by Tyson, Wendy
TWENTY
Vaughn was quiet as they drove back toward the Main Line, and Allison, aware that he was likely battling his own demons, gave him space. Vaughn had grown up in West Philly, in a neighborhood not unlike the one they had just visited, and she knew memories from his youth cut deep. When they reached the highway, though, she couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
“What did you say to Edith’s grandson?”
Vaughn stared straight ahead. He was driving, jaw clenched, knuckles tight-fisted around the steering wheel.
“I told him if he wants to be a man, he needs to cut the crap. Real men don’t hurt women.”
“Edith’s arm?”
Vaughn nodded. “Yeah, those were fingerprints. That boy has an anger management problem.”
“I hope he doesn’t think she said something. I’d hate to see him take it out on her after we left.”
“I don’t think that will happen.”
Allison tensed.
“What did you do?”
“I spoke in a language he could understand.” Vaughn turned to look at her and the darkness in his gaze made her shudder. “I made it clear that it’s not nice to hurt people weaker than you.”
His tone was closed. Allison trusted her colleague enough to know he wouldn’t have really hurt the kid, but she also knew his sense of justice, and his intolerance for stupid, sometimes outweighed reason. Vaughn occasionally let anger get the best of him as well.
“Found out something interesting about the murder, though,” Vaughn said. “Funny how the boy was willing to talk after a few minutes of intense discussion.”
“What did he say?”
“Those kids? The ones who were seen running away from the scene of the crime? Bad news. Threats, drugs, rape, gang violence…says they even killed a man over a pair of sneakers.”
“That’s in line with what the grandmother said.”
“Yep. Kid also says they always carry, but this time, they had nothing.”
“So?”
“So, they tossed the gun that killed Scott. The cops didn’t find the murder weapon on any of them.”
“Was the weapon ever found?”
“I don’t know. But I suspect if it was, it was clean.”
Allison was thoughtful for a moment. “So Duane backed up his grandmother’s story. The boys could have killed Scott over drugs or drug-related money.”
“Sounds that way.”
“But you don’t believe they did it?”
Vaughn was quiet while he pulled the BMW around a Honda doing sixty-one in the passing lane. “I don’t believe the kid. He was lying to me.”
“About the boys?”
Vaughn glanced at Allison. “That’s just it, I don’t know. I just can’t shake the feeling that Duane was lying about something.”
Vaughn hadn’t been completely truthful with Allison, and he was feeling bad about that now. After he dropped Allison off at First Impressions, he headed home. He told her he wanted to talk with Jamie to see what his brother had turned up about Transitions. He also wanted to run some searches of his own on Edith and her grandson, Duane. Something about them didn’t sit right with him. Maybe they were just scared, but his gut told him there was more.
Vaughn found Jamie in his room, at his desk, reviewing something on his computer monitors. Jamie owned two computers and four monitors, not including the one by his bed that displayed the words he spoke into his mouthpiece. Like the voice system, his desk and computer set-up were also controlled with a mouthpiece. Jamie was manipulating it now to change the view on his screen to a different window. He smiled as Vaughn walked into the room.
“Making progress?” Vaughn asked.
Jamie smiled again. He looked bright and alert, and had a fire in his eyes Vaughn hadn’t seen in a while. Mrs. T was here today, Vaughn’s favorite nurse-caretaker, and the house smelled of cinnamon and apples, perfect for a cool fall day.
But Vaughn knew the happiness reflected in his twin’s face had nothing to do with pie. Angela was the reason for that glow, and who was he to interfere? Even if the thought of his brother getting hurt scared him way more than some thug kid from the streets of Philly.
Jamie wheeled his electric chair over to his bed and spoke into the mouthpiece. Immediately, the screen lit up and words appeared.
I’M LOOKING INTO SCOTT’S ROLE AT TRANSITIONS. EVERYTHING ALLISON TURNED UP LOOKS ACCURATE.
“Transitions is the company spun-off by Diamond, right?”
RIGHT. THE FOUNDER OF DIAMOND BRANDS, TED DIAMOND, WANTED TO CREATE A SOCIALLY AND ENVIRONMENTALLY-CONSCIOUS BRAND.
“In line with what Halloway told Allison.”
CORRECT. TRANSITIONS, ALONG WITH A NUMBER OF OTHER RETAILERS, WAS HIT HARD BY THE MEDIA WHEN IT WAS DISCOVERED THAT THEIR FACTORIES IN CHINA WERE CAUSING POLLUTION.
“How bad was it?”
THE FULL EXTENT OF THE DAMAGE WAS NEVER ESTABLISHED. Jamie jutted his chin in the direction of his desk. ENLARGE THE SECOND WINDOW.
Vaughn did. What confronted him was a series of photographs, each one more disturbing than the next. Black river water, dead fish on the river bank, a young boy, no more than ten or eleven years old, his young face drawn and thin, his body covered in red sores.
The news outlet, an online paper called The People’s Voice, ran the photos along with a headline that said, “Environmental abuses in seven factories owned by Diamond Brands.”
“That’s pretty damning,” Vaughn said, his gaze lingering on the young boy’s haunted eyes.
DIAMOND ACCEPTED BLAME FOR THE DUMPING, BUT CAREFULLY SHIFTED THE FOCUS TO LAX CHINESE LAWS AND POINTED TO THE OTHER COMPANIES ALSO ACCUSED OF THE VIOLATIONS.
“And then Diamond spun off Transitions, as a way to show how socially forward the company really is?”
MAYBE, Jamie said. He looked troubled. OR MAYBE TED DIAMOND SIMPLY WANTED TO DISTANCE HIMSELF FROM THE MESS AND DUMPING TRANSITIONS WAS THE QUICKEST AND EASIEST WAY TO DO SO.
Allison arrived home to the hungry kisses of an ecstatic Brutus and the insistent meows of his new best friend, Simon. Brutus wanted affection; both wanted food.
Allison smiled. “In a minute, you two.” She placed her purse and keys in the foyer and slipped off her black Ferrigamos. Jason was coming for dinner tonight, and she wanted to put her culinary skills to work. After a quick study of the contents of her refrigerator, she settled on pasta with olive oil and garlic, steamed broccoli and champagne. No one would credit her for being a great cook, but she did know how to appreciate good champagne. She placed it in the refrigerator and glanced at the clock. She had at least two hours before Jason arrived. Time to check out a few things, including the whereabouts of Eleanor Davies.
Upstairs in her home office, Allison pulled out her growing file. She started with Eleanor’s cell phone number. As expected, no answer. She left a message and asked Eleanor to call her back. Then she turned on her computer and started searching.
Eleanor Davies had to have friends, relatives, someone whom she might turn to in a crisis. Eleanor’s neighbor had mentioned her sister, Ginny. She didn’t have a last name or an address, other than Amelia Island, and she didn’t even know if Ginny was her given name or simply a nickname. Nevertheless, finding references to Ginny Davies online was easy enough, and a few more minutes of searching found Ginny Littman, once again called Ginny Davies following her divorce, in Fernandina Beach, Florida.
Allison stared at the screen. A phone number was moot. The woman was dead, found murdered in her home. The date put it just days after Scott was killed.
First Scott, now Eleanor’s sister. Two previous amateur investigations had underscored that there were no such thing as coincidences. But why Ginny and not Eleanor? Unless someone had mistaken Ginny for Eleanor. Someone who didn’t know what Eleanor looked like.
Allison st
ared at Eleanor’s LinkedIn photograph and Ginny’s picture on her real estate website. The two sisters looked very much alike. A friend or colleague could tell them apart, but possibly not a hit man who was going by a photograph.
This begged so many questions. If someone killed Ginny thinking it was Eleanor, why? Was it the same person who killed Scott? Or was it revenge for Scott’s killing? Was Eleanor the murderer? Had she also killed her sister?
Allison reached for her mobile phone. She found a list of living relatives in Ginny’s obituary. The parents were dead, but the father had a niece in Tennessee and a sister who lived in Detroit. The niece refused to speak with Allison, so Allison dialed the aunt’s number. When a woman answered, Allison described herself as an old school chum and asked for help in locating Eleanor.
“Oh, dear,” the woman said. “I haven’t seen Eleanor in years.”
“Do you have any idea where I can find her? We’re planning a reunion and would love for Eleanor to come.”
The woman was silent for a moment.
“Are you sure you have the right Eleanor?” she said finally. “My niece isn’t really the social type.”
“Eleanor Davies,” Allison said firmly. “Has a sister Ginny. Originally from Pittsburgh.”
“That’s her all right.” The woman sighed. “I wish I could help you, I really do. I always worried about Elle and wanted her to have some girl friends to hang around with. A reunion sounds real nice, and it’s nice of you to go to all this trouble looking for her.”
“Of course,” Allison said, pushing aside a pang of guilt. “Do you have any idea where I might try other than her home? Ginny’s not responding, and I don’t know of any other relatives.”
“Oh dear,” the woman said. “I’m afraid Ginny has passed. A terrible, terrible thing. I would imagine that’s where Elle is now, down in Florida, attending to the arrangements. I wish I could go. Their father would want that.” She sighed again. “But these days, it’s all I can do to stay on my feet. The doctors have me on three different painkillers, but nothing seems to be helping.”
“Thanks, Mrs.—”
“Travis. My husband’s long passed, but I have kept his name, as it should be. I don’t believe in these new ideas of morality. Living together, extramarital affairs. It’s not good for kids. I told that to Elle’s father, but he didn’t listen. Up there with that Long woman for all those years. That’s why Eleanor could never settle down. A mother who left home, a father who lived in sin. What do you expect?” She paused. “At least Ginny tried her hand at marriage.”
But Allison had zoomed in on Mrs. Travis’s earlier statement. That Long woman. A longtime companion? Someone who wouldn’t show up on official records, but a family connection nonetheless?
“Mrs. Travis, is it possible Ms. Long would know where Eleanor is? I hadn’t thought of asking her before.”
The woman laughed. “Oh, hardly. Have you met Doris? There is no love lost between those two. Elle was a feisty teen and an even feistier twenty-something. And Doris Long has the social skills of a gnat. I wouldn’t bother looking there.”
“Where is ‘there,’ Mrs. Travis?”
But Mrs. Travis couldn’t remember. “Once Lenny hooked up with that woman, I lost contact with my brother. He and Doris came to a wedding or two, but that was it. I just know from conversations with Elle and Ginny that she is as tough as rawhide. Loves her guns, though. Try some gun enthusiast clubs, if you’re bent on finding Elle. But don’t get your hopes up. Eleanor may just have to sit out of this reunion. Won’t be the first time, I’m sure.”
TWENTY-ONE
By six o’clock in the evening, Eleanor got tired of waiting for Doris Long to leave the house. That woman was always there, fussing over the dogs, Brick and Mortar, whom she professed to hate, or watching television. Old reruns of I Love Lucy and The Bob Newhart Show. The television-watching wouldn’t be so bad except that the television was in the living room, which also happened to be Eleanor’s bedroom.
And Doris smoked. The house reeked of cigarette smoke, and a haze of gray blanketed everything. For Eleanor, used to the outdoors, it was a boring, pointless, sexless life, and she couldn’t understand the appeal.
But she didn’t have to. She just needed to withstand it for a little while.
Eleanor sat outside on the small front landing and stared into the woods. She was wearing a parka begrudgingly borrowed from Doris, and she wrapped it around her tightly to ward off frigid Maine air. The parka, like everything else, smelled of cigarettes and neglect, and it struck Eleanor that she missed her home. Thanksgiving was quickly approaching, and the thought of spending it here, with Doris, was almost unfathomable. She hadn’t spent a holiday in the same room with Doris since she was twenty-two.
Something in the woods moved and Eleanor followed the sounds. It was already dark, and she squinted to see. Nothing, maybe a deer. Good to be paranoid, she thought, and stood, letting go of the edges of her parka.
Eleanor peeked through the window. Doris was still wide awake, sitting on the couch/bed, a cigarette in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. Eleanor glanced at her watch: six-fourteen. If nothing had changed in forty-six minutes, Doris would switch to beer and the evening news. Fox Television, her favorite. If the right wing pundits didn’t get her too riled up, she might just drink enough beer to fall asleep early. And if the beer didn’t do the trick, Eleanor had no qualms about slipping her a few sleeping pills to help things along.
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance and Eleanor jumped. Dusk was settling into night, and before long she’d be getting sleepy. She felt like a caged animal, restless and discontent. A thought struck her: it would be so easy to do away with Doris. Then she could stay here indefinitely without having to deal with dogs and smoke and stupid television shows. She pushed the thought away, tempting as it was. Doris was a necessary evil.
Nah, she just needed to hold on a while longer. Things would die down and then she could flee.
Jason arrived at seven-twelve bearing a file folder and a bouquet of deep purple irises, Allison’s favorite flowers. He handed her the bouquet and pressed against her with a warm kiss, long and slow. Allison placed the flowers on the small table in the foyer. She took Jason’s face in her hands and leaned in to kiss him while her fingers reached for his suit jacket. Slowly, she pulled the jacket off him. She unbuttoned his blue dress shirt, lingering at each button to stroke the muscular chest beneath. Jason moaned. Gently, he pulled Allison’s dress over her head so that she stood in the foyer in panties, heels and a bra.
“That’s better,” he murmured. He opened his eyes and gave her a languid, hungry look. He took her hand and moved it downward. “Here, or upstairs?” he whispered.
Allison smiled. She reached for the hallway light switch and flipped the lights off. In the soft glow from the kitchen, she could still make out the shadows of his face. His breath, warm and real, tickled her neck.
“Here.”
Jason pressed her against the foyer wall and kissed her again. His mouth moved from her collarbone to her breast, and she felt a moan escape her own lips.
A picture flashed before her: her face, captured unwittingly on camera, in a sultry state of ecstasy. But this is different, she told herself. This is Jason. Things would be all right.
Jason moved to the skin on her stomach with butterfly kisses that sent her senses soaring.
Things would be all right. At least for a little while.
Allison and Jason lay on the living room floor, a down blanket underneath them and another on top. Allison’s head rested on the crook of Jason’s arm while he traced lazy circles on her belly. Jason’s hand traveled from her belly to her thigh. He kissed the top of her head. “Have you given any thought to a date?”
Allison looked at him, surprised.
“You want another wedding?”
“Maybe not the whole bri
dal-party-gala-event thing, but I’d like to do something special.”
“I was thinking small and catered. Close friends, family, that sort of thing.”
Jason smiled. “Or we could elope. Hawaii? The Aegean? Maybe France?”
“Your mother would kill us.”
“Mia can come, too.”
Allison mock-hit him. “Then it’s not eloping. It’s a destination wedding.”
Jason laughed. Allison loved the sound of his laugh. She loved having him here, with her. She wanted to believe they could make this work, that the second time would be different. Time had a way of easing pain until it was a distant memory. Allison was worried that all of that pain, the reasons they’d divorced in the first place, would come back to haunt their marriage. But she knew Jason wanted this, and deep down, she wanted it, too.
Jason snuggled in closer, his breathing becoming more regular. She felt his fingertips on her belly again. This time, he spread his hand flat, gently kneading the area around her belly button as he dozed off. It seemed an unconscious act, sweet and intimate, and it stabbed at Allison as sad, too.
Allison matched her breathing to Jason’s. She felt the cat, Simon, padding over to where they lay, and soon he was on top of the blanket, at the foot of their improvised bed. Where Simon was, Brutus would soon be, and sure enough, her noisy love of a dog plopped down next to the cat. Allison smiled, contentment washing over her like a warm summer wave. Her little family. Makeshift or not, this felt right.
Brutus picked his head up and growled.
“What’s up, boy?” Allison said. She pushed herself up, onto her elbow, and listened. She heard the heater come on and Jason’s rhythmic breathing, but otherwise nothing.
Brutus growled again. Outside, a car door slammed, and an engine revved as a car pulled out of the driveway.