Pieces of You

by Campisi, Mary

  Pieces of You

  Book one of a Trilogy

  by

  Mary Campisi

  DEDICATION:

  To my siblings, Bill, Mark, and Ann – miles may separate us but you are always just a phone call and a heartbeat away.

  Prologue

  People talked about the disappearance of Evie Arbogast Burnes for years. How had it happened? When? Where? And in the good Lord’s name, why? They pieced together a story bit by bit, an eventual telling that eased them back to a manageable level where they could send their children to the grocery store without following them half-way there, just in case. Evie had been a woman, full grown when she vanished, the wife of Rupert Burnes, mother to Quinn and little Annalise.

  There’d never been any answers, despite the diligence of the town and Rupe himself, driving a one-hundred-mile radius in his Ford pickup to distribute flyers, talk to local officials, go door to door – anything to find his wife.

  Evie Burnes just disappeared and no one ever learned the truth behind it, though many guessed, or, after a time, filled in their own tales. Most didn’t want to know for fear the answers would be too stark to accept into a town like Corville, Pennsylvania, population 5,298.

  Generations of families lived there; grandfather, father, son, and so on, painting their names on trucks, buildings, and lawn service vehicles. Corville provided safe harbor from cities like Philly and Pittsburgh, whose next door neighbors remained nameless and faceless by choice, where destruction and violence plastered headlines daily.

  Evie hadn’t been born there, but the town embraced her once she married into the Burnes family. No one baked a better bumble berry pie than Evie, the kind with a crust that melted in your mouth and made you hold out your plate for seconds. Painting was her true gift, though it took years for anybody, including Rupe, to discover it. She gave lessons in her attic on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, watercolor, though on occasion she used oils, but only if the student asked. She taught them how to paint streams, evergreens capped in snow, and fields of sunflowers dazed by summer sun. Her paintings were always entered in St. Michael’s annual silent auction and had become one of the Church’s largest money makers, right along with Rupe’s ninety day snow removal certificate.

  Evie Burnes was a blessing to the town, a tender heart with a gifted hand. She’d become one of them, and losing her had been tragic. But the not knowing, the never knowing, that’s what still made people shiver when they talked about it. Some said maybe she was too trusting, even for Corville; maybe she saw so much good in people she missed the tiny scraps of evil that clung to most everyone at one time or another.

  And maybe that’s what snatched her from them, they said, left a husband and two children behind, broken and grieving, and a town that could not forget.

  Chapter 1

  Eighteen years later

  Philly was brutal in July. There were too many sightseers clogging the streets, snapping pictures of Ben Franklin’s house or stuffing shopping bags with giant nickels from souvenir shops. They infiltrated the eateries and made the lunch crowd quadruple.

  Quinn Burnes pulled his Audi into the reserved spot, thankful at least he didn’t have to battle a minivan from Idaho for a parking place. Owning a law firm had some advantages though his sister would disagree, but she disagreed with him on a lot of issues. As a matter of fact, right now she wasn’t speaking to him.

  Two days and counting since she’d stopped returning his phone calls, right after she found out he was the attorney on the very controversial personal injury case, Appleton vs. Rothford’s Department Store. He wished she would bend a little and try to understand how a woman might go after five hundred thousand dollars of compensation after she fell on an escalator. Okay, maybe she was going up the escalator, but still, she’d lost a tooth, suffered image problems, pain and suffering . . . His ‘save the world social worker’ sister refused to hear any of it, calling him a sellout. Maybe he was, but there’d been a time when he’d been just like Annie; trusting, open-hearted, compassionate. Then he’d learned the truth that destroyed it all.

  Quinn squashed those memories and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor and his penthouse office. If only he could get Annie to see there was more to life than trying to rescue crack mothers who didn’t want to be rescued. Not likely to happen. The only answer was a truce. He’d stop at The Silver Strand after work and pick out something nice. Maybe an opal bracelet or a jade necklace with all those little beads around it.

  His mind was still on his sister when he stepped off the elevator and into the suites of Burnes and Wightman. There was no Wightman anymore, not since Bernie keeled over in the courtroom four years ago during his closing argument. That’s what defending the supposedly innocent got you - dead at fifty-four with a nice pension for your widow and a cheesy bronze plaque.

  Quinn shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the coat tree. In exactly seven minutes, Sylvia would sashay in with a Starbuck’s, black, no sugar, and a copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer. She’d read him his horoscope, translated into the Sylvia Freeman version which usually centered around intrigue and love, two of her favorite pastimes, and then she’d give him his messages, And of course, she’d bring him lunch; sushi, a Mediterranean salad, or maybe if he were very lucky, a Philly Cheesesteak. All of this, and it only cost him an occasional headache and $38,000 a year plus benefits.

  He eyed the phone wishing Annie would call. Her name used to be Annalise but she chopped it to Annie when she went into social work so she wouldn’t sound too high brow. Quinn could’ve called her Gladys after their mother vanished and their father wouldn’t have noticed. Rupe Burnes had only cared about one thing; finding a wife who was not going to be found. He died eight years ago, tired, broken and still waiting for his wife to come home.

  Annie had given up years ago and quietly accepted the fact that her mother was dead. In the early days, Quinn had dried her tears, removed the barrettes from her long brown hair before tucking her into bed with Penelope, the pink hippo, and sometimes, he even read a few poems from Shel Siverstein’s, A Light in the Attic. He did this because ten year old brains were not equipped to handle death or loss, unless it was a squished worm or a sick hermit crab, and even then the tears and questions could resurface for days. But parents didn’t die in a ten year old’s mind and they never just disappeared; washing t-shirts and underwear one day, gone the next.

  And eighteen years later, Quinn was still there for Annie. He’d always protect his sister, no matter how many lies he had to tell to keep her safe.

  ***

  What Quinn liked most about The Silver Strand was the smell, a honey-cider spiced mix that reminded him of Thanksgiving morning, not patchouli or lavender, or any other New Age relaxing nonsense to trick a person into a meditative state so he’d open his wallet.

  The Silver Strand lay tucked between a candle store and a vitamin shop on Chestnut Street, clever and curious, with its bright red appendages; hands, fingers, legs, artfully arranged, sporting opals, rubies, jade, and sapphires. Quinn opened the door, immune to the silver string of bells tinkling his entrance and inhaled deeply.

  Arianna was with a customer but she looked up and smiled, reminding him of a Nordic princess with her tall, silver-blond beauty and casual grace. He’d never understood how a guy could leave someone like Arianna Sorensen ten days before the wedding, but Ash Revelin had done it two years ago, with a half-baked excuse and a mediocre apology. She was better off without a jerk like that but the sadness in her eyes said she might not think so.

  Quinn moved toward the far end of the store where there were several rectangular cases housing a variety of jewels and jewelry. The more expensive pieces were in the smaller room in the back but he still liked to ease
his way through each case. Just a simple cut could change the way a topaz sparkled in its setting, not as arresting as a black opal but there was a fluid beauty in the deep golden color unique to the topaz. Some nights as he watched Arianna shape metal into intricate designs, he had to clench his fists to keep from grabbing the torch and forming his own design.

  Arianna was still with the customer, a middle-aged woman in spandex, and from the indecision on the woman’s face, it could be awhile. Quinn decided to make his way to the studio and pour a whiskey while he waited. He didn’t realize anyone was in the studio until he had his hand on the knob. That’s when he saw her. Much of her face was obscured by huge goggles as she clutched a blow torch and bent over a piece of metal. He studied the long, lean frame, the black braid reaching down her back as she aimed the blow torch and a bright orange-blue flame spat out, illuminating a slice of pale skin.

  The woman’s slim fingers mesmerized him as she worked the torch with practiced skill, making him think of sex and lots of it. Who was she? Quinn clutched the doorknob, caught between desire to go to the woman and rip off the goggles so he could see her face and the equal need to stay right there, watching.

  She leaned forward further and he could make out a swell of small breast beneath the black turtleneck sweater. They’d be round breasts, firm, full. He imagined her naked, the long waist, the slim hips . . . The woman turned off the blow torch, set it on the workbench and held up the metal she’d been soldering. His gaze fell to her lips. Full. Red. Perfect.

  He turned the knob just as she disappeared behind a screened panel. What would he say when she returned? I like the way you work a blow torch? Maybe he wouldn’t say anything, he’d pour a drink, no two, and go for the casual, Hi, I’m Quinn, Arianna’s friend.

  He waited. Three minutes, five, six. Finally, he opened the door and stepped inside, expecting the mystery woman to materialize from behind the partition. When she didn’t, he edged toward the screen and looked behind it. A tiny hall snaked toward a door that led to the street. The woman was gone.

  “Quinn? There you are!”

  He swung around to find Arianna, smiling at him, two glasses in hand.

  “Whiskey or wine?”

  “Whiskey.” He glanced at the door one last time and followed Arianna to the workbench. What color were her eyes? Blue? Green? Maybe they were amber, the same color as the whiskey he drank, hot and burning . . .

  “Sorry it took me so long. Sometimes customers have a difficult time knowing what they want.”

  Quinn knew what he wanted – information about the mystery woman. “Who was the woman in here working the blow torch?”

  Arianna lifted a shoulder and toyed with her necklace in a way that told him she didn’t want to talk about it. “Just a friend of a friend.”

  “I’ve never seen her before.” But I plan to see her again.

  “No.”

  Why such stingy answers? What was she hiding? Quinn’s lawyer instincts kicked in. “Is she working for you?” He wondered about her name, something exotic no doubt. Ellysa. Anastasia. Veronica.

  “Sort of.” She uncapped the whiskey and poured two fingers in each glass. “It’s temporary.”

  That could mean anything. Or nothing. “So, who is she?”

  “She’s too quiet for your tastes.”

  What was that supposed to mean? So, he’d dated some Cosmopolitan types who oozed sex and loved the limelight almost as much as they loved him. That didn’t mean he was a complete caveman. He had manners. He had style. Besides, the mystery woman had her own brand of sex appeal. “The way she was working that blow torch did not look quiet to me.”

  Arianna ignored his comment. “It’s a complicated situation. You do not want to get involved.”

  Oh, yes, I do. “I’m just curious.”

  She shook her head and a swirl of golden blond sifted along her back. “She’s lying low for a little while. I took her in as a favor to a friend.”

  “Lying low as in hiding?” He’d heard those words before. Classic for in trouble and trying to get out of it. “What did she do? Skip out on her rent?”

  Arianna looked him straight in the eye and said, “She shot her husband.”

  Chapter 2

  The beautiful mystery woman imploded Quinn’s senses, tormenting him in ways other women never had. Her name was Danielle. He could see that name on her, could hear himself calling to her, letting the syllables slip through his lips in soft, sensual longing. He could even picture her response, a low throaty laugh pulling him in, challenging him to take what he wanted, what he needed.

  He cursed his damn wandering imagination. He’d bet the Audi that Danielle wasn’t even her real name. A woman capable of shooting her husband could come up with a fake I.D. or two. Apparently this woman was quite skilled in the art of deception and storytelling. Arianna’s lips quivered when she told Quinn how Danielle shot her estranged husband when he showed up at their home, a residence he’d been court ordered from six weeks before. But, the ogre of a husband entered anyway while Danielle slept. She woke when she heard someone in the bedroom and just like that, had the sense of mind to grab the Glock under the pillow and blast her husband in the gut.

  The stomach was a nice touch, lots of internal bleeding. Supposedly, Danielle didn’t know it was her husband, another nice touch, until she turned on the lights and saw him crumpled on the floor, bloody fingers clutching his gut. Even if Quinn believed the story, which he didn’t, how would she explain the 9-1-1 call that never happened?

  “Why didn’t she call 9-1-1?” he asked, casually sipping his whiskey.

  “She said she was in shock, that all she wanted to do was get away.”

  “From what? A murder rap?” How could he have thought her appealing?

  “A monster. Quinn, he threatened to kill her. Several times.” Arianna tilted her head to the side and watched him with cat eyes, green, glittering, opaque.

  Who was she trying to convince, him or herself? “She told you he tried to kill her?” His lawyer brain created a series of sadistic possibilities; estranged husband stalks wife and tries to shoot, stab, strangle, run over, push out a window, or dismember, maybe a combination. Scenes ran through his head, a mass of black hair sticky with blood, Danielle’s pale face starch white. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d fabricated the whole story. Maybe she’d invited her husband to the house and greeted him with a bullet.

  “Danielle doesn’t like to talk about it. Most of my information came from Nina, the friend I told you about. Danielle’s her niece.”

  “How convenient she doesn’t like to talk about it.” Quinn swirled the whiskey in his glass and said, “Less stories to keep straight.”

  “You think she’s lying?”

  Of course she’s lying. He didn’t want to hear another of Arianna’s lectures on the inherent goodness of mankind, minus her ex-fiancé, so he merely shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a wife tried to kill her husband and claim self-defense.”

  Araiana’s eyes grew wide and too damn trusting for her own good. She and Annie would make a good pair. “She’s afraid for her life. She says he’ll come after her.”

  “So, that’s why she’s holed up here, making you a sitting duck?” If a sixteenth of the story were true, Arianna could be in danger and that didn’t sit well with him.

  She leaned forward and clutched his shirtsleeve. “I think he beat her up. There’s real fear in her voice when she talks about him.”

  The idea of a man using a woman as a punching bag sickened him. “Did she press charges? That’s why we have laws, to protect the innocent.”

  “She won’t talk about it. I’m telling you, she’s afraid.”

  There was too much that didn’t add up. Or maybe it did. Maybe she had been tossed around and staging a break-in was the only way to get rid of the guy. “She’s pretty good at this, isn’t she?”

  “How can you talk like that? You’re a lawyer, for heaven’s sake. Not that the law does much good for th
e victims these days.” She pointed to him. “You know how wonderful our illustrious legal system is. It’s made you a ton of money. You and your clients with carpal tunnel, pinched nerves, bad backs. Tying up court dockets and collecting zillions from corporate America while women get beat up and left for dead by estranged husbands. Welcome to America’s judicial system.” She held up her glass and saluted him.

  “You want me to feel bad for making money? Now you sound like Annie.”

  “Who’s trying to make you feel bad? I’m just telling you that while you’re raking in the cash for all those poor injured clients of yours, there are people like Danielle out there, scared for their lives.”

  He didn’t want to hear any more about the mystery woman or her problems. “People create their own destinies, Arianna. You can’t tell me there’s nothing she can do about her situation but hide like a scared rabbit.”

  “She is scared. He did a number on her.” Her voice dipped. “You know she spent three months in a psych unit after she lost her baby? She miscarried after a supposed fall, but you know that means her husband pushed her or beat her. Her aunt says she’s a different person.”

  That was not what he wanted to hear, some sob story about a woman who lost a child and then lost her mind. He could see where a situation like that would make murder the necessary retribution. Lawyer or not, it’s what he would do if anyone hurt Annie, which only strengthened his gut feeling the shooting was intentional.

  “Why don’t you meet her and form your own opinion?”

  “No.” He meant it. He didn’t want to meet her. Not anymore.

  “Why? Too messy for you? Might make you regret all those personal injury clients?”

  “I thought you were my friend.” Sometimes Arianna could be downright brutal with her opinions. He downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass on the bench.