Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (2 page)

Allison’s mind spun. What was Hank McBride doing here? “Do they have an appointment?”

“No.” Vaughn frowned. “I told them you couldn’t be disturbed, but the congressman was quite insistent.”

Allison could tell by the look of distaste on Vaughn’s face that insistent meant rude. She glanced again at the pink slip on her desk. She didn’t know Hank McBride, didn’t know much about him, either, other than a rumor that he had his eye on the White House. But at least his presence would distract her from other things. Things she couldn’t control.

“I’ll see them in the conference room.”

Vaughn’s eyebrows shot up in a questioning arc.

“I know, I know. I have other appointments.” Allison sighed. “Tell them they have fifteen minutes, tops.”

Vaughn nodded, but the look on his face said he thought she was making a mistake.

The first thing that struck Allison about Hank McBride was his smile. There was something about the twist of his lips that set off Allison’s lie detector, the way the edges pulled up too high on his face. It didn’t match the insolence in his eyes. Before she even shook his hand, Allison knew this was a man who wasn’t faithful to the truth.

“Congressman McBride.”

“Ms. Campbell.” That smile again. “This is my wife, Sunny.”

Sunny was the last name she would have picked for the dark goddess standing before her. At five foot seven, Allison had to wrestle Nautilus machines for a penciled-in hour every other day to keep her curves in the right places. But this woman had curves everywhere. She was at least Allison’s height, if not taller. Long, wavy black hair that cascaded down her back and flowed alongside sculptured cheekbones. If Hank looked like an Irish longshoreman in his Sunday best, with his reddened nose and bulky build and scrubbed Anglo skin, Sunny resembled a Gypsy Madonna.

“Sunny, lovely to meet you. Please. Sit.” Allison motioned toward the loveseat and waited until the couple settled before sitting opposite them in a chair. Hank sat rigid, limbs and hands to himself. Sunny pressed against her husband’s side as though siphoning strength.

He said, “We’ll get right to the point, Ms. Campbell.”

“Please, call me Allison.”

“Allison, our daughter Maggie is in need of your—” Hank waved his hand as though searching for the right word, “expertise.”

Allison noticed a twitch in his left eye. Every few seconds, he rubbed at the corner of that eye like he could smooth the twitch away.

“I don’t want to waste your time or mine,” Allison said. “So before we go any further, I don’t work with children.”

Hank said, “She’s fifteen, not a child, really. And we’re not looking for a therapist. She’s had enough of those. We need someone to help her become more polished.”

“I’m sure there are finishing schools, somewhere to send a young lady—”

Hank snorted.  Allison caught the subtle movement of Sunny’s arm sinking into Hank’s side. She wondered about the balance of power in this relationship.

For the first time, Sunny spoke. Her voice was as sultry as her appearance, husky and melodic with the faintest undertones of a Southern accent. “Ms. Campbell...Allison...you have to understand. Maggie is special. She’s very smart, but she’s, well, eccentric. A bit awkward. She would never, ever go for a finishing school. She requires tender handling.”

“And someone who is used to working with misfits,” Hank said. “I’ll be honest, Allison.” He turned to look at Sunny before continuing and gave her a quick stare that said,
This is the truth, file it away for future reference
. Sunny lowered her head, her mouth set in a resigned frown. Hank continued, “Maggie is headstrong.  She’s had a few minor incidents along the way that keep her from a more prestigious school program. Kid stuff. Shoplifting, peer issues. I get away with a daughter like Maggie because I’m a congressional incumbent. But once the Senate race starts, there will be photo ops and interviews. I cannot have my daughter’s appearance or behavior become the sticking point. Frankly, she needs a little refining before she’s ready for her public debut.”

Sunny touched his arm. He brushed her hand away, leaned in, and said, “I can’t put Maggie in front of the camera, Ms. Campbell. I need you. And I’m willing to pay a large sum for your services. A very, very large sum.”

Allison took her time responding. Hank’s gaze never wavered; his body language—hands on his knees, torso tilted forward—suggested a man who felt tense but confident. And although his words offered incentive, the arrogant look on his face told Allison money was only one side of the coin.

“What makes you think Maggie will work with me?”

“She probably won’t,” Sunny said. And this time Allison heard the despair in her voice. Hank made a move to interrupt her, but Sunny waved him away. “Allison, please. Our Maggie’s got issues. She’s a typical teen trying to find herself. I care about Hank’s career, I really do, but I care about Maggie more.” Sunny looked down at her hands. Her long fingers dug into the tiny bit of flesh on her thighs. Once again, Allison wondered what they weren’t telling her.

Sunny looked up. “I read your book,
From the Outside In
, and I thought, wow, that’s what Maggie needs. Maybe if she changes the way she dresses and acts, her self-esteem will follow. She has none, esteem that is. Oh, she wears those clothes like she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her, but I know it’s an act. Inside, she’s a frightened little girl.”

Sunny looked at her husband for confirmation. Met with only a stony stare, she said quickly, “I saw your ad in the back of
Philadelphia
magazine. Our older daughter, Catherine, is getting married next year. First Impressions was in the bridal section. It was a sign, Ms. Campbell, I just know it, seeing your ad like that when I wasn’t even looking for it. In the bridal section of all places.” She looked into Allison’s eyes. “Please?”

Allison saw tears clinging to Sunny’s lashes, and something told her that this was no act, that Sunny’s words were the only honest ones spoken by the McBrides all morning. And that Hank McBride didn’t really want to be there. He came solely to appease his wife.

Hank was staring at Allison with a look that said he’d been playing nice, but he could try the asshole route if he wanted to. She wasn’t afraid of him. But Sunny...the way she slumped in her seat reminded Allison of her own mother when she found out she had Alzheimer’s.

“I’ll meet her,” Allison said softly. 

The tension in the room evaporated. Sunny sat straight and clapped her hands together.

“Wonderful.” Hank grinned. “I knew you’d come around.”

Allison put her hands up to hold back their enthusiasm. “That’s all I’m agreeing to. If I believe Maggie’s receptive, I’ll take the job. Otherwise—”

“Thank you,” Sunny said. “Maggie needs help. You’re the person to give it to her.”

Another face flashed in Allison’s mind. Young, beautiful, haunted. Violet Swann. Someone she couldn’t help.

Allison shook her head, as much to ward off unwelcome feelings as to push aside Sunny’s gratitude. “Don’t thank me yet, Mrs. McBride. I’m only agreeing to meet her.”

Three

After escorting the McBrides out, Allison wandered to Vaughn’s office. She wanted some company. She felt restless, annoyed with herself for giving in to the McBrides and breaking her no children policy. But then...poor Maggie. True, she hadn’t met the girl yet, but how could a father talk that way about his own daughter? No wonder the kid had issues.

She found Vaughn reading a newspaper, a tight look of concentration on his face. He glanced up when Allison entered and flashed a sympathetic smile.

“You don’t look so happy. Meeting not go well?”

“You could say that.”

“Don’t say I didn’t give you an out.”

Allison sighed. “He would have gotten to me eventually. Politicians like McBride aren’t used to being told no.”

Vaughn nodded. “True enough. What was he after?”

“He wants me to work with his daughter, Maggie.”

“You don’t work with kids.”

“No, I don’t.” Allison stretched her legs out in front of her and felt the pull of tight muscles. “And I probably won’t now, either. I only agreed to meet Maggie.” She shrugged. “What can I say? I feel sorry for her. And that mother.” She shook her head. “So heartbroken.”

“Family can do that.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “So what else is on your mind? You’ve seemed distracted ever since I told you your sister called.”

“My sister’s calls never portend anything positive.”

“Your mom?”

“Who knows what it is this time? Our mom, the neighbors, the way I fold towels. Could be anything.”

Vaughn held Allison’s gaze for a long moment before looking down at the newspaper in front of him. “Look at this.”

He pushed the paper across the desk to Allison. It was folded, one article prominently framed on the first page. Allison stared at the headline for a moment, its meaning gradually sinking in.

Main
Line’s “Custody King” Found Dead at 54.

Allison looked up. “The ‘Custody King’? Arnie Feldman?”

Vaughn nodded. “Just read the first paragraph.”

Allison started reading and the opening shoved all other thoughts aside.

Arnie Feldman, well-known divorce attorney and self-proclaimed “Custody King,” was found dead at his Villanova estate yesterday evening. Lieutenant Mark Helms says the police have not ruled out foul play. An anonymous source close to the family told us that Mr. Feldman’s widow, Sasha Feldman, was being questioned by the police.  An attorney for Mrs. Feldman refused to comment.

Allison read the article again before looking up. “Murder?”

“Maybe,” Vaughn said. “Although murder in these parts doesn’t happen too often.”

True, Allison thought. Tax evasion. Extortion. Insider trading, perhaps. Rich people’s crimes. But not murder. Here amongst the manicured lawns, new money McMansions, and old-money estates of the Philadelphia Main Line, people prided themselves on having class. Murder was far too base.

Allison said, “Right in my neighborhood. Explains all the sirens I heard last night.” And then it hit Allison. “Oh, no. Mia.”

Vaughn nodded. “I thought of her, too. From what you’ve told me, Arnie was a bastard toward her during the divorce. I can’t imagine she’ll be broken up over the news.”

“No, she won’t shed too many tears for Arnie Feldman. Edward wanted the most ruthless divorce attorney he could find. Arnie fit the bill. Still...” Allison shook her head. “Just the mention of his name will bring it all back for her.”

For all of us, Allison thought. Four years ago, Allison had started her own downward spiral. It began when Mia, her mentor and former mother-in-law, lost her daughter Bridget in a tragic car accident. Mia’s husband Edward had been at the wheel with a blood alcohol level of .23. Soon afterward, Mia divorced Edward in a bitter, drawn-out battle. Allison’s then-husband Jason, Mia and Edwards’ son, was bereft at the loss of his sister and undone by his parents’ constant battling. He changed. As a result, Allison’s own marriage crumbled, and although her divorce hadn’t quite sparked the fireworks that Mia’s had, she and Jason drifted apart in a way that left an aching hole in Allison’s heart. An ache that lived on to this very day.

Allison took a sip of her coffee. She thought about calling Jason to check on Mia. She wanted to call Mia directly, but she knew any attempt to reconnect would be rebuffed. They hadn’t spoken since Allison and Jason divorced, nearly two years ago.

As though reading her thoughts, Vaughn said, “You were close to Mia once.”

“Once, yes.” Allison stood and walked to the window. The small parking lot reserved for her First Impressions clients remained empty except for her own Volvo and Vaughn’s spotless BMW. She knew she needed to call Faye back, but the dreary day outside echoed her own feelings of hopelessness when she thought of her parents. Of her childhood home.

Allison turned back to Vaughn. He’d folded the newspaper neatly on the edge of the desk, and now stared intently at a spreadsheet. Vaughn, her jack-of-all-trades. He managed the money, negotiated contracts, handled appointments and did some minor detective work—cheating spouses and the like—on the side, when required. He was intelligent, kind, handsome and, most importantly, loyal. But there was a reserve about him that Allison had never been able to break.

Still focused on that spreadsheet, Vaughn said, “Well, maybe Mia won’t learn about Arnie. She doesn’t live on the Main Line anymore.”

True. After the divorce, Mia had moved from the image-conscience world of the Philadelphia Main Line to a small farm, miles away, on the outskirts of suburbia. A different world, Allison thought—although she supposed that was the point.

Allison said, “Someone will tell her. Or she’ll see it on the news. And then it will be her daughter Bridget all over again.”

Allison knew from Jason that Mia was still fragile, that her daughter’s death was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. The murder of her ex-husband’s divorce attorney would not speed the healing of those wounds. And if it was a murder, it would be a major headline. Allison wished there was something she could do to soften the impact, but it was hard to help someone who wouldn’t even speak to you.

“Besides, maybe it wasn’t murder,” Allison said. “Maybe Arnie had a good, old-fashioned heart attack or a stroke. Or maybe he tumbled off his ivory tower and cracked his head open.”

Vaughn smiled. “Unlikely, from the sound of it.”

Allison shrugged. Despite her curiosity, she had other things to worry about.  She tried not to consider the fact that Arnie had died so close to her own house. That a killer was out there, lurking between the stately homes of her supposedly safe neighborhood. With optimism she didn’t feel, she said, “Even if it was murder, at least it has nothing to do with Mia—or any of us, for that matter.”

It was after six o’clock before Allison finally got around to calling her sister. Vaughn was still in the office and Allison could hear the comforting
click, click, click
of his fingers tapping against the keyboard.

Faye answered on the second ring. “It’s about time,” she said instead of hello.

“Sorry. When you didn’t call my cell, I knew it wasn’t an emergency. This is the first chance I’ve had to call you back.”

“Yeah, well...it’s a little late. I don’t need you now.” Accusation in her tone, weariness in her voice.

“What happened?”

“Mom. She disappeared earlier.”

Allison’s stomach clenched. “She’s back?”

“Yes.”
No thanks to you
, was the message in her voice.

“Is she okay?”

“Mom will
never
be okay, Allison. When will you come to terms with that?”

Allison held back a sharp retort. An argument now would only fuel the tension. “I meant did she get hurt?”

“No, other than being cold and confused, she wasn’t hurt. The police picked her up a mile from the house.”

Oh, God
. What if...no, Allison couldn’t allow herself to even think that way. “I’m coming over.”

“Don’t bother. It’s all under control now.”

Allison glanced at the clock on her wall. She could be there in an hour. Ignoring her sister’s last statement, she said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Faye.”

“Whatever.”

It started to drizzle. Cold, steely drops that threatened to morph into sleet. The rain hit Allison’s windshield, slithered in rivulets to the corners, and turned to ice, so that she had to scrunch down and squint to see the road. She fingered the envelope that sat on the seat next to her. Her head ached.

Home
. She turned the word around on her tongue, flipped it backward and forward, and swirled it around until the nausea passed. At home lived a different Allison.  Fat ankles. Uneven bangs. A preference for peanut butter right from the jar.

“Self-reinvention is the key to survival,” Mia had told her when she was first hired by her mentor’s image-consulting firm. “In this line of work and in life.”

“Yeah, right. There’s no escaping the past,” Allison had wanted to say in response. But she’d been twenty-five, poor, and disillusioned. Funny how an empty bank account can make one into a believer.

And so she’d Jennifer Aniston-ed her hair and painted her lips and learned the difference between Gucci and Prada, first for herself and then for her clients. She traded her third-floor studio in Ardmore for a two-story townhouse in Wayne and learned to navigate ten courses worth of silverware. Eventually she married Jason, her mentor’s son, a man with a nice, normal American surname and then divorced him, keeping the name as a booby prize. Chalupowski would have looked awful on a book jacket.

At times, she missed the old Allison. She missed the energy of idealism and the ease with which someone who has nothing can move through the world. She knew this new life was based on the perpetuation of a lie, of a million little daily lies. But the lies, if told often enough and with enough enthusiasm, could become truth.

Just look at her.

Allison kept one hand still on the steering wheel and used the other to peel back the flap of the envelope. Wedged between the stiff edges of her mother’s official documents sat the sickly yellow of an old newspaper clipping. She knew without touching it, without reading the bold-lettered headline, what it said.
Man Drives over Embankment in Apparent Homicide/Suicide Attempt.
Her father. Her mother. And over twenty years later, the pain still blanketed her like a low-lying fog.

She pushed the article back into the packet. Miraculously, her parents had lived through the ordeal with few serious injuries, but the emotional wounds had never really healed.
Your mother has Alzheimer’s, Allison
, her father had said back then, as though that simple fact explained everything
.
It’ll be uphill from here.
So the years before that, the mom-has-a-migraine-and-is-in-her-bedroom-make-us-some-dinner-watch-your-sister-Allison years, were the easy ones?

Allison shook her head. The contents of that envelope didn’t tell the full story any more than a pile of individual timbers resembled a finished house. Where were the court hearings, the social workers with their shopworn empathy and mind-fuck questions, the belt beatings, the experimental drugs and doctors’ visits and furtive glances when the electricity went off because no one had paid the bill?

The rain stopped.

Allison flicked off her wipers and made a left onto her parents’ street. Tiny ranch house after tiny ranch house, all with tiny yards and chain-link fences. She pulled up to their home, behind a grit-sprayed Ford. From the outside, nothing much had changed. Same peach-colored stucco, same white stone-filled flower beds, same crumbling walkway. Though it was nearly spring, a woven-wicker doe and fawn, leftover Christmas decorations, remained in the front yard. The doe lay on her side. The fawn stood over her, as though in mourning.