Dying Brand

by Tyson, Wendy

  Allison smiled. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” Delvar echoed. His stormy eyes held her own. “Maybe. But I need people to contribute real money. That’s a risk for them. What if they see through me?”

  Allison laughed. She hugged him to her. He was a boy, under all that designer bravado. Still a young kid on the streets making doll clothes with his mother’s scraps. She pushed him back and, still holding on to his shoulders, looked into his eyes, round with surprise.

  “Then let them see through you, Delvar. They will see exactly what I see, what I’ve always seen: a gifted, intelligent, kind and beautiful man.” She smiled. “Now let’s go start a nonprofit company and raise some funds.”

  Delvar finally smiled. “One condition. You sit with Beth Duvall. Her husband was one of those holier-than-thou types. Preached from the pulpit of his corner office, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure I’m ready for her.”

  “Deal.” Allison led him back toward the dining area. She hadn’t gone through the biographies of her fellow board members, but she would—eventually. “But only if you sneak me an extra brownie. It’s really been a need-chocolate kind of day.”

  Allison’s last stop was her parents’ home. She pulled alongside the small one-story and walked to the front door with a heavy heart. She knew what she would find: her mother asleep in a chair, her gaunt form thinner than the last visit; her father watching some sports program with the television turned up way too loud; and Faye, sanctimonious Faye, busy being busy. They would all look to Allison to fix something: a broken sink, a clogged toilet, Faye’s ongoing dispute with their mother’s insurance company. Allison would do her best to make things right. That was her role. Despite being turned away by her father more than a decade ago, now that they needed her, she could hardly do the same.

  But it didn’t make coming home any easier.

  Allison knocked once, twice. She knocked a third time more loudly. The bell was broken, had been for years, and probably no one could hear her over the television. When still no one answered, she began to worry. She fumbled with her purse and pulled out the key. She wiggled the lock to get the key in and finally pushed open the door. No one was in the living room. She heard sounds from below, in the small room that had once been their playroom. It’d been empty for years.

  It took her a moment to realize what she’d been hearing. Laughter. Giggling.

  “Faye?” Allison ran down the steps into the musty room. Only it wasn’t musty. The carpet had been washed, the walls scrubbed, and the furniture, an old couch and a velour-covered blue recliner, vacuumed. The room smelled of Pine Sol and citrus. And there, in the twenty-by-fifteen space, was her family. Her mom sat on the recliner looking dazed but happy. Her father sat on one end of the couch, next to their nurse, Eloise. And Faye was kneeling on the floor, playing with a plastic dollhouse with Grace. When Allison walked in, the pair looked up at them.

  “Aunt Allison!” Grace said. “Aunt Faye bought me this house. Do you like it?”

  Allison glanced from the toy to her sister and back to Grace. She said, “I absolutely adore it.”

  “Get the girl another!” her father yelled. He watched his granddaughter play with the rapt attention he usually saved for football.

  “Faye,” Allison said, “can we talk?”

  Faye placed a tiny plastic female doll next to the kitchen sink. A male doll was by the kitchen table, a tiny coffee cup in front of him.

  Grace grabbed the male doll from the kitchen and tossed him casually to the side. “We don’t need him, do we, Aunt Faye?”

  Faye looked worried. She stood up, straightening neatly pressed dark indigo jeans. “Not today, perhaps,” she said to the child. “For now, the mommy will be enough.”

  In the kitchen, Allison mulled over what to say. Why was Grace here? And where was Amy? And, for that matter, what had happened to the $10,000?

  Before Allison said a word, her sister put a hand on her shoulder, much the way Allison had done to Delvar just hours ago.

  “That’s Amy’s girl.”

  “I know. I met Amy, gave her money.”

  Faye nodded. “She told me.”

  “I don’t understand…why is Grace here? Where’s Amy?”

  Faye took a long, hard look at Allison, clearly struggling with how to say something. This sort of self-censorship was new for Faye. She’d always been the first to hurl an accusation, and she loved to play the martyr role. But ever since Allison was injured a little more than a year ago, ever since the sisters’ estrangement had climaxed and they both thought they would lose each other, Faye seemed to temper her interactions.

  Faye said finally, “Amy isn’t ready to be a mother.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not sure you do.” Faye sat down, and when she did so everything about her seemed to sag. “Your sister is a drug addict.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Yet you gave her money.”

  “She said she was getting help. That she needed cash to start a new life.”

  “And you believed her?”

  Allison crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I saw how she was with Grace. I thought…maybe. Okay, yes, I believed her.”

  “Oh, Allison.” Faye looked at Allison with a twisted mix of love, affection and frustration. “Your baby sister is a hot mess. She’s been living with a trucker who beats her every chance he gets. She only stays with him because he keeps the drugs coming.”

  “She told me about him—”

  “She told you what she thought you’d want to hear.”

  “Did she come here looking for money, too?”

  Faye nodded. “I knew she’d steal what little mom and dad had, so I turned her away.” Faye blushed. It was her turn to look ashamed. “I had no idea about Grace.”

  “And then she came back here after I gave her the cash?”

  Faye nodded. “She didn’t want the child. At least not right now.”

  “So she could get settled first?” Allison said hopefully.

  Faye just stared at her, eyebrows knitted into a frown. Allison was sure she, too, remembered a younger Amy—from the tempestuous little toddler to the precocious preteen to the delinquent who spent more time in detention than in class. Amy hadn’t changed, that much was clear.

  Allison sat down, hard. “She could have left Grace with me. I offered.”

  Faye’s mouth turned upward in a mockery of a smile. “I’m not sure you’re ready to be a mother, either.”

  When Allison started to speak, Faye raised her hand. “You can’t just throw money at things and make them right. It doesn’t work with drug-addicted sisters, and it doesn’t work with children.”

  Allison swallowed. Was she right? Is that what Allison had done with Amy? “What now? How will you take care of Mom and Dad and Grace?”

  “Oh, we’ll manage.” Faye smiled, and this time the expression was genuine. It wiped fifteen years off her features. “We kind of like having the little one. Mom seems more alert than I’ve seen her in years. And you can visit anytime you like.”

  ELEVEN

  It was mid-afternoon before Eleanor arrived in Amelia Island. The homes along Magnolia Way, her sister’s street, were sprawling one-story Florida-style houses with guest wings, cement lanais and tiny, screen-enclosed outdoor pools. Tropical flowers edged driveways, and palm trees, their giant fronds blowing in an escalating wind, offered welcome shade to over-fertilized lawns. Eleanor rolled down the window. Despite the proximity to the beach two blocks over, the neighborhood was silent.

  Eleanor didn’t care for Florida—it was too hot and humid—but her older sister, Ginny, loved it, and Eleanor respected, if not loved, Ginny. Ginny was recently divorced, but that didn’t stop her from socializing and having fun. Ginny belonged to a wine club, two book clubs and a health club. She did yoga
, line dancing and took a Pilates class on the beach, and that was in addition to her real estate practice. Her dance card was filled, and she never seemed bitter about the fact that her husband of twenty-five years had left her for another woman.

  Of course, Ginny didn’t know that in another relationship, Eleanor had been the other woman. She could never know that. Eleanor’s saintly, good-natured older sister wouldn’t approve. In spite of herself, Ginny’s opinion mattered to her. It always had.

  So when Eleanor called to say she was coming to spend an indefinite time in Ginny’s well-appointed guest suite, she didn’t mention Scott, his death or anything else that hinted at scandal. She’d just said she needed a break. And Ginny, always the giving one, had agreed—just as Eleanor had known she would.

  Eleanor pulled the car into Ginny’s empty driveway. The fact that it was empty didn’t worry her; Eleanor kept her Lexus in the garage, away from the damaging sun. And anyway, Eleanor had the code. She punched it into the garage door opener now, and sure enough, Ginny’s silver SUV sat in the spotless interior. Eleanor stepped around three blue-striped beach chairs and up the two steps to an entrance into the house. She felt for the key under an empty gas can, and there it was, just where Ginny said it would be.

  She knocked before finally unlocking the door. Stepping into the mud room, she shivered. Her sister must have set the air conditioning at fifty degrees. The house was frigid.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Ginny was always cold. Always.

  Eleanor put her suitcase down and walked quietly through the hallway and into the open living room/dining room/kitchen area. No sign of her sister. Heart pounding, she told herself to take it easy. Ginny had fallen asleep without realizing how high she’d turned up the air. Wasn’t her sister always doing silly things like that? Or maybe she was going through menopause. She was of that age.

  But something deep in Eleanor’s consciousness said it was neither forgetfulness nor hormones. Something bad had happened.

  More quickly now, Eleanor made her way through a set of double doors that led to Ginny’s bedroom. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the worst. That room was empty, too. Forcing herself to stay calm, she opened the bathroom door. No Ginny.

  She felt brave enough to call her sister’s name. No answer. Maybe she’s by the pool, she thought. On the way to the lanai, Eleanor checked the guest room and the guest bath: also empty. She was even more certain she’d find her sister somewhere outside. Maybe gabbing with a neighbor. Wasn’t Ginny the talkative one? Eleanor smiled. Events of the last week had made her jumpy. What happened to the woman who’d once climbed the Matterhorn? Where were her nerves of steel?

  Eleanor went back to the entry to get her suitcase. There, she noticed one room she hadn’t checked: the laundry room. With a casual push, she opened the door. A scream caught in her throat. Her sister’s petite body had been wedged into a cooler. The cooler, still partially filled with ice, had overflowed, spreading puddles on the floor. It sat under an air conditioning vent. Between the ice and the cold air, the sickening smell, noticeable in the closed laundry room, had been undetectable in the rest of the house.

  Eleanor, too terrified to cry, backed out of the room.

  She closed the door to her sister’s laundry room and wiped the door handles with her shirt. Then she headed back into the garage, cleaning anything along the way that may have her prints. She had to get out of there. Calling the police was out of the question. Ginny was dead; there was nothing she could do about that.

  Ginny was a warning. Someone was on to her, and she refused to be next.

  Allison arrived to an empty house. After walking Brutus, she changed out of her funeral clothes and into black yoga pants and a pale pink t-shirt. She pulled her hair out of her face with a ponytail holder, and splashed cold water on her skin. She felt washed out, exhausted, and anxious. Very anxious. She headed for the kitchen, reached for her old friend, the peanut butter jar, and then, looking down into Brutus’s dark, daring eyes, gave him the finger full she had meant for herself.

  He was quite happy to help.

  The two made their way upstairs to Allison’s office. There, she unlocked her file cabinet and pulled the information she’d gleaned from LinkedIn. It only took her a moment to find the information on the woman from the funeral, Julie Fitzsimmons.

  Allison jotted down the address for Transitions, Inc. in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. Then she looked up Mark Fairweather. He lived close to her house. Perhaps she needed to arrange coffee with the grieving brother.

  Jason arrived two hours later than he said he would. Allison was in the kitchen, drinking chamomile tea and looking at old photographs of their wedding. They both looked so happy, a whole world of normal wants and goals still ahead of them. What had happened? When she heard his key in the lock, she didn’t move. He walked in to the kitchen to find her sitting quietly at the table, tears streaming down her face.

  It wasn’t the Scott issue. It wasn’t even her sister Amy, exactly. It was all of it: the uncertainty about the future, the sadness for all that had happened in the past, and, perhaps most of all, the fear that anything good could be snatched away at a moment’s notice. Maybe that was behind her reluctance to remarry Jason. If they kept things the status quo, she wasn’t tempting fate. Marriage, and all that went with it, including the potential for happiness, would be a leap of faith.

  Maybe she lacked faith.

  Jason walked behind her. He looked at the pictures spread out before her, his tall, broad frame hunched over the table. One by one, he examined them, an inscrutable expression on his face. Finally he stood. He tilted Allison’s head up and stared into her eyes. Without saying a word, he wiped the tears from her face, leaned down, and kissed her. It was a long, slow kiss, and Allison felt herself responding.

  Jason took her hand, urging her out of the chair. They went upstairs in silence, the wedding photos still scattered on the table to be put away in the morning.

  It was after midnight and Vaughn couldn’t sleep. Angela was still here, despite the fact that her shift had ended two hours ago. Lying in his bed, he could hear them. Rather, he could hear Angela and then the silences punctuating her speech that meant Jamie was responding on the screen. He used a mouthpiece that caused his words to show up on a computer monitor. Although Jamie’s vocal chords had been stolen along with his mobility when he took the bullet meant for Vaughn years ago, the device could speak for Jamie. But Jamie didn’t like the tinny sound of its voice. More of a reminder of his loss than the words on the screen, he said.

  So Angela stayed. How long, Vaughn didn’t know. After another forty minutes of hearing their one-sided banter, he got up and went to his bathroom. He rummaged around, looking for something that would help him sleep. For the first time in years, he wanted a drink. A six pack would send him dreaming, as would a few shots of vodka. But he had made a pact long ago with himself, and so he made do with Benadryl, reluctantly swallowing the two pink capsules.

  Back in his bedroom, he looked around. He’d confined himself to this apartment, years of penance for the actions that cost his brother use of his body. But now he felt trapped. And Mia? He felt her pulling away. If he asked her, she’d deny it. At least that’s what he told himself. He was afraid if he did ask her…well, the asker had to be ready for the answer.

  Lights out, brother, he said to himself. He felt the Benadryl start to kick in. He wanted the bliss of sleep. Tomorrow was a new day. Maybe he’d figure some shit out. Maybe he’d accept the fact that his friend and lover was moving on and his brother had a woman in his life. Maybe he’d make some decisions about his own future.

  Or maybe he’d just keep going, trying hard to avoid anything that smelled like change. Because his last thoughts before drifting off were about change. It was coming, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

  TWELVE

  Mark Fai
rweather agreed to have lunch with Allison at eleven-thirty Monday morning. He named a meeting place, an Indian restaurant a few blocks from his law office in Center City. “Don’t be late,” he’d growled. “For me, time is money.”

  It was eight-forty in the morning. Allison had plenty of time ahead of her meeting with Mark to talk with Julie Fitzsimmons. Allison had seen the strange change that came over Leah when she passed Julie’s group outside the church. The public relations executive might not know anything about Scott’s death or the photos, but Allison hoped Julie could shed some light on Scott’s career or his state of mind leading up to the day he was killed. A close coworker would notice changes in appearance or demeanor that may indicate drug use. While Allison couldn’t say for sure whether Julie was a close co-worker, the fact that she’d attended his funeral said they at least knew each other. That would have to be a start.

  The headquarters for Transitions, Inc. was in an industrial park near Valley Forge, not far from Allison’s house. Allison drove north on Route 202 and then followed the GPS directions on her phone. The directions took her through a maze of broad streets lined with nondescript office buildings. She finally found Transitions, Inc. on a cul-de-sac at the back of the industrial park. Like many of the buildings in the park, the building that housed the company was a plain beige rectangle. Unlike many of the other buildings, though, Transitions seemed to be the sole occupant.

  Allison parked in one of the spots marked for visitors. She noticed prime spaces for compact cars and, along the wall of the building, plug-in outlets for electric vehicles. A field of solar panels was positioned at the back of the building, far from the picnic tables and grills that lined a broad cement patio. A plaque near the building’s entrance announced that Transitions, Inc. was pursuing its LEED certification. It strived to be a “green” company.