Deadly Assets

by Wendy Tyson

  “What’s this?” she’d asked before starting to read. She’d excused herself and changed back into jeans. And those were the last words spoken by either of them until Vaughn showed up at the door.

  Now the small leather book was burning her fingers. Gina’s diary. She skimmed the last few pages, then put the book aside, tracing its roughened edges with the tip of a nail. Gina Benini had only been a few years older than Allison when she took her own life. Allison was plagued with questions, most of all, why would a woman with two children kill herself?

  Alex walked across the bedroom, slowly. He pulled the chair away from the small writing desk and sat down.

  “Satisfied?” Alex asked.

  “Satisfied with what?”

  “You’ve been asking questions, Allison. We know you visited my uncles, Enzo and John. We know you stopped by the bottling plant. You obviously felt you needed to know more about my mother. Now you know.” He looked away, the expression on his face all echoes of pain and sorrow. Allison knew true grief. She’d seen it painted in the lines of Mia’s face, in the rage on her father’s eyes when her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, in the mirror whenever she thought about Violet, her former patient whose short life had been marred by abuse and violence. She wasn’t sure what she saw on Alex’s face was grief. She’d made a career of reading people, yet he was inscrutable.

  “Alex, what could your mother’s death possibly have to do with Francesca’s disappearance?”

  “Nothing. It has absolutely nothing to do with my aunt’s decision to flee.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it happened years ago. You can stop asking about my mother because she has nothing to do with any of this. And that diary proves they weren’t very close. In fact, my mother disliked Aunt Francesca. Read it. You’ll see.”

  “You’d think two women of similar age living in the same house would be close.”

  Alex shrugged. “I don’t know why they didn’t get along. With no one else around, maybe they were fighting for the attention of my father.”

  “That’s a rather chauvinistic view. Surely your mother wasn’t jealous of Paolo’s sister?”

  “Think about it, Allison. Two women, alone in that house with two small boys and one man. Who else would Francesca talk to?”

  “Gina. That’s my point.”

  “For all her faults, my aunt is somewhat of an intellectual. My mother was not.”

  Allison studied Alex, the tension in his shoulders, the sudden coldness reflected in his eyes. “Were you close to your mother?”

  “I was young when she died.”

  “That’s not an answer, Alex.”

  He stood. “It’s the only answer I have.”

  He held his hand out for the diary. “Please. I should be on my way.” He glanced at the door. “And you don’t want your personal knight to come looking for you again.”

  “When we visited Enzo, he seemed,” Allison searched for the right word, “affected when he talked about Francesca. Is there any possibility that Enzo and Francesca were lovers?”

  Alex laughed. “Doubtful. I’m pretty certain Enzo is gay.”

  “Then why would he react?”

  “Maybe they are friends. The fact is, it doesn’t matter.”

  Allison didn’t buy his easy dismissal. She saw a flash of discomfort in Alex’s eyes and believed that perhaps she’d hit on some nugget of truth, some tie that bound Enzo and Francesca, whether it was sex or love or shared history.

  “Can I keep the diary, Alex? I’d like to read all of the entries.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “You said yourself that there’s no connection between Gina and your aunt’s disappearance. So how could it hurt?”

  “Why do you want it?”

  Allison shrugged. “I don’t know.” And that was the truth. She didn’t know why, but she did know that she wanted to read it thoroughly. Maybe it would be a looking glass into the life and death of Gina Benini.

  Alex shrugged. “I don’t suppose there is any harm. I’d need it back before my brother realizes it’s gone.”

  “I can bring it by tonight.”

  Alex seemed to think about this. After a pause, Alex said, “Dom is away tomorrow. Why don’t you come by his house and I’ll make you dinner? You can ask me whatever questions you want then. Seven tomorrow night? That will give you a full day with the book.”

  “Vaughn?”

  “I’d prefer if you come alone.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a great idea.”

  “Vaughn is protective of you, and he strikes me as a man who isn’t thinking straight right now.” Alex held up his hands. “No judgment, but if you want the diary, stop by alone.” He smiled, eyes alight with amused intelligence. “I promise not to hurt you.”

  Allison flushed at the double entendre implied in his tone. His words left no room for debate. But Vaughn would balk if she suggested she go alone. She could tell him the truth, or she could make it impossible for him to insist on going too. Would that be foolish? Was this man dangerous? Recognizing that dangerous could have several meanings, she blushed again. Maybe the better question was whether she could trust herself.

  Allison thought of Jason. His broad smile, his warm laugh, the feel of his muscular back against her fingertips when they were making love. Jason was her friend first. As lovers, they were rediscovering each other. It was an awkward journey, filled with all the little hurts they’d left littered in their wake like so many tiny landmines. But any relationship was work—and Jason had been a part of her life for so long. She cherished their friendship. And she didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize their rekindled love affair.

  Allison weighed all of this in a split second. In that same flash, she saw Francesca in her home the first day they’d met. She heard her say again that the vultures were circling. Those words had taken on new meaning. Had her client been aware of some undisclosed danger? Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it seemed likely. She could be suffering...or worse. All Allison and Vaughn had were data points. Lots and lots of random facts. They had to tie them together. They had to find the links.

  Maybe Alex Benini—willingly or not—could help them do that.

  Allison squared her shoulders. “Seven o’clock tomorrow night. Alone. On two conditions.”

  Alex nodded for her to continue.

  “One, total honesty. I will come with questions, and you need to answer them candidly.”

  “And two?”

  “Stop having me followed.”

  Alex sighed. “Those are complicated requests, Allison. More complicated than you know.”

  “Why? Why does all of this need to be so complicated? What the hell are you and your family hiding?”

  “We’re not hiding anything. The question is, what was Francesca hiding?”

  That stopped Allison.

  Was this all about protecting a secret that Francesca had held close? Were the vultures circling, trying to get a glimpse of whatever she was clinging to? Was it something worth dying for?

  Allison heard footsteps in the hall. Vaughn? She glanced at her watch. The hour was almost up.

  “Can you promise those two things or not?”

  Alex looked at her with sad eyes, no hint of amusement this time. “It was Dom who had you followed. I can’t make any promises there. He’s a lone wolf. He doesn’t answer to me, or anyone for that matter.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow night? I’ll text you the address.”

  “What about my other condition? Total honesty?”

  “I’ll lay bare what I can.”

  Alex left, and Allison was left to ponder the meaning of those words.

  “Wolf. Vultures. What is it with this family and predator metaphors?” Vaughn didn’t look up from his bowl as he
spoke. They were eating homemade chicken soup and biscuits in the inn’s dining area, compliments of the manager. The soup was a bit salty for Allison’s taste, but she welcomed its searing heat and the comforting flavor of something so familiar. It made her think of the rare times when she was a kid and her mother felt well enough to cook for them. Especially if her father wasn’t home. Just Allison, her mom and her sisters. Those were the good days.

  Vaughn cleared his throat, interrupting Allison’s thoughts. “Vultures and wolves, Allison.” He pointed his spoon at her.

  Allison’s mind traveled back to her first visit, to the hawk that had fallen from the sky. To Maria’s rifle. Wolves and vultures, indeed. And here I am, sitting across from one of my closest friends, preparing to lie, she thought. I am no better than the vultures or the wolves.

  But it was for his own good. At least that’s what she told herself.

  But now she was having second thoughts. And third.

  “So what was in that diary?” Vaughn asked. He tapped at the bottom of his empty soup bowl, looking vaguely disappointed. “Was it worth Rico Suavé’s trip over?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to go through it yet.”

  “Why did he bother bringing it over?”

  “He heard that we were talking to Gina’s brother, Enzo.”

  Vaughn twisted the white cloth napkin around his hand. “When I heard Alex in your room, I figured as much. I’m glad he came clean about the tail. I’m not surprised they’re watching us. Let them. In fact, maybe that explains how Razinski knew. And the damn white Accord.” Vaughn looked down at his hands, then back up at her, clearly uneasy. “I was worried for a minute that you had called him.”

  Allison felt her color rise. “Do you really think that little of me?”

  “I really think that little of him. I don’t trust Alex Benini, Allison. I don’t trust any of them.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry. I’m committed to Jason.”

  Vaughn’s mobile beeped. He picked it up, stared at the screen, and scowled. “This can’t be good. I’ll be right back.”

  Allison watched as he walked toward the inn’s entrance hall, his tall, muscular form lithe from all of the boxing he did to stay in shape. Once again, Allison felt a pang of admiration for Vaughn. His devotion to Jamie, his self-discipline. She hoped once this was over, it wouldn’t scar him. He’d worked so hard to create this life for them. Nothing could be allowed to destroy it.

  Vaughn was back a few minutes later looking glum. “I need to get back tonight.”

  “Jamie?”

  Vaughn nodded. “Angela is sick and Mrs. T has family in town. Mrs. T is heading over for a few hours to stay with Jamie until I get there. But I need to get moving.” He glanced at his watch. “I know we paid for the rooms already. If you want to stay—”

  Allison frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” Vaughn said. “If I had another option, I’d use it. But on such short notice,” he shook his head, “I just don’t.”

  “It’s fine, Vaughn. I just have a few more loose ends to tie up here.”

  “Like?”

  “I wanted to head to the library and see what’s available about the Pittaluga bakery on microfiche, for one thing.”

  She eyed Vaughn to gauge his reaction. “You could fly home,” he said.

  Allison tried to look like she was considering that as a fresh option. She hated lying. But this wasn’t really lying. She had been trying to figure out a way to send Vaughn home alone, and now she had it.

  “Maybe I’ll do that. I only need another day or two. I’ll be right on your heels.”

  Vaughn looked miserable. Allison cringed, knowing she was responsible for his unease. But she was a grown woman, absolutely capable of taking care of herself. “Stop worrying,” she said.

  “Jason will be pissed at me.”

  Allison stood. Her bowl was empty and her head was pounding. She wanted to get back to Gina’s diary before the guilt overwhelmed her. But this insistence that she needed looking after was infuriating and she felt the guilt give way to anger.

  “Jason will have to deal,” she said. “I’ll see him soon enough.”

  “Let me pack and get going.” He studied her for a moment before turning to go. Thinking better of it, he spun around. “Francesca’s other bag. It was stuffed in the back of my trunk, where she must have left it. I have it in my room. I’ll drop it off before I go.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Nah. Girly stuff. Underwear, toiletries. I felt like a perv going through it.”

  Allison smiled. “Leave it with me. I’ll take another look.”

  Thirty

  Vaughn was gone by 9:30, and Allison was left alone with her thoughts—as well as Gina Benini’s diary and Francesca’s bag. She pulled on the blue pajamas she’d purchased at Target, brushed her teeth, and curled up on the settee, anxious to read.

  The diary was small. When placed on her left hand, it reached only her fingertips and weighed just ounces. The cover may have once been a shade of rich purple, but it had faded to a washed-out gray. The material was silky, though, and perhaps even softer to the touch because of time’s caress. Allison sat for a moment, holding the book, wondering where Gina had purchased it. Had it traveled from Italy? Or had it been a gift from Paolo?

  She opened to the first page. The paper was a quality parchment, now yellowed from age. The writing was a heavy black, in a script so flowery that Allison struggled to decipher each word.

  The first page contained a catalog of goods. Scarf, mittens, bonnet, Nona’s blanket. Next to each item was a checkmark, straight and unadorned compared to the lettering in the list itself. Allison wondered if Gina had written the list and Paolo the checkmarks? Why was it in English, not Italian?

  Did it really matter?

  The next few pages looked to be a toddler’s feeding schedule. At the top was the date, and underneath a recording of the time for each feeding. On the bottom were notations that Allison assumed were the time and consistency of bowel movements. The orderly recordings of a new parent? Clearly if Dom was eating green beans and sweet potatoes, he had been older than a tiny infant. So Gina must have been pregnant with Alex at the time. Or would be soon.

  The next ten pages, written at intervals of days or even weeks, were similar. Lists and schedules and notations about toy preferences and food quantities and behavior. There was a tone to the list, a rote-ness that seemed out of step with the frivolity of the book itself. Why use the diary for such mundane content? Were these lists a diligent mother’s notes—or a neurotic mother’s obsession? Allison wondered.

  About twenty pages in, the content changed. Gina began to include references to dinner dates with Paolo, picnic outings, luncheons with descriptions of magnificent spreads. On page thirty-eight, she mentioned a “gorgeous red silk dress, one he will have to love.” Her words seemed lighter, as though a burden had been lifted. Why? And what had been the burden to begin with? Child rearing? Loneliness?

  Allison kept reading. She was tired, and her back ached from sleeping in strange beds. She missed Jason and Brutus. But she was enthralled by the diary, by the lack of intimate details. Was Gina hampered by limited English? Was she afraid Paolo would read the book? Or was she simply uncomfortable putting thoughts and feelings on paper?

  About fifty pages in, the book took another turn. Gina had gone back to cold lists and stark descriptions. Here were notes about Paolo’s dinner preferences, her own caloric intake and reminders that she was getting fat.

  Gradually, the new baby crept into the pages, although rather than the doting mother’s lists that Dom’s infancy warranted, Alex was mentioned in passing, as though he was a mild inconvenience or another chore to which she needed to attend.

  Francesca was mentioned, too. But never by name. She was always a pronoun, or, at best, “Paolo’s sister.”
Entries read like angry comments on a modern blog. “Dinner with Paolo. Why does she stare? I feel like she’s stalking me. Every time I look up, there she is. Watching. Waiting. But for what? No wonder they sent her here. I wish they’d chosen the asylum.” Or, “He is such a little pig, with those eyes that follow me everywhere. Dom can’t sleep with him in the room, so Paolo and I have another challenge during the night. And she is no help.”

  The word asylum caught Allison’s attention. Allison assumed Francesca had chosen to come to America. Had she been sent? Had a mental hospital been the alternative?

  The entries went on, a litany of complaints and secret indignities. It came to an end on January 19. Gina Benini’s final entry said simply, “Coincidence?”

  Coincidence.

  Allison paged back to take another look at the entries right before that final notation. On December 10th, Gina had written a reminder about a doctor appointment. On December 24th, the entry read, “Dinner for twelve tonight. Remind cook of food allergy. And bitter greens. Always bitter greens.” Had she been planning a Christmas dinner? If so, who were the other guests?

  Gina Paolo died on January 28. Because there was no year written in the diary, Allison didn’t know whether Gina had time to start a new diary before her death. But based on her notes about the children, Allison’s hunch was that the diary entries ended just weeks before Gina Benini took her own life.

  Perhaps Alex could tell her tomorrow.

  Allison stood, stretched. Why the hell had Gina’s name been written in that latrine in the old hunting cabin? And had it been Francesca who’d written it?

  First Francesca Benini disappears during a pit stop off the highway. Then Tammy Edwards is mysteriously missing from her home. Add to that an invalid’s suspicious death, and an allegedly accidental steam leak that kills Maria Benini after a panicked phone call.

  And all Allison had was a name and an old diary.

  Allison placed the diary carefully in her purse. She double checked the door to her suite to make sure it was locked before settling in to call Jason. She was only mildly disappointed when he didn’t answer. She knew he would be angry that she was here alone. She didn’t feel like hearing it. Although she despised the guilt that knotted her gut, she wished he was here with her, but only if he would help. Because she could use the help.