by Wendy Tyson
Maybe Alex Benini—willingly or not—could help them do that.
Allison squared her shoulders. “Seven o’clock tomorrow night. Alone. On two conditions.”
Alex nodded for her to continue.
“One, total honesty. I will come with questions, and you need to answer them candidly.”
“And two?”
“Stop having me followed.”
Alex sighed. “Those are complicated requests, Allison. More complicated than you know.”
“Why? Why does all of this need to be so complicated? What the hell are you and your family hiding?”
“We’re not hiding anything. The question is, what was Francesca hiding?”
That stopped Allison.
Was this all about protecting a secret that Francesca had held close? Were the vultures circling, trying to get a glimpse of whatever she was clinging to? Was it something worth dying for?
Allison heard footsteps in the hall. Vaughn? She glanced at her watch. The hour was almost up.
“Can you promise those two things or not?”
Alex looked at her with sad eyes, no hint of amusement this time. “It was Dom who had you followed. I can’t make any promises there. He’s a lone wolf. He doesn’t answer to me, or anyone for that matter.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow night? I’ll text you the address.”
“What about my other condition? Total honesty?”
“I’ll lay bare what I can.”
Alex left, and Allison was left to ponder the meaning of those words.
“Wolf. Vultures. What is it with this family and predator metaphors?” Vaughn didn’t look up from his bowl as he spoke. They were eating homemade chicken soup and biscuits in the inn’s dining area, compliments of the manager. The soup was a bit salty for Allison’s taste, but she welcomed its searing heat and the comforting flavor of something so familiar. It made her think of the rare times when she was a kid and her mother felt well enough to cook for them. Especially if her father wasn’t home. Just Allison, her mom and her sisters. Those were the good days.
Vaughn cleared his throat, interrupting Allison’s thoughts. “Vultures and wolves, Allison.” He pointed his spoon at her.
Allison’s mind traveled back to her first visit, to the hawk that had fallen from the sky. To Maria’s rifle. Wolves and vultures, indeed. And here I am, sitting across from one of my closest friends, preparing to lie, she thought. I am no better than the vultures or the wolves.
But it was for his own good. At least that’s what she told herself.
But now she was having second thoughts. And third.
“So what was in that diary?” Vaughn asked. He tapped at the bottom of his empty soup bowl, looking vaguely disappointed. “Was it worth Rico Suavé’s trip over?”
“I haven’t had a chance to go through it yet.”
“Why did he bother bringing it over?”
“He heard that we were talking to Gina’s brother, Enzo.”
Vaughn twisted the white cloth napkin around his hand. “When I heard Alex in your room, I figured as much. I’m glad he came clean about the tail. I’m not surprised they’re watching us. Let them. In fact, maybe that explains how Razinski knew. And the damn white Accord.” Vaughn looked down at his hands, then back up at her, clearly uneasy. “I was worried for a minute that you had called him.”
Allison felt her color rise. “Do you really think that little of me?”
“I really think that little of him. I don’t trust Alex Benini, Allison. I don’t trust any of them.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’m committed to Jason.”
Vaughn’s mobile beeped. He picked it up, stared at the screen, and scowled. “This can’t be good. I’ll be right back.”
Allison watched as he walked toward the inn’s entrance hall, his tall, muscular form lithe from all of the boxing he did to stay in shape. Once again, Allison felt a pang of admiration for Vaughn. His devotion to Jamie, his self-discipline. She hoped once this was over, it wouldn’t scar him. He’d worked so hard to create this life for them. Nothing could be allowed to destroy it.
Vaughn was back a few minutes later looking glum. “I need to get back tonight.”
“Jamie?”
Vaughn nodded. “Angela is sick and Mrs. T has family in town. Mrs. T is heading over for a few hours to stay with Jamie until I get there. But I need to get moving.” He glanced at his watch. “I know we paid for the rooms already. If you want to stay—”
Allison frowned.
“I’m sorry,” Vaughn said. “If I had another option, I’d use it. But on such short notice,” he shook his head, “I just don’t.”
“It’s fine, Vaughn. I just have a few more loose ends to tie up here.”
“Like?”
“I wanted to head to the library and see what’s available about the Pittaluga bakery on microfiche, for one thing.”
She eyed Vaughn to gauge his reaction. “You could fly home,” he said.
Allison tried to look like she was considering that as a fresh option. She hated lying. But this wasn’t really lying. She had been trying to figure out a way to send Vaughn home alone, and now she had it.
“Maybe I’ll do that. I only need another day or two. I’ll be right on your heels.”
Vaughn looked miserable. Allison cringed, knowing she was responsible for his unease. But she was a grown woman, absolutely capable of taking care of herself. “Stop worrying,” she said.
“Jason will be pissed at me.”
Allison stood. Her bowl was empty and her head was pounding. She wanted to get back to Gina’s diary before the guilt overwhelmed her. But this insistence that she needed looking after was infuriating and she felt the guilt give way to anger.
“Jason will have to deal,” she said. “I’ll see him soon enough.”
“Let me pack and get going.” He studied her for a moment before turning to go. Thinking better of it, he spun around. “Francesca’s other bag. It was stuffed in the back of my trunk, where she must have left it. I have it in my room. I’ll drop it off before I go.”
“Anything good?”
“Nah. Girly stuff. Underwear, toiletries. I felt like a perv going through it.”
Allison smiled. “Leave it with me. I’ll take another look.”
Thirty
Vaughn was gone by 9:30, and Allison was left alone with her thoughts—as well as Gina Benini’s diary and Francesca’s bag. She pulled on the blue pajamas she’d purchased at Target, brushed her teeth, and curled up on the settee, anxious to read.
The diary was small. When placed on her left hand, it reached only her fingertips and weighed just ounces. The cover may have once been a shade of rich purple, but it had faded to a washed-out gray. The material was silky, though, and perhaps even softer to the touch because of time’s caress. Allison sat for a moment, holding the book, wondering where Gina had purchased it. Had it traveled from Italy? Or had it been a gift from Paolo?
She opened to the first page. The paper was a quality parchment, now yellowed from age. The writing was a heavy black, in a script so flowery that Allison struggled to decipher each word.
The first page contained a catalog of goods. Scarf, mittens, bonnet, Nona’s blanket. Next to each item was a checkmark, straight and unadorned compared to the lettering in the list itself. Allison wondered if Gina had written the list and Paolo the checkmarks? Why was it in English, not Italian?
Did it really matter?
The next few pages looked to be a toddler’s feeding schedule. At the top was the date, and underneath a recording of the time for each feeding. On the bottom were notations that Allison assumed were the time and consistency of bowel movements. The orderly recordings of a new parent? Clearly if Dom was eating green beans and sweet potatoes, he had been older than a tiny infant. So Gina
must have been pregnant with Alex at the time. Or would be soon.
The next ten pages, written at intervals of days or even weeks, were similar. Lists and schedules and notations about toy preferences and food quantities and behavior. There was a tone to the list, a rote-ness that seemed out of step with the frivolity of the book itself. Why use the diary for such mundane content? Were these lists a diligent mother’s notes—or a neurotic mother’s obsession? Allison wondered.
About twenty pages in, the content changed. Gina began to include references to dinner dates with Paolo, picnic outings, luncheons with descriptions of magnificent spreads. On page thirty-eight, she mentioned a “gorgeous red silk dress, one he will have to love.” Her words seemed lighter, as though a burden had been lifted. Why? And what had been the burden to begin with? Child rearing? Loneliness?
Allison kept reading. She was tired, and her back ached from sleeping in strange beds. She missed Jason and Brutus. But she was enthralled by the diary, by the lack of intimate details. Was Gina hampered by limited English? Was she afraid Paolo would read the book? Or was she simply uncomfortable putting thoughts and feelings on paper?
About fifty pages in, the book took another turn. Gina had gone back to cold lists and stark descriptions. Here were notes about Paolo’s dinner preferences, her own caloric intake and reminders that she was getting fat.
Gradually, the new baby crept into the pages, although rather than the doting mother’s lists that Dom’s infancy warranted, Alex was mentioned in passing, as though he was a mild inconvenience or another chore to which she needed to attend.
Francesca was mentioned, too. But never by name. She was always a pronoun, or, at best, “Paolo’s sister.” Entries read like angry comments on a modern blog. “Dinner with Paolo. Why does she stare? I feel like she’s stalking me. Every time I look up, there she is. Watching. Waiting. But for what? No wonder they sent her here. I wish they’d chosen the asylum.” Or, “He is such a little pig, with those eyes that follow me everywhere. Dom can’t sleep with him in the room, so Paolo and I have another challenge during the night. And she is no help.”
The word asylum caught Allison’s attention. Allison assumed Francesca had chosen to come to America. Had she been sent? Had a mental hospital been the alternative?
The entries went on, a litany of complaints and secret indignities. It came to an end on January 19. Gina Benini’s final entry said simply, “Coincidence?”
Coincidence.
Allison paged back to take another look at the entries right before that final notation. On December 10th, Gina had written a reminder about a doctor appointment. On December 24th, the entry read, “Dinner for twelve tonight. Remind cook of food allergy. And bitter greens. Always bitter greens.” Had she been planning a Christmas dinner? If so, who were the other guests?
Gina Paolo died on January 28. Because there was no year written in the diary, Allison didn’t know whether Gina had time to start a new diary before her death. But based on her notes about the children, Allison’s hunch was that the diary entries ended just weeks before Gina Benini took her own life.
Perhaps Alex could tell her tomorrow.
Allison stood, stretched. Why the hell had Gina’s name been written in that latrine in the old hunting cabin? And had it been Francesca who’d written it?
First Francesca Benini disappears during a pit stop off the highway. Then Tammy Edwards is mysteriously missing from her home. Add to that an invalid’s suspicious death, and an allegedly accidental steam leak that kills Maria Benini after a panicked phone call.
And all Allison had was a name and an old diary.
Allison placed the diary carefully in her purse. She double checked the door to her suite to make sure it was locked before settling in to call Jason. She was only mildly disappointed when he didn’t answer. She knew he would be angry that she was here alone. She didn’t feel like hearing it. Although she despised the guilt that knotted her gut, she wished he was here with her, but only if he would help. Because she could use the help.
She called Mia’s house next, but her former mother-in-law didn’t answer, either. Allison glanced at the clock. It flashed 10:14. Early, but Allison had a lot planned for the next day. She decided to turn in for the night.
She remembered Francesca’s small bag. She unzipped the top and peeked inside. Everything was neat and orderly. Clearly Vaughn didn’t get too far. Allison chuckled at the thought of Vaughn refusing to look through an older woman’s underwear. For someone with such a tough exterior, he was a softie underneath.
Allison laid a towel on the bed. One by one, she pulled the items from the bag. Five pairs of white women’s underwear, neatly pressed and rolled, sat on top. She placed them, still rolled up, on the towel. Underneath were jars of Olay, Noxzema face wash, a loofah, hand cream, toothpaste, an electric toothbrush, and a hairbrush. A small Bible, empty of any personalization, and a Rosary had been placed in a side pocket. She laid everything out on the towel and turned the bag upside down, searching for hidden compartments.
That was it. No papers. No secret diagrams or diaries or tracking devices. Nothing but an older woman’s personal belongings. Allison felt a little guilty rummaging through Francesca’s things, as though she were violating her privacy, however pure her motivations. She started to put everything back in the order she’d removed it. She was placing the second pair of underwear in the bag when she felt something hard inside the cotton. Slowly, she unfolded the garment. A small, silver key fell out.
Well I’ll be damned, Allison thought. Could this be what Alex was looking for?
She might have felt smug, except that she had no idea what the key opened. No idea at all.
It was nearly eleven o’clock at night and Mia’d had no luck tracking down Michael Jiff. The address Jason had provided turned out to be a foursquare home in Kingston, Pennsylvania, only a half hour’s drive from Scranton. It was a beautiful Mission-style house in a neighborhood of sprawling Bungalows on small but manicured lots. But when Mia knocked, the door was answered by an older woman who was quite adamant that no Michael Jiff lived there.
Not convinced, Mia had sat in her car, parked a few doors down, and watched the house. Through lace curtains, she saw the woman sitting on a couch, watching a cooking show on a large, wall-mounted television. At 10:22, the woman turned off the television. At 10:48, she turned off the downstairs lights and went up to bed.
Frustrated and tired, Mia sat in the darkened truck and scrolled through her emails. Nothing relevant, other than a note from Jamie reminding her to be careful. She called her home voicemail and heard Allison’s message from earlier. It was too late to call her back now.
Mia rested her head against the seat. She thought about her call with Jason. She wished him the things every mother wished for her child. Love. Happiness. An end to his restlessness. Once upon a time, she’d blamed Allison for not soothing Jason’s demons. She realized now that only he had the power to do that. And sometimes he was ignorant of his own blind spots.
Mia smiled. Like mother, like son.
Mia started the truck. She’d grab a hotel for the night and would try again tomorrow, before heading home. She was a retired divorcee, after all. She had all the time in the world.
Mia was pulling away from the curb when her phone rang. She glanced down, saw an unlisted number, and answered, “Hello?”
It was then that an old brown Audi pulled in front of the Mission-style house.
A voice on the phone said, “Mia?”
A guy got out of the car. The watery streetlight silhouetted a hulking man with a loping, tired gait.
Mia pulled the car up next to him. She held her hand over the phone and said, “Michael Jiff?” Even in the dark, she saw panic in the enlarged whites of his eyes.
The voice on the phone repeated, “Mia?”
The guy on the sidewalk shook his head.
Mia said to the man, “I really need to talk to you.”
Another head shake. He started toward the house, his head tucked down as though to hide his face. Mia glanced between the phone and the stranger on the street.
Finally, she said, “Michael, please. There’s a child’s life at stake.”
The guy stopped. The voice on the phone said, “You’re being watched.”
Mia froze. She looked at Michael Jiff, for she was certain that’s who this stranger was, then at her phone. “Hold on,” she said to the voice in the phone.
“Please,” she said again to Jiff.
His shoulders slumped. He nodded.
“Who is this?” Mia said into the phone.
“They’re watching you. I’ll help you. But you have to do what I say.” The voice sounded deep, echo-y, but she recognized it as Svengetti’s.
Torn, Mia met Michael Jiff’s gaze. “I’m listening,” she said into the phone.
“Get the reporter into your car and head toward the Cross Valley Expressway. Route 309, north. I’ll guide you from there.”
Thirty-One
Allison couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, thinking. Jason had called her back just minutes after she went to sleep, and his forced cheerfulness and lack of direct questions were almost as disconcerting as his previous over-concern. What was up with that? And where the hell was Mia?
Allison rolled over. She clutched one down pillow to her chest and breathed in the smell of fresh sheets, but even the feel of 400-thread count cotton against her skin couldn’t ward away the creeping sense of disquiet. This inn was as large as the Benini estate, yet it felt warm and welcoming. The Benini estate had felt like a tomb. Was that part of the equation? That damn house?
