Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (8 page)

Allison said she hadn’t known. “Bring in the postcard for our next session.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I’d love to see it.” Allison wanted her clients to bring in bits of their past. She could help them best if she had a broader sense of who they were, who they’d been. She believed people were often defined by their pasts, intentionally or not, and Midge was no exception. Midge had lost that sense of self somewhere in the forty years of marriage to a closeted gay man, but the old Midge was still there. Watching Midge now, Allison couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride.

“You’re doing great, Midge. Next week, same time?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” On her way out, Midge said, “Did you hear about Arnie Feldman? It’s all people are talking about.”

“I heard he was murdered.”

Midge nodded. “His neighbor told my neighbor that there was blood everywhere. Sasha Feldman, that’s his wife, had to hire an outside contractor to remove the carpeting and repaint the walls.” She shuddered. “I’d leave that house, if I were her. But Sasha is a gold-digger. She probably doesn’t care.”

Midge said all of this with relish. The only thing more popular than shopping amongst some of Allison’s clients was gossip. Allison swallowed. Curious or not, she’d feel better when the killer was locked away.

Midge smoothed the front of her navy shirtwaist dress. Echoing Allison’s thoughts, Midge said, “Let’s hope the police solve this one, Allison. I know I have trouble sleeping at night. And I keep a gun by my bed.”

Vaughn had asked Lieutenant Helms to wait in Allison’s office. Walking in, she expected to find a disheveled man in rumpled clothing, sort of the typical underpaid television policeman. Instead, Lieutenant Mark Helms was a tall, muscular forty-something, with striking blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He rose when Allison entered the room and held out his hand. They shook. Out of habit, Allison glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring.

“Ms. Campbell,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Well, I hope it’s a good reputation,” Allison said with a smile.

With one long glance, Allison watched him take in her three-inch Jimmy Choos, her tight beige pencil skirt, the fitted cream jacket and baby blue floral scarf that she’d knotted carefully around her neck. She tried to decide whether the look on his face was dismissive or one of practiced nonchalance. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

She motioned for him to sit back down, and then she walked around her desk and took the seat across from him.  “What can I do for you? I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I have another appointment in thirty minutes.”

“This won’t take long, Ms. Campbell.”

“Allison.”

“Allison, as you know, we’re investigating the death of Arnie Feldman. As we discussed on the phone, you worked with Feldman’s widow, the former Sally Ann Reilly.”

“Not for long.”

“But you knew her before she married Feldman.”

“I suppose. I didn’t know she’d married Arnie, though.”

“You didn’t see them at social functions?”

Allison smiled. “Rarely. I’d met Arnie a few times at neighborhood events, but never his wife. They’d just moved in two years ago.”

Helms nodded. “Rumor has it that Sasha—Sally Ann—wanted a bigger place.”

“Rumor will have a lot of things, Lieutenant. The trick is parceling rumor from truth.”

The lieutenant nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Then perhaps our two lines of business are not so different.”

Helms laughed. “Perhaps not.”

Allison had to admit, the guy had a nice laugh. She wondered why the police department sent the Lieutenant over instead of one of his directs. And while she wanted to help Helms, she honestly couldn’t think of any information that would be of any help.

“Look, Lieutenant,” Allison said, “What I remember of Sally Ann is probably not valuable. She was sent to me by her employer to work on some issues that were interfering with her job. We met a few times, she quit her job, and I never saw her again.”

“Was she cooperative?”

“Moderately, although not particularly engaged.”

“What does that mean?”

“She didn’t really seem to want to be there. Lacked self-awareness about what was holding her back.”

“What was holding her back?”

Allison thought back to the woman she’d seen. It had been in their old offices, when Mia still owned the business. “There was a naked sort of ambition about her. She knew what she wanted and you knew she would do whatever was necessary to get it.”

Helms raised his eyebrows. “Did she strike you as a social climber?”

“I never gave it any thought.”

“Think about it now. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out the angle we’re looking into.”

“Was she capable of marrying for money and then disposing of her husband?” Allison replied.

Helms stayed silent, but Allison knew that was it. And there was probably a large insurance policy and maybe even a prenup with a death clause.

“I don’t know. There was that naked ambition, but the woman I knew was socially awkward.”

“In what way?”

Allison considered how best to answer. “Sally Ann was in her early thirties back then. Brash, a bit of a complainer, impatient. Not very likable, and I would think a successful social climber would be likable. She seemed smart, though.”

“Smart intelligent or smart cunning?”

Allison smiled. “Smart cunning, I suppose.”

Helms leaned back. He jotted something in his notebook.

“I’m intrigued by your comment about the neighborhood. How is it that you lived there two years and never ran into Sasha Feldman?”

“We don’t travel in the same circles.”

“But you’re the area go-to lady.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m invited to every event. Or that I attend when I am invited.”

“You said you met Arnie at a few affairs. Do you recall which ones?”

Allison didn’t have to think hard to remember. Arnie Feldman was not a forgettable fellow. “A fund raising event for a charity for homeless teens. A neighbor held a dinner at a local restaurant. We were both there.”

“But not Sasha?”

“Not that I recall.”

“And the other events?”

“A graduation party for a neighbor’s kid. Last summer. That was it.” Allison gave Helms the name of the neighbor.

“Again, no Sasha?”

“Not that I recall.”

Helms fished a manila envelope out of his briefcase. He opened it and pulled out a photo, which he handed to Allison. “Recognize her?”

Allison stared at the picture. Taken during an outdoor barbeque, the woman in the photo was sitting at a picnic table, arms crossed, an untouched hot dog on a paper plate in front of her. A frown creased an otherwise creaseless face. She had long, glossy black hair and her eyes were hidden behind oversize sunglasses. But Allison recognized the hard set of her mouth and thin, narrow shoulders. Sally Ann—Sasha—had had some major orthodontia and a boob job at some point. Double Ds strained the buttons on an expensive-looking silk blouse.

She handed the picture back to Helms. “Only because I know who she is. Truthfully, if I ran into her at a party, I wouldn’t have known it was Sally Ann. She looks completely different.”

“But if she’d come up to you and re-introduced herself?”

Allison nodded. “Yes, after a moment. But she didn’t.” Allison held up a hand. “But before you make too much of that, Lieutenant, remember what I do for people. Not everyone wants it known that they’ve worked with an image consultant.”

“Understood. Her former employer told us she’d worked with you. That’s how we made the connection.”

Lieutenant Helms unfurled his long body and walked to the window. He spoke with his back to Allison. “And now a little closer to home. Mia Campbell?”

Allison tensed. “What do you want to know?”

“Her name has come up. Witnesses say they overheard Ms. Campbell making threats toward Arnie. She said, I quote, ‘I’ll get you one day.’”

“And who are these witnesses?”

Helms turned. “I get to ask the questions, Allison. Did you ever hear Mia Campbell threaten Arnie Feldman?”

“I heard a bereaved mother express anger toward a system that denied her daughter justice.”

Helms walked across the room until he was standing over Allison. He placed both hands on her desk and leaned in so that she could smell his spicy aftershave. “Please answer the question.”

Allison refused to be cowed. “Mia disliked the way Arnie treated her. He twisted words, tried to make her look unstable.”

“Disliked him enough to hurt him?”

“Three years later? Hardly. She reacted in the heat of the moment. Was anything she said a true threat? Absolutely not.”

“You said Feldman tried to make her look unstable. Is she? Unstable, I mean?”

Allison hesitated. “Not that I am aware.”

But it was too late.

Like a hawk on a free range chicken farm, Helms swooped in.  “A legalistic answer. Mia moved to the country, sold all her possessions and disconnected from almost everyone in her life—including you, her protégé and daughter-in-law.”

“
Former
daughter-in-law.”

Helms stood. His height was unsettling, but Allison matched his challenging stare with a hard look of her own.

After a moment, Helms said, “Admit it, Ms. Campbell, Mia is not who she was.”

“Are any of us?”

Helms gave her a sharp look. “Stop playing games.”

Allison stood. In heels, she could almost look him in the eye. “I’m not playing games, Lieutenant. Mia’s daughter was killed at the hands of her drunk husband. She lost two people in one horrible split second. If that doesn’t buy a person a temporary pass at sanity, I don’t know what does. But that doesn’t mean that years later Mia Campbell had the wherewithal or desire to murder her husband’s lawyer. Frankly, you’re grasping at straws.”

Helms shook his head slowly, back and forth. In a split second, his expression went from angry to unreadable. The professional mask was back on. “That’s all I need, Allison.” He handed her a card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

As he was leaving, Allison stopped him. She’d meant to say something earlier, but the Lieutenant’s question about Mia had thrown her off. “If Sally Ann Reilly married Arnie Feldman, Lieutenant, what happened to Arnie’s first wife?”

“He divorced her. As I understood it, the circumstances were not amicable.”

Allison considered this. She knew Feldman’s first wife. The woman had been Mia’s client a long time ago.

She said, “Hmm. I don’t imagine they would be. Amicable, that is.”

“Why is that?”

“Sally Ann’s sister, Brenda Reilly, was Arnie Feldman’s first wife. If Sally Ann is Sasha Feldman, that means that Arnie went from one sister to another.” Allison opened the door to her office. The Lieutenant stood still, his eyes locked on Allison. “That, Lieutenant, could be one ugly love triangle.”

After Helms left, and later between sessions, Allison read the headlines in the local newspapers and clicked through the online news, looking for anything related to Feldman’s murder. The story was everywhere, including international syndicates. But each source only repeated the same tired information. A rare murder on the prestigious Main Line.  Feldman died in his home under suspicious circumstances. No suspects in custody.

No mention of Mia; she was grateful for that.

Allison searched Google for anything on Sasha Feldman, the late Arnie, even Brenda, his ex-wife. Again, nothing new that would shed light on a motive to murder the attorney. Could it have been a sacrificial killing? A chill ran through her. She hoped not. That seemed too random. If that were true, then anyone could be the next target.

Allison put her head back, against her chair. Satansim. Torture. A disabled security alarm.

An inside job? A devil worshipper?

Or a very savvy killer?

Nine

Sunny arrived at four o’clock, without Hank. She walked into First Impressions behind her daughter Catherine while Maggie trailed a few feet behind them both. Allison greeted them at the door, taking in at a glance the distance between Catherine and her mother and Maggie. The weather had flip-flopped. It was a warm March day, but despite the tenacious sunshine, all three McBride women were dressed for winter. 

In the light of her office, Allison could see Maggie’s features more clearly. She had full, bow-shaped lips and black irises that spilled into the chestnut brown of her eyes, making little pools of ebony where there should have been none. A pretty girl, really. Or she could be.

Allison didn’t have long to ponder this fact before Catherine said, “Mother and I were wondering how long you need with Maggie?”

“Three hours.” Allison glanced at her watch. “You can pick her up at seven.”

That got Maggie’s attention. “No way. No effing way. Mom, you promised I could go out tonight with—”

Catherine shot a warning look at her sister. “Really, Ms. Campbell,” Catherine said, “Don’t you think that’s overdoing it for the first session? We’d like her home earlier.”

Allison looked at Catherine before glancing down at her schedule. She’d already decided to spend the better part of the afternoon with Maggie. Not only did she want a chunk of time to break through the barriers, but, if this relationship was doomed—if it was clear Maggie wouldn’t work with her—Allison wanted to know up front. Before she wasted her time and the McBride’s money.

Allison let the silence continue for another moment. She walked to a bookshelf and rifled through brochures, finally choosing one she normally gave to family members of clients, about supporting change in their loved-one. She handed the brochure to Sunny.

“I need three hours. After this, sessions will be one to two hours, max. But this is intake.”

Maggie moaned. “Mom...”

“Really, Mother, think. We have my engagement party tonight. Seven won’t work.” Catherine took the brochure from her mother’s hand. She leafed through it quickly and then tucked it under her arm in a dismissive gesture. “We’ll be back at six,” she said to Allison.

Allison matched icy smile for icy smile. When she spoke, it was to Sunny. “Seven o’clock. I can take her home, if need be. You agreed up-front to my rules, Mrs. McBride. If you’re having second thoughts, please let me know now.” Then Allison turned to Catherine and held out her hand. “The brochure.”

Catherine gave it to her with reluctance, a scowl marring the glacial prettiness of her features.

“May I remind you, Catherine, that your parents and Maggie are my clients. While I’m thrilled for your engagement, and do wish you the best, I’d kindly like you to remember that I answer only to my clients.”

Catherine looked like someone had punched her. Sunny, lips tightly knit into a barely discernible smile, seemed happily surprised. And Maggie grinned from ear to ear, the blow to Catherine’s ego clearly more enjoyable than the pain of having to stay with Allison all afternoon.

“Okay, then. This way.” Allison walked across the reception area to the front door. “Shall I bring her home?”

Catherine walked out in a huff, doing her best to slam the door behind her. Sunny turned before leaving and ran a finger across Maggie’s cheek. Maggie flinched. Sunny tilted her head to the side, sadness creasing the skin around her eyes, and gave Allison an empty smile. “If you don’t mind. Thank you.”

Allison watched them get into the Mercedes. Then she walked toward a small room off the back of the reception area, motioning to Maggie to follow. “This way, Maggie. Let’s get started.”

Allison led Maggie to the client room, a small room decorated in warm tones of beige, peach and chocolate. The room had been designed for intimacy. Allison wanted her clients to develop confidence in the relationship, to feel safe and secure enough to share goals and ideas. But glancing now at Maggie’s angry scowl, Allison was pretty sure the studied coziness of the client room wasn’t going to make a bit of difference.

Four armchairs faced each other around a mahogany table. In the corner, mostly hidden behind a small Asian-inspired screen, stood a scale. Next to the scale, a few feet from the table, was an old fashioned roll-top desk, the inside of which contained standing file folders, each labeled with the names of clothing manufacturers and filled with catalogues. Allison watched Maggie scan the room, still scowling.

Allison motioned toward one of the arm chairs. “Please. Sit.” Then she walked over to the desk and pulled several catalogues from one of the file folders and a tape measure from a drawer. Before returning to the table, she pulled aside the screen that hid the scale.

When Allison turned back around, she saw that Maggie had pushed her chair back as far as it would go, until the back of it was lodged against a wall. She lounged with her head against the chair, her arms slung over the sides, feet propped on the table.

Allison ignored the scuff mark on the wall where the chair had hit too hard and the black line on the table top where the rubber from Maggie’s boots maligned the wood.

“Here you go, Maggie.” She placed a stack of clothing catalogues in front of her. Guess, DKNY, J. Crew, Abercrombie and Fitch. She took the seat opposite Maggie and spread the catalogues out on the table.

“This is what you do?” Maggie said, straining her neck to see, her feet still on the table. She snickered. “Catalogue shopping? That’s your big secret to success?”

Allison chose to ignore her tone. “These catalogues help me get a sense of the style that appeals to you. Usually we start with a discussion of personal goals. I do a physical intake: weight, height, measurements. And then we prepare a personal plan. Together.”

Maggie sat up and swung her feet down onto the floor. “No offense, Allison, but this is so stupid.” She pointed to her skirt. “My style. What you see is what you get.” Then she picked up the Guess catalogue, flipped through it much the same way Catherine had flipped through the First Impressions brochure, and tossed it back on the table.

Maggie sneered. “Oh, Allison, please give me perfect nails and a boob job and liposuction! Make me look like Catherine. Please, oh please. Or better yet, make me look like you, Ms. Perfect.” She pushed the catalogues to the edge of the table and smiled. “But you were born perfect, weren’t you? You were probably a cheerleader with loads of skinny, cheerleader friends. Well, that’s not me. I don’t need to look perfect to be happy, and I wish you and my stupid parents would just leave me the hell alone.” With one finger, she pushed the catalogues over the edge of the table, onto the floor. She stared at Allison, her eyes challenging. “You make me sick.”

Allison picked up the catalogues and took a moment to re-stack them, as much to buy time as to regain her own composure. How far from the truth Maggie was. Cheerleader? Perfect body? How about gorging alone in her bedroom in order to avoid the fact that she had no friends? The few she’d had had been terrified of her father, the criminal. Never mind that he was acquitted. Didn’t matter. He and his family had been pariahs in a town of small thoughts and small dreams. And that made for a lonely existence.

No, she had been more like Violet than Maggie. Alone. Grateful for anyone’s attention. Not like this spoiled child who sat before her now. But if she was going to make this relationship work, if she was going to give the McBrides some bang for their buck, she needed to think fast and not let her feelings interfere with work.