Dying Brand

by Wendy Tyson

  “I won’t take up much of your time. I’m still trying to understand what happened to Scott and—”

  “Sounds like you never got over my brother.”

  “To the contrary,” Allison said. “I hadn’t thought of him in years. Until…until Leah called me, after he was killed.”

  Mark waved his hand dismissively. “Leah. He should never have married her. Scott should never have married anyone. He wasn’t meant for that life.”

  “Because of his philandering ways?”

  “Because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, to put it simply.” Mark smiled. “My brother had a thing for women. I’m afraid being his wife wasn’t easy.”

  “Is that why she was here?”

  Mark’s facial expression hardened. “What do you want, Allison?”

  Allison studied the man before her. It was hard to believe he was Scott’s brother. Where Scott had been all hard angles and muscle, Mark was soft and squishy. He may have been attractive once, but his jowly face, red nose and beady eyes gave him the look of a longtime alcoholic.

  “The police have arrested three boys for your brother’s murder.”

  Mark nodded. “And?”

  “Do you believe they did it?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You told me before he wasn’t into drugs.”

  “I also told you he was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. I still believe that.”

  Allison cocked her head. “What would Scott have been doing on that block on that morning?”

  Mark sat back, stretched his arms over his head. “How the hell would I know? A hooker? Lost? But clearly he was. And it got him killed.”

  Allison wasn’t buying it. “Scott’s latest fling, a woman named Eleanor Davies, is missing. Did you know her, Mark?”

  “Did I know her? No. Did I know of her? Yes. My brother was rather fond of Eleanor, at least in the carnal sense. She had, shall we say, few boundaries.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Scott told me a lot of things.”

  “Is it possible that Eleanor had your brother murdered, Mark?”

  Mark laughed, a hearty, mean laugh. “Are you joking? Why would his girlfriend want him dead?”

  “I don’t know.” And that was the sad truth of it, Allison realized. She didn’t know. She had just come here hoping something would connect for her, that her intuition would begin sending off alarms. Her mobile buzzed, indicating a text, but Allison ignored it. “Maybe he’d recently ended the relationship and she hadn’t accepted that well.”

  “So she killed him for revenge?” Mark scowled. “I don’t think so.” Mark leaned in and, from across the desk, Allison could smell onions on his breath. “Why are you really here, Allison?”

  “I just told you why I’m really here. Lingering questions. That’s all.”

  “You can’t let go.”

  “Of Scott? I let go long ago. Of a need for the truth?” Allison looked away. Her mind wandered to Jason, to her sister’s daughter, to a cat left out in the cold. “No, I suppose I can’t.”

  “Then I am going to tell you something very important. Scott was a no-good bastard. He didn’t care about his family, including me, and he especially didn’t give a rat’s ass about his wife. The only thing he cared about, really cared about, was his job. Things were slipping, he was getting heat, and he made stupid decisions based on that. He succumbed to the pressure.”

  The disgusted look on Mark’s face told Allison exactly what he thought of people who succumbed to the pressure.

  “For what? That’s what I can’t wrap my arms around.” And why the photos, Allison thought, why send them now? But she couldn’t share that. Not with Mark, of all people.

  “He was human.”

  “The job—was it too much for him? You were the matchmaker for the position. Did you have doubts?”

  Mark sat back. “I’m the older brother. Do you know what it’s like to see a younger sibling make bad choices again and again and be helpless at stopping them?”

  Indeed, Allison did, but that was something else she wouldn’t say.

  “That’s how it was with Scott. He had such talent: good looks, charisma, brains. But he always did something to screw it up.”

  Something in the way Mark spoke caused Allison to wonder whether his brother’s shortcomings were less a reason for concern than a source of self-worth. As long as his brother made bad choices, Mark could be the better person and have something to lord over him.

  “So yeah, I had doubts,” Mark said. “Scott had screwed up at his last job. He had a series of extramarital affairs that could have ended poorly. And my ass was on the line with this job, too. I’m the one who convinced Brad Halloway to hire him in the first place.”

  “You and Brad are friendly?” Somehow Allison couldn’t see it.

  That stopped Mark. “You know him?”

  “Yes. He helped me with some charity work years ago.”

  Mark looked at her over steepled fingers.

  “Really. Wouldn’t have guessed that.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The bottom line is my brother was a fuck-up, plain and simple. And now he’s dead. There’s a moral there, but I’m still trying to figure out what that moral is.”

  Mark’s desk phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said and answered it. “Sure, come up,” he said into the receiver. To Allison, he said, “My son.”

  Allison rose, happy for the exit strategy. “I appreciate your time.”

  “I didn’t tell you anything new.”

  “It all helps.” And it did. Allison felt like maybe buried in this discussion was a nugget or two that might offer some insight. “If you hear from Eleanor, please give her my number.” Allison passed her card. “I have her cat.”

  Mark smiled.

  “Perfect. You have her p—”

  “No,” Allison didn’t let him finish. “Don’t do that. None of this is a joke, Mark. None of it.”

  Mark looked offended. Before he could fire back, the glass door opened and Mark’s son, Shawn, walked in. His jeans were covered in bright splotches of paint, and a forest green hoody was ripped at the cuffs. He carried a large leather art portfolio in one hand and a camera bag across his shoulder. He stopped short when he saw Allison.

  “Didn’t know you had company, Dad.”

  “She’s leaving.”

  Allison nodded to the younger Fairweather. “That, I am.”

  Allison headed toward the door, aware of two sets of eyes on her back. She wasn’t sure which of the Fairweather men made her more uncomfortable, Mark or Shawn. Happy she didn’t have to choose, she walked back into the night.

  The text was from Mia. Call me immediately. Allison did but got no answer. In frustration, she checked her email. Nothing from Mia, but Delvar had sent her a note. In it, he’d attached the guest list for the award celebration. Hope you find what you need, he’d written. Let’s lunch soon. The attachment was hard to read on her phone, so Allison saved it for later. She got back on the road, dreading a trip to a Jason-less house. Feeling sorry for herself, she put on some Jack Johnson and let herself feel mellow. She needed to think. She needed a plan.

  About twenty minutes into the drive, her phone rang. Mia.

  Mia said, “Thomas found two addresses. Both properties belong to Doris Ann Long, originally of Connecticut. Your tip about her interest in guns was the answer. She’d created an LLC a few years ago, probably to shield herself from liability. Shrewd woman. Really hasn’t used the company since. She has no losses or income.”

  “Two addresses?”

  “One’s in Connecticut—maybe her childhood home?—and the other is in Maine. Rural Maine. I just texted you the addresses. The Maine location may be hard to find. A quick Google Maps search showed that it’s somewhere inland, off the mid-coast.”


  “Was Svengetti able to tell where Doris currently lives?”

  “He thinks it’s the Maine address. The other is listed as a rental property, although she hasn’t claimed any rental income in some time. I bring it up because it’s possible Eleanor is staying there.”

  Allison considered her options. She had a fairly open day tomorrow, and Jason wouldn’t be home anyway. But if Eleanor was there, that could spell danger. After the last encounter with danger, she was in no mood for more violence.

  “Can you watch Brutus and Simon the cat?”

  “Promise me you’re not going alone.”

  “I’ll take Vaughn, if he can go.”

  “Then yes, I’ll watch the animals.” Mia hesitated, and Allison picked up on the undercurrent of maternal concern. She was grateful, but she’d been down this path before and trusted herself to do it again. “You promised,” Mia said eventually, “that this would be the last avenue. There is no guarantee that Eleanor will be with Doris Long. If Eleanor is a dead end, no pun intended, you stop.”

  Allison was slow to respond. She had promised, though, and she would keep her word. And Mia was right: there were no guarantees. But she had a hunch, and she was also learning to trust her hunches. “You’re right,” she said. “If I don’t have any luck with Eleanor, I will put this whole issue to bed. Pinky swear.”

  Vaughn wasn’t available.

  “Sorry, Allison,” he said, sounding genuinely upset. “Duty calls. I told Mrs. T to go home early, she has some family stuff going on, and now it’s Jamie and me for the night.”

  “That’s okay,” Allison said. She’d just fed Brutus and Simon and left detailed instructions for Mia on the kitchen island. Her bag was packed, and she was ready to go. “What does tomorrow look like?”

  “Just wait a minute, okay?”

  While she held, Allison watched Brutus and Simon. Brutus was licking the cat’s face, one eye on her, one on the cat’s leftover food. Her heart swelled with affection for that dog. He’d been in her life for less than two years, but when she considered how terrified she had been of dogs, of anyone or anything that needed her so totally, she realized she owed him a debt of gratitude. “A whole box of treats when I get back,” she told him. “And a new toy.”

  She could have sworn Brutus smiled.

  “I’m back,” Vaughn said. “I was hoping Angela could come tonight but she’s away. Chicago. She’ll be here in the morning, though. We could leave then.”

  Allison wanted to get an early start. If she left now, she could at least see if the Connecticut house was a non-starter, as Mia seemed to suspect.

  “How about this,” she said. “I’ll head to the Connecticut house tonight. If it’s not occupied, there’s no sense in wasting time. Then you can meet me in Maine. Also, I’m going to forward you the list of attendees at Delvar’s award ceremony. Can you ask Jamie to cross-reference it against Scott’s co-workers at Transitions?”

  “Sure.” Vaughn hesitated. “Wait for me before you go into either house. If the Connecticut house is promising, wait for me there. Please don’t go in alone.”

  Allison was hopeful, but her instincts said the Connecticut house wouldn’t be promising. “I will,” she said. “I reserved two rooms at a little hotel in Maine, about five miles from Doris’s residence. I’ll email you the details. If you don’t hear from me otherwise, meet me there tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Okay,” Vaughn said. He didn’t sound sure, but Allison wasn’t going to give him time to change his mind. She hung up with a “thank you” and reached for her coat. Brutus glared at her balefully. “You know I’m leaving, huh boy?”

  Brutus put his head between his paws, holding her gaze. Simon was now asleep beside him.

  The last thing Allison did before leaving was to call Jason. He didn’t answer, and she hadn’t expected him to. “I love you,” she said. And then, at a loss for words, “That’s all I called to say.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It was after midnight when Allison arrived in New Haven. She made due with a Motel 6 off the highway and climbed into her queen-size bed. Her body ached. It struck her that in her desire to get on the road, she’d failed to bring her Fairweather file with her. No matter. If she met Eleanor, she could articulate her questions without the information she’d gathered. It was all in her head.

  She lay down, thinking of what she’d ask and how she would approach the other woman. Allison should be a pro at this. Instead, she felt anxious and jittery, ready for it to be over.

  Silently, she cursed whoever had been sending those photographs, especially the one sent to Jason. He was hurt, she knew that, and it tore at her soul.

  Maybe he’s better off if I just walk away, Allison thought.

  She realized that the mere concept of life without Jason was maddening. She wanted more. And she would wait until he was ready and could trust her again. It was her turn to be patient. If he opted out, it would be devastating. But how could she blame him?

  Outside, a steady drizzle tapped the window. Between the rain, her nerves and the traffic sounds emanating from along Route I-95, Allison couldn’t sleep.

  She considered her conversation with Mark Fairweather. Something about him and his son, Shawn, struck her as particularly odd, but she couldn’t say exactly what. It was as though some element of that meeting had clung to the edges of her psyche like toilet paper on a shoe. She couldn’t quite see it, nor could she shake it.

  It was hours before her eyes got heavy enough to close. Just as she was drifting off to sleep, she heard her phone. The insistent buzz, buzz became interwoven with her dreams, and instead of answering the call, she saw a colorful parade of images in her mind’s eye: Jason, Mia and baby Grace, all staring at her, accusing her, against the backdrop of a vast construction scene. None of it made sense, and Allison’s final thought before the bliss of unconsciousness took over was that she’d better wake up. Someone was in trouble.

  Vaughn was ready to go by seven the next morning. He’d packed clothes for every contingency: a winter coat (wasn’t Maine cold? He’d never been there), hiking boots, and even a coat for Allison, in case she’d run out of her house before thinking through what she’d really need. His boss was level-headed and calm under pressure, but she also became almost a savant when chasing a trail, all focus and limited common sense. It was his job to make sure the details were secured.

  Vaughn checked in on Jamie. He was in bed, sound asleep. Vaughn knew his brother had been up late, researching Transitions and Scott Fairweather and tracking down the names on that list Allison had received from Delvar. He’d been unusually quiet, and Vaughn had no idea of what Jamie had found, if anything. His brother was as dogged about following a trail as Allison was. And Jamie was usually reluctant to speak until he’d pieced together what he thought was a rational picture.

  So they would wait until Jamie was ready.

  At 7:30, Vaughn started to get restless. Angela was supposed to have flown in from Chicago last night. She should be here by now.

  He forced himself to make some toast and sit down for breakfast. She’d be here. And until then, Allison would be fine.

  Allison was up by eight. After a brief and unsatisfying shower—lukewarm water and weak pressure—she dressed quickly in jeans and a black wool turtleneck sweater. It was still drizzling out, and the sky looked overcast and angry. It would be an unpleasant drive, especially if the rain turned to snow or sleet as she headed north.

  She quickly packed her bag. She was pulling a few bills out of her wallet to leave for the cleaning staff when she remembered her phone. A few seconds of wishful thinking—maybe it had been Vaughn with news from Jamie—were quashed when she glanced at the caller ID. A number she didn’t recognize.

  The caller left a message, one she listened to with a heavy heart.

  Amy had signed herself out of treatment AMA. Against medical ad
vice.

  The administrator who called said they had also contacted Faye because they believed Amy’s first stop would be to get her daughter. Allison called the center back. They were recommending Grace stay with relatives until child protective services could be called in. They had concerns about her safety given Amy’s erratic behavior and lifestyle choices.

  A call to Faye went unanswered.

  Allison sat down on the bed. This was bad news, for her sister and her niece. For all of them. Could things get any worse?

  Retract that, Allison thought hastily. Experience had told her that things could always get worse.

  By eight-fifteen Vaughn was worried. He called Angela’s phone again and got no answer. Jamie was still asleep, but he couldn’t be left alone. If something happened, Vaughn would never forgive himself. He toyed with calling Mrs. T but opted not to. She needed time with her husband right now. Angela would come through. He had to have faith. In the meantime, Allison was a smart woman. She would be fine.

  Allison stared at the building before her. It was a three-story house on the outskirts of New Haven, in a neighborhood that had once been solidly middle class but was now what some might call ghetto. It was clear no one was living here on any legitimate, permanent basis. The front door was shuttered closed and a condemnation notice had been posted on it next to a “No Trespassing” sign. The windows in the front, too, were boarded up. A broad front porch was covered in leaves and litter. The small yard in front of the house was overgrown with thistle and Johnson grass. Allison thought about going door-to-door, but a glance around changed her mind. Most of the houses were in similar states of disrepair.

  Allison climbed out of the Volvo and locked the doors. A peek through the boards hammered to one of the front windows revealed an empty living room. Hardwood floors had been swept bare. Such a shame, she thought. High ceilings, nice floors, old trim. This could have been a beautiful residence. Instead…decay.