by Wendy Tyson
“Try the knob,” Kit said. “Maybe it’s unlocked.”
Midge straightened her features into a look of stern yet nurturing concern. An intervention should be direct, no-nonsense. She hoped that Allison wasn’t having an affair—it wouldn’t do to find her in a compromising position. She grasped the knob. It was locked.
“Allison?” she yelled.
Suddenly there was a scream, followed by the sound of metal hitting the floor.
“Allison! We’re coming!”
Kit screamed, “Break down the door!”
“We can’t!”
“Oh yes we can,” Tori said. “Stand back!”
Once, twice, three times, Tori pounded her body against the door. The third time, Midge heard a crack as the lock gave way.
“Together!” Tori screamed.
They all pushed at the same time. Midge’s heart raced with the effort. When the door opened, Midge heard Allison scream “in here” from somewhere to their left.
Kit grabbed Midge’s hand and they ran toward the sound of Allison’s voice. In the doorway stood a woman holding a gun pointed at Allison’s head. Allison’s face was a collage of fresh bruises and blood. Her eyes looked slightly out of focus, as though she’d been drugged. Rage filled Midge. The nerve!
“Get away from her,” Kit said.
“Move and I kill her,” the woman said. She pulled Allison by the hair and shoved her toward the client room. “Get in there.” She motioned for the women to go in first.
The woman ordered everyone to sit, but there were only four chairs. Midge stood behind Tori. She saw a man on the floor, slumped in a heap.
“Coming here was stupid,” the woman said.
“Who the hell are you?” Kit said.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Desiree Moore,” Allison said. “The Main Line Murderer—”
Before she could finish, the woman slapped Allison across the face with the back of her hand. Her ring drew fresh blood. Midge’s fist clenched around her purse strap.
Desiree sneered. “It’s Allison who will have killed all of you, then herself. ‘Image consultant goes postal.’”
Allison, her voice slurred, said, “No one will believe that.” Her breath was uneven, blood trickled down her face and her hair was matted in crimson patches. Still, she said, “Don’t...hurt anyone...and maybe the police—”
Desiree hit Allison again. Her head slammed backward with the impact.
Irate, Midge looked up and Kit caught her eye. Kit motioned subtly toward the metal waste can, which was next to Midge’s leg. Then Kit, on the chair next to Allison and close to Desiree, started to cough. Desiree threw her a razor sharp look. The coughing turned to choking and for a moment Midge thought Kit really couldn’t breathe. Kit caught her eye again and Midge understood what she wanted her to do.
Kit stood up, grabbed her throat, and started to convulse. She bumped into Desiree who lost her balance. Desiree screamed, “Sit down,” but not before Midge had the waste can in her hand. And with all the anger she’d stored up since she’d found out about Randolph, she brought that can down on Desiree’s head.
The blow didn’t knock her out, but it bought enough time for Allison to push herself up and fall against her. The weapon spun from Desiree’s hand and slid across the floor, toward Allison. She reached for it, fumbled, and finally grasped it in both hands. Holding the gun to Desiree’s head, Allison stood up unsteadily. Kit pinned Desiree to the ground.
Allison kicked Desiree in the side with one pointed pump. “That’s for Maggie.” She kicked her again, almost falling over from the effort. “And that’s for Violet, and all the girls like her.”
Midge had no idea what she was talking about, but before she could ask, Kit looked at her sharply. “Call 9-1-1. Hurry.”
Overwhelmed, Midge nodded. But when she looked up from the chaos in the room, Vaughn was standing in the hallway with two police officers in uniform.
Thirty-Eight
The hospital room pulsed in and out of focus. Allison preferred the moments of pain and lucidity to the twilight-like dream state during which nightmarish scenes played out before her. Maggie at juvenile. The young girls dancing at the bar. The hatred in Desiree’s eyes. And Violet. Always Violet.
She pulled the thin, white blanket around her to ward off the chill in the room and blinked against the darkness. How long had she been here? She couldn’t say.
“You have a severe concussion and a terrible cold.” It was a woman’s voice. Allison turned her head, wincing at the pain, and saw her sister sitting by the window, her thin frame shrouded in their mother’s wool coat.
“Faye.”
“I’m giving Jason a break. He’s been here round the clock.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Vaughn called me. One of his nurses is staying with Mom and Dad for the night.”
Allison closed her eyes and then opened them, wanting to make sure this was not another dream. “Are they okay?”
Faye smiled, and warmth shone in her eyes. “They’re fine. It’s you everyone is worried about. Those people gave you a terrible head injury and a sprained back.”
No one had to tell Allison about her back. She felt dull aches and spasms every time she moved. She smiled wanly. At least the pain meant she was alive. “I guess it’s better than the alternative.”
Faye looked thoughtful. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry for everything—”
“Don’t.”
“Please. It needs to be said, Allison. You’ve carried a burden of guilt with you for years. And I let you. In fact, I encouraged it. And then everything with Dr. Hom. I was wrong not to bring you in from the beginning. When I got the call that you’d almost been killed...well, I realize now how silly we’ve been. Our childhood still haunts us, Allison. We need to deal with that.”
Allison turned her head away. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever.
But Faye continued. “Daddy was not a nice man. He still isn’t, though the years have worn away the edges of his cruelty. He will never change. But sometimes you simply take what you get.” She grabbed Allison’s hand and squeezed gently. “The thing is, we let Daddy get in the way. We let him dictate how we felt about Mom, about ourselves. About each other. It’s time to stop that. It’s time to be sisters again.”
Allison wanted that. How she wanted that. She could feel the tears flowing down her face. She would never truly get her mother back. And Faye was right, her father would never change. But she and Faye...they could be family to one another. They could give each other in adulthood what neither of them had received when they were young.
Allison whispered, “Nothing would make me happier.”
Faye smiled. “We’ll work the rest out when you leave this place.” She sighed. “For now, rest. It’s apparent you’ve had a busy few weeks.”
Lieutenant Mark Helms didn’t seem surprised to see Allison when she arrived at his office ten days later. He rose from his chair and gestured for her to take the seat opposite.
“You look better than you did the last time I saw you,” he said. His mouth was set in a firm line, but his eyes danced with good humor.
“I feel better.”
“Maggie is well?”
Allison nodded. She’d seen Maggie four times already since she’d left the hospital and expected more visits. It was clear that although the girl was attached to Brutus, it was Allison she came to see. The ordeal over Feldman and Udele, along with Sunny’s disappearing act, had left Maggie wounded. But the kid was resilient. In time, she would heal and, Allison hoped, be her old oppositional self again.
In the meantime, Sunny had come back to town, although she’d left her husband. And Hank McBride was Hank McBride. His chances at achieving a Senate seat were slim, given all the bad publicity he’
d received when everything came to light. The public disliked a man who didn’t stand by his own. But he and Allison had developed a sort of truce based on a common nexus of self-interest: Allison wanted to see Maggie, and Hank was happy his daughter’s name had been cleared.
“You heard about Jamie Vaughn?”
Allison nodded. That had been an unexpected delight. The police, impressed with Jamie’s online detective work, had hired him to do contract work for the force. Vaughn was helping his brother set up a better office at home, but Allison knew it also meant Jamie would get back out into the world. It was about time.
Allison opened her briefcase and pulled out a bundle of papers, laying them out before the Lieutenant.
“I understand that Kyle didn’t own that bar, but he knows the man who did. These were Violet’s letters. They paint a picture, Lieutenant. And I suspect they may help in the case against the pimp Kyle Moore used to get his girls.”
The Lieutenant looked them over, one by one, the expression on his face never changing. When he looked up, though, the good humor was gone. “Moore’s pimp is not named Sparky. It’s Roger. Roger Aubrey.”
“But he could have aliases.”
“He could. And there’s something else. Moore described his contact as a severely deformed man, his face as...melted.”
“As though by fire.” Allison took a deep breath. Sparky. The fire Violet had set. After all these years. When Allison had walked into that bar, had seen those young girls, she’d known there was a connection. There was no good reason, other than Violet’s descriptions and her own intuition.
After the Moores were arrested, Allison had told the police about the bar near TECHNO’s business address, about the underage dancers. The Philadelphia police seemed unimpressed and said the girls were likely runaways and throwaways, a term Allison detested. Only Mark Helms seemed concerned, and Philadelphia wasn’t his jurisdiction. But because of the Main Line murders—and the connection to his suspects’ motive—he was able to set things in motion that she could not do on her own. Allison should have felt happy, vindicated even. But she felt only a vague sense of justice mixed with a profound sadness. Even if Roger Aubrey turned out to be Sparky, none of this would help Violet.
“You know, Allison, if this keeps one girl off the streets, that’s something.” The Lieutenant gave her a look of understanding and she smiled in appreciation. Of course he was right.
Helms leaned back in his chair. “So it’s over now. The Moores are behind bars. Maggie is home. You can go back to making the Main Line look fabulous.” His tone was kind, despite the gentle teasing in his words. This time, he wasn’t looking at her with even a hint of dismissiveness. Just respect.
Allison rose. She wished it was over. “Not yet. I still have one piece of unfinished business. And it’s the hardest piece of all.”
Thirty-Nine
Allison stared at the row house on East Berks Street in the Fishtown section of Philadelphia. The house looked like all its neighbors: brick front, white window trim, two window wells at ground level. Outside, a pink tricycle had been parked in front of a set of cement steps. That tricycle gave her pause.
“Are you sure you want to go in alone?” Jason said. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. He kissed her softly on the cheek.
“I’m sure.”
It was a sunny May day and a light wind blew crumpled candy wrappers and bits of discarded paper across the sidewalk. Allison stepped into the street and then stopped, not quite mentally able to go forward. Her back hurt, the injuries she suffered when Desiree wrestled her to the floor nearly a month ago not quite healed.
Allison felt Jason’s hand on her shoulder, and then he whispered in her ear, “You need this, Allison. Go.”
And so she went. She walked across the street, between the cars parked along the sidewalk, and around the struggling tree that stood between her and John “Junior” Swann’s house. When she got to the front door, she turned around. Jason stood on the sidewalk, right where she’d left him. He wore a Penn t-shirt, cargo shorts and a Phillies baseball cap. And those Tevas on his feet. But he was waving to her and smiling, and she took her cue and knocked.
The first thing that struck Allison about John Junior was his smile. It was Violet’s smile, somehow at once generous and haunted. He had the same color eyes as Violet, too, and when he opened the door those eyes looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
“You a Jehovah?” he said.
“No.” She had trouble pulling her gaze from his face long enough to answer.
He was completely bald, but had bushy, graying eyebrows and a neatly trimmed beard. In an instant, Allison decided he had a kind face, and she was glad. “I knew your daughter.”
He stared at her for a long moment and then came out on the small stoop, closing the screen door behind him. “How’d you know Violet?”
“We...we worked together long ago. At the Meadows. My name is Allison Campbell.”
He smiled then, a smile of recognition that held more warmth than Allison would have expected given the role the Meadows played in Violet’s ultimate undoing. John Junior sat on the stoop and waved for Allison to sit next to him. She sank down onto the cool concrete and watched as Jason walked farther down the street, toward their car.
“What’d you come here for?” John Junior said, not unkindly.
Allison had practiced for this moment over and over for the past few weeks, ever since she’d decided to make the visit. But still, words failed her.
“She’s dead, you know,” he said.
“I was afraid of that.”
“She was a pretty girl, that one.”
“I know. And smart.”
He smiled. “You were the one that filled her head with all that business about college and art, weren’t you?”
“Maybe.” Allison returned the smile. She said, “How did Violet die?” and held her breath, so scared of the answer.
John Junior spat on the sidewalk, wiped his mouth, and then looked at Allison, a wistful expression in his eyes. “I wasn’t no good a dad to her, Miss. After her mom died, well, things got real bad. But I loved Violet. I always loved her.”
He turned to look across the street, squinting against the sun. “She was in a car accident. Six years ago. Hit by a drunk driver.” He shook his head. “Lasted an hour in the hospital. That was it.”
Allison breathed. So all this time...she made it out of Philly. It wasn’t AIDS or Sparky or a “joe” that did it. “Can I ask, what was her life like, before?”
He stood up and stretched. “Like the life of any young woman, I guess. Some schooling for art. A paying job. A man. I didn’t have much contact with her. She lived in Colorado.”
“Was she happy?”
John Junior turned to look at her, as though considering the question. Finally, he said, “Are any of us happy? I don’t know. I think so.” He nodded. “Yes, I think she had to have been very happy.”
“She never contacted me. All those years ...”
“She was afraid, I think. Afraid to come back East. Afraid of her past. But I think she always intended to find you someday. She wanted you to be proud.”
Allison wiped the tears from her eyes and stood. She’d gotten what she had come for. Violet hadn’t died in the throes of poverty or at the hands of a pimp. She’d had a life. Hopefully, she knew love. Grateful for his time, for this comfort, she turned to go. But John Junior put his hand on her arm.
“Just a minute. I want to show you something, if you don’t mind.”
He disappeared into the house. Allison spotted Jason a half block down talking to a Hassidic man with long ear locks. Brutus was in the car, his great burly head hanging out the window. Up the street, two little girls walked a large mixed breed dog past an old woman who looked on from her perch on the stoop. Allison waited. She felt numb, filled with
relief and an unrelenting sadness for Violet. In the end, Violet got the second chance she’d hoped for.
The front door opened and John Junior came back out, followed by two young girls. One had to be the owner of the Barbie tricycle. She was no more than three or four, with dark skin and tight ponytails tied with beaded elastic. The other girl was tall and thin. She had long, straight dark hair and delicate features. And she stared at Allison with Violet’s eyes.
“The little one is Serena,” John Junior said. “My neighbor’s girl.” Then he took the older girl by the hand gently and pulled her forward. “And this is Ally, my granddaughter. She lives with me since her mama passed on.” He shrugged. “I guess maybe she’s your namesake.”
Allison smiled and Ally smiled back. She looked healthy—thin, like her mother—but healthy. All at once, Allison felt Violet’s presence. The sulking girl in the nurse’s office, the burgeoning artist in her office, the naïve street urchin in those early letters, and the very brave young woman who’d made it out alive.
“She’s an artist like her mama, too,” John Junior said. “Only nine years old and already taking fancy art classes, ain’t that right?”
The child nodded.
The moment stood still for Allison. John Junior on the step, Jason a block away, waiting for her, and Violet there with them in the form of this little girl who shared Allison’s name. In that second, everything in her life made sense.
“Thank you,” she said to John Junior.
Their eyes met. John Junior smiled and then walked back inside, hand in hand with his granddaughter. Allison waved to Jason and headed back to the car.
THE END
(Book #1)
DEADLY ASSETS
An Allison Campbell Mystery #2
Wendy Tyson
Copyright
DEADLY ASSETS
An Allison Campbell Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | July 2014
