Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  Allison said, “The things your aunt gave me were taken from the public domain. I don’t know what you think she may have had in her possession that would have triggered her disappearance, but whatever it was, she didn’t give it to me.”

  Alex didn’t try to hide the disappointment on his face. He picked up the check, pulled his wallet from his pocket.

  “So who will be CEO now, especially with Francesca missing? And your father…passed on.”

  Allison pulled open her purse, but Alex waved her away before she could get to her wallet. He placed a platinum American Express card in the faux leather folder with the bill.

  “I asked you to dinner, the least I can do is pay. And to answer your question, that remains to be seen.”

  “Is the succession plan defined after Francesca?”

  “No. It will be Dom, I suppose. But right now, we’re in limbo.”

  “And you?”

  “Would like my aunt to return.”

  Allison smiled. “But I thought you said the notion of her running Benini Enterprises was absurd. Ridiculous was your word, if I remember correctly.”

  “It is ridiculous. But until Francesca’s back, we have no leader...and that’s even worse.”

  “Who is acting CEO? Surely someone’s in charge.”

  “Dom. But only because he assumed the role. My sister and Simone also believe themselves to be in line for the throne, so to speak.”

  Alex handed her a card with several names and numbers scratched on it in blue ink. “That’s my hotel address and some additional contact information. If you find anything, or if you notice anything strange, or even if you just want to talk, please call me. Despite what you may think about my family, I want my aunt back.”

  Allison took the card. But she wouldn’t be calling.

  Eighteen

  Allison thought about her conversation later that night while she went through the materials Francesca had given her. It felt surreal. A saxophone-playing Italian businessman with a dead father and a missing aunt. But then, what about this arrangement hadn’t been strange?

  She was in her home office, comfortably dressed in cotton pajamas and the slippers Brutus most liked to steal. The dog was curled next to her, head on his paws, sights set on her feet. Allison reached down absentmindedly and scratched him behind the ears. His focus never wavered, but Allison’s mind kept drifting to Alex Benini and his amused smile. Pragmatic, grieving musician…or shyster? Damn if she knew.

  “You’re not getting them,” Allison mumbled to Brutus. “So stop with the pathetic face.”

  Brutus wiggled a little closer.

  “Nice.” If it hadn’t been for her last client fiasco—the former Congressman’s daughter, Maggie McBride—she wouldn’t have this canine beast living with her. She smiled. So good could come from tragedy. That damn dog tugged at heartstrings she hadn’t even known she had.

  Allison paged through the stack of photocopies Francesca had given her, reading through each piece of paper, deciphering its significance. She needed some order to the mess, so she began sorting: marketing materials in one pile, financial summaries in another, family-related articles in a third. She remembered the moment Francesca had handed her everything. She hadn’t seemed upset. But had Allison missed some cue, some hint that there was a hidden message? At the time, it had simply been another engagement. An unusual one, but an engagement nonetheless.

  When she was finished sorting, Allison counted five piles. In addition to marketing, finances and family, she’d added two categories: Italy and miscellaneous. Then she paged through each piece of information again. She stopped when she got to family. The first two articles were simply promotional pieces about the Benini family: photo ops of Paolo and Simone, snippets about each of the boys. Nothing about Maria other than a mention buried in a PR piece. Maria wasn’t even in the family photograph. And neither was Francesca.

  The third piece of information in the family category was an old newspaper clipping about Tommaso Benini, Francesca’s father, and his launch of Benini Enterprises. He was a small, dark-complexioned man with a thick head of white hair and a thin mustache. He had kind eyes, though, and Allison saw in the grainy photograph the same amused look Alex often wore. And she saw echoes of his frame in Dom: stout, short stature, broad shoulders.

  Allison scanned the remainder of the article. Tommaso credited his success to his mother, Antonia Benini, and her keen business prowess. Allison recalled Francesca’s description of her grandmother as a shrew, a woman who disliked other women. Including Francesca’s mother. Including Francesca.

  Francesca had been sent to boarding school when she was very young. And then she was sent to live in the United States. Had Antonia Benini disliked her granddaughter that much? And if so, why? Or had Francesca been escaping the limiting expectations of the family matriarch.

  But then why arrive in the States and live like a hermit? What freedom was there in that?

  Frustrated, Allison turned to the stack of papers about Italy. An article from Condé Nast about Calabria. A piece about Francesca’s hometown village printed off an Internet site that Allison didn’t recognize. Both were written from a travel perspective. One snippet about the Benini home town caught her attention. It was a veiled reference to family feuds and one family’s failed efforts to broker a truce.

  Francesca had mentioned that theirs was one of the prominent families in town.

  She’d also mentioned that Benini Enterprises had shareholders in Italy they needed to please.

  Could Francesca’s disappearance be related to a family feud? Could some of those rival family members be Benini shareholders? She made a note to ask Jamie to research Benini board members and large shareholders. Just in case.

  Quickly, Allison jotted down the name of the Internet site. Travel Suspense—“A dot com with a story.” Hmm, she thought. Again, she questioned Francesca’s reasons for including the article. Suddenly everything seemed ominous. Remember Al, she chided herself, small villages in Calabria are probably not the most sought after vacation destinations in Italy. So there could have been no reason other than availability of information for including this article. The feud reference could be meaningless.

  Curious, Allison ran a Google search. Besides Wikipedia, the search engine turned up forty-two references to Francesca’s home town, and thousands in Calabria. So there was plenty of material to choose from. Why this piece?

  Finally, Allison turned to the miscellaneous pile. In it was an article on wine-making, a piece on Ithaca vineyards and Gina Benini’s obituary. This she read with a heavy heart:

  Giovana (Gina) Benini, nee Pittaluga, beloved wife of Paolo Benini, died on January 8, 1976. She is survived by two sons, Dominic and Alessandro (Alex) Benini, her parents, Pietro and Rosalia Pittaluga, and nine brothers and sisters. Services will be held at St. Anthony’s Catholic Church in Ithaca. Mrs. Benini, a devout Catholic, was a long-time member and patron of St. Anthony’s.

  Allison found the last line interesting, especially considering the manner in which Gina died. Thou protest too much, she thought. Perhaps. Or perhaps Gina Benini was a depressed woman who took her own life—and she was also a devout Catholic. End of story.

  Allison clicked off the Internet and shut down her computer. It was well after midnight, and had been an incredibly long and exhausting day. She was ready to retire. Beside her, Brutus snored and his paws twitched, his fixation on her slippers traded for the unknown recesses of the canine dream world. She hoped his dreams were better now that he had a warm home and two square meals a day.

  Allison began clipping together the various piles of papers when she heard the sound of glass breaking and then the shriek of her alarm. Like a Greyhound after a rabbit, Brutus was up and running downstairs, barking furiously, before Allison could even stand.

  Allison yelled after him, grabbed her cell and dialed 9-1-1 as
she chased her canine friend.

  Pulse racing so that it felt like her chest would explode, her eyes took in the shattered dining room window. A large white rock lay in the middle of the floor. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, then stood, back to the wall, so she could see all angles. Brutus continued barking, running from the broken window to the front door and back again. Afraid he was going to cut his paws, she called him to her and held his collar, her own jaw clenched to the point of pain.

  Fighting a rising sense of panic, Allison thought about the white Honda. About Alex’s admonitions to be careful. With a glance at her shattered window and the white rock that, she was certain, didn’t stand for truce, Allison was suddenly certain that two client disappearances were not a coincidence. Whoever had taken them was warning her away.

  She hoped the cops arrived quickly.

  “Pro’ly kids,” said the officer who took Allison’s report. His name was Bert Solomon. He and a back-up had walked around her property, looking under bushes and in the neighbors’ yards. Finding nothing, they stayed while Allison searched her house, Brutus by her side. She also turned up empty-handed.

  Officer Solomon was medium height, with a black uni-brow and a thick mustache. He seemed unconcerned about the rock until Allison mentioned the disappearance of her clients.

  “Huh,” he said. He looked at his colleague and then back at Allison. “I don’t like coincidences.”

  Allison said, “I don’t either.”

  “Could be some kind of warning,” Solomon said. His colleague nodded. “You live alone?”

  “Yes. Except for Brutus.”

  “That’s one ugly dog,” the other officer said.

  Allison scowled at him. Officer Solomon took another glance around the room, then at her left hand, before landing his gaze on Brutus. He chewed at his lip, causing the mustache to move like a fuzzy caterpillar along his face.

  “Any friends or family you can stay with?” Solomon asked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The officer looked around. “Maybe a boyfriend? Your father? I’m not so sure you should stay here alone, not with that window broken.” He spoke with an air of strained and practiced patience.

  Allison was quickly losing her own. “Look,” she said. “I’m fine. I told you about my client so you wouldn’t dismiss this as a silly kid prank.”

  “Prank or no prank, you really shouldn’t be alone,” Solomon said again.

  “I said I’ll be fine. Besides, I’m not alone.” Allison reached down and stroked Brutus. She hated the suggestion that she needed a man to be safe. She also hated the nervous energy that made her fingers shake and her mind whirl.

  She’d patch up the window, reset her alarm and let Brutus do what he did best—protect her. What else could she do? She’d be damned if she was going to call Jason. If he came over for this, he’d never let her out of his sight. No, it was better that he not know about the rock. She’d get the window pane replaced first thing in the morning.

  Anyway, maybe it had been a kid’s prank, she told herself.

  But no comfort came. Because she knew in her gut that it wasn’t.

  The next morning, Allison arrived at the office before eight o’clock. She’d spent the entire car ride looking over her shoulder for a white Honda—or any suspicious vehicles. Happy to get to work, she trudged into the building and up to First Impressions. She found Vaughn already in his office.

  Allison debated how much to tell him and finally decided on the whole truth.

  If the rock had been someone’s idea of funny, then no one had anything to worry about. If it was more, Vaughn could be in danger, too.

  Vaughn listened to the details of her dinner with Alex and the ordeal with the broken window without a trace of emotion. When Allison was finished, he stood up from his desk and disappeared into the kitchenette for a moment. He came back with two mugs of coffee and handed her the caramel-colored one.

  “You don’t drink coffee,” Allison said.

  “I do these days.” He reached in his top desk drawer, pulled out a file and handed it to Allison. “Look what Jamie pulled together last night.”

  “Already?” she replied, taking the packet.

  She wasn’t surprised, though. When she said Jamie could help, she meant it. Earlier that year, he’d been instrumental in solving two murders.

  His mind, not to mention his understanding of computers, was nothing short of amazing.

  Allison was staring at a rap sheet. Two pages worth of petty crimes spanning three decades. All for one Scott Berger.

  “Kai’s dad,” Allison said. “A criminal?”

  “Yeah. Breaking and entering, assault and battery, harassment. Drugs. Crazy shit.”

  “Did he do time?”

  “Here and there. Nothing like what he deserved. Must have had himself a very good lawyer.”

  “Or a patient and forgiving judge. Wink, wink.”

  Allison thought about her visit the day before, the bruise on his bartender’s face. Could Scott Berger be violent? Could he have done something to Tammy?

  She handed the sheets back to Vaughn, who said, “And this.” He passed Allison a list of properties owned by Joanne Berger.

  In addition to the house in the Scranton suburb, she owned a rental property in Mount Pocono and a beach house on the Jersey shore.

  “Notice the dates of purchase,” Vaughn said.

  All three properties had been bought in the last two and a half years. “And they divorced three years ago?” Allison asked.

  Vaughn nodded.

  “Anything on Joanne? How long has she been a realtor?”

  “Sixteen years. She’s won awards for being one of her agency’s top sellers.”

  “Hmm. She’s been in the biz for sixteen years, and just now has the funds to buy three new properties? I smell fish.” Allison frowned. “How about Scott’s bar? Was Jamie able to get any info on how well it’s doing financially?”

  “He’s still working on it.”

  “Has Scott owned that bar for long?”

  “About four years. Bought it six months after his last jail stint for harassment and intimidation of a material witness.” Vaughn smiled. “Interesting, huh?”

  “Let me get this straight. Scott Berger has been in and out of jail for decades. He was married to a successful real estate agent who was clearly the bread winner in the relationship. They divorce, and suddenly he buys a bar and she has enough money for three properties.”

  Vaughn nodded. “So your next question is—”

  “Where the hell did the money come from?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What did Scott Berger do before he owned the bar?”

  “He worked at the Kremsburg landfill, about twenty miles from Scranton.”

  “The same place Tammy’s father works?”

  “Yep.”

  “Possible they knew each other back then?”

  “Possible and probable. Scott worked security. Tony Edwards, maintenance.”

  Allison looked down at the papers, her mind turning over the possibilities. She knew the jail sentences, the petty crimes and lenient judges suggested one thing.

  “So Scott Berger is on a Mafia payroll?”

  Vaughn nodded slowly, eyebrows arched. “Looks that way.”

  “Who owns the landfill?”

  “Gretchko and Sons is registered to Andrei Gretchko. But it’s his son, Nicholas Gretchko, who runs it now.”

  “Anything obvious there?”

  “Nothing so far.” Vaughn picked up the file. “I don’t know what the Berger family’s connection is to Tammy’s disappearance, if anything. But I will be damned if I’m going to leave a single stone unturned.”

  Allison didn’t say anything. She was too busy thinking of the bartender’s bruised f
ace. And of all the places you could hide a body at a landfill.

  Later that morning, Allison was working on intake for a new client when Vaughn popped his head into the client room. “I’m sorry to bother you, Allison, but you have an urgent call.”

  Allison looked from him to the man in front of her, a fifty-six-year old former vice president in the position of having to reinvent himself after being laid off. She felt for him. It wasn’t easy to admit that the very thing you allowed to define you—your business success—was now gone.

  Having given up so much to get where he was, he was grieving his former life. And Allison didn’t want to leave him in the middle of his first session.

  But Vaughn knew only to interrupt her in the most dire of circumstances. So she gently excused herself and followed Vaughn into his office.

  “My mother?” Allison said, nearly choking on the words. Ever since her mom’s Alzheimer’s had taken a turn for the worse a few months back, Allison lived in fear of getting that call. But it wasn’t Allison’s sister, Ann, who was on the line.

  Vaughn shook his head. “Maria Benini.”

  Allison took the phone. Why was Maria Benini calling her? But Vaughn just shrugged and said, “She wouldn’t talk to me. She said it was urgent, though.”

  Allison put the receiver to her ear and immediately heard the whir of machinery in the background. “Hello?”

  “About fucking time. Look, I can’t stay on the line. I know where Francesca is.”

  Allison straightened. “Where?”

  “I’m only calling you as insurance. In case something happens to me.”

  “Why would anything happen to you?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Please just listen. There’s an old abandoned building at the back of our property. It used to be a hunting cabin. They have her there.”

  “Who’s they, Maria. And if you know she’s there, call the police.”

  “I can’t call the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re watching me, too. I know it.”