Deadly Assets
Page 1
Praise for the Allison Campbell Mystery Series
DEADLY ASSETS (#2)
“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. There had better be a lot more.”
– Stephanie Jaye Evans,
Author of the Sugar Land Mystery Series
“A mystery is only as good as its characters, and Deadly Assets is filled with vivid people who will keep readers turning the pages to find out what happens to them...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. The Allison Campbell mystery series is not to be missed!”
– Laura Morrigan,
Author of the Call of the Wilde Mysteries
“Dark and edgy with multiple layers of intrigue, the Allison Campbell series keep me up late trying to piece together Tyson’s intricate puzzles. I love the complexity of this mystery.”
– Larissa Reinhart,
Author of the Cherry Tucker Mystery Series
“Tyson crafts characters who are real and we can believe in which makes us willing to follow them anywhere. Excellent page turner. Can’t wait for the next installment.”
– Shannyn Schroeder,
Author of the O’Leary Series Contemporary Romances
KILLER IMAGE (#1)
“An edgy page-turner that pulls the reader into a world where image is everything and murder is all about image. Great start to a new series!”
– Erika Chase,
Author of The Ashton Corners Book Club 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, Agatha, Anthony and Macavity 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 and The Summer We Came to Life
“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.”
– Lynn Farris,
Mystery Books Examiner for Examiner.com
Books in the Allison Campbell Mystery Series
by Wendy Tyson
KILLER IMAGE (#1)
DEADLY ASSETS (#2)
DYING BRAND (#3)
Copyright Information
DEADLY ASSETS
An Allison Campbell Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Digital epub edition | July 2014
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 © 2014 by Wendy Tyson
Cover design by Kendel Flaum
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. Related subjects include: cozy mysteries, women sleuths, murder mystery series, whodunit mysteries (whodunnit), amateur sleuth mysteries, book club recommendations.
ISBN-13: 978-1-940976-22-8
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Ben—technical advisor, best friend, life partner, soul mate.
Thanks for always waiting while I finish “one more page”
and for believing I could write a book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The pool of people to whom I owe gratitude only grows with each novel. First, I have endless appreciation and admiration for my agent, Fran Black of Literary Counsel. Business advisor, beta reader, cheerleader, friend, chocolate connoisseur…you must need a separate closet for all of these hats, Fran, yet you seem to wear them so effortlessly. Your advice and friendship have been invaluable. Thank you for believing in me.
Many thanks to Rowe Copeland at The Book Concierge for her editing, friendship, tireless work and creative ideas. A true gem.
To Kendel Lynn (editor extraordinaire), Art Molinares and everyone at Henery Press—thank you for giving Allison such a wonderful home.
Thanks to all of my early readers and tireless supporters, especially Marnie Mai, Mark Anderson, Sue Norbury, Angela Tyson, Edie and Sam Newman, Jennifer Brown and, of course, Carol Lizell (once a teacher, always a teacher–you still have the sharpest pencil around!).
To my family…thanks for putting up with “Purple Mommy Minion” before every deadline and for being my most vocal PR team!
And finally, many thanks to mystery readers, who make all of this possible, and to the wonderful community of mystery and thriller writers. We may all write about murder and mayhem, but I have never met such a warm and welcoming group of people.
~ Wendy
One
The hawk fell from the sky like a bomb, its body graceless in death. It plummeted through a canopy of oaks, their foliage laced with the vestiges of afternoon sun, and landed just feet from Allison’s bumper in a limp, twisted heap. Heart racing, Allison slammed on the brakes. She bolted out of the car in time to see a young woman emerge from the forest. The woman wore a rifle slung over one shoulder, a rucksack across the other. A wild mane of black hair flew behind her like a cape.
“That one’s mine,” the woman shouted. “Don’t touch it!”
Allison glanced down at the dead hawk with equal parts sympathy and disgust. She certainly had no intention of touching it.
“Bastard’s murdered a dozen chickens in two weeks. Damn thing had it coming.” The woman leaned down, grabbed the bird by the throat and shoved it into the canvas satchel. Finished, she looked up at Allison as though registering for the first time the presence of a stranger on her property. “Who are you?”
“Allison Campbell. The image consultant.” Allison started to hold out her hand, but with a second look at the rifle, opted instead for a friendly nod.
The woman harrumphed a hello, wiped her hands on her jeans, and gestured toward the house behind them. “I suppose you’re here for Francesca.”
“Is she ready for me?”
The woman shrugged.
She was in her l
ate twenties, lean and muscular, and now that she was closer, Allison could see the face beneath the hair. Beautiful features—dark almond-shaped eyes, a regal nose, full lips, and high, defined cheekbones—clashed with an almost savage indifference.
Allison tore her gaze from the woman with the gun and looked around at her surroundings, too startled by the bird to have taken in the Benini estate—the home of her potential client, Francesca Benini—before now. The house lay sprawled across a hilltop, fronted by woodland that sloped down to the angry edge of Cayuga Lake. A winding driveway meandered its way up the hill, ending in a semi-circle in front of the house. The town of Ithaca was visible in the distance, an urban island in a sea of forest and farmland.
The house itself stood as testament to Benini Enterprises’ dwindling finances. A dilapidated three-winged monstrosity with a triple gabled front, a look-out tower and multiple entries, its wood trim was in desperate need of paint. Small patches of stucco had disappeared off the fascia, leaving scars like pockmarks across the broad façade. The building’s height blocked out the sun and shadows slashed across a yard that was unkempt around the edges.
It was a warm August day. Storm clouds bruised the distant skies, and a sticky breeze offered no relief from the heat. Allison wiped the sweat beading along her brow. Her attention now back on the young woman, she asked, “And you are?”
But before the woman could respond, the front door flung open and a tall, athletic-looking man in his early forties came down the steps toward them. He was slim, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and his movements were quick and elegant, especially for a man of his height. A day or two’s worth of stubble gave a rakish air to a strong nose, sharp cheekbones and smooth olive skin. And, most noticeable of all, were his cerulean-colored eyes, which pierced Allison’s own with a knife-like gaze.
He flashed Allison an apologetic smile. “Please ignore my sister, Maria. I’m Alessandro Benini. Most people call me Alex.” He held out his hand. “You must be here for my aunt. Let’s get you inside where it’s cool.” To Maria, he said, “Don’t just stand there gawking. Do something with that bird.”
By now, blood had soaked through the canvas bag and a small circle of crimson was pooling near Maria’s sneakered feet.
Undeterred, she hoisted the bird over her free shoulder and threw Allison one last glacial glance before disappearing back in the direction of the hill and the barn beyond.
Allison said, “I hope I’m not disrupting things. Your sister seemed a bit surprised to see me.”
“Not at all.” Alex started toward the house. “It’s me who should apologize. Maria can be insufferable. Don’t take it personally. She hates everyone. Horses constitute her social circle. And people,” he smiled, “including her family, are just an annoying fact of life.”
Allison followed him through the double entry and into a large reception area. The inside of the home was as well-seasoned as the outside. Although the rooms were grand, the ceilings high, and the floors marble, the gold-toned wallpaper had faded to dull yellow and the Oriental rugs scattered in each room were muted and matted with use. Heavy brocade drapes covered the windows, blocking out any remnants of afternoon sun, and lending a dark and musty gloom to the already bleak interior.
They walked through a hallway, past a dining room and a formal parlor and into a screen-enclosed sun porch that ran the entire length of the back of the house. Two white wicker chairs, a wicker rocker, and a small white-painted table constituted the only furniture. Six large potted ferns stood sentinel along the back wall.
Alex said, “Sit, please.”
Allison chose a wicker chair and sank into a floral seat cushion that had probably once been a bright and cheerful scarlet but had since weathered to the color of dried blood. The view from her seat made up for any lack in the decor.
Below the porch, laid out in a sweeping vista, were the family’s vineyards. Row upon row of grapes, their vines trained and twisted over wire trellises, lined the side of the mountain like troops on the march. To the right and left of the vineyards, two swaths of dense forest stretched their way down a steep hill toward the town of Ithaca. A battered barn was next to the woods. Four horses grazed in a pasture corralled by a split rail fence.
Allison watched a young colt prance along the barrier, surprised it chose not to jump over something it could have so easily cleared. Sitting back in her seat, she said, “The view is beautiful. Do you ride?”
Alex had been standing by the window. At the sound of Allison’s voice, he turned and took the seat across from her, folding his lanky body into the chair with exceptional grace for a man.
“We all ride, except Aunt Francesca. She’s not terribly adventurous. In fact, she hasn’t left this house for as long as I can remember.” He smiled warmly, as though to minimize the seriousness of his remarks about his aunt. “She’ll be down in a few moments. Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
Allison nodded. There was something about this arresting stranger that she found unsettling.
His eyes shone with an amused intelligence, at once world-weary and good-natured, as though he had seen it all, but life still entertained him. Only, she couldn’t tell if they were sharing a joke—or if the laugh was on her.
“You’re Paolo’s son, then? Francesca’s nephew.”
Alex nodded.
“I’m so sorry about your father. Francesca told us what happened when she called. How is he?”
“Doing poorly, unfortunately. The stroke was severe. Maria and Francesca were the only ones here when it happened. They didn’t find him until…until it was too late to do much about it. He was awake for a few days. Now…now, he’s in a coma.”
“Again, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Allison.” Alex glanced at his watch and sighed. “I imagine Francesca is under the assumption that if she works with you, she’ll be fit to run Benini Enterprises?”
Startled by the sudden shift in topic, Allison said, “She must believe it’s possible, or she wouldn’t have invited me here.”
“The notion is ridiculous.”
Allison sat up straighter, feeling protective of a woman she hadn’t even met yet. “Tell me, why do you say it’s ridiculous? That’s a strong word.”
“Because she’s a sixty-three year old woman with no business background. Benini Enterprises, while considerably smaller than it once was, is a four hundred million dollar company with locations in Italy, the Balkans, and the United States. How can she go from house-bound to corporate leader practically overnight?”
“Are you sure that’s what she has in mind?”
He frowned. “As you said yourself, why else would she have contacted you?”
“If not Francesca, then who will take over if your father has to step down?”
“My brother Dominic is the natural successor, I suppose. Although Maria will disagree. But then, that’s nothing new.” He sat back in the chair. Allison saw a man at ease with people, a man who was comfortable being the center of attention. A man with his own agenda?
“And you, Alex? Are you in the family business as well?”
This time, Alex’s smile had a wistful quality to it. “Me? It depends whether you consider-”
But before he could finish, a woman entered the room. She was short—very short—with a thick-set body and deep-set brown eyes that shone with energy of purpose. Her gaze darted between Allison and Alex. “Thank you, Alessandro. You can leave us now.”
“Allison, my aunt, Francesca Benini.” Alex stood, and shifting his gaze to his aunt, said, “I was entertaining your guest in your absence.”
“I can see that.” Francesca’s tone was flat. She walked to where Allison was now standing and offered her hand. The older woman’s fingers were tiny, but her grip was startlingly firm.
Francesca surveyed the room, settled her eyes back on Alex. “Tell me, wher
e is Simone?”
“Not feeling well.”
“Again? She should be at the hospital. With Paolo.”
Aunt and nephew stared at each other for a full minute, some unspoken communication going on between them. Silent tension blanketed the room. Eventually, Alex was the one to break it. “I’ll leave you with my aunt,” he said. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Allison. I trust we’ll see each other again.”
The last statement was said with a charmed smile and laughing eyes that made Allison wonder whether Alessandro Benini always got his own way. “Perhaps,” she said, lifting her chin. She kept her tone neutral, aware of Francesca’s judging stare. “It was nice to meet you, too.”
After Alex left the room, Francesca sat on the seat he’d vacated. The older woman took a moment to appraise Allison, making no attempt to hide her approval of Allison’s pale pink linen suit, her cream slingbacks and matching Gucci purse. She glanced at Allison’s hands.”Do we make you nervous, Ms. Campbell?”
Allison looked down at her fingers and was relieved to see that they gripped the sides of her chair with steady strength. “Not at all. Alex was a pleasant companion.”
Francesca smiled wryly. “Of that, I have no doubt.” She turned her head to look out the window. Allison followed suit, and together they watched Maria down by the barn, leaning over an over-sized, silver pail. Maria appeared to be scrubbing something, her long, slender arms submerged in murky water. She looked up toward the house, as though she’d felt the weight of their stare, but after a moment she gave her attention to the thing in the pail again and resumed her chore.