Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  “Vinaigrette,” Jason said. He walked behind Allison and gave her rear a surreptitious pat. She turned, ready to say “hands off,” but something in his eyes stopped her. She saw wanting. And it stirred her own feelings.

  “Brutus has certainly taken to you,” Mia said. “He doesn’t leave your side, does he?”

  “Yeah, you look kind of cute together. Beauty and the beast.” Jason put a bowl of garlic mashed potatoes on the table, then reached for a bottle of Pinot Noir. He poured three glasses.

  “You’ll need a fourth glass,” Allison said. “Vaughn may stop by. I hope you don’t mind. I invited him, too.”

  Mia dropped a serving fork on the table.

  “What is it, Mom?” Jason put the bottle down. “Did you burn yourself?”

  Mia shook her head. “I’m okay. Really, I’m fine. Just clumsy.”

  Allison went back to tossing the salad but kept her eye on Mia. She didn’t look well all of a sudden. “How about Vaughn?” Allison said. “Neither of you answered me before.”

  “Sure,” Jason said. “It’s your birthday celebration.”

  “Mia?”

  “Of course.” But her voice, Allison noticed, seemed strained.

  Dinner was incredibly tense and Allison had no idea why. The tension started the second Vaughn arrived. He was unusually distant; Mia was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “So you think someone is out there impersonating Maggie?” Jason said. “Why would someone go to the trouble of impersonating a fifteen-year-old?”

  “To frame her for murder,” Allison said. “Either to get to her or her father.”

  “Maybe a political opponent?” Jason said.

  Allison looked at Vaughn. “Did your computer whiz get a sense of timing? When did the personality shifts and strange questions start?”

  Vaughn said, “You’re wondering whether this coincides with the letters to Sarah Moore?”

  “Exactly. If it does, then it seems more likely that it was Maggie. If it was later, then someone who knew about the letters could have gotten the idea.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask my source.”

  Allison saw Mia give Vaughn a hard look. She wondered what that was about.

  “How about you, Mia? What do you make of this?”

  Mia shrugged, not taking her eyes off Vaughn. “I have no idea. Though it seems to me it would take someone an awful lot of work to frame Maggie. Going on the Internet? Building up a history of pretending to be someone you’re not?” She shook her head. “It’s too complicated. I think there must be a simpler answer.” She shot Vaughn another look.

  Vaughn picked at his pork roast, twirling his fork around and around on his plate. Allison stared at him. He’d barely touched his food, which was nearly unheard of for Vaughn. Usually he could be counted on for thirds or fourths.

  “Are you okay, Vaughn?” Allison said. “You’re not eating.”

  Vaughn glanced at Mia and said, “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe it was Sarah Moore who is trying to frame Maggie.” Jason speared some more pork from the serving dish and then reached under the table and fed a handful to a very grateful Brutus. He stared at his mother as he did so, obviously challenging her to say something. Or testing her, which meant even Jason had picked up on the tension. “Maybe Sarah and a band of forest fairies got together and killed Arnie Feldman.”

  Allison made a face. “Very funny. Don’t forget about this Bremburg fellow.” She turned to Vaughn. “Maybe you could ask your researcher to do some digging on Jack Bremburg?”

  Vaughn nodded. “Already have.”

  “Who is your computer friend, anyway?” Allison said in an attempt to steer the conversation in a more benign direction. But as soon as she asked, both Vaughn and Mia looked up, startled.

  “She really doesn’t know?” Mia said.

  “Not now, Mia,” Vaughn said.

  “Know what?” Jason said.

  Allison glanced at Vaughn, then Mia. There was obviously some unspoken communication going on between them, and it wasn’t friendly. They’d known each other for years, through the business. But to Allison’s knowledge, they hadn’t seen each other since Mia sold it, so what they could be communicating about now was a mystery to her.

  “Would one of you care to tell me what’s going on?” Allison said.

  Mia cleared her throat. Her eyes shot daggers at Vaughn. He looked down at his plate.

  “Vaughn? You owe it to Jamie. We both know he’s your computer whiz.” Mia put down her fork and raised her voice. “He’s not something to be ashamed of. For goodness sake, he’s your twin.”

  Allison’s head swam with questions. Twin? Since when did Vaughn have a twin? And why did Mia know this and she didn’t?

  “More wine?” Jason said. He poured before anyone could answer and refilled his own glass to the top. “Mom, maybe you shouldn’t be the one to out people’s secrets. Glass houses and all.”

  “What do you know about my life, Jason Campbell?” Mia shook her head. “You stop by when it’s convenient or when you feel guilty. Don’t talk about my secrets. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve been there for you all these years, Mom. When you shut everyone else out, I was there. And I know you deserve to be happy. If he makes you happy, it shouldn’t have to be a secret.”

  Allison said, “What am I missing here?”

  “How do you know, Jason?” Mia said. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “I came by one night when you weren’t answering your phone. I was worried about you. His car was in your driveway. I could see you through the window.”

  “Holy Hell, Jason.” Mia seemed to age ten years in an instant.

  Vaughn put his head in his hands. “Oh, man. Damn,” he said.

  “It’s okay. Really. That was months ago. I didn’t say anything because it doesn’t bother me. I just want you to be happy.”

  Allison slammed her hands on the table. “Would someone please tell me what you’re all talking about?”

  “My mother is seeing Vaughn,” Jason said.

  Allison stared, open-mouthed. “What?”

  Mia looked pointedly at Vaughn, her face a collage of shame, anger, and defiance. “There’s more, Allison. While we’re sharing secrets, Vaughn has something to tell you.”

  Vaughn nodded. Slowly, he said, “I do have a twin. Identical. He’s...paralyzed.” Vaughn looked over at Mia, who, still looking as though someone had walloped her, reached out and grabbed Vaughn’s hand. “He took a gunshot meant for me. Drug dealers. Mistaken identity. We were nineteen.”

  Jason said, “I had no idea.”

  “He lives with me. He’s my life.”

  Allison rubbed her temples, her head spinning. How could they have hidden these things from her? Why would they hide these things from her?

  Vaughn said, “I’m sorry, Allison—”

  “All these years? Seriously?”

  “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “I wish you had trusted me,” she whispered. “Who you see is your own business, but a twin? I could have helped you.”

  Vaughn didn’t say anything, just stared down at his hands.

  Allison looked around the room at these people she’d thought she knew. To think just fifteen minutes ago she’d felt surrounded by people she loved. Now they seemed like strangers.

  She heard Jason say, “Why don’t you two go? I’ll talk to her.”

  Vaughn said, “I wanted to tell you, Allison. I just couldn’t ever find the right time. I’d have had to explain my past. It would have changed everything.”

  Vaughn stood up to leave. He folded his napkin into a neat little square and placed it on his still-full plate. He looked so hurt. Allison wanted to hug him, tell him it was alright. She, if anyone, understood the need to hide from you
r past. But she felt shocked, couldn’t move.

  To Mia, Jason said, “Was that why you were so vague about your alibi the night Arnie was murdered.”

  Mia nodded.

  “Seriously, Mom. You would go to those lengths to hide your relationship? You’re divorced. Why would I care if you’re seeing someone?”

  “You’re my son. He’s younger—and not your father.” Mia pushed her seat back. She looked up at Jason. “Vaughn has more character than twenty Edwards.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Jason said. He walked over to Allison and put his arm around her shoulder. “I don’t understand why you feel this need to punish yourself. Hiding Vaughn? It’s as though you think you’re undeserving of happiness.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Mia put her hand on Vaughn’s arm. It was such a natural, gentle gesture that Allison wondered how she hadn’t seen their connection earlier.

  “I had my chance. God gives you one opportunity to get it right, that’s it. I don’t want to use up Vaughn’s one shot at happiness. He deserves someone younger, someone who can give him a family.”

  When Vaughn opened his mouth to speak, Mia smiled gently at him and reached out a slender hand to stroke his face. “I think he’s seen enough pain in his life. He’s also learned the hard way—sometimes one chance is all you get.”

  “Stay with me,” Allison said. She couldn’t meet Jason’s eyes. He stood next to her in the now-darkened kitchen, cleaned earlier by the two of them working in a heavy silence.

  Allison felt Jason’s arms slide around her waist. He pulled her close, gently pushed the hair away from her neck, and kissed her exposed ear.

  He whispered, “Are you sure?”

  No, she wasn’t sure. She was feeling the foundation of her life crumble under her. Nothing was as it had seemed. But Jason, present, strong, and dependable, was here, and she suddenly wanted him very badly. In her bed, maybe even back in her life.

  He pushed against her tenderly so that she could feel his excitement. Her body responded. He kissed her again.

  “I’m sure,” she whispered back.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Kids?” Allison rolled over so she was facing Jason. Early morning sun poured through the blinds in waves, bathing the ivory bed in ripples of white. Jason’s hair hung limp across his face. Allison pushed it back with tentative strokes.

  He said, “Kids. One, maybe two.”

  Allison stared at him, unsure what to say. They’d discussed having kids years ago, before the divorce. But she was having a hard enough time with the fact that she was lying naked in a bed with him again. Kids?

  “What is it, Al? Why are you so dead set against it?”

  “Have you met my family?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Doesn’t that say it all?”

  Jason moved closer to her so she could feel his breath on her face. His left hand idly strummed the skin on her belly.

  “Allison, my mother is having an affair with a man nearly half her age. My father is a cruel son of a bitch who killed my sister in a car crash yet has never taken an ounce of responsibility for it. Do you really think your family is any worse than mine...or worse than any other family out there?” He kicked back the covers and sat up. “So your family’s a little weird.”

  “Understatement. You of all people should know better.”

  He paused. “Don’t you think you’ve used them as an excuse long enough?”

  Allison sat, pulling the sheet over her chest.

  She said, “An excuse? For what? For trying to make something of my life? What’s your excuse? You wanted nothing but to run your own business someday. And you gave that up.”

  “Is that how you see it?” His tone was iron.

  Allison hesitated.

  “It is.”

  He stared at her, disappointment in his eyes.

  “I never gave up. Bridget’s death changed me, made me reconsider what I wanted out of life.” He shook his head. “Wake up, Al. People don’t come all neatly packaged. You’ve spent your whole adult life trying to force people into these tidy little boxes. Things don’t work that way. People mess up. They get scared. They change their minds. What’s under the surface comes out, and you know what? It’s not always pretty. That’s okay. It’s called life.”

  Jason stood up. She was afraid he would storm out of the room and leave, further proof that coupledom was not in their future. One night, and it had come to this. Instead, Jason bent down and stuck his hand under the bed. He pulled out the flat container that held her memories of Violet’s life.

  “What about this, Al? You accuse me of running away, but what about this?”

  Allison was stunned. “That’s different.”

  He placed the box containing Violet’s letters on the bed and started to open it.

  Allison grabbed the box and pulled. “Don’t.”

  Reluctantly, he let her take it.

  “I know, Allison. Don’t you see? I’ve known all along.” His tone was tender. “I know what happened. Or at least I know the parts I could put together from the letters.”

  Allison couldn’t look at him. She felt the bed move and the box slide away. His fingers traced lines up and down her arm in soft, comforting strokes.

  “That was a long time ago.” With a gentle finger on her chin, he turned her face to his. “And it wasn’t your fault.”

  Allison felt tears sting her eyes. “How do you know...that it’s not my fault?”

  “Because I know you. And I could see the love that girl had for you in those letters. If something did happen to her, Al—and you don’t know that for sure—then, despite whatever went wrong, at least she knew what it felt like to have someone care.”

  Allison picked up a pillow and held it to her face, hoping to stifle what felt like a torrent. He was right. Violet lay behind her refusal to have kids. Violet— not her own family—lay behind her need for a neat life. Restitution, safety, predictability. Maybe she wasn’t so different from Vaughn after all.

  Jason took the pillow away from her face. “I still love you, Al.”

  “I still love you, too. I never stopped loving you—”

  “But?”

  “But my life is a mess right now. My parents. Maggie.” She looked up at Jason. “And there will always be Violet.”

  Jason kissed her forehead. “We can work through all of that. And as for Violet, you’ve shouldered this guilt all these years, yet you don’t even know what really happened to her. Why don’t we try to find out?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll help you. Vaughn can help you.”

  “I know where her father lives. I’ve known for years.”

  “Then go see him. Nothing’s stopping you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  Allison looked toward the window. She felt the warming sun on her face, but it wasn’t enough to dull the chill that ran through her. “Because,” she said, “because I know in my heart that she’s dead.”

  Later that evening, Allison made her way to Trattoria Bianca, on the corner of Ninth and Chestnut, in what had once been an old apartment building. She found Faye standing outside, nervously fidgeting on the sidewalk. Faye looked out of place in the urban setting, her arms crossed over her chest in a feeble act of self-protection. She was wearing a plain black skirt, too loose and three inches too long, a cream silk blouse tied with a bow at the throat and one-inch black heels. Allison recognized the pearls around her neck—they had been their grandmother’s. Faye’s hair was tamed into a neat twist, and rouge lent a warm glow to pale skin.

  “Happy birthday, Allison.” Faye didn’t smile.

  Allison gave her sister a hug. Faye’s body went rigid. Allison told herself to have patien
ce. Peace would not be won in a day.

  While Faye went inside to see if their table was ready, Allison watched the swirl of activity outside the restaurant. Dim light spilled from the street lamps. Three young women and a man with a shaved head climbed out of a cab and ran, arms linked, to the front entrance. Between the front door and a side alley, an old woman squatted, wrapped in blankets, a beat-up shopping bag stuffed with random objects next to her. She huddled close to a heater grate. A passerby handed her a dollar and she shouted “God Bless” in slurred syllables.

  Faye was back a few seconds later. “Come on, Allison. The table is ready.” She motioned impatiently for her sister to follow. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s just go.”

  Faye stared at her for a moment, searching, Allison thought, for the truth in her eyes. But then she smiled. “Good then.”

  Allison and Faye sat at a table for two, wedged between a window and a couple. The owner had divided the restaurant into small dining rooms, each with a fireplace and an ornate crystal chandelier that took center stage in otherwise plain space. The tiny rectangular tables, large enough to sit two comfortably, four in a pinch, were covered in ivory linen. A small spray of red roses in a crystal vase and a tiny brass hurricane lamp had been placed in the center of each table. The effect should have been calming and romantic. Allison found it all a bit too forced: the lights too dim, the waiters too solicitous, the tables too close together, and the coloring too carefully neutral.

  Allison glanced at their neighbors. The man looked to be a well-dressed sixty-five. Wrinkles lined his mouth; his forehead had the plastic-y stillness Allison knew from her client, Kit Carson. Facelift or Botox, or both. The woman couldn’t have been more than thirty. Tiny, with thin, straight blond hair and round blue eyes. Allison wanted to believe they were father and daughter enjoying a special night out together. But the hand he had on her leg under the table and the silly way she giggled at his jokes said otherwise. He wore a wedding ring. She did not.