Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  “Besides,” Jason said, breaking Allison’s train of thought. “Vaughn called me this morning to find out what I knew, which was nothing, so I made some calls. It’s good to have friends in high places.”

  “Why would Vaughn call you about Arnie Feldman’s murder? Because of Helms?”

  Jason gave her a strange look. “You’re a funny lady, Al. Maybe Vaughn was just being nosey. You place him up on a pedestal, but he is human.”

  “I do forget that sometimes.” Allison shook her head. “This whole thing is bizarre. What else do you know about the murder?”

  “I know that my mother had nothing to do with it.”

  “Of course she didn’t, Jason. But aside from that.”

  “Just that you should keep your door locked and the alarm system on. You don’t pay enough attention to security.” He closed her front door, then opened it and jiggled the handle to check the lock. “I wish you’d get over that fear of yours and adopt a puppy. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you so much.”

  “Not on your life. Puppies grow up to be dogs.”

  Allison balked at even the thought of owning a dog. Although she liked dogs in theory, in reality, they scared her. As a child, her father had kept an ornery wolf-dog mix named Thor as a guard animal. The dog lived in their backyard within the confines of a twenty-by-twenty pen. Even though Allison had been warned a thousand times to stay away from him, she’d thought—wrongly—that he’d never bite her. So one day, feeling sorry that he was all alone outside, she’d snuck in the pen with him. Thirty seconds later, he had her pinned up against the fence, his snarl so loud it echoed in her nightmares for weeks.

  Her dad dragged Thor away before the dog did any physical harm. But her disobedience brought about the bite of her father’s belt. She still had the scars to prove it.

  While logic told her not all dogs were like Thor, she’d decided not to take a chance. Handing Jason the keys that lay on the foyer table, she said, “Is there something in particular that has you worried?”

  Jason stepped outside, seemingly impervious to the sharp breeze that whipped through her lawn. “Just be careful,” he said again, making Allison wonder what he wasn’t telling her.

  Allison waved good-bye before closing the front door. She glanced at her clock. A half hour before she needed to leave. Enough time to make a call.

  She dialed Vaughn’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up, Allison?”

  “Jason said you called him. About Arnie Feldman.”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know it was a murder.”

  “I do.”

  Baffled by Vaughn’s clipped answers, Allison said, “Is this a bad time?”

  “I’m at the gym.” Vaughn’s voice softened. “But that’s okay. What do you need?”

  “Can you do a little more digging? Make a few calls? I told Jason about the call from Detective Helms, and while Jason told me it was a murder, I got the sense he was holding out on me. I want to know what happened.”

  She heard him inhale, then a mumbled sound as though he had his hand over the receiver. “I already made a few calls.”

  Silence.

  “And?”

  “The police are questioning the ex-wife. And the widow. But then, you know that.”

  “There’s more.” Allison could tell by his voice he was hiding something, too.

  Finally, he said, “Look, Allison, they’re not releasing any details. Everything I know is secondhand.”

  “Stop beating around the bush, Vaughn. Just tell me what you heard.”

  He sighed. “It looks like ritualistic murder.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Devil worshipping. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. The whole thing was, or was made to look like, some sort of satanic ritual.”

  On the Main Line? That happened to homeless men on the city streets or lonely teenage girls in the boonies. Successful divorce lawyers were not targets of Satanists. And angry, bitter ex-wives killed out of hatred, not to appease Lucifer.

  But what if it was true?

  She looked around the foyer, at the windows that lined every wall of her house. Would the alarm system be enough of a deterrent to keep out a killer? She felt a sudden chill. She was sure Feldman had an alarm system, too. Everyone in these parts did.

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Maybe not, but the police are sitting on the details because they don’t want all the Main Line moms to get their thongs in a bunch. But it was most definitely a murder.”

  “Where does Mia fit into all of this?”

  “Not sure. But one thing is clear. The police are casting a wide net. They will push to solve this as soon as possible. Devil worshipping on the Main Line? Not something you want plastered in the newspapers.”

  “What makes the cops think it was Satanism?”

  “Hold on, Allison. I can’t discuss this here.” For a moment, Allison heard noise in the background, what sounded like men shouting superimposed over the blare of loud rap music, and then silence. A second later, Vaughn said, “Sorry. I promised my source I would keep this on the down low. Needed to get outside.”

  “No problem. You were telling me why the murder seemed like a ritual.”

  “Right.” Vaughn huffed out a sigh. “Pentagrams, smeared blood messages, animal feces. No sign of robbery.”

  “What’d the messages say?”

  “No idea.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Alarm system?”

  “Off.”

  “Suspects?”

  “The ex-wife, Brenda Feldman, is a person of interest. So are Mia and Sasha Feldman, the new wife. But the detective told you that.”

  “The satanic stuff doesn’t sound like something a spouse would do.”

  “Could’ve been a ploy.”

  Allison agreed. “But if you’re a wife—or an ex-wife—why not just hire a hit man? Why go to all that trouble?”

  “I don’t know? Crazy people do crazy things.”

  Allison wasn’t buying it. “Any chance it was real? That actual devil-worshipping was involved?”

  “Really, Allison?”

  “Humor me.”

  “It’s not pretty.”

  “Spare me the chivalry. I can take it.”

  Allison heard the wail of sirens through the phone. They seemed to go on forever.

  When the din quieted, Vaughn said, “Fine. You asked for it.” He waited through another round of sirens before saying, “They found Feldman shirtless, with an upside down cross burned into his chest.”

  Allison’s eyes widened. She clutched the mobile tightly. “That’s awful.”

  Vaughn said quietly, “You don’t understand. He was alive when this happened. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to scare you. Arnie Feldman bled to death, Allison. But only after he was tortured.”

  Seven

  Vaughn clicked off the phone, acknowledging the sick feeling that assaulted him whenever he thought of Feldman’s murder. The proximity to Allison’s house was bad enough. The mere suggestion of Mia’s involvement pushed him into hyperdrive.

  He tucked the phone into the pocket of his shorts, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the boxing gym in West Philly. He might not be able to make things better for Mia or Allison, but at least here he could do some good.

  A thick Puerto Rican with an angel tattooed on his arm dropped a barbell and mumbled sonofabitch under his breath as Vaughn passed. The guy looked up and nodded. Vaughn tossed him a nod back, said Juan, and kept going. Today was a training day, and the ropes were in the back, past the free weights. The kids were waiting.

  The gym, hidden away on the first floor of a converted factory, stunk of body o
dor and mildew. Originally some investor’s hot idea for a redevelopment project, the idea flopped and the second floor stayed empty. During the rare times that the gym was quiet, Vaughn could hear rodents scurrying along the upper floor. Didn’t bother him. Didn’t bother most of the guys who came here.

  Vaughn made his way past a dozen muscular youths lifting along the rear wall. Rap music blared from an iPod docking station set on an old milk crate. Rows of fluorescent lights lined thirty-foot ceilings. In the winter, the cold air that seeped around the bank of industrial windows and the high ceilings meant Vaughn could see his breath. In the summer, the lack of air conditioning meant the place was no escape from hot pavement and Philly humidity.

  “Hey Vaughn,” said a small, wiry black kid with a missing ear. “Thought you weren’t coming back.”

  Vaughn gave the kid a pretend punch, and said, “What would make you think that, D’Quan?”

  D’Quan shrugged.

  “Sorry. Had to take a call.”

  “A girl?” The boy grinned.

  Vaughn laughed. “Something like that. Now mind your business and get warmed up.”

  The boy moaned, but he took off into the back of the gym, by the makeshift ring, where two other kids were also waiting. Vaughn barked out a series of warm-up exercises and watched as D’Quan jabbed the speed bag hanging in the corner. The kid was small for his age, but what he lacked in height he made up for in drive. D’Quan’s stepfather had taken that ear off in a drunken fit. Boxing gave D’Quan an outlet for his built-up fury. Without it, the kid was a bomb poised to explode.

  Vaughn understood. He’d been the same, once upon a time. Drunk father, timid mother, dangerous streets, smallish kid. As a teen, every time, it had been the same scene. His father would get plastered, hit his mother, and Vaughn would step in, full of youthful pride and protectiveness. He’d get smacked down. Stupid, worthless boy. Punch. Get outta here, Christopher. Punch. Come back when you learned some respect for me.

  The memory of his father’s words tasted like gun metal in his mouth and Vaughn tried to focus instead on the kids in front of him. No use reliving the past. Jamie’s condition was enough of a reminder of how stupid he’d once been.

  His work with the kids at the boxing gym was a sort of penance. He knew that the rigid schedule he imposed on himself created the sense of order he needed to get through each day. Discipline equaled order equaled peace. And Lord knew, after three years of juvie, then Jamie and the horrors that had followed, he needed peace.

  Jamie. Vaughn hoped the nurse would stay till he returned. He’d asked her to, he was sure of it. Yes, he remembered now, she agreed to sleep in the spare bedroom. Angela. Sweet, kind Angela. Vaughn shook his head. He was letting himself get soft. But the lonely longing in his gut told him he wouldn’t go straight home. Not tonight. Tonight he’d go where he was welcome.

  After two hours with D’Quan and the other kids, Vaughn wiped his forehead with the square white towel and headed for the small locker room. A quick shower later he was dressed and heading outside. It was a new moon, and streetlights pierced the unrelenting darkness, exposing garbage that had accumulated in little wind-swept piles on the sidewalks. Not wanting to draw attention to his car, Vaughn had purposefully parked the BMW as far from a light as possible. But the darkness pressed down on him and the wind screamed. Even inside the car, the other luxury he allowed himself, a tough chill seeped around the windows and doors.

  He thought about Allison and the Feldman murder. What he’d learned about the murder had scared him, for Allison more than Mia. The murder had taken place right in her backyard. And the police had no concrete leads. He wondered if it was just a coincidence that Hank McBride contacted Allison so soon after a Main Line murder. There was no reason to think they were connected, but still. Man, he thought, you’re getting paranoid.

  But Vaughn had acquired a sense about people from his years in that juvenile facility. There, as a scrawny kid with a scarred face, he knew he couldn’t compete with his fists. He’d had to use his brain. He had to know what people were going to do before even they knew and use that knowledge against them. And after a few painful rounds, things he didn’t want to think about, he learned. And now Vaughn prided himself on telling the good from the bad, the honest from the dishonest, the genuine article from the carefully crafted fake.

  And Hank McBride was a fake.

  But if Allison wanted to take the McBrides on as clients, he would respect that. Grudgingly. Allison had her reasons. Just as Vaughn could root out evil intentions, so he could spot when someone’s reality was stretched thin. And although Allison Campbell might think she was happy, he knew that under the thick layer of professional devotion lurked a restless spirit. Yeah, he could relate.

  Headlights snaked their way toward him and he adjusted his position to avoid the glare. He watched the glow grow stronger and then turn into a parking lot, illuminating a crumbling row house wedged between two intact ones. The abandoned house had a caved-in roof and boarded-up doors. In the lot out front sat a child’s Big Wheel. No fancy hedges or flower beds here. Instead, the people living on either side of the condemned house would spend their days swatting cockroaches and chasing rats and hoping some crack head didn’t set up camp in the ruins. He would know. He’d grown up just six blocks away.

  Vaughn turned on to Route 30 and headed back toward the burbs. It wasn’t coincidence that he’d chosen a gym out here in the ‘hood. He made a point to remind himself of where he came from. Every single day. It was too easy to forget what lay on the other side of the Main Line divide. He guessed that’s what he and Allison had in common: neither were natives. But she tried to run from her past. In his own way, he embraced his.

  Vaughn grabbed his cell phone and dialed. On the fifth ring, a soft, husky voice answered, a voice that came to life when he asked if he could visit. “Come,” she said, and he felt himself hardening. “I’ll leave the front door unlocked.”

  He wouldn’t stay all night, he told himself. Just long enough to lose himself in her. Just long enough to get his father and Jamie and all the stuff from years ago out of his head. Just long enough to make her forget her own troubles. Just long enough.

  Mia stared at the receiver, rolled over in bed and stuffed her book back on the bedside shelf. Damn him. She hated the aching need she felt whenever he called or visited. It was a need she could ignore most of the time, a need for human companionship, pure and simple. The very fact of their differences, differences that went well beyond the color of their skin and the twenty years that separated them, created safety in their relationship. Mia knew that. Just like she knew that Vaughn would never betray her. Not like her ex-husband Edward, not like Jason and his ex-wife Allison, and, she hated to admit it, not like her daughter Bridget.

  Death was the greatest betrayal, after all.

  Mia swung her feet over the side of the bed and switched on the bedside lamp. Her eyes scanned the small room for clutter. Not that Vaughn would care. She held no illusions as to why he came. Poor Vaughn, with his striking looks and his troubled past and his crippled brother. Had Vaughn been born with less smarts and less character he might have been happy, but instead the stupidities of his youth served to rein in his future. Mia gave him what she could: the mother’s love he yearned for and the sexual release he craved. What strange bedfellows we are, she thought. What would Edward think of that?

  Damn Edward, too. Mia had tried to escape the anxiety her ex-husband’s visit wrought. The events of four years ago plagued her as it was, but Edward’s appearance stood as a great reminder of why she’d purchased this farm, thirty miles from anywhere that counted and down a barely passable dirt road. She would never— could never—forgive him for killing their daughter, Bridget. How someone she gave her body and heart to could kill his own and then use the legal system to rationalize his actions was beyond Mia. Further proof that you never really knew someone.


  That’s why her relationship with Vaughn worked. There was no pretense of love, no expectations for a future, and no way to disappoint. As long as he kept his word and didn’t tell Allison. Jason must never know.

  Outside, a cruel wind rattled the window frames and howled through the woods that bordered her land. Night was so absolute here. Living alone, Mia had trained herself to listen for unfamiliar noises. Eventually she heard tires on gravel, Buddy’s welcoming bark from his spot in the kitchen. She smiled. Good noises, indeed.

  Mia opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a black silk negligee, one of her few nods to vanity. She slipped off her flannel pajamas and stood in front of the mirror, her naked body haloed by the watery lamp light. Her breasts still stood high and firm and her waist and hips were slender. The frustrating inability to store fat as a young girl had served her well in later years. Only the slight bagging skin at her throat and the etched lines on her hands gave away her age. That and her wild gray hair. The tight curls hung in long, thick, wiry ropes across her shoulders and down her back. She’d stopped coloring it when Bridget was killed. Everything had seemed so pointless then.

  Mia heard the front door open and close. She heard Vaughn’s hello to Buddy, then his steps across the kitchen floor, soft and sure. She felt his presence in the bedroom doorway even before she caught sight of his reflection in her mirror. She made no move to cover herself. Instead, she studied his reflection: the cropped black hair, the tiny Lennon glasses, the thin scar that ran from his nose to his lip, the broad shoulders and defined pecs that spoke of hours at the gym. She watched him unbutton his shirt, take off his watch, then unbuckle his belt and pull his khakis down, all the while his gaze on her reflection. Her nipples grew hard. She turned to face him and saw that his excitement matched her own.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything, just closed the space between them and joined her by the mirror. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand on her stomach, the other on her breast. The contrast between their skin colors—hers full-moon white, his night black— stole her breath. She watched his hand move across her body like a shadow. Despite his strength, his touch was gentle.