Icing Allison

by Pamela Burford

  Bingo. I was in.

  It took a moment for my mind to register it. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen in place, as if one wrong move could undo what I’d worked so hard to accomplish. “I don’t believe it,” I breathed.

  I was looking at a list of files contained on the flash drive, a couple of dozen of them. The file extension indicated they were videos. A stab of alarm shot through me. Please don’t let these be sex tapes, I mentally pleaded. But I’d come too far to abandon this project without even checking them out. Within seconds I was viewing the first video, dated the previous June.

  At first I saw only an upholstered chair, the same easy chair Nick had occupied earlier that day in Allison’s office. Then I saw a female figure from the back as she moved from the camera to the chair and sat on it, tucking her feet under her. It was Allison Zaleski. She wore a summer nightgown. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her lovely face, free of makeup, appeared sad, almost drawn.

  At first she simply stared into the camera lens. As the seconds dragged on, I sensed her mental struggle. She didn’t know how to begin. Finally she said, “I can only do this if I’m talking to you, Jim. You’re the only one I was ever able to open up to. Even Mitchell...” She looked away briefly as if fighting to govern her emotions.

  When she once more faced the camera, she said, “I buried him three weeks ago today. I never thought I’d find someone to love, I mean truly love, after you. Please don’t be jealous. If I hadn’t lost you so long ago... well, the whole trajectory of my life would’ve been different, wouldn’t it?”

  I knew I should turn off the video at this point. Allison no doubt meant for this to be kept private. She certainly hadn’t meant for me to view it. I can’t say why I felt compelled to continue watching. My motive wasn’t voyeurism. As soon as she’d started speaking, I felt an undeniable connection.

  “Mitchell’s daughter, Brenda...” Allison shook her head sadly. “I tried so hard with her. She and Mitchell had been estranged since he divorced her mother. She blamed him, of course. This is going back decades. I thought I could help heal the rift. Brenda and Lou have three kids, and Mitchell barely knew them, barely knew his own grandchildren.”

  I thought about Brenda Yates, whom I’d met earlier at the reception. We’d engaged in a little small talk. Brenda was a part-time bookkeeper for a group of doctors. I sensed she hated the job. She and Lou had three kids, all under the age of eight.

  “I managed to get them together a few times,” Allison said. “Birthdays, Christmas, that sort of thing. Mitchell was hopeful at first, that he could finally have a relationship with his daughter, his grandchildren. Brenda, though, she just kept this wall up, accused him of trying to buy her children’s affection with presents. God knows what she was telling the kids about us when we weren’t around. They never did warm to him. Or to me, but that would take a miracle, considering how Brenda feels about me.”

  Allison gave an incredulous shake of the head. “You’re not going to believe this, Jim. She thinks I killed him. Brenda thinks I murdered her father.”

  My heart banged. This was taking an ugly turn.

  “We were hiking in this gorgeous forest upstate.” Her voice was husky with emotion. “Mitchell... he wanted me to take his picture in front of this steep ravine. It would have been a spectacular shot—the trees, the stream. The sky was startlingly blue. I was about to take the picture when he backed up suddenly. He must not have realized how close he was to the edge. He lost his footing and—” She broke off, with her hand over her mouth.

  My eyes filled. What a horrible way to lose your spouse.

  As I watched, Allison composed herself. “Brenda claims I pushed him. She even tried to get the police involved. The way she sees it, I married a much older man for his money. Mind you, she didn’t concoct this accusation until after she found out he left everything to me. Although how she could’ve expected to inherit anything after pushing him away for more than twenty years is a mystery.” She looked pensive. “His grandchildren, though, they had nothing to do with that.”

  Allison was silent for a minute. I watched her expression gradually soften. “There’s this guy. No, that doesn’t sound right. He’s not... It’s not like that. Not so soon after... He’s just this sweet guy I met while taking pictures at this old-timey restoration village. It’s a bunch of old buildings that were all moved to one location. They have a few houses, a general store, a church, a one-room schoolhouse, that kind of thing. They hire people to dress in Colonial clothes and work in the village.”

  I knew the place she was talking about. It was a popular destination for families with young children.

  “He plays the blacksmith,” Allison said with a little smile. “He’s good at it. I mean, he learned how to forge iron and everything. He was making a horseshoe. It was really hot in that little blacksmith shop.” An embarrassed smile. “All right, so I’m a sucker for a good-looking guy sweating over a coal fire. Not that it’s like that,” she repeated. “Nick is just a friend, a sweet guy, like I said. He understands my pain. I can talk to him. If the situation were different, if I weren’t grieving, then maybe there could be something more.”

  And yet Allison had ended up marrying this “sweet, understanding guy” a mere three months after making this video.

  “Please don’t be jealous, Jim.” She took a deep breath, her eyes glistening as she stared straight into the camera lens. “I don’t know why I say that. It’s not like you could ever see this video. There isn’t a day you’ve been gone that I haven’t thought about you. I still miss you so much.”

  Allison kissed her fingertips and extended them toward the camera lens, her eyes welling. Then she got up and approached the camera. The video ended.

  4

  Drinking Out of Tiny Cups

  BRASS BELLS TINKLED as I entered Crystal Harbor Ceramics, which was located on Main Street next to Janey’s Place, the flagship store of Dom’s health-food empire. I held the door for Nina Wallace, who was exiting with one of those ginormous baby strollers that cost more than my car.

  You think I’m kidding. I have little doubt Nina paid more for her infant’s luxury conveyance than I did for my used—excuse me, pre-owned—Mazda sedan. Poppy Battle hovered behind her, wincing as she watched her wedge the huge thing through the doorway. Six-week-old Laura lay oblivious and adorable inside her cushy chariot, bundled against the cold in a nest of pink cashmere and shielded from the light snow flurries by a clear plastic stroller cover.

  Nina and I offered each other brief, polite greetings. Outwardly she was the very epitome of the affluent suburban matron: mother of three, president of the Crystal Harbor Historical Society, always elegant and well put together. But scratch the surface and you’d find questionable behavior and even more questionable values. She was far from my favorite person, and I knew darn well the feeling was mutual.

  It was Monday afternoon, six days since I’d discovered Allison Zaleski in that frozen lake. Stepping into the pottery studio was like entering another world. Welcome warmth enveloped me. An earthy, spicy scent pervaded the space, thanks to a little incense burner in the corner. Exotic hangings adorned the whitewashed brick walls. The handcrafted wares were displayed on a variety of antique furniture: bookcases, dressers, desks, even a church pew.

  “Nina insisted on pushing that huge stroller through the whole place,” Poppy said. “Nearly took out a tea set and a stack of plates.”

  “The proverbial bull in a china shop.”

  “And then she didn’t even buy anything.” She leaned in toward the straw bucket tote that hung from my shoulder. “Well, hello there, cutie.”

  Sexy Beast’s ride was a lot more humble than baby Laura’s. I took him everywhere in that tote. Poppy gave him scritches and was rewarded with licks. He whined to be let out.

  “Do you mind?” I asked her.

  She lifted him herself and set him on the floor, which was covered with a variety of antique rugs. “How much trouble ca
n a little guy like this get into?”

  Oh, you’d be surprised. On the other hand, a seven-pound poodle would have his work cut out for him even reaching the goods on display, so I figured it was a risk worth taking.

  Poppy’s overalls today were patched blue denim, which she’d paired with a red sweater. “What’s his name?”

  “Sexy Beast.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Is he named for the movie?”

  “He sure is.” I was impressed. Most people didn’t make the connection. “His first owner was a film buff.”

  Poppy spread her arms, indicating the handmade merchandise. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “To be honest, I wanted to ask you something. It’s about Allison. I know you were close.”

  Her expression sobered. It was easy to see she was taking her friend’s death hard. She turned and gestured for me to follow her. “Do you like tea? I have every kind of herbal. I might have a little something for Sexy Beast, too.”

  “Hear that, SB? Treats!”

  That was a word he knew. He willingly stuck by my side as I trailed Poppy to the back of the store, where there was a small round table with four chairs. I appreciated her offer, but to me, herbal tea is another way of saying potpourri soup. “Nothing for me, thanks,” I said, shucking my cream-colored anorak and draping it over the chairback. “I’m a coffee drinker.”

  “Give me half a minute,” she said. “I have some cold-brew concentrate. The kettle’s already hot. Sit.”

  Sexy Beast and I obeyed in unison as Poppy disappeared into what I assumed was some kind of break room, leaving the door open. I knew the actual studio, where the pieces were crafted, was located at the back of the building, along with a kiln. The Battles gave pottery classes there, and other artists paid them to fire their work.

  I heard muted conversation and a moment later Beau emerged and greeted me. His plaid flannel shirt and white painter’s pants were spattered and streaked with gray-brown clay. There was even some in his beard.

  I said, “Nice day for mud-wrestling.”

  He grinned, gesturing to his begrimed clothing. “Like it? Potter chic. The latest craze.” He pulled up a dainty, needlepoint-upholstered chair and sat, which posed no risk to the chair since the mess was confined to his front. “Poppy said you had a question about Allison.”

  “I thought you guys would be the best people to ask,” I said. “Well, except for Skye, but she’s kind of... distracted at the moment.”

  Poppy called from the other room, “Skye Guthrie? Why would you ask her about Allison?”

  “They were best friends,” I said, and watched Beau’s left eyebrow rise. “Weren’t they? That’s what Porter Vargas told me.”

  “Probably because that’s what Skye told him,” he said. “She liked to spread it around that they were tight, but the truth was, she met Allison at some party about a year ago and latched on to her like chewing gum. Allison could never shake her off. She was too nice.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Poppy called from beyond the doorway. “Cream? Sugar?”

  It took me a second to realize she was asking how I take my coffee. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just black.”

  She entered carrying an old-fashioned hammered aluminum tray, which she set on the table. SB, who’d been lying quietly at my feet, perked up. He couldn’t see the contents of the tray, but he could smell them, far more accurately than we mere humans could.

  “Such a good, patient boy!” Poppy exclaimed. She tilted a small pottery bowl toward me. It held a little chicken, cut into tiny pieces. “Is this okay for him?”

  “As long as it’s not spicy,” I said. “You’ll have an adoring slave for life.”

  SB gobbled up the chicken in about two seconds and whined for more. I declined Poppy’s offer of a refill.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” I told him, “you’ve had enough.” Yeah, that’s just what I needed to endear me to this nice young couple: my dog barfing on their carpet. I took a sip of coffee. It was very hot and very good, perfect on a frosty day like this. “So Allison just kind of tolerated Skye?” I plucked an oatmeal cookie off a charmingly irregular ceramic plate.

  Poppy nodded. “I think there was some hero worship going on.”

  “You mean like the hair?” I thought of Skye’s dyed black tresses, cut in the same style as her friend’s.

  “Plus she emulated the way Allison dressed,” Poppy said, “in her own low-rent way. If Allison bought a particular wine, or raved about some movie, Skye was all over it. It’s like she was trying to remake herself in her friend’s image.”

  “What does she do?” I asked. “I mean, you know, for a living.”

  “Works part-time in a cell-phone store.” Poppy shrugged. “If she has any other source of income, I don’t know about it.”

  “Skye stole a lot more than Allison’s sense of style.” Beau stirred honey into tea the color of spoiled cranberry juice. “She didn’t get knocked up on her own.”

  The affair and Skye’s pregnancy were public knowledge at this point. Word had spread at the speed of light following that brouhaha during the funeral reception.

  “What was it you wanted to ask us?” Poppy said.

  “It’s about someone Allison used to... well, an old friend of hers. Or maybe more than a friend. Did she ever talk to you about someone named Jim?”

  Wordlessly the couple consulted each other. They shook their heads. Beau said, “I can’t recall her ever mentioning anyone by that name. Why?”

  I was ready for this. Which isn’t to say I didn’t feel rotten lying to them. It was a white lie, but still. “A couple of people at the funeral asked where Jim was. I figured he might be someone important, that maybe he should be, you know, notified about her death.” There had been a couple of references in her videos to the two of them having attended high school together.

  I asked myself why I was here, pumping these people for information. After all, I’d hardly known Allison. What right did I have to the intimate details of their dead friend’s life? I’ll admit I was more curious than I had a right to be, but I couldn’t help it. In the day and a half since I’d discovered Allison’s flash drive, I’d viewed the first ten video diary entries, and I was beginning to develop a strong emotional connection to her. She’d held nothing back when making the videos. And okay, so they were apparently meant for her eyes only, as a sort of catharsis, I suppose, or self-therapy, but it’s as if she were speaking directly to me rather than to the mysterious Jim, who I suspected had died a long time ago.

  I was watching the videos in order. The last one I’d viewed had been made in September. I hadn’t yet gotten to Allison’s discovery that her new husband and her friend were having an affair. What I had seen was Allison falling for, and marrying, a sexy younger man shortly after her husband’s death. Don’t do it, I wanted to shout. You’re too emotionally fragile to make a life-altering decision like that.

  Sten had apparently agreed. He’d insisted that Allison have her bridegroom sign a prenuptial agreement. The document dictated that Nick would not be entitled to alimony in the event of divorce and that he relinquished any right to inherit. She’d balked at first, pointing out that her wealthy first husband hadn’t demanded a prenup, but Sten had been persistent and eventually she’d let him craft the document. Nick had signed it without much fuss and, yes, after consulting his own lawyer.

  I learned other things from the videos. I learned that Allison had grown up poor in some dinky West Texas town and had moved to Massapequa, Long Island, with her parents at age fourteen. She’d been insecure and unpopular and it had been a tough transition.

  I learned that Allison and Mitchell had wanted children. It’s why they’d bought that big old house. When she’d failed to become pregnant, she’d consulted a specialist and begun fertility treatments. This was in the late spring, right before Mitchell’s tragic death.

  In the videos I’d viewed thus far, Allison had made only one or two referenc
es to Skye. That alone should have told me they weren’t as tight as Skye claimed.

  Allison touched me, it’s as simple as that. In many ways she reminded me of myself, not least because of her unfulfilled desire for children. I was certain that, given the chance, she and I could’ve been good friends.

  Poppy said, “You should ask Allison’s parents about this Jim. I’ll bet they know who he is.”

  “It’s not that important,” I said. “I don’t want to bother them with this after all they’ve been through.” Which was true. Also, the Gleasons would certainly want to know which funeral-goers had been asking about Jim, which was not a question I cared to dance around.

  Naturally, Poppy’s next words were, “Who was asking about this Jim?”

  I began mentally dusting off my dancing shoes but was saved by the bell.

  No, seriously, the brass bells hanging on the door of the shop chose that moment to jangle. Beau hurriedly rose and headed for the front of the store. The reason for his haste became apparent when I spied Norman Butterwick. Norman was well into his nineties, with a head of thick white hair and a dapper sense of style. He always carried one of his collection of antique walking sticks, with which he tended to gesticulate enthusiastically. Which wasn’t normally a problem, but in this particular instance we were back to that bull-in-a-china-shop thing. Beau kept a sharp eye on the cane as he helped Norman choose a gift for his granddaughter’s birthday.

  Poppy leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Thank God Allison moved fast to change her will. Can you imagine if she hadn’t? That bastard would have inherited everything.”

  “Two-thirds of everything, according to Nick,” I said, “which is still a bundle. She must have known about him and Skye. When did she find out about the affair?” I asked.

  “Just a couple of weeks ago, but she figured it had been going on the whole time they were married, if not before.” Poppy had lowered her voice to keep from being overheard by Norman, though I doubted his ancient ears were up to the task of eavesdropping. Then again, he was the most youthful nonagenarian I knew, despite a short-term memory that refused to play nice. There was nothing wrong with his long-term memory, however.