Killer Image

by Tyson, Wendy

  She took another look at Maggie. This was not an abused teen, like Violet. This was not a girl who had no one else to turn to. This was a spoiled, alienated teenager in need of a firm hand and some self-esteem. And that’s what Allison did well. Her mind flashed to Hank McBride at their first meeting, at the cold way he’d referred to his own daughter as a misfit. Allison swore under her breath. Get a grip, Al, she thought. You’ve dealt with the worst the Main Line has to offer. You can handle this kid.

  When Maggie refused to look at her, Allison touched her chin, gently, and pulled it forward so Maggie would meet her eyes. “Seems each of us has something at stake. Shall we give it a go? What do you say, Maggie?”

  Maggie’s momentary panic seemed to have evaporated, replaced with cocky defiance. She gave Allison an appraising glance, head to toe and back up again, one that echoed Hank’s mannerisms the day before.

  “I say you’re stuck-up and in it for yourself. But because I have no other choice, I’ll do it. You should know now, though, that I’ll never be like you. I like who I am and I won’t let my father change that.”

  “Fair enough.” Allison could feel the tension in her shoulders snake down her spine. She thought of Hank’s smile, the way he dominated his wife, not so different from the way her own father had ruled their household. “Clearly we both have a challenge ahead of us.”

  Udele met Allison at the top of the stairs, appearing just seconds after Allison pushed the antique brass buzzer.

  Allison said, “You startled me.”

  Udele seemed unfazed. “Mrs. McBride would like to see you before you leave.” Udele’s words were crisp, separated by hard edges. Allison wondered whether she always looked like she’d just swallowed a spider or if she actually cracked a smile now and again. Was it this household? Despite the perfect furnishings and the decorator’s fingerprint everywhere, the house felt empty and cold. Only Sunny’s paintings and Maggie’s bedroom showed any sign of vibrancy or creative flair, even if it was morose in Maggie’s case. Perhaps the atmosphere had gotten to Udele.

  Allison followed the aging housekeeper to a parlor on the first floor. The entire room was done in navy blue toile. Even the ceiling was papered. Allison glanced around the room and tried to get a sense of this family from the photos and bric-à-brac. Not a lot to go on: several pieces of heavy walnut furniture, a wood-carved elephant on the writing desk, a crystal bud vase on an end table, an engraved silver-plated letter opener by the phone. A framed portrait of a young and impish Maggie hung next to the fireplace. Allison saw freshness in her eyes that seemed gone now, but Allison also recognized the glint of devil that must have rooted and thrived until it grew into the opposition witnessed in Maggie’s room.

  Next to Maggie’s painting hung a portrait of another young girl, as fair and striking as Maggie was dark and brooding. Allison stood staring at that second painting, trying to reconcile how two sisters could be so different, when she heard Sunny enter the room, a young woman beside her. The second woman was tall and slender, with Sunny’s long, graceful neck and Hank’s light coloring. Her hair was twisted in a neat chignon. Fine-boned limbs. Tiny, neat breasts. The fairer daughter, no doubt.

  “Allison, this is my older daughter, Catherine.”

  Allison stood. She accepted Catherine’s outstretched hand. “Very nice to meet you, Catherine.” Catherine’s handshake was cool and limp. She looked at Allison with a rather calculating stare of her own. With such a beautiful mother and thoroughbred sister, Allison felt for Maggie. It had to be hard to carve out a niche for herself in this family. Perhaps that explained the defiant attitude, the Goth clothes and makeup. If you know you can’t join ’em, don’t even try.

  Sunny said, “How did it go?”

  “It went fine.” Allison forced a smile.

  “Will you take the job?”

  Against her better judgment, Allison nodded.

  Sunny grinned. “Thank you! I was so worried. You saw her...she’s not an easy child and, well, she doesn’t take to everyone immediately.”

  Immediately? Allison doubted she ever took to anyone.

  Sunny held out an unmarked manila envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “The contract. There’s a confidentiality addendum enclosed. And your retainer. The congressman’s idea. He wants you to know we will keep our end of the bargain.”

  Allison opened the flap and looked inside. A bundle of paper-clipped documents and a check. Allison shook her head and handed the envelope back to Sunny.

  “I don’t sign contracts. You’ll have to trust my professionalism, Sunny. And as for the retainer, I’d prefer to be paid as we go. Tell Hank I’m certain he’s good for it. Besides, I know where to find him.”

  Allison’s attempt at humor was met with a polite laugh from Sunny and a cold glower from Catherine. Tough audience. “I’ll see Maggie this Friday? After school. Say four o’clock?”

  Sunny nodded. “I think this will work out fine.”

  Six

  On the drive home, Allison couldn’t shake a creeping sense of shame. It was that mother. Sunny. With her colorful paintings and colorless home and sullen housekeeper and manipulative husband. Allison knew the whole McBride show was aimed at conning her into taking on Maggie: the absent father, the warning that this was Maggie’s last chance. The money. She had a price and they knew it.

  And she couldn’t shake the comparison to Violet. The two girls couldn’t have been more dissimilar. One deprived, sad and poetic. The other bratty, spoiled and rude. But they were both oppositional and, she knew, too intelligent for their own adolescent good.

  Allison’s gut said she should have told the McBrides to find another consultant for their daughter. But, she had to admit, her willingness to work with Maggie went beyond the money. A piece of her looked forward to the challenge.

  It was high noon. Allison drove north on Route 30 toward her office, past strip malls and banks and restaurants whose parking lots were quickly filling. Allison felt antsy again. She checked her phone to see who Vaughn had scheduled next. Another session in forty minutes. On impulse, Allison dialed her ex-husband Jason’s number.

  “Nice to hear from you,” Jason said. He sounded genuinely pleased. “The occasion?”

  Allison hesitated. What was the occasion? Thinking quickly, she said, “Clogged sink. Any chance you can swing by and give me a hand with it?”

  “Sure,” Jason said.

  Allison thought she detected disappointment in his voice. Wishful thinking, Al, she mused. You made your bed.

  At four-thirty that afternoon, Vaughn interrupted a session with Allison’s client, Kit Carson. Allison excused herself and followed him into her office.

  “There’s a detective on the line for you. Lieutenant Mark Helms.”

  “What does he want?”

  Vaughn frowned. “He wouldn’t say. Insisted on speaking with you immediately.”

  The only thing Allison could think of was the Main Line Murder, as the papers had dubbed it. But what did that have to do with First Impressions?

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  As soon as she got on the line, a man said, “Ms. Campbell? Lieutenant Mark Helms. I’d like to arrange some time to meet with you tomorrow. When would be convenient? I can come to your office.”

  Helms had a pleasant baritone voice. And while his words were respectful, his tone left “no” off the table.

  “What do you want to talk about, Lieutenant?” she said.

  “Arnie Feldman.”

  “I didn’t know Arnie Feldman well.”

  Helms sighed. “This is an ongoing investigation. We’re looking at all angles. And your connection to his widow is what we’re interested in.”

  “Sasha Feldman? I don’t know Sasha at all, Lieutenant.”

  “Perhaps you remember her as Sally Ann Reilly.”

&nb
sp; “Sally Ann was Arnie’s wife?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Allison remembered a skinny woman with buck teeth and a bad attitude. Sally Ann Reilly had been Allison’s client for all of five sessions, sent to First Impressions by an employer trying to help Sally Ann overcome something they described as a lack of gravitas. A euphemism for immaturity and abrasiveness. Before they could make much progress, Sally Ann had quit her job and the sessions ended.

  “I haven’t spoken with Sally Ann—Sasha—in almost five years.”

  “I understand, Ms. Campbell, but we’d still like to talk to you. We’re just looking for information. And in addition to Sasha, you’re also acquainted with Mia Campbell.”

  Alarmed, Allison said, “What does Mia have to do with anything?” But even as the words escaped her, Allison knew exactly what Mia had to do with the investigation. During their divorce proceedings, Arnie had done everything in his power to make sure Mia’s accusations of criminal recklessness fell on deaf ears. The only way to do that was to discredit Mia. She reacted by threatening Arnie’s life. The threats did little to improve her image back then—and they were clearly hurting her now. “Is Mia a suspect?”

  Another tired sigh from Helms. “No one is a suspect at this time. But everyone is a person of interest.”

  “That should do it.” From her vantage point behind the closet door, Allison watched Jason pull himself out from under her bathroom sink and wipe his hands on his khaki cargo shorts. He sat on the white-tiled floor, back to the tub, and frowned. “Stop brushing your hair over the sink, Al. You’re clogging the drain.”

  Allison didn’t bother to answer. How long had Jason been telling her that? The entire five years they were married? Before that even? Somehow divorce hadn’t ended that part of the dance. Allison turned so he couldn’t see her and unhooked her bra. She took it off and pulled a black slip on in its place. Then, tucked in her walk-in closet, she tried to decide which of her little black dresses to wear to tonight’s charity dinner. Spaghetti straps and lace trim? Empire waist? She settled on a cute sleeveless sheath and pulled it carefully off the rack.

  Allison felt Jason’s presence behind her before she saw his reflection in the mirror. Same dark, curling brown hair, same broad shoulders that tapered down to form a perfect V. She’d always loved his body—its sinewy strength, its hardness—even when she’d disliked his attitude. Jason stood so close that Allison could almost feel his abs against her back and his breath against her skin. She knew it wasn’t that long ago when this little scene would’ve played out differently. He would’ve reached around to cup her breasts, pulled the straps of her slip down, and let the material slide to her waist, maybe lifted the skirt up from behind. They would’ve made love on the bedroom floor until they were both breathless and sated.

  “Sink’s fixed, Al. What else do you need done?”

  Ah, yes, she thought. In the here and now, we are friends, at best.

  After searching his eyes for a hint of the regret that haunted her, Allison closed the closet door. She had been the one to end it, after all. A faint smiled played itself out on Jason’s lips, but his eyes were guarded. Disappointed, she headed toward the bathroom.

  Jason sat on her bed. He opened the drawer to her bedside table and rummaged around in the mess, pulling out a pair of nail clippers. He stuffed the tissues and magazines and stray notes back into the drawer and began clipping the already-short nail on his pinky finger.

  She glanced at Jason over her shoulder while she struggled with the zipper on the back of her dress. “Zip me up, please.” She backed to the bed.

  “Sure.” He pulled the zipper the remaining way up, placed the nail clipper back in the drawer and stood. “Is that all you needed? Because if so, I have a date of my own tonight.”

  That stopped her. “Really?” In the two years since the divorce, she’d never heard Jason so much as speak another woman’s name. Allison slipped on her pumps, not liking the feeling of jealousy creeping along the edges of her mind. “So, do I know her?”

  He smiled. Dimples creased the skin on each side of his mouth, under the stubble. “Fortunately, no. She’s outside of your extensive social circle.” He turned his head to the side and said, almost bashfully, “She’s an underwear model.”

  Allison gave him a look that said Yeah, right.

  “For department-store catalogs.” He kissed the top of Allison’s head. “Amber something or other.”

  “Must be serious. Make sure you learn her last name before the wedding.” She reached out and stroked his cheek. “You’d better shave. You look like a slacker.”

  “I am a slacker.”

  This time, Allison smiled. Jason was a lot of things—difficult, argumentative, idealistic—but she knew that whatever he did, he did whole-heartedly. His sister Bridget’s death had left a hole in his spirit wide enough for the Titanic to slip through. He’d taken his mom’s side during his parents’ divorce and, eventually, left his dad’s company, where he’d run a small but busy legal department. Allison hadn’t minded the career shift, exactly. But she had minded the new laissez-fair attitude that went with it. Just like with Mia, her mentor, it was as though Bridget’s death zapped the will right out of him. Looking back, that accident signaled all of the changes yet to come in their lives. Mia’s divorce. The birth of First Impressions. The rift in her own marriage.

  Just when Allison’s career picked up, Jason’s took a U-turn, going from a high-profile corporate lawyer to an attorney in the DA’s office. Despite what he thought, she hadn’t given a damn about the reduced salary or the diminished prestige. But she did mind that, in her view, he’d given up on his dream of owning his own business. Her Jason had not been a quitter. The Jason who emerged from his family’s troubles had lost sight of his goals.

  “Come on,” Jason said. “I gotta go. Walk me downstairs.”

  He grabbed her hand. She tried to ignore the familiar warmth of his fingers and the reassuring weight of his arm next to hers. It was too easy to remember the good and forget the bad. The all-night bar tours he’d pulled at the end. The fights over money, this house, his career, and her business. They’d been fencers, always sparring and their fights left emotional wounds.

  Neither of them spoke as they made their way downstairs. In the foyer, Jason slipped his sandals back on. Despite the chilly weather, he wore shorts and sandals.

  “I got a call today, Jason. One you should know about.” Allison took a deep breath. She knew this would cause Jason pain, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. “From Detective Mark Helms. He’s investigating the death of Arnie Feldman.”

  “I read his name in the news. So why does he want to talk with you?”

  “I worked with Arnie’s widow a long time ago.” Allison paused. “And he wants to discuss Mia.”

  “Damn.” Jason’s hands clenched into fists. “My mother called me today. My father stopped by the farm and practically accused her of killing Arnie. Talk about an ass.” Jason shook his head. “If my mother were to murder anyone, it’d be him.”

  “How do you know it was murder? The papers didn’t say that.”

  “My contacts at the police department.” Jason’s expression darkened. He reached for Allison’s hand, seemed to think better of it, and fiddled instead with his keys. He smiled, but it was a humorless smile, one that made Allison ache to reassure him. Despite his bravado, she knew his parents’ hatred of one another tore at him. Rather than suffer from divided loyalties like many grown children of divorcees, Jason loathed his father and coddled his mother. Mia’s escape to that farm was something Jason still had trouble accepting. It worried him.

  Allison wrapped her arms around her chest and leaned against the door. Mia’s behavior worried her, too. She missed Mia. Sometimes desperately. Their relationship had been beyond that of in-laws. Mia had first been her mentor and boss, then her friend and, fi
nally, her surrogate mother. But Allison’s divorce from Jason had been a rude reminder that Mia and Allison had no blood tie—and in the end, Bridget’s tragedy had been the undoing of their relationship, too.

  “Besides,” Jason said, breaking Allison’s train of thought. “Vaughn called me this morning to find out what I knew, which was nothing, so I made some calls. It’s good to have friends in high places.”

  “Why would Vaughn call you about Arnie Feldman’s murder? Because of Helms?”

  Jason gave her a strange look. “You’re a funny lady, Al. Maybe Vaughn was just being nosey. You place him up on a pedestal, but he is human.”

  “I do forget that sometimes.” Allison shook her head. “This whole thing is bizarre. What else do you know about the murder?”

  “I know that my mother had nothing to do with it.”

  “Of course she didn’t, Jason. But aside from that.”

  “Just that you should keep your door locked and the alarm system on. You don’t pay enough attention to security.” He closed her front door, then opened it and jiggled the handle to check the lock. “I wish you’d get over that fear of yours and adopt a puppy. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you so much.”

  “Not on your life. Puppies grow up to be dogs.”

  Allison balked at even the thought of owning a dog. Although she liked dogs in theory, in reality, they scared her. As a child, her father had kept an ornery wolf-dog mix named Thor as a guard animal. The dog lived in their backyard within the confines of a twenty-by-twenty pen. Even though Allison had been warned a thousand times to stay away from him, she’d thought—wrongly—that he’d never bite her. So one day, feeling sorry that he was all alone outside, she’d snuck in the pen with him. Thirty seconds later, he had her pinned up against the fence, his snarl so loud it echoed in her nightmares for weeks.