Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  She turned to face him, then kissed his eyes, his neck, his lips. She led him to the bed. “Will you stay the night?”

  If he’d heard the pleading in her voice, he didn’t let on—and for that she was grateful.

  He said, “Jamie.” She nodded her understanding.

  She pulled him close to feel the weight of his chest against her own. Strength, substance. That was what Vaughn was to her. Strength, substance and...oblivion. Beautiful, merciful oblivion. Gently, he kissed her throat. Mia threw back her head and moaned.

  Vaughn punched in his pass code, waited for the familiar buzz, and then pulled open the security door to his apartment building. He took the elevator to his tenth floor apartment, twisted the key in the lock, and opened the front door.

  Like always, that step from the outside world to the inside of his home was a shock to his system. First the smells: Lysol and the faint scent of urine and wisps of the spice-scented candles the nurses lit to hide both. Then the overwhelming warmth. Jamie had trouble regulating his body temperature and Vaughn needed to keep the thermostat set at seventy-five-degrees all year round. Then the sounds, so familiar to him now that he had to stop and listen for them: the gentle, life-supporting whir of the monitors and machines that helped Jamie function; the hum of the computer that ran all day because it was the only way Jamie could communicate; and finally, the lights. Night lights, overhead lights, fluorescents. Jamie would still wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, wondering why he couldn’t walk or talk or crap on his own, his eyes rolling around and bulging from his head till Vaughn was afraid they would hemorrhage. Light was the only way to reassure. No, it’s not a nightmare, my brother. At least not one you can simply wake up from.

  Vaughn took off his coat, hung it in the living room closet and tiptoed toward Jamie’s room. He could still smell Mia’s citrusy scent on his skin, feel her arms around his neck. It was hard to leave that bed for cold spring air and the long drive home. What he wouldn’t have given to wake up there—arms tangled in her hair, early morning love-making followed by fresh eggs and bacon and the sound of her damn rooster crowing. He could only imagine, though, for he’d never stayed.

  He heard a rustling and froze mid-step. A second later, a pretty face peeked around the corner of Jamie’s bedroom. Long, straight black hair. Short, curvy body. Sleep creases on her forehead. He saw a flash of embarrassment cross Angela’s pretty features, then she smiled.

  “Good night for him,” she said.

  “Will you stay?”

  “Who’s coming in the morning?”

  “Mrs. Tildman.”

  Angela smiled again. Mrs. T was everyone’s favorite. She put the kitchen to use and made soups and biscuits, homemade things he could store in his freezer to ward off chilly nights. She straightened blankets and plumped pillows and cleaned the oven. All the things he liked to believe his mama would have done had she lived. But best of all, she read books. To Jamie. They both loved mystery novels, and around his bed stood stacks of Elizabeth George, P.D. James, and Agatha Christie. The warmth and energy in her voice brought those characters to life. Jamie adored her. Vaughn wanted to pay her a premium to keep her there, but the woman would hear nothing of it. My hourly rate is all, she’d tell him. I need to eat. But beyond that, I just like that boy’s company.

  Angela took a step toward the spare bedroom. “I’ll stay till Mrs. T gets here. Don’t worry. Leave early if you have to.”

  Vaughn gave her a grateful smile and watched her close the bedroom door. He finished his trek to his brother’s room and stood in the doorway. Jamie’s blankets were pulled taut over his thin form, and Vaughn could see the slight indentation where Angela’s head had rested next to Jamie’s arm. Jamie was asleep. His eyes fluttered, restless even now.

  The computer mouth stick hung just inches from his mouth in case he woke up and needed to say something. His words would show up flat, black against white, on the screen that stood just a foot away. Jamie wanted it that way. After the incident, Jamie never regained full use of his voice. The computer could speak the words, too, but they came out tinny and robotic-sounding, and Jamie said it was a reminder that he was mute as a dead parrot.

  Vaughn obliged. Vaughn always obliged. How could he not when he’d taken up the yoke of Jamie’s life—college and a real job and putting his brains to something other than creative drug deals—after Jamie had been paralyzed by the near-fatal gunshot meant for him over a decade ago? Once their mama died and Vaughn could see straight, he traded his own life for Jamie’s. Some form of restitution.

  Still, it was hard. Hard to see his brother motionless year after year with little hope for recovery. Harder to accept that Jamie stayed confined to the world Vaughn had created for him. Vertebra C3. Who knew one little body part could ruin two lives?

  He looked again at Jamie. It was like viewing himself in a mirror. A fun house mirror that twisted and contorted and thinned out the image. That was his real penance. To look in that mirror every single day. To see himself lying there and not be able to do a damn thing about it and know it was his fault. Because in the end, it wasn’t him. Worse. It was his identical twin.

  Eight

  The following day, Allison met with her Recently Divorced group.

  The group was discussing change and how hard it could be to build a life as a single person when your world was predicated on coupledom. Unfortunately, each woman had a very different idea of what single looked like. Allison watched the group before her. For a moment their mouths seem to move soundlessly and she caught just a slow-motion glimpse of this hodgepodge of clients: Midge, with her pillbox hats and buttoned-up anger; the morbidly obese and timid Tori; sweet-natured Diane; and Kit with her plastic features and edgy personality. Some days this mix of personalities seemed like an inflamed volcano—ready to blow.

  Today was one of those days.

  “You put an ad online?” Midge was saying. “How does the guy contact you?” In her excitement, she sat forward too quickly and her pink pillbox hat fell across her forehead. “I don’t understand these new dating rituals. It’s a shame you and Bob split. Do you ever think about what you could have done differently to save your marriage?”

  Oh, sweet Mary. Allison shook her head at Midge, who was cluelessly looking at Tori.

  “Men are visual creatures,” Kit said. “In any case, personal ads are not the way to go. You look desperate.”

  “Kit,” Allison said sharply. Then she looked around at the other women. “Ladies, you’re being unfair. First of all, what Bob did was about Bob and his issues. It was not about Tori.”

  Tori turned her head toward the group room’s window and stared straight ahead, avoiding Allison’s gaze. But Allison knew her well enough to read the signs: rigid shoulders, face muscles taut, hands clenched into claws, reddened eyes. In a few minutes, Tori would be reduced to a crying mess, all her Bob memories from the last two years rushing at her alongside the swell of emotion caused by the group’s fervor over her online dating.

  Allison thought carefully about what to say.

  Few of these women had stories Allison hadn’t heard before, but Tori’s was a new twist on an old theme. Her ex-husband, Bob, a forty-year-old investment banker, had had a succession of affairs, culminating with a poke to a nineteen-year-old blonde in Tori’s bed while Tori gave birth to their third child, nine miles away. Tori’s father found them together, the girl naked and bound, Bob wearing his son’s Superman cape and nothing else. Unable to hide from the truth any longer, Tori was divorced before the baby was weaned.

  Allison felt for Tori. There was something about Tori’s pain at living in the body she’d been given that nudged at Allison’s depths, reminded her of her own childhood memories. Allison looked at Tori now and saw the effort she had put into dressing that morning: black pants with a drape that softened the girth of her thighs, a subtle black-print blouse with material thic
k enough to hide the rolls of belly fat without adding bulk, a red scarf to draw attention to beautiful green eyes and glossy black hair, silver bracelets to pull the eye toward well-manicured hands rather than her enormous upper arms. Tori was beautiful. And she was learning. This was the polish that could make a difference.

  “Tori?” Allison’s voice was gentle. “Do you want to address the group?”

  Tori didn’t speak, just seemed to pull herself inside and disappear, away from Kit’s gloating smile and the curious gazes of everyone else. Allison could hardly blame her. She needed time.

  The room was silent. Allison heard the woosh of traffic passing by outside: a door slammed in the front office. She looked at Tori and tried to telegraph understanding and acceptance. For she did understand. More than Tori knew.

  “Excuse me, Allison?” Kit raised her hand. “Allison?”

  “Yes?” Allison turned toward the platinum blonde in the corner.

  Kit Carson-Lewis. Her long hair was blown straight, her cleavage blossomed from the front of a low-cut magenta blazer. Nails like pink daggers.

  “I want to address Tori.” When Allison nodded, she continued, “Tori, I think I owe you an apology.” She licked her obscenely plush lips. “I’m sorry.”

  Tori turned away.

  “No, really. I was out of line. We all were.” Kit looked around at Midge and Diane, who were nodding their agreement. “There are men out there who will love and accept you for who you are, Tori darling. And you shouldn’t be willing to accept any less. The dating world can be scary. Online dating, especially. We’re all just worried about you.”

  Allison smiled at Kit. She knew even that apology was difficult. Kit’s ex-husband, a Philadelphia plastic surgeon, had urged her to undergo surgery after surgery: breast implants, liposuction, Botox injections, a face-lift, an eye-lift, labia reduction, a nose job. As she told it, she went along with his suggestions year after year. Then he committed the ultimate sin. He had an affair and later married a woman a few years older than Kit. According to Kit, the new wife was fat, wrinkled, and had a nose like an upside down ice cream cone. And still does. No plastic surgery for Wife Number Two, while Kit looked like someone created by Mattel. And the ex-husband seemed happy. Kit wore the bitterness like an overcoat. And her first instinct, always, was to hurt before being hurt. It was a habit Allison was trying to help her break.

  Allison clapped her hands together. Tori’s color had returned and the rest of the group had done the right thing. It was a good place to end before Helms arrived. Allison stood, signaling the ladies. Everyone but Midge filed out of the room.

  When they were alone, Midge said, “I’m sorry about that. I guess I was really thinking about my own ex-husband. That maybe if I had been different, he wouldn’t have chosen a man over me.”

  “You know that has nothing to do with you, either, Midge. His homosexuality isn’t something you caused—or could have prevented.”

  “I know.” Midge blushed. “He’s living in Vermont with his lover. I guess I should have known years ago.”

  “Some people go their whole lives without realizing their partner is gay.”

  “I suppose I did overreact,” Midge said, and laughed.

  Yep, shooting him in the foot while he’s naked and on top of another man is probably an overreaction, Allison thought. But hey, who am I to judge?

  Allison pulled the group’s file together and said, “So, for next time, you’ll think about one small change you can incorporate into your life?”

  Midge looked mildly ashamed. “Yes, I’ll behave.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say to behave,” Allison said with a wink. “Just try to have an open mind.”

  “Adventure will be my middle name.” Midge stood to go. “I used to be a pin-up girl, you know. In my heyday, I was quite a hottie.” Her eyes brightened and Allison got a fleeting glimpse of a younger, more daring Midge. “I still have a postcard to prove it.”

  Allison said she hadn’t known. “Bring in the postcard for our next session.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I’d love to see it.” Allison wanted her clients to bring in bits of their past. She could help them best if she had a broader sense of who they were, who they’d been. She believed people were often defined by their pasts, intentionally or not, and Midge was no exception. Midge had lost that sense of self somewhere in the forty years of marriage to a closeted gay man, but the old Midge was still there. Watching Midge now, Allison couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride.

  “You’re doing great, Midge. Next week, same time?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” On her way out, Midge said, “Did you hear about Arnie Feldman? It’s all people are talking about.”

  “I heard he was murdered.”

  Midge nodded. “His neighbor told my neighbor that there was blood everywhere. Sasha Feldman, that’s his wife, had to hire an outside contractor to remove the carpeting and repaint the walls.” She shuddered. “I’d leave that house, if I were her. But Sasha is a gold-digger. She probably doesn’t care.”

  Midge said all of this with relish. The only thing more popular than shopping amongst some of Allison’s clients was gossip. Allison swallowed. Curious or not, she’d feel better when the killer was locked away.

  Midge smoothed the front of her navy shirtwaist dress. Echoing Allison’s thoughts, Midge said, “Let’s hope the police solve this one, Allison. I know I have trouble sleeping at night. And I keep a gun by my bed.”

  Vaughn had asked Lieutenant Helms to wait in Allison’s office. Walking in, she expected to find a disheveled man in rumpled clothing, sort of the typical underpaid television policeman. Instead, Lieutenant Mark Helms was a tall, muscular forty-something, with striking blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He rose when Allison entered the room and held out his hand. They shook. Out of habit, Allison glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring.

  “Ms. Campbell,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Well, I hope it’s a good reputation,” Allison said with a smile.

  With one long glance, Allison watched him take in her three-inch Jimmy Choos, her tight beige pencil skirt, the fitted cream jacket and baby blue floral scarf that she’d knotted carefully around her neck. She tried to decide whether the look on his face was dismissive or one of practiced nonchalance. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  She motioned for him to sit back down, and then she walked around her desk and took the seat across from him. “What can I do for you? I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I have another appointment in thirty minutes.”

  “This won’t take long, Ms. Campbell.”

  “Allison.”

  “Allison, as you know, we’re investigating the death of Arnie Feldman. As we discussed on the phone, you worked with Feldman’s widow, the former Sally Ann Reilly.”

  “Not for long.”

  “But you knew her before she married Feldman.”

  “I suppose. I didn’t know she’d married Arnie, though.”

  “You didn’t see them at social functions?”

  Allison smiled. “Rarely. I’d met Arnie a few times at neighborhood events, but never his wife. They’d just moved in two years ago.”

  Helms nodded. “Rumor has it that Sasha—Sally Ann—wanted a bigger place.”

  “Rumor will have a lot of things, Lieutenant. The trick is parceling rumor from truth.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Then perhaps our two lines of business are not so different.”

  Helms laughed. “Perhaps not.”

  Allison had to admit, the guy had a nice laugh. She wondered why the police department sent the Lieutenant over instead of one of his directs. And while she wanted to help Helms, she honestly couldn’t think of any information that would
be of any help.

  “Look, Lieutenant,” Allison said, “What I remember of Sally Ann is probably not valuable. She was sent to me by her employer to work on some issues that were interfering with her job. We met a few times, she quit her job, and I never saw her again.”

  “Was she cooperative?”

  “Moderately, although not particularly engaged.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She didn’t really seem to want to be there. Lacked self-awareness about what was holding her back.”

  “What was holding her back?”

  Allison thought back to the woman she’d seen. It had been in their old offices, when Mia still owned the business. “There was a naked sort of ambition about her. She knew what she wanted and you knew she would do whatever was necessary to get it.”

  Helms raised his eyebrows. “Did she strike you as a social climber?”

  “I never gave it any thought.”

  “Think about it now. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out the angle we’re looking into.”

  “Was she capable of marrying for money and then disposing of her husband?” Allison replied.

  Helms stayed silent, but Allison knew that was it. And there was probably a large insurance policy and maybe even a prenup with a death clause.

  “I don’t know. There was that naked ambition, but the woman I knew was socially awkward.”

  “In what way?”

  Allison considered how best to answer. “Sally Ann was in her early thirties back then. Brash, a bit of a complainer, impatient. Not very likable, and I would think a successful social climber would be likable. She seemed smart, though.”

  “Smart intelligent or smart cunning?”

  Allison smiled. “Smart cunning, I suppose.”

  Helms leaned back. He jotted something in his notebook.

  “I’m intrigued by your comment about the neighborhood. How is it that you lived there two years and never ran into Sasha Feldman?”