by Tyson, Wendy
“At the time?”
Brad looked thoughtful, as though debating how much to tell her. Finally, he said, “When you think of Transitions’ clothing lines, what comes to mind?”
Allison considered his question. She wasn’t too familiar with the brand.
“Socially conscious, appeals to the younger market.”
“Do you remember Diamond Brands’ environmental scandal a few years back?”
“When the company was having clothes manufactured in China and the chemicals they were using were polluting the streams there?”
“That’s the one. Transitions was owned by Diamond Brands and was at the heart of the scandal. Ted Diamond, the head of Diamond Brands, decided to give Transitions, and by association, Diamond Brands, a fresh start by spinning the company off and refreshing the brand as socially conscious. You know, made in the USA, pesticide-free cottons, donates to the right charities, all that jazz.”
“That was Scott’s job, to reinvent the company’s image?”
Brad nodded. He coughed again, his whole body shaking with the effort. When he regained his breath, he said, “He did a good job, in the beginning, anyway. Placed ads in the right magazines, got some good media attention, trained everyone on what to say and how to say it. He launched a pretty streamlined corporate makeover. No one seems to remember the old Transitions.”
“Quite a success story, then,” Allison said. “Considering how recently this all occurred.”
“It was.” Another shadow passed over Brad’s face. “I’m afraid the company’s not doing so well now, though. We’re over budget and under-capitalized.”
“How could Scott be blamed for that? Those sound like financial problems.” Problems a CFO would be held accountable for, Allison thought, not a marketing executive.
“They’re problems we inherited because of the spin-off. It wasn’t Scott’s job to raise capital or control expenses, but it was his job to sell clothes.”
“And pressure was mounting.”
“Yes. Scott wasn’t meeting his stated goals. This meant reduced bonuses, smaller raises. His wife quit her job during a rough pregnancy. It was all on him and he buckled.”
“Drugs.”
Brad frowned. “And women.”
Eleanor Davies. Allison noticed the disgust on Brad’s face. As a man with militaristic bearing and a strong belief in the importance of character, he would disapprove of Scott’s choices. Would he let that disapproval cloud his judgment? Could he be wrong about Scott?
Allison said, “Thank you. This makes more sense now.” But did it? It was all so neat. Scott gets into drugs, has affairs, makes bad choices, maybe owes someone money he can’t pay. Gets killed in the process.
But why was her name in his appointment book?
What could he possibly have wanted to tell her that day at the train station?
And who the hell was sending her and her family these pictures?
The pictures. With mounting horror, Allison realized that if Mia had received an envelope, it was likely Jason had, too. Her unreturned calls—so unlike her boyfriend. She stood, suddenly queasy and lightheaded.
“I have an appointment, Brad. I have to go.”
Brad rose. He hugged her, giving no indication that he thought her sudden haste odd. “Allison, don’t waste your time on this. The man you knew was not the man who died on that city street. Nothing can change that now.”
Allison kissed him, making no promises. “Give Antonia my love,” she said. His eyes darkened, but agreed.
From the mall parking lot, Allison tried Jason’s numbers again. No answer on his mobile. His admin gave Allison a half-baked excuse about meetings.
He’s avoiding me, Allison thought. She needed to explain. Could explain, if he gave her an opportunity. She should have told him. That was the price of dishonesty. Had she told him about Scott years ago…but it was too late now.
Only her appointment with Midge Majors kept her from driving to Philly to stake out his office. She needed to get back to First Impressions for their session. She wasn’t expecting Vaughn to be sitting in her office when she arrived.
He had an envelope in front of him. The pictures were spread on the desk. Allison felt her face turn crimson. Mia was bad enough. For Vaughn to see her like that…unthinkable.
“Do you have something you need to get off your chest?” Vaughn said softly.
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think, Allison?”
“You think I’m having an affair.”
Vaughn shook his head. “I had that man’s face scanned into a database. I know his name is Scott Fairweather. I also know he’s dead. Any affair would have been in the past tense.”
“He was a client.”
“I don’t remember him.”
The quiet steel of Vaughn’s voice was maddening. She could deal with anger or judgment, but this was something new.
“Are you being blackmailed, Allison?”
“I don’t know.”
Allison pulled up a chair and sat across from Vaughn, her desk between them. One by one, she placed the photos back into the envelope. She wanted to scream. This was an invasion of her privacy, an act of harassment. Sending her pictures was bad enough. How soon before whoever this was sent photos to the media? And damn Scott for taking the pictures in the first place. Maybe he really was into drugs. A man unethical enough to take sexual photos without permission would surely stoop to other acts. Selling or buying drugs didn’t seem that far out of the realm of possibilities.
Allison looked up. Vaughn was staring at her, his lips twisted into a half snarl. “Who is doing this to you, Allison?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Can you tell me something? Anything?”
She heard the frustration in his voice. And protectiveness. With a sigh, Allison repeated the story, beginning with her separation from Jason and ending with her discussion with Mia and the fact that Jason wasn’t returning her calls. She felt the hot sting of tears on her face and realized she’d been holding them in for days.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
“And put you in a position where you would have to withhold information from Mia? I didn’t want to burden you, or anyone, with this, at least until I knew more.”
“And do you know more?”
Allison ran through what she’d learned from Julie and Brad. “Brad seems convinced that Scott was using and maybe even dealing. That pressure and money woes got to him.”
“Wouldn’t he know? He hired the guy.”
“Yes, but you have to know Brad. He’s old-school when it comes to family and commitment. He takes his responsibilities seriously. The fact that Scott was having affairs would have been enough to send Brad over the edge. But poor job performance? Scott put work first. I just don’t know that Brad’s capable of being fully objective given the circumstances.”
“Hmmm.” Vaughn ran a strong hand through his dark, closely-cropped hair. His voice had loosened and the anger and frustration in his eyes had dissipated. Allison recognized problem-solving mode, a much more comfortable place for Vaughn. “What’s your next move?”
“I need to find this Eleanor woman. I get the sense that she’s involved, but she seems to have disappeared.”
“Jamie may be able to help. Why don’t you give me the information you have and I’ll see what he can do?”
Allison nodded, relieved. Jamie was a genius when it came to computer work. She said, “I have a file in my desk. I’ll give it to you. Also, do you think Jamie could do some research on Transitions? The company was spun off from Diamond Brands some time ago. I vaguely remember the circumstances, but anything about that time period, or about the company’s financials, would help.”
Vaughn nodded. “Sure thing.” He stood and walked to where Alli
son was now standing. He held out his arms. After a moment of hesitation, Allison responded, wrapping her arms around him. He held her tightly. Allison gave in to the warmth and strength of his friendship. The tears came, hot and unwelcome. She and Vaughn stayed like that for several minutes. When her sobs had stopped, Vaughn leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
“You’re not alone,” he whispered.
He was right, and she was glad.
SEVENTEEN
Dunne Pond, located about six miles off the coast of Maine, ninety minutes south of Acadia National Park, was a smallish body of water nestled in the hills, amid forests of pine and spruce trees. On this November afternoon, the sun was already beginning to set and the roads leading west were barren. Eleanor squinted, on the lookout for Dunne Pond Road. About a half mile down the paved highway, she saw a small wooden sign marking a dirt road. She braked and made the turn.
Her stomach growled. She pulled a Cliff Bar from her bag and unwrapped it, unsure whether she’d be welcome and when her next meal would be. Edit that, she thought. She certainly wouldn’t be welcome, but that was to be expected. She just hoped she’d be allowed to stay. In the days since leaving Florida she’d traded her Jeep for a used black Civic and taken the cash as living money. She knew the transaction would be registered with the Commonwealth but she didn’t care. Black Civics were common, and by the time her pursuers caught on, she’d be far from Pennsylvania.
The car wasn’t happy about the unpaved road but it chugged along. About two and a half miles down Dunne Pond Road, Eleanor spotted the entrance to a dirt driveway nearly hidden by tree branches. She remembered the spot vaguely because last time she was here—admittedly ages ago—it had been across from a small sign for Dunne Pond Resort and the sign was still there. She made a right and followed the driveway about a hundred yards to where it dead-ended, next to a small Maine camp, a fancy name for a plain, rustic cabin. The cabin, bounded by trees and brambles, was dark. No cars were parked in front of the house. That was okay. Eleanor tucked the small Civic in a spot next to a decrepit picnic table that clearly hadn’t seen a cookout in years. She could wait.
By ten o’clock that night, Allison was frantic. Where was Jason? He still hadn’t returned a single call, and he didn’t come to her house after work. Following her appointments, Allison set off to his apartment in Paoli. She opened the front door with her key but he wasn’t there either. A call to Mia confirmed Jason hadn’t gone to see his mother.
He’d gotten photos. She just knew it.
She considered waiting at his house for him to return but she honestly didn’t know whether he would go there or to her place in Villanova. She wrote him a note saying they needed to talk and asking him not to think the worst. Then she went home.
Since then, she’d sat in the living room with Brutus and the cat, a navy blue flannel blanket wrapped around her legs, a box of tissues next to her. She was trying to read The Birth of Venus, but as much as she loved the book, her mind kept wandering. Finally, at ten minutes before midnight, she was just dozing in her chair when she heard the front door slam open. Jason stormed inside.
He walked to where she was sitting and stood over her, his face red. In a Tokyo second, she took in his rumpled white dress shirt, the five o’clock shadow on his face and the lingering scent of beer. She tensed, ready for a barrage of questions—justified, perhaps. But they didn’t come.
Allison watched a slideshow of emotions cross Jason’s face. First mild anger, then confusion, then something akin to tenderness. As suddenly as he’d stormed in, he dropped down onto one knee before her.
“Marry me, Allison.”
Completely confused, Allison said, “What?”
“Marry me.”
Allison stared, wide-eyed, his words penetrating. After a moment, she said, “Yes. Yes!”
He tilted his head back, smiling. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I don’t have a ring…”
“I don’t care.”
He grinned, a boyish, goofy smile that made her heart soar, then sink. “I have to tell you something, Jason.”
“I know.”
“Did you get…pictures?”
“A copy of an old email. But it was enough.” He leaned in and kissed her. “I don’t care.”
“About Scott?”
He nodded.
“I don’t understand how you know—”
“Vaughn.” He kissed her again. “He explained everything.”
“Vaughn?”
“I called him when I found the envelope taped to my door. I was so angry. He said he could explain. We went to Sal’s for a few drinks—okay, I had a beer and Vaughn had Coke—and he told me what happened. I know Scott was in the past. I understand.”
Allison looked down. Her fingertips were kneading the blanket as though of their own volition. “Scott and I had an affair.”
“You and I were separated. I’m sure both of us did things during that period that we aren’t proud of now.”
Allison left it at that. She was sure he was right, and she certainly didn’t want to think about him with other women. Allison stood, facing Jason. He smelled of stale beer and greasy food and his familiar spicy aftershave. “The marriage proposal…it wasn’t the booze talking, I hope.”
“No. Although the beer may have given me the courage to ask.” He pulled her close and stroked her hair. “Did you really mean ‘yes’?”
“I can’t think of anything I want more.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “But—”
Jason took a step back. “No ‘buts,’ Al.”
“I have to be completely honest first. Did Vaughn tell you I’ve been looking into Scott’s death?”
“No, but I figured as much.”
“With the Benini family and Tammy Edwards, you were upset—”
Jason held up a hand. “I want to marry you. All of you, including the crazy, reckless, determined side. Anyway, who wants a boring marriage full of evenings at home, neighborhood barbeques and Sunday night football? I’d much rather have satanic murders, Russian mafia and missing elderly women any day.”
“Jason Campbell, you will make a very good husband.”
“But only if I help you with your research?”
Allison smiled. “Only if you hold me tight.”
Allison was awakened at three forty-six by the insistent buzz of her mobile. She reached toward the bedside table to silence it before it woke up Jason and saw her sister Amy’s number flashing on the screen. Quickly, she slid out of bed and grabbed her robe off a chair. She padded down the hallway toward her office and closed the door behind her while she answered.
“They took her,” her sister slurred into the phone. “And they won’t give her back.”
“Amy, where are you?”
“They stole her from me!”
“Amy! You’re not making sense. Where are you?” Allison paced the floor in her office. Her sister sounded intoxicated—or worse, high. Her voice was low and guttural, and her words were slip-sliding into one another. Allison spoke firmly and calmly in an effort to make her focus. “Tell me where you are.”
“They took her!”
“Who is ‘they,’ Amy?”
“Faye. Them!”
“Faye took Grace?”
“Yes!” Amy let out a high-pitched wail. “I want my baby back.”
“Okay, okay. Where are you?”
“No.”
“Amy, I can’t help you if you don’t cooperate. Tell me where you are and I can come and get you.”
Amy started to sob. “I just want to see her,” she whispered. “Faye won’t let me see her.”
“Did you go there tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And they turned you away?”
“Yes. No.”
No doubt because
Amy was a mess, Allison thought, frustrated. “Let me pick you up, Amy.”
“Knew you wouldn’t help.” She hung up.
Allison called the number four times but Amy didn’t pick up. She tried Faye, but no one answered. After that, she went back to bed. Sleep never came.
EIGHTEEN
Allison spent most of Wednesday vacillating between euphoria and a strong case of the what-the-hell-am-I-doings. For the third time in three minutes, she straightened the files on her office desk. First Impressions was quiet this morning, and the lack of noise meant too much time in her own head. Almost everyone close to her had now seen the photographs. That thought was disturbing enough, but the possibility that the photos would be sent beyond her inner circle was terrifying.
The most logical explanation was that someone thought Scott had told her something, that he meant to meet with her and pass along some critical piece of information. Whoever was behind the photos, and Scott’s death, thought she held damning evidence. Of what? And if they were so sure she knew something, why not blackmail her rather than simply send pictures? She reminded herself that Scott was dead. Murdered—that fact was undisputed. If the photos and his death were connected, she could be on someone’s hit list.
But if Scott’s death was drug-related like Brad Halloway suspected, why would whoever did it care two hillbillies about Allison’s affair with Scott four years ago?
Allison’s phone buzzed. “Judge Lint is here for your session.”
“Be right there,” Allison said. She stood up, placing the client files in her drawer as she did so. She hated feeling powerless, and right now, that’s exactly how she felt: powerless and frustrated. What was her next step? The police? But then she’d have to turn over the photos. Not something she was ready to do.
And whoever was sending them was banking on that.