who’d had the audacity to question her. “They’re only imaginary, mythical or literary, you may say. But here I am. A member of the undead, alive and in person.”

She smiled and her sharp pointed teeth gleamed in the light from her candelabra.

“How do you feel about living forever?” someone else asked after Meera’s remarks had settled in.

“It’s great. How can I complain? As long as I have my health, I couldn’t be happier. I get a front-row seat to history happening right before my eyes. I don’t fear death or old age. What can be wrong with that?”

I thought I knew what Jack Wall would say. “Sure, she wears black, looks pale and has her teeth capped, but come on, give me a break. Don’t you get it? She claims to have supernatural powers because she feels powerless. You don’t have to be a psychotherapist to see what’s going on here. She’s a fraud, a phony and she’s psycho.”

I didn’t let his unsaid words stop me from asking Meera a question.

“Do you ever get a chance to meet the recent undead, I mean those who have just crossed over?” I asked. I know it was crazy, but what was the harm in playing along with the woman? What if she knew something? Who was I to turn down any helpful information no matter who it came from? She looked confused. Maybe I wasn’t phrasing it right. Maybe she didn’t know who I meant. Maybe I should have waited until later to ask about a specific person, namely MarySue.

“We meet the new arrivals at orientation. So, yes, there’s a meet-and-greet every few months. Is there someone special . . . ?” she asked eagerly. “Someone rich and famous perhaps?”

“Not really,” I said. MarySue was richer than I was, but not rich enough to buy the kind of shoes she wanted. And famous? I’d have to say she was well-known in certain circles, but not really famous.

“She just died recently, and I have no reason to think she’s a vampire. Except I saw someone wearing her shoes the other night and I thought maybe . . .” I waited hopefully. Not that Meera was really a vampire, but she might know something. It was worth a try.

“Of course you thought she’d returned. Which is quite possible especially if the mourners looked back as they left the grave site. Is that what happened?”

I shrugged. How did I know?

“That way the body could easily find her way back, you see.”

I nodded, thought I really didn’t see.

“But I have to tell you the undead often come back in a different form than when they were alive,” Meera said. “And they usually wouldn’t be wearing the same shoes.”

I felt foolish for asking. Now everyone would think I was gullible enough to believe.

The next question was from a guy standing on the edge of the crowd. I wasn’t even sure he was with the tour.

“Do you drink blood?” he asked.

“Good question. Most vampires do not actually drink blood,” Meera said patiently. “We enjoy real food, mostly red meat but leafy green vegetables also.”

“Do you only come out at night?” a woman asked.

“Vampires typically have night jobs,” Meera said. “We find it difficult to adjust to daytime schedules. So we work as night watchmen, security guards, nurses, air-traffic controllers or funeral directors. Things like that.”

When she finished the tour of the hotels, the men’s club and a private residence, Meera thanked us for our attention. Then she handed out discount cards for the Transylvania Café to everyone. She told Nick she’d meet us there.

“Are they still open?” I asked Nick as he drove west on California Street.

“Of course. Romanians dine stylishly late. It’s their custom. You will find others from the tour there. The chef is an old friend of Meera’s.”

“By old do you mean more than one hundred twenty-seven?”

He chuckled. “I don’t believe Chef Ramon is as old as my aunt, but I am sometimes wrong about such matters. In any case, the food is authentic and they stay open for those who work late.”

“Like security guards and funeral directors?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

The food in the tiny restaurant out in a residential neighborhood called the Sunset was served family style. I didn’t see any of my fellow tourists there, but there were other eaters who looked like they might be Romanian. Of course I was famished by that time, and the sarmalute, cabbage stuffed with rice, meat and herbs, was delicious. There were bowls of pickled vegetables on the table and a carafe of dark red wine. For dessert the chef brought out a cake called cozonoc, that Nick told me was often served at Christmas or Easter.

Meera sat next to Nick and spoke Romanian to him from time to time. Then she leaned over and told me she was so happy to have her favorite nephew here in the United States where there was more opportunity for jobs.

“He’s a very good teacher,” I said. “I observed his class recently.”

“And you yourself will be taking gymnastics, Nick tells me,” she said. “Many women have signed up for classes at the gym since my nephew arrived. He is not only a gifted teacher, but a very attractive man, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Yes, I did,” I said politely. “And I’m definitely interested in a class. As soon as my ankle is completely healed and I have a go-ahead from my doctor.” I wanted to have an out in case I decided I wanted to go back to kung fu.

Before we left the restaurant, I asked Meera what was the difference between galumpkis and sarmalute. She sighed, then she thought for a long moment before she said she couldn’t explain it, you had to eat some of both and it was best to be Romanian to understand and she was exhausted from her tour. So I just snapped a picture of her even though she ducked her head and said, “I’m not photogenic. I take terrible pictures.” I thanked Nick for a wonderful evening and I meant it.

Sure enough, later when I’d kicked off my shoes and wiped the white makeup off my face, I checked the playback icon on my Nikon and saw I’d taken some great shots of the park, the hotel and the restaurant, but Nick’s aunt’s image was nowhere to be seen. There was just a blur where she was sitting at the table. I sat at my kitchen table staring off into space. There was no such thing as vampires, but anyone who believed in them would tell me it is impossible to take their pictures and capture them on film. A blur just mean I’d jostled my camera, that’s all.