by Wendy Tyson
Damn, Allison thought. Another photo. Maybe this time she could catch the person in the act.
Allison was just starting to stand, pulling the blanket from beneath the animals, when Brutus shot up like a bullet. He ran toward the front door, barking madly. Allison heard pounding and screaming. Quickly, she wrapped the blanket around her nude body and covered Jason, who had snapped awake, with the other. This wasn’t the photo stalker.
“Who’s here?” Jason asked.
“I don’t know.”
Allison went from one room to the next, gathering clothes. She tossed Jason’s suit pants and shirt to him and slipped her dress over her head. At the door, she turned on the outside light and looked through the window. She couldn’t see anyone.
Another knock. Another scream.
Allison opened the door. Jason reached the front entrance just as she did so, and they looked down at the heap that was her sister, Amy.
Amy looked up from the ground. “Help me.”
Allison opened the screen door. She took one of Amy’s arms and Jason took the other. Together, they lifted Amy up and inside the house, placing her in the kitchen, on one of the chairs. She was a mess. Tears had tracked mascara down sunken cheeks and over a blossoming bruise. Fingerprint marks tattooed her wrists and the pale skin under her chin. Her black tank top was torn, showing a lacy pink bra that struck Allison as both wanton and heartbreakingly innocent.
But that was her sister: the reckless child who never grew up.
“Help me,” her sister slurred. Allison flipped over her arms and looked for track marks. To her relief, there were none.
“She’s drunk,” Jason said. “Booze, and maybe pills.” He ground coffee while he talked. “Where’s your Excedrin?”
“In the cabinet.”
“She’s going to need it.”
Allison knelt in front of Amy. Gently, she pointed to the bruise. “Who did this to you?”
Amy closed her eyes, shook her head.
“Amy, if we’re going to help you, you need to tell us.”
“Grace. Help me,” Amy whispered.
Allison had so many questions, but a long look at her sister said none of them would be answered. Amy needed help. More help than they could give her.
“Can you stay with her for a few minutes?” Allison asked Jason.
“Where are you going?”
Allison stood. “Upstairs to get her some clean clothes and to call Mason House, the private rehab I sometimes refer clients to.”
Jason looked at Amy and shook his head. She’d slumped over in her seat and her chin touched her chest. A thin line of drool was trickling from her mouth and across her cheek. “Do you think she’ll go?”
Allison shoved aside her own doubts. “If she wants her daughter back, she really has no choice.”
TWENTY-TWO
Allison spent the rest of the week getting her sister Amy settled at Mason Rehab Center. A physical exam showed no serious injuries, but it had been clear to staff, and to Allison, that someone had roughed Amy up before sticking her in a cab and sending her off. From the bits and pieces Allison had been able to pull together from Amy’s disjointed story, that someone was an old boyfriend. Amy had slept with him, and after several nights of popping amphetamines and binge drinking, he’d become jealous. They’d fought. Amy was lucky to still be alive.
Unfortunately, Allison thought, Amy didn’t see it that way. She wanted out of rehab. It was only the social worker’s warnings about her daughter that kept her there.
“Will she stay?” Mia asked. Allison was at Mia’s farm. Outside, the mid-November air held the sharp promise of snow. A gray sky, low and ominous, pressed down, blocking the mid-day sun. Allison had gone to Mia for counsel and escape. Sitting in Mia’s kitchen by the old Aga stove, chamomile tea in hand and Buddy by her feet, Allison felt some degree of solace.
“I don’t know,” Allison said. “Right now, she’s a mess. They won’t let me see her or talk to her, but staff say she’s emotionally labile and demonstrates ‘spurts of violence.’” Allison looked down at her teacup, an antique china painted with a rim of delicate flowers, and sighed. “It’s my fault.” The words were said without a trace of self-pity, only resignation.
Faye had been right. She should have never given that money to Amy. It was guilt money, done for her own benefit, not her sister’s. With her background and experience, she of all people should have known better.
“You can’t make choices for your sister,” Mia said. “We each have a journey. There are bumps along the way. We can do our best to cushion those bumps for the ones we love, but at the end of the day, the road is the road.”
“And sometimes smoothing does more harm than good.” Allison finished the thought for her friend. Mia’s husband, Jason’s father, had been a raging alcoholic. Mia’s daughter Bridget had died after he crashed the car in which they’d been driving. His blood alcohol level had been twice the legal limit. Mia still wore her pain like a Purple Heart.
They sat in silence for a moment. Through the kitchen window, Allison watched the first snowflakes fall from the sky. They held so much promise.
“About Thanksgiving,” Allison said finally. “We have some issues.”
She and Jason had planned to announce their engagement to both families on Thanksgiving, but now with Amy in rehab and little Grace staying at her parents’, Allison wasn’t sure what to do. Jason had suggested dinner out, but that just didn’t seem very homey.
Mia tilted her head and waited for more. Allison explained her current family situation. “So I’d like to be with them on Thanksgiving. I was just hoping we could all be together.”
“Bring them here.”
Allison hadn’t thought of that. The bungalow in which Mia lived was lovely, lots of hardwood and field stone, but small. As she looked around, though, she realized the cavernous living room, with its full-length fireplace and bank of windows overlooking the yard, would be a nice place to enjoy some family time. And there would be plenty of room to place extra tables and seats.
Mia said, “We can rearrange the living room to hold two tables. We’ll still have the couches and chairs for your parents to sit. And your niece will love the animals.”
True, Allison thought. And her mother would, too.
Mia stood and glanced out the window. “Snow already. And it’s only November.” She turned. “It’ll be a motley crew. Vaughn and Jamie. Maybe Angela. Your family.” She shrugged. “But isn’t that what Thanksgiving is about? Family. We should all be thankful for the people in our lives.”
Allison nodded. She thought of Leah and Scott and their little girl, now fatherless. She thought of Grace, no father and a mother who couldn’t seem to get her act together. But perhaps some family was better than no family.
Allison stood and brought her teacup to the sink. As much as she loved the comfort and peace of Mia’s cottage, she had work to do. First up: find Eleanor Davies.
Mia leaned over and hugged her suddenly. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
Mia’s gaze held her own for a long moment. She wiped a stray hair back from Allison’s eyes in a motherly gesture. “Children bring pain and grief and frustration,” she said. “But they also bring incredible joy. Don’t be so afraid of happiness, Allison.”
Allison looked at her, unsure where this advice had come from. Advice that was, as usual when it came to Mia, right on the mark.
“I’ll see you later?”
Mia nodded. “I’m picking Vaughn up for dinner. He and I still have to talk.”
“Maybe you should take your own advice about happiness,” Allison said. “And just accept it.”
Mia looked thoughtful, and a little forlorn. “You know, I think maybe I am.”
Doris Long was appearing more and more like a figment of Eleanor’s aunt’s imaginatio
n. Allison found almost forty-two thousand references to “Doris Long” online, but only one that may have been related to Eleanor’s father’s partner: a mention of a speaker at a gun show in Texas three years ago. The topic? Gun rights.
Based on Eleanor’s aunt’s description, this Doris Long felt like the right woman. Only additional searches turned up nothing, and a call to the organizer of the gun event was met with a distrustful, grunting, “We don’t talk to officials.”
No matter how much Allison applied her powers of woo, insisting that she was nothing other than a long-lost friend, the man at the other end of the line wasn’t buying it.
And so after two and a half hours of searching, Allison came up empty.
It was Saturday afternoon. The morning’s snow had stopped and an indolent sun was peeking its way through the cloud cover. Inside, Brutus was asleep by Allison’s desk. Simon sat a few feet away, busily grooming his fur with long, lazy strokes.
Allison wanted a nap.
But that wasn’t in the cards. Jason was at the office, finalizing some notes for an upcoming trial, and Vaughn was with Jamie. Allison considered stopping by their apartment, but she didn’t feel like company right now.
She felt like getting answers.
Allison shut her laptop and packed it in her bag. In her bedroom, she pulled a pair of brown leather boots on over her jeans and traded her silk t-shirt for a dark green wool fisherman’s sweater and a green, gray and maroon scarf. She patted Brutus, who was looking at her woefully.
“Back in a few hours, boy,” she said, and bent down to give him a few strokes behind the ears. “Watch the house and the cat while I’m gone.”
Simon eyed her warily. He obviously had no intention of being presided over by a dog.
It took her nearly an hour to make it to Leah’s house. When she arrived, there were no cars in the driveway. Disappointed, she decided to wait. A half hour later, Leah arrived alone.
She started to get out of her car. When she saw Allison, she slid back behind the wheel. Allison jogged over and stood so that Leah couldn’t close the car door. “Please,” she said. “Just a few minutes.”
Leah fumbled for her keys. She refused to meet Allison’s eyes. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Leah, I told you. Scott and I hadn’t seen each other in years.”
Leah got the key in the ignition. She started the engine. “Move out of my way.”
Allison stood firm. “I want what you want: the truth.”
Leah gripped the wheel, knuckles white. “Go. Away.”
“Leah, does the name Eleanor Davies ring any bells?”
Leah didn’t answer. Drawn face pinched into an angry frown, she grabbed her purse and started digging. She pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”
Allison took a deep breath. “Be reasonable, Leah. You called me in the first place, remember? I’m trying to figure out what happened to Scott.”
Leah looked at Allison sharply, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. Allison saw bruised hollows under her cheeks, flat, greasy hair under a brown wool cap. “Two months ago, I was a happy stay-at-home mom with a young child and a devoted husband. Today, I’m the widow of a drug-dealing pervert. Tell me, Allison, how am I not being reasonable?”
“I’m not the enemy.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Leah said. She seemed to deflate before Allison’s eyes. “None of it matters now.”
“It all matters. Don’t you want to know the truth?”
Leah had put the phone down, but she started the engine to the car. “I’ve been living a lie for so long,” she said. “I’m not sure I would recognize it anyway.”
Allison sat in her Volvo for another twenty minutes, thinking. Perverted drug-dealer. Allison knew about Julie, and Julie had told her about Eleanor. Did Leah know, too?
Could an irate wife have arranged the death of her own husband?
Of course she could have. Allison knew firsthand that anger and jealousy honored no gender boundaries. But what would Leah have to gain? Revenge? Insurance money?
A death benefit from Transitions?
How could she find out if Scott’s family was owed benefits? Leah certainly wasn’t going to tell her.
Grudgingly, she dialed another number. Mark Fairweather picked up right away.
“Change your mind?” he asked.
Allison remembered their last encounter. Ignoring him, she said, “I just have a few questions.”
“My time is not free, sunshine.”
Allison took a deep breath.
“What do you suggest?”
“You, naked, maybe somewhere with a hot tub.”
“Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”
Mark laughed. “You’re in luck. The wife is home this weekend and she wouldn’t appreciate me having a snack before mealtime, if you get what I mean. So what do you want this time? Still obsessing over my brother?”
“Did Scott have an insurance policy, Mark?”
“As in could the little lady have benefitted from his death? Sure, he could have.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
Mark was quiet for a moment. Allison heard talking in the background. When he came back, his tone was more serious. “What’s with all the questions, Allison? They seem extreme for a…friend.”
Allison took her time answering.
“I just can’t accept Scott’s death. I can’t accept that it was drug-related.” Because he was looking for me, Allison thought. And that wouldn’t make sense. But she kept those statements to herself. “Didn’t you handle Scott’s estate?”
“What estate? Look, Allison, save yourself some trouble. My brother had nothing other than a basic life insurance policy that is rendered void if the deceased dies at his own hand or is killed in the course of an illegal act. So if Scotty was dealing, Leah gets nothing. If you’re thinking my sister-in-law set the whole thing up to cash in, I’m telling you that’s not what happened. I hate the bitch, but I don’t think she killed Scott. At least not for money.”
“What about other agreements? Maybe a benefit or severance provision with Transitions that would be triggered by his death?”
“That I wouldn’t know anything about.”
“I thought you brokered the agreement between Scott and Transitions.”
“The original one, yes. But there was no death clause. If something was negotiated later, Scott didn’t tell me.”
“How about—”
“I’m done talking, sunshine. You want more, you gotta pay.”
In money or something else? Didn’t matter. Allison had what she wanted. “Thanks, Mark.”
“I’d say anytime, but I wouldn’t mean it.”
TWENTY-THREE
Sunday morning brought sheets of icy rain and a raging migraine. Allison woke to Jason’s arms wrapped protectively around her. She slowly opened her eyes. Light stabbed at her, but not before she saw Jason staring down at her face. Grinning, he kissed her nose. She smiled through the haze.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm…morning.”
“Headache?”
“Pressure changes always do it.”
Jason slipped out of the warmth and came back with her magic pill and a glass of water. Allison sat up and swallowed. She said, “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll make you breakfast.”
Jason shook his head. He’d already slipped his pajama bottoms off and was heading toward the bathroom. “Have to be at the office. Still have a few hours of prep to do for Tuesday’s trial.”
Allison watched him, wishing the headache would disappear so she could send him off the right way. Standing there naked, sleep still clouding his eyes, his hair playfully mussed, he looked delicious. She tried to lift her head off the pillow again. Yowza. Not yet.
“When will you be home?” she asked instead.
“I’ll head back to my place before dinner. Want me to come over here later?”
“Yes,” Allison said, surprising herself. “I want you to come home.”
Jason paused by the bathroom door. “What are you saying, Allison?”
“I’m saying move in.”
“Before we get married?”
He sounded bewildered, and Allison laughed. “Are you worried about how it will look? Because I think that ship has long since sailed.”
Jason walked back to the bed. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “If it’s what you want.”
Allison smiled. “It’s exactly what I want.”
Vaughn woke up with a start, momentarily confused about where he was. He looked around, blinked, and, heart pounding, felt Mia in the bed next to him.
“You were having a bad dream,” she said softly. She ran her hand along his shoulder, stopping to rub his neck. “Are you okay?”
Vaughn grunted. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The room was warm. “What time is it?”
“Early.”
Vaughn didn’t respond. His pulse was slowing, but the remnants of the dream stayed with him. In it, he’d been running to save someone and he couldn’t run fast enough, no matter how hard he tried. His legs had become heavy, his breathing ragged, and still he wasn’t fast enough. He sank back against the pillows.
“Oh, man, I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
Mia trailed her nails down his arm. “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
He turned over, facing her. Despite the isolation of her little farm, the shades were drawn and the room was dark. He could make out the outline of her face, but he couldn’t see her features. He reached out a hand and, gently, traced the line of her jaw.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“You fell asleep. Angela is with Jamie, so I let you go—”
“Not that,” he said. “This. Us. When did things change?”
He felt Mia tense beside him. “What do you mean?”