Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  “Look, Faye,” Allison said, forcing herself away from the past and on to the practical. “Social services may insist on bringing someone in.”

  “I don’t want governmental interference. We don’t need help.”

  “You’re blaming me for not being here, yet you’re insistent that things are fine.” Allison motioned toward the living room. “But what happened today makes it pretty clear that things are not fine.”

  Faye’s hands balled at her side. “What do you expect me to do, given our current circumstances? They refuse to leave. Won’t budge. And anyway, Daddy has mortgaged the house to the hilt. They have nothing, Allison. Nothing. Aside from what you give them. And I’m too busy with them to get a job.”

  Allison met her sister’s angry glare. Faye was right. Her parents had no savings—and plenty of debt. They subsisted on social security and the money Allison sent home every month. And while Allison might be able to afford full-time nursing care, it would eat up her savings quickly. Then what? If her father got worse, they would have fewer options, some of them unpalatable.

  Faye put her head against the wall and folded her thin arms across her bony chest. “Today won’t happen again. I’ll ask Carmen from next door to watch Mom when I go out.”

  Allison nodded. It would have to do for now. “Make sure Mom eats. She’s so thin. I’ll arrange for a nutritionist to come to the house.” She paused, looked around the spotless but well-worn kitchen. “In the meantime, we’ll have to think of something.”

  Allison walked back into the living room, where the shadows sucked the little light that flowed from the table lamps. Faye followed a moment later. She thrust a Tupperware container into Allison’s hands.

  “Take this, please,” Faye said. “For all your trouble.”

  Allison wanted to say, We’re sisters, dimwit. We’re in this together, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead she glanced around one more time before leaving. Her mother sat limp, eyes staring at nothing in particular. Her father had nodded off. His snores echoed like roars across the cramped space.

  The hour-long drive home took nearly two. The roads loomed slick with black ice. A gloomy mist clung to the ground, swirled around Allison’s headlights and enveloped the silver Volvo in gray. Allison felt numb. She tried to push away the image of her mother huddled under the blanket. What if they hadn’t found her? And her father—the family despot now turned into a child: helpless, whiny, and demanding. If the dementia progressed, soon he would need care, too. Faye was struggling as it was. Two infirm parents would break her.

  A few miles from her home, Allison checked her voicemail. A few referrals, an insurance salesman, her client Midge Majors, her literary agent. And Congressman McBride.

  Allison pulled into her driveway. The Colonial, with its stone façade, three dormers, and landscaped lot, was a welcome sight. Unlike the cramped and gloomy interior of her parents’ house, here she had room to breathe. She pushed away thoughts of Arnie Feldman’s murderer and poked at the buttons on her cell, trying to recall the number the congressman had provided when they met about his troubled daughter. Any time, Ms. Campbell. One ring, two, five...she thought maybe she’d luck out and get voice mail when Hank McBride answered.

  “Finally,” he said. “Sunny and I have arranged for you to visit tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know what my schedule—”

  “I spoke to your assistant, Vaughn. He said you’re free at ten o’clock. Sharp.”

  “Fine.” Firmly, she said, “I don’t need to remind you that I don’t work with teenagers, Congressman. I am only agreeing to meet with her.”

  “Maggie needs help. Once you meet her, I’m sure your heart will see to it that you say yes. Your heart...and your purse.”

  Allison swallowed. A face flashed before her, pale and pretty and haunted. Violet. It was a night for painful memories, it seemed. Allison shoved the image away. She thought of her mother—ill, lost, in need of more care than she was getting now.

  “You understand that First Impressions is an image-consulting firm?”

  “Yes. And I also understand that you have a background in psychology. A PhD.”

  “I’m not a practicing psychologist, Congressman. With all due respect, if you need a therapist, you should look elsewhere—”

  “I told you earlier, I don’t. Please. Just meet her tomorrow.”

  Allison felt a strange urgency to get him off the phone and out of her life. If she’d been more superstitious, she would have called it a premonition. Instead, she chalked it up to her mother’s ordeal and the unrelenting exhaustion that had a hold on her body.

  Allison gripped the container of pierogies Faye had handed her. Her knuckles glowed white from the pressure.

  “Okay,” Allison said finally. “Tomorrow at ten.”

  “Thank you. You have no idea what this means to us.”

  She said good-bye, clicked off the phone, and stormed inside. Determined to put the day out of her mind, Allison tossed her pumps and purse down in the foyer, then pulled off her hose and threw them on the steps to bring upstairs later. She walked through the short hallway that led from the foyer to the kitchen and unbuttoned her pencil skirt. She used the kitchen doorframe to support her weight and pulled the skirt down over her hips, then slipped her Donna Karan blouse off her shoulders and let it fall down to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  Freedom.

  In the kitchen, she pried open the food container, grabbed a fork out of the dishwasher, and ate cold pierogies over the sink. With each mouthful, that looming sense of foreboding slipped further into the distance.

  “Crazy is as crazy does. It’s arrogant to think otherwise.” The words echoed through Allison’s head. Crazy, crazy, crazy. The clock flashed 2:28 a.m. She pulled the pillow over her face, took a deep breath, and squeezed her eyes tight against the memories, just like she used to do as a kid. Squeezed until she saw random flashes of light and color in her eyelids, and her forehead hurt from the effort. Squeezed until the bad thoughts went away.

  It was no use. Violet Swann. The name still came to her, unbidden and resonating with an overwhelming sadness that threatened to drown out the years of carefully cultivated success that had followed. But she knew no number of valued clients, no celebrity dinners, no large paychecks, could wipe out the consequences of a few bad choices.

  The worst of which was choosing to care.

  Allison tried not to think about the flat storage container under her bed that held proof of her own incompetence. She tried not to remember the teen, Violet, whose short life was documented in its cold plastic walls. She tried not to consider the reasons she kept that container after all these years. Hope? Or a reminder that things could come crumbling down, especially when they looked most promising.

  Margaret McBride. Fifteen. Just like Violet.

  “You should reconsider your vocation, Allison. There’s no room here for poor judgment.” At the end of her tenure at the Meadows, a home for troubled teens, kindly Doc had been replaced by an irate Dr. Nutzbaum, his usually placid eyes and swarthy complexion colored by fear and embarrassment. “We have rules for a reason, Allison. And now look at the mess you’ve caused. There will be an inquiry. There will be accusations. Whether or not they have any credibility doesn’t matter. The damage is done.”

  The finger-pointing, the politics, the pressing worry not about her own future but about the future of someone far more vulnerable. How old had she been then? Twenty-four? Almost ten years older than her young patient, Violet, an abused runaway who’d looked to Allison for safety and who’d ultimately been exploited once again.

  Because Allison hadn’t kept her safe.

  It all seemed like a lifetime ago, carefully removed from First Impressions and the world she’d created for herself here. Allison turned over in bed and burrowed deeper into the covers, willing her mind to stop whirling, twirling m
emories around like a mini cyclone. All Hank McBride’s fault. The man was already stirring up trouble.

  Allison punched the mattress, flopped over on her back and stared at the ceiling. No, I can’t take on Maggie McBride. I have enough demons in my life. She pulled a pillow over her face. There wasn’t room for any more.

  Five

  Allison rang the McBrides’ doorbell at ten o’clock, on the dot. It was another chilly day, with just a sliver of sun attempting to break through the relentless cloud cover. As much as she liked her pin-striped Dolce & Gabbana skirt, Allison wished she’d traded it for a nice, warm wool pants suit. She pulled her coat tighter and waited for someone to answer.

  The old house loomed over her like something out of a Gothic novel. The main structure, a hulking stone rectangle shrouded in ivy, was flanked on either side by one-story additions. A driveway stopped just feet before the main entrance and then wound around the side of the house, coming to a halt at the entrance of a three-car garage. Stone lions guarded the double front doors, which were painted black. Oversized brass knockers, each emblazoned with a lion’s head, perched on the doors’ centers. The overall effect was elegant, in a haunting, antiquated way.

  Allison glanced around. The entire street was lined with these estates, separated by acres and enough stylistic differences to make each one unique. But make no bones about it, Allison thought, this home in this neighborhood was not purchased on a congressman’s salary. Someone in the McBride family was bleeding money.

  A stout, pasty-faced woman in her sixties opened the door. She wore a perfectly-starched gray and white maid’s uniform that covered a thick body and rigid shoulders. Her iron-colored hair had been pulled into a tight bun. Not one hair escaped. Her mouth was pursed in a wrinkled frown.

  Allison introduced herself. “I’m here to meet Maggie.”

  The woman cocked her head to the side. “Please, come in.”

  Allison stepped through the door into a large center hall. The room was lined with paintings, one after the other, only inches apart. Colorful abstracts, watery impressionists. It reminded Allison of the display at the Barnes Museum, where paintings were grouped by theme or color rather than era or artist. Allison didn’t have time to ponder the incongruity of these modern paintings—or the unusual presentation—in an otherwise staunchly traditional home before Sunny walked in.

  “Thank you, Udele,” Sunny said to the iron-haired lady. “Ms. Campbell, the congressman and I are so happy you came. He couldn’t be here today, he’s on his way to Washington for government business, but I’ll introduce you to Maggie. This way, please.”

  Allison followed Sunny through the center hall and up a set of stairs. Sunny wore jeans today, faded and low-slung, with a red sweater that set off the highlights in her hair. No makeup, but even without it she was stunning. Allison found herself wondering what it would be like to have her for a mother. Could you ever measure up? Halfway up the steps, Sunny turned suddenly and asked if Allison would like coffee. It seemed an afterthought and Allison declined. They continued toward the second level.

  More paintings lined the upstairs hallway. One, an abstract portrait of a nude woman, her arms and legs swirling off into magenta obsolescence, struck Allison as particularly sad and sensual. It was then that she noticed the “SM” painted in the corner of the canvas.

  “Did you paint these, Sunny?

  Sunny took a moment before responding. When she did, her voice was hoarse. “I was an art major, once upon a time. Before the girls came along.”

  “They’re lovely.”

  Sunny mumbled a thank you and continued her trek toward Maggie’s room. Allison stole another glance at the nude. It was a self-portrait. She had no concrete reason to think that—there were no identifying marks, and the only thing that made it apparent the painting was of a woman at all was the milky hourglass of the torso. But somehow Allison knew. And in that moment she also knew that Sunny McBride, Gypsy wife of a rich and powerful congressman, was a very unhappy woman.

  Sunny rapped on the door three times. “Maggie, let us in. Ms. Campbell is here to meet you.”

  Allison tensed. Sunny seemed too tentative, like a hand-shy dog who’d endured one too many swats with the newspaper. Allison had no current experience with children, but she knew this much anxiety on a parent’s face meant Maggie was no Laura Ingalls.

  Sunny knocked again. “Maggie, come on. Daddy’s not here. It’s just Allison Campbell and me. Open up.” Sunny turned to Allison with an apologetic smile and said, “Maggie had a fight with Hank last night before he left. They don’t always see eye-to-eye.”

  Understatement of the year? The Cleavers were looking more and more like the Munsters.

  Sunny pulled a key out of her pocket. “Last chance, Maggie.”

  Allison started to protest, to tell Sunny this was a mistake, when the door swung open into blackness.

  Sunny leaned toward Allison and said, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. It’s better that way. There’s a buzzer at the top of the steps, on the wall. When you’re finished, press it and Udele will find me.” She touched Allison’s arm hesitantly. “She’s a nice girl, really. She’s just misunderstood. And has no self-esteem. You’ll see, Allison.” That desperation in her eyes again. “I think you’re just what she needs.”

  Sunny disappeared down the hall, and Allison squinted into the room. Once her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the reason for the darkness. All the windows were covered with black curtains, and the walls were painted black. Even the bedspread was black. And there, on the bed, was a tiny figure dressed entirely in black.

  “Margaret?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have it your way.” Allison turned to leave and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Maggie stand up.

  “Fine. Come in.”

  Allison stepped inside. She looked around for a place to sit. A chair, painted black, sat next to a desk, painted black, but books and papers were stacked on its seat. The room looked surprisingly neat. It was smaller than Allison would have expected, but other than the stack of books, orderly. A black dresser sat against the wall between two windows. On its surface stood candles, a dozen or so bottles of various sizes, and an incense holder. A computer had been placed on the desk amid neat piles of books and papers and what looked like a strobe light, its silvery fish scales reflecting the narrow slices of light that seeped around black curtains. Another stack of books tilted precariously next to the bed.

  Allison took this all in during the space of a second. Then her eyes were drawn to Maggie. A tiny pudge ball of a girl, Maggie sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. Allison saw black-stockinged legs, the ruffle of a black skirt, a black shirt with a torn collar, spiky black hair. All she could see of Maggie’s face were her eyes, which looked to be encircled in black crayon. Everything was the flat black of matte paint or cheap hair color: no texture, no highlights, no depth. Allison sighed. If I take this job, she thought, I’ll certainly have my work cut out for me.

  “Maggie?”

  No response.

  “Maggie, can I sit?”

  Still no answer.

  “No games, Maggie.”

  “No games, Allison. I don’t want you here.”

  Touché, sweetheart, I’m not so sure I want to be here. “I just want to talk.”

  “I don’t need another shrink.”

  “I’m not a shrink, Maggie.”

  “A therapist.”

  “Nope, I’m not a therapist.”

  She sat a little straighter. “Then what are you?”

  “I’m an image consultant. Your parents want to hire me to help you get yourself together.”

  For a second the girl on the bed didn’t speak or move. Then she let out a laugh like a witch’s cackle, long and loud and
mean.

  It took Allison a second to regain her composure. “Something funny, Maggie?”

  Maggie rolled around on her bed for a second, clutching her gut as though she couldn’t contain the guffaws. “This is…the best...yet. Daddy...is...such an...idiot.”

  “Maggie!”

  She stopped laughing. “Don’t ‘Maggie’ me. He is an idiot. An image consultant? Know how many people they’ve made me see? There was Dr. Schuman, the bald-headed pedophile, Dr. Turner, the three-hundred-year-old psychologist who smelled like moth balls and said I was developmentally delayed, Dr. Lee, the neuro-acupuncturist, whatever the hell that is. Oh, yeah, there was also the hypnotist, two psychiatrists, and the dude in New York who decided I needed a blood-letting. With leeches. I said no way to that one. Want me to keep going?”

  Maggie stood up and flicked on the strobe light. A pulsating glow reflected bands of color across the black walls. Allison watched stripes dance their way across Maggie’s features. A pretty child lay under the sneer and the hideous makeup. Maggie had a round face and pale skin, but also her mother’s wild eyes and soft, full mouth. Someday, Allison thought, with a dash of luck and a few ounces of guidance, Maggie could be a beauty.

  “Well, I’m not here to psychoanalyze you. And I promise—no blood-letting.” When Maggie didn’t respond, Allison said, “What do you say, Maggie? Shall we at least give it a go?”

  “No effing way.”

  Allison turned to leave.

  “Wow, you quit with the least resistance,” Maggie said.

  “I told you. No games.”

  “Fine, leave.” She slumped a little. “Tell my mother I’m oppositional. Go ahead.” The high pitch of her voice betrayed her brave front. Allison heard fear.