Trespass (4 page)

Chapter 6

M
adison Chapman left the crowded, makeshift dance floor in Jared Kellar’s family room and headed for the bathroom. From her sixteen-year-old perspective, the evening had turned into a flop when Rodney hadn’t shown up. To add to her misery, she felt like she was coming down with the flu or something. When she shut the bathroom door behind her, she held back her long blond hair and pressed a cold cloth to her forehead, careful not to smear her makeup; if she stayed, she would need to look presentable. She sat down to pee and when she stood, her head reeled. She wasn’t drunk, hadn’t had anything to drink but soda. She needed to leave—now—before she embarrassed herself. Back among the partygoers, she found Cassie in the kitchen, arranging trays of snacks.

“You look like hell.” Cassie stepped closer to Madison. “Are you okay?”

“I really feel crappy. I think I should go home.”

“But you’re staying with me tonight.” Cassie whined, “I don’t want to leave now. Take a cab to my house. Then we can talk when I get home.”

“No, you stay. I can walk home from here. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You sure you should stay alone?” Cassie frowned, obviously torn between the party and concern for her friend.

“Yeah, no problem. I’ve stayed by myself before. The fresh air will be good for me. I’ll call you.” Madison left the back way, hoping no one would notice her exit.

She covered the few blocks home quickly, shivering despite the warmth of the early fall evening. Her bones were aching. If she had the flu, it was taking over her body quickly. Madison couldn’t wait to be in her bed. When she let herself into the kitchen from the patio, she thought she heard a noise coming from her parents’ room and wondered if they might have come home early.

A sudden wave of nausea overcame her. Madison rushed up the stairs to her bathroom where she dropped to her knees in front of the stool and gave in to violent heaves. When the spasms passed, she wiped her face, brushed her teeth, and dropped her clothes in a trail behind her as she hurried to her bed. Stripped to her underwear, she crawled between the cool sheets, thinking there was nothing like being in your own bed when you’re sick.

Still cold, she thought about getting a flannel nightgown from her dresser, but she hated to move for fear of the nausea returning. Then she remembered the noises she had heard downstairs. She got out of bed, pulled on a warm nightgown and walked to the head of the stairs where she listened for her parents’ voices. Was her head messed up from being sick or had she really heard something?

Before she could decide whether to force her tortured body down the stairs to find out, a blow from behind sent her careening to the first floor.

Chapter 7

T
J looked up when a woman entered her office. It took a minute before she recognized Gemma Rosenthal. Dressed simply in brown cargo pants and a coral sweater, she still looked stunning. With makeup and a shiny, well-groomed mane of auburn hair, she appeared nothing like she had the night of the explosion. The casual clothes did nothing to hide her exceptional body.

She approached the desk and placed a tall, narrow gift bag in front of TJ. “I’d like to thank you for helping me out. It was a rough night.”

“No thanks necessary,” TJ replied. She reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of Don Pilar tequila. Top-shelf stuff. “That’s a lot of thanks.”

“There is something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

TJ picked up the baby monitor and led Gemma to the other side of the room, where they sat across from each other on matching leather chairs.

“I’d like to hire you,” Gemma said without preamble.

TJ felt butterflies rising in her stomach. This job could mean the end of her recent boredom with her work.

“To do what?” she asked, and hoped she already knew the answer.

“I told you that Norman Teschler was a good friend of mine. I called the fire inspector. He wasn’t very helpful, but he did tell me that so far they believe the explosion was caused by a gas leak. The house was old and one of the gas connections was the kind that was relatively easy to turn. It had been removed from its place on the end of the pipe, either intentionally or because it hadn’t been fastened properly. They didn’t find it in the rubble, but he said that doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t there; it could have landed two blocks away. He said sometimes they work their own way off and that people need to have their connections checked every year by the gas company.”

TJ knew where Gemma was headed. It wouldn’t be the first time a suicide or an accident was faked. She had first-hand experience with that. The cause of the explosion could be reported as accidental or undetermined in spite of the fact there were clues suggesting foul play.

“So there are other ways it could have come off—other than intentional,” TJ clarified.

“Yes, but none that would convince me it wasn’t a deliberate act. Like I told you, Norman was a fanatic about his house.”

“Are you sayin’ there were people that might have wanted him dead?”

Gemma whisked her hair off her forehead. “That’s the problem. I don’t know anyone who would have done such a thing. I do know that if the connection had been faulty or even loose, Norman would have noticed.”

“Well, people get busy, forget things.”

“Not Norman. And especially not since he started cutting his time at the business. He was writing a book and spending more time at home in front of his computer.”

TJ wanted the case so badly she could taste it, but wasn’t sure there would be much to go on. “What about valuables? Could he have been robbed, then the house set off to cover it up?”

“I doubt it. He didn’t believe in having money around the house. And I can’t think of anything he owned that anyone would want bad enough to kill him. He didn’t collect coins or other valuables. If Norman had anything of value, it would have been in his safe deposit box.”

“How about the book?” TJ asked.

“I don’t think the book could have anything to do with it. He wasn’t even halfway finished with it. Norman was a first-time author and planned on self-publishing.” She grinned. “He said he was too old to go the other route. Getting traditionally published can take a new writer decades.”

TJ started taking notes. “So the only reason you think this wasn’t an accident is because he was careful?”

Gemma said, “No, there is another reason. Norman gave up smoking a few years ago. He was practically a chain smoker, and since then he had a habit of allowing himself one cigar at the end of the day. He smoked it before he went to bed at night. He’d relax in his favorite chair with a glass of wine, his cigar, and a good book.”

“You’re sayin’ anyone would have known he’d light up and ignite the leaking gas. But wouldn’t he have smelled the gas if there was enough to blow up the house?”

“See, that’s the thing,” Gemma said, “Most people would smell that much gas, but Norman had serious allergy and sinus problems that eventually left him with no sense of smell. He told me the few things he could smell were probably only sensory memories. Anything he couldn’t see, he couldn’t smell.”

TJ knew an opposite argument could easily be made that his lack of smell and cigar habit made an accident more likely. But Gemma seemed convinced the man checked his gas connections religiously.

“Did everyone know about those things, the cigar at night, and his sense of smell?” TJ asked.

“Sure. He often joked about it.”

TJ’s forehead wrinkled. “Did you tell the cops all this?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember what I told them; so much was happening that day.”

“Haven’t they been back to talk to you again?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me do some preliminary checking, and I’ll get back to you.”

Gemma handed her a check with a lot of zeroes on it. “Take this now so you can get started. Do whatever it takes to find out what really happened.”

Chapter 8

I
fell asleep without incident after taking two over-the-counter PM pills recommended by the local pharmacist. I felt better knowing TJ Peacock was investigating Norman’s death, and after getting a full night of much-needed sleep, I felt ready to tackle the other things waiting for my attention.

I hadn’t expected to be invited to the reading of Norman’s will. Touched to be one of his heirs, attending would mean facing Carter, my ex-husband. The last time I saw him had been at our divorce hearing more than two years ago. At the time, I felt like my world had ended, even though I had been the one to initiate the divorce. But time passed without him, and eventually I looked back on our marriage objectively and couldn’t deny a certain sense of relief at our parting, probably because I’d always preferred living alone.

In the attorney’s offices, I was shown to an opulent conference room. Carter stood at the coffee station at the side of the room, looking fit and distinguished in one of his custom pin-striped suits. He was talking to Leong, Norman’s former wife. He left her side when he saw me and took me in his arms for a hug. “Gemma, it’s wonderful to see you. I’m so sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”

I broke away from the embrace and felt my throat thicken and my eyes sting with our common grief. I wondered at my lack of feeling for this man who used to be my husband. We had parted amicably enough, although he never stopped trying to change my mind about the divorce. I was relieved when Norman’s attorney, Jacob Sanderson, made his grand entrance and announced it was time to get started. I moved away from Carter and took a seat at the end of a long conference table on the side nearest the door.

Norman owned controlling interest of Cityscapes. Leong won stock in the company as part of their divorce settlement, and Carter owned the remaining shares. Carter offered me some shares as part of
our
divorce settlement, but I had refused. I hadn’t wanted anything from Carter, and despite my attorney’s objections, I agreed to settle for whatever Carter thought was fair. His guilt made him generous, and the lump-sum settlement turned out to be a substantial sum of money.

I tuned out the introductory, lawyerspeak of the will, but my ears perked up when I heard, “I hereby leave my dear friend, Mr. Carter Roche, my entire interest in Cityscapes Inc. To my lovely, ex-wife, Leong, I leave all my other investments and accounts.” Sanderson held up his hand like a traffic policeman when whispers broke out around the table.

He continued. “I cannot leave out my beloved Gemma, who’s been like a daughter to me since the first day she walked into Cityscapes. To her, I leave my house and all its contents, including the manuscript of my novel, which I feel certain she’ll have the fortitude to get published.”

The attorney handed me a sealed envelope bearing my name. “Ms. Rosenthal, Mr. Teschler asked me to give you this letter.”

He passed similar missives to Carter and Leong and then turned to me. “Ms. Rosenthal, you are unfortunately left with the unpleasant task of sorting out the circumstances of Mr. Teschler’s property. The house, however, was well insured. I’m at your disposal to help you work through any of the details; you only have to give me a call anytime you have questions or feel the need for an intermediary. I’m happy to put myself and my services at your disposal.”

Suspicious of men’s intentions, I studied the lawyer for any sign of lechery in his offer, but he appeared sincere. “Thank you. Does this mean I’ll have to deal with all the legalities surrounding the fire?”

“Until the formal transfer of the property into your name, our firm will be handling the details with the authorities. I’ll keep you apprised as everything progresses. Call me later this week, and I will inform you where we are in the process.”

The irony of it struck me as I left Sanderson’s office. Norman had left me his most treasured possessions, his home and his manuscript.

Now they were both gone.

I worked from home after the meeting, preferring not to risk running into Carter again if I went to the office. The work—designing book covers—allowed me to use my creative skills in addition to stretching my marketing prowess establishing the business. I hoped to make that my sole source of income once I became established.

Norman’s letter, instead of giving me a clue to what had happened to him, had merely thanked me for our years of friendship and explained he was leaving me his house because he had always thought of me as a daughter. Very touching, but not helpful in solving the mystery of his death.

By six, satisfied with my work, I walked into downtown Wauwatosa, fondly called Tosa by the natives. The area, a square mile at most, had what the locals described as “character.” A few exclusive shops were surrounded by antique stores, a bank, a general store, restaurants, and a coffee shop. I ate supper at the Chancery in a small booth facing the street, where I enjoyed watching the people who walked by and tried to imagine their backgrounds.

My phone chimed just as I was about to leave. It was Carter. I should have known I would have to deal with him before he returned to Singapore.

“Gemma, you left before we could talk,” he said, his tone accusatory.

“It’s all been said, Carter.” I’d spoken without thinking; he easily could have wanted to discuss Norman or the business, not something personal.

I heard him exhale as I stepped outside the restaurant with my phone.

“We can at least be cordial to one another, can’t we, Gemma? I know you must be as upset about Norman’s death as I am.”

Carter could be a very persuasive man; he convinced me I needed someone to talk to about Norman’s death. As an employee of Cityscapes and as Carter’s wife, my life before our divorce had been too busy to establish friendships outside our business circle. I agreed to wait for him in the bar of the restaurant I’d just left. After I went back inside, I changed my mind. If I were going to socialize with Carter, it would be safer not to do so in a dark bar and under the influence of alcohol.

I waited for him near the entrance and watched him walk toward me when he arrived. Immaculately dressed as always, he wore a pair of pale khaki slacks and a navy golf shirt, the shirt complementing his slate-blue eyes. Absent, however, was that little tingle of inner joy I used to feel at seeing him.

“I changed my mind about having a drink. It’s such a nice evening. I thought we could walk a bit instead.”

His wide smile dimmed at the change in plans. “Sure, we can do that.”

The silence as we walked didn’t feel like one of those comfortable ones. After a while, Carter asked, “What made you decide to become a homeowner?”

“Norman kept telling me how much he loved living here. He called me when a small place across from him was taken over by the bank and told me it would be available at auction for a steal. He convinced me to look at it, and when I did, it just felt like home. There’s something peaceful about the house; everything about it suits me. I did get a good price, but it’s a desirable area, so it still wasn’t what you’d call inexpensive.”

“What will you do now?” Carter asked.

“Now?”

“Will you build on Norman’s lot?”

Build. On Norman’s lot. It hadn’t occurred to me in the few hours since I found out I owned it. I had only been living in my own house for eleven months. “I haven’t had time to think about it. Everything is happening too fast.”

“You could sell it, you know. Sell both properties and come to Singapore. I know you love it there.”

Even sooner than I had expected, he’d turned the conversation into what I had been dreading. I did love Singapore, but only as a place to visit. “I don’t think so, Carter. This is my home. I would never want to live in another country permanently.”

He stopped walking and held my arm. I noticed how brightly his dark hair with its silver highlights shone in the light from the setting sun. I smelled his familiar cologne, felt his nearness, and for a split second, I remembered another time, another reaction to Carter Roche.

“Gemma, I miss you. Can’t you give us another chance?”

There was no putting it off. I had danced around his pleas in the few phone calls he had gotten through to me from Singapore. “I’m sorry, Carter. We can’t go back and change what happened.”

His mouth tightened. “You didn’t give me enough time, Gemma. I would have gotten past it.” I recognized his anger building as he turned from me and began walking.

We were married nearly two years when it happened. During a play, we went out to the lobby at intermission for a glass of wine. While I waited for Carter among the milling crowd, a man I had gone out with in my escort days recognized me and stopped to talk. It isn’t as if a scene developed; I introduced them when Carter returned, and the three of us exchanged a few pleasantries before the man moved on. But Carter quickly asked how I knew him. We had promised to always be open with each other and, foolishly, I admitted I had dated him through the escort service.

My mother couldn’t afford to keep me in college after my father died. I had just started at Marquette University and couldn’t bear to give up my dream. I wanted a job in advertising, a tough field to get into under any circumstances but impossible without a good education. I became an escort when I met a student who told me there was a service right there at school who was hiring. It was run by coeds just like me who needed the money to support their schooling. Most people wouldn’t believe an escort service really existed in which the employees didn’t have sex with its clients. Ours had been the exception. We were strictly companions, not call girls.

But between the job and my studies, I had no time for a social life, so occasionally, if I had a client I found attractive, I spent the night with him. I never asked for money, either for the regular service—the office collected it from credit cards—or the times I gave clients more than an evening’s companionship.

Carter had known my background long before we married, but actually meeting one of the men from my past changed everything. It plagued him that I didn’t beg forgiveness, apologize, or give him the benefit of admitting I had never slept with the man we ran into at the theater. As far as he knew, I never
slept with clients.

Weeks passed without lovemaking. My husband’s passion for me evaporated. When I’d had enough, I moved out. What else could I do? Carter wouldn’t touch me or discuss what was eating at him.

Now, I said, “Carter, it’s been too long. We live worlds apart and I’m happy with my life as it is. I’m sorry, but I can’t go back.”

“I’m not asking you to go back. I’d like a chance to start over.”

Carter had no power to hurt me anymore, but our conversation was a bitter reminder that I would never have a normal relationship. How could I have a normal relationship when even the man who married me while knowing all about my past couldn’t live with it?

Our walk had taken us close enough to my house that I realized asking him to walk with me hadn’t been wise; now he would expect to be invited inside.

Suddenly he stopped walking and held me back with an arm at my waist. “Did you hear that?”

I opened my mouth to ask, “Hear what?” when I heard a scream. A teenaged girl burst from the front door of the house we were passing, her long black hair streaming out behind her.

She rushed over to us. Hands shaking, she pressed her cell phone into my hand.

“Please, call 9-1-1! She’s hurt. Madison’s hurt and I think she might be dead.”