Trespass

by Marla Madison

  As promised, Norman’s attorney stayed in touch and gave me the name of a real estate broker who would find me a buyer for the lot once Norman’s estate was settled. Norman had avoided probate by putting his assets into a living trust, so finalizing it all wouldn’t take long. I wanted to be sure the insurance company would let me sell the lot before the assessment of the house was finalized. It never hurt to get a second opinion about the process, so I left a message for Jon Engel to call me, then drove to my first group meeting.

  The large room where they met held a grouping of sofas and chairs arranged for conversation. Three people gathered in one corner of the room, one a young, well-dressed Hispanic man with slicked-back hair who sat on the opposite side of a black leather couch from a girl who looked barely out of her teens. In a chair facing them sat an obese woman wearing a long caftan-type garment in shades of brown and gold. Of indeterminate age, she could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty.

  They looked at me expectantly, but before their group gaze made me too uncomfortable, a tall man entered the room. He approached me and held out a hand. “Hello, I’m Robert Bernstein.”

  Bernstein’s appearance fit his deep voice. He stood over six feet tall and carried probably an additional fifty pounds more than nature intended. In wire-rimmed glasses, gray slacks, and a white dress shirt with the cuffs folded back, he looked nearly the way I had pictured him when I spoke to him on the phone the day before. His voice, reassuring and kind, had convinced me to try the meetings.

  After he introduced me to the others as Dahlia, the name I had adopted for anonymity, he explained the meetings began with each group member using an equal amount of time to talk about and discuss their issues.

  Since today was my first time with the group, he gave me the option of being only an observer, although I would still be expected to introduce myself and explain why I had joined the group. In order to familiarize me with the others, they each gave a brief talk about who they were and why they were here.

  The older woman went first. “My name is Lillian, and I’ve been in this group for three years.

  “I’m the author of a very successful weight-loss book.” She reluctantly mentioned its name. I was impressed; it was well-known. “I lost more than a hundred pounds on my own and wanted to share with others how I had done it. The book turned out to be successful beyond my wildest dreams. I added a workbook and published two more books. Then I married a man whom I made an equal partner in my growing business.”

  I noticed the others looked rather bored. They must have heard the story many times. I listened, fascinated.

  “Not only did he leave me for a younger woman, but in our divorce settlement I had to give him half of everything I had worked for. I’d been too foolish to insist on a prenup when we married.”

  Lillian’s sleep paralysis began when everything in her life fell apart; she sank into a depression and gained back the hundred pounds she had taken off. Since being in this group, she still experienced episodes of the paralysis, but had been successful in keeping them occasional and had trained herself not to fear them. Her experience gave me hope.

  The young man followed Lillian. He introduced himself as Jorge.

  “I had an uncle—he started abusing me sexually when I was seven.” He paused here, and looked over at me as if to see if I appeared shocked by his disclosure. “I’ve been in the group for more than two years. I had the first demon dreams—that’s what I call them—when I was twelve. Since I’ve been coming here, I’m not afraid of them anymore.

  “I’ve studied sleep paralysis a lot. I even learned how to use the paralysis episodes to have out-of-body experiences. OBEs are really cool. I can control how often I have them now, and I’ve started writing a book about it so I can help other people.”

  I couldn’t wait to hear more about the out-of-body experiences Jorge referred to as OBEs, but he ended his narrative rather abruptly and turned the conversation over to the young girl whose name was Mia.

  She spoke hesitantly, her blue eyes shifting nervously about the room. “When I was little, my dad left my mom and me. My mom worked to support us, and one of her boyfriends got her taking drugs. She was gone every night, and I was alone in the house except for the boyfriends.” The way she’d said “boyfriends” told the rest of the story. Like Jorge, she had been abused.

  Ultimately, Mia had become a ward of the state and been in numerous foster homes, none of which had given her the loving family life she craved.

  “I don’t have the nightmares too much anymore,” she concluded in a soft voice. My heart went out to her.

  Everyone looked to me when she finished. I found that I wanted to bare my soul.

  “My name is Dahlia,” I said. “I started having sleep paralysis episodes after my husband and I divorced. The episodes terrify me and lately they’ve been escalating. Not in their frequency but in how badly they frighten me.” I watched their faces, rapt with attention as I spoke. Were they waiting to hear if I was as miserable as they had been?

  I continued. “My father owned a small jewelry store in West Allis, and my family lived in an apartment above the store. I wasn’t neglected, but my parents put their lifeblood into the business and my sister and I spent a lot of time alone.

  “I’m seeing a therapist who believes there is something from my past that brings on my sleep paralysis, but we haven’t determined what it is yet.” I paused in preparation for my big reveal, the little nugget that would keep them entertained.

  “When I was in college, I worked for an escort service. It wasn’t a call girl ring or anything like that but just what the name implied. They provided businessmen with suitable dates for professional events, or dinner companions, if they were from out of town.”

  I ran out of words and managed a weak smile. I could go no further today.

  Bernstein came to my rescue. “So Dahlia, you’re trying to discover what’s causing your sleep issues: is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  We spent the rest of the time in open discussion with Robert acting as a moderator, making sure everyone had an opportunity to talk before the meeting ended.

  “Our time is up for today,” he said. “For next week, I’d like all of you to record something in your journals that you learned from today’s meeting. Turn it into an affirmation that you’ll use every day between now and the next time we meet.”

  At Lisa’s suggestion I had bought a journal, and so far I hadn’t written a word in it. The pills were doing their job, so I had nothing to record.

  Jorge caught up with me as I walked to my car. “Have you had one yet?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” He stood too close; his rose-scented cologne that assaulted my senses smelled like the deodorizer in public bathrooms. “Had what yet?” I asked, stepping closer to my car.

  “An OBE, out-of-body-experience. Have you had one? When I talked about them, I could tell you were interested.”

  Had I had one? I recalled the night I had been on the kitchen floor while I was in paralysis. “I’m not sure.”

  Something about Jorge put me off. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, although it might have just been the nauseating scent of him.

  “Oh, you’ll know for sure if you have one.” He beamed. “Actually,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing, “I think you did have one.”

  Fear had a way of bubbling to the surface, and it gave me the push necessary to share my experience with him. The things that happened during the episodes were far more frightening than Jorge.

  “I might have,” I began. “One night after dinner I fell asleep in my screened porch, and when I experienced the paralysis I was in my kitchen, not the room I had fallen asleep in. When the episode ended and I woke up, I was lying on the couch in the porch again. Usually I’m in my bed when it happens, and I can feel someone in bed with me, holding me down. This time I was alone, but it
was just as frightening. Someone must have moved me while I slept.”

  His white-toothed smile brought to mind things that crawled up from the basement: the centipede moving lightning-fast across the corner of your vision, the spider trapping a fly in its web. “You’ve done it. Had an OBE. Do you know how special you are?”

  I didn’t see how experiencing something that felt much like the way I had imagined death could make me special. It made me a victim—an unwilling victim of forces outside my control. Already I regretted sharing my experience with the man. I turned away and opened the door to my car.

  “I’ll see you next week,” I murmured as I climbed in and closed the door. As I left the parking lot, I saw him in the rearview mirror, watching as I drove off, his head nodding.

  Chapter 14

  Revved up by her new assignment, TJ dressed carefully for Norman Teschler’s memorial service. She settled on a dark blue suit with a skirt short enough to be fashionable without being irreverent. The service itself would be held at a nearby church Norman had attended and then a luncheon would be served at the Harwood, a trendy new restaurant that had been one of Teschler’s favorites.

  She tucked a tiny camera into her purse, one that could be easily hidden in her palm. Gemma might not be familiar with everyone who attended. TJ wanted to make sure all the visitors were identified so she would have to focus on the ones who seemed apart from the groups of neighbors and the Cityscapes people.

  When she arrived at the church, she stood in the back, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. There were more than two hundred people there by her estimate. Gemma sat in the front with a group TJ assumed were close to Teschler, most of them probably employees of his agency. She easily recognized Teschler’s ex-wife and Gemma’s ex-husband from Gemma’s descriptions.

  She spotted Detective Haymaker at the opposite corner of the church and walked over to him. They met in a small alcove off the vestibule.

  “Surprised to see you here,” she said. “Thought you were buyin’ into the house-exploded-by-accident theory.”

  He tugged at his tie as if it were knotted too tight. She wondered if his shorts were too; he didn’t look happy to see her. “I haven’t discounted anything yet,” he said. “Right now I’m paying my respects. What are you doing here? I thought your only interest in this was neighborhood safety.”

  TJ decided it would be in her best interest to win Haymaker over rather than piss him off any more than he already appeared to be by her presence in the church. If it turned out there was any merit to Gemma’s suspicion that Teschler’s death was due to foul play, the detective could be an important ally.

  “Gemma Rosenthal still isn’t persuaded the explosion was an accident. An’ the final report didn’t back it up either.”

  “It didn’t indicate foul play, did it?”

  “The woman’s concerned about it, is all. Can’t hurt to check it out, see if there’s anyone with a motive to want the man gone.”

  Haymaker studied TJ a little too long for her comfort level. “Got my picture in there too?” he asked, nodding at her hand.

  TJ thought her camera had been totally discreet, but the guy was a detective and probably the only person in the church who had noticed the camera. “Nah, didn’t think you were too photogenic.”

  He stifled a laugh. “You know, since you’re doing such a thorough job here, I’m going back to work. Let me know if you pick up on anything interesting.”

  She watched him leave, wondering if she should have asked him about his other case. The story about Madison Chapman had finally hit the media. Probably not a good idea to bring it up; he wouldn’t have told her jack. It made sense that a case involving the possible murder of a young girl would take precedence over one that the evidence pointed to as accidental. Of course, if what she read about the Chapman case was accurate, that one might go on the books as accidental too. It might be a sore spot.

  She returned to her post at the back of the church just in time to see a woman standing barely inside the door, obviously trying not to be seen. In dark glasses, with a heavy, black lace veil covering her face and hair, it was hard to see her features. TJ found a strategic spot and got her on camera. Close enough to watch her quick exit, TJ waited a moment then followed the woman as she walked out to her car, a late-model Lexus SUV. As the woman drove out of the parking lot, TJ stood on the sidewalk next to the driveway, camera posed. When the car passed, TJ noticed two things: the woman’s hair, with the veil off, was dark brown with a heavy white streak on one side, and she held a handkerchief to her face. Interesting. She wouldn’t be hard to identify, but what was her relationship to Teschler? TJ shot a snap of the car’s license as the Lexus pulled away from the church.

  TJ met Gemma at the luncheon, her camera still in place as she watched for faces that hadn’t been at the church. Gemma, conservatively dressed in low-heeled pumps and a conservative long black dress that did little to hide her amazing figure, had her hair in a tight French knot with a tiny black hat perched above it. The woman was a knockout, even in her mourning garb.

  TJ took her aside. “Do you know all these people?”

  “I know everyone who’s associated with the agency and most of the clients. A lot of the others are neighbors. Norman lived in that house for nearly twenty-five years, so he knew everyone in the immediate area. I haven’t met too many of them.” When TJ frowned, she added, “I can introduce you to someone who does know everyone.”

  Billie Jean Jennings looked intrigued when Gemma explained what they needed. After Gemma left to greet some newcomers, Billie Jean turned to TJ. “I’ve never met a private investigator before. This is really exciting.” Her brown eyes gleamed over a turned-up nose sprinkled with tiny freckles. She moved closer to TJ. “So they think Norman was murdered?” she whispered.

  “Nah, nothin’ like that. Gemma just wants to be sure. The explosion was probably an accident.”

  Her eyes widened. “But it might not have been, right?”

  TJ resolved to be patient. “Is there a better time we could talk? Not much privacy here, and I’d like you to identify people for me. I have pics,” she explained.

  “I’ll be home all afternoon if you want to stop in.” She handed TJ a card with her name and address printed on the front.

  “You have a minute now to tell me who some of these people are? The ones that live in the neighborhood. Kinda need to know who doesn’t belong.”

  TJ took a few quick notes on some of the names and faces Billie Jean pointed out. Later she would add them to the photos on her laptop, and Billie Jean could fill in the blanks.

  Eight doors down from Gemma’s, Billie Jean Jenning’s house was by far the grandest on the block. It was built of aged brick with lovely leaded windows and an entryway of heavy oak with generous glass side panels. The bright fall landscaping it was adorned with looked natural, but even TJ recognized it as a labor of love. A wide array of fall flowers lined the pebbled path to the door and graced the area beneath the bay windows in front of the home.

  Billie Jean answered the door wearing a man’s chambray work shirt, its front covered with both aged and fresh paint stains.

  “Please, come in.” Apologizing for her painting clothes, she led TJ to a room at the back of the house, which she described as her studio “for dabbling.” Facing west, the room captured the last sun of the day and displayed dozens of paintings, all with floral themes. She showed TJ to a small white table and chairs alongside French doors leading out to a colorful fall garden.

  If the woman tended to the yard herself, there had to be about thirty hours in her day. TJ opened her computer, accessing a slide show of the photos she had taken. “I thought we could go through these an’ you can tell me who all these folks are,” TJ began.

  She pulled up the photo of the mysterious woman with the white streak in her hair. “How about her? She acted like she didn’t
want anyone to see her an’ I’m pretty sure she was cryin’ when she left.”

  Billie Jean poured cups of freshly brewed coffee from a silver carafe and pulled her chair next to TJ’s. “That’s Victoria Braun, Vicky to her friends. Her and her husband’s house is on the right of Norman’s. They aren’t here much in the summer months; they have a lake house up north on a lake in Manitowish Waters. She must have come back for the funeral.”

  “Why didn’t she want anyone seein’ her?”

  Billie studied the photo of Victoria Braun. “I’m not sure. Everyone that lived here at the time knows she and Norman had an affair. It was quite a few years ago. I thought she’d gotten over it, but there could still be a part of her that loves him. You’re right, she looks pretty upset.”

  “Does ‘everyone who knew’ include Mr. Braun?” TJ asked.

  “I can’t tell you for sure he knew about them, but that was the rumor. Norman was quite a womanizer.”

  TJ had seen the photo array of Norman at the funeral and hadn’t thought him particularly attractive, certainly not enough to be a womanizer. “He was?”

  “Norman didn’t go out of his way to hit on women. For them he was a convenience, I suppose. He loved women and he was a great listener, just what they needed when their relationships were troubled. There was a time when it seemed like he’d slept with nearly every woman on the block, but that was years ago. The neighborhood has changed a lot in the last ten years. There aren’t many of the long-timers still around.”

  Sometimes things that happened a long time ago came back to bite you in the ass, TJ thought. “But what about Teschler’s wife? Wasn’t he married for a long time?”

  Billie Jean chuckled. “You mean to the Dragon Lady?” She got up to take brushes out of a coffee can and wiped them on a clean rag. The sharp scent of paint thinner filled the air. “The scuttlebutt was he married her in order to get her family business as a client for the agency. It worked. Representing them is what made the Asian office take off. Her family’s chain of department stores was a real coup for the ad agency.”