by Wendy Tyson
Faye said, “Allison.”
Allison watched the man pick up the woman’s wine glass and hand it to her. “Bottoms up.” The woman laughed before lifting the glass to her lips. “Good girl,” he said.
Good girl.
“Allison?”
Allison looked up to see Faye and the waiter staring at her. “Are you ready to order?” the waiter said.
Allison’s menu sat closed. She shook her head.
After the waiter walked away, Faye gave Allison an apprising stare. “Is something bothering you?”
“Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.” She gave Faye a brief summary of the local murders and her involvement with Maggie. “Rough few weeks.”
“This was bad timing. I’m sure you had better things to do than meet me for dinner. On your birthday, of all days.”
Allison looked stricken. “That’s not true at all. I’m glad you called. I’m glad we met.”
Faye studied her. “Mom remembered your birthday.”
“Really?”
She held up a hand. “Don’t get too excited. She does that sometimes. Memories from long-ago are within easier reach. Still,” Faye said with a shrug, “it’s something.”
“It is something.” Allison smiled. “How did your test go?”
Faye frowned. In a determined burst, she said, “I lied before. I came into the city to meet with someone else. An Alzheimer’s specialist.”
Confused, Allison said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Faye looked away. “This is my decision to make, Allison.”
“What’s your decision? How to help Mom? You’re not making sense. Start from the beginning.”
Just then, the waiter returned. Allison opened the menu, and quickly ordered the Chilean sea bass with a side of broccoli rabe. Faye mumbled lasagna and twisted the cloth napkin on her lap.
When the waiter was gone, Allison said, “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve made some decisions on your own about Mom’s care?” She fought to keep accusation out of her voice. It was a struggle.
“If Dr. Hom says that in the normal course of the disease, Mom has six months to live, she can get hospice care. In the house.” Faye looked up, her eyes beseeching. “Everything would be paid for by Medicare.”
“But hospice means no more treatment. It means she’s terminally ill, Faye. Think about that.”
Faye sat, silent.
“Does Mom’s GP agree?”
Again, Faye twisted her napkin. She squirmed in her seat, avoiding eye contact. Allison took a deep breath. She needed to think this through. Maybe there were facts she didn’t know. But Faye was digging in her heels the way she used to when they were kids. Her way or no way.
Allison turned and caught a glimpse of a kiss between the older man and his younger mistress. Elsewhere in the restaurant, someone dropped a tray and the piercing clang of metal against ceramic startled her. She searched for somewhere to rest her gaze, somewhere that was not Faye’s face or the couple next to them. Her eyes settled on a red-headed man across the narrow aisle. There was something eerily familiar about his long neck, the arrogant cock of his head. She strained to see his date, who sat across from him, partially blocked from view by Faye.
“I’m with them all the time, Allison. It’s really my decision to make. You should see that.”
Redhead’s date stood up. She looked young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, though it was hard to tell through the six inches of makeup caked on her features. She started to wobble by Allison’s table, a little unsteady on cheap silver stilettos. Allison saw Redhead’s hand jut out to balance her. He whispered something, and then put a groping hand on the curve of her buttock, sliding it down the length of her thigh.
Allison felt sick.
“Are you listening, Allison?”
Allison looked down and saw Faye holding out a pamphlet about hospice. She had no idea her mother was that far gone. Questions swam through her head, demanding answers, but she needed to ask them when she could be calm or Faye would become defensive. Right now, she didn’t think she could manage calm.
She glanced up in time to see Redhead’s date make her way toward the bathroom. The girl wore a lavender satin dress that looked two sizes too big on her thin form. A floral scarf draped around her neck. It was knotted at the base of her throat, one end hanging in the shadows of her cleavage. Her clothes were borrowed. Allison could tell the same way she could tell that there was something fishy going on between her and Redhead.
“I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Hom, Allison. This is happening.”
Allison was about to respond when the waiter returned to Redhead’s table with the check in his hand. Redhead turned to take his credit card and Allison got a clearer view of his face in the candlelight. A large mole marred pasty-white skin. She knew that face. Her mind edged sideways, searching for a connection. She flashed to a picture she’d seen recently, a photo printed off a website just as the waiter said, “Thank you, Mr. Moore.”
“Allison, say something.”
But Allison couldn’t move. She could barely breathe.
Kyle Moore. Desiree’s husband.
What the hell was he doing here, in Philly, when he was supposed to be living in Virginia?
“Allison, I’m speaking to you. I’ve made up my mind.”
And who was that girl?
Allison said, “We agreed to wait until we can both meet with Dr. Hom.”
Jason remained silent. Allison could hear the murmur of canned television laughter through the phone. “I didn’t know your mother was that ill, physically.”
“I didn’t either. And I’m not sure she is. I think Faye is completely overwhelmed and grasping at what she sees as solutions.”
“Well, that’s a big step. Hospice means no more treatment. If Dr. Hom is willing to attest to that—”
Allison sighed. Her head and neck were sounding the warning bell. Stress meant a migraine, and she couldn’t afford a migraine today. “He hasn’t seen anything other than her medical records. He needs to examine my mother, and even then we would want to consult with her general practitioner.”
“It wasn’t fair of Faye to spring it on you that way.”
“She’s scared. For my parents, for her own future. I get that.” Allison sat on her bed. She cradled the phone against her shoulder. “I need to be there for them.”
“You’re one person. You can’t do it all alone.”
Very true, she thought. What did she tell her clients? Sometimes it made the most sense to tackle one problem at a time. Right now, she had to think straight, had to process what she’d learned yesterday about Kyle Moore and figure out if it meant anything.
Jason continued, “I’d forgotten how great we are together, Allison.”
“Whoa.” She stood up from her bed and walked toward the bathroom for a glass of water, little headache miracle pill in hand. Brutus lifted his head from her pillow and yawned. “Lord, I’ve missed you—true. But just because we slept together doesn’t mean we’re a couple. We need to think this through.”
“What’s to think about? Please don’t overanalyze it.”
“There are reasons we divorced. And none of that has changed. I’m still me and you’re still you and once upon a time that wasn’t such a great combination. Remember?”
“You have changed.”
“No, Jason. I haven’t.”
“Something’s different, Al. Maggie, the dog. You’re softer somehow.”
“Even if that’s the case, have you changed?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Don’t I deserve a second chance?”
Allison swallowed the pill and turned off the faucet. Her mind wandered to Violet, to Mia’s words the night before. “Maybe there are no second chances. We all have to live with the consequences of our actions. And sometimes wanting
things to be different just isn’t enough.”
“That’s a load of horseshit, Al. You have the ability to give us a second chance. You.”
He paused, and Allison pictured him as he was last night: strong and caring and gentle. The man she’d fallen in love with years ago. But what if they couldn’t have that back? What if they tried again and failed? How many marriages did she see end in divorce? Too many to count. Allison wasn’t so sure she could share Jason’s hope for a second chance.
When she didn’t respond, Jason said, “Love is a leap of faith. There are no guarantees. Whether it’s a lover or a child or a dog, you love because you have no choice. So figure out what you want, Al. In the meantime, you know where to find me.”
Thirty
Allison called Vaughn while climbing into her car. She was left with a vague sense of sadness over Jason and her mother and a maddening desire to get to the bottom of Maggie’s situation. She wanted to get on with her life, to help Faye and her parents deal with theirs. She wanted Maggie to be able to get on with hers.
“I know you’re visiting Jack Bremburg’s ex today,” she said to Vaughn, “but I wanted to let you know that I’ll be late.”
“You’re still upset with me.”
“I’ve thought about your brother, Vaughn, and I’m trying to understand why you felt you needed to hide the very fact of his existence.”
“Can you honestly say it wouldn’t have mattered, Allison?”
She turned on the ignition and thought about all the times she’d asked Vaughn to take on a late assignment, do weekend overtime, deal with an irate husband, attempt some detective work. Would she have still asked him? No, probably not. Not without advance warning and plenty of time to make whatever arrangements were needed for his brother.
She grunted into the phone. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“I want you to see me the way I am now, not the little punk from years ago. If I’d told you about Jamie, you’d have known about everything.”
“That’s not what I meant, Vaughn. I don’t care about that. Jeez, if anything I admire you even more for pulling yourself together, looking after Jamie, going to school. I just meant, well…I thought you were this ladies’ man, with no commitments. I might have been less likely to ask you to do things had I known you were taking care of your brother.”
This time, Vaughn laughed. “Touché, then. Maybe we underestimated each other.”
“I think that’s true.”
“Where are you heading anyway?”
“To drop in on Desiree Moore.” Allison backed out of her driveway and headed in the direction of the address she had for Desiree. As she drove, she told Vaughn about her unexpected sighting of Kyle Moore. “Something’s not adding up.”
Vaughn said, “TECHNO has an office in Philly. The fact that he was dining there doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“True. But with a young woman? A very young woman?”
“She was probably older than you think. And anyway, even if there’s something illicit going on, what does that have to do with the McBrides?”
Vaughn didn’t need to say it. Allison could tell by his tone that he thought she’d lost it on this one. She accelerated to get around a car double parked on Route 30.
“Maybe. But I think it’s time to pay her another visit. I can’t shake this feeling that Desiree isn’t telling me the whole story—about Maggie, at least. She’s my connection to another side of Maggie. The truth may all add up to nothing, but then it will be one more thing I can cross off my list.”
“And one more Main-Liner who will read what the McBrides have to say about you and believe it.” Vaughn paused, and Allison resisted the urge to protest. He was right. “But do what you need to do, Allison. At the end of the day, you have to be able to live with yourself and your choices. That’s what really matters.”
“Allison. What a pleasant surprise.” Desiree’s flat tone told another story.
Allison knew she was overstepping her bounds by showing up this way. She didn’t need Vaughn to tell her that. She’d found Desiree’s home address in her client database, unsure whether she’d even use it. And yet here she stood, nervous about what she might learn.
“I’d like to chat for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh?” Desiree motioned for Allison to come inside. “About?”
Allison knew the connection between Maggie and the Moores was solid, but what about a connection between Kyle Moore and Arnie Feldman? Tenuous, at best. Still, it had bothered her to see Kyle at the restaurant, with that girl, after Desiree told her Kyle lived in Virginia and never saw his daughters. She’d meant what she’d told Vaughn. If this was a dead end, she’d let it go and move on.
Allison said, “Maggie McBride.”
Desiree nodded. “I heard the police had questioned her. Poor kid. Doesn’t look too good.” She clucked sympathetically.
Allison took off her coat and, at Desiree’s urging, handed it to her. Allison glanced around the house. A genteel Yankee quality permeated the décor. The ceilings were high, the floors polished oak, the oriental rugs clearly authentic imports. But something about the house struck her as odd, and it took her a moment to figure out what: there was a distinct male presence.
Kyle had left months ago, yet Allison could smell the faint, lingering scent of aftershave. A decidedly masculine umbrella sat perched against one hallway wall. A brown fleece with leather trim hung from a white peg by the door. Maybe Desiree had a new boyfriend. Or maybe she wasn’t being completely honest about Kyle.
Vaughn had an image of Marta Bremburg as older, angry, and bitter. When she opened the door of her apartment to greet him, he realized that he’d let his years at First Impressions color his thinking about divorcees. Allison’s divorced clients fit a stereotypical pattern: middle-aged women who’d given up careers to raise a family only to be left by unfaithful husbands for much younger women.
But clearly, Marta Bremburg was not the typical First Impressions divorcee.
Her apartment was on the third floor of a complex in Bryn Mawr, which, from the look of the parking lot, was home to mostly graduate students from one of the nearby colleges. Vaughn knew she’d be there. He’d called from the car first and then feigned a wrong number when she answered. He felt slightly guilty about the trick.
Vaughn had wedged the Beemer between an ancient Datsun and a two-door Nissan and made his way to the front entrance, which had a security door. He adjusted his tie and then fumbled in his suit pockets, pretending to look for his key, until a twenty-something guy in a backward baseball cap came out and held the door for him to go inside. Vaughn smiled his thanks and gave a silent prayer for the trusting collegial population.
He hadn’t been expecting the blonde beauty who opened the door.
“Yes?” She peeked out from behind a door chain. Vaughn saw striking blue eyes, nearly level with his own, and impossibly full lips. “Do I know you?” She had a thick Eastern European accent.
Vaughn said, “Christopher Vaughn. I’m investigating the Arnie Feldman murder, Mrs. Bremburg. I’d like to talk to you for a few moments about your ex-husband, Jack.”
She stood there and, for a second, Vaughn didn’t think she would let him in. But then he heard the chain slide off and she opened the door. “I thought I was finished with this,” she said.
The slice of her face he’d seen through the crack in the door hadn’t done her justice. She was tall and curvy, almost plump, with long, thick, wavy blond hair and full round breasts, probably fake, that pressed against the thin material of a nurse’s aid uniform. Vaughn guessed her age at twenty-five, tops.
“I will be leaving for my work in a few minutes,” she said. “So I hope this will not take long.”
He entered the cramped apartment, and she motioned toward a worn couch in a tiny living room. “Sit, please.” A child’s
toys lay scattered on the floor: Barbie dolls in various states of dress, a dollhouse, broken crayons, and a stack of well-used coloring books. Marta said, “My daughter’s things. She is at school.”
Vaughn sat on the couch. Marta pulled a chair from the dinette set perched against a wall, placed it across from Vaughn and sat down gracefully. A small television teetered nearby on a milk crate. A DVD player sat on the floor next to it, beside several battered-looking Disney movie cases. Clearly, Marta had not done well in the divorce.
“I’ll get right to the point, Mrs. Bremburg. What can you tell me about Arnie Feldman?”
Marta’s hand drummed nervously against the arm of the chair. “He is—was—my husband’s lawyer.”
“Had you met him?”
“Of course. Several times.” She glanced at the children’s toys. “Jack and I fought over our daughter, Kira. This Feldman was involved.”
“In creating the custody agreement?”
“I told the police this already,” she said impatiently.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bremburg, but I need to ask you to go through it once more. Please. It could be important.”
She frowned, but continued. “Jack was a bad father. He had...desires. He could not have her in his custody. Mr. Feldman did not believe me or Kira. He thought we were lying.”
Vaughn looked at a framed photo of Kira on the wall. Big, round blue eyes. Longish brown hair. Cute, dimpled smile. She couldn’t have been more than four in that picture. Vaughn pictured a father violating someone that young and felt his own rage awakening. Unconsciously, his hand clenched into a fist.
As though sensing his anger at what had happened to her daughter, Marta said, “Yes, yes, I will cooperate some more.”
Vaughn knew he was treading on fragile ground. Marta assumed he was with the police. Despite the risk, one more glance at that photo told him he didn’t want to dispel that notion unless he had to, in case Arnie’s murder was linked to child abuse. But he also didn’t want to repeat questions she’d been asked already. That would only make her suspicious. He decided to hone in on what he really wanted to know: was she capable of having killed Feldman? Was her husband?
