Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (5 page)

Allison took this all in during the space of a second. Then her eyes were drawn to Maggie. A tiny pudge ball of a girl, Maggie sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. Allison saw black-stockinged legs, the ruffle of a black skirt, a black shirt with a torn collar, spiky black hair. All she could see of Maggie’s face were her eyes, which looked to be encircled in black crayon. Everything was the flat black of matte paint or cheap hair color: no texture, no highlights, no depth. Allison sighed. If I take this job, she thought, I’ll certainly have my work cut out for me.

“Maggie?”

No response.

“Maggie, can I sit?”

Still no answer.

“No games, Maggie.”

“No games, Allison. I don’t want you here.”

Touché, sweetheart, I’m not so sure I want to be here.
“I just want to talk.”

“I don’t need another shrink.”

“I’m not a shrink, Maggie.”

“A therapist.”

“Nope, I’m not a therapist.”

She sat a little straighter. “Then what are you?”

“I’m an image consultant. Your parents want to hire me to help you get yourself together.”

For a second the girl on the bed didn’t speak or move. Then she let out a laugh like a witch’s cackle, long and loud and mean.

It took Allison a second to regain her composure. “Something funny, Maggie?”

Maggie rolled around on her bed for a second, clutching her gut as though she couldn’t contain the guffaws. “This is…the best...yet. Daddy...is...such an...idiot.”

“Maggie!”

She stopped laughing. “Don’t ‘Maggie’ me. He is an idiot. An image consultant? Know how many people they’ve made me see? There was Dr. Schuman, the bald-headed pedophile, Dr. Turner, the three-hundred-year-old psychologist who smelled like moth balls and said I was developmentally delayed, Dr. Lee, the neuro-acupuncturist, whatever the hell that is. Oh, yeah, there was also the hypnotist, two psychiatrists, and the dude in New York who decided I needed a blood-letting. With leeches. I said no way to that one. Want me to keep going?”

Maggie stood up and flicked on the strobe light. A pulsating glow reflected bands of color across the black walls. Allison watched stripes dance their way across Maggie’s features. A pretty child lay under the sneer and the hideous makeup.  Maggie had a round face and pale skin, but also her mother’s wild eyes and soft, full mouth. Someday, Allison thought, with a dash of luck and a few ounces of guidance, Maggie could be a beauty.

“Well, I’m not here to psychoanalyze you. And I promise—no blood-letting.” When Maggie didn’t respond, Allison said, “What do you say, Maggie? Shall we at least give it a go?”

“No effing way.”

Allison turned to leave.

“Wow, you quit with the least resistance,” Maggie said.

“I told you. No games.”

“Fine, leave.” She slumped a little. “Tell my mother I’m oppositional. Go ahead.” The high pitch of her voice betrayed her brave front. Allison heard fear.

“What do you get out of this, Maggie? Do you just enjoy making your folks angry?”

“I’ll never do what they want.”

“Because you disagree with them?”

“Because I’m not so easily controlled.”

Allison met her angry glare. “Don’t you think automatically doing the opposite of what people want you to do is just as pathetic?”

Maggie jutted a round chin up defiantly. “How so?”

“Think about it, Maggie. When you follow everyone’s command, you don’t have to think, right? You become a sheep. When you automatically do the opposite of what they tell you, you don’t have to think either. You end up in the same place.”

She shook her head. “Nice try.”

“Hey, look, I have no idea what this little routine between you and your folks is. You don’t want to cooperate? Fine by me. I wish you the best.”

Allison reached for the doorknob.

Maggie ran to block her exit. “Wait.”

This close, Maggie smelled of strawberry shampoo and patchouli. A strange mix, Allison thought, the trappings of a teen caught between childhood and the need to assert her independence.
Not so atypical, no matter how Hank had painted her.

Allison said, “Tell me why I should stay.”

“Because if you leave, they’ll lock me up. Daddy already told me the next step is boarding school. Somewhere far away.”

“So they
did
tell you about me.”

Maggie looked down at her black combat boots and shuffled her feet like a schoolgirl waiting in the cafeteria line. “Not exactly. My mother said my last chance was on her way over.”

Great.
Allison leaned against the door. She didn’t want to be this kid’s last chance. She didn’t want to be anyone’s last chance.

She took another look at Maggie. This was not an abused teen, like Violet. This was not a girl who had no one else to turn to. This was a spoiled, alienated teenager in need of a firm hand and some self-esteem. And that’s what Allison did well. Her mind flashed to Hank McBride at their first meeting, at the cold way he’d referred to his own daughter as a misfit. Allison swore under her breath. Get a grip, Al, she thought. You’ve dealt with the worst the Main Line has to offer. You can handle this kid.

When Maggie refused to look at her, Allison touched her chin, gently, and pulled it forward so Maggie would meet her eyes. “Seems each of us has something at stake. Shall we give it a go? What do you say, Maggie?”

Maggie’s momentary panic seemed to have evaporated, replaced with cocky defiance. She gave Allison an appraising glance, head to toe and back up again, one that echoed Hank’s mannerisms the day before.

“I say you’re stuck-up and in it for yourself. But because I have no other choice, I’ll do it. You should know now, though, that I’ll never be like you. I like who I am and I won’t let my father change that.”

“Fair enough.” Allison could feel the tension in her shoulders snake down her spine. She thought of Hank’s smile, the way he dominated his wife, not so different from the way her own father had ruled their household. “Clearly we both have a challenge ahead of us.”

Udele met Allison at the top of the stairs, appearing just seconds after Allison pushed the antique brass buzzer.

Allison said, “You startled me.”

Udele seemed unfazed. “Mrs. McBride would like to see you before you leave.” Udele’s words were crisp, separated by hard edges. Allison wondered whether she always looked like she’d just swallowed a spider or if she actually cracked a smile now and again. Was it this household? Despite the perfect furnishings and the decorator’s fingerprint everywhere, the house felt empty and cold. Only Sunny’s paintings and Maggie’s bedroom showed any sign of vibrancy or creative flair, even if it was morose in Maggie’s case. Perhaps the atmosphere had gotten to Udele.

Allison followed the aging housekeeper to a parlor on the first floor. The entire room was done in navy blue toile. Even the ceiling was papered. Allison glanced around the room and tried to get a sense of this family from the photos and bric-à-brac. Not a lot to go on: several pieces of heavy walnut furniture, a wood-carved elephant on the writing desk, a crystal bud vase on an end table, an engraved silver-plated letter opener by the phone.  A framed portrait of a young and impish Maggie hung next to the fireplace. Allison saw freshness in her eyes that seemed gone now, but Allison also recognized the glint of devil that must have rooted and thrived until it grew into the opposition witnessed in Maggie’s room.

Next to Maggie’s painting hung a portrait of another young girl, as fair and striking as Maggie was dark and brooding. Allison stood staring at that second painting, trying to reconcile how two sisters could be so different, when she heard Sunny enter the room, a young woman beside her. The second woman was tall and slender, with Sunny’s long, graceful neck and Hank’s light coloring. Her hair was twisted in a neat chignon. Fine-boned limbs. Tiny, neat breasts. The fairer daughter, no doubt.

“Allison, this is my older daughter, Catherine.”

Allison stood. She accepted Catherine’s outstretched hand. “Very nice to meet you, Catherine.” Catherine’s handshake was cool and limp. She looked at Allison with a rather calculating stare of her own. With such a beautiful mother and thoroughbred sister, Allison felt for Maggie. It had to be hard to carve out a niche for herself in this family. Perhaps that explained the defiant attitude, the Goth clothes and makeup. If you know you can’t join ’em, don’t even try.

Sunny said, “How did it go?”

“It went fine.” Allison forced a smile.

“Will you take the job?”

Against her better judgment, Allison nodded.

Sunny grinned. “Thank you! I was so worried. You saw her...she’s not an easy child and, well, she doesn’t take to everyone immediately.”

Immediately? Allison doubted she ever took to anyone.

Sunny held out an unmarked manila envelope.

“What’s this?”

“The contract. There’s a confidentiality addendum enclosed. And your retainer. The congressman’s idea. He wants you to know we will keep our end of the bargain.”

Allison opened the flap and looked inside. A bundle of paper-clipped documents and a check. Allison shook her head and handed the envelope back to Sunny.

“I don’t sign contracts. You’ll have to trust my professionalism, Sunny. And as for the retainer, I’d prefer to be paid as we go. Tell Hank I’m certain he’s good for it. Besides, I know where to find him.”

Allison’s attempt at humor was met with a polite laugh from Sunny and a cold glower from Catherine. Tough audience. “I’ll see Maggie this Friday? After school. Say four o’clock?”

Sunny nodded. “I think this will work out fine.”

Six

On the drive home, Allison couldn’t shake a creeping sense of shame.  It was that mother. Sunny. With her colorful paintings and colorless home and sullen housekeeper and manipulative husband. Allison knew the whole McBride show was aimed at conning her into taking on Maggie: the absent father, the warning that this was Maggie’s last chance. The money. She had a price and they knew it.

And she couldn’t shake the comparison to Violet. The two girls couldn’t have been more dissimilar. One deprived, sad and poetic. The other bratty, spoiled and rude. But they were both oppositional and, she knew, too intelligent for their own adolescent good.

Allison’s gut said she should have told the McBrides to find another consultant for their daughter. But, she had to admit, her willingness to work with Maggie went beyond the money. A piece of her looked forward to the challenge.

It was high noon. Allison drove north on Route 30 toward her office, past strip malls and banks and restaurants whose parking lots were quickly filling. Allison felt antsy again. She checked her phone to see who Vaughn had scheduled  next. Another session in forty minutes. On impulse, Allison dialed her ex-husband Jason’s number.

“Nice to hear from you,” Jason said. He sounded genuinely pleased. “The occasion?”

Allison hesitated. What
was
the occasion? Thinking quickly, she said, “Clogged sink. Any chance you can swing by and give me a hand with it?”

“Sure,” Jason said.

Allison thought she detected disappointment in his voice. Wishful thinking, Al, she mused. You made your bed.

At four-thirty that afternoon, Vaughn interrupted a session with Allison’s client, Kit Carson. Allison excused herself and followed him into her office.

“There’s a detective on the line for you. Lieutenant Mark Helms.”

“What does he want?”

Vaughn frowned. “He wouldn’t say. Insisted on speaking with you immediately.”

The only thing Allison could think of was the Main Line Murder, as the papers had dubbed it. But what did that have to do with First Impressions?

“I’ll take it,” she said.

As soon as she got on the line, a man said, “Ms. Campbell? Lieutenant Mark Helms. I’d like to arrange some time to meet with you tomorrow. When would be convenient? I can come to your office.”

Helms had a pleasant baritone voice. And while his words were respectful, his tone left “no” off the table.

“What do you want to talk about, Lieutenant?” she said.

“Arnie Feldman.”

“I didn’t know Arnie Feldman well.”

Helms sighed. “This is an ongoing investigation. We’re looking at all angles. And your connection to his widow is what we’re interested in.”

“Sasha Feldman? I don’t know Sasha at all, Lieutenant.”

“Perhaps you remember her as Sally Ann Reilly.”

“
Sally Ann
was Arnie’s wife?”

“That’s correct.”

Allison remembered a skinny woman with buck teeth and a bad attitude. Sally Ann Reilly had been Allison’s client for all of five sessions, sent to First Impressions by an employer trying to help Sally Ann overcome something they described as a lack of gravitas. A euphemism for immaturity and abrasiveness. Before they could make much progress, Sally Ann had quit her job and the sessions ended.

“I haven’t spoken with Sally Ann—Sasha—in almost five years.”

“I understand, Ms. Campbell, but we’d still like to talk to you. We’re just looking for information. And in addition to Sasha, you’re also acquainted with Mia Campbell.”

Alarmed, Allison said, “What does Mia have to do with anything?” But even as the words escaped her, Allison knew exactly what Mia had to do with the investigation. During their divorce proceedings, Arnie had done everything in his power to make sure Mia’s accusations of criminal recklessness fell on deaf ears. The only way to do that was to discredit Mia. She reacted by threatening Arnie’s life. The threats did little to improve her image back then—and they were clearly hurting her now. “Is Mia a suspect?”

Another tired sigh from Helms. “No one is a suspect at this time. But
everyone
is a person of interest.”

“That should do it.” From her vantage point behind the closet door, Allison watched Jason pull himself out from under her bathroom sink and wipe his hands on his khaki cargo shorts. He sat on the white-tiled floor, back to the tub, and frowned. “Stop brushing your hair over the sink, Al. You’re clogging the drain.”

Allison didn’t bother to answer. How long had Jason been telling her that? The entire five years they were married? Before that even? Somehow divorce hadn’t ended that part of the dance. Allison turned so he couldn’t see her and unhooked her bra. She took it off and pulled a black slip on in its place. Then, tucked in her walk-in closet, she tried to decide which of her little black dresses to wear to tonight’s charity dinner. Spaghetti straps and lace trim? Empire waist? She settled on a cute sleeveless sheath and pulled it carefully off the rack.

Allison felt Jason’s presence behind her before she saw his reflection in the mirror.  Same dark, curling brown hair, same broad shoulders that tapered down to form a perfect V. She’d always loved his body—its sinewy strength, its hardness—even when she’d disliked his attitude. Jason stood so close that Allison could almost feel his abs against her back and his breath against her skin. She knew it wasn’t that long ago when this little scene would’ve played out differently. He would’ve reached around to cup her breasts, pulled the straps of her slip down, and let the material slide to her waist, maybe lifted the skirt up from behind. They would’ve made love on the bedroom floor until they were both breathless and sated.