by Wendy Tyson
Praise for the Allison Campbell Mystery Series
“Tyson paints image consultant Allison Campbell with an intricate brush, telling an emotional, riveting, and gripping story in Dying Brand. I loved it! A must read for mystery fans.”
– Gretchen Archer,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Double Whammy
“Engaging, intelligent, and riveting, Dying Brand kept me on the edge of my seat—guessing until the end. Bravo!”
– Mollie Cox Bryan,
Author of the Agatha Nominated Cumberland Creek Series
“Dying Brand delivers a complex puzzle mystery with a colorful cast and plenty of twists. Image consultant Allison Campbell rushes back into action, and readers will find themselves racing with her to the surprising conclusion of this fast-paced whodunit.”
– Carla Norton,
Bestselling Author of The Edge of Normal
“Narratives alternate in this continually shifting novel, as characters evaluate their relationships with old lovers and are surprised by new ones…and it is Allison who drives the mystery with her own compulsions and vulnerability…This is a truly unique and enjoyable series of reinvention and, oddly enough, acceptance.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“The mystery is firm and well-explained, and great fun to follow, but it’s the rich relationships Tyson has created that this reader will carry away from the book…I will be following Allison Campbell and her cohorts with a great deal of interest in all the books to come.”
– Stephanie Jaye Evans,
Author of the Sugar Land Mystery Series
“An edgy page-turner that pulls the reader into a world where image is everything and murder is all about image.”
– Erika Chase,
Author of The Ashton Corners Book Club Mysteries
“Filled with vivid people who will keep readers turning the pages ...Allison herself is savvy and likable, with an unusual job that promises many satisfying installments in this well-written series. Highly recommended!”
– Sandra Parshall,
Agatha Award-Winning Author of the Rachel Goddard Mysteries
“Tyson creates a tense, engrossing tale by weaving vivid descriptions with thrilling threads of family secrets, greed and the shadow of an unknown threat…not to be missed!”
– Laura Morrigan,
Author of the Call of the Wilde Mysteries
“Wit, charm, and deliciously clever plot twists abound…the author has a knack for creating characters with heart, while keeping us guessing as to their secrets until the end.”
– Mary Hart Perry,
Author of Seducing the Princess
“This cleverly revealing psychological thriller will keep you guessing...as the smart and savvy Allison Campbell (love her!) delves into the deadly motives, twisted emotions and secret intrigues of Philadelphia’s Main Line.”
– Hank Phillippi Ryan,
Mary Higgins Clark Award-Winning Author of The Wrong Girl
“Nancy Drew gets a fierce makeover in Wendy Tyson’s daringly dark, yet ever fashion-conscious mystery series, beginning with Killer Image. Tyson imbues her characters with emotional depth amidst wit, ever maintaining the pulse rate.”
– Deborah Cloyed,
Author of What Tears Us Apart
“An intriguing psychological thriller. The book reminded me of Jonathan Kellerman’s Alex Delaware series…I loved the book, it’s dark and hopeful at the same time. Five stars out of five.”
– Examiner.com
Books in the Allison Campbell Mystery Series
by Wendy Tyson
KILLER IMAGE (#1)
DEADLY ASSETS (#2)
DYING BRAND (#3)
FATAL FACADE (#4)
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Copyright
FATAL FACADE
An Allison Campbell Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Trade paperback edition | June 2017
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Tyson
Author photograph by Ian Pickarski
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-223-8
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-224-5
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-225-2
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-226-9
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Greg, who taught me to question everything.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Travel is a family passion. I had the idea for this book long before I visited the majestic Italian Dolomites, but I knew as soon as I arrived that the region, with its stunning landscape, permeating sense of history, and beautiful architecture, was the perfect setting for a mystery. Thank you to my husband, Ben Pickarski, for indulging my need to stay longer in the name of research, and for being my favorite travel partner. There is no one I’d rather have beside me on any journey.
Thank you to my family, especially my sons, Ian, Matthew, and Jonathan, my mother, Angela Tyson, and Mandy Gohn. Their patience and encouragement are always appreciated, as is the chocolate they bring to my writing cave.
Thank you to Frances Black of Literary Counsel, my wonderful agent, who is both a friend and a mentor. Her energy, wisdom, and creative zeal always amaze me.
Thank you to the talented people at Henery Press, especially Kendel Lynn, Art Molinares, and my editor, Rachel Jackson. Their passion for books shows in all they do, and I’m grateful for their vision, support, and their faith in me.
Thank you to Rowe Carenen at The Book Concierge. Beta reader, publicist, organizer. I rely on her for so many things and am thankful for her friendship and assistance.
And I want to extend my gratitude to the readers, book bloggers, and reviewers of the crime writing community. We couldn’t do what we love without you.
I hope you enjoy reading Fatal Façade.
ONE
The forest beckoned. Most nights, Damien avoided the mountainous trails that bordered Elle’s property, tackling them only in daylight when the views were magnificent and the shadows less menacing. But this wasn’t most nights. He glanced back at the monstrosity they called home, the restored ruins of the Castle San Pietro, which lorded over the small South Tirolean village of Bidero, and watched the lights flicker. Too many people, too much noise. He waved the flashlight beam across the wall of trees, looking for tiny bright red orbs that would announce predators. Though there were no longer wolves or grizzlies here, he wasn’t taking any chances.
From inside a castle courtyard, a high-pitched laugh, surely Elle’s, caused his hand to tighten on the leash. He hurried farther from the buildings and glanced up at the canopy of stars. So beautiful—Douglas was right about t
he magnificence of outer space, even if he was wrong about so many other things—but the stars made him feel, as always, insignificant.
He stumbled, one hand wrapped around the end of the dog’s leash, the other still in his pocket, forcing him down on his knees. He righted himself, the tendon in his left knee screaming. Upright again, he reassured Elle’s little lion of a dog with an “it’s okay, Bits,” and then searched in his pocket for another Valium. Unsuccessful, he settled for whatever pill Elle had placed in his palm earlier, a pill he’d discarded in his suit pants in favor of a martini and a Valium. He dry swallowed three times to get it down.
The tiny terrier growled, then took off toward the stone wall that marked the entrance of the woods. Damien pulled her back. The Dolomite Mountains were stunning, but at night their splendor was matched only by the depth of their darkness. Night so complete it felt like a tomb, silence so pervasive you could hear the blood pulsating in your carotid. The dog tugged again. “Fine.” Like a man with a death wish, he plunged forward.
They walked quickly, both navigating by memory. Deeper into the forest, Bits snarled, her little body tense. Damien stood, listening. He heard a rustle coming from the direction of the trail, past the stone wall and across from the small ruined chapel. He waved the weak beam from his flashlight in that direction. Nothing—just more trees and undergrowth. Must have been a rodent, he thought with a nervous laugh. The rustling stopped.
“Let’s go,” he mumbled to the dog. The pills were taking hold and a comfortable sense of ennui blanked his mind. The dog wanted to take the trail? Fine. It would distance him from their so-called friends. For a while, at least.
The trail—no more than a three-foot path cut between the trees—led up toward the peaks or down toward the village. Damien headed along the cliff, toward the village. The path was steep, but Damien had traversed it many times. He waved the light in front of him, watching Bits to be sure she didn’t lunge over the side. As the castle fell away in the distance, Damien’s anxiety lessened, and with it his inhibitions. He paused to urinate on the side of a spruce, grateful for the release, then walked faster down the trail toward the ruins that marked the second stone wall.
It was there, by the ruins of the second wall, that he heard it—the sound of a person struggling for breath. It lasted only a few seconds and then ended, silence once again shrouding him. Beside him, Bits growled. Damien’s own breath quickened, as did his pulse. He tried to listen through the fog in his brain.
He walked another ten feet, then turned back toward the castle, the hairs on his arms bristling. He fought the urge to run. An overwhelming sense of foreboding rushed over him and he waved his flashlight madly from side to side. It didn’t help. He pulled Bits along, then deciding it would be quicker to carry her, he bent down. His flashlight beam hit something on the edge of the trail. He closed his eyes, blinked, and looked again.
The shadowy outline of a person. Someone was standing there, watching him.
It’s the pills, he thought. Whatever Elle gave me must have been hallucinogenic.
Again he closed his eyes, then wiped at them with the back of his trembling fingers.
When he opened his eyes, he still saw the outline of a person, standing there in the dark, cloaked in black. Mute. Looming. A thing of nightmares.
“What do you want?” A scream caught in his throat.
Bits growled. The shadow moved forward, knocking the flashlight from his hand. He lurched in the direction the light had fallen, terror stealing his breath, and let go of the leash. Behind him, around him it seemed, he heard footsteps on damp humus. Darkness enveloped him. He fought to get his bearings. The edge of the cliff was near—but how near? Fear paralyzed his legs. Run in the dark? There was another presence with him—he could hear it, almost smell it—but darting off a ledge could be worse than confronting his attacker.
He stood on unsteady feet, forcing a deep breath. “Elle?” he said weakly.
The push seemed to come from both nowhere and everywhere. He lost his balance again, quickly righted himself. His mind spun for answers…who, what, why? No insights came—only the stars overhead and the bitter taste of bile in his mouth. Run, he thought. The hell with the cliffs. Just go.
His body, numb with fear and drugs, wouldn’t obey. Adrenaline surged—only too late. A hand wrapped around his ankle, pulling him forward. He gasped, then took a step backwards, tumbling into the abyss below.
TWO
Steel rails of rain pummeled the hearse. Allison watched from the back of the limo as the vehicle carrying her mother stormed through puddles, grinding its way toward the cemetery that would be Mary Chupalowski’s final resting place.
“The cemetery’s at the top of the hill,” Faye said. “Her plot is off by itself, but near Aunt Pauline. There’s room for Daddy too.”
“That’s nice,” Allison managed. Words, her best professional tool, seemed to be failing her today.
Jason squeezed Allison’s hand. She looked over, an appreciative half-smile dying on her face when she saw the hollow look in her fiancé’s eyes. Not now, she thought. I can’t deal with that now. Across from her, Faye’s forehead was pressed against the limo’s window, her breath leaving cloud patterns on tinted glass as she watched the scenery speed by.
They were the last two still standing by the grave. Overhead, clouds clustered around a late afternoon sun. The yellow iris in Allison’s hand—her mother had always loved irises—burned like a lighted cigarette. Allison dropped it on the casket, listening for a sound of closure that never came.
“In the end, she couldn’t even speak,” Faye said. “This was for the best.”
Faye was holding two purple irises, one for her and one for their father, whose dementia prevented him from attending—or even realizing his wife was gone. The few mourners who attended the short service, mostly Allison’s close friends and a few professional acquaintances, had receded to their cars, honoring the sisters’ request for a few minutes alone. Allison glanced back. She saw Jason standing with her friend and business manager, Christopher Vaughn. Jason’s shadowed eyes were focused on the hills beyond town. Vaughn’s twin, Jamie, was strapped into a motorized wheelchair with a breathing tube connected to the portable respirator attached to the back. He locked onto Allison’s gaze. Allison couldn’t see his eyes from this distance, but she watched as his nurse Angela reached down and wiped the tears from Jamie’s face, then followed the gesture with a kiss to the top of his shaved head. Angela and Jamie were in love. It was evident in every tender gesture.
“She went quietly,” Faye continued. “A sigh, one last breath, and then peace.”
Allison turned around, but Faye wasn’t looking at her. Allison felt grateful. As usual, Allison hadn’t been there when the stakes were highest, a judgment Faye would pass with a sharp look alone. Only Faye surprised her by reaching out and taking hold of Allison’s hand. Her grip was cold, smooth.
“I feel like I’m saying goodbye to my childhood,” Faye said.
“I know what you mean.” Allison squeezed her sister’s hand. “I feel the same way.”
“She’s been my life for so long.”
Faye turned toward her, and Allison said gently, “What will you do now?”
“Take care of Daddy.” Faye threw the flowers down onto the casket. She straightened slumped shoulders and turned toward the waiting limousine, a soldier marching on. “You, Allison?”
Allison shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”
“Well, you have your business. It seems that’s your life.”
Ah, there’s the old Faye, Allison thought. But she couldn’t argue because her sister wasn’t wrong. Instead she followed Faye back toward the others and the waiting limousine.
The luncheon was somber. Allison and Faye had kept it to family and a few close friends, all clustered in a private room at a local historic inn. Aside from Faye and Allison an
d their immediate circle, no one really knew their mother, so conversation was awkward. Their mother had been ill for most of Allison’s life, and her last years were spent in an Alzheimer’s fog. Allison found herself vacillating between feelings of sorrow, guilt, and overwhelming relief that her mother’s suffering had ended.
A waitress came by with coffee. Allison placed her hand over her cup to signal she was finished. She rose from the table, leaving Jason to talk with Faye, and went to find the manager so she could pay the final bill. While she waited for him to return from the kitchen, she leaned against a cold stone wall, thinking about all the things she’d never be able to do again: kiss her mother, hold her hand, read to her, see that flash of recognition in her mother’s eyes. Though death had struck too close to home several times over the past two years, this time it was all too real and personal…so final.
She felt a hand on her back. “How are you holding up?”
Allison looked up into Vaughn’s concerned face. Sunlight from the building’s deep windows washed over Vaughn at an angle, highlighting the spray of wrinkles in his dark skin.
“As well as can be expected.” She forced a smile. “You? It’s nice to see Jamie out of the house.”
Vaughn nodded. His paraplegic twin’s relationship with Angela, Jamie’s nurse, had been a sore point since the two started dating. In Allison’s view, the coupling was a godsend for Jamie—he never looked better, and Angela seemed to truly love him. But Vaughn appeared drained, worried. She knew he felt responsible for Jamie’s paralysis, and Allison feared he would never let go of the guilt, so pervasive it clouded his perception of everything that touched Jamie. The bullet that stole Jamie’s mobility had been meant for Vaughn, and Vaughn would spend his life trying to repay that debt.