Despite the heat, I suddenly became aware of the light nightgown I wore; it would be nearly transparent in the blazing light of the fire. I must have been quite the sight. I usually dressed to downplay a body that brought attention my way, yet here I stood on display for the entire neighborhood.
A woman who had been talking to the firemen approached me. Her eyes, a vivid violet blue, twinkled in the golden haze. Dressed casually, she didn’t appear to be with the police or the fire department. She said, “You okay?”
My stupor must have been obvious. I nodded. Words wouldn’t form in my mouth.
“Stay here,” she ordered. She pushed through the crowd to the paramedics’ van and returned with a ratty but clean scrub top that I quickly pulled over my head. My tongue loosened. “Thanks. Are you with the police?”
“Used to be. I live a few blocks over and came to see what happened, see if I could help.” She frowned. “Maybe the paramedics should check you out.”
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t look convinced. “I’ll walk you back to your house. Here, put these on.” She handed me a pair of booties, the kind doctors wear for surgery. I slipped them over my scorched feet.
The woman appeared to be concerned about my well-being and I felt strangely relieved I wasn’t alone. We left the scene, and she walked with me back to the porch. I picked up my empty wineglass from the table next to the sofa and turned to her. “I need more of this. Want one?”
“Got any tequila?”
I poured her tequila, neat, and we sat in a comfortable silence until I said, “My name’s Gemma.”
She raised her glass. “TJ.”
Chapter 3
TJ had breakfast with her son the next morning after Richard left for work. They had tried calling him any one of many versions of the two names, Jeffrey and Richard, but finally settled on JR. From birth, the boy had a large entourage of people who loved him and enjoyed spending time with him. One of them, Jon Engel, had been Jeffrey’s best friend and was picking up JR for the day.
TJ joined Jon in the kitchen after she readied JR for his outing.
“Hear about the explosion last night?” she asked.
“It’s been all over the news. What happened?”
“A house blew up. Went over there after I heard it. They think a gas leak mighta caused it. I talked to one of the neighbors who was a friend of the guy that lived there, and she said he kept good track of everything. She doesn’t think it was an accident.”
“Did he die in the explosion?”
“Looked like it. Supposedly he was in the house when it happened. Only pieces of bones usually survive somethin’ that fierce; don’t think they’ll find a body.”
TJ wiped the last of JR’s breakfast from his face. “Almost forgot—I gave that neighbor I talked to one of your cards. Her house is a mess, and she has your brand of insurance. She could use someone who knows what they’re doin’.”
Jon picked up JR and lifted the bag she set out for him. “I don’t have any control over who does which inspections, but I’ll look into it. I haven’t been doing assessments very long, so something like this may go to someone with specific experience.” Jon, an insurance agent who had his own office in Mequon, had recently expanded his skills to doing inspections.
TJ shrugged. “Whatever.”
She had left Gemma Rosenthal’s house the night before after having a drink with her. Gemma had obviously been in near shock when TJ first saw her, wandering around in a see-through nightgown with her drop-dead body on display. The crowd had a hard time keeping their eyes off her; she had been eye-catching even with tears running down her smoke-covered face.
The cops hadn’t told TJ much at the explosion site. She had hoped Gemma would, but the woman only told her that Teschler was her boss and her best friend. Before she left, TJ gave Gemma one of Lisa Rayburn’s business cards too under the pretense of getting grief counseling. Lisa was a therapist and one of TJ’s few woman friends. TJ had just met Rosenthal, but Gemma seemed to radiate problems.
Psychologist Lisa Rayburn seldom saw clients on Fridays, but when she got the call from a woman who had been referred by TJ, she agreed to meet her at the office after lunch. Despite the little they had in common, Lisa and TJ had remained friends after they succeeded in revealing a killer responsible for the disappearances of abused women who had gone missing in the Milwaukee area. It had been more than a year since the graves were unearthed, although in her nightmares it felt like yesterday.
Gemma Rosenthal stood about five feet eight. She had a firm handshake and excellent posture that perfectly aligned her statuesque form. While not beautiful, or even pretty, she nevertheless came across as extremely attractive. Her features, too large for cover-girl perfection, were enhanced by a luxurious mane of auburn hair. Lisa led her to a set of chairs positioned across from each other near a window looking out onto the edge of Pewaukee Lake.
After they were seated, Gemma said, “Thank you for getting me in today.”
“I try to be here when someone needs me.”
“A woman named TJ gave me your card.”
“Yes, she’s a friend of mine,” Lisa said.
Gemma described what had happened the night before and how she had met TJ.
“Is that what brought you here?” Lisa sensed Gemma had something more on her mind.
Gemma’s gaze turned toward the lake. When she faced Lisa, her golden-brown eyes were rimmed with sorrow. “That’s part of it. Norman was my best friend. I’ll miss him terribly, but I’ve been meaning to see someone about a problem I’ve had for quite a while now.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I have sleep paralysis and the episodes are becoming more frequent. I had one last night, not long before the explosion. They’re terrifying. I feel someone in bed with me, holding me in place. I feel his hands on me and I can even hear him breathing. I’m having problems sleeping because I dread another episode.” She paused. “It helped once I found out it had a name and discovered I wasn’t the only person in the world who experienced it. Unfortunately, no one seems to know how to prevent them from happening.”
Lisa offered, “I’m no expert on the condition, although I’ve experienced it a few times.”
Gemma perked up. “Then you know how it feels.”
“I do, although I’ve never experienced the feeling that someone was in the room or in the bed with me. I simply felt frozen in place, not really asleep or awake. It happened years ago and never became a problem for me. That form of it isn’t all that uncommon.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Are they becoming more frequent?”
“They are.”
“Do you take anything to help you sleep?”
Gemma sighed. “I don’t like taking any drugs, even the over-the-counter kind.”
“Unfortunately, the less sleep you get, the more episodes you’ll have,” Lisa said. “Sleep paralysis is more common in people with irregular sleep patterns and fairly common in college students. You won’t be able to make sense of this or fight it off if you’re sleep-deprived. It’s rather a Catch-22, I’m afraid.”
“I suppose I could try something for sleep.”
“Another suggestion would be a sleep clinic.”
“For what? I know what my problem is.”
“A clinic could determine if there is a physical reason for your episodes. Sleep paralysis can be brought on by a REM disorder. Make an appointment with your doctor first and have a thorough checkup; there are some physical conditions associated with sleep paralysis which should be ruled out. Your doctor can prescribe something to help you sleep and send you for sleep studies if he thinks it’s indicated.”
“I hardly ever see doctors. I just go to my gynecologist once a year.”
“That’s good,” Lisa said. “You’re healthy.
Call your doctor and have him refer you to a good internist.” She jotted down a few notes. “Tell me more about yourself, Gemma.”
Gemma shifted in her chair as Lisa studied her. “Like what?”
“Do you have a family?”
“I’ve read the studies,” Gemma said. “I know some experts believe people who have sleep paralysis were sexually abused as children. I wasn’t.”
Her defensive reaction to the question made it obvious to Lisa that Gemma didn’t want to talk about her family, and she sensed it had nothing to do with abuse.
She tried a different approach. “Did you have a happy childhood?”
“I suppose. I always felt my little sister got all the love and attention.” Gemma smiled faintly. “You probably hear that one a lot.”
“Did she?”
“It felt like it then, but looking back, I think it was only my own perception. Goldie’s petite, bubbly, a great dancer, and popular with everyone. She was a cheerleader, queen of the prom, and on and on.”
“What about you?”
“In high school, I was a nerd with boobs.”
“And now you’re a very attractive woman.”
“Thank you. I learned how to make the most of what I have: fix my hair, get contacts, use makeup.”
By the end of the session, Gemma’s resistance to therapy was apparent. If the woman wasn’t ready to work on the issues responsible for her sleep problem, Lisa couldn’t help her. Before she called time, she said, “Gemma, there is an alternative to one-on-one therapy. A friend of mine holds a group session for people with sleep problems. It isn’t a large group, only about six people, I believe. You might find it helpful talking with others who have similar problems.”
Gemma frowned. “I don’t know. Do they all have sleep paralysis?”
“Some of them do. Would you like me to get more details for you?”
She agreed, but Lisa sensed Gemma wanted to leave. There was something there, something she didn’t want to talk about. And Gemma hadn’t even begun to grieve for her friend Norman. She might be the kind of person who needed to be alone to let it out and have a good cry.
“Why don’t we do this—I think you’ll feel better if you have a plan in place for how to deal with the paralysis. Make an appointment with a doctor for a physical. I’ll give you a list of over-the-counter sleep aids you can try before you get a prescription. I’ll get more information on the sleep group for you, and in the meantime, you can decide whether you want to continue therapy.”
Gemma rose to leave without asking for another appointment.
Chapter 4
It was after three when I got home from my visit with Lisa Rayburn. I felt better after talking to her but somewhat guilty that I’d held back and not revealed my past as an escort. It would come out eventually; there seemed no need to dive into it yet. It took place a long time ago, and I’d only done it for a year in order to pay for my college tuition. Admittedly, I had a habit of tucking my escort days away in my brain’s book of faded memories.
I didn’t think I could face going to the Cityscapes office; I would see Norman everywhere. There were some designs awaiting completion that I could finish at home. I hadn’t decided about seeing Rayburn again, but I remembered to call my doctor before I started working.
I had changed a small third bedroom into a workroom when I bought the house. Conveniently, it opened to the kitchen and had windows overlooking the wooded backyard. I loved the openness of the rooms, and except for the bulky gold birdcage I hadn’t planned on, I decorated it a bright Kelly green and white with touches of turquoise for added color.
I adopted a parrot who had been owned by the people who lived in the house before I bought it when I found out that my neighbors, who had been taking care of the bird, were going to get rid of him. I’ve never been a pet person, but Clyde and I managed to coexist peacefully. He seemed happy to be back in his own home, even if he had to share it with an interloper.
My dream of becoming an advertising executive had come true when Norman hired me for my first real job in advertising. The position at Cityscapes Inc., while low in the relative order of things, was a bonanza for someone with no experience working in a large agency. Cityscapes had another office in Minneapolis and after landing an account with a mammoth cosmetics firm out of Singapore had established an office there as well. My ex-husband, Carter Roche, had been Norman’s executive director when I was hired, and two years ago he also became the head of the Singapore office. Although semiretired, Norman remained the head of the agency and kept abreast of all its activities.
When Carter and I divorced, I gave Norman my notice. Even though Carter spent the majority of his time in Singapore, I didn’t want to face the awkwardness of seeing him on the frequent occasions he returned to Milwaukee. Norman tried to talk me out of leaving. When he realized I wasn’t going to change my mind, he offered me the use of an office in Cityscapes, where I could take occasional clients for them and still remain a freelance agent. I had reservations when I accepted, but for the last two years it had worked out perfectly. My intention for the future was to do some freelance work at home and also start my own business designing book covers for independent authors.
The doorbell interrupted my thoughts. When I looked out the peephole, I saw a tall man in his late twenties standing on the stoop, a dark four-door sedan in the driveway behind him. He held up a police badge when I cracked open the door as far as the safety chain allowed. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbows and a tie loosened in response to the heat. Although overcast, today was another ninety-plus scorcher. He held up a Wauwatosa Police Department detective’s badge and credentials.
He strode into the house when I opened the door. He introduced himself as Detective Brian Haymaker, took a seat on the floral couch in the living room, and took me up on my offer of a diet soda. When I returned with the drink, he quickly drained half of it.
There had been a lot of activity across the street today. The area was roped off, and the hole where the house had stood still smoldered, reminding me of the horror of 9/11. The air reeked of smoke and I kept the windows tightly closed with the AC running nonstop. I expected an arson investigator to show up this morning but gave up on waiting for him when I left for Pewaukee to talk to Lisa Rayburn.
I said, “You must be here about Norman.”
Apparently not a man of many words, he said, “Yes.”
“Did they find his body?”
“Remains of a body were found, but they haven’t been identified yet.”
Fighting tears, I attempted to keep my emotions from him and managed to squeak out, “It couldn’t have been an accident.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because Norman was a fanatic about his house. He did all the maintenance himself because he didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly. He had his heating system and air-conditioning checked every year in May. I know because he was always preaching to everyone else to do the same.”
Detective Haymaker fished in his pocket, surprising me when he handed me a perfectly ironed white handkerchief. I mopped up a tear that had traveled down my face.
“Ms. Rosenthal, when was the last time you saw Mr. Teschler?”
“I saw him out in his yard yesterday, raking the lawn.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I hadn’t talked to him for a few days. I think Tuesday was the last time. He had me over for dinner.”
He looked up from his iPad. “Is that something you did frequently?”
“Now and then.” Did he think we were lovers? I felt no obligation to explain our friendship to this detective.
“When you talked to him on Tuesday, what was his demeanor?”
“He was himself. I didn’t notice anything different or anything bothering him, if that’s what you’re asking.” I
asked, “Do you agree the explosion wasn’t an accident?”
“We’re just starting to investigate, Ms. Rosenthal. You’ll also be hearing from an arson investigator and a representative from the ATF.”
“ATF?” Although I believed Norman’s house did not explode by accident, I couldn’t imagine a need for the ATF. As far as I knew, Norman didn’t even own a gun.
“It’s just procedure in a case like this. Anytime there’s an explosion, they investigate alongside us to rule out anything like drug activities, gun dealing, or terrorism. Those kinds of things.”
“When will you know if the fire was caused by an arsonist?”
“It’s hard to say. If it does turn out to be arson, then we’ll have to investigate whether someone did it for a thrill, or had a motive to kill your friend.”
I started to protest once more that the explosion had to be intentional, when we were interrupted by voices from outside, voices loud enough to be heard over the hum of the air conditioning. Detective Haymaker stood to look out the window. I moved to the door and opened it. A silver-haired man in an expensive suit was arguing with a policeman manning the ropes. Carter. How the hell had he gotten here so fast?
The detective joined me in the foyer. “I take it you know who that is?”
“Yes.” I sighed. “Carter Roche. My ex-husband. He’s the director of Norman’s ad agency, Cityscapes. He lives in Singapore. I have no idea how he got here so quickly.”
I watched as Carter opened the car door for Leong Tuan, Norman’s ex-wife. She had dressed the part of a grieving widow, petite and elegant in a black designer suit, and stepped out of the car to stand beside Carter. I couldn’t believe it; the vultures were circling before poor Norman’s remains could even be identified.
Chapter 5
Back at the station after talking to Gemma, Detective Brian Haymaker typed the rest of his thoughts into his iPad, his constant companion. His only companion. It had taken him years to get into a PD larger than the one in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, but since landing the detective spot in Wauwatosa, his career had stagnated and his social life had become nonexistent. His girlfriend had refused to leave Beaver Dam and their attempts at a long distance relationship had fizzled out long ago. The other detectives called him “hayseed” when they thought he couldn’t hear them and sometimes “beav” when he could; he knew they didn’t give a damn.
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