Killer Image

by Tyson, Wendy

  “Uh-uh,” Allison said. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  “Ohmyfreakingoddess.” Maggie shook her head. “You cannot be serious.” She swung her feet out of the car.

  “I am serious.” Allison turned off the ignition. “Unless your housekeeper is here, you stay with me. Or I come inside with you.”

  “Udele is always here. She’s a fixture. An old, cranky fart from Daddy’s prep-school childhood.” When Allison didn’t budge, she shrugged. “Fine, suit yourself.”

  Maggie turned the knob on the door on the right side. Locked. She pounded on the door and screamed, “Udele! Open up!” When there was no response, she finally pulled a key from her skirt pocket and unlocked the door. Allison followed her inside.

  “Weird. Udele’s always here.” Maggie walked through the center hall toward the back of the house, flicking on lights as she went. “Maybe someone died.”

  Bite your tongue, came to mind. Instead, Allison said, “Let’s call your parents’ cell.”

  “I’m home by myself all the time. Just go.”

  “You just said Udele’s always here, so you’re not home by yourself all the time.”

  “Same thing. She never talks to me.”

  “Do you try talking to her?”

  Maggie uttered a “Yeah, right” under her breath. “She hates me and the feeling is mutual.”

  Maggie led Allison through a large dining room to a professionally equipped kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, two islands, double ovens, a forty-eight-inch Viking stovetop. Very chic, and with all the generic charm of a showroom. Allison wondered who did the cooking. Maggie must have seen her eyeing the space, because she said, “No one uses it. Except Udele. And mostly she just reheats stuff she gets from restaurants.”

  Maggie handed Allison the phone and repeated her mother’s cell phone number. No answer. Allison tried Hank’s number and Catherine’s as well and was plopped into voice-mail each time. She glanced at her watch: 7:12.

  “Where can I wait?”

  “Wherever.”

  Maggie opened the Subzero doors and pulled out a plate of cheese. She took it over to the counter, grabbed a knife from a butcher block, and sliced a large wedge of cheddar for herself. She looked up while chewing and said, “What? Want some?”

  Allison shook her head no. She was wondering how Maggie could possibly still be hungry after wolfing down three cheese enchiladas, a basket of chips with salsa, and an entire dish of fried ice cream, but she knew better than to say anything. Their working relationship had moved from loathing to some sort of ice-cold truce, but the wrong words would have it sliding backward again.

  Allison took a seat at the table in the adjoining sun room. Maggie opened her mouth, as though to speak, then seemed to think better of it. She sliced another piece of cheddar, pulled the plastic wrap back over the cheese, and left the plate and the dirty knife on the counter.

  “You know,” she said while punching the ice dispenser, “you really don’t have to stay. I’m not a baby. My parents won’t appreciate it. They’ll just be annoyed.”

  It seemed to Allison there was a tiny pinpoint of kindness in Maggie’s tone, a slight loosening of the defensiveness she wrapped around her like a winter cloak. In the vastness of this house, Maggie looked like a little girl playing dress-up. Even her attempts to look tough—the black clothes, garish makeup and Gothic accessories—only accented her youth. It occurred to Allison that Maggie was an outcast here in her own home, the child perpetually left out of playground games. But the old chicken-and-egg adage held true: was Maggie reacting to a dynamic present since toddler-hood or had she created her status with her behavior?

  She decided to take a gamble. “Your parents seem like tough people to please.”

  Maggie took a sip of water from the full glass and then dumped the rest in the sink. “Not my mother. Just Daddy. And Catherine.”

  “So you get along with your mother?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “There must be someone in the house you’re close to.”

  She shook her head. “They’re all wacked. Daddy’s a jerk, Catherine’s mean.” Maggie’s cocky stare challenged Allison to respond. “And my mother does what she’s told.”

  Ah. The scorn Maggie had for conformists when they first met. She had been reacting to her mother’s willingness to obey her father.

  Allison said, “My father wasn’t a nice man.”

  “Join the club. What he’d do?”

  “He could be abusive.”

  Allison could tell Maggie was trying to look nonchalant, but the sudden interest in her voice gave her away. “Happens all the time. My boyfriend, his father used to hit him when he was smaller. He hates his father because of it.”

  “Parents shouldn’t hit kids, I don’t think.” Allison shifted in her chair so she was facing Maggie. “So you do have a boyfriend?”

  Maggie nodded. She smiled in a girlish way that warmed Allison to the possibility that there was something soft and gentle in this difficult child. But the warmth died quickly when Maggie said, “Ethan Feldman. We’ve been dating for a year.”

  As Allison drove home from the McBride residence, Maggie’s words echoed in her mind. She knew the fact of Maggie’s relationship with Ethan Feldman meant nothing. But it made things messy and Allison’s natural response, especially when it came to kids, was to avoid mess.

  But she’d made headway with Maggie tonight. She’d gotten a glimmer of someone vulnerable, someone light-hearted and kind. Okay, a faint glimmer. Like the voltage from a lightening bug. But she’d take it. Sometimes it was the peek underneath the mask that could lead to a breakthrough.

  Allison twisted the pearl necklace around her neck. She couldn’t help it. After spending the evening with the congressman’s daughter, she began to understand why Maggie reminded her of Violet. The pervasive sense of loneliness. Despite Maggie’s privileged upbringing, the oppositional behavior covered up isolation and insecurity. As it had with Violet.

  Allison supposed her breakthrough session with Violet had come four weeks after Doc finally transferred Violet to her caseload. By that time, Violet had already been at the Meadows three months. Rather than improve her disposition, life at the Meadows seemed to drive Violet deeper into her shell. Her skin was pasty white. Fresh scars, as thin and superficial as nail scratches, criss-crossed her hands and the fleshy spots on her arms. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. She avoided looking or speaking to anyone. During sessions, Violet sat across the desk in Allison’s claustrophobic cubicle that masqueraded as an office. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and refused to speak. Allison would ask a question and Violet would stare blankly at the wall or look down at her slippered feet or, if the question was pointed enough, glare briefly at Allison. Day after day.

  But as these sessions wore on, Allison started to notice something about Violet: although she never spoke, she didn’t space out like the other girls, whose eyes would roll and faces slacken so Allison knew their silence meant they were with their boyfriends or dreaming about escape or Grandma’s pumpkin pie or a big, fat joint. With Violet, Allison had her attention. So Allison began to wonder if Violet’s silence wasn’t a form of control, the only control Violet had.

  Violet was a hopeless insomniac. In the beginning she’d wander around the dorm late at night, restless and agitated, until Doc prescribed a sleep aid. Violet was way too smart to keep up her nocturnal wandering for it would have been a dead giveaway that she was palming those pills. Still, Allison suspected that Violet was twisting in her covers, unable to sleep, still plagued by her nighttime terrors.

  So late one night, Allison snuck in her dorm with a package. Sure enough, when Violet sensed her enter, she rolled over and closed her eyes. If Allison hadn’t been watching her so closely, she might not have noticed the ruse. But she was, so she did.

  Af
ter making sure the other girls were asleep, Allison tip-toed to Violet’s bed and laid the package next to her elbow. “Don’t rat me out or I’ll deny it,” she whispered, and left. She didn’t stay to see whether Violet opened the bag and, if she did, whether she used it. But somehow she knew she would.

  Allison’s shift was over at midnight. When she came in at four the next day, she met with Violet in the little cubicle. Again, Violet didn’t speak for the full forty minutes, but it seemed her glare was a little less unfriendly. And when Violet stood to go, Allison swore she heard her say “thank you” as she walked out the door.

  Later that same night, Allison peeked at Violet when she made her evening rounds. Rather than roll over and close her eyes, Violet looked up at her through the dim reddish light of the emergency bulbs the Meadows kept on 24/7. Then, in one fluid motion, she held up the tiny flashlight Allison had given her and shined it on Allison’s old, tattered copy of Ayn Rand’s We the Living, a particularly apt book for a young woman in search of control. Violet must have agreed because though she was just beginning her second night with the book, she was already to the end. When Allison looked back at Violet’s face, she saw a smile cross those lips.

  A real honest-to-goodness smile.

  After that, Violet kept Allison poor with her demand for books. Her appetite for reading was, unlike her appetite for food, voracious. She went through four or five books a week, sometimes more. The Awakening; Girl, Interrupted; even Les Miserables and Gone with the Wind. She was like a paraplegic who suddenly discovered she could walk and who decided then and there never to sit again. She carried books to the dining table, on outings, to the bathroom. Together she and Allison even tackled Shakespeare; Romeo and Juliet was her favorite. Violet was, underneath it all, a romantic. Of course, the Meadows staff was quite careful about the reading material provided to patients, so, by tacit agreement, Violet kept the more controversial books for night-time consumption.

  Sessions progressed. It seemed in order for her mouth to work without being censored by that big brain of hers, Violet’s hands had to be kept busy. Allison noticed she’d fidget with her paper clips, making little people and animals out of the wire, or she’d pick up her pens and doodle on her hands or scrap paper Allison had given her. Allison nabbed drawing paper and charcoal pencils from the art instructor and put them on the desk one day when Violet showed up for her appointment. Violet’s hands inched toward the paper. Allison nodded. Tentatively at first, then with more vigor, Violet began to sketch: flowers and houses, birds and crosses.

  Over the course of weeks she progressed to people. Allison’s favorite was a drawing Violet had done of her. In it, Allison’s head was cocked to the side. Her hair, long and straight at the time, was tucked behind her ears. Her neck looked exceptionally slender, her eyes particularly kind, and her smile almost beatific. Allison thought it looked nothing like her, or perhaps it was her angelic twin. In any case, Allison kept that portrait. It was now tucked under her bed in a box along with three months of letters from another Violet, one burdened less by the expectations of an idealistic counselor and more by the realities of the urban underground.

  After leaving the Meadows, Allison couldn’t bear to look at that portrait any more than she could bear to read Violet’s letters. She’d tell herself it was because the portrait reminded her of the Violet that could have been. Sometimes Allison wondered if it wasn’t more personal than that. Perhaps the picture reminded her of the Allison she might have become.

  Twelve

  When Allison finally pulled into her driveway, it was after nine-thirty. Jason’s truck was parked off to the far side of the garage, in the shadows. What’s he doing here, she wondered? She made her way to the door, an unwelcome mixture of apprehension and happiness creeping along the edges of her mind.

  She turned the knob to her front door. “Jason?”

  He didn’t respond. Allison could hear the faint murmur of a television coming from upstairs. She followed the sound up the steps, through the hallway, and to the second guestroom. The door was closed. Allison thought of Jason’s underwear model, Amber-something-or-other. The image of him with some waif-like model was almost too much to bear. She pushed open the door, curious about what brought him here.

  After a second, her eyes adjusted to the dim light, the only source of which was the glow of a twenty-inch television. Jason was on the bed, dressed in a pair of dirty cargo shorts and no shirt. His feet were bare.

  “Hey, sleepy head,” she said. She sat on the bed next to him and shook his shoulder gently.

  Jason blinked, sat up, and looked around. When his eyes focused on Allison, he smiled. She jumped up and turned off the television.

  “What are you doing?”

  He yawned. “You mean besides sleeping?”

  “In dirty pants on my handmade quilt. Yes.”

  “Worked late, and then I swung by my mother’s house. I gave her a hand with some greenhouse planting. I had originally canceled on her, but she sounded so...sad.” He smiled warmly. “You think the pants are dirty, you should have seen the shirt. At least I took that off first.”

  “So what brings you here?”

  “Just checking on you.” He reached down and picked his t-shirt up off the floor. Dirt was splashed across the “Penn” logo.

  She held out her hand. “Give it to me. I’ll wash it.”

  “I know how to work the washing machine.”

  “I know you do. But I’m offering to do it for you. If you can wait for it, that is.”

  He looked at her, and Allison wasn’t immune to the longing in his eyes. “I can wait.”

  Allison’s pulse quickened. Her eyes locked onto Jason’s and she could feel herself softening. The moment stretched. Finally, the tension in the room suddenly too much, Allison said, “Come on.”

  Jason held her stare for a second before standing. “Allison-” His voice was thick with emotion.

  She shook her head. “We both know where it will lead. We’ve been down that path, remember?”

  “It wasn’t so bad.”

  Allison smiled, but the sadness in her eyes belied the gesture. “Let’s go downstairs and get your stuff cleaned up.” Before he could say anything else, she led the way to the laundry room. He followed.

  They didn’t speak while Allison threw his shirt in the washing machine. He stood with his back to the wall, watching her. She liked having him here and she was touched he had stopped by.

  When she was finished with the laundry and trusted herself to speak, she said, “I had an interesting evening.” She filled him in on her conversation with Helms, the deal with the McBrides, and her outing with Maggie. “Can you believe the McBrides didn’t show up until after nine? I think even Maggie was worried. They turned their cell phones off, out of respect for the groom’s family, they said. An engagement party. I felt bad for Maggie. I think it’s not unusual for them to leave her out of things.” She shook her head. “Not that I can totally blame them. The kid’s not easy to deal with.”

  They were in the kitchen. Jason rummaged around in the freezer and found the remnants of Faye’s pierogis. He took out the container and popped it into the microwave. “Did they at least apologize?”

  “Sunny did, sort of. Well, she said, ‘Udele should have been here. It was not your responsibility to stay.’ If you can call that an apology.”

  “Who’s Udele?”

  “The housekeeper.” The microwave beeper went off. Jason removed the container and set it down on the stone countertop. He fished a fork from the drawer and stabbed a pierogi. Allison watched him. How many times had they sat here like this, each of them filling the other in on their workday while they munched leftovers or Chinese or pizza? She knew midway through a pierogi, Jason would remember the butter.

  Sure enough, after one bite, he put down the fork, pierogi still attached, and said, “Butter?”


  She shook her head. “Olive oil.”

  He made a face. “Not the same.” He picked the fork back up and continued eating. The container was empty ten seconds later.

  “So where was Udele?”

  Allison shrugged. “They still didn’t know when I left. I’d be worried, if I were them.”

  “The Feldman murder?”

  Allison nodded. “It’s all I’m hearing about.” She paused. “Speaking of the Feldman murder, I also found out that Maggie dates Ethan Feldman, son of the late Arnie Feldman. How’s that for a strange coincidence? And stranger yet, Maggie didn’t seem to know Arnie was dead.”

  Jason’s eyes widened. “I didn’t tell you,” he said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I told my mother. I thought I told you, too.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Because there was no breaking and entering, and because of certain pieces of evidence found at the scene, the authorities think it was someone Arnie knew well. Maybe even someone in the family. Ethan has no alibi for that night. They’re questioning him, Allison. But if he’s involved, they don’t think he acted alone.”

  Allison woke up in a sweat. She turned over and patted the empty space next to her. Damn. Her head throbbed, her tongue felt like sandpaper. Friday night came back in a rush: casual conversation had led to a bottle and a half of Pinot Noir and a home viewing of Shawshank Redemption. Too drunk to drive home, Jason camped out in the guest room. Only at two in the morning, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d wandered in and asked him to join her in her room. So much for resolve.

  Sleep. That was all she wanted. Strong arms holding her, the feel of muscles against her back, someone to ward off the loneliness of the night and the recurring thoughts that came with it. Had it led to more? She peeked under the blankets. Her pajamas were still on. After two years, it would have been weird or wonderful or awful but certainly memorable. She’d have remembered.