Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (19 page)

Sunny had two regular models, Gabrielle and Elise, a younger woman with white-blond hair and pale skin. Sunny liked to paint them together. Next to each other, naked, they were the yin and yang of womanhood: one dark and voluptuous and knowing, the other the lithe embodiment of female innocence.

Each of them was sworn to secrecy, given a cell phone that was to be kept on at all times so that Sunny could reach them when the need to paint was strong and Hank was away. She paid them in cash, an hourly rate that would have made her husband weep, and told Hank the money went for social lunches and charity events. She knew Gabrielle and Elise would keep their promises, for they loved to be adored as much as she loved to capture them on canvas.

She mixed ochre with white and blotted her brush on the palette. “Almost finished. Open your legs, just a little bit. I want to tease.”

Sunny watched Gabrielle shift slightly on the cushions, her breasts heavy against red silk brocade. A curl of black pubic hair hid her lips, and it was this promise Sunny wanted to capture.

Sunny’s more recent paintings, the ones she was known for, were nothing like the abstracts hanging in the foyer and hallway. Those paintings were sanitized, fit for Hank’s conservative bedfellows. These were magnificent: brazen and sensual, paintings meant to stir up the beast inside. Hank would kill her if he knew.

Sunny painted the last bit of shadow and hair, stepped back to take in the finished piece, then placed her signature “Tournier” in the corner. Tournier was her grandmother’s maiden name. But Hank didn’t know that, either.

“Tomorrow?”

Sunny shook her head. “Hank will be back.”

“How do you put up with that
trou de cul
?”

“That asshole, as you say, pays for these sessions.” Sunny handed Gabrielle her jeans and sweater, which had been thrown across a bench in the corner. Gabrielle slipped them on over bare skin. “Besides, he has his secrets, and I have mine.” She kissed Gabrielle on the lips. “I’ll call you next week.”

“Will you sell this one?”

“Perhaps.”

“He will find out eventually.”

“Perhaps.”

“He could find this studio. It’s in his house, after all.”

Sunny smiled. “You worry too much.” She stroked Gabrielle’s cheek—let her fingers follow the curve of her jaw, trail down her neck and under the swell of her breast. “He never comes up here.”

Gabrielle arched her back against Sunny’s touch. “Udele could say something.”

Ah, Udele. Where was that blasted woman, anyway? Sunny had too much to do, with the wedding coming up and Catherine’s demands. She needed the housekeeper now more than ever. She pulled her hand from Gabrielle’s breast and said, “Udele isn’t here right now. Anyway, she knows better than to say a word.”

Not that it mattered. Hank had three mistresses and two illegal offshore accounts. And those were the things Sunny knew about. But Hank could be rough. Her wrists still smarted where he’d grabbed her for not making Allison sign the contract. She rubbed her wrist now, absently. But if he should decide to snoop...well, he’d better think twice before giving her an ultimatum. She had her own insurance. People would pay to know his secrets.

Gabrielle shrugged. Her nipples stood erect under her cotton sweater, and Sunny longed to reach under the thin material and stroke them. But Maggie would be home soon, and it was no good starting something she couldn’t finish.

“I’ll see you out.”

Sunny opened the attic door and Gabrielle followed her down the steep, narrow steps, then through the upper hall. The evening was turning gray and the cold, damp spring air seeped under the windowsills. She reminded herself to call a contractor to have the windows replaced. The chill seemed ever-present in this old house. She did wish Udele was around, to start a fire in the study and heat some soup. Instead, she and Maggie would be on their own tonight.

Downstairs, she picked up her purse from the foyer table and opened her wallet. She handed Gabrielle three hundred dollar bills, then opened the front door.

“You’re forgetting I’m parked around back. You need to open the gate.”

Damn
. She’d have to go out into the cold. Sunny grabbed a shawl from the hall closet and wrapped it around her shoulders. She stuck her feet in a pair of Catherine’s slippers. Then she picked up the key ring they kept in a small bowl on the table. The two women walked around the side of the house.

A sharp wind rattled the tree branches. The gloom depressed Sunny, almost as much as the thought of an evening alone with Maggie. At least Hank would be away for another night. That was some consolation.

Sunny unlocked the carriage house. Gabrielle’s Honda sat next to the carriage house, which contained the Mercedes and Hank’s Porsche. He only drove the two-seater in the summer, on winding back roads away from the city grime and traffic. And even then the weather needed to be perfect. In truth, Sunny resented that car. Hank treated it special, the way he treated her when they’d first met.

“You promised you’d show me the Porsche one day,” Gabrielle said. There was a petulant tone to her voice Sunny didn’t like. “I want to go for a ride.”

“Not now. Maggie will be home soon.”

“Just a quick trip around the block.” She put her arms around Sunny and nibbled at the skin on her neck. Sunny shivered.

“Not here.” She pushed Gabrielle away gently. “I’ll just show you the car, okay? We’ll go for a ride another day.”

Hank allowed no one but him in the Porsche, but she certainly wasn’t going to pour salt in Gabrielle’s wounds by saying that now. Sunny opened the carriage house door and flipped on the lights. She noticed a smell, faintly sour and rotten—dead mice, no doubt— and reminded herself to call their handyman, too.

Sunny watched as Gabrielle, grinning mischievously, peeled the cover back from the Porsche, exposing red paint and sleek lines. Gabrielle gasped.

Then she screamed.

It took Sunny a moment to understand the reason for Gabrielle’s hysteria. Udele’s body sat slumped against the steering wheel. Her unseeing eyes bulged from her bloated, purplish face. Dried blood was smeared across the driver’s side window in the shape of a pentagram. Sunny’s breath came in short, tight gasps before she, too, started to scream.

“You’ve really done it now, you little delinquent.” Catherine hissed in Maggie’s face.

She grabbed Maggie’s arm and pulled her toward the door. Allison moved between the sisters. “Stop. You’re going to hurt her.”

“Not your problem,” Catherine said. But she let her go.

Police cars lined the congressman’s street, red lights slashing into a tin-colored sky. Yellow tape cordoned off part of the McBride’s driveway, its cheery shade a sharp contrast to the horror it symbolized.

Allison watched a boy on a blue Colnago park his bike next to the curb and stare, eyes wide, at Maggie. She turned and caught a glimpse of a neighbor’s curtain moving to the side. A set of eyes looked out at the street, taking in some rare excitement in this corner of town.

Sunny came outside. She looked gaunt, her beautiful face haggard and gray. Next to her, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman hovered possessively. Allison wondered about her relationship to the family.

“Ms. Campbell.” Sunny nodded curtly before turning her attention to her daughter. “Maggie, you’re wanted inside.” Her tone was brusque, and Allison was quite sure being
wanted
was not a good thing.

Catherine said, “I tried to tell you, Mother. What did you do, Maggie? You couldn’t wait till after the wedding to cause more trouble?”

Catherine again grabbed Maggie and pulled her toward the open front door. Maggie’s eyes searched Allison’s for a few seconds before she gave in and followed her sister. Allison looked on helplessly.

Sunny had called just a half hour before, while Allison and Maggie had been playing with Brutus. She’d spoken first to Maggie, but her speech was so slurred from crying that Maggie had trouble understanding her. Maggie had handed her mobile phone to Allison, who agreed to drive Maggie right home.

On the phone, Sunny had been clear about one thing: Udele had been murdered. And it looked like another ritualistic death. With Udele dead, it seemed even Maggie’s family suspected Maggie’s involvement. So much for rallying around your own.

“Allison,” Sunny said, “please don’t try to see my daughter again. She’s fragile. When Hank finds out she was with you, he’ll wonder what’s been going on. And now Udele. You have to see. It all looks bad.”

Sunny sniffled. Catherine came back outside and took her mother’s arm. Allison watched the three women go inside, Catherine and the stranger supporting Sunny on either side. Sunny was weak, that was evident. She would be little help to Maggie. And Catherine obviously didn’t give a hoot about her sister. Sunny’s words rang through Allison’s head:
When Hank finds out she was with you, he’ll wonder...

Yes, he will. And he will blame. What was the old saying?
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
Hank didn’t scare her. But, against her better judgment, she’d gotten herself mixed up in a murder investigation. And worse, Allison recognized that niggling feeling, that creeping, crawling gut sense, as fear. Fear for another teenager about to be caught up in the vagaries of youth and fate.

Allison headed back to her car. She knew she should run far from the McBride family. Let Maggie go...
que sera sera
. Focus on work and writing and presenting and all the things she was good at, and leave the caring for people who were better equipped to deal with the fallout. She told herself: Get in, drive, don’t look back.

And she did. She pulled out of that driveway like she was escaping Satan himself, ran the first stop sign, and plowed through a yellow light. But Maggie’s face, her eyes searching and pleading, stayed with her, replaced after a moment with Violet’s.
Damn.
There was nothing she could do for Violet. But for Maggie there was hope. Allison thought about Maggie with Brutus, the way she risked her own neck to save a stray animal. Maggie wasn’t a murderer. But Allison didn’t trust a single person in Maggie’s family to care more about that kid than they did about themselves, and that terrified her.

But what could she do?

The phone rang, breaking her train of thought. Caller I.D. told her it was Vaughn.

“You’d better head over to the office,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

Allison was about to tell him about Maggie, but something in his tone stopped her. “Is it bad?”

“Just come in. We’ll talk when you get here.”

Twenty—One

It wasn’t the worst thing. But it was bad enough.

“Sit,” Vaughn said when Allison arrived at First Impressions. His manner was curt, his rage barely contained. She took the chair opposite his desk. He tossed her a copy of
Philadelphia Living
. An article was circled and a few sentences were highlighted in neon green.

Vaughn said, “Just read the highlighted portion.”

Allison looked down at the paper in her hand, head pounding, and read:

In her book, Allison Campbell says there are no nightmare clients. While that may be the case, this reporter spoke to one client who said it’s Allison who is a nightmare. Catherine McBride’s family hired First Impressions to work with her sister. “What we thought we were getting and what we received were two very different things,” Ms. McBride said. “Allison Campbell took on a role she couldn’t handle. My sister got worse, not better. In my book, she’s nothing but a neatly packaged fraud.” Indeed, this reporter discovered that Allison has skeletons in her own closet, including a patient who ran away and disappeared almost a decade ago. Perhaps image consulting boils down to some simple concepts, as Ms. Campbell says in her book, but it seems some jobs are too difficult for even this local wizard.

Allison read it twice, and then skimmed the rest of the article. Details about the Meadows, her humble rise to success. Violet’s name was never specifically mentioned, but Allison felt no less violated for that fact.

“I knew McBride was trouble from the start,” Vaughn said. “Bastard.”

Allison threw the article onto Vaughn’s desk and took a deep breath. She needed to think. She felt a fist-sized knot in her stomach. Udele’s murder, the implication that Maggie did it, even Mia’s involvement. It was all too much. And now this. If McBride continued on his campaign, he could ruin her. She could fight back with the truth, but even the mere insinuation that she was incompetent from the right people could mean
adios
in this business.

“I’m afraid that’s not all.” She gave Vaughn an abbreviated version of what had happened at the McBride’s. “If Maggie gets charged with the murders, the McBrides have paved the way for linking this all to me. Just mention of my name next to a scandal could be disastrous for the business.”

Vaughn looked skeptical. “The timing is off, Allison. You didn’t even know Maggie or the McBrides when Feldman was killed.”

“Won’t matter. Most people won’t take the time to understand the details. They’ll connect my name with Maggie and the murders. This line of business is not that different from restaurants. True or not, just a rumor of rodents or bugs and a restaurant fails. We can’t risk that.”

Vaughn nodded his agreement. His hands were clenched by his side. He stared at Allison with concern in his eyes and said softly, “Are you going to be okay?”

Allison shrugged. “Do I get a choice?” She forced a smile. “There’s just one thing I don’t get.”

“What’s that?”

“Why does McBride hate me so much? He and Catherine seemed to take an instant dislike to me.”

Vaughn reached across the desk and squeezed Allison’s hand. “It’s what the Allisons of the world do to the McBrides of the world. You make them feel small. And they’re not used to feeling small.”

Allison stared at him, unsure of his meaning.

Vaughn used his hands for emphasis. “Look, you’re attractive and successful. People like McBride expect you to be superficial and vapid, too. When he found out you had a heart
and
an I.Q., it wasn’t so easy to dismiss you. And you didn’t kiss his ass. Then there’s Maggie. She hates McBride, but likes you. And instead of becoming obedient like Hank wanted, she’s started to assert herself in healthy ways. That’s threatening. For folks like the McBrides, people who can’t be controlled upset their whole world view.”

Allison thought back to her first outing with Maggie, to the day this all started, really. Maggie had referred to her own mother as someone who does what she’s told. Disdain for herself on some level? Maybe Vaughn had a point.

“I don’t mean to make anyone feel small.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Vaughn shrugged. “The harder you try to make some people feel good, the more they’ll resent you for it. With certain individuals, you can never
really
win.”

“I guess.”

Vaughn sized her up from across the desk. “Something else is eating at you, Allison. Out with it.”

“I’m that transparent?”

“Kinda.”

Allison looked at her hands. Her nails were short, bitten almost to the quick, a habit she’d thought she’d broken long ago. Her head still hurt and her aching jaw told her that she was grinding her teeth again. It didn’t take a PhD in psychology to know that these were all signs of stress.

“Mia and Maggie,” Allison said finally. “If it’s not bad enough that there’s a murderer out there, two people I care about are involved.”

“There’s nothing you can do about that, Allison. Let it go. Focus on work. Mia’s innocent.”

Allison glanced at him sharply. “And Maggie?”

Quietly, he said, “I don’t know.”

Allison stared at him. She closed her eyes, counted to ten and focused on her breathing. Even Vaughn was questioning Maggie’s innocence. Was she crazy? Was she missing something? It had happened before.

Allison stood. Her watch said it was 4:35. She could be in Mt. Joy, Pennsylvania in an hour and a half, two hours with traffic.

“Do me a favor? See if you can find out the time of Udele’s death from your police contacts.”

“Mia’s alibi?”