Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4
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In this case, we came along and shone a big, fat light on everything, Allison thought. Now Tony Edwards was implicated, and Tammy was a witness. Allison thought about Mia’s story, about Thomas Svengetti and the others. She knew it was Tony Edwards who had chosen to play with fire, not her, but she wondered at the fate of this family. She prayed they’d make it through whatever was in store.
Allison rose to leave.
“Don’t you want to talk to my mom?” Tammy asked.
Allison shook her head. It was time to leave this family alone. She touched Tammy briefly, gently on the shoulder and smiled at Kellie. Her heart ached. No matter how one tried to do good, it seemed, there were always unintended consequences. The path to hell, Enzo Pittaluga had said. How right he was.
Mia pulled the shawl around her shoulders and snuggled down into the couch, against Vaughn. Allison watched them, happy to be here, surrounded once again by people she loved.
Jason was in the kitchen, making coffee, and Brutus was on the floor, next to Allison, his head on her lap. His severe underbite made breathing difficult, but that didn’t stop him from lying on his back, legs in the air, showing Allison just how thrilled he was to have her home by taking a nap.
It had been a few days since the last day in Ithaca, and Allison finally felt ready to talk about the ordeal. She knew in the days ahead, there would be police inquiries and reporters, and even that promised discussion with Jason, but for now she welcomed peace.
Mia said, “So why did Francesca write ‘Gina’ on that wall? In the hopes someone would find her?”
Allison hadn’t stopped wondering the same thing. “I don’t think so. I think Francesca was more than willing to give up her own life by that point. She blames herself for Gina’s death. She saw the kidnapping as some sort of penance, and she was offering it up for Gina. I bet that second word was ‘sorry.’ In the misery of captivity, in the midst of being taken by the man she’d tried to protect, Francesca saw her life for what it was. A tragedy.”
Vaughn nodded. “And Gina’s ghost? Just a crazy Maria story?”
“Gina is a ghost, at least in the sense that her memory lingers, a reminder of guilt and regret.”
Jason came in and handed Allison and Mia coffee. He sank down onto the floor next to Allison and rubbed Brutus behind the ears. “Why did she stay in that house all those years? Did she say?”
Allison shook her head. “I think in the beginning, she was trying to stay out of sight. She was paranoid that her former husband and his family would find out the truth and lay claim to her son. But when Alex was older? I don’t know. Habit? Fear? Another form of penance?”
“Thinking that if she gave up her life, Alex could keep his?” Mia said.
Allison remembered the way Francesca had threatened her with the knife. A mother’s desperation. After forty plus years of sacrifice, her actions made a certain sense.
Mia took Vaughn’s hand and smiled. “I’m just thankful things worked out.”
Vaughn smiled back, but Allison caught the hint of worry in his eyes. He and Mia were so good together, but would it last? Vaughn’s world was still fragile. The cleansing light of honesty had strengthened his will and his life with Jamie, but Allison knew that Vaughn still felt vulnerable, and the Benini plight showed him just how vulnerable he really was. Even with Tammy back home with her mother and Francesca’s kidnappers in jail, Vaughn looked on edge. It would take a while to get normalcy back. Maybe he would never know normal.
She didn’t think she would, either.
Vaughn looked down at his hand, the one clasping Mia’s. “Enough about all of this. It will be nice to get back to work. Routine is sounding pretty damn good.”
Allison nodded. “Maybe we can stay out of trouble for at least a few weeks.” Jason shot her a sharp look. She winked. “Just kidding.”
Mia stood, gently disengaging from Vaughn. She re-wrapped the silk shawl around her and stepped into silver ballet flats. “If you folks will excuse me. Vaughn, you need to pick Jamie up from the police department in an hour. And I have a date to keep.”
“With Svengetti?” Allison asked.
It was Vaughn who responded. “She promised him the scoop.”
“So the Feds have what they need on the Gretchkos?”
“For now,” Jason said. “Francesca’s documentation helped. And Maria’s murder is being pinned on Andrei Gretchko. We’ll see if it sticks.”
“I guess Tammy will need a new manager,” Vaughn said. “Hard to manage musicians from jail.”
“Actually, I’m afraid Tammy doesn’t need a manager right now. After all this, she still wants to go to Juilliard. I just don’t know that any music career is in the cards. She says her mother is against it, is fighting the contract. If Tammy wants to pursue opera, she’ll need to find her own voice, to fight for what she wants. And as we all know, that’s not so easy.”
Gently, Allison pushed Brutus aside. She stood and gave Mia a hug, then walked her to the door. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.” Allison looked behind her, at Jason, who was petting Brutus and chatting with Vaughn about baseball. “I know you talked to him.”
Mia nodded, gave Allison a poignant smile. With a glance back at Vaughn, Mia said, “Don’t hurt him, Allison. My son loves you.” She opened the door and stepped out into the summer heat.
Allison, face tilted up toward the baking sun, watched her go.
THE END
(Book #2)
DYING BRAND
An Allison Campbell Mystery #3
Wendy Tyson
Copyright
DYING BRAND
An Allison Campbell Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | May 2015
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2015 by Wendy Tyson
Author photograph by Ian Pickarski
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-59-6
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-60-2
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-61-9
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-62-6
Printed in the United States of America
For Marnie Mai, Stephanie Wollman and Amy Speiser.
Friends. Always.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe deep gratitude to many people, including:
My agent, Fran Black of Literary Counsel. Your patience, support, sage advice and good humor are constants. Thank you.
Kendel Lynn, Art Molinares, Anna Davis, Rachel Jackson, Erin George and the rest of the Henery Press team. You’ve made this a better book.
Rowe Copeland at The Book Concierge. Thank you for your creativity and friendship.
All of my early readers and tireless supporters, with a special shout out to my mother, Angela Tyson, Sue Norbury, Marnie Mai, Mark Anderson, Adrienne Robertson, Laura Coffey, Edie and Sam Newman, Greg Marincola, Judy Kraft, Abbe Fox, Mandy Gohn, Stephanie Wollman, Kim Morris, Ann Marie Pickarski and Carol Lizell.
And, of course, my family—Ben, Ian, Jonathan and Matthew. Thanks for believing in me and helping me make the time to write.
ONE
Allison Campbell couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be. Sitting in the grand ballroom at the Four Seasons next to her boyfriend, Jason, and her business ma
nager, Vaughn, both of them dressed in evening garb and looking quite dashing, was the last place the image consultant expected to find herself on this early November evening. She’d been scheduled to present at a university ahead of her next book release, but when the invitation to be a guest of honor at Delvar’s award ceremony had arrived a month ago, she’d canceled her other plans and accepted without question.
Delvar’s was a success story of the very best kind.
Allison watched her mentee with maternal pride and the tiniest bit of professional told-you-so from her perch at the stage-side table. Not only was Delvar a sought after designer, but a role model to others. And that second reason was why they’d all gathered on a Saturday night to celebrate.
The gentleman on Allison’s left was engaged in a conversation with Delvar’s mother, and on Allison’s right, Jason was in the midst of a heated discussion with Vaughn. They were talking football, a topic Allison knew little about. Slightly giddy from Dom Perignon and a night away, Allison took advantage of her boyfriend’s distraction to check her email messages. It was then, with her small clutch open and her hand on the mobile device, that her phone rang. Allison answered quickly, without thinking, a move she would later regret.
The woman’s voice was one she recognized. The sound of it, rather like shattering glass or a fork scraped against a ceramic plate, made Allison shudder.
Her name was Leah Fairweather, and she was a phantom of Allison’s past.
Allison rose from the table with her phone planted against her cheek and left the award ceremony without a word to her companions. The whimsical lights and excited voices of the grand ballroom receded to a dull blur of background noise.
“Are you listening?” Leah asked.
Allison swallowed. She was standing with her back up against the wall of the hotel lobby. She pictured Leah’s white-blond hair as it had been not long ago: long, thick and curled on the ends. She saw Leah’s hooded gray eyes, that twisted little smile, part vixen, part intellectual snob. Allison knew these memories were colored by feelings of shame and remorse. Her mind had turned Leah Fairweather into a symbol of past regrets, both bigger and uglier than reality. Allison’s hand shook.
“I asked if you were listening.”
“I’m listening,” Allison said.
“Why? Of all the men, why him? You both promised. He said it was over, all of it. For God’s sake, why? And now, this—”
And now what? Allison blinked, confusion overriding other emotions. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Leah. Slow down.”
“Bullshit.”
A baby cried in Leah’s background and the sound registered as another accusation. Allison watched as a man in a tuxedo left the ballroom with a fifty-something blond hanging on his arm. They headed toward the doors that led to 18th Street. Allison said, “I’m going to hang up now, Leah. You’re upset. Confused. I haven’t seen Scott in four years. Except for a brief encounter, but that was just happenstance—”
“I know you’ve been seeing him.”
“That’s not true.”
“Liar.”
Allison closed her eyes, then opened them, fighting for control. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jason push open the ballroom doors. He looked around, searching for her.
“Goodbye, Leah,” Allison said.
“Wait!”
“I need to go.”
“Scott’s dead.”
Allison grabbed the wall. Her vision constricted, the heady lights becoming starbursts of ivory dancing in front of her face. Scott Fairweather, dead? But she had seen him, what, three weeks ago? He’d seemed fine. Perfectly fine.
“He’s dead, Allison.”
“What happened?”
“I thought maybe you could tell me. What happened to my husband?”
Jason spotted her. He was walking toward her, looking concerned. Allison wanted to hang up. She also wanted to know—had a sudden, crushing need to know—what had happened to her former paramour.
“How would I know what happened to him?”
“You were supposed to have been together the day he died.”
“Together?” The vise on Allison’s skull tightened. She felt Jason’s touch on her elbow, registered his eyes, full of questions. Allison turned toward the wall. She had to get off the phone. With a steadier voice, she said, “That’s not true.”
“You’re in his appointment book.”
“It’s not true. I have to go now, but—”
“He was murdered, Allison. And I’m sure you know why.”
“Hey, you’re shaking.” Jason took the phone from Allison and pulled her close. “What happened? One moment you were there and the next you were gone.” He smoothed back her hair. “Are you okay?”
Allison clung to him. His strength was a comfort, but even more, she didn’t want to meet his eyes. He knew her well. And despite the image consulting, the emphasis on poise and control, when it came to her own life she had no poker face. Jason’s arms loosened. He reached for her chin, held her face up toward his.
“Your mom okay?”
Her mom would never be okay, but she didn’t say that. Instead, Allison shrugged. “A former client was killed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Anyone I know?”
Allison shook her head. “Someone from long ago.”
“Pretty strong reaction for someone from long ago.” His voice was soft, caring. Only that made it worse. “Were you close to this person?”
The sound of applause crashed through their cocoon and Allison took advantage of the break. She forced a smile. “I’m fine, Jason. We should get back in there.”
But he held her stare a moment longer, looking unconvinced and so darn handsome in his tuxedo. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Allison sighed. She owed him the truth. As much of the truth as she could muster. “An old client. He was murdered. With everything we’ve been through,” she said, referring to two close calls in as many years, “it shook me up.”
Jason looked relieved. Allison, still reeling from the call, glanced down at her Jimmy Choo-clad feet. “I love you,” she whispered, not knowing what else to say. But she meant it. And a terrible misstep with a client four years ago didn’t change everything that came afterwards, including the fact that Jason was with her now. “Delvar will miss us,” she said. “I promised him I’d be there when he accepts the award.”
Jason nodded. He kissed her gently on the lips and took her hand. She led the way back to the ballroom with Jason’s body pressed against her own. They meandered through the standing crowd—two hundred guests straining to see the latest success story—hoping to get a glimpse of the fashions that would be trends soon enough. Allison, on tiptoe, could just see Delvar, with his spiky black hair and his snug leather pants. But the conversation with Leah had stolen the moment. Allison told herself it was all in the past. Scott’s death was Leah’s problem.
Then why, she wondered, despite the press of their bodies, could she feel the guilt wedging itself between her and Jason now?
Delvar Juan Hernandez accepted his award with characteristic grace. He had been a scrap of a twenty-three-year-old when Allison first met him a number of years ago at an art school charity function. When she’d had the chance to talk to the budding designer later, during cocktails, she’d been intrigued by his story.
Born to a single mom in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Delvar had known that he wanted to design clothes since he was four years old. Family members thought he was odd. His mother saw genius. Delvar worked two jobs during high school to save enough money for art school. Even at that, he had to wait until he was twenty-one to start school, and his education stalled when he ran out of funds. Allison wasn’t the only person who saw promise, but in a moment of tender weakness, she was the only person who offered the money needed so he could finish school.
It was a tribute that touched her. And now she wished she could shake the icy fingers of dread that trailed down her spine. Leah’s voice. Scott’s name. Logic told her they had nothing to do with her anymore. She had no idea why her name had been in Scott’s appointment book, but whatever the reason, she’d severed contact with Scott almost four years ago and hadn’t spoken to him since. Well, almost. But the day three weeks ago didn’t count. It had been a chance encounter.
Or had it?
Allison looked over at Vaughn, who was beaming like a proud father even though he barely knew Delvar, and Jason, who was still keeping a worried eye on her. When Delvar stepped off the stage, she cat-called her affection for a man who’d had a vision and pursued it, despite the odds.
Allison tossed her head back and glanced around the ballroom. The crowd loved Delvar. She took a sip of champagne, then another. Delvar was walking back to his table, trying hard to hide the grin blooming on his thin, angular face. Beside Allison, Delvar’s mother was weeping. Allison swallowed her anxiety over the Fairweathers. This was Delvar’s night. A mistake from the past wasn’t going to ruin the celebration.
Only later that night, sleep eluded her. Allison crawled out of bed, grabbed a robe, and tiptoed out of her bedroom, trying hard not to wake up Jason or her dog, Brutus. Jason slept soundly, his sleep aided by late-night lovemaking and at least three vodka tonics, but Brutus stirred. He eyed her from his spot on the foot of the bed, eyes sleepy, jowly face heavy with slumber. When Allison slipped out the door, she heard him huff and jump off the mattress to follow her.