Trespass (7 page)

Chapter 15

I
awaken in a dark room with my limbs frozen in place. I’m not in my bed; where am I? Once again, I’m in my kitchen, but this time I’m standing next to the refrigerator. I see Clyde’s cage draped with its night cover, the rest of the room in shadows. There is no full moon tonight.

I’m trying to program myself not to feel the fear. I won’t panic. I watch, waiting for what will happen next if I don’t try to force myself to wake up. I inhale and exhale until my breathing steadies.

Then it happens, shattering my efforts to remain calm. Fear overtakes me as slowly I feel my body begin to rise from the floor. Two feet. Ten. I reach nearly the height of the cathedral ceiling, looking down at the room. What’s happening to me? Am I dying? I become engulfed with terror and begin to moan. But who will hear me? I have no one to help me stop this deathlike ascent to nowhere. I cry out to an empty room.

I
awakened, gasping. I got out of bed, my nightgown clinging to my sweating body. This had been the worst episode ever. I trembled, remembering the feeling of my body rising from the floor. Could it be what Jorge was talking about? My spirit leaving my body? If so, there was nothing exciting about it. It felt even more terrifying than the feeling of someone clutching me in my bed. I needed to feel grounded again.

Groggy from the sleeping pill I took much later than desirable, I answered the phone the next morning when it rang, awakening me from a sound sleep. It was after nine a.m.

“Gemma? It’s Carter. I need to talk to you. Can you come in to the office today?”

I fought to recall what time I was meeting TJ. “I have an appointment this afternoon, but I can come in this morning. I was planning on it, in fact. What’s up?”

“I think it’s better if we discuss it here. Come as soon as you can.”

When I arrived, I found him in Norman’s office, sitting at the desk, surrounded by stacks of file folders. He stood when I came in and then shut the door behind us. We sat across from each other in the guest chairs. Carter’s usual dapper appearance had fallen to rumple: his sleeves were rolled up, his slacks weren’t creased, and his argyle socks didn’t match. They were all signs he was grieving for Norman.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m all right. I’m still upset about Norman, of course.”

His face knitted with anxiety. “You don’t know,” he said, looking in my eyes. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” My chest tightened.

“Your local paper came out this morning. There’s an article in it insinuating you’re involved in Norman’s death and the death of that teenager who fell down the stairs.”

I felt my blood pressure spike. “But that’s ridiculous. There’s no connection between what happened to Norman and what happened to that girl, and I had nothing to do with either one. You know that—you were with me.”

He moved his chair closer and took my hands in his. “I know, Gemma. It
is
ridiculous, and I’m sure it’s just some reporter trying to come up with something sensational in order to make a name for himself. But you need to be prepared for the fallout it could cause.”

“Fallout?” My throat constricted. I grabbed the article he handed me. I scanned it, not reading much beyond the headline “Local Woman Questioned in Two Suspicious Wauwatosa Deaths.” My skin grew clammy as I pieced it together. Carter hadn’t called me here out of ex-husbandly concern; he was worried about how this would reflect on the agency. “How can you say there might be fallout? This article doesn’t even mention my name.”

But it did reveal enough about me that anyone who knew me could figure out who they were talking about. And although it didn’t say that I was a person of interest in the crimes, the article certainly spun in that direction.

Carter took my hands again. “It could get out to
all
the media, not just the Tosa Herald—
with
your name—you know how they like to sensationalize things like this. I’m so sorry, Gemma. I’m behind you all the way; you know that. I’ll do anything to help you, but it might be best if you work from home until this blows over.”

His suggestion enraged me. This was the man who only a short time ago had begged me to begin seeing him again. I grabbed the news article and tossed it in the wastebasket, my voice rising. “Are you serious?”

Carter sat back in his chair and contemplated the situation, or me, I wasn’t sure which. After a moment, it became clear to me. “You think this newspaper article is only the beginning, don’t you?” When he said nothing, I knew I had summed up his position; he believed I was in serious trouble. I stood to leave.

“Go to hell.”

I left the agency after lugging three heavy cartons of my things down to the car. I had refused help, my anger escalating. I couldn’t decide what to do first: drive to the newspaper’s offices and confront the reporter, or go scream at Detective Haymaker. The information had to have come from the police; no one else knew about my connection to the young girl who had fallen on the stairs. No one except Carter, who had been with me when the screaming teenager ran out of the house just as we were walking past it.

I took some deep breaths until I felt my pulse return to normal, my emotions under control. From years of dealing with difficult clients, I have learned not to react while my ire is at full blast; the best responses to aspersion are made with a clear head. I took the fastest route home.

Jon Engel, the insurance agent, was leaving my doorstep as I turned into the drive. He joined me there and relieved me of a box I pulled from the car, carrying it through the garage and into the kitchen for me. Although I was in no mood for company, I
had
called him to ask for information, so I could hardly rebuff him for dropping by unannounced. After he carried in all my cartons, I offered him coffee and set about making it while he took a seat at the kitchen table. Clyde moved to the side of his cage, as close as possible to the newcomer, head bobbing as he eyed him up and down.

“Nice bird,” Jon commented. “Have you had it a long time?”

Before I could answer, Clyde squawked, “Morning prayers! Morning prayers!”

“I’ve only had him for a few months. He belonged to the previous owners. After the wife died, the husband went into a care facility. My neighbors kept the bird for him until he died. They were going to get rid of him, and when I heard about it, I felt sorry for the thing and took him off their hands. Apparently the people who lived here were very devout. He keeps reminding me to pray and to read the Bible.”

Jon moved closer to the bird’s cage, trying to make eye contact. He addressed Clyde. “Blessed are they who adopt parrots, for they will be rewarded in heaven.”

Jon was answered by a wild shrieking followed by, “Blasphemy, blasphemy!”

“Wow,” Jon said, “how do you get anything done? He’s a fascinating bird. If he were mine, I would be talking to him all day.”

I didn’t tell him blasphemy accusations were one of Clyde’s favorite comebacks. “I haven’t taught him much, just my name. I get an awful lot of parrot jokes from everyone, though. They all seem to think parrots swear a lot.”

He laughed. “True. And they all belonged to one-legged pirates.”

Our conversation was having a calming effect, but I couldn’t get the article in the newspaper out of my mind. I had to do something about it.

“If you’re wondering why I’m here,” he said, “I stopped by to answer your questions about the house across the street. If you rebuild on the lot, you’ll be reimbursed for whatever it costs to replace the house. If you opt not to, you’ll still get a payoff, but it will be for the market value of the house when it burned. You won’t receive the actual replacement value, so you would lose money by not rebuilding.

“I checked with a friend of mine who’s in real estate, and he told me you will easily recoup the difference when you sell the lot. An empty lot in this area is unheard of; you’ll practically be able to name your price.”

Right now I thought I would want to do whatever was the fastest. “I haven’t given it much thought. But I doubt if I’ll rebuild. I’m not even finished with everything I want to do to
this place. Thank you for the information, though. I thought it would be wise not to take the attorney’s word for it without checking it out myself.”

He frowned. “Don’t you trust him?”

Did I trust Jacob Sanderson? He was Norman’s attorney, so technically he wasn’t mine. “I’ve learned it’s always better to be cautious when it comes to finances. And right now it’s a minor matter compared to something else upsetting that happened this morning.”

I knew I liked Jon Engel when he looked at me questioningly, but rose to leave without asking me for any details about what I just said. Referencing that I had a new problem had been unintentional. I didn’t want to discuss the fact that the paper insinuated I was somehow involved in the explosion and the teenager’s death. I needed to make it go away, not chat about it.

“I won’t take up any more of your time. There shouldn’t be any problems with coverage for the repairs you’ll need for this house. Just turn in the estimates you receive for the work that needs to be done.” He walked to the door, then added, “I noticed you have a nice set of Callaway clubs in the garage. Yours?”

I hadn’t played golf since my divorce. “Yes, they’re mine, but I haven’t played in a long time. The bag is probably full of spider webs and mouse droppings.”

“Too bad. It’s a great game. If you ever feel like taking it up again, let me know. I go every chance I get. I’d enjoy some company; I haven’t had a regular partner in a long time.”

Was he asking me out? I didn’t think so, and my radar for such things rarely let me down. I told him I would keep his offer in mind and watched as he left, wishing I could spend the rest of my day thinking of nothing but smacking a small white ball along the length of a grassy fairway. Something in our conversation had hit home, reminding me of another thing I should add to my to-do list. What was it? Yes. Attorneys. Would I need one in order to stay out of jail?

I fixed a salad, consoling myself by adding generous amounts of bacon bits and sugared pecans. After I finished eating, I felt grounded enough to call the newspaper that had run the article about me. I asked for the editor, then waited at least three minutes for him to pick up before it occurred to me that without my name being mentioned in the article, I couldn’t ask for a retraction. I hung up the phone, realizing all I could do was wait and see what they printed next. Now I wished I had kept the article so I could read it once more and be sure I wasn’t overreacting. And if I wasn’t, then Carter certainly had been.

Waiting wasn’t my strong suit, especially since I was dying to go on the offensive and strike out against the innuendos the paper had printed. I made a quick call to the attorney who had represented me in my divorce and lucked out when she answered my call. I quickly told her about what had happened and asked her if she thought I needed to get a criminal lawyer. She took time to find the article online, something I hadn’t thought of yet. After she read it, she assured me it was unlikely to go any further based on what I had told her but if anything else happened to let her know.

So Carter had probably jumped the gun on this without consulting the agency legal services. Still annoyed, but feeling much better, I decided to pay a visit to Detective Haymaker. I was sure he was at the root of this article and I needed to make sure this went no further.

Just as I was leaving the house, my phone rang. I grabbed it and hurried to the screen porch to take the call. Clyde had just started his daily recitation of the rosary, which was about a five-minute spiel of unconnected phrases from the prayers. He belted them out rather loudly and never stopped until what he considered the last Hail Mary. I had started covering his cage on days it became annoying, and the practice seemed to have shortened his rosary hour to about fifteen minutes.

I opened the phone. “Ms. Rosenthal?” When I responded, an unfamiliar man’s voice said, “It came to my attention today that you may be in need of legal representation. I’m calling to inform you the matter has been handled.”

I had no idea who this man was. I mustered, “What? Who is this?”

“My name is Russell Pierpont.”

Pierpont? Russell Pierpont was a criminal defense attorney that handled only the most high-profile cases. Why would he be interested in this?

“Mr. Pierpont, I appreciate your interest, but I don’t need legal representation at this point.”

“That may be, but I wanted to inform you the newspaper will be doing a rewrite of the article without any reference to ‘a local woman who is connected to both crimes’. Since your name was never mentioned, I’m afraid they can’t do a formal retraction, but I can assure you it won’t happen again without substantive cause.”

The man was implying that he had spoken to the editor of the paper. I hated to question a good thing, but I was much too curious to resist asking, “But I didn’t hire you. Why are you involved?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to take another call.”

He put me on hold. I waited a while, until a secretary came on the line and told me Pierpont’s call was an urgent one and would require an unknown amount of time. If I had any questions, I would have to contact him at a later date. When I repeated the question I asked her boss, she said, “You’ll have to take that up with him,” then told me to have a nice day before she ended the call.

I closed the phone, stunned. Russell Pierpont—one of the best criminal lawyers in the country—had represented me this morning without being asked or charging a fee. Why?

Chapter 16

T
J arrived to talk to Gemma, intending to make a list of people from the neighborhood to interview. Gemma was helpful but preoccupied, finally telling TJ what had happened that morning with the article in the Tosa paper. TJ listened patiently.

After Gemma finished, TJ said, “You’re takin’ it too seriously. Your name wasn’t even in it, right? Reporters are a pain in the ass. Just ignore ‘em.”

“Don’t take it seriously? It’s costing me my job,” Gemma protested.

“Thought you only worked there part-time and did your own thing here at home.”

“That’s true. I use the office there for only some of my own work. But when they do give me an assignment, the pay is considerable because I work with clients who threatened to leave Cityscapes if they couldn’t have me do their ad campaigns. And my position there gives me a lot of credibility in the marketplace.”

“Let me know if anything else gets printed. I’ll take care of it.”

Gemma let the subject go. She didn’t want to tell TJ about Pierpont, not until she found out why he called the paper for her. She and TJ got back to the business of the pictures TJ had taken. When TJ had brought up Teschler’s neighborhood debaucheries, Gemma had seemed eager to change the subject and told her about Norman’s writing.

After they had gone through all the photos, with Gemma adding little to what Billie Jean had already told her, TJ rose to leave. “Don’t bother to blast Haymaker. I gotta drop in on him anyway. I’ll see what I can find out. An’ check out Teschler’s book to see if it could have made him any enemies.”

“I don’t think it could have,” Gemma explained. “The book was far from being published.”

“What’s the book about, anyway?”

Gemma ran her fingers through her hair. “I only know it’s a mystery; he never told me the plot. I’m pretty sure it’s a moot subject because he used a flash drive for backup. It would have been destroyed in the explosion.”

TJ thought Gemma was probably right about the book. Hard to see how anyone could profit from preventing an unpublished book from coming out if it was fiction. Unless it was a tell-all of some kind woven into fiction.

After she left Gemma, TJ made a quick stop at the Tosa police station, and after finding out Haymaker wasn’t in, she left to stop in on some of the neighborhood women who had affairs with Teschler. Braun, the woman she saw leaving the funeral, would be the first. Hopefully, Braun hadn’t returned to her place up north; it was more than a five-hour drive from Milwaukee. The white Lexus was in the driveway at Braun’s house, its hatch door open while Victoria Braun unloaded groceries.

TJ introduced herself, explaining that she had been hired to look into Teschler’s death. “Saw you at the funeral yesterday. You looked pretty upset.”

“I don’t know why you want to talk to me; I wasn’t here when the explosion happened. I was at our lake house.”

“Heard you and Teschler were kinda close,” TJ hinted, thinking it interesting that Braun had immediately gone on the defensive.

Braun stood straight-legged beside her car, making no move to invite TJ in the house for a chat. “Whatever you might have heard about Norman and me is ancient history. I only came to his funeral to pay my respects.”

“I didn’t see your husband paying any respects. Does he know you’re here?”

“He’s on a business trip right now; otherwise he would have come with me.”

She hadn’t answered TJ’s question, the answer visible in her shaded eyes. Braun hadn’t told her husband she had gone to Norman’s funeral, convincing TJ that the mister still harbored bad feelings about the affair.

“So you were up north the night of the explosion?”

“Yes. And my husband was out of town.” Her nostrils flared. “I resent the implication of your questions.”

After assuring Braun her questions were the same ones she was asking everyone, TJ left. She would have to verify the Brauns’ alibis for the evening of the explosion, and if they held up, she could take them off her list. Hopefully she would be able to do it without driving all the way to Manitowish Waters to interview the neighbors there.

She walked a few doors down, passing the cavity in the earth where Teschler’s residence once stood. The foundation wasn’t even recognizable amidst the dark, mucky debris. What kind of anger could make someone incinerate a man inside his own home? Hard to imagine. Maybe it
had
been just an unfortunate accident.

TJ knocked on the door of Rosemary Haynes, a widow whom Billie Jean suggested Norman probably had an affair with based on the fact she lived right next door to him for the last twenty-five years. And she was female. No one answered. She heard music and walked around the poorly maintained Tudor house to the pool area in the back. She found Haynes lounging alongside an ancient boom box, strains of Adam Lambert crooning, “Mad World,” oozing from its speakers.

Probably trying to absorb the last Indian summer rays, Haynes’s full-figured body filled out a black one-piece bathing suit with its straps undone. Large, thick-rimmed black sunglasses covered her eyes, and her tanned legs, neatly shaved and shiny with tanning oil, were stretched out on a chaise. Next to her on a small table sat a pitcher of what looked like lemonade, but TJ suspected was more likely filled with a supply of margaritas because a saucer of lime slices sat beside it.

TJ reached down and hit the off button on the boom box.

Startled, Haynes dropped the book she was reading and raised her sunglasses, exposing dull blue eyes heavy with mascara and liner. Time and too much sun had not been kind to her.

“Who the hell are you?”

After TJ explained the purpose of her visit, Haynes offered her a drink and pointed to the next chair. TJ turned down the drink but took a seat.

“I don’t know what I can tell you. Norman was a nice man. Don’t think anyone woulda torched him like that. Musta been an accident.” Her voice was thick, her words mushy. The half-empty pitcher at her side had apparently started out full.

TJ thought she should come back another day—before Haynes got into her happy hour and her speech wasn’t slurred. “Coulda been an accident,” TJ said. “I just want to be sure.”

“I know who hired you. That Rosenthal bitch.” Haynes snorted. “Thinks her shit doesn’t stink. She was always sucking up to him. Called herself his
protégé
, but he was probably boinking her like he did every other chick in this neighborhood.” TJ didn’t comment on Haynes’s guess that Gemma had hired her.

“Did that boinking include you?” Sometimes the direct approach was best. Well on her way to being totally sloshed, Haynes would have loose lips.

“Sure, we got it on now and then. I’ve never been one to turn down a friendly roll in the hay. Especially since my Eddie passed.” She paused to finish off the last swallow of her drink. “So see? I’d never wish the guy any harm. Wouldn’t want to lose my right-next-door, convenience sex.” She laughed as she said it, her blond hair in disarray around her overly tanned face. “If you’re lookin’ for someone who mighta done him in, you gotta go somewhere else.”

“Any idea if anyone might have wanted to kill him?”

“Nah. There were people who plain didn’t like the guy, but no one who’d blow him up.”

“Did you notice anything unusual the day of the explosion, maybe a strange car in the driveway?”

Haynes poured another drink. “Can’t say that I did.”

TJ left a card and told Haynes to call her if she thought of anything that might be helpful and made a mental note to talk to the woman again when she was sober. When she got to the curb, she saw an unmarked parked behind her Mini; Brian Haymaker stood leaning on the hood of his sedan.

“I heard you were looking for me,” he said.

“Yeah? An’ how did you know where to find me?”

“It wasn’t too hard to figure out. I am a detective, you know.”

TJ huffed. “Not that I noticed.”

“Where’s all this negativity coming from, Ms. Peacock? Was it something I said? Did?”

What was it about these young detectives that made them think they were God’s gift? “You talked to some airhead Tosa reporter and hinted that Ms. Rosenthal might be a person of interest in Teschler’s explosion and the Chapman girl’s death. That’s pretty low.” She wanted to add “even for you” but figured she didn’t really know him all that well.

“I don’t know where you get your facts, Peacock. I never talk to reporters. Ever. So what else did I do?”

TJ read him as telling the truth. She’d been bluffing with the accusation anyway. She knew what reporters were like; always looking for attention and doing whatever it took to get it. But she wasn’t ready to let up on him.

“It’s what you didn’t do; you blew off the investigation into Teschler’s death.”

“Not that I have any obligation to inform you how I do my job, but I did investigate Teschler’s death. I’m sure you know by now that the explosion was ruled accidental by the fire inspector.”

“Ruling it ‘accidental’ doesn’t always leave out foul play.”

Haymaker stood and opened the door of his car. “I know you used to be a cop. You should understand that the department wouldn’t spend a lot of time on a case that has nothing to go on.”

“Then I guess it’s up to me to figure it out.” TJ got in her car and drove off. She saw Haymaker in her rearview mirror, shaking his head. Why did he always make her forget she needed his input? There had to be a way to get in his good graces and that wasn’t going to happen if she kept allowing her irritation with him get the best of her.