by Wendy Tyson
“So he’s violent,” Allison said. “We knew that, though. His temper, his behavior with his grandmother.”
Vaughn grabbed his empty cup and stood. “Yes, but what we didn’t know before was the steps Edith had taken to rehabilitate him. Ever heard of Wilderness Journeys?”
Allison shook her head.
“It’s like Outward Bound, a leadership program for teens that focuses on survival skills and wilderness adventure. Only Wilderness Journeys takes some tough kids, kids other programs may not accept. Fire setters, rapists, the whole lot.”
“How do they manage that?”
“Counselors include trained corrections officers, former cops and military personnel. Plus, they hire people skilled at adventure travel. Hikers, climbers, etc. Some volunteer, others are paid. It’s a church-based charity that has some heavy-duty benefactors.”
“Okay, you have my attention,” Allison said. “Duane attended this program?”
“According to Kaneesha, he was there five years ago, when he was fourteen.”
Allison narrowed her eyes. “And you think he may have had something to do with Scott’s murder?”
“I think one of three things is going on. Edith and her grandson could be running scared because they pointed fingers at those boys. Gangs don’t take kindly to narks, and the pair could be justified in running.”
“Or?”
“Duane saw something he shouldn’t have and ran.”
“Or?”
“Duane killed Scott.”
Allison sat down. She was weighing all of the information she’d learned from the prostitute against what she was hearing now. “Okay, even if this is true and it was Duane who pulled the trigger, not those boys, other than corroborating what the prostitute told me, it still doesn’t explain some of the other discrepancies.” Like who is sending the damn pictures?
“It does if someone paid Duane to murder Scott Fairweather.”
“Someone who knew his background.”
Vaughn smiled. “Someone who met him at Wilderness Journeys. Someone like Eleanor Davies.”
“Eleanor?” Allison quickly added up the information she’d heard from Mia with this new bit of news. “You think Eleanor knows Duane?”
Vaughn nodded. “I had Jamie do some research. Duane’s records are sealed, but going by the information Kaneesha gave me, it looks like the two were part of the so-called Southwest Adventure almost five years ago. Kaneesha said Duane was in the United States, and the other adventure that year took place in the Canadian Rockies.
“Eleanor helped design the program and procure resources. Jamie said that information was available online. She was also an ‘adventure counselor’ during the southwest trip. I am making connections here, but it sounds like she may have had the opportunity to get to know Duane pretty well. Small staff-to-kid ratio.”
“Where was she living?”
“Not sure. The trip started in Wyoming and meandered south. Mostly Utah and Colorado.”
Wyoming? “Eleanor owns a rental property in Wyoming.” Allison filled Vaughn in on what Mia had shared, careful not to mention Thomas Svengetti. Her friend was not dumb, however.
“I guess Mia contacted Svengetti?” he asked.
Allison nodded. “He started with tax records and followed the trail. Eleanor is looking more and more interesting.”
“Good work.” Only Vaughn didn’t sound like he thought it was good work. “We know a lot more than we did.”
“What we know is that Eleanor has money and at one time worked for Wilderness Journeys. The rest is conjecture. But it all makes a certain sense. A woman who is willing to bend the rules for profit may be willing to proposition a boy who was once in her care.”
“A woman who is willing to proposition a boy who was once in her care may be capable of murder.” Vaughn frowned. “This is not someone you should be chasing on your own. Maybe it’s time to involve the police.”
“Tried that.” Allison shared her conversation with Detective Berry. “I need something more concrete than conjecture and circumstantial evidence next time I talk to him. Plus, none of this is tied to Scott. We need to tie it to Scott.”
“Infidelities.”
Allison considered this. “I don’t know. If Scott had debt issues, and we haven’t found any real evidence that he did, how would blackmailing Scott over his affairs have resulted in over a hundred grand being placed in Eleanor’s account?”
“Maybe that’s why he was in debt. She was blackmailing him.”
“I don’t know.” Allison picked up a pen and drew squiggly lines across a piece of yellow, lined paper. “Why kill the source of your income?”
“Maybe he was going to blow a whistle on something she did. That could be motive for murder,” Vaughn said. “Or Leah Fairweather, in a fit of jealous rage, could have had him killed.”
“But that doesn’t work if the connection between Duane and Scott is Eleanor Davies.”
“True.”
Both were quiet for a moment. Allison was thinking through all they knew—about Scott, about his affairs, and about Eleanor Davies. A woman who would leave her cat behind.
Allison said, “Clearly Eleanor knows something. Whether she did it or not, she could be key. The money, the Wilderness Journey connection, her torrid affair with Scott. We need to find her.”
Allison tossed the pen aside and stood. When she glanced down at her doodles, she noticed she had unconsciously written the word “whoring” on the page. It struck her that there were many ways to be a whore. One could sell one’s body for money, but one could also sell one’s soul. And there were lots of venues in which to sell a soul, not all of them seedy.
“Can you ask Jamie for another favor?” Allison asked.
“Sure.”
“Ask him to look again at the spin-off of Transitions from Diamond Brands. Follow the money trail: who profited, who didn’t.”
“Are you thinking Eleanor may have been involved?”
“Worth a look.”
Vaughn nodded. “Where are you headed next?”
“To prostitute myself.”
When Vaughn looked at her funny, Allison smiled. “I’m heading to see Scott’s brother, Mark. He’s a quid pro quo kind of guy.”
On her way back into the city to visit Mark Fairweather’s office, Allison called her sister’s rehab center. As with every other time she’d called, a perky nurse told her no, she couldn’t speak to Amy—protocol—and yes, her sister was doing well. So well, in fact, that the center might agree with Amy’s request to an early discharge with follow-up appointments and family counseling.
“Well, I’m her family,” Allison had said.
“Yes, and we’ll reach out when we have a discharge plan in place.”
“What about her daughter, Grace?”
“She will be a critical part of the discharge plan.”
“Shouldn’t Amy have a few meetings with Grace beforehand to see how she handles them? What if she regresses when she’s with Grace?”
“Ms. Campbell?”
Allison forced herself to sound calmer. “Yes?”
“You can’t be expected to be objective. This is your sister, your niece.” The nurse paused for effect. “Please leave this to the professionals.”
Allison hung up, dissatisfied and worried. The feelings didn’t go away when she pulled up to Mark Fairweather’s office and parked in the nearby garage. It was nearly seven-thirty, but a call to Mark’s home was answered by an annoyed wife who confirmed that Mark would be there until late tonight. So Allison expected to find Mark Fairweather. She didn’t expect to find him at the office with Leah Fairweather.
Allison was buzzed into the office by the man himself. He smiled a snake’s grin when he saw her, and opened the glass door to his office, which was nestled into the fifth floor of a
building on Seventeenth and Market. There, Allison saw Leah Fairweather hunched in a chair, her face splotchy and tear-stained.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Allison said before Mark held up his hand.
“It’s fine, Allison. Leah was just getting ready to go.” He turned to his sister-in-law. “Weren’t you, Leah?”
Leah stared at Mark for a pregnant minute before unfurling her long body. She was wearing brown dress pants and a beige linen button down shirt. Neither had been pressed and both needed it badly. Worse, her hair was unwashed and unkempt, and the shadows that had encircled her eyes the last time Allison saw her looked like rings of black crayon now. Despite her dislike for Scott’s widow, Allison felt a frisson of sympathy course through her.
“I really don’t want to interrupt,” Allison said and backed out into the corridor.
This time it was Leah who stopped her. “We really are finished.” Leah glanced back at Mark, her eyes hot pokers. “Clearly, I’m not going to get what I came for.”
And what was that? Allison wondered.
Seconds later, Leah was gone and Allison was left alone with Mark.
“What do you have for me?” Vaughn asked Jamie. His brother was in his wheelchair by his desk, staring intently at one of the computer screens. Mrs. T was on tonight, although she seemed quieter than usual. Vaughn was used to coming home to the rich smells of Mrs. T’s cooking and her broad smile. Instead, she’d nodded hello and retreated to a scentless kitchen.
NOT MUCH YET.
“Hey, what did you do to Mrs. T?”
NOTHING THAT I KNOW OF. SHE’S BEEN LIKE THAT SINCE SHE ARRIVED.
“Did you ask her if everything was okay?”
COULDN’T. SHE WOULDN’T PAY ATTENTION TO THE DAMN SCREEN LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET THE QUESTION OUT.
“No worries. I’ll ask her,” Vaughn said. “But first, how can I help?”
Jamie shook his head. YOU CAN’T. I’M ON THE SEC’S WEBSITE, GIVING MYSELF A CRASH COURSE IN SECURITIES FILINGS. LOTS OF INFORMATION ON THESE 8-Ks. JUST NEED TO KNOW WHERE TO LOOK.
“You’re looking into Transitions and Diamond Brands?”
YES, AND SCOTT’S PREVIOUS EMPLOYERS. CURIOUS AS TO WHY HE LEFT THE LAST PLACE. Jamie removed his mouth from the controller and looked up at Vaughn. YOU KNOW I THINK THE WORLD OF ALLISON, he said, BUT SHE MAY BE OFF ON THIS ONE. I’VE READ THE NEWS REPORTS, I’VE LOOKED INTO SCOTT’S BACKGROUND. EVEN BY HER OWN ADMISSION, THE GUY WAS A SEX ADDICT. ADDICTIVE TENDENCIES CAN ENCOMPASS OTHER BEHAVIORS: DRUGS, MONEY, EVEN THRILLS.
“So you think the police got it right?”
I THINK THIS ONE MAY BE AS SIMPLE AS IT SEEMS.
“How do you explain Eleanor and Wilderness Journeys? Or the photographs?”
THE SIMPLE EXPLANATION IS THAT ELEANOR WAS CAUGHT UP IN WHATEVER SCOTT WAS. SHE’S WORRIED ABOUT SHARING HIS FATE, SO SHE RAN. AS FOR HER CONNECTION WITH DUANE? TENUOUS AND UNPROVEN. AND DUANE AND HIS GRANDMOTHER MAY HAVE LEFT FOR THE SAME REASON—FEAR. TURNING EVIDENCE ON GANG MEMBERS? BAD FOR LONGEVITY.
“How about Eleanor’s sister? How do you explain her murder?”
THAT’S A LITTLE HARDER. THE BEST EXPLANATIONS IN MY MIND ARE THAT EITHER SOMEONE MISTOOK HER FOR ELEANOR OR THAT IT WAS A RANDOM KILLING, UNRELATED TO SCOTT’S DEATH.
“None of that explains the photographs.”
MAYBE SCOTT SENT THEM BEFORE HIS DEATH. HE INTENDED TO BLACKMAIL ALLISON AND THE OTHER WOMAN. THAT’S WHY HE WANTED TO TALK TO ALLISON. HE NEVER GOT THAT FAR, THOUGH. HE WAS KILLED BEFORE HE COULD. ELEANOR MAY HAVE EVEN BEEN PART OF THAT SCHEME.
“But the pictures were sent after he died.”
SO MAYBE IT WAS ELEANOR. BEST GUESS? SCOTT WANTED TO MEET WITH ALLISON AS PART OF THE BLACKMAIL SCHEME—THAT’S WHY HER NAME WAS IN HIS APPOINTMENT BOOK. ELEANOR’S JUST COMPLETING WHAT HE COULDN’T FINISH.
Vaughn shook his head. “Only there haven’t been any blackmail notes. No demands for money, no demands for anything.”
MAYBE THEY HAVEN’T BEEN SENT YET.
Vaughn sat down on the loveseat by Jamie’s bed. His brother made a certain sense. This could all be wrapped up pretty neatly without any grand scheme. But some things still didn’t compute. The dots could be connected, but the figure they were outlining remained pretty distorted. Vaughn watched his brother flip through screen after screen on his computer monitors using the mouthpiece. It struck him that his brother could have done anything had life—no, had he—not dealt Jamie the blow of losing use of his body. Smart, handsome, personable, and trapped in a useless frame. But if Jamie didn’t view his own life with such a pitiful lens, who was he to color it that way?
Yes, he had been the cause of Jamie’s undoing. But maybe it was time to let go.
Guilt and shame had driven Vaughn to succeed where he may not have. But it had also driven him to, in his own way, hide from life. That was what Mia was trying to tell him, he understood that now. She believed he was as reclusive as she, and she didn’t want to be his escape. She was letting go so that he could let go, too.
Vaughn rubbed his temples. Maybe Mia was right.
Jamie cleared his throat and Vaughn looked up.
THIS IS INTERESTING.
Vaughn stood to get a better look at the screen Jamie seemed to be focused on. All he saw were numbers and small text. Nothing jumped out at him.
THIS IS THE EARNINGS REPORT FILED BY TRANSITIONS. Jamie glanced at him. THE COMPANY REPORTED MUCH HIGHER THAN EXPECTED LOSSES IN THE FIRST TWO QUARTERS, DESPITE A 22% JUMP IN REVENUE. ITS OPERATING MARGIN IS IN THE NEGATIVES.
“English.”
THE COMPANY IS BLEEDING MONEY.
“Why?”
AT FIRST GLANCE, BECAUSE OF HEAVY INVESTMENTS IN U.S.-BASED SUPPLIERS. THIS MUST BE PART OF THEIR GREENER “MADE IN THE USA” CAMPAIGN. SCOTT’S BABY. Jamie looked troubled. ONLY SOME OF THESE NUMBERS DON’T MAKE SENSE.
He glanced at Vaughn in a way that Vaughn remembered from youth, a glance that said, I’m heading into The Zone; leave me alone.
“I’ll leave you to your deciphering,” Vaughn said. “While you read these reports, I’m gonna talk to Mrs. T and find out where our dinner is.”
Vaughn found Mrs. T at the kitchen table, her nose buried in Elizabeth George’s latest tome. She looked up.
“You startled me, Christopher,” she said, giving him a half-smile. “That Barbara Havers, she does make some dumb decisions. I do like spending time with her, though.” The older woman placed a worn marker in her book and closed the hardback. “What do you need?”
Vaughn sat down across from her. “What’s wrong?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?” She tried to look affronted by his question but couldn’t quite pull it off.
“Because you’re sitting in the kitchen reading a book, for one. Usually you’d be in there,” he motioned toward Jamie’s room, “reading to him. Secondly, I don’t smell anything. When was the last time I came home and you didn’t have some delightful concoction cooking away on the stove or in the oven?” He mock-peered into her face. “So tell me what’s wrong.”
Mrs. T sat back, looking worried. Her hair was done in neat plaits that were wrapped in a bun on her head. She was a large woman, but today she wore a soft orange dress that complemented the ebony tones in her dark skin. Despite that, she looked tired to Vaughn. Tired and sad.
“Milton is sick,” she said. “Cancer.”
Vaughn let the words sink in. “Karen.” He had never used her first name, but it seemed right in this context. He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. It felt small and soft and frail. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head slowly back and forth. “What needs done, needs done, you know that as well as I. I am giving myself exactly one day to get used to this news and then I will make sure he and I find the good in this God-awful situation. This is only a call to arms.”
Mrs. T stood. She placed her book neatly on the corner of the table and walked toward the cabinet that held the pots. “In the meantime, don’t you tell that boy what’s going on. He doesn’t need to be burdened with this at a time when he’s so happy.”
Happy? Vaughn looked at the nurse questioningly.
“Angela and Jamie are an item,” Mrs. T said. This time her smile was heartfelt. “Your brother’s in love.” She bent to pull a cast iron frying pan from the cupboard. “And if you could stop worrying that Angela is going to break that boy’s heart, maybe you could feel happy for him yourself.”
Vaughn just stared at her, too startled to speak. How did she know?
“Because he told me,” she said, reading his expression. “Don’t look so surprised, Christopher. Jamie and I talk.”
“Then you should tell him about your husband.”
“In time,” she said, now at the refrigerator. She pulled out eggs and cheese. “Once I can tell him without crying, I will. For now, let him be lost in whatever nonsense he’s researching.” She turned abruptly, her face on the verge of collapse. “And I will make you an omelet, Christopher. Not because you need it—I think I see a little fat around your middle—but because I need to do something.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you.”
Mrs. T laughed. “You always did support charity work.”
THIRTY-THREE
Mark’s office was a stark contrast from her own. Utilitarian, dirty and crowded were words Allison would have used to describe it, and that would be generous. He had a small reception area, a conference room that doubled as a law library and his own cramped office. The place smelled of Italian hoagie and stale cigarette smoke. The hoagie smell came from the crumpled wax paper in the trashcan, presumably Mark’s dinner remnants, and the cigarette smell emanated from the man before her.
Mark folded himself into a chair in the meeting room. “Sit. Talk. Unburden yourself.”
