Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  “That may fit with what I learned last night.” She shared her adventures, from her meeting with Svengetti to the time she left the underground bunker.

  Vaughn looked at her, his eyes dark. “You took a lot of risks.”

  “I’m fine. I knew what I was doing.”

  Vaughn stayed quiet. Mia saw the clenched jaw, the tight fist. He glanced at Jamie, then back at her. He was furious with her, furious and probably at least a little scared, and trying hard to stay cool. Mia was deciding whether to be flattered or angry when Vaughn’s mobile beeped. He glanced at the screen. “Right back.”

  Mia stared at the satellite view. Nothing for miles and miles. A perfect spot for a perfect environmental crime?

  When Vaughn returned, he looked relieved.

  “That was Allison,” he said.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. She’s still in Ithaca, wrapping up a few loose ends. She has some good news.”

  “Francesca turned up?”

  “No, unfortunately. But she thinks Tammy’s okay. Allison found recent photos of Tammy with Kai, taken after Tammy disappeared. They’d been posted to Kai’s Facebook page. Buried in the midst of other shots. But Allison recognized her.”

  “So, she did run away. Maybe she’s not connected to Francesca’s disappearance after all. Which means I asked questions about the Russian Mob for nothing.” Making myself a potential target, Mia thought.

  Mia glanced at the Google Map, now back up on Jamie’s screen. He too was staring at the monitor, deep in concentration.

  THAT’S GOOD NEWS, BUT I’M NOT SO SURE SHE’S OUT OF TROUBLE.

  “But Allison said—”

  I KNOW, VAUGHN, BUT I THINK IT’S TOO EARLY TO DISMISS A CONNECTION. GIVEN HER BOYFRIEND’S ASSOCIATION WITH THE GRETCHKOS, THE FACT HER FATHER WORKS AT THE LANDFILL, AND THIS—he nodded toward the monitor—YOU HAVE TO CONSIDER ALL POSSIBILITIES.

  Vaughn hesitated, a battle between hope and reality taking place on his face. Finally he said, “At least she’s okay.” The longing in his voice made Mia yearn to put her arms around him. At that moment, he sounded so young.

  YES, HOPEFULLY SHE’S OKAY. BUT LOOK AT THAT MAP AGAIN.

  Mia and Vaughn directed their attention to the Google map, at the strange circles embedded in the Italian countryside like pustules.

  “So what?” Vaughn said.

  SO, IF WHAT THIS GUY TOLD MIA IS TRUE, AND THE GRETCHKO FAMILY IS LOOKING TO DIVERSIFY, THINK ABOUT THE POSSIBILITIES THIS PROPERTY OFFERS. REMOTE. AN OLD QUARRY. I THINK MIA’S RIGHT. THERE IS A HUGE MARKET FOR TOXIC WASTE DUMPING. NATIONALLY AND INTERNATIONALLY.

  “Benini could also be a prime company for an organized crime outfit looking to launder money,” Mia said, thinking back to her talk with Frist. “An otherwise legitimate business with an infrastructure abroad. If it’s not dumping, the Mob could be financing the quarry’s reopening as a means to launder money.”

  “And they have other properties, some of which are in developing countries,” Vaughn said.

  Mia looked at Jamie. “Are you suggesting that the Mob has Francesca?”

  I’M SUGGESTING IT’S A POSSIBILITY. WHAT IF FRANCESCA DIDN’T WANT TO GO ALONG WITH THIS? WHAT IF SHE STOOD IN THE WAY OF A DEAL BETWEEN THE TWO FAMILIES, THE TWO BUSINESSES?

  “Then what about Tammy?”

  Mia put her hand on Vaughn’s shoulder. “Tammy may have seen more than she should have and run.”

  RIGHT. IN HIS OWN MISGUIDED WAY, KAI COULD BE PROTECTING HER.

  “But what could she have seen?”

  Jamie met Mia’s gaze over the computer mouthpiece. I GUESS THAT’S THE QUESTION.

  Thirty-Four

  It was nearly noon by the time Allison reached the Pittaluga farm. This time, she studied the property from a different perspective. Namely, cost. How much income would a farm like this generate, and would it be enough to pay the taxes? Allison hadn’t found any bank liens, so presumably the brothers owned the farm outright. But they would still need to pay the costs associated with keeping up the farm. And much of the land now stood empty.

  As with the last visit, the house and grounds were immaculate. Allison pulled the car near the Victorian and climbed out. After all she’d been through last spring with Maggie McBride and the Arnie Feldman murder, she should be more accustomed to sticking her nose in other people’s affairs. But it never seemed to get easier.

  Allison heard a noise like a faint but high-pitched roar, followed by a sharp bark. The next thing she knew, the world’s smallest dog came bounding around the side of the house, barking wildly. That was another thing that had changed. Before Brutus, Allison would have been terrified. Now she stood her ground, startled but amused.

  “Bonnie, no!”

  Allison looked up. An old man was standing by the porch. He had a shock of white hair centered in a strip down the middle of his head. The sides of his scalp and the skin on his face and neck were smooth, pink, and stretched to the point of shiny. His nose, a mere two slits in his face; his chin and lips, nearly nonexistent. The lack of eyebrows and eyelashes gave him a childlike, surprised look—as did his open, innocent gaze.

  Allison had worked in a pediatric burn unit for a semester during graduate school. She knew the signs of extensive burn damage. The resilient spirit of her young patients came back to her now, along with a deep stab of sympathy for the man in front of her.

  This must be John Pittaluga, she thought. The fire devastated him, too.

  “Bonnie doesn’t know you,” the man said. His voice was heavily accented, thick and viscous, like he had a mouth full of cotton. He bent down and picked up the Terrier, cradling her in his arms like an infant. “Who are you? I don’t know you, either.”

  “Mr. Pittaluga?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m an acquaintance of your brother, Enzo.”

  John looked at her blankly. “He’s not here. He went to the store to get chicken feed. We have chickens.” He tilted his head, seeming to make a connection. “Do you want to see the chickens?”

  Allison smiled. With a glance at the big house, she nodded, wondering when the housekeeper would come out and chase her away. “I’d love to see the chickens.”

  John grinned. Allison followed him past the house, down a path through the flower beds, and over a small hill to the chicken coop. A large, red, shed-like structure on wheels occupied one end of a grassy yard, enclosed by a fence and dotted with mature trees. Inside the fence, about fifty chickens pecked at the ground. Others gazed down at them from lower tree branches, balancing fat bodies on thin limbs.

  “We have forty-three chickens,” John said. “We used to have forty-nine, but a hawk got some.” John looked at the small dog in his arms. He tickled her under the chin and she closed one eye contentedly, keeping the other eye on Allison. “Bonnie here is not a good guard dog. I keep asking for a big dog, a Great Pyrenees or even a Labrador, but Enzo says they shed too much. And poop. He doesn’t want to pick up dog poop. But I would do it.”

  Allison laughed. “Why is the chicken coop on wheels?”

  John puffed out his chest, clearly proud of the chickens. “It’s a chicken tractor. We can move the coop anywhere on the property.” He pointed to a chicken, busily pecking at a patch of bare dirt. “See, the chickens eat bugs, which is good. And their poop produces compost, which is also good. If we move the chickens around the property, they help restore nutrients to the soil. Which is good.”

  Allison was impressed. She felt a wave of warmth for this man and his childlike candor. So refreshing after spending days trying to weed through half-truths and dubious motivations.

  “Are you in charge of the chickens, John?”

  “The chickens and Bonnie are my jobs. Carol, that’s my nurse, doesn’t like animals, which is just fine with me.”

  “How about your br
other, Enzo? What does he do?”

  John’s expression darkened at the mention of his brother. He frowned, scratched at the dirt beneath him with one thick-soled shoe. “He takes care of the business.”

  “What business?’ Allison asked. “I thought the bakery had closed down.”

  Another shadow passed over John’s face. Allison felt bad, but, thinking of Francesca, of Vaughn, she pushed. “Didn’t the bakery close years ago?”

  John nodded. He patted the top of Bonnie’s head and for a moment Allison didn’t think he would say more. But after a long pause, he said, “Enzo takes care of the money. That was always his job. The money.”

  “From the farm?”

  “From the bakery, from the farm.” He smiled. “But I get to sell my eggs, and I take care of that money.”

  Allison walked over to the edge of the grassy hill and sat down under a tree, hoping that John would join her. The sun was heavy in the sky, and sweat glistened on John’s face and ran down Allison’s neck in tiny streams. She worried about John’s skin in the sun. He followed her to the shade but didn’t sit.

  “What happened to the bakery, John?”

  He touched his face, his arms. “There was a fire.”

  “Is that how you got this farm?”

  John shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. They wouldn’t give us the money to make a new bakery. So maybe that’s why we came here. To raise chickens and corn.”

  Allison looked at John Pittaluga. Clearly, he was mentally limited. Was that a result of the fire? Allison doubted it, unless something else happened that day, like a severe fall or asphyxiation. No, Allison was pretty sure that he’d spent his life this way. Perhaps his parents had sent him with his brother to keep an eye on Gina and to ensure they had one less mouth to feed. If Enzo agreed to mind his mentally-challenged brother, he got a ticket to the States. Or maybe the Beninis paid for their passage. She watched John now, nervously shuffling back and forth, anxious to please her yet put off by her questions. How to get the information without upsetting him?

  “You were the baker,” Allison said.

  He smiled, nodded. “Bread is my favorite. My mother and grandmother taught me. The trick is the fire. It has to be hot enough.” Like that, the smile turned to a frown. John looked down at Allison and squinted. “They burned me with my fire.”

  “They, John? Who is they?”

  John closed his eyes, rocked on his feet. When he opened them, he looked beyond her, at the house. “Enzo is coming. You should go.”

  “I don’t think he’s—” but suddenly she heard it, the low rumble of a vehicle coming down the driveway toward the house.

  “John, did you know Francesca Benini?”

  Allison could almost see the cogs turning as he shifted from thoughts of his brother to her question about Francesca.

  “Francesca Benini? She knew your sister, Gina?”

  The rocking began again. Bonnie licked John’s hand and squirmed to be let down. He bent down and let her go, straightening back up slowly and with obvious effort.

  “Gina is dead.”

  “I know, John. Do you know how she died?”

  “In her sleep. She died sleeping.”

  He doesn’t know she killed herself, Allison thought. “Do you like Francesca?”

  “Her eyes are funny.”

  “Funny how?”

  “Uh-oh. Here comes Enzo. Carol will be in trouble.” He stared in the direction of the house. “You, too.”

  “For talking with you? But we had a nice conversation. And I got to meet the chickens.”

  “For being a snooper. Enzo says you are a snooper.”

  “Then you remember that I came before, John?” The mask-like face at the window, the shock of white hair.

  His dark eyes stared into Allison’s own, and she saw the echoes of the man he might have been had the inequities of fate or genetics not altered his course. He ran one unblemished hand across his brow, wiping away perspiration.

  “You had better leave.”

  But Allison knew it was too late. She’d already heard the car door slam. Enzo would be down here any minute now. And John was right. He’d be pissed.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about Francesca? Was she your friend?”

  “Not my friend, no. Not Gina’s friend, either.”

  “Why not, John? Why didn’t everyone get along?” She kept her tone soft, insistent.

  John shook his head, touched his face again. He looked agitated, scared. Why? Why would the mention of Francesca Benini have him this frightened?

  Allison heard the house door slam. “John!”

  “John?” Allison whispered, the sense of urgency nearly overwhelming her.

  He frowned, rocked some more. Allison knew he was not used to disobeying. She reached out and gently touched his hand.

  “Please?”

  “An overflow of good converts to bad,” he said. The dog ran toward the house and John walked after her, his gait a slow, trudging lumber.

  Allison recognized the quote from Shakespeare. An odd thing for a man like John to say, she thought.

  Unless he’d heard it repeated many times before by someone else.

  “I’m afraid you need to leave, Ms. Campbell.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pittaluga. It wasn’t my intention to upset your brother.”

  “You know what they say about the path to Hell.” Enzo looked at her from across the yard, over small silver glasses, eyes narrowed in anger. He was dressed as impeccably as before, dapper in light wool pants, a blue button down shirt, silver cuff links and a bow tie, cane at the ready. He looked ready to beat her with that cane.

  “Can we talk, Mr. Pittaluga? About Francesca and your sister? Please?”

  “There is nothing more I can tell you.”

  “Francesca is missing. She could be in danger.” Allison sighed. “Look, I won’t mention you or John as the source of any information. I have reason to believe Francesca’s disappearance is somehow related to your sister, as crazy as that may sound.”

  “Good day, Ms. Campbell.”

  Allison advanced another step. Enzo opened the screen door, started inside to join his brother. Allison decided to take a chance.

  “Who set the fire, Mr. Pittaluga? Was it arson that destroyed your bakery and burned your brother?”

  Enzo looked startled. “What did my brother tell you?”

  “Nothing. I wouldn’t have asked him that. But I am asking you.”

  She saw a flash of relief, replaced quickly by fear. “Leave him alone, Ms. Campbell. He’s suffered enough.”

  “Then tell me. Help me to understand.”

  Enzo’s eyes widened with exasperation. He raised his voice. “Tell you that John was born with an umbilical cord wrapped around his neck? That as an old man he has the developmental ability of an eleven-year-old? That the only things he likes to do are be with me, bake, and care for animals—and one of those things was taken from him?” He stared into Allison’s eyes, seething. “My brother is my sole responsibility, my only reason for being. You are not the problem, Ms. Campbell. But you will be if you do not stop asking questions. You need to leave us alone.”

  He slammed the door, disappearing into the interior of the house. Allison started back toward her car, feeling awful. Enzo’s words triggered thoughts of Vaughn, of his desperation to care for Jamie. At all costs. Of his ruthless determination not to let anyone stand in his way of that goal. But there were many ways to protect someone. Not all of them excusable.

  Mia arrived home late that afternoon and collapsed on her bed in a fit of utter exhaustion. Vaughn was outside, walking around her property, checking for break-ins or other signs of trouble. Angela was feeling better, but to be safe, he’d hired a respite nurse to stay with Jamie for a few hours. It was just as well. He needed s
ome escape.

  Mia lay there, inert, letting her breathing calm her. After a few minutes, she rose and peeled off the jeans and blouse she’d been wearing since the day before. Naked, she walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, making it as hot as she could stand. She stepped under the spray, relishing the soothing feel of the heat against her back, her legs. So many things to think about, but her mind still felt cluttered and useless.

  She lifted her face, let the dirt and tension of the last twenty-four hours run down the drain. She soaped her hair with honeysuckle shampoo, took a razor to her legs, and scrubbed her skin until it felt smooth and clean. She was reaching for the shower handle when she heard Vaughn come into the bathroom. She peeked out from behind the curtain. He was sitting on a stool, facing the shower.

  “See anything out of the ordinary?”

  He shook his head, looking surly.

  Mia softened her voice. “What’s the matter, Vaughn?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I mean, besides the mess we’re in.”

  Vaughn huffed out a sigh, twisted in his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to leave me.” His voice was flat, resigned, without even an edge of accusation or self-pity.

  “I love you.”

  “That doesn’t change anything.”

  “Oh, but it does.” Mia opened the curtain, water still running. She stood before him, nude, and held out her hand. “Join me.”

  Vaughn looked away, but not before Mia caught the hurt in his eyes. That should have mattered, but it didn’t. Somewhere along the line, they had broken the rules of engagement. She cared, he cared. Too much. Right now she was strong and independent, but that wouldn’t last forever. Twenty years his senior, she refused to be dependent on him. She refused to have the love and lust she felt reduced to something needy and, she hated to admit it, unattractive.

  But now, in spite of everything, they had this moment. That’s all she could offer. It was all she had a right to ask for.

  Mia stepped out of the shower. She knelt on the floor in front of Vaughn and took his face in her hands. Dripping, still a little soapy, she didn’t care. She kissed him. He pulled away at first, but then he gave in, matching her need with his own.