Killer Image

by Tyson, Wendy

  She handed the picture back to Helms. “Only because I know who she is. Truthfully, if I ran into her at a party, I wouldn’t have known it was Sally Ann. She looks completely different.”

  “But if she’d come up to you and re-introduced herself?”

  Allison nodded. “Yes, after a moment. But she didn’t.” Allison held up a hand. “But before you make too much of that, Lieutenant, remember what I do for people. Not everyone wants it known that they’ve worked with an image consultant.”

  “Understood. Her former employer told us she’d worked with you. That’s how we made the connection.”

  Lieutenant Helms unfurled his long body and walked to the window. He spoke with his back to Allison. “And now a little closer to home. Mia Campbell?”

  Allison tensed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Her name has come up. Witnesses say they overheard Ms. Campbell making threats toward Arnie. She said, I quote, ‘I’ll get you one day.’”

  “And who are these witnesses?”

  Helms turned. “I get to ask the questions, Allison. Did you ever hear Mia Campbell threaten Arnie Feldman?”

  “I heard a bereaved mother express anger toward a system that denied her daughter justice.”

  Helms walked across the room until he was standing over Allison. He placed both hands on her desk and leaned in so that she could smell his spicy aftershave. “Please answer the question.”

  Allison refused to be cowed. “Mia disliked the way Arnie treated her. He twisted words, tried to make her look unstable.”

  “Disliked him enough to hurt him?”

  “Three years later? Hardly. She reacted in the heat of the moment. Was anything she said a true threat? Absolutely not.”

  “You said Feldman tried to make her look unstable. Is she? Unstable, I mean?”

  Allison hesitated. “Not that I am aware.”

  But it was too late.

  Like a hawk on a free range chicken farm, Helms swooped in. “A legalistic answer. Mia moved to the country, sold all her possessions and disconnected from almost everyone in her life—including you, her protégé and daughter-in-law.”

  “Former daughter-in-law.”

  Helms stood. His height was unsettling, but Allison matched his challenging stare with a hard look of her own.

  After a moment, Helms said, “Admit it, Ms. Campbell, Mia is not who she was.”

  “Are any of us?”

  Helms gave her a sharp look. “Stop playing games.”

  Allison stood. In heels, she could almost look him in the eye. “I’m not playing games, Lieutenant. Mia’s daughter was killed at the hands of her drunk husband. She lost two people in one horrible split second. If that doesn’t buy a person a temporary pass at sanity, I don’t know what does. But that doesn’t mean that years later Mia Campbell had the wherewithal or desire to murder her husband’s lawyer. Frankly, you’re grasping at straws.”

  Helms shook his head slowly, back and forth. In a split second, his expression went from angry to unreadable. The professional mask was back on. “That’s all I need, Allison.” He handed her a card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  As he was leaving, Allison stopped him. She’d meant to say something earlier, but the Lieutenant’s question about Mia had thrown her off. “If Sally Ann Reilly married Arnie Feldman, Lieutenant, what happened to Arnie’s first wife?”

  “He divorced her. As I understood it, the circumstances were not amicable.”

  Allison considered this. She knew Feldman’s first wife. The woman had been Mia’s client a long time ago.

  She said, “Hmm. I don’t imagine they would be. Amicable, that is.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Sally Ann’s sister, Brenda Reilly, was Arnie Feldman’s first wife. If Sally Ann is Sasha Feldman, that means that Arnie went from one sister to another.” Allison opened the door to her office. The Lieutenant stood still, his eyes locked on Allison. “That, Lieutenant, could be one ugly love triangle.”

  After Helms left, and later between sessions, Allison read the headlines in the local newspapers and clicked through the online news, looking for anything related to Feldman’s murder. The story was everywhere, including international syndicates. But each source only repeated the same tired information. A rare murder on the prestigious Main Line. Feldman died in his home under suspicious circumstances. No suspects in custody.

  No mention of Mia; she was grateful for that.

  Allison searched Google for anything on Sasha Feldman, the late Arnie, even Brenda, his ex-wife. Again, nothing new that would shed light on a motive to murder the attorney. Could it have been a sacrificial killing? A chill ran through her. She hoped not. That seemed too random. If that were true, then anyone could be the next target.

  Allison put her head back, against her chair. Satansim. Torture. A disabled security alarm.

  An inside job? A devil worshipper?

  Or a very savvy killer?

  Nine

  Sunny arrived at four o’clock, without Hank. She walked into First Impressions behind her daughter Catherine while Maggie trailed a few feet behind them both. Allison greeted them at the door, taking in at a glance the distance between Catherine and her mother and Maggie. The weather had flip-flopped. It was a warm March day, but despite the tenacious sunshine, all three McBride women were dressed for winter.

  In the light of her office, Allison could see Maggie’s features more clearly. She had full, bow-shaped lips and black irises that spilled into the chestnut brown of her eyes, making little pools of ebony where there should have been none. A pretty girl, really. Or she could be.

  Allison didn’t have long to ponder this fact before Catherine said, “Mother and I were wondering how long you need with Maggie?”

  “Three hours.” Allison glanced at her watch. “You can pick her up at seven.”

  That got Maggie’s attention. “No way. No effing way. Mom, you promised I could go out tonight with—”

  Catherine shot a warning look at her sister. “Really, Ms. Campbell,” Catherine said, “Don’t you think that’s overdoing it for the first session? We’d like her home earlier.”

  Allison looked at Catherine before glancing down at her schedule. She’d already decided to spend the better part of the afternoon with Maggie. Not only did she want a chunk of time to break through the barriers, but, if this relationship was doomed—if it was clear Maggie wouldn’t work with her—Allison wanted to know up front. Before she wasted her time and the McBride’s money.

  Allison let the silence continue for another moment. She walked to a bookshelf and rifled through brochures, finally choosing one she normally gave to family members of clients, about supporting change in their loved-one. She handed the brochure to Sunny.

  “I need three hours. After this, sessions will be one to two hours, max. But this is intake.”

  Maggie moaned. “Mom...”

  “Really, Mother, think. We have my engagement party tonight. Seven won’t work.” Catherine took the brochure from her mother’s hand. She leafed through it quickly and then tucked it under her arm in a dismissive gesture. “We’ll be back at six,” she said to Allison.

  Allison matched icy smile for icy smile. When she spoke, it was to Sunny. “Seven o’clock. I can take her home, if need be. You agreed up-front to my rules, Mrs. McBride. If you’re having second thoughts, please let me know now.” Then Allison turned to Catherine and held out her hand. “The brochure.”

  Catherine gave it to her with reluctance, a scowl marring the glacial prettiness of her features.

  “May I remind you, Catherine, that your parents and Maggie are my clients. While I’m thrilled for your engagement, and do wish you the best, I’d kindly like you to remember that I answer only to my clients.”

  Catherine looked like someone had punched her. Sunny, l
ips tightly knit into a barely discernible smile, seemed happily surprised. And Maggie grinned from ear to ear, the blow to Catherine’s ego clearly more enjoyable than the pain of having to stay with Allison all afternoon.

  “Okay, then. This way.” Allison walked across the reception area to the front door. “Shall I bring her home?”

  Catherine walked out in a huff, doing her best to slam the door behind her. Sunny turned before leaving and ran a finger across Maggie’s cheek. Maggie flinched. Sunny tilted her head to the side, sadness creasing the skin around her eyes, and gave Allison an empty smile. “If you don’t mind. Thank you.”

  Allison watched them get into the Mercedes. Then she walked toward a small room off the back of the reception area, motioning to Maggie to follow. “This way, Maggie. Let’s get started.”

  Allison led Maggie to the client room, a small room decorated in warm tones of beige, peach and chocolate. The room had been designed for intimacy. Allison wanted her clients to develop confidence in the relationship, to feel safe and secure enough to share goals and ideas. But glancing now at Maggie’s angry scowl, Allison was pretty sure the studied coziness of the client room wasn’t going to make a bit of difference.

  Four armchairs faced each other around a mahogany table. In the corner, mostly hidden behind a small Asian-inspired screen, stood a scale. Next to the scale, a few feet from the table, was an old fashioned roll-top desk, the inside of which contained standing file folders, each labeled with the names of clothing manufacturers and filled with catalogues. Allison watched Maggie scan the room, still scowling.

  Allison motioned toward one of the arm chairs. “Please. Sit.” Then she walked over to the desk and pulled several catalogues from one of the file folders and a tape measure from a drawer. Before returning to the table, she pulled aside the screen that hid the scale.

  When Allison turned back around, she saw that Maggie had pushed her chair back as far as it would go, until the back of it was lodged against a wall. She lounged with her head against the chair, her arms slung over the sides, feet propped on the table.

  Allison ignored the scuff mark on the wall where the chair had hit too hard and the black line on the table top where the rubber from Maggie’s boots maligned the wood.

  “Here you go, Maggie.” She placed a stack of clothing catalogues in front of her. Guess, DKNY, J. Crew, Abercrombie and Fitch. She took the seat opposite Maggie and spread the catalogues out on the table.

  “This is what you do?” Maggie said, straining her neck to see, her feet still on the table. She snickered. “Catalogue shopping? That’s your big secret to success?”

  Allison chose to ignore her tone. “These catalogues help me get a sense of the style that appeals to you. Usually we start with a discussion of personal goals. I do a physical intake: weight, height, measurements. And then we prepare a personal plan. Together.”

  Maggie sat up and swung her feet down onto the floor. “No offense, Allison, but this is so stupid.” She pointed to her skirt. “My style. What you see is what you get.” Then she picked up the Guess catalogue, flipped through it much the same way Catherine had flipped through the First Impressions brochure, and tossed it back on the table.

  Maggie sneered. “Oh, Allison, please give me perfect nails and a boob job and liposuction! Make me look like Catherine. Please, oh please. Or better yet, make me look like you, Ms. Perfect.” She pushed the catalogues to the edge of the table and smiled. “But you were born perfect, weren’t you? You were probably a cheerleader with loads of skinny, cheerleader friends. Well, that’s not me. I don’t need to look perfect to be happy, and I wish you and my stupid parents would just leave me the hell alone.” With one finger, she pushed the catalogues over the edge of the table, onto the floor. She stared at Allison, her eyes challenging. “You make me sick.”

  Allison picked up the catalogues and took a moment to re-stack them, as much to buy time as to regain her own composure. How far from the truth Maggie was. Cheerleader? Perfect body? How about gorging alone in her bedroom in order to avoid the fact that she had no friends? The few she’d had had been terrified of her father, the criminal. Never mind that he was acquitted. Didn’t matter. He and his family had been pariahs in a town of small thoughts and small dreams. And that made for a lonely existence.

  No, she had been more like Violet than Maggie. Alone. Grateful for anyone’s attention. Not like this spoiled child who sat before her now. But if she was going to make this relationship work, if she was going to give the McBrides some bang for their buck, she needed to think fast and not let her feelings interfere with work.

  She looked at Maggie. The girl stared callously ahead, eyes hidden by gobs of eyeliner and mascara. Allison considered Sunny’s description of her daughter. Could this all be chalked up to poor self-esteem? Oh, it made sense that the clothes, the hair, the piercings, were all designed to hide an insecure teenage girl from scrutiny. A mask of sorts, hiding the real Maggie. But Allison couldn’t get a sense of what, exactly, Maggie was most afraid of—changing or not changing. Success or failure. She realized she couldn’t really relate to Maggie’s plight and the thought made her angry. How could someone who could have it all, especially the freedom and acceptance that go hand-in-hand with power and money, so blatantly throw it all away?

  Don’t be silly, Al, she thought. You’ve seen enough to know that money cannot buy happiness. The saying was cliché for a reason.

  Allison stood up, walked to the small window over the desk, and looked outside. The sun shone. The oak trees that lined the street remained bare, but Allison could make out tiny nubs of green. Harbingers of spring. Hope and rebirth. She took a deep breath and turned to face Maggie.

  “Get your coat,” Allison said. “We’re leaving.”

  “Where are we going?” Maggie asked. They were outside by Allison’s car, and Maggie’s ungloved fingers twirled a pentagram necklace around at the hollow of her throat.

  “Get in and I’ll explain.”

  Maggie climbed in, sat back, and said, “Tell me where you’re taking me.”

  “The mall.”

  “I don’t want to go to the mall.”

  “Please put your seatbelt on.”

  “I don’t want to wear my seatbelt.”

  Lord. Allison rubbed her temple and wondered, yet again, about the wisdom of agreeing to this task. Maggie was a nightmare of Oppositional Defiant Disorder. Allison felt more like a babysitter than an image consultant. And she had no idea what she was going to do once she got Maggie to the mall. But nearly three long hours stretched before her and she needed to think of something.

  She waited for Maggie to buckle her seatbelt. And while she waited, she thought of Violet.

  A sense of futility weighed down on Allison.

  As it had at the Meadows.

  To a younger Allison, the name the Meadows had initially conjured up pictures of peaceful plains, resort-like rooms with clean corners and cheerful staff. Somewhere mildly neurotic children went to find comfort and understanding and the emotional space to heal.

  She couldn’t have been further from reality.

  The building that housed the Meadows treatment facility was tall and imposing, a plain brick box with barred windows and a steel-door entryway. Instead of the rolling meadows the name suggested, a depressing mixture of scrubby lawn and low-trimmed hedges, plain and browning and uninspired, surrounded the building within the confines of a six-foot chain-link fence. A single-lane driveway led through the hedges to and around the front of the building and then disappeared around back, ending at the facility’s parking lot.

  The reception area had been carefully planned to give off an air of homey welcome. Plants surrounded a large oak reception desk. An oriental rug sat beneath chairs and a low round table, on which a carefully selected array of magazines—Cricket, Good Housekeeping, Parent, Car and Driver—had been arranged in a semi-circle. The
walls were beige; the light fixtures illuminated the room in a soft glow and kept the corners dark.

  But if you looked closely, and Allison had, you’d see that beyond the reception desk, on the other end of a beige hallway, stood another metal door. Beyond that door, the homey atmosphere ended. Beyond that door were gray corridors and metal bars and stained furniture bolted to the floors. Beyond that door you could hear the shrieks and moans of girls who missed their mothers or their boyfriends or their crack. You could see the care-worn faces of staff burned out from too little pay and too much responsibility. You could smell the hopelessness.

  Allison came to learn that, for many, the Meadows was the last stop, a residential treatment program where Pennsylvania counties sent their worst female offenders–and their most horribly offended—before incarceration or, for the sickest kids, a psychiatric hospital. This meant rules. Lots of them: no smoking, no cursing, no physical contact. No hairspray (flammable), no nail-cutters (weaponry), no boys (temptation). Lights out at nine; wake up at six. Mail was read, beds were inspected, delousing was mandatory. And the list went on.

  The rules went for staff also: no fraternizing, no friendships, no fun. The Meadows was a serious place where serious counselors performed the wizardry of therapy on seriously disturbed adolescents. The Meadows was the place Allison worked during graduate school. The Meadows was where she met Violet.

  Allison recalled her first glimpse of the girl. During intake, Violet had sat hunched over on the nurse’s stool, a thermometer dangling from her mouth, her legs drowning in baggy brown corduroy. A beat-up blue duffle bag, barely large enough to fit gym clothes much less the worldly possessions of a teenage girl, had been propped next to her.

  “New kid,” the nurse said, her heavy chest heaving with the exertion of filling out forms and sorting through paperwork. “She’ll be ready to go to the dorms soon enough.”

  The girl didn’t move, didn’t look up from beneath her bangs. Allison saw purple bruises on her jaw line and aged, white scars on the backs of her hands.