by Wendy Tyson
“You seem stuck on the family.”
“My dad was an abusive alcoholic, Allison. I know dysfunctional. But the Beninis are weird. Yes, I’m stuck on the family.”
Allison thought of Alex and his innocent-sounding questions. She thought of Dom and his demeaning personality. She thought of seductive Simone and cantankerous Maria. What a cast of characters. “Yeah,” she sighed. “Me, too.”
Vaughn ate a French fry, chewing slowly, clearly thinking about something. He snapped his fingers. “There was one more thing about the day I picked up Francesca. She had that purse and the three large suitcases—the suitcases we dropped off when we came here last time.”
Allison looked at him questioningly over a spoonful of soup. “So?”
“So I forgot about the fourth bag. It was small, probably a toiletries case. Black, unlike those red bags—which is why it stood out. I don’t remember seeing it when we pulled the big cases from the car.”
“Could Francesca have taken it with her?”
“It’s possible. She brought it out to the car. I’m not sure what she did with it after that.”
“Worth checking your car again. Maybe you missed it.”
Vaughn nodded, still looking pensive. The waitress returned to check on them. When she was gone, he said, “And then there’s Gina, Dom and Alex’s mother. Her name scrawled in that bathroom. You never told the Benini boys about that.”
“No, and I won’t. If someone in the family is involved, that will set off an alarm. Francesca—if it was Francesca—wrote that for a reason. Although I wish we knew what the other words were.”
“Here you go.” The waitress returned with Vaughn’s pie. He stuffed a few French fries in his mouth and, without waiting for the waitress to leave, said, “And you didn’t even list the white Honda, Maria’s call, or Paolo’s death.”
Allison jotted them in her notebook. “And Reginald Burr, the PI.”
“Him, too.”
Allison considered what she’d written. “I can’t shake this feeling that the present situation was linked to the family’s past. Gina’s name has come up multiple times. Why? And who are these vultures Francesca was talking about? We need to understand the history of not just the company, but the family.”
Vaughn stared down at his now-empty plate. “You want Jamie to do it.” It was a statement, not a question, and Allison could hear the pain in his voice. Her resolve softened.
“Not if you don’t want him to get any more involved, Vaughn.”
Vaughn nodded, but didn’t commit. “And what about Tammy?”
What about Tammy? Events of the last few days were catching up with her, and her whole body longed for bed. Allison put cash on the table next to her notebook, then forked a bite of Vaughn’s blueberry pie. “That’s the million dollar question. Is Tammy Edwards connected at all?”
Twenty-Three
Benjamin Gretchko was listed on Middletown University’s website as the Department Head of Biomedical Engineering. When Mia called to obtain his summer teaching schedule, she chose not to mention the real reason for her call, preferring to insinuate that she was a benefactor with a desire to help out the Engineering Department. With that as her altruistic goal, Mr. Gretchko’s administrative assistant was only too happy to accommodate her request.
And so Mia found herself at the University on Wednesday morning waiting outside of a lecture hall amidst a sprinkling of young men and women in wrinkled cotton clothes and athletic shoes. For her part, she’d dressed for the role.
She took a certain pride in the fact her black Gucci pantsuit, long forgotten in the back of her closet, still fit. If anything, it was a little loose around the waistline.
Mia sat on a wooden bench in the solarium, next to a bespectacled teen wearing micro shorts, a fuchsia tank top and flowered flip-flops. The girl gave her only a cursory glance before returning to the e-reader she’d been staring at.
Within seconds, Mia flashed to thoughts of her own daughter, Bridget, and felt anger wash over her. Who decided this girl should have a future, that she should graduate and go on to work and have kids, when her Bridget was denied all of that? The cruel die cast by a random universe? Or the act of a higher being, made even crueler because it was intended?
Damn it, Mia, she thought. This girl is someone’s daughter. And here you are thinking thoughts that you should be ashamed of. Mia looked at the kid again. She noticed a baseball-size bruise on her calf, the way her foot shook up and down as she read, a pimple next to her left ear. And like that, Mia’s anger was gone.
But not the ache. The ache, she was sure, would never go away.
She didn’t have time to dwell, though, because in the next second, Professor Gretchko’s class let out. Mia waited until the thin crowd of students had disbanded before walking into the lecture hall. It was set up stadium style, and one lone student was still collecting his notebooks, an eye on the teacher. For his part, the teacher seemed lost in thought, a binder in front of him, a frown on his face.
“I don’t know, Jacob,” Gretchko called to the student. “I don’t think your equation will work. Maybe if you replace—” He stopped when he saw Mia standing there. His face registered surprise, then wariness.
He wouldn’t know who I am, Mia thought. But I know he is Katerina’s son.
He looks just like her.
“So how did you say you knew my mother?”
“I didn’t,” Mia responded. She’d dropped the façade when she noticed the look of distrust that immediately clouded Benjamin’s open face. He had his mother’s thin, blonde hair and hooked nose, but his eyes were kind, lacking the squint of spitefulness that, to Mia, had been Katerina’s trademark. Mia asked to treat him to coffee. He said no at first, but, perhaps sensing her resolve, eventually nodded and said he could spare fifteen minutes.
Mia took a sip of tea—a lukewarm Earl Grey that required an extra packet of sugar to give it any flavor at all—and glanced around the cafeteria. Other than a few students and one pot-bellied man who was wolfing a Hot Pocket down with fervor, they were alone.
“Katerina was my client. In a former life, I was an image consultant.” Mia looked up from her tea and found Benjamin studying her intently with a mix of curiosity and guardedness. “Your mother went through a mid-life crisis. Your father hired me to help her. He thought she needed a job. That perhaps she was bored.”
Some unwelcome emotion flashed in Benjamin’s eyes. He half-smiled wistfully, looked away in the direction of two Asian students across the room. “That was my mother. Nothing was ever enough. When life was its most peaceful, she would create a problem. Just to add some drama.” He took a swallow of coffee and wiped his mouth daintily with a white paper napkin. “She never did get a job.”
“No, she didn’t. For three months, your father paid a driver to bring her to me. Every week. My office was near Philadelphia, so it was a hike for her. At first she was excited about the possibilities. She especially loved the fashion consultations. Back then, much of my business was about fashion. How to dress more glamorously, that kind of thing.”
“My mother was always fashionable.”
“Indeed, she was. But I think she liked being able to tell her friends that she was working with a professional, someone from the big city. It made her feel different. Special. Wealthy.” Mia regarded him, to see if she’d caused offense. “I don’t mean to disparage your mother, Benjamin—”
He waved her concern away with a flourish of his hand. “Please. I know how my mother was.”
Mia nodded, took a sip of tea. Maybe this man had perspective on his parents. Not everyone did.
“You said ‘at first.’ I’m assuming that eventually my mother became bored, even with you.”
Mia sighed. “Don’t be too tough on her. Making over your image, and I think deep down that’s what your mother wanted, can be hard. Very har
d. It’s not about putting lipstick on a pig, as my son used to joke, but rather about digging deep, identifying the beauty inside and bringing that forward.”
“My mother wanted to slap lipstick on the pig?”
“Perhaps.”
They sat in edgy silence for a moment. Mia was remembering Katerina, with her blond twists and her jealous streak. What would it have been like to grow up under her rule? She was probably as capricious and cruel a mother as she had been a client. More so. Mia could walk away. And walk away she had. When it had become clear that Katerina was no more interested in real change than she was in ending world hunger, Mia let her go.
She’d tired of Katerina’s tart tongue and hellacious mood swings. Suggesting to Andrei Gretchko that Katerina needed a psychologist, not an image consultant, she’d quit. And for months she’d been nervous. It was never a good idea to piss off the Mob.
Oh, Mia had known who she was dealing with. When Katerina was feeling mean, she’d often let Mia know of her connection to the Russian Mob. Mia looked at the man across from her now, wondering how much he knew.
The sad tilt of his eyes, the defeated set of his mouth, the shoulders hunched by weight and worry...maybe he did know. Family could be a blessing—or a burden.
Finally, Benjamin said, “So why are you here, image consultant from the Main Line?”
“Former image consultant.”
He smiled sadly. “Former image consultant. What could you possibly need from me twenty years later?”
“Information.”
“More specifically?”
Mia toyed with how much to say. She’d been playing this in her mind all morning and half of the night before. Sleuthing was not her forte, but getting people to talk was. “Your family’s business.”
“I don’t have any connection to the business.”
“That’s fine, Benjamin. I don’t want to know about you. I want to know about them.”
Benjamin sighed. “Look, if you want information on the landfill, call my brother or my father, I’m sure they’d be only too happy to talk to you.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Mia said, “I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t even know if the landfill is relevant.” She hesitated, then decided to trust her instinct, which said that Benjamin had no family loyalty left. “A friend’s daughter is missing. Her father works at the landfill. There are other connections to your parents’ business, too. I remember your mother telling me—”
“That it was run by the Russian Mob.” His face had hardened, but it was fear, not cruelty, that narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. “That was then, Mrs. Campbell. Now it’s a legitimate business.”
“Really?”
Benjamin Gretchko stared right into Mia’s eyes and said, “Really.” But it was the defiant look of a little boy trying to fool a narcissistic mother. Mia was neither narcissistic nor easily fooled. And a man with eyes as kind as Benjamin’s could not readily lie.
After the deed was done, Benjamin’s gaze shifted to the left. He squirmed in his seat, balled his napkin. “Is there anything else?”
Mia didn’t move. “I got what I needed.”
Without looking at her, Benjamin said, “I remember you, you know. I didn’t at first, but I do now.”
Mia smiled. “Really?”
He nodded. “I was off from school one day, sick with a bad cold. I was ten. Mother brought me with her to the appointment. You ordered me hot soup and gave me a couch to lie down on.”
Ah, yes. Mia vaguely remembered the tow-headed boy, so beaten down by life already. She hadn’t realized it was this son. Those were Katerina’s early meetings, when she was still enthusiastic and on her best behavior. Still, she had dragged a sick child to Philadelphia to talk about dressing for a job she never intended to get.
Mia smiled warmly. “I remember. You were a good boy.”
Benjamin’s look was melancholy. He stood, turned to go, and then thought better of it. “Thomas Svengetti. Look him up. He lives in Gouldsboro now, in the Poconos. Don’t tell him I sent you. Don’t tell anyone.”
Mia thanked him. “Will you be alright?” she said. Suddenly, he looked unsteady on his feet. She was worried he would topple over.
“I’ll be fine, Mrs. Campbell. But take of yourself, okay?”
Mia watched the man walk out of the cafeteria, the professorial air replaced by hunched shoulders and an awkward gait. Again she wondered at the vagaries of fate. How could such a good kid be born to a tyrant like Katerina Tarasoff?
Injustices never ceased.
It was ten o’clock before Allison met Vaughn in the hotel’s small dining area. She’d taken advantage of the free breakfast and was picking at a banana, a strawberry yogurt, and a cup of coffee. She’d spent the last two hours rearranging client appointments and arguing with a very angry Jason. He’d taken care of Brutus the night before but was irate that she and Vaughn had headed to Ithaca once again.
“Really, Al, you didn’t learn your lesson the last time when you were nearly killed?” he’d said, referring to her brush with the Main Line murderer earlier that year. “Leave this one to the professionals.”
“Tried that. The professionals didn’t seem too interested.”
“Try again.” He’d slammed the phone down after an exasperated, “My God, Allison, you’re impossible.”
He had a right to be angry. They were on dangerous ground. But she’d come this far. She really didn’t think she had a choice.
Vaughn sat down across from her. He was wearing the same khaki pants and button-down blue shirt he’d had on the day before. At least his clothes look clean, Allison thought. She was also wearing the same outfit—something she intended to fix as soon as they could stop at a store—and her clothes were filthy. The hotel had no cleaning service and a rinse in the sink clearly had not been enough.
“Good morning,” Vaughn said. He dove right into a plate of reconstituted eggs. He’d had a stack of papers next to him, and these he pushed across the table toward her as he chewed. “From Jamie.”
So he had contacted Jamie after all, Allison thought. She accepted the stack with a smile. “Anything good?”
“I haven’t had a chance to read everything. He sent me the email a half hour ago. I just printed these papers in the hotel’s excuse for a business office.”
Allison sipped hot coffee and paged through the documents. “These are mostly on Benini Enterprises. Tax forms, corporate filings.”
“You wanted information about the Italian shareholders. And the board members.”
“Yes, thank you. Anything of importance?”
“A lot of numbers. Jamie said he would scour everything, too, and he’s still looking at the company. But he wanted to give us these in the meantime.”
Allison turned to the last few pages. One was a photocopy of a wedding announcement for Gina and Paolo Benini. It was in Italian. An old, grainy photograph showed a cherub-faced, very young and very plain woman wearing a simple white gown and a white veil, her hair peaking from beneath in smooth tendrils. Paolo stood next to her, tall, thin and dapper in his tuxedo. Although it was a formal portrait and old-fashioned, even for the early 1950s, their bodies touched in a way that suggested they were happy about the union. Allison stared at that photo. Again, she saw Dominic reflected in his mother’s eyes and slightly bulbous nose. She saw Maria and Alex in Paolo’s intelligent and defiant stare.
This was the same woman in the portrait that graced the Benini parlor, although that woman had looked solemn, serious. She wondered what happened to Gina between the time this picture was taken and the day she decided to end her own life. What could have been so bad?
The last paper was simply a print-out of an email from Jamie to Vaughn. It said, “Gina Benini, nee Pittaluga, originally from Genoa. Married at 18 (Paolo was 26). Moved to the United States two years later. Dominic was born i
n 1963 when Gina was 25. Alex was born three years later in New York State (at home). Gina died on January 8, 1979 at the family’s home in Ithaca, New York. Death ruled a suicide.”
Allison looked up. “Do you know where Jamie found that?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Hmm. When did Francesca move to the United States?”
“I don’t know the year, but she was young. Still a teenager. Seventeen or eighteen.”
“Interesting.” Allison looked at the information again. Her mind sidled sideways, assembling bits of information, creating a story she wasn’t yet ready to posit aloud.
“There’s more.” Vaughn took out his phone, tapped it a few times and handed it to Allison. It was a text from Angela sent at 2:46 that morning. It said: “John and Enzo Pittaluga” and gave an address.
“Relatives?”
Vaughn nodded. “Gina’s brothers. Her parents had ten kids, nine boys and Gina. Two of her brothers immigrated to the United States shortly after Gina did. They were older than Gina and are very old now. One is eighty-eight, the other ninety-two, but they live together on a small farm not far from here.”
“Our first stop, then,” Allison said. “After I read through corporate paperwork.” She looked down at her grass-stained pants. “And after we buy some new clothes.”
Twenty-Four
As they drove through the farmland region of the Finger Lakes, Allison stared out the window like a child seeing the countryside for the first time. Her family never vacationed. Her father had worked two jobs most of his adult life, and her mother suffered from debilitating migraines and then Alzheimer’s. As a result, there was never time or money for something as frivolous, in her parents’ view, as a family trip. But from a young age, Allison would pore over books, reading about faraway lands and interesting locales, and one of the places she had always longed to visit as a kid was a farm. A real, working farm. Seduced, perhaps, by books like Charlotte’s Web and Anne of Green Gables, she’d envisioned farm life to be idyllic, a place where fathers didn’t beat kids, mothers weren’t always sick, and there were plenty of secret hideaways.
