by Wendy Tyson
“Call me later.”
“Only if you wait for me to get there.”
In the end, Allison promised not to go to Doris Long’s house alone.
But she didn’t promise not to scope out the area.
Angela finally arrived, breathless and full of apologies, at eleven that morning. Vaughn had thanked her, but he didn’t wait around to chit chat. He’d needed to get on the road.
Now, staring at the complex in front of him made him contemplate his brother’s sanity. The address for Mills Manufacturers took Vaughn to a lot in a small industrial park outside of Camden, New Jersey. The park itself was a sprawling commercial wasteland not far from the Schuylkill River. At the mouth of the park, two factories sat side-by-side, separated by a small field of high, brown weeds and litter. The first factory was surrounded by a u-shaped parking lot, half full with cars. Plumes of steam streamed from two smokestacks. The other factory appeared abandoned. High walls of barbed-wire fencing protected three white buildings with red roofs. Most of the windows in the facing building were broken. Despite the barbed wire, graffiti tattooed the paint. A tilted sign had been boarded over so that the company name was no longer visible. Vaughn drove on.
Deeper in the industrial park, he passed several additional small factories. Like the first, these seemed to be operating. He kept going until he found the address he was looking for, set back at the end of a dead-end road. Mills Manufacturer shared a field with another abandoned factory. This one, identified only as Brown & Co Metals, was encased by two layers of barbed wire fencing, which extended beyond the monstrous, ivy-covered walls of the outbuildings.
Unlike Brown & Co, Mills Manufacturing’s single building was pristine and occupied. A parking lot in front of the building contained a dozen cars.
He was here at Jamie’s behest. Jamie had given him strict instructions: don’t give your name and park where your license plate is obscured. He hadn’t explained what he wanted Vaughn to look for, though. He’d just asked him to pay close attention to the building and its surroundings, and to see what the company was producing. He said he’d fill him in on everything he found once he had information on the manufacturer. Vaughn felt anxious to get moving north, but Jamie had been insistent.
After parking in a corner of the lot next door, Vaughn walked over to Mills Manufacturing. A metal gate at the entry blocked his admittance, and he couldn’t see an intercom or any way of communicating with the folks inside. He finally spotted a small camera hiding in the eaves of the building, on the other side of the gate.
“Hey!” he shouted, hoping to get someone’s attention. He had a story prepared—he was a reporter doing an article on abandoned factories and wanted to ask about the property next door—but that would only work if someone let him the hell in.
After a few minutes of shouting, the front doors opened and a beefy man with a crew cut came to the gate. He wore maintenance khakis and carried a walkie talkie. “Yeah?” he grumbled.
Vaughn explained his reason for being there, adding a little flair to make his cover story sound believable. “So I was hoping to get some information on Brown & Co, maybe from someone who was here when the factory closed.”
The guy shook his head. “Sorry, none of us has been around here that long.”
“New business?” When the man nodded, Vaughn glanced around the factory grounds, pretending to notice this building for the first time. “Taking advantage of cheap rent?” he asked with a nod toward the abandoned factory next door.
“I dunno,” the guy said. “Just the maintenance crew.”
“Hard work,” Vaughn said. “My dad was maintenance back when Exelon was Philadelphia Electric. Backbreaking.” He made a grimace that he hoped came off as sincere. The only work his dad had done was lifting the belt to swing it toward Vaughn’s behind.
With a grunt, the guy said, “Yeah, not appreciated, either.”
“What do you guys make? Car parts?”
“We’ll make textiles, once we’re up and running. Right now, we’re primarily a machine shop.”
Vaughn nodded, not wanting to push it and cursing his brother for not telling him specifically what he was looking for. “How long you been here?”
“The machine shop has been around for a few years.”
“And you’re expanding for the textile business?”
The guy’s eyes narrowed. “This part of your article?”
“Nah, just curious.”
The guy shrugged. With a backwards glance at the front of the building, he said, “Supposed to be up and running soon. Got no idea when it’ll happen, though. Until then, as long as they keep paying me, I show up.” He touched his walkie talkie, which sat silent on his hip. “That it?”
Vaughn nodded. “Appreciate your time.”
The guy stayed put, waiting to make sure Vaughn headed back in the direction of his vehicle. Vaughn walked without looking back, but once he got to the field that adjoined the two factories, he checked to make sure the maintenance man had gone inside and then he followed the abandoned building’s perimeter around back to get a glimpse of the rest of Mills Manufacturing. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The factory, which extended far back into the field beyond, looked in good repair, and the property seemed secure.
Maybe Jamie’s losing it, Vaughn thought.
Halfway through the industrial park, Vaughn dialed Jamie’s number. He reached Angela. “Put me on speaker,” he said. “I called to give Jamie an update on Mills Manufacturing.”
Allison arrived in Camden, Maine, a little after three in the afternoon. She stopped for a basket of fish and chips and a beer, hoping the combination would calm the snakes twisting in her gut. It only made her bloated. With only an hour of daylight left, Allison headed toward Dunne Pond. The sky remained clear, although the rain she’d encountered in Connecticut and Massachusetts threatened. Soon it would be cold and stormy. For now, it was just cold.
A few miles from the Dunne Pond Road, Allison located the small motel where she’d booked two rooms. It was called The Beach Hut. Well, they got it half right, Allison thought. A little far from the beach, but definitely a hut. She checked in and paid cash for her room and Vaughn’s. The innkeeper, a guy in his early twenties with more pimples than facial hair, tried insisting on a credit card for incidentals but a one-hundred dollar bill seemed to quell his need to follow the rules.
Allison made her way to a cramped room with dated furnishings. Immediately to the left of the door was a bathroom. Beyond that was a full-size bed, dresser, chair and an old-school television. Flowered wallpaper did little to cheer worn wooden furniture and a matted beige carpet. A ceiling fan swirled overhead. The room smelled of disinfectant and mildew, but despite that, and despite the room’s careworn appearance, Allison was happy to have a home base. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and popped two Excedrin to ward off the tension in her temples. Then she was off.
Dunne Pond Road was a meandering country lane that headed west, toward central Maine. Moose crossing signs were the only traffic warnings, and the forest, consisting mainly of coniferous trees, large boulders and whatever weeds sprouted up through rich peat, infringed on the asphalt so that Allison felt she was the only driver making her way through a fairy tunnel. Several miles along Dunne Pond Road, Allison passed a peeling sign advertising “Dunne Pond Resort, a Summer Community.” The sign, like the guard house at the mouth of the resort, had seen better days.
Allison saw no indication of a house or the driveway that might lead to Doris’s place. She made a right into the old resort entrance and turned around. The sun was dipping below the western horizon and the thought of being alone in an abandoned resort gave Allison the chills. She headed southeast on Dunne Pond Road, scanning the left side for an entrance to a dirt road. Doris’s drive didn’t even exist on Google Maps. She finally spotted the entrance on the fifth pass. It was almost exactl
y across from a small, crooked sign for the old resort.
Allison kept driving, making a mental note about the location of that sign.
In the winter, Doris’s driveway could be impassable without four wheel drive. On a day like today, it should be fine, although, Allison realized, there would be no way to drive down that driveway without giving herself away. It was better either to hike in or to wait for Vaughn, as she’d promised.
Despite her desire to talk with Scott’s former lover, and ignoring a growing sense of urgency, Allison kept going, back toward the motel.
Night was pressing in. And Allison, having kept her promise, expected Vaughn to keep his. She’d call him once she was in the room so that he could explain his mysterious references.
She glanced at the car’s clock. Only five-thirty-seven, but it felt like ten. No stopping for a real dinner tonight, she decided. The call to Vaughn and then bed. She wanted to be ready to come back here early tomorrow, before Doris Long—or Eleanor—had a chance to leave.
THIRTY-SIX
The sun had set fully by the time Allison arrived back at The Beach Hut. She’d stopped at a nearby gas station to purchase a bottle of iced tea and a Snickers bar. Armed with her well-balanced dinner, she locked the door of her room and settled in at her laptop. First order of business was a call to Jason. She knew he wouldn’t answer, but she wanted him to know she was thinking of him. To her surprise, he picked up.
“Where are you?” he asked.
She hesitated. “In Maine.”
“Scott.” His voice was flat. Not accusatory, but…flat.
“I’m not here for Scott, Jason. I want the photos to stop. I want my life back.” She paused, hoping he’d respond. When he didn’t, she said, “Besides, I’m convinced three boys will go to jail for something they didn’t do. That doesn’t seem right, not if I can help it.”
Allison waited through the silence. She could tell he wasn’t happy, but at least he had answered the phone.
“Always saving the world,” he said. With a sigh, he continued. “We need to talk.”
Her heart skipped a few beats. “Do you want to call off the engagement, Jason?”
“Allison, why would you even ask that?”
Caught off guard by his tone, Allison realized she was holding the phone in a death grip. “Because you haven’t spoken to me in three days. Because of the photograph. Because I’m always off trying to save the world, to use your words.”
“Yeah, well…I’m sorry, Al. I needed space and time to think. It wasn’t easy seeing that picture. I had some soul-searching to do. But I believe you when you said you have no feelings for him.”
Allison said, “I love you.”
Jason made a sound, something between a snort and a laugh. “That’s it? ‘I love you’? Well, I must love you, too, Al. Otherwise, I would have found some nice, normal woman who prefers yoga and needlepoint to saving the world, one crime at a time.”
Allison smiled. “You’d be bored.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Boredom sounds pretty damn good right now.”
Two attempts at reaching Vaughn ended in voicemail. She left a message for him to call immediately and booted up her laptop. First order of business was the email Delvar had sent her. A quick scan of the two-hundred-plus names rang no bells. She stared at that list, realizing that she was missing from the list, as was Delvar’s mother, Vaughn and Jason. If they were missing, maybe others were, too.
She called Delvar and explained her concern.
“Just the board and their guests,” he said. “And Mama. Everyone else was a paid invitee.”
“The board of Designs for the Future?”
“Allison, sweetheart, what other board would I be on?”
Allison laughed. “Can you send me those names, too?”
“Sure.”
Staring at her laptop screen, Allison asked, “Does the name Scott Fairweather ring a bell, Delvar?”
“No, never heard of him.” He paused. “What are you up to, Allison? Why do you want these lists all of a sudden?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’m just curious?”
“No.”
Allison’s phone buzzed. Vaughn.
“Well, hopefully I explain everything eventually. For now, though, I have to go.”
Allison hung up with Delvar and answered Vaughn’s call. “About time.”
“Yeah, well, my GPS seemed to think going through Manhattan was the most efficient way to get there. I couldn’t talk when you called. Too busy honking, like everyone else in this city.”
Allison smiled. “Everything okay with Jamie? Angela finally show up?”
“She did. She looked exhausted, but she was thrilled to see Jamie.” He hesitated. Before she could respond, he continued. “But that’s not what we need to talk about. First thing: Jamie cross-referenced Delvar’s list against everyone at Transitions and he came up with a blank. Society types, local academics, a bunch of philanthropists, some fashion folks from New York—no one of consequence—but no hits. In other news, though, things seem a little weird.”
Allison settled against the bed.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t explain it as well as Jamie—he’s the one who pieced it together—but hear me out. Remember the spin-off of Transitions from Diamond Brands?”
“Of course.”
“Transitions had a lot of cash poured into that spin-off in order to make it successful and to reinvent the brand.”
“Right, the LEED-certified buildings, the local contracts, the socially conscious agenda.”
“Exactly. Let’s start with the contracts. Jamie thinks they’re bullshit.”
“They’re not making product in the U.S.?”
“The contracts they have entered into in the United States, the ones that are allowing them to say their products are made in the USA, don’t seem legitimate.”
Allison pulled her legs up under her on the bed.
“Wow, that’s a damning allegation. How does Jamie know that?”
“Now you know why I didn’t want to talk about this as I was driving through Brooklyn. It’s complex. I stopped by one of the manufacturers that Transitions has contracted to make clothes here in the United States. Despite more than a year of hefty payments from Transitions, they’re still not operating.”
“The business is a front?”
“I don’t know about that, but something is odd. It’s an existing factory, so on the outside it looks legit, but when I stopped by, there was nothing really happening. That was Jamie’s hunch from looking at the securities filings and researching the companies Transitions had entered into contracts with—that nothing is happening. At least not yet.”
Allison thought about that.
“Who signs those contracts?” she asked.
“The head of purchasing.”
“Eleanor.” Allison’s mind churned. “But to get away with it for so long—”
“There would have to be others involved. Exactly.” Vaughn paused. “There’s more, Allison. As you requested, Jamie looked at the spin-off itself: who was affected, who got fired, etc.”
“And?”
“And Amelie Diamond was right. Her father neither forgave nor forgot.”
“Those involved were let go?”
“To the contrary. None of them was fired. Ted Diamond made a big show about standing behind his people. At least to the public.”
Allison was getting frustrated.
“Then how were they penalized, Vaughn?”
“I’m getting to that. From what Jamie could tell by the two companies’ securities filings, one person was demoted but remained at Diamond. Craig Cummings. He has since left. Two others, the CFO and the COO, were spun-off with the company.”
“So they kept their jobs?”
&
nbsp; “Yes. But—”
“They took a salary cut?”
“Not exactly. Again, Jamie spent a lot of time sifting through securities filings. You would be amazed at the information available online, if investors are patient and savvy enough to look. What Jamie found is a trail of renegotiated agreements. Certain agreements with company officers have to be filed with the SEC. For the COO and the CFO, much more lucrative arrangements were cancelled and replaced with much less valuable terms.”
Allison thought about that. She had some experience with executive contracts just based on her work with officers and directors from various companies. “In essence, Ted Diamond let them keep their jobs, but in return, they had to agree to new terms. Essentially, pay cuts.”
“Not pay cuts, exactly. Their salaries didn’t move much. But had they retired from Diamond Brands or been let go due to a change in control of the company, they would have been very rich. Now, under Transitions? Not so much.”
“They were punished.”
“Yes,” Vaughn said quietly. “Looks that way.”
“Reason for revenge?” Allison asked.
“Maybe.”
She stood, pacing the length of the small motel room.
“But neither Scott nor Eleanor worked for Diamond.”
“True, and that’s where this becomes a little of a so-what proposition. What Jamie found is interesting, but nothing ties it to Scott.”
“Other than Eleanor.”
“Yes,” Vaughn said. “Other than Eleanor.”
“Who wasn’t even part of Diamond Brands?”
“Right.”
“So what does Jamie think?”
“He thinks something smells when it comes to Transitions. The company is losing money, and he believes many of the U.S. contracts it’s entered into are bogus.”
“Someone is committing fraud.”
“And based on her history and the unexplained money in her bank account, that someone would seem to be Eleanor.”