Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  “He’s working on it now.”

  “Let me know what you find.”

  “Where are you headed? You should take the package and get to the airport. Come home. We can figure out the rest from here.”

  She pulled out the family photo she’d gotten at the library and studied the picture. She thought of Francesca’s determination, Alex’s playboy charm, Dom’s serious demeanor, always looking at the world through his mother’s dark eyes.

  And then it hit her. Gina Benini. Trying forever to get pregnant. Then having not one, but two sons. Number two born soon after Francesca arrives.

  Francesca, married off to the highest bidder. A family rival. A bad man.

  Abused, frightened, she runs back to Daddy. But Daddy has to send her somewhere. A convent. An asylum. America.

  Not because she’s mentally ill. Because she’s pregnant.

  “Allison? Are you still there?”

  “Oh Lord, Vaughn. There it was all along. The key.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She turned the key in the ignition, started the Ford. “Alex Benini. Those damn striking blue eyes. He looks nothing like Gina. That always bothered me, that one son looked so much like his mother, the other not at all. It’s because Alex is Francesca’s child.”

  “From her marriage?”

  “Yes.” Quickly, Allison explained her theory, thinking of Gina’s diary. “It makes sense that Gina rejected Alex. She didn’t want to have to live that lie, resented Francesca and her son for intruding on her life and marriage, the tidy world she’d created for herself. But she was forced to play along, pretend Alex was hers.”

  “But why the façade once Francesca got to the States?”

  Carefully, Allison opened the envelope. As she suspected, inside was a binder clip of documents outlining the Gretchko-Benini alliance. Real estate transactions, shipping instructions, bank deposits. Things that, by themselves, meant nothing. Together they could bring down the whole arrangement.

  “I have a hunch, Vaughn, that this all ties back to organized crime. From the time of Alex’s conception. Jackie, the cook, mentioned Paolo’s honor, his honest efforts to grow this business. And his sons’ betrayal.”

  “You think the boys have Francesca?”

  “Yes.”

  “But where?”

  “I think I know that, too.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Allison’s first call was to Jason. She left a message at his office, giving him a bare bones account of what was happening and telling him where he could find the incriminating papers, which she’d left in the safe back at the inn. Then she called Razinski. She hoped to hell he was clean, because she had no real choice but to trust him. She didn’t know who else to turn to. He listened quietly, reacting only when she said she had hard evidence. “I’ll see what I can do,” he’d said at that point. She gave him Jason’s number. Then she called 9-1-1 and reported a kidnapping at the Benini estate.

  When she arrived back at the Benini home, no cars sat in the circle. Jackie let her in immediately. “Simone and Dom are at the funeral home,” she said. “You probably shouldn’t be here.”

  “I need your help.” Allison told Jackie about the police and where she was headed. “If I’m wrong, it’s a false alarm. But I don’t think I am.”

  Jackie gave a grunt of assent. “Hurry.” She gave Allison a flashlight from a kitchen drawer. Allison rummaged in her purse until she found the Swiss Army knife. Then she placed the knife in her pants pocket.

  “You remember the way?”

  “Yes. But my phone won’t work out there.”

  “I’ll watch for the police.” Jackie made the Sign of the Cross. “Just be quick.”

  It was hard to be quick in the rain. The muddy path slowed Allison’s progress, and made it hard to see clearly. But rain had its advantages, too. It would hide her tracks if anyone came searching. After all, she reminded herself, Dom and Simone were accounted for, but Reginald and Alex were not.

  It took her fifteen minutes to find the grotto, another ten to locate the trap door in the ground. She remembered seeing the platform and the metal ring, but when she tried to visualize where it was, its distance to the statues, she couldn’t remember. She tapped along the muddy ground, listening for a hollow sound, but the rain and wind muted whatever echo there was.

  Allison dropped to her knees. She searched the area with slick fingers, feeling her way along the dirt and grass, hoping to feel wooden boards, metal, an edge, anything that would indicate the door, for she was certain now that’s what it was. Water streamed down her face, into her eyes. Her shirt clung to her, wet cotton against raw skin. Fingernails caked with mud clawed the earth. Frustrated, she made pass after pass. She started to wonder if she’d imagined the whole scene at the grotto.

  Bingo.

  Her hands finally brushed something hard underneath a section of mud. Allison followed the edge of the wood, looking for a handle. She found a small ring on one edge, smaller than the original. They’d changed it, she thought, to hide the entrance. With one mud-streaked hand, she pulled. The door wouldn’t budge. She tugged harder.

  The door came up slowly on rusty hinges. The sweet smell of rotting vegetables mingled with human excrement hit her, even with the wind and driving rain. Allison tried to listen. She thought she heard noises like a human grunting. Excited, terrified? She turned on the flashlight and aimed it carefully into the hole. She saw a rope ladder extending into the darkness, and began her descent into the depths of the hiding place, flashlight between her teeth.

  “Nooks and crannies,” Alex had said when describing the Benini estate. Nooks and crannies, for sure. Allison figured this was an old root cellar, a place to store vegetables over the winter.

  Now it was the den of a kidnapper.

  She reached the last rung and hopped down, onto a dirt floor. Letting her eyes adjust to the dark, she stood for a second, getting her bearings and listening for sounds that might indicate a trap. When her vision was clearer, she swept the room with the light from the flashlight, searching for Francesca. There she was, tied to an old armchair, gagged.

  Allison ran to her, pulling the knife from her pants pocket. Quickly, carefully, she sliced the ropes holding Francesca’s legs together and the ones binding her arms to the chair. Francesca pulled the gag from her mouth, coughed. When she could breathe, she said, “We have to hurry! He went to get food. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Who, Francesca?”

  But it was too late. Another form started its descent into the blackness. Before Allison saw who it was, she caught the unmistakable silhouette of the gun.

  “Really, Allison,” Alex Benini said. “You’re more tenacious than I thought. And it was downright amusing watching you crawl around in the mud.”

  Alex walked across the small cavern, gun aimed at her, not Francesca. He was carrying a bag, which he thrust toward Francesca. “Eat.”

  Francesca took the bag, dropped it to the ground. “Alex, let her go. She has nothing to do with any of this. I don’t even understand why she’s here.”

  “Andrei was having her followed. They can’t figure out who took you, Aunt Francesca. They thought maybe Allison was hiding you.”

  Francesca looked at Allison with a mixture of pity and sorrow. “I’m so sorry you’re involved. And that young man, the one who was driving me. I felt so bad when Alex nabbed me. I was afraid he would be blamed.” To Alex, she said, “Let her go.”

  “No, Aunt Francesca. I don’t think we can.”

  Francesca sat down on the chair, rubbing her leg. Calm. Stoic. Not quite the reaction Allison had anticipated.

  “You used me for information,” Allison said. “Played the part of the grieving son, worried nephew. When all along, you were lying.” Allison shook her head. She twisted her hand behind her back, adjusting the knife in th
e shadows. “It was you who placed the tracker on Vaughn’s car. You didn’t come to Philadelphia to see what Francesca had given me. You wanted to remove any evidence that Vaughn had been followed. But Maria knew. She saw you place the tracker on Vaughn’s car—”

  “Allison, Allison, Allison.” He gave her a tired smile. “I was never using you. I enjoyed our conversations, would have enjoyed even more. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what kept you going, despite the danger. I knew Andrei and his people were following you, trying to scare you. And I said as much. I figured,” he shook his head, let the gun fall a hair, “that you were playing some angle yourself.”

  “No angle, Alex. Just trying to find your aunt.” She had the knife in the right position now, so she kept talking, back against the wall. “Tammy Edwards was your idea? So Denise is your manager?”

  “I wanted her to be. Instead, she’s fucking my brother.”

  “Always with the competition between you two,” Francesca said.

  Alex turned to his aunt. “And the competition continues.” He looked back at Allison. “I never wanted to hurt my aunt. I was trying to save her.”

  Allison glanced at Francesca. The older woman ran a dirty hand down a haggard face. Francesca said wearily, “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “Dom is getting antsy,” Alex replied. He did sound regretful. Whether it was sincere or not, Allison had no idea. “Andrei is pressuring him, he suspects we have you. Dom never wanted to do this in the first place, he wanted to let the Gretchkos work things their way. And I’m afraid I’m losing the battle. If you don’t agree soon, he’ll put you back in the hunting cabin and let Andrei find you.”

  “Then let him! I told you before, I won’t let you two ruin what your father and I worked so hard to build.”

  “It’s only money.”

  “It’s never only money!” Francesca stood, pointed a finger at Alex. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No, I don’t. So why don’t you tell me.”

  “Because you’re her son, Alex.”

  Francesca and Alex turned to Allison, both horrified. And in that instance, Allison once again saw the resemblance. Not in stature, but the eyes. His were blue, hers brown, but they reflected the same world-weary, lively intelligence. No wonder they were never together in pictures, Allison thought. That should have been a dead giveaway.

  “Yes, Francesca, I finally pieced it together. Your marriage, it was arranged by your grandmother. You escaped, but not before you got pregnant with your husband’s child. His family had to be rich, powerful for the marriage to be worth it. A rival family. If I had to guess, I’d say he was Mafioso. You didn’t want to be tied to him, and a child would bind you.”

  “More than that,” Francesca said. “He would own that child. Control him. Turn him into a monster like he was.” She shook her head. “That could never be allowed to happen.”

  “So you lived a lie. Came here, pretended Alex was Gina’s, stayed in this house, guarding your son and your secret.”

  Alex was staring at Francesca with a mixture of hurt and betrayal. “She despised me. All those years, you let me believe I was her son?”

  “I despised her for despising you. But she was fragile, jealous. Paolo forced her to go along, but she couldn’t be trusted. There was nothing I could do.” Francesca’s voice was burdened by years of guilt. “When Gina died, I thought it would all die with her, but then your uncles...” She put her hand out, pleading. “I couldn’t tell you.”

  Alex lowered the gun. He shook his head, dazed. “You set the fire?”

  “Paolo had it set. As a warning. They were threatening to tell your father. Enzo thought he could get more from us.” To Allison, Francesca said, “We bought them the bakery. A gift. For their silence. You understand, right?”

  “You and my father knew John was in that building? You tried to kill him?” Alex said, backing toward the ladder.

  “No! We only wanted to remind them not to get greedy, to take back what we had given. We didn’t know anyone was in there.” Sobs now, deep, throaty sobs. “The farm...we repaid them.”

  “You can’t repay someone for disfigurement, Mother.”

  That’s when Allison heard the distant wail of sirens. And footsteps, right overhead.

  Francesca heard it, too. “Shhh,” she said. “Dom.”

  But Alex was standing by the ladder, visibly shaking. Despite what he had done, Allison felt a frisson of sympathy. His whole childhood, his whole sense of self, ripped apart in one minute. And Francesca, in an attempt to protect her own, had wreaked havoc on a family. Enzo Pittaluga’s quote—echoed by his brother—came back to her, “An overflow of good converts to bad.” Shakespeare’s words had special meaning here.

  She’d gone far to protect her son, to protect her family, from evil. And in doing so, had created the very thing she’d hoped to avoid.

  Francesca gasped.

  Dom was descending into the root cellar. Allison centered herself, knife in hand, ready to spring.

  Thirty-Nine

  Pushing off the wall, Allison flung her body against Alex, catching him off guard and knocking the gun from his hand.

  She took advantage of the split second of confusion and grabbed the gun. Her knife fell. She kicked it toward Francesca, who bent to pick it up.

  Now that Dom was coming, her client looked scared. Alex may have been the kidnapper, but it was Dom calling the shots.

  “Alex!” Dom was halfway down the rope ladder now, and it swayed under his weight. He bent to see what was happening. When he spied Allison, his face contorted in rage. “One fucking task, Alex. One fucking task.”

  Alex stood feet from the ladder, still in shock.

  And Dom couldn’t let go of the ladder, or he would fall. Rain poured through the open cellar door, impeding his vision. Allison eyed the gun in her hands with wary distaste.

  Heart slamming against her ribcage, head pounding, she steadied her hand and aimed the gun at Dom, then Alex. The sirens were louder now. She fought to stay calm.

  Alex moved.

  “Stop!” She pointed the gun in his direction. “We’re in a really close space. And I have a wicked migraine. Don’t tempt me.”

  The sirens stopped.

  “Let Alex go,” Francesca said.

  Allison glanced quickly at her. “Are you serious? They kidnapped you, Francesca.”

  Francesca lifted the knife. She pointed the tip at Allison. “He didn’t know. Let him go.”

  “Francesca, this is serious.” Allison kept her eyes locked on Alex, then on Dom, keeping the gun level and her expression hard. “I can’t let him go.”

  “Please. Let. Him. Go.” Francesca raised her arm, poised to throw the knife at Allison.

  Allison, white-knuckled and furious, took a step toward Alex. “Do it, Francesca, and I pull the damn trigger. I mean it.” And in that moment, she did mean it.

  “Put it down, Aunt Francesca.” Alex’s voice was thick—with sadness? Regret? Fear? Allison wasn’t sure and didn’t care. None of it mattered now.

  Francesca let out a howl like a trapped and injured animal, low and guttural and agonized. But she dropped the knife and fell to her knees.

  “Stay put, both of you,” Allison said, keeping the weapon trained on the two men. The police would be down here any minute. Patience, Al, she told herself. Breathe.

  Forty

  In the shadows of the late afternoon, Linden Street was quiet. Allison pulled up to the Edwards’ house with a rock in the pit of her stomach and a headache laying siege to her skull. But she forced herself out of the car and returned the wan smile of the two girls sitting on the porch—Kellie with an “ie” and, next to her, arms wrapped around long, skinny legs, Tammy Edwards.

  “Hello, Allison,” Tammy said. She looked across the porch, into the sun, squinte
d, and cupped a hand across her forehead for shade. “Do you want my mother?”

  “Is she home?”

  Tammy nodded. “I don’t think she’ll want to talk to you, though.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Tammy glanced at her friend, as though for confirmation. Kellie smiled gently. Tammy shrugged. “My father’s in prison.”

  “I heard. I’m so sorry, Tammy.”

  The girl started to shrug again, seemed to think better of it, and said instead, “He said it was unavoidable.”

  Allison climbed the steps and sat next to the two girls on the dusty porch flooring. “I want to tell your mother that I’m sorry.”

  “She’s not much for apologies.”

  “I did what I thought I needed to do at the time. We—I—thought you were in danger.”

  Tammy took a long time to answer. She stared at her toenails, newly painted a coat of pearlescent pink, girlie and fresh. “When I overheard Denise talking about a kidnapping, I knew. I knew she was using me, and I ran. She didn’t see me as a star. She saw me as a way to get to someone else.” Tammy looked at Allison. “I also knew my father was involved. That she had been using him, too. That he had set her up with me as a favor to the Gretchkos.”

  “And that’s why your mother kept your whereabouts a secret, isn’t it? To protect you. And to protect your dad from the police.”

  Tammy nodded. “Mom’s known for a while Dad does odd jobs for the Gretchkos. But she didn’t know about this. She was angry. At him, at me.”

  “But more than that, she was scared.” Allison guessed. “Scared that if the police started digging around, she’d lose you and your father.”

  “Maybe.”

  Tammy glanced at Kellie, who reached out and touched her friend’s hand. Thinking about Kellie’s alcoholic mother, Allison figured Kellie knew, as did Allison, about family heartache. About the lengths one would go to hide a loved one from pain—and accountability.

  But sometimes, there was no hiding from the truth.