Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (7 page)

Mia stared at the receiver, rolled over in bed and stuffed her book back on the bedside shelf.
Damn him
. She hated the aching need she felt whenever he called or visited. It was a need she could ignore most of the time, a need for human companionship, pure and simple. The very fact of their differences, differences that went well beyond the color of their skin and the twenty years that separated them, created safety in their relationship. Mia knew that. Just like she knew that Vaughn would never betray her. Not like her ex-husband Edward, not like Jason and his ex-wife Allison, and, she hated to admit it, not like her daughter Bridget.

Death was the greatest betrayal, after all.

Mia swung her feet over the side of the bed and switched on the bedside lamp. Her eyes scanned the small room for clutter. Not that Vaughn would care. She held no illusions as to why he came. Poor Vaughn, with his striking looks and his troubled past and his crippled brother. Had Vaughn been born with less smarts and less character he might have been happy, but instead the stupidities of his youth served to rein in his future. Mia gave him what she could: the mother’s love he yearned for and the sexual release he craved. What strange bedfellows we are, she thought.
What would Edward think of that?

Damn Edward, too. Mia had tried to escape the anxiety her ex-husband’s visit wrought. The events of four years ago plagued her as it was, but Edward’s appearance stood as a great reminder of why she’d purchased this farm, thirty miles from anywhere that counted and down a barely passable dirt road. She would never— could never—forgive him for killing their daughter, Bridget. How someone she gave her body and heart to could kill his own and then use the legal system to rationalize his actions was beyond Mia. Further proof that you never really knew someone.

That’s why her relationship with Vaughn worked. There was no pretense of love, no expectations for a future, and no way to disappoint. As long as he kept his word and didn’t tell Allison. Jason must never know.

Outside, a cruel wind rattled the window frames and howled through the woods that bordered her land. Night was so absolute here. Living alone, Mia had trained herself to listen for unfamiliar noises. Eventually she heard tires on gravel, Buddy’s welcoming bark from his spot in the kitchen. She smiled. Good noises, indeed.

Mia opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a black silk negligee, one of her few nods to vanity. She slipped off her flannel pajamas and stood in front of the mirror, her naked body haloed by the watery lamp light. Her breasts still stood high and firm and her waist and hips were slender. The frustrating inability to store fat as a young girl had served her well in later years. Only the slight bagging skin at her throat and the etched lines on her hands gave away her age. That and her wild gray hair. The tight curls hung in long, thick, wiry ropes across her shoulders and down her back. She’d stopped coloring it when Bridget was killed. Everything had seemed so pointless then.

Mia heard the front door open and close. She heard Vaughn’s hello to Buddy, then his steps across the kitchen floor, soft and sure. She felt his presence in the bedroom doorway even before she caught sight of his reflection in her mirror. She made no move to cover herself. Instead, she studied his reflection: the cropped black hair, the tiny Lennon glasses, the thin scar that ran from his nose to his lip, the broad shoulders and defined pecs that spoke of hours at the gym. She watched him unbutton his shirt, take off his watch, then unbuckle his belt and pull his khakis down, all the while his gaze on her reflection. Her nipples grew hard. She turned to face him and saw that his excitement matched her own.

“I’m glad you came,” she said.

He didn’t say anything, just closed the space between them and joined her by the mirror. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand on her stomach, the other on her breast. The contrast between their skin colors—hers full-moon white, his night black— stole her breath. She watched his hand move across her body like a shadow. Despite his strength, his touch was gentle.

She turned to face him, then kissed his eyes, his neck, his lips. She led him to the bed. “Will you stay the night?”

If he’d heard the pleading in her voice, he didn’t let on—and for that she was grateful.

He said, “Jamie.” She nodded her understanding.

She pulled him close to feel the weight of his chest against her own. Strength, substance. That was what Vaughn was to her. Strength, substance and...oblivion. Beautiful, merciful oblivion. Gently, he kissed her throat. Mia threw back her head and moaned.

Vaughn punched in his pass code, waited for the familiar buzz, and then pulled open the security door to his apartment building. He took the elevator to his tenth floor apartment, twisted the key in the lock, and opened the front door.

Like always, that step from the outside world to the inside of his home was a shock to his system. First the smells: Lysol and the faint scent of urine and wisps of the spice-scented candles the nurses lit to hide both. Then the overwhelming warmth. Jamie had trouble regulating his body temperature and Vaughn needed to keep the thermostat set at seventy-five-degrees all year round. Then the sounds, so familiar to him now that he had to stop and listen for them: the gentle, life-supporting whir of the monitors and machines that helped Jamie function; the hum of the computer that ran all day because it was the only way Jamie could communicate; and finally, the lights. Night lights, overhead lights, fluorescents. Jamie would still wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, wondering why he couldn’t walk or talk or crap on his own, his eyes rolling around and bulging from his head till Vaughn was afraid they would hemorrhage.  Light was the only way to reassure.
No, it’s not a nightmare, my brother. At least not one you can simply wake up from.

Vaughn took off his coat, hung it in the living room closet and tiptoed toward Jamie’s room. He could still smell Mia’s citrusy scent on his skin, feel her arms around his neck. It was hard to leave that bed for cold spring air and the long drive home. What he wouldn’t have given to wake up there—arms tangled in her hair, early morning love-making followed by fresh eggs and bacon and the sound of her damn rooster crowing. He could only imagine, though, for he’d never stayed.

He heard a rustling and froze mid-step. A second later, a pretty face peeked around the corner of Jamie’s bedroom. Long, straight black hair. Short, curvy body. Sleep creases on her forehead. He saw a flash of embarrassment cross Angela’s pretty features, then she smiled.

“Good night for him,” she said.

“Will you stay?”

“Who’s coming in the morning?”

“Mrs. Tildman.”

Angela smiled again. Mrs. T was everyone’s favorite. She put the kitchen to use and made soups and biscuits, homemade things he could store in his freezer to ward off chilly nights. She straightened blankets and plumped pillows and cleaned the oven. All the things he liked to believe his mama would have done had she lived. But best of all, she read books. To Jamie. They both loved mystery novels, and around his bed stood stacks of Elizabeth George, P.D. James, and Agatha Christie. The warmth and energy in her voice brought those characters to life. Jamie adored her. Vaughn wanted to pay her a premium to keep her there, but the woman would hear nothing of it.
My hourly rate is all
, she’d tell him.
I need to eat. But beyond that, I just like that boy’s company.

Angela took a step toward the spare bedroom. “I’ll stay till Mrs. T gets here. Don’t worry. Leave early if you have to.”

Vaughn gave her a grateful smile and watched her close the bedroom door. He finished his trek to his brother’s room and stood in the doorway. Jamie’s blankets were pulled taut over his thin form, and Vaughn could see the slight indentation where Angela’s head had rested next to Jamie’s arm. Jamie was asleep. His eyes fluttered, restless even now.

The computer mouth stick hung just inches from his mouth in case he woke up and needed to say something. His words would show up flat, black against white, on the screen that stood just a foot away. Jamie wanted it that way. After the incident, Jamie never regained full use of his voice. The computer could speak the words, too, but they came out tinny and robotic-sounding, and Jamie said it was a reminder that he was mute as a dead parrot.

Vaughn obliged. Vaughn always obliged. How could he not when he’d taken up the yoke of Jamie’s life—college and a real job and putting his brains to something other than creative drug deals—after Jamie had been paralyzed by the near-fatal gunshot meant for him over a decade ago? Once their mama died and Vaughn could see straight, he traded his own life for Jamie’s. Some form of restitution.

Still, it was hard. Hard to see his brother motionless year after year with little hope for recovery. Harder to accept that Jamie stayed confined to the world Vaughn had created for him. Vertebra C3. Who knew one little body part could ruin two lives?

He looked again at Jamie. It was like viewing himself in a mirror. A fun house mirror that twisted and contorted and thinned out the image. That was his real penance. To look in that mirror every single day. To see himself lying there and not be able to do a damn thing about it and know it was his fault. Because in the end, it wasn’t him. Worse. It was his identical twin.

Eight

The following day, Allison met with her Recently Divorced group.

The group was discussing change and how hard it could be to build a life as a single person when your world was predicated on coupledom. Unfortunately, each woman had a very different idea of what single looked like. Allison watched the group before her. For a moment their mouths seem to move soundlessly and she caught just a slow-motion glimpse of this hodgepodge of clients: Midge, with her pillbox hats and buttoned-up anger; the morbidly obese and timid Tori; sweet-natured Diane; and Kit with her plastic features and edgy personality. Some days this mix of personalities seemed like an inflamed volcano—ready to blow.

Today was one of those days.

“You put an ad online?” Midge was saying. “How does the guy contact you?” In her excitement, she sat forward too quickly and her pink pillbox hat fell across her forehead. “I don’t understand these new dating rituals. It’s a shame you and Bob split. Do you ever think about what you could have done differently to save your marriage?”

Oh, sweet Mary
. Allison shook her head at Midge, who was cluelessly looking at Tori.

“Men are visual creatures,” Kit said. “In any case, personal ads are not the way to go. You look desperate.”

“
Kit
,” Allison said sharply. Then she looked around at the other women. “Ladies, you’re being unfair. First of all, what Bob did was about Bob and his issues. It was not about Tori.”

Tori turned her head toward the group room’s window and stared straight ahead, avoiding Allison’s gaze. But Allison knew her well enough to read the signs: rigid shoulders, face muscles taut, hands clenched into claws, reddened eyes. In a few minutes, Tori would be reduced to a crying mess, all her Bob memories from the last two years rushing at her alongside the swell of emotion caused by the group’s fervor over her online dating.

Allison thought carefully about what to say.

Few of these women had stories Allison hadn’t heard before, but Tori’s was a new twist on an old theme. Her ex-husband, Bob, a forty-year-old investment banker, had had a succession of affairs, culminating with a poke to a nineteen-year-old blonde in Tori’s bed while Tori gave birth to their third child, nine miles away. Tori’s father found them together, the girl naked and bound, Bob wearing his son’s Superman cape and nothing else. Unable to hide from the truth any longer, Tori was divorced before the baby was weaned.

Allison felt for Tori. There was something about Tori’s pain at living in the body she’d been given that nudged at Allison’s depths, reminded her of her own childhood memories. Allison looked at Tori now and saw the effort she had put into dressing that morning: black pants with a drape that softened the girth of her thighs, a subtle black-print blouse with material thick enough to hide the rolls of belly fat without adding bulk, a red scarf to draw attention to beautiful green eyes and glossy black hair, silver bracelets to pull the eye toward well-manicured hands rather than her enormous upper arms. Tori was beautiful. And she was learning. This was the polish that could make a difference.

“Tori?” Allison’s voice was gentle. “Do you want to address the group?”

Tori didn’t speak, just seemed to pull herself inside and disappear, away from Kit’s gloating smile and the curious gazes of everyone else. Allison could hardly blame her. She needed time.

The room was silent. Allison heard the woosh of traffic passing by outside: a door slammed in the front office. She looked at Tori and tried to telegraph understanding and acceptance. For she did understand. More than Tori knew.

“Excuse me, Allison?” Kit raised her hand. “Allison?”

“Yes?” Allison turned toward the platinum blonde in the corner.

Kit Carson-Lewis. Her long hair was blown straight, her cleavage blossomed from the front of a low-cut magenta blazer. Nails like pink daggers.

“I want to address Tori.” When Allison nodded, she continued, “Tori, I think I owe you an apology.” She licked her obscenely plush lips. “I’m sorry.”

Tori turned away.

“No, really. I was out of line. We all were.” Kit looked around at Midge and Diane, who were nodding their agreement. “There are men out there who will love and accept you for who you are, Tori darling. And you shouldn’t be willing to accept any less. The dating world can be scary. Online dating, especially. We’re all just worried about you.”

Allison smiled at Kit. She knew even that apology was difficult. Kit’s ex-husband, a Philadelphia plastic surgeon, had urged her to undergo surgery after surgery: breast implants, liposuction, Botox injections, a face-lift, an eye-lift, labia reduction, a nose job. As she told it, she went along with his suggestions year after year.  Then he committed the ultimate sin. He had an affair and later married a woman a few years
older
than Kit. According to Kit, the new wife was fat, wrinkled, and had a nose like an upside down ice cream cone. And still does. No plastic surgery for Wife Number Two, while Kit looked like someone created by Mattel. And the ex-husband seemed happy. Kit wore the bitterness like an overcoat. And her first instinct, always, was to hurt before being hurt. It was a habit Allison was trying to help her break.

Allison clapped her hands together. Tori’s color had returned and the rest of the group had done the right thing. It was a good place to end before Helms arrived. Allison stood, signaling the ladies. Everyone but Midge filed out of the room.

When they were alone, Midge said, “I’m sorry about that. I guess I was really thinking about my own ex-husband. That maybe if I had been different, he wouldn’t have chosen a man over me.”

“You know that has nothing to do with you, either, Midge. His homosexuality isn’t something you caused—or could have prevented.”

“I know.” Midge blushed. “He’s living in Vermont with his lover. I guess I should have known years ago.”

“Some people go their whole lives without realizing their partner is gay.”

“I suppose I did overreact,” Midge said, and laughed.

Yep, shooting him in the foot while he’s naked and on top of another man is probably an overreaction, Allison thought. But hey, who am I to judge?

Allison pulled the group’s file together and said, “So, for next time, you’ll think about one small change you can incorporate into your life?”

Midge looked mildly ashamed. “Yes, I’ll behave.”

“Oh, I didn’t say to behave,” Allison said with a wink. “Just try to have an open mind.”

“Adventure will be my middle name.” Midge stood to go. “I used to be a pin-up girl, you know. In my heyday, I was quite a hottie.” Her eyes brightened and Allison got a fleeting glimpse of a younger, more daring Midge. “I still have a postcard to prove it.”