by Wendy Tyson
“Sexy what?” Vaughn looked from Allison to Midge and back again. What were they up to now?
“Sexy seniors,” Midge repeated.
“It’s Midge’s new group idea. The next phase for some participants in the recently divorced group.”
Midge nodded with such vigor that her cap nearly flew off her head. “You know, for those of us over sixty who are ready to get back in the dating pool. We can help each other. Seniors have some special issues in this area, and it would be good to talk about them. Learn, you know…techniques.”
Her face flushed beneath the garish rouge. Vaughn swallowed. It was nowhere near Valentine’s Day, but already everyone was thinking about love, love, love. He smiled and nodded, because that was what Midge wanted. These groups of Allison’s were always a hit, but he didn’t know how she’d find time to squeeze in another.
“Sexy seniors.” He made a note on the pad on his desk. “I’ll set it up and include an invitation in the next client newsletter.”
Midge clapped. “So you like the idea?”
Vaughn smiled again. He saw Allison staring at him and shifted his eyes toward the window. “Midge, what’s not to like?” he said a little too heartily. “Sexy seniors. You may have given Allison a new book idea.”
Thirty minutes later, Midge was gone and Allison was standing before Vaughn while he signed checks at his desk.
“You okay?” she asked.
She was letting her blonde hair grow, and it fell in soft waves around her face. He noticed a few crow’s feet around her eyes, a crack in her armor and a sign that neither was as young as they used to be. He felt a sudden and protective surge of affection toward his boss. She was as lovely as the day he’d met her.
“Vaughn?”
Vaughn sighed. “It’s Jamie.” He recounted the scene he witnessed at his apartment.
Allison sat on the edge of his desk.
“Are you sure she hadn’t simply fallen asleep while she was in there with him? They could have been watching television or something equally as innocent and just dozed off.”
“She was in her pajamas, Allison, and she was holding him. Not like a nurse or a sister. Like a lover.” The lover his brother could never have, Vaughn thought. And with that he knew why he felt so unsettled.
As though reading his mind, Allison’s face softened. She said, “Hey, there are many ways to be someone’s partner. Sex, in the typical manner, isn’t the only way to be intimate, Vaughn. Just because…well, just because not everything works doesn’t mean he can’t satisfy a woman.”
Vaughn was sure Allison was right, but he didn’t want to see his brother get hurt.
Remembering the odd brown package, and grateful for a change in topic, Vaughn opened his top drawer and pulled the envelope from inside. “This was mixed in with yesterday’s mail when I arrived this morning.”
Allison looked alarmed. She snatched the envelope from his hand with a too-casual “cool” and stood to leave.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Allison shrugged. “Later. It’s probably just something from one of the group members. They’re always leaving me articles and recipes.”
Recipes? Vaughn raised his eyebrows, glad Allison didn’t see the expression. She was already out the door, that envelope gripped in her hand. His boss needed recipes like he needed a bra. She rarely cooked—Jason did that. And when she did cook, everyone was grateful that she did it so infrequently. So either Allison had caught an unlikely case of the Becky Home-eckies or she was lying. Vaughn, who was not generally a betting man, would wager on the latter.
THREE
Allison tucked the envelope in the top drawer of her filing cabinet without opening it. She had an appointment in ten minutes, but that wasn’t why she left the envelope intact. She was quite sure whatever was in there had something to do with Scott’s death. Call it a hunch, women’s intuition, a premonition, or just a good guess based on timing and the lack of postmark, but she could feel Scott’s person on that envelope. More than that, though, she knew if she opened it now, Vaughn would corner her before her client arrived. He’d ask what had been in that envelope. Reluctant to lie to her friend, she’d either not answer or tell him outright it was none of his beeswax. Neither option seemed appealing.
Maybe he’d forget. But she’d seen the suspicious look in his eyes.
So Allison calmed her shaking hands, locked the cabinet and went out to reception. When Vaughn asked, she could honestly say she didn’t know. Because she didn’t.
Not for sure.
Raymond Obermeier was Allison’s accountant, and he sat across from her a few hours later at The Corner Bakery, his brow furrowed in a full-face frown. He took care of her finances and the finances of her ailing family. When he said he’d wanted to discuss the affairs of Fred and Carol Chupalowski, her parents, Allison hadn’t been too concerned. Her money was their money, and, frankly, they had so little of it left that she knew much of her own savings would eventually go toward their care.
“Allison, are you listening to me?”
“Of course.”
“Then what did I just say to you?”
Allison leaned in. She was distracted, but she had heard him, and his tone as much as his words made her pay attention. Raymond was not your typical accountant. He had straight brown hair, broad shoulders and looked a lot like Captain America. But that wasn’t why she liked him. She liked him because he was a straight shooter. Although right now she was having trouble believing what he had to say.
“She’s been estranged for years. Why would she approach them now?”
Raymond shrugged. “I’m an accountant, not a psychologist.”
Allison looked out the window, toward the parking lot. It was dusk and she was tired. It had been unusually cold for early November in Philly, but the chill she was feeling had less to do with the weather than with the mention of her sister, Amy. She hadn’t heard a thing from Amy in over a decade.
November was a month for reappearances, it seemed.
“How much does she want?”
“Ten thousand dollars—”
“That’s a lot.”
“Let me finish.” Raymond looked at her sternly. Raymond never looked at her sternly. “Ten thousand cash.”
“What the hell? My parents don’t have that kind of money. Why would she go to them and ask for that?”
Raymond raised his hand. “Again, accountant, not psychologist.” He looked at her over adorable wire-framed glasses. “Or family therapist.”
“Did she say why she needs the money? Where she’s been? Anything at all about her life?”
“She said she was Carol’s daughter and she needed money. She said, and I quote, ‘It’s a matter of life or death.’”
Allison sighed. Her sister had been dramatic as a teen. Was she still? Could Allison take that chance? Maybe there were medical bills or she was facing eviction or, God forbid, a loan shark was after her, threatening to kill if she didn’t pay up. Amy may have cut them out of her life, but she was still blood. Allison liked to believe that meant something.
Allison stirred the coffee in front of her, which sat untouched. She crumpled a napkin, then stretched it straight, worrying the edges with her carefully-manicured fingers.
“You’re stalling, Allison. Unlike you.” Raymond leaned in and Allison could smell hazelnut on his breath. She found it funny that her strong, sexy accountant drank hazelnut-flavored coffee. “My advice? Say no now. I see this all the time. The reckless relative who can’t manage their own money and uses guilt or threats—”
Allison sat up straighter. “Did she use guilt or threats?”
“No.” Raymond threw up his hands. “Don’t be so literal, Allison. I’m just saying that’s the pattern. It starts with an innocuous request, and then the guilt and threats start. Before you know it, you and you
r parents are sucked dry.” He sat back. “Take my advice. Say no now.”
Allison considered his words. She looked down at her hands, stretched out before her. Her mind flitted to the brown envelope now sitting, open, in her glove compartment. Guilt and threats. She understood.
When Allison spoke, her voice was firm. “Give her two thousand. From my account. Tell her if she wants more, she needs to contact me directly.”
Raymond, clearly sensing his client had made up her mind, nodded. He was wise enough to withhold further counsel. That was another thing Allison liked about him.
Allison shut the door to her car against a bitter, driving wind. She watched Raymond drive away in his old-model Miata, carefully restored, buffed and waxed, before reaching into the glove compartment and removing the envelope. She pulled open the clasp and carefully tugged the three papers from inside their resting place. She stared at them once again, feeling nauseous.
The first document was a picture, or, rather, a photocopy of a picture. It was of her and Scott in an embrace. They were nude, and the camera caught her in semi-profile. She could see the outline of one breast, the curve of her buttocks and the hollow behind one knee. Scott’s face was visible, and the bastard was staring right at the camera, or where the camera must have been. Allison recognized his townhouse, she recognized his bedroom, but she had never, ever consented to be photographed. Anger, shame, and something she recognized as slowly boiling rage filled her.
She flipped to the second picture. This was of the two of them at Thirtieth Street Station, just weeks ago. Scott was standing at the top of the stairs, beckoning to her. She was looking back. Her eyes were hooded with what looked like sadness, as though they were parting lovers. But in actuality, that had been concern and surprise on her face. Their encounter had been innocent, but someone had made it look tawdry. Why?
The last document was the most frightening. It was a plain piece of white paper, 9 ½ x 11. Someone had typed the words “SLUT” on it, above that was a perfectly round hole outlined in blood red marker. The meaning was not lost on Allison. A bullet hole. A threat. Crudely done, almost juvenile, but the effect was terrifying nonetheless. Shame, guilt, and threats. Only whoever sent this to her didn’t want money. They wanted silence. But silence about what?
Allison arrived home to the scent of garlic and the sight of her ex-husband-now-boyfriend, Jason, and former mother-in-law, Mia, in the kitchen. Jason was stirring something red in a blue Dutch oven and Mia was slicing what looked like home baked bread. Allison worked her face into a smile and hugged them both.
“Dinner in fifteen, Allison?” Jason smiled. He still wore his suit pants, slim-tailored against athletic legs, but had traded his button down shirt and tie for a frayed Penn t-shirt. A black apron, the words “Men BBQ’ing” emblazoned on the front, was tied around his waist. Mia wore jeans and a red cotton cardigan, but the lipstick and subtle scent of Chanel said someone else was joining them. That, and the fourth place setting.
Thinking of the envelope and what she would say if he asked, Allison said, “Where’s Vaughn?”
Mother and son looked at each other. “He’s not coming,” Mia said.
“Oh? Then who gets the fourth spot?”
Brutus, who had been following her around since she arrived, now stuck his nose firmly in her crotch, then stood back and barked. He wanted a treat. Now. Allison opened the cookie jar that held his dog biscuits and kept her eye on Mia. But it was Jason who spoke.
“I suggested Mom invite Svengetti over so we could meet him.”
Mia said, “And he happened to be in town.”
Happened, huh? Allison couldn’t help the little niggle of relief—and guilt. No Vaughn meant no questions. “Of course. I’ll go wash up.”
“So, Allison, you’re the Main Line’s answer to Nancy Drew.” Thomas Svengetti’s joking tone and warm smile softened the words, but given the day’s events, Allison had to control a shiver. Thomas Svengetti, a former federal agent for the IRS, had been involved when Allison’s clients went missing the year before. He’d been Mia’s contact though, and Allison had never met him in person. The man sitting across from her now was tall, trim and broad-shouldered. A thick head of graying brown hair and a trimmed salt and pepper beard softened an otherwise bony face. Inquisitive blue eyes probed her own.
Allison looked down at her salad and ran the tines of her fork across a narrow wedge of limp tomato. She smiled, but only because Svengetti expected her to. She said, “So what brings you to Philadelphia, Thomas?”
Svengetti smiled. “Mia.”
Allison glanced at Mia with surprise. Was something going on between these two? Mia and Vaughn had been together for some time now. First friends, then more, they were the best kind of friends with benefits. It seemed out of character for Mia to do something so blatantly hurtful, and Allison felt a wave of protectiveness for her business manager and friend.
“Residual stuff for the Benini situation,” Mia said quickly, referring to last year’s missing client. “I’m helping Thomas tie up some loose ends.”
Svengetti nodded.
“And I may have some questions for you, too, Allison. If that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Allison said, relieved. The Benini affair was something she wanted to put behind her, but if her information could somehow help Tammy Edwards, her other former client who had gone missing last year, she’d do what she could.
Brutus nudged Allison’s leg under the table. She grabbed a crouton from her plate and handed it to the dog, who gobbled it as though his last meal hadn’t been twenty minutes ago. She wiped his slobber on her napkin, thinking how far they’d come. Just a few years ago, she’d been terrified of dogs. And just a few years ago, Brutus had been a stray.
“You’re not supposed to give him table food,” Jason said.
Allison dismissed him with a wave of her hand. She wasn’t supposed to—hadn’t the trainer said that?—but how could she resist that face? Her Boxer had a severe under bite and a big, jowly head, truly a face only a mother could love. Brutus thanked her with a slobbery kiss and an adoring gaze that made her smile.
Jason was about to say something else when the phone rang. Allison sprung out of her seat before Jason could beat her to it. She picked up the kitchen handheld, her gut tightening. But it was only Raymond Obermeier, her accountant.
Willing her pulse to slow down, Allison said, “You called to say you found some missing money and I’m now a millionaire?” The joke fell flat, even to her own ears.
“I’m afraid not.”
His voice was tight, and Allison stood a little straighter. “What is it, Raymond?”
“Your sister, Amy. She wants to meet you.”
“When?”
A pause. “Now.”
FOUR
The Murray Motel was a one-story, u-shaped box with pink stucco siding and peeling white shutters. It sat on the outskirts of Norristown, surrounded by a half-empty parking lot and abutted by a derelict apartment complex on one side and a pawn shop on the other. The motel’s office advertised clean rooms rented by the hour, night, week and month. A woman stood outside the office. Her four-inch heels and royal blue skirt, hiked up high on a skinny-flabby thigh, suggested she was looking for the hourly rental. She gave Allison and Jason a hazy, hopeful stare and then looked quickly away.
Allison felt Jason’s grip on her arm tighten. “Are you sure this is the place?”
Allison nodded. “Room one-twenty-three.”
Allison walked briskly. Each room had a small porch and one white plastic chair. Despite the bitter cold, they passed two male occupants sitting outside, cigarette smoke wafting from dark, gnarled fingers. One nodded at Allison; the other eyed them warily.
The room next to Amy’s was dark. Sirens wailed in the distance. The air smelled of cigarettes and fuel. Allison squared her shoulders, and with a quick glance
at Jason, knocked. It’d been nearly fifteen years since she’d seen her baby sister, fifteen years since Amy ran away from home, a seventeen-year-old with fire in her blood and lust in her heart. She’d disappeared with a boyfriend and was gone for two endless years. She showed up at twenty, while Allison was in graduate school, looking for a place to sleep and money, and then disappeared again, taking her parents’ savings and her mother’s engagement ring with her. Radio silence ever since.
Until now.
Allison raised her hand to knock again when the door flung open. Now gaunt and hollow-eyed, Amy’s once thick, blond tresses had been replaced by a greasy mass of lifeless brown. Amy held her finger to her lips. She grabbed a coat from somewhere inside the darkened room and stepped outside.
“Baby’s sleeping.”
Baby? Alarmed, Allison looked to Jason and saw her concern reflected in his eyes. But if Amy noticed their apprehension, she didn’t let on.
“She’s five, but I still call her a baby.” Amy smiled wistfully, and in that smile Allison saw the sister of her childhood: always rebellious, and a little regretful after the fact. “Name’s Grace.” Amy drew a cigarette out of the breast pocket of her coat. She held the pack out to Allison, then Jason, both of whom shook their heads. With a shrug, Amy lit up. She took a deep inhalation, letting the smoke out in concentric circles, and seemed intent on watching those rings disappear into the night.
“Grace’s daddy’s got religion. I figured if I named her Grace, he’d leave his wife and come with us.” Another shrug. “Didn’t work, though. He saw it as a sign from God that he should repent and confess to his wife. She forgave him, but made him swear never to see me or Gracie again.”
Allison didn’t know what to say. She had a niece. For five years now, she’d had a niece, and never had any idea. She thought of her parents, their joyless life and her mother’s suffering. It would mean so much to them to have a grandchild to dote on. And Faye—did she know?
