Killer Image

by Tyson, Wendy

“You think?”

  “Maybe you need to go out more, take a vacation.”

  Mrs. T said, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Allison dried her dish and turned around. Vaughn was staring at her with wariness and surprise.

  “And how am I supposed to take a vacation?”

  Allison smiled. “Now that I’m finally meeting your brother, I’m sure I could help you out.”

  Mrs. T nodded. “That’s right, Christopher. And you give me some notice, I’ll be here every day.” She smiled approvingly at Allison. “You got people, Christopher. It’s time for a vacation. And a nice lady friend.”

  Vaughn shook his head, but he looked amused. “Remind me never to get you two together again. You’re a dangerous combination.”

  Allison was unprepared for everything about meeting Jamie: the change in atmosphere from the rest of the apartment, the stifling warmth in the room, the faint, mingling odors of disinfectant and scented candles, and, most especially, the man himself.

  Vaughn went in alone. She could hear what sounded like a one-sided conversation during which she heard Vaughn explaining to him who she was.

  Vaughn’s words were punctuated by silences, which Allison could only believe were filled with Jamie’s side of the exchange, though she heard no other voice. Every so often she heard Vaughn say, “I’m sorry.”

  Allison felt jittery. She glanced at her watch. It was still morning, yet it seemed like a whole day had elapsed.

  “Allison, ready?”

  Vaughn had opened the door to Jamie’s room. He moved back to let Allison through.

  “Allison Campbell, meet my brother Jamie. James Emerson Vaughn, former first-string basketball player and class valedictorian. Allison Campbell, image consultant extraordinaire.”

  Jamie Vaughn was strapped into a motorized wheelchair at his desk. His painfully thin frame looked too weak to hold up his head. His graying hair was cropped short. He wore silver spectacles that only magnified the bright intelligence in his eyes. His face was attractive, his smile generous. This was Vaughn’s twin alright, but a twisted version of his brother, at once smaller and larger than life.

  They stared at each other for a long while, Allison conscious of the tube that ran from Jamie’s body into what looked like an air compressor that hung on the back of the wheelchair. A thousand questions ran through her mind, from the concrete to the metaphysical: How can someone live like this? What are the machines, the technologies, helping Jamie survive? How can Vaughn deal with the guilt, the reminder, the stress, day after day? And how the hell had he managed to hide such a huge piece of his life?

  In answer to a question she had not asked, Vaughn said, “Mrs. T is a registered nurse. They all are, the folks who attend to Jamie. He’s as self-sufficient as he can be, but...there are limits.”

  Indeed, his limits were evident by this room, which was as high-tech as it was clean. Allison looked around, trying to comprehend how Jamie managed without any mobility. Next to a specially equipped bed was a computer monitor connected to a mouthpiece that extended out, a funny-shaped nozzle on the end. A lift sat in the rear left corner of the room. In the other corner stood a U-shaped desk housing a series of turntables that held files and books and another computer. Like the computer by the bedside, a mouthpiece was connected to this computer’s keyboard.

  Vaughn had clearly made an effort to soften the tech-lab feel of the room with satin comforters, a graceful loveseat and chair near the bed, rich chocolate-colored drapes and ice-blue accent pillows. But still, the room contained more high-tech toys and wires than a Best Buy.

  Jamie took the mouthpiece between his teeth and words began to glow on the monitor in front of him.

  MRS. T IS MY FAVORITE. THOUGH I THINK ANGELA MIGHT BE VAUGHN’S.

  Vaughn laughed. “Hey now—”

  ALL YOUR PARTS WORK, MY BROTHER. AT LEAST ONE OF US SHOULD BE HAVING SOME FUN.

  Vaughn smiled. “There’s a lady present.”

  SORRY. MY MANNERS SEEM TO HAVE DISAPPEARED ALONG WITH MY MOBILITY. ALLISON, IT IS A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU.

  “Likewise, Jamie.”

  VAUGHN SAYS YOU ARE A GREAT BOSS AND A GOOD FRIEND. MY BROTHER HAS SPENT MORE THAN A DECADE PUNISHING HIMSELF FOR SOMETHING THAT WAS NOT HIS FAULT. MAYBE NOW THAT YOU KNOW HIS SECRETS, YOU CAN HELP HIM FIND FORGIVENESS.

  Jamie was looking at Vaughn as he spoke, but Vaughn didn’t seem ready to hear his brother’s absolution. He’d turned away and stood near the window, where he busied himself adjusting the shade. Allison was certain he could not see the screen from that angle.

  VAUGHN TELLS ME YOU’RE SOMETHING OF A SLEUTH. A MODERN-DAY NANCY DREW, STICKING YOUR NOSE WHERE IT DOESN’T BELONG.

  Allison smiled. “Is that so?”

  I LOVE IT. TELL ME WHAT’S HAPPENING.

  Allison glanced at Vaughn, who still seemed engrossed in the shades, so she said, “Are you sure you want to hear all the gory details?”

  I HAVE AN AEROBICS CLASS TO ATTEND IN AN HOUR, SO YOU’LL HAVE TO MAKE IT QUICK.

  The smile on his face made light of his words, and Allison found herself getting comfortable. Jamie would humor her, listen to the pieces, and tell her if she was crazy to pursue this. She explained how Hank McBride had come to her, her involvement with Maggie, the little she knew about the Bremburgs, the Moore family.

  NOTHING YOU’VE TOLD ME SO FAR WEIGHS IN ON THE ISSUE OF MURDER. WALK ME THROUGH YOUR FACTS ABOUT EACH PERSON AND TELL ME HOW THEY FIT IN THE PUZZLE. START WITH MAGGIE.

  “Okay, Maggie. We know she probably disliked Feldman for keeping her from Ethan. We also know she is into Wicca and has had some exposure to the occult. To me, she’s still a kid and how could a kid—”

  Allison watched Jamie take the mouthpiece. His features scrunched into an impatient frown.

  FACTS. TELL ME FACTS, NOT CONJECTURE.

  “Okay, sorry.”

  She tried to hide her ruffled feathers. He was right, of course. Facts. They needed to focus on the facts. She started over. “Maggie. Fifteen, infatuated with the first victim’s son. Feldman had forbidden Ethan from seeing her. She has a history of antisocial behavior in the form of shoplifting, opposition to authority, making threats to a fellow student. Has dabbled in Wicca and has at least some knowledge of the occult. No decent alibi for either murder. Symbols at the scenes of both crimes, as well as the presence of Maggie’s hair and handwriting, have led the police to link Maggie to the murders.”

  DOESN’T SOUND GOOD SO FAR. YOU HAVE MOTIVE AND OPPORTUNITY. PLUS DIRECT EVIDENCE LINKING HER TO THE SCENE.

  He stopped for a second and appeared to be thinking. It amazed Allison how the vitality in his eyes contrasted with the deadness of his body. Vaughn came over and sat next to her on the loveseat. Jamie cleared his throat, and Allison turned back to the screen:

  GO ON.

  Allison reviewed what little they knew about Ethan Feldman, Brenda Feldman, Sasha Feldman, and the Bremburgs. “Jack’s ex-wife had motive—to keep custody of her daughter—but it doesn’t look like she’d have opportunity, and she would not likely have known about Maggie and the witchcraft. And as for Jack, a possibility, but he’d have to have hired someone.”

  ANYONE ELSE?

  “They, along with Ethan Feldman, were the more obvious ones. Of course, the police may have leads of which we’re not aware.” She paused, but Jamie was looking at her expectantly. “Kyle Moore. I know this will sound absurd,” she spoke quickly, letting the words spill out, one on top of the other, “as he seems so unconnected to the case. But listen. I have to pull the few facts together with conjecture.” When Jamie didn’t object, Allison filled him in on her encounters with Desiree Moore.

  She stopped, suddenly aware as she spoke of how tenuous and absurd the Moores’ connection sounded. Where was her head? Out of the likely cast of characters, Maggie was the
only one who knew both victims, had motive and opportunity. Why was Allison so desperate to prove Maggie innocent when the writing was written in blood on the wall, just like those letters?

  Allison stood. “I’m sorry I wasted your time with this. Thanks for listening to me, really.”

  She turned toward the door when she felt Vaughn grab her arm gently. He pointed toward the screen.

  TELL ME ABOUT THE LETTERS.

  Allison sat back down and told him what she could remember.

  WRITE THAT DOWN.

  Vaughn disappeared for a moment and then returned with a legal pad and a pen. Allison recreated what she could recall of the letters, including the symbols, and put the pad by Jamie. He glanced at them.

  DID YOU KNOW THAT LANOMIA, MAGGIE’S WICCAN NAME, IS THE NAME FOR AN ASSASIN CATERPILLAR? ONE OF THE MOST DEADLY CREATURES IN BRAZIL.

  Allison swallowed. Not what she wanted to hear.

  BUT THAT DOESN’T NECESSARILY MEAN ANYTHING ALLISON. IF SOMEONE FRAMED HER, THEY WOULD KNOW THAT. IT WOULD MAKE THEIR ACTIONS MORE BELIEVABLE.

  “And how does that help?” Allison asked.

  FORGET ABOUT MAGGIE FOR A MOMENT. THINK ABOUT ONE OF THE COMMON DENOMINATORS IN ALL OF THIS.

  “Besides Maggie?”

  YES. SOMETHING ELSE. THE OTHER PLAYERS. WHAT DO THEY HAVE IN COMMON?

  She shook her head. “What?”

  THINK.

  They were all well-off people on the Main Line. So what? They traveled in intersecting circles. So what? She thought about how they all knew Arnie Feldman.

  “Divorce.”

  EXACTLY. DIVORCE. AND WHAT DO YOU NEED TO COMPLETE A DIVORCE?

  “A divorce attorney.”

  YES. AND WHAT HAPPENS DURING A DIVORCE?

  “Secrets can come out. People can get hurt.”

  Jamie smiled.

  Vaughn said, “The Moores weren’t clients.”

  DO YOU KNOW THAT FOR SURE? THE MOORES WERE ALSO GETTING DIVORCED. ALLISON NEVER FOUND OUT THE REASON FOR THEIR SPLIT. IF I UNDERSTAND HER THINKING, SHE SUSPECTS THAT KYLE COULD BE A PEDOPHILE AND THE MURDER OF FELDMAN WAS SOMEHOW RELATED. SHE MIGHT BE RIGHT. MAYBE BLACKMAIL WAS INVOLVED AFTER ALL.

  Allison sat back down, on the edge of the couch. She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the excitement in her voice. “If that’s the case, then Kyle Moore could have set up Maggie. He’d have known about Maggie through the letter ordeal. He could have impersonated Maggie—Lanomia—online to bolster the appearance of guilt. He would have known Feldman and Feldman may have let him in the house, which would explain why there was no breaking and entering.... as for Udele...” She realized she had no explanation for Udele.

  Allison read Jamie’s screen: NO DOUBT RELATED.

  Allison could see the exhaustion in Jamie’s face, but his insights and confidence had lent her hope. Maybe there was a way to solve this. Maybe she wasn’t crazy. But one thing still bothered her.

  “Even if we’re right, why go to all that trouble to frame anyone? Why not just hire someone?”

  Vaughn said, “Two reasons. One, hit men talk. Two, Congressman McBride.”

  “Hank?”

  Vaughn nodded. “For some reason, McBride seems untouchable in these parts. But he’s not loved. Maybe whoever is using Maggie is also trying to get back at her father.”

  “I thought of that. And what better way than to destroy the one thing he loves—not his daughter, his career. If Maggie is convicted, his career is toast.” Allison could feel her adrenaline soar. “Vaughn, you’ll still watch Desiree’s house, to see if Kyle visits?”

  He nodded.

  “We need to establish a connection between Feldman and Kyle Moore.”

  YES. WITHOUT THAT CONNECTION YOU HAVE NO MOTIVE AND YOUR THEORY FALLS APART.

  Vaughn said, “Sasha. She may be able to confirm whether Moore was a client. If she doesn’t know, she may have access to his client records.”

  “Good idea. One of us should visit the grieving widow.”

  EVEN SO, SHE WON’T BE ABLE TO TELL YOU ABOUT FELDMAN’S INTEGRITY AS A LAWYER, AND THAT’S WHAT YOU HAVE TO FIND OUT, TOO. WAS HE HONEST? IF HE DID LEARN THAT MOORE OR BREMBURG WAS A PEDOPHILE, WHAT WOULD HE DO WITH THAT INFORMATION?

  Vaughn said, “I can check to see if there have been any ethics complaints against Feldman. And we can check with Jason to see if either Moore or Bremburg has a record.”

  Allison thought of something. Mia. She leaned over and kissed Vaughn, then stood and kissed Jamie. “You’re a genius. You both are.” She looked at Vaughn again. “Mia! I’ve been trying to figure out who would know about Feldman’s character. Who better to answer that question than a woman who sat in a courtroom with him? Mia battled Edward and Arnie after Bridget died. If anyone would have a sense of Arnie Feldman’s ethics, she would.”

  Thirty—Two

  Mia shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much.”

  That wasn’t what Allison wanted to hear. She leaned against the broken fence post and felt her heels dig into the soft ground. While she waited for Mia to say more, she watched her kneel, pick up a piece of plywood, and nail it to the rickety fence frame. Mia’s wild gray hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and wayward curls framed her face. A streak of dirt ran the length of one cheek.

  “In my opinion, Allison, Arnie Feldman was a shyster. A real shark. Other than that, what can I say? My feelings for him are recorded for all posterity in that court transcript.”

  Allison handed Mia another piece of plywood. She scanned the property. Here, not even that far from the city, the air smelled of damp leaves and burning wood, not car exhaust. There were still working farms and Sunday church dinners, and people didn’t lock their doors. Mia had taken it upon herself to fix the fence alongside her driveway, and it was this task that Allison had offered to help with.

  “Grab the nails,” Mia said. “And hold this hammer.” She handed Allison the tool, straightened-up and then stretched backward, arching her back as she did so. She was still slim. A sinewy length of arm peeked from beneath her gray flannel shirt. Flannel. When Allison had first met Mia, back when First Impressions was a no-name operation run out of the first floor of a Route 30 storefront, Mia would have worn silk. Or cashmere. But not flannel.

  But, Allison had to admit, flannel looked good on her.

  Mia positioned a nail against the wood. She spoke with another nail between her lips. “Allison, I had just lost my daughter. My husband had a blood-alcohol level more than twice the legal limit. Witnesses told police that Bridget didn’t want to get in that car. Arnie went into our divorce hell-bent on making me look like a deranged woman for wanting Edward to take some damn responsibility. Does that sound like an ethical man to you?”

  “I don’t know, Mia. Maybe there’s a difference between spinning the facts to advocate for your client and breaking the law.”

  Mia slammed the hammer against the head of a nail, pushing it beyond the surface of the wood. She eyed the circular impression and said, “Arnie filled Edward’s head with nonsense. I have no doubt it was Feldman’s idea to make me look mentally unstable. And so he allowed Edward to get away with what basically amounted to murder.”

  “Arnie was a lawyer. Lawyer ethics don’t always comport with normal ideas about ethics. What I need to understand is whether Arnie was willing to go beyond lawyer ethics. Whether Arnie was capable of blackmail.”

  Mia was quiet for a moment. She nailed another piece of plywood to the fence and then stood back to examine her handiwork. She took a long, flat-headed nail and pounded it into the bottom of the board.

  “Do you know why I maintain this fence?” Mia said.

  “To keep people off your property.”

  “No.” Mia picked up a stick, looked it over, and then tossed it into a nearby bush. “I maintain it so that my neighbors know where their pro
perty ends and mine begins. I don’t like the lines to be fuzzy.”

  “And Arnie—”

  “Some people are too comfortable with ambiguity, Allison. Some people see everything—property lines, the accumulation of wealth, life and death—as negotiable. No hard rules, no absolutes. For them, ambiguity means opportunity. That was Arnie.”

  “So you do think he was capable of blackmail?”

  Mia pocketed the rest of the nails and tucked the hammer under her arm. “Honestly, I don’t know. But I do suspect,” she said, and turned to look straight into Allison’s eyes, “that his comfort with ambiguity finally caught up with him. I suspect he knew too much about the wrong person. And for that he was killed.”

  Disappointed, Midge clicked off the phone. It was unlike Allison to cancel appointments and this was the second one in two weeks. Something was going on. Midge held the postcard up to the light. She’d been excited to share it with Allison and to tell her she got the job. Midge turned the postcard over in her hand. Marjory Louise Minion, pin-up girl, 1960. There she was in her glory days. Jet black hair formed in thick curls around her face. She’d worn a red bathing suit, modest by today’s standards, but back then its strapless neckline and bare midriff seemed so risqué. Midge could still remember the excitement.

  It had all lasted about ten seconds. And then she met Randolph.

  When he came upon Midge stranded with a flat tire at the side of the road in coal mining country, Pennsylvania, he thought he was rescuing a damsel in distress. And that’s how he treated her the entire forty years of marriage, like a fragile flower he had saved from ruin. Midge returned the postcard to its hiding place in the manila envelope tucked underneath the china dessert plates.

  Randolph. Midge closed the door to the China cabinet and turned the tiny pewter key in the lock. Looking back, there were so many clues, if only she’d had her eyes open. The long stares at men—not women—when they went to restaurants. She’d thought he was warning them away. And the sex. The sex should have been her first clue. She’d been no virgin when they met, true, but she’d been innocent enough to think maybe his behavior in the boudoir was normal.