Dying Brand

by Wendy Tyson

  Mia felt a warm flush creeping over her skin. “I think you’d better call later, Thomas.”

  He nodded, his expression unreadable. After a second he returned to his beer. “Doris Long,” he said between sips. “Sounds like a good name for a serial killer. Or the murderer in a mystery novel.”

  Eleanor waited until Doris was asleep. With her ear to Doris’s door, Eleanor fumbled along the counter where Doris kept her keys until she found what she was looking for: the tiny replica of a shotgun that held her car keys. An hour prior she had slipped each German Shepherd four Benadryl capsules wrapped in cheese and to her satisfaction both dogs were sleeping soundly on the floor by the couch. She’d slipped Doris a sleeping pill, too. Popped it into her evening beer. Just like giving steak to a lion.

  As quietly as she could, Eleanor opened the front door and closed it softly behind her. It was a waning crescent moon, and without the moon’s guiding light, it was nearly impossible to see. That was okay. Eleanor had made many nighttime treks across the western half of the United States and in parts of Europe and South America. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, only the people who might be hiding out under the cover of night.

  Eleanor slipped behind the wheel of Doris’s Subaru and shut the door. She jammed the manual transmission into third gear and released the parking break, letting the car slide down the hilly driveway until she was far enough into the woods to turn on the ignition. The car bucked once, twice and then the engine caught. Eleanor waited until she was near the street and out of view of Doris’s house before turning on the headlights. She’d walked this path so many times that she’d memorized the route and knew without looking every turn, every bump along the driveway. Still, she let out a breath when she reached the road and could finally see.

  The headlights shined a swath of light onto the darkened road. Eleanor was careful to drive the speed limit. She couldn’t afford an issue with the police or an accident with a deer or moose. Despite the cigarette-wet-dog smell of Doris’s vehicle, it felt good to be back behind the wheel of a vehicle. It felt good to be driving. But if Doris awoke to find Eleanor and her car missing, Eleanor had no doubt she’d call the cops before she’d bother to read the note Eleanor had left for her. That’s just how she was.

  Eleanor had memorized the way to Route 1, her best bet for a twenty-four hour pharmacy or grocery store. Even along Route 1, though, it took her another thirty minutes to find a twenty-four hour drugstore. Before going inside the store, she took advantage of the cold and wrapped a wool scarf around her face, hiding her nose and mouth. To be extra careful, she looked away from the security camera as she entered. Just in case.

  She found the disposable phones near the front, by the cameras. She chose one and paid in cash. Once in the car, she took a few minutes to set it up. With this, she could transfer money to her checking account and pay off Doris. The greedy bitch was getting antsy, and so was Eleanor. The money movement might set off some red flags, but by the time anyone caught on, she’d be long gone. The idea of spending Thanksgiving alone with Doris was depressing. Much better to be headed southwest, toward Mexico. She’d take the money, get a new car and cross the border. She could disappear in Mexico. Hell, with all her cash, she could disappear anywhere.

  THIRTY

  Allison awoke with the soft feel of little hands against her cheeks. She opened her eyes, momentarily startled, until she saw her niece staring at her. Grace smiled.

  “Oh, good,” the little girl said. “You’re up.”

  “I’m up.” Allison grinned. “Who wants pancakes?”

  “Pancakes!” Grace giggled. Her long, dark hair was spread across Jason’s pillow. Next to her, Brutus had wedged himself between the end of the mattress and the nightstand so that he was sharing Jason’s pillow, too. The child didn’t seem to mind. Only the cat wasn’t in the family bed. He was sitting on Allison’s dresser, by the window, looking disdainfully down at his new best friend Brutus as though Brutus’s desire to be part of the melee was somehow an embarrassment.

  “Nice to have you back in the fold,” Allison said as she reached over to pet the dog. He snuggled closer to Grace and wagged his tail stump. Allison stuck her tongue out at Simon the cat and Grace giggled again.

  “Can I watch television?” Grace whispered. “If I’m real quiet?”

  “Tell you what,” Allison said. “You can watch television even if you’re real loud.”

  “Really?”

  “Really!”

  Allison tickled her niece, who laughed hysterically, which in turn made Brutus run in mad circles around the bed, barking.

  “Look at him!” Grace screamed, laughing harder.

  After a moment, Grace calmed down long enough to catch her breath. She looked up at Allison, still smiling. “You have a bad dog, Aunt Allison,” she said, hugging Brutus to her. The dog slurped at her face with his giant tongue. “But I sure like him.”

  “And he sure likes you,” Allison said. Dog and child, she thought—all unbridled joy. As it should be.

  Allison had been worried that Grace would be uncomfortable here. The house wasn’t exactly kid-friendly. The closest Allison had to toys were a set of Russian nesting dolls she’d purchased during a trip to Eastern Europe a few years back. But one look at Brutus and Allison knew it was mutual love at first sight. Grace had been scared to sleep alone, so Allison had rented a kids movie On Demand and she, Grace and Brutus had cozied up in her bed. The child had fallen asleep twenty minutes into the show.

  On impulse, Allison kissed Grace on the forehead. “I’m happy to have you here, Grace.”

  “I’m happy to be here, Aunt Allison.”

  Such grown-up words from such a little body, Allison thought. This child was so bright, so sweet. Clearly Amy had done something right. But she seemed much older than her years, what her mother would have called an old soul, probably a result of parenting her own mother. Grace needed playmates and school and the freedom to be mischievous now and again. Would she have that with Amy?

  Allison pictured the prostitute she’d met the day before. Was that the life her sister was leading? Was Grace the child left behind while her sister partied? A vile thought.

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Allison?” Grace asked.

  Allison sat up and swung Grace onto her lap. She tapped her nose gently with the tip of her finger. “Absolutely nothing.” She kissed her again. “I love pancakes and I love having you here. And guess what? Brutus loves pancakes, too.”

  Grace laughed. “I bet Brutus likes everything.”

  “Brutus used to be homeless. Do you know what that means?”

  Grace nodded. “It means he had no money and no house. That he had to live in a shelter.”

  “But that’s all over now,” Allison said. “Now he gets pancakes and syrup and a warm bed to sleep in.”

  “Those things are good, aren’t they, Brutus?” Grace said. She patted his head, which was now lodged under her right arm. “Can we save some pancakes for Mommy?”

  Oh, baby, Allison thought. She looked at her niece, hiding the ache with a smile. “We can freeze some. Would you like that?”

  Grace nodded. “I miss her.” A second later, she brightened. “Can I help you cook?”

  “You betcha,” Allison said. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Allison kept Grace for as much of the day as she could. At First Impressions, she had back-to-back appointments, so Vaughn was called in as the makeshift babysitter, a job he took to with relish, if not skill.

  “I stopped and bought crayons and coloring books,” Allison said. “And here are the child scissors, in case she wants to make snowflakes or paper dolls.” Allison looked at him sharply. “But don’t give her adult scissors, even if she asks.”

  “Yes, Allison,” Vaughn said with an emphatic roll of the eyes. “I do know the difference between a five-year-old and an adult.”
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br />   “Then you know she should wash her hands before she has a snack.” Allison pulled organic baby carrots and ranch dressing packages, along with raisins, hummus and pita chips, out of a Whole Foods bag. “Don’t give her any of your Doritos. Even if she asks. Say something like—”

  “Allison.”

  She looked up. “Yes?”

  “Relax.” Vaughn smiled. “Grace and I will be fine together. And if I need you,” he pointed toward the client room, “I know just where to find you.”

  Allison frowned.

  “I’m being a bit mental, aren’t I?”

  “You’re just being a good aunt. But you can chill.” Vaughn smiled at Grace. “We’re going to color the walls with a black Sharpie, right after we run with grown-up scissors. Right, kid?”

  Grace giggled. “I don’t think so.”

  Vaughn grinned back.

  “I don’t think so, either. Not under the watchful eye of your Aunt Allison, anyway.” He shooed Allison toward the client room and her waiting client. “Go. Make us some money. Right, Grace?”

  Grace nodded solemnly. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  Five hours later, Grace was back with Allison’s family and Allison was back at First Impressions. She’d sent Jason two texts with pictures of her niece and he hadn’t responded to either. A call to his administrative assistant had been unproductive.

  “He’s acting odd,” Allison said now. She was typing up client notes, but her mind was elsewhere.

  “He’s a busy guy, Allison.” Vaughn said. “I’m sure you’ll see him tonight.”

  Allison nodded, ignoring the ropes coiling in her gut. “I guess.”

  Vaughn plopped down on a seat in front of her desk. It was nearly seven, and they had just ushered out the last clients for the day: the ladies from Allison’s recently divorced group. Allison took off her shoes, sexy red Manolos, and slouched back in her chair.

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Running Grace back and forth probably took its toll.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Grace. She and I had fun.”

  “Fun?” Vaughn asked, eyes narrowed. “Imagine that. How long will she be with your sister?”

  Allison sighed. “That remains to be seen. Faye looked beat. And I think Amy will be out of rehab soon. Maybe by Thanksgiving.” Allison pulled a hand through her hair. “I hate the idea of Grace going back to live with Amy.”

  “Maybe she and Amy can live with your folks.”

  Allison didn’t think that was a long-term solution. “They barely have space for Grace. Plus, Amy and Faye would kill each other, and if history repeats itself, as it so often does, Amy will steal from them and take the child with her.” Allison thought for a moment. “I wish there was some way to convince Amy to live with me for a while.”

  Vaughn looked at her, surprised. “You would do that?”

  “You seem shocked.”

  Vaughn just stared at her, an infuriating half-smile on his face.

  “Ugh,” Allison said. “Not you, too.” She stood and walked toward the window. Floodlights from the bank behind her small parking area cast shadows on the bushes and pavement in between. She thought of the street in North Philly, the street where Scott was murdered. She turned around. “Has Jamie had any success?”

  “Yes…and no.” Vaughn filled her in on Jamie’s research: the Diamond family, the loss of the founder’s wife, Lily Diamond, their daughter, Amelie, the child labor allegations and the spin-off of Transitions. “Amelie Diamond alluded to her father’s vindictiveness. Apparently Ted Diamond saw himself as a sort of role model for other business leaders. He had two loves: his wife, Lily, and his company.”

  “Not his daughter?”

  Vaughn mulled that over. “You’re the one with the psych background, Allison, but if you want my two-bit analysis, Ted Diamond was a narcissist. The company and his wife made him look good. His daughter, not a pretty woman by most standards, would not have. And when she converted to Buddhism? The nail in the coffin, so to speak.”

  “That’s a pretty harsh analysis.”

  Vaughn shrugged. “I told you I’m no expert.”

  Allison sat back down at her desk. “Well, you’re probably not wrong.” She fingered her day planner, thinking of her abnormal psychology book from graduate school and the DSM-IV description of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. She knew nothing about Ted Diamond, but she did know that many successful business people—many successful people, period—had narcissistic tendencies. And if that described Ted Diamond, what might he have done to get back at the folks, like reporters, who smeared his company and, in doing so, his wife?

  Only Ted was dead. And it wasn’t a reporter who had been murdered on the streets of Philadelphia.

  “Jamie found no connection between Ted and Scott, outside of Scott’s job at Transitions. The two had no former connection that he could tell.”

  “You read my mind.”

  Vaughn smiled. “It was the logical next question.”

  Allison considered that statement. Logic…she had failed to ask a logical question all along.

  “Scott’s calendar said he was meeting with me on Saturday night. There was no specific time, just my name scratched into the margin for the evening, around eight. That was also the night of Delvar’s award ceremony. What if it wasn’t me Scott wanted to talk with, but Delvar?”

  “Why would Scott Fairweather want to talk with Delvar?”

  “Clothing manufacturer…designer…maybe they’re connected somehow.”

  Vaughn frowned. “I don’t know, Allison. Feels like a stretch. Why not go to Delvar directly? Why go to the trouble of contacting you first?”

  Allison considered that. “Delvar’s celebration was the one place Scott could be guaranteed to get an audience with the reclusive designer. And he would have used me to make introductions.”

  Vaughn shook his head.

  “Still not buying it. What would Scott want with Delvar?”

  “Maybe he wanted him to design clothes for Transitions. If the company wasn’t doing well, and Scott was getting heat, then having Delvar on board may have been a last-ditch effort to increase sales.”

  “Delvar designs edgy, sophisticated clothes for adults, not polo shirts for preppy teenagers.”

  “Then if not Delvar, who?”

  “You. He knew you would be there, Allison.”

  “Scott could have easily found my home address. He could have found First Impressions—he was an ex-client. Why go to the trouble of crashing a private event just to get my attention?” Allison shook her head. The idea that it was Delvar’s celebration that was key here struck her as right.

  Vaughn tapped a pen against Allison’s desk. “Could Delvar get the invitation list for the award ceremony?”

  “Maybe,” Allison said. “If he does, can Jamie cross-reference the list against important people in the clothing industry?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Vaughn said. “Get it to me and I’ll ask him.”

  Allison thanked him. “I’d like this to be behind us. I can’t help wondering when another photo is going to show up. Part of me hates Scott for putting me in this position. Part of me wished he was around so I could ask why: why he took the pictures, why he shared them, why he was on that street in that section of town.” She gripped the edge of her desk, fingers clutched against wood. “Makes me wonder whether I ever really knew him.”

  “The police believe they have their killers, Allison,” Vaughn said. “This private investigation you’re running, it’s all about those photographs and your own morbid need to understand. You know that, right?”

  “Actually, I’m not so sure the police do have their killers.”

  Vaughn cocked his head, waiting for more.

  Allison had been reluctant to tell anyone about her conversation with the prosti
tute. She’d gone too far that time—she realized that. Vaughn would be right to be angry.

  “I made another trip into Edith’s neighborhood,” she said. When he didn’t look surprised, she described her encounter with the hooker from the abandoned house.

  “You don’t need me to tell you how stupid that was, do you?”

  Allison shook her head.

  He frowned. “She was sure? Just one kid?”

  Allison nodded.

  “Are you wondering what I’m wondering?” Vaughn asked.

  “Whether a certain young man, a man with a temper issue, may know more than he’s letting on?”

  “Yep,” Vaughn said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s too late to head there now, but I think maybe another trip to see Edith and Duane Myers is in order. Agree?”

  “Yes,” Allison said. “Can you go tomorrow?”

  Vaughn nodded.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Tonight I’ll check with Delvar to see if he can get that list. Tomorrow, I’m going to have another talk with Julie Fitzsimmons, Scott’s colleague and another of his conquests.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a few questions I need answered.”

  “And in the meantime? Dinner?”

  Allison shook her head. “I’d love to, Vaughn, but I have something else I need to do.”

  He looked at her questioningly, no doubt wondering what predicament she was going to put herself into tonight.

  “Nothing related to this,” Allison said. “I need to see Jason. His sudden silence is scaring me. If he won’t come to me, I’ll go to him.”

  Jason’s apartment was dark. Allison used her key to let herself in. Like the man himself, his apartment was simple: efficient and pleasing to the eye. Located on the first floor of an old estate house, it had wide-pine floors, ten-foot ceilings and glossy white trim. His space consisted of a living room/dining room, galley kitchen, bedroom and bath. The furniture was sparse but well-constructed, and competed for space with his sports equipment: two mountain bikes, a road bike, weights and an array of skis. A kid in a grown man’s body, Allison thought. She smiled, getting ready to settle in to watch some television, but when her glance fell upon the dining table, that smile froze on her face.