Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (21 page)

If Vaughn trusted him, Allison would trust him, too. She thought of another detail that Maggie had told her, one she’d forgotten to share with Lieutenant Helms. “Maggie said her witch name was Lanomia. I have no idea if that will help, but it might.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

“Thank you. And thank your friend.”

Vaughn looked away, but not before she saw the shadow that fell across his face. “I will.”

“You don’t really think Maggie was involved, do you, Vaughn?”

“I don’t know. It is still a little
too
neat,” he said after a moment, the shadow gone as quickly as it had appeared. “The more I consider it, the more I think the biggest defect in the police’s logic is the most basic reason of all.”

“Which is?”

“Premeditated murder takes planning and foresight. When was the last time you met a teenager who could organize her closet, much less orchestrate two cold-blooded killings?”

Twenty—Three

The Feldman home was a newly-built architectural stew of modern American, French Colonial and English Tudor, culminating with a three-car garage. The neighborhood abutted two streets of older Main Line estates without so much as a nod to their formal grace. Like the Feldman residence, the other houses on their street marked an identity crisis of style. But all the houses had one thing in common: size. Allison didn’t think any were under 5,000 square feet, and that was probably a conservative estimate. Things were bigger on this side of the neighborhood.

Clearly, Arnie had been good at his job.

Allison rang the doorbell. She heard a yippy dog barking, but no one answered. She rang again. Her watch read 8:08. Rudely early for an image consultant; perfect timing for an investigator hoping to catch someone at home.

After a few minutes, the door opened slightly. Allison saw a pair of squinting eyes looking at her from the other side of the chain-locked door. A Chihuahua’s pink face poked its way through the crevice, cradled in the woman’s hands.

“Mrs. Feldman?” Allison wedged the front of one red pump in the door, cringing at the thought of marred leather. “May I speak to you? Please? It will only take a few minutes.”

Sasha stared at her through the opening.

“I know it’s early,” Allison said, “but I was hoping to catch you before you left for the day. I’m Allison Campbell. Do you remember me?”

The woman squinted, nodded, her eyes slowly widening in recognition. “Of course. What do you need, Allison?”

“Just to talk. About your husband.” Allison flashed an apologetic smile. “I can explain if you let me in. I tried calling first, but—”

“I’ve been busy.” Sasha hesitated for a moment before unlatching the chain lock. Allison followed her into a spacious foyer. A round table sat in the entryway, on it a multi-colored Chinese vase too big for the circumference of the small table, and a set of brightly-patterned Russian nesting dolls. The foyer had been painted a deep red; the carpeted floor was white. Small stains dotted the rug. The house smelled of cloying floral perfume and cinnamon room spray.

Allison took a sideways look at the woman in front of her. Sasha Feldman was short, maybe five feet tall, and wore Lycra shorts and a sports bra that accentuated a slender, sculpted figure— including a good dose of surgical enhancement. Her long hair was pulled away from her face with a teal headband. Despite the cosmetic transformation, everything about her was harsh: overly-square fingernails, sharp chin, long, chiseled nose, even the stony look in her eyes. She certainly didn’t
look
like the grieving widow.

Allison remembered Arnie Feldman. Significantly older than Sasha, balding, with small tortoiseshell glasses and a lipless smile. Had Sasha been the trophy wife, or had there been love between them? She was having difficulty picturing them together based on appearances. But then, appearances could be deceiving.

The Chihuahua snuggled against Sasha’s chest, managing to look simultaneously indignant and frightened. Sasha stroked the dog’s head.

“My personal trainer is on his way here,” Sasha said. “I don’t have much time.”

Sasha sashayed through a narrow archway and into the living room. Allison tried to take in the layout of the house, picturing in her mind how an intruder would get in. The house was a maze of interconnected rooms, each one contained and claustrophobic. She had to admit that she had no idea what ingresses and egresses lurked behind these walls.

“You can sit over there.” Sasha pointed to a leather couch the color of sand. The whole room was sand-colored, except for an abstract oil painted in viscous strokes of crimson and orange..

Sasha cleared her throat.

Allison said, “You’re probably wondering why I’m here—”

Sasha simply stared at her. The dog stared at her, too. Allison shifted in her seat, feeling suffocated by Sasha’s overwhelming perfume and the awkward stillness. She waited it out, though, understanding all too well the power of silence.

Finally, Sasha said, “How can I help you?”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. This must be an extremely difficult time for you.”

“I don’t think you came here to tell me that, Allison.” Sasha said the words without a hint of malice or emotion—just a flat matter-of-factness that Allison found even more unsettling.

“I’m here because of what happened to Arnie, Sasha. My mother-in-law was a client of Arnie’s. She’s understandably concerned that certain, well, uncomfortable information about her divorce could make it into the public forum.”

The dog growled, a pathetic sound from deep within its skinny throat. Sasha’s perfume assaulted Allison in waves, sickly sweet and nauseating. She held back a sneeze.

Sasha picked at a loose thread on her shorts. “I don’t understand.”

“Because of the police investigation. Records will be reviewed. Information could leak out.”

Sasha said, “The police aren’t focused on Arnie’s clients, so she doesn’t have to worry. They know who did it.”

It was Allison’s turn to play dumb. “Really?”

Sasha huffed impatiently. “Ethan’s little whore of a girlfriend. With Ethan’s help.”

Allison feigned surprise. “His own son?”

Sasha shrugged. “I know it’s hard to believe. I didn’t want to accept it, either.” Sasha ran her long, manicured fingernails down the dog’s back, leaving little trails of fur like garden furrows. “He’s almost a son to me. But the evidence was huge. Gi-normous.”

Allison cringed. Vaughn’s voice rang out in her head: once you establish your reason for being there, just keep her talking until you get what you need. Proud of her new-found ability with one-word sentences, Allison said, “Really? How?”

“The crime scene: a silver cup, a parallelogram like Maggie wears around her neck. Knives. An upside down crucifix. And there was no breaking and entering,” she said. “So the police think it was someone who lived here. And I didn’t do it, so that leaves Ethan.”

Allison fought back the desire to say “pentagram, not parallelogram.” And she wondered what Sasha meant by “silver cup.” A chalice? She asked, “Did Arnie try to get away?”

“He couldn’t. His hands and mouth were bound with duct tape.”

“How could two kids overpower a grown man?”

“Surprise. Have you met Ethan? He’s a bull.” Sasha looked down at the dog. “And Maggie’s a witch. Literally. All along we thought maybe she was just a devil bunny. You know, one of those teens who thinks it’s cool to be into Goth and worship Satan? Stuff she’d grow out of. Boy were we wrong.”

Allison thought for a moment. “Does anyone else have the security code, Sasha?”

“Now that would be plain stupid, wouldn’t it? Of course not.”

“Maybe someone arrived and Arnie let him in?”

Allison knew she was grasping at nothing, but Sasha was so blasé about all of this. For a woman who was recently widowed, she certainly didn’t appear bereft. And if Ethan was like a son to her, wouldn’t she be defending him, maybe even trying to prove he hadn’t murdered his father? But Sasha Feldman seemed to take it all in stride, like she would a broken shoe strap or a missed Bloomingdale’s sale.

“No. Impossible. Look, Arnie was a busy man. He had few friends outside of work. I was his life.  No one came to the house. As I said, I didn’t do it, and my Arnie did not kill himself. That leaves Ethan. And that little slut he hangs out with.”

Allison remembered Vaughn’s words:
All roads lead to Maggie
.

“Did anyone hold a grudge against Arnie that you knew of? A client?”

Sasha snorted. “He was a divorce attorney. Everybody he went up against held a grudge against him.”

“Anyone threaten him?”

“What are you, the police? I don’t know. Like I told that lieutenant someone-or-other, Arnie didn’t talk about work. When he came home, he liked to have a drink, relax.”

“What can you tell me about Ethan’s relationship with the McBride girl?”

Sasha laughed, but it was a bitter, mean sound. “I’d hardly call it a relationship. Maggie McBride is a witch. Literally. Ethan is no angel, certainly, but together...they had no regard for authority.”

“When did they start dating?”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Like a year ago, maybe? Two? I don’t know, exactly. I’m not the family secretary. Does it really matter?”

“When was the last time Maggie was here?”

“With Arnie’s permission? About four months ago. Without Arnie’s permission? Who knows. The night he was killed, probably.”

“Why did you forbid Ethan to see Maggie?”

“The Jacuzzi incident was the last straw. Arnie found them together.” Sasha’s lips twisted into a look of disgust that gave no doubt as to what
together
meant.

“You said ‘the last straw.’ Were there prior incidents?”

Sasha twisted on the ottoman and glanced at her watch. She didn’t answer.

Allison decided to help things along. “Letters, Sasha? Did you know anything about Maggie getting suspended at school for sending threatening letters?”

Sasha nodded. “Sure. Ethan was in the middle of that, too. Troublemaker. I wish to God Arnie had left the brat with Brenda.”

“The letters?”

“Yes, those.” She sighed and then picked at the dog’s rhinestone-studded collar. The Chihuahua sat shivering on her lap. Allison thought it looked like a hairless rat. It made Brutus look cute.

“Maggie thought another girl was after Ethan. She sent her a series of letters threatening some sort of mumbo-jumbo curse if the girl didn’t lay off.”

“Anything else about the letters?”

Sasha nodded. “Little witch. She deserves to rot in prison. What do the Scriptures say? ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ She’s a bad kid, like I said.”

“How about her father, Hank McBride? Did Hank and Arnie get along?”

“Hardly.” Sasha scowled. “Although frankly, they agreed on one thing. Their kids should stay away from each other. Far away.”

“Did Hank and Arnie have any other contact? Maybe business dealings?”

“My Arnie was a divorce attorney,” Sasha said in a tone that suggested that Allison was stupid for even asking. “The McBrides are married.”

“Golf? Country club?”

“You mean did they hang out socially?” Sasha shook her head. “They traveled along different paths, if you know what I mean. McBride thought he was too good for my Arnie.”

Allison heard a car pull into the driveway and said quickly, “Who was the other girl, Mrs. Feldman? The one Maggie sent the letter to. Do you remember?”

Sasha stood up and placed the shaking dog on the ground. It ran up to Allison, just out of her reach, and growled. In a high-pitched, baby-talk voice, Sasha said, “Now, now, Muffin, behave.”

“The other girl, Sasha? Do you know who she was?”

She looked up from the dog. “Of course. She and Ethan hung out for a while. She was here all the time.”

Patience, Al
. “Can you tell me her name?”

With the same bored tone, Sasha said, “Sarah Moore.”

Why did that name sound familiar? With a sudden flash, Allison remembered being at the mall with Maggie during their first session together. Two girls and a mother. Rude teenagers, a mortified Maggie. Her reaction made sense now.

She said, “As in the daughter of Desiree Moore?”

“One and the same.” Sasha looked out the window. “If you’ll excuse me, my trainer is here. I have some serious work to do on my abs.”

Allison said, “Thanks for your time.”

Sasha twisted her lips into a smile. “Remember me when you write your next book.” She turned, gracing Allison with a side view, and flexed her bicep, which was toned and defined. “Maybe you could write about Main Line moms who stay in shape.”

Back in the car, Allison called Vaughn. She wanted to hear the results of his conversation with Brenda and wondered whether the ex-wife could shed some light on Ethan and Maggie’s involvement. But when she opened her phone, to her surprise, there was a text message from Maggie.

Things bad here. Luv 2 Brutus. U2. – Mags

Touched, all judgment out the window, Allison texted her back:
Hang in there, kid. Brutus misses U2.
She hoped it was good for a smile. Then she called Vaughn.

“The ex-wife refused to see me,” Vaughn said, frustrated.