Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

“More like she doesn’t like me.” He shrugged. “Still angry that I got a finder’s fee for Scott’s job.”

  Allison thought back to Scott’s job history. The man she remembered was a gifted businessman: smart, strategic and smooth-talking. That Scott wouldn’t have needed help. “What did you do for him, Mark?”

  “I was drafting some separation agreements for Transition’s current CFO. He mentioned that they needed an executive with a marketing background, preferably someone with international experience. After Scott’s role at Mystic and his dealings in India, he seemed like a shoe-in. I played matchmaker. They hit it off.”

  “But Leah wasn’t pleased?”

  “She was pissed that I got $10,000 out of the deal. She thought I should have turned the cash over to Scott.”

  Mark looked down at his plate while he talked, sopping up the last remnants of chicken tikka masala with a piece of naan, so Allison couldn’t see his eyes. Allison wondered whether this was the reason for the falling out Shawn had mentioned. She got the feeling Mark wasn’t being fully honest, though. Getting a finder’s fee for a corporate hiring seemed fair. There had to be more to the story.

  But she wasn’t going to get that out of him now. Mark threw his napkin on his plate and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. He started to pull cash from within when Allison held up her hand.

  “I asked you. My treat.”

  Mark smiled. “I never let a pretty girl pay for lunch.” That lascivious smile again. “I like when they owe me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t come that cheaply.”

  “But you do have a price.”

  Allison shook her head. “Afraid not.” But maybe that was the answer. If Leah was upset about a finder’s fee, perhaps money was at the root of everything. “Could Scott’s death have been related to money problems?” she asked. “Maybe Scott was selling drugs, not taking them.”

  Mark stood. “Doubtful. As far as I knew, they had plenty of cash. Or that’s how Scott made it seem. Maybe he liked the thrill of selling drugs, but I doubt it. Too messy. He liked his messes more—”

  “Yes, I know. Of the physical variety.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How about the spin doctor bit, Mark? What did Transitions need Scott for?”

  “No way. You want more information, you show me your price. I don’t come that cheaply, Ms. Campbell.”

  Allison laughed, but only because it seemed more productive to treat his words as a joke.

  “Tell you what,” Mark said. “Call me next week. A nice dinner, a bottle of good French wine, and we can talk about Transitions. I can’t break client confidentiality, of course.” He winked. “But with the right…enticements…I can tell you a few things.”

  No way. “Sounds good.”

  Encouraged, Mark smiled. “Scott said you were a tigress in the bedroom. Show me that side of yourself and, well, I may even forget that Brad Halloway is a client at all.”

  Allison would have been offended if she hadn’t felt so dazed. Brad Halloway: another blast from her past. Not a boyfriend this time, thank God. Not even a client, exactly. But someone she could contact for information about Scott. Someone she could trust. Outside the restaurant, she thanked a confused-looking Mark and turned in the direction of her car.

  Mark called, “How about next week?”

  “No way,” Allison called over her shoulder, echoing his earlier comment. “How about never?”

  FOURTEEN

  Allison didn’t go right home. She texted Vaughn to say she was doing some research for her book, said a silent prayer of forgiveness for the lie, and looked up Eleanor Davies’ address on her phone. Maybe she’d get lucky and the woman would be back at home.

  Eleanor lived in a townhome community on the outskirts of the Main Line. Situated on a field that had once been farmland, Harvest Hills was awash in stucco and middle-class perkiness. Identical townhomes, each with a deck and small wooden balcony, lined wide, black-topped streets. A small playground graced every other throughway, although Allison saw no kids. Allison eventually found Eleanor’s house at 629 Apple Orchard Way and parked outside. Eleanor’s parking spot was numbered and vacant. A gray tabby sat outside 629, looking miserable.

  Allison stepped around the cat and rang the bell three times. No one answered. The shades to a large picture window had been drawn. No newspapers sat outside the door.

  The cat meant that Eleanor couldn’t have gone far. No one leaves without their pet, at least not willingly. She bent down and stroked the feline. He stood, arched his back and meowed loudly. Allison watched him watching her as she headed back toward the car. The cat let out another insistent meow and then, apparently resigned to his fate, curled back up on the doormat. Allison got back in her car and drove away.

  The cat continued to bother her. This one looked healthy and well groomed, as though he’d spent a pleasant enough life chasing mice and sleeping in front of a fire, but when she petted him, he seemed cold, really cold, as though he hadn’t been inside for a while. Cold, and a little too hungry for affection. Weren’t cats supposed to be standoffish? And the meowing. The little guy had clearly been trying to tell her something, or at least he was demanding something of her. What if Eleanor hadn’t let him in because she couldn’t? What if Eleanor was dead?

  Allison pulled abruptly into a Wawa, turned around and headed back toward Harvest Hills. While she wove in and out of traffic, she asked her Bluetooth to dial 4-1-1. The operator connected her directly to the administrative office for the townhome community. A receptionist answered, and after a hasty exchange, told Allison they couldn’t let her into Eleanor’s house.

  “But I’m her sister,” Allison said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We’re not landlords. We’re simply the management office.”

  “Surely you have a key on file.”

  “Only if work needs to be done, and right now there is no work order for number 629. I’m afraid if you’re that concerned, you’ll need to call the police.”

  Frustrated, Allison dialed the phone number she’d found listed for Eleanor, but no one answered. Once again, she pulled up in front of Eleanor’s house and stared at the façade, willing it to give her some clue.

  Voyeuristic photos, a dead man, sordid affairs…and now a missing mistress?

  Allison turned her head just in time to catch movement in the townhome next to Eleanor’s. She didn’t see a car parked in the spot for house number 627, but that didn’t mean no one was home. On impulse, she walked up to the door and rang the bell. After a few seconds, an older woman opened the door. She peered at Allison through the few inches afforded by the chain lock.

  “Can I help you?”

  Allison decided to stick with the sister line. Allison recalled what Julie had said about the life of a mistress. She’d bet her wages that Eleanor Davies was a private person. The neighbors would probably not recognize Eleanor’s family members, if they even knew what family she had.

  “I was wondering if you’ve seen Eleanor lately. She’s not answering my calls, and I see her cat outside. I’m her sister.”

  “Thank goodness!” The woman unlocked the chain hastily and opened the door wide. She had a head of short, bristly white hair, kind eyes and enough wrinkles to suggest a hearty sense of humor. Allison took an instant liking to her. She felt bad for lying, her second lie of the day.

  “Her sister, Ginny?” She looked relieved. “I am so glad you drove up here from Amelia Island. Eleanor told me how busy you are, with your real estate business and all. I haven’t seen your sister in almost a week. And that cat…well, Simon has been showing up at my house every evening for a snack. This is unlike Eleanor. Very unlike her.”

  “Do you happen to have a key? I’d like to check on her.”

  “Oh no!” The woman’s face colored. “You don’t think something has happened to her? I just figured
…well, I figured she’d taken off with that beau of hers. Paris, Sonoma. Wherever young people go these days.”

  “Beau? You mean Scott?”

  The woman smiled. “I never know their names. I just see them pull up in front of Eleanor’s house. Sometimes they don’t even get out. This one gets out, though. He’s her most recent beau. Nice car, too. Your sister has good taste in men.” The woman became suddenly quiet. She looked pensive, as though considering something, before saying, “Come in, Ginny. Let me see if I still have her back door key. Your sister is a very private woman, but I don’t have to tell you that.”

  Allison followed the woman into a wide foyer. Beyond the foyer, Allison could see a beige-carpeted living room on one side and a small dining room on the other. The furniture was surprisingly contemporary, with sage and plum fabrics and black accents. The kitchen and a narrow hallway lay beyond the dining room and the woman headed in that direction.

  “Wait here a second,” she called. “Let me check my junk drawer. If I still have that back door key, that’s where it will be.” She returned a second later with a triumphant grin. “Your sister went backpacking in the Adirondacks a few months back. Alone. You should talk to her about that. Anyway, she asked me to feed Simon. He can’t come in here because I’m allergic, but I went over there and took care of him.” She gave a fond smile. “Nice cat, that one. I didn’t mind.”

  “Would you mind letting me in Eleanor’s house, Mrs.…”

  “Ms., not missus. Elizabeth Duncan. I’ve never been married, Ginny. You can just call me Liz.”

  “Okay, Liz.” Allison smiled. “Can we check on Eleanor?”

  “Take the key, but bring it back, okay? I wouldn’t feel right, with your sister being so private and all.”

  Allison promised to come right back and return the key. She followed Liz’s directions and went out the back door. Next door, Allison fumbled with the key, all the while hoping there was no alarm system. She hadn’t seen a decal, but you never knew.

  But when the door opened into a small kitchen, no alarm sounded. Allison walked through the kitchen and into the living room and dining room, her pulse racing and the key out in front of her, an ineffective weapon.

  Quietly, she made her way upstairs, the hairs on the back of her neck standing upright. This was creepy, and felt a lot like breaking and entering. What would Jason say? She pushed that thought away and kept going.

  The upstairs was empty. The clothes strewn around Eleanor’s room, and the absence of toiletries in the bathroom said Eleanor had left in a rush. That and the cat. If Eleanor Davies left her cat behind, she’d clearly left in a hurry. Why? Had she been involved in Scott’s murder? Was she behind the photos as Julie suspected? Or had someone done something to Eleanor, too?

  Allison was on her way back downstairs when she heard Liz calling.

  “Ginny? Ginny! Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, coming!” Allison took one last glance around. Eleanor’s California king was dressed in sumptuous silk and cotton bedding. A large mirror faced the bed from one end of the room. Birth control pills sat on the bedside table.

  Odd, Allison thought. She has a love nest and left her pills behind.

  “Ginny!”

  “Coming!”

  Allison wanted to explore further, but she couldn’t risk tipping off the neighbor. As she re-entered the downstairs hallway, she spotted the cat carrier tucked next to a closet, the door open, as though Eleanor had tried to take the cat but changed her mind at the last minute.

  Liz was standing by the stairs. “You had me worried! Any luck?”

  “I think I know where she is,” Allison said. She sighed for effect. “That woman is always gallivanting off to somewhere.”

  Liz pointed to the cat carrier. “Are you taking Simon with you?”

  Allison hadn’t planned to, but now that she thought about it, having Eleanor’s cat would give her some connection to Eleanor if and when she returned. Plus, she felt bad for Simon. He seemed so forlorn.

  “Yes, I’ll take Simon. If Eleanor returns, just tell her where he is.”

  “I will,” Liz said. “Will you be local?”

  “I’m staying with friends. Just give her this number.” Allison rattled off her own cell phone. Then she handed the older woman the key. “Thank you for feeding Simon.”

  “No problem,” Liz replied. “We single ladies need to stick together.”

  By the time Allison returned home, Jason was there. Happily, she walked into his outstretched arms and gave him a hug.

  “I love you,” she said.

  Jason looked surprised. He kissed her.

  “I love you, too. What’s going on, though? You look exhausted.”

  Allison couldn’t very well tell him about Scott or her unofficial investigation, although she desperately wanted to. But unburdening herself would only cause him angst. He didn’t know about her affair with Scott, and she wasn’t ready to tell him.

  Plus, after all they’d been through with Maggie McBride and then the disappearances of two clients last year, even the mention of another murder would have him concerned. She couldn’t risk that. Not until she knew more.

  A few more days, she told herself. Then, if no more photos show up, I’ll go to the police and let them handle it.

  “I have a surprise,” Allison said.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  Allison could see he regretted the words even before they fully left his mouth. He’d said it as a joke, she knew—they certainly weren’t trying—but it felt like a slap across the face.

  “No, but guess who is living with my parents?” When he shrugged, she told him about Grace.

  “Amy left her daughter with your folks? No offense, Al, but are they able to care for that little girl?”

  “Faye’s there,” Allison said quickly. “And you have to see them dote on her. She’s breathed new life into that household.”

  “That’s what kids do,” Jason said.

  They stared at one another until Allison broke the silence. She said lightly, “How about that surprise?”

  Jason ran his hands down her side, lingering at her waist. “I have a surprise for you, too. But it will take a few minutes—”

  Gently, Allison took his hand from her body and held it in front of her. “This won’t wait.” She led him to her car, where Simon sat in his carrier, meowing loudly.

  “A cat? That’s the surprise?” He peeked in the carrier at a set of wide feline eyes. Simon meowed again. “Have you gone mad? What about Brutus? And what about the fact that you don’t like animals all that much?”

  Allison took the carrier out of the back. “People change. And besides, he needed a place to stay.”

  “But what about Brutus?”

  “I stopped by the vet. She said give them time to adjust slowly. She thinks they’ll be fine.”

  But Jason looked skeptical. “A cat, Al? Really? Where did you get him?”

  “His name is Simon. A friend of a client had to go away. They were desperate. It should only be temporary.” All true statements, Allison thought. Please don’t dig, Jason.

  Jason didn’t dig. Instead, he looked from the cat to her and back again. A small smile crept across his face. “A cat, huh. Well, people can change.”

  Allison knew cats weren’t the only thing on his mind. Cats…dogs…babies. But she wasn’t in a position to argue. She took the cat inside, still in his carrier, and let a very excited Brutus sniff the cage. Then she put the cat in the laundry room and let Jason take her to bed.

  Mia awoke with a start. She heard something outside. Or, more precisely, Buddy heard something outside. The mutt was standing by the window, head cocked. He barked once, twice—his mean bark—then let out a long, slow growl. Mia slipped out of bed and pulled on her robe. Her pulse pounding, she felt her way along the walls, toward
the kitchen, cursing herself for not having a flashlight. She didn’t want to put on her bedroom light for fear an intruder, if there was an intruder, would be able to see in. An older woman alone broadcast vulnerability.

  She fumbled around in a drawer next to the stove and eventually pulled out a small flashlight. Her eyes now adjusted to the dim light, she headed back to her bedroom and looked outside. She saw nothing. It was hard for someone to sneak up on her given her location. The long gravel driveway was like a first alert, the sound of wheels on gravel unmistakable.

  Unless an intruder parked along the road and walked.

  Buddy growled again, and then, after a minute of listening, seemed satisfied that whatever danger had been lurking outside the bungalow had passed. The dog jumped back on her bed and lay down with a loud huff.

  “Sure, wake me up and then fall right back to sleep,” Mia muttered. But the damage was done. Her clock read 3:48, but sleep wouldn’t return for the rest of the night. It wasn’t just the scare. Once she was awake these days, sleep eluded her. You’re getting old, she told herself. And then quickly another part of her brain said: you’re only as old as you allow yourself to be.

  Not yet willing to let go of the cover of darkness, Mia decided to read by candlelight in the living room. She lit three large, vanilla soy candles on the side table and settled into the couch with a worn copy of Lonesome Dove. But seconds after she sat, she realized she was chilly. She stood and stretched and then started to reach for a coverlet from the chair opposite the couch. That was when she heard the noise. Someone or something was scratching against the front door.

  Mia reacted quickly. She sprinted for the kitchen and grabbed the phone and a butcher knife. A reawakened Buddy heard the noise, too, and he charged out into the living room, all deep barks and growls. Mia was about to call 9-1-1 when she stopped and peeked out the window. Night was absolute in this part of Pennsylvania and she couldn’t imagine anyone getting around without a flashlight. Sure enough, she saw a light bobbing in the distance, back toward the road.

  So there had been an intruder. Thinking of the year before and her run-in with the Russian mafia, Mia thought calling the police would probably be warranted. But she’d fought hard to be independent, and if they came out here for what turned out to be nothing, she didn’t want to end up on their “crazy old woman” list. No way that was going to happen.