Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  More breathing, then silence. She heard trucks in the background followed by a loud bang that could have been a car backfiring—or a distant gunshot. She pulled the phone away from her face. Clearly, this call was meant to scare her. But she felt more enraged than afraid.

  “Answer me, damn it. Who is this?”

  Whoever it was hung up. Allison looked at the caller ID. As she suspected, an unknown number. Damn, she thought. Related to the picture? Or somehow connected to Amy?

  She was betting on the former.

  She toyed with calling the police. What would she say? Someone prank called me—and oh, by the way, a former boyfriend was recently murdered and here are some pictures of the two of us someone sent me; these things may be connected. No, she’d keep this call to herself. For now.

  Allison grabbed her purse and headed downstairs. She’d feed and walk Brutus and then go to work. She had clients to attend to, and she wasn’t about to let this get in the way of her career. Plus, there she could do some more research on Scott Fairweather. She was beginning to think Leah was right; his death was not a drug deal gone wrong.

  But if that was the case, what was it? What had Scott been hiding?

  Eleanor Davies was no stranger to fear. Mostly, however, it was the self-induced kind. Rock climbing, mountain biking, skydiving. Eleanor was a self-proclaimed adrenaline junkie. Some people felt out of control when faced with physically dangerous situations, but Eleanor felt time slow down and her senses sharpen. As a matter of fact, the only time Eleanor really felt in control was when she was doing something dangerous.

  Right now, for instance, she felt distinctly out of control, and she was hating every second of it.

  Eleanor grabbed a suitcase from her closet and threw it open. She tossed in clothes, barely thinking about what she’d need.

  She had to get on the road.

  She closed and fastened the suitcase and then ran into her bathroom. She gathered all of her toiletries and the few prescription medicines she had. In the dining room that doubled as her home office, she threw papers and files into a cloth shopping bag, leaving only the most innocuous things: a few pads of paper and a pile of store circulars.

  Flipping off lights as she went along, Eleanor walked from room to room. Was she forgetting anything? I’ll be back, she told herself, but only half believed it. Didn’t matter. She had plenty of funds if she needed them.

  She glanced at her watch. It was nearly two in the afternoon. If she waited any longer, she’d hit traffic on her route south, and she wanted to be past Baltimore before the heaviest rush-hour congestion.

  On the way out the door, she stopped and put down her suitcase. Her cat, Simon, was still outside, roaming the neighborhood. She called for him, but when he failed to come, she decided to leave him. He was a cat, after all. He could fend for himself.

  SIX

  By three, it had started to snow. Allison watched from her office window at First Impressions as the flakes first melted, then coated cars and sidewalk surfaces. The sky overhead was a morbid gray, with clouds fringed in ebony moving in from the west. Soon, the roads would be slippery, and with the first snow of the season came accidents.

  Allison glanced at her computer screen. She’d been searching online for anything she could find about Scott and Leah Fairweather.

  Eventually, Allison had a clearer picture of what Scott Fairweather had been up to in the years since they’d parted. He’d stayed at Mystic Toys long enough to do an ex-pat rotation in India, where he was credited with rejuvenating the company’s branding of toys aimed at the female market. He’d left Mystic three years ago and was hired by another public company, Tenure Polk, a furniture manufacturer. He left Tenure nineteen months ago. His last employer was a company named Transitions, Inc. From what Allison could tell, Transitions owned a series of retail stores and managed the brand Transitions, which catered to teens with preppy tastes and rich parents.

  On his LinkedIn profile, Scott was listed as the director of marketing for Transitions.

  Allison stared at the papers spread out on her desk. She thought about Scott’s job history. Three positions in four years. In today’s market, changing jobs was usually the best way to make more money. Loyalty and tenure rarely paid, a sad truth. If Scott’s salary had gone up with each job, he had been making a nice, fat six figure salary when he died, maybe more if he was receiving options. Plus, Leah had her PhD. She was a chemist with a major pharmaceutical company, so together they would have been doing quite well.

  A wife, a baby, plenty of cash…why drugs? Was it a clichéd story of power and pressure gone wrong? Dead. Two gunshot wounds to the head. North Philadelphia, in a neighborhood awash in violence, drugs and gang warfare. A victim of his own greed?

  Allison gnawed on the end of her pen. All of this conjecture made a certain sense. She could see the Scott she knew getting caught up in a lifestyle, much the same way he got caught up in their affair. But why was her name in his calendar?

  Allison changed her search terms. Leah’s online presence was skimpy. Her LinkedIn profile said she’d been employed until about eight months ago. She had a Facebook account that was blocked to anyone other than friends. Otherwise, all Allison found were scholarly research papers, 5-K results and a blog post about natural childbirth.

  Dead ends.

  Allison tried the real estate angle. Could debt have somehow contributed to Scott’s death? With Leah not working outside the home and a house that was under water, was it possible Scott had been motivated to sell drugs for money? But if his death really was drug-related, who the hell sent those pictures to Allison?

  Allison went back to Scott and Leah’s LinkedIn profiles. After changing her security setting to “anonymous,” she made a list of the connections Leah and Scott shared. One in particular caught her attention. Shawn Fairweather, age 29, was listed as a freelance artist in Pennsylvania. A quick search turned up quite a bit of information on Shawn, more than she could digest right now. Allison found his address in the Manyunk neighborhood of Philadelphia and jotted it down.

  She searched for other connections with Transitions listed as the employer. Two looked promising: Julie Fitzsimmons, Public Relations Lead at Transitions; and Eleanor Davies, Purchasing Director. She made note of their names and information.

  Allison’s phone rang. Vaughn. “Yes?”

  “Someone here to see you.”

  “I don’t have any appointments this afternoon.”

  “This gentleman doesn’t need an appointment.”

  Allison closed her eyes. “Who is it, Vaughn?”

  “Detective Jim Berry. Philadelphia police.”

  Allison met the detective in the client room rather than her office. Her dalliances with the investigating world had taught her not to give away anything, and meeting an official in your home or private office could provide them with personal data you’d rather not share. Although Allison’s first thought when she heard that Berry was here was of Amy and her niece, Grace, she realized quickly that it had to be related to Scott Fairweather. She was right.

  “I won’t take up much of your time, Ms. Campbell,” Berry said. “This is a formality. I just have a few questions.”

  The detective was a rotund man. His squat frame was clothed in crisp khaki pants, a blue and white striped button down and brown Oxfords. His hair, a thinning red, was combed back from his face, and wire-framed glasses and a thick but neatly-trimmed mustache lent him an academic air. He was soft-spoken and polite, but Allison heard steel in his voice. She sat across from him and nodded for him to go on.

  “Did you know Scott Fairweather?”

  “I did.”

  “When and in what capacity?”

  “He was my client. And later, my boyfriend.”

  The detective must have caught the hesitation in her tone because he looked up from a laptop in which he’d been typin
g. “Was he your boyfriend while he was your client?”

  “For a short period. Then I…I let him go as a client.”

  “Hmmm.” Berry typed for a moment. Allison tried to read his expression, but it was inscrutable. “How long ago was this?”

  “About four years ago.”

  “And since then?”

  “Since then, nothing. I found out he was engaged. We broke it off. I never contacted him again.” Which was true, she thought. She’d never contacted him…the encounter in Thirtieth Street Station was not her doing.

  “Did you end the relationship or did he?”

  “Does it matter, Detective?”

  Berry smiled. “I get to ask the questions, Ms. Campbell. It’s about the only fun part of being a police officer.” He smiled. “Who dumped whom?”

  Allison recounted the ordeal at Scott’s townhouse. “Scott had little choice if he wanted to be married, but let me be clear, Detective. I would not have continued the relationship regardless. I don’t date men who are in a relationship.”

  Berry stared at his screen for a moment. Without looking up, he said, “You were married during that period, Ms. Campbell. To a Jason Campbell.”

  Allison took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Yes, I was still married. In name only, though. We were separated.”

  “So your husband knew about Scott.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No.”

  “I see.” Berry grabbed his wireless mouse and scrolled through whatever document he was working on. “Mr. Fairweather had your name in his appointment book, Allison. May I call you Allison?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you tell me about the nature of your appointment?”

  “I have no idea why Scott wanted to see me.”

  He looked at her over his glasses. “How can that be?”

  “Because I didn’t have an appointment with him, Detective. As I said, I hadn’t contacted him in years.”

  Berry sat back in his chair. “Yet you don’t seem remotely surprised to hear that you were in his appointment book.”

  Allison put her hands out in front of her, palms up. “Because his wife, Leah Fairweather, called me right after his death.”

  “What did she want?”

  “To accuse me of having an affair with her husband.”

  “And were you, Allison? Having an affair, I mean?”

  Allison felt her patience thinning. “No. As I said—”

  Berry waved one chunky hand. Allison saw a thick gold band on a fat, hairless finger. “Yes, yes. You hadn’t contacted Scott in years.” Berry took off his glasses, wiped at tired eyes, then pointed at Allison with his glasses. “Look, you’re not dumb, I’m not dumb. Scott Fairweather had a reason for putting your name in that book. If the two of you had rekindled your affair, I could care less. Unless, of course, it gave you motivation for killing him, or it gave someone else—your boyfriend, his wife, whoever—reason to murder him. But if you were just screwing him and don’t want the world to know, tell me now and save us both the headache.”

  Allison met his stare. She breathed in, slowly, just like she taught her clients to do. Focus on the breath, Allison, until you’re calm, she told herself. In and out. When she felt her anger go from red hot to manageable, she said, “I was not having an affair with Scott Fairweather. Other than a chance encounter at Thirtieth Street Station a few weeks ago, I had not laid eyes on the man since our affair ended.”

  “At the train station?” Berry asked.

  “Yes. If you want the date, I can give it to you. I was on my way to New York to deliver a speech. The event was publicized. You can find it online if you look.”

  “And Scott?”

  “I have no idea. We didn’t speak.”

  “Can you get me the date and some verification of your travel?”

  “Of course.”

  Berry closed his computer and tucked it and the mouse into a laptop bag. He took his time. For such a large man, his movements were slow and graceful, almost feminine. He stood, slipped a wool, camel-colored coat on, and looked pointedly at Allison. “Get me that information while I wait in your reception area. And here.” He handed her his card. “If your recollection of events changes, please call me.”

  “They won’t.”

  Berry gave her a weary smile. “That’s what they all say.”

  After Berry left, Allison retreated to her office. She didn’t even bother logging back onto her computer. She knew any second Vaughn would come in to ask about the police presence in their offices. She could lie and tell him Berry was here for something related to her family, or the Benini and Edwards’ disappearances—or a client, for that matter. But she didn’t want to lie to him. She didn’t want to lie to anyone. Not proactively sharing information was one thing, she told herself. Being dishonest was another.

  Sure enough, about four minutes after Berry’s unhurried departure, Vaughn knocked at her door. “It’s like you’re a damn refrigerator and trouble is a magnet.” He softened his words with a smile. “Why was there a cop here this time?”

  “The death of a former client.”

  Vaughn studied her. “Why talk to you?”

  “He was killed near North Broad. Looks drug related. Berry is just asking questions of anyone who knew him.”

  Vaughn sat on the edge of her desk. His dark skin was shadowed in the vanishing daylight, his eyes hooded by disbelief. In an attempt to avoid the scrutiny of his gaze, Allison looked past him, out the window. The snow had picked up, and the beauty of the large, fat flakes against the window startled her. She realized how much Scott’s death and the events after Leah’s call had been weighing on her. She wanted to tell Vaughn, wanted the relief that would come with sharing this burden. But he had enough on his plate, and right now, telling him would only lead to questions. Questions she wasn’t ready to face.

  So Allison stood. She reached for her purse and the paper on which she’d written the list of Scott’s LinkedIn connections. On it, Shawn Fairweather’s address was scribbled in black ink. He didn’t live far away. She turned the paper over and quickly shoved it into her purse.

  “Allison, you know we’ve been through a lot.”

  “Vaughn, I need to get out of here before the roads get worse.”

  He shook his head slowly back and forth. “It’s supposed to clear up in an hour. Now would be the worst time to leave.”

  “Jason and I have plans—”

  Another shake of the head. “Nuh-uh. Nice try. Jason called to say he was working late. He’ll meet you at your house around ten.”

  Allison grabbed her coat from the hanger behind the door. She could feel Vaughn watching her, but she wasn’t ready to talk. Not until she knew more.

  “Allison, the truth?”

  “I told you the truth, Vaughn.” Allison looked at her friend. “Detective Berry was here to ask me about a client. The client was killed near North Broad, an apparent drug deal.”

  “What does this have to do with you, Allison? You’ve not been yourself. You seem…skittish.”

  Allison gave him a half smile. “After all we’ve been through? Murder, attempted murder, disappearances? I think I have reason to be skittish.” The lie was easy because it held so much truth.

  Vaughn glanced away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have figured that.” He held the door open for her. “Just be careful. The roads are slick.”

  SEVEN

  Manyunk is hilly. Not a problem on a normal day, but Vaughn had been right. Now was the worst time to venture out in the snow. Allison fishtailed her way up the steep incline of Shawn’s street, narrowly avoiding the cars parked bumper-to-bumper along the side.

  Shawn’s house was a narrow row home on a street of narrow row homes. Brick fascia, an iron porch railing, and newly-painted white trim marked his house, as
did the soda can sculpture on the front porch, which used crumpled Coke, Pepsi, Mountain Dew and Sprite cans to spell out “Shawn” in giant letters. Allison climbed out of her vehicle and trudged up the snow-covered pathway to the front door. At least she knew she was in the right place.

  A young woman answered the door. She had closely-cropped black hair and a silver nose ring, and her army fatigues made it half way down thick calves before they were met by a pair of black combat boots. She crinkled her nose when she saw Allison.

  “Here for Shawn?”

  Allison nodded. “Is he home?”

  “Depends. Did you bring cash? He’s two months behind on his half of the rent.”

  Allison, not sure what she was talking about, decided to play along. “Is he here?” She looked past the woman’s shoulder into a stark black and white living area. A pit bull lay on the couch, snoozing away.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder. “That’s Crafty. He won’t hurt you. Wait here. I’ll get Shawn.”

  Allison eyed the dog, but Crafty didn’t look inclined to wake up, much less attack. A few seconds later, a slender young man in jeans and a green Dead Milkmen t-shirt walked in the room. “Thanks Kelly,” he said over his shoulder, but his voice trailed off when he saw Allison. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “Cash!” Kelly called from somewhere in the back of the house.

  Shawn at least had the courtesy to blush.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” Allison said. “About Scott Fairweather.”

  “My uncle?” Shawn hesitated, but after a contemplative glance in the direction of his roommate, he said, “Come to my rooms. We can talk in private.”

  His rooms were two bedrooms that opened into one another through a large archway. One room had been painted a deep violet, the other a jarring blue. The space was littered with art materials: paint cans, brushes, canvasses, jars of murky water and garbage. Allison saw more soda cans, bits of plywood, a tripod, twisted metal rods, an easel, even an old toaster. Despite the clutter, the rooms were mostly clean. They smelled of latex paint, marijuana and Clorox.