Trespass

by Marla Madison

  TJ frowned. “But he left her a bundle o’ money. Why would he do that if he just married her to get the business going?”

  “My guess would be they maintained a strong friendship after the divorce. I heard they still saw each other quite a bit. And not just for business purposes. Gemma could probably tell you more about their marriage. Norman didn’t confide in me.”

  TJ flipped through the photos, adding notes where Billie Jean had something interesting to add. She opened a photo she was curious about: a boy who appeared to be in his late teens. Although wearing dress pants with a shirt and tie, he wore a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, covering most of his face.

  “That’s Lucian Krause. He was born with cherubism. That’s why he tries to keep his face covered. He’s a nice enough kid. I think he’s about sixteen now. His mother is a widow, and they belong to a church that is an offshoot of Jehovah’s Witnesses. I don’t recall the name, but its followers adhere to very strict principles, one of which is not using doctors or hospitals. He has a sister about nineteen, Drucilla. Their mother homeschooled both of them after her husband died. Their house is right next door to Gemma’s.”

  “What’s cherubism?” TJ asked.

  “Actually, Lucian was never formally diagnosed because of the family’s religious beliefs. I knew what it was because I was a pediatrician before I retired. Cherubism is genetic and causes a loss of bone in the mandible, which the body replaces with excessive amounts of fibrous tissue, distorting the appearance of the face. Usually the condition fades as the child grows. It’s very rare.”

  TJ had never heard of it but was pretty sure a “mandible” was a jawbone. “So what does he look like?”

  Billie Jean frowned. “Not nearly as bad as he imagines he does. His jaw is rather extended, and his cheeks are full as a result, giving him an inflated, broad-cheeked appearance. But I haven’t had a real close look at him in some time. If his condition has stabilized, it is possible reconstructive surgery could help, but without a specialist’s examination it’s hard to tell.”

  TJ’s thoughts shifted to JR and she took a moment to be grateful for her son’s perfect health.

  “His speech isn’t impaired,” Billie Jean continued. “He doesn’t talk a lot, though. Many of the neighbors pay him to help with their yards. I hire him for a few days in the spring and fall. Norman did too, but not very often.”

  They spent some time going through the other faces, with Billie Jean identifying everyone from the neighborhood who had attended the church service or the luncheon. TJ paid particular attention to women who, according to Billie Jean, had taken up with Norman back in the day.

  TJ closed her laptop. “Any thoughts on who might have wanted to get rid of Norman?”

  Billie Jean paled. “No, he was a good man. Everyone liked him. I don’t think you’re going to find anything else. The explosion must have been an accident.”

  “Just thinkin’ maybe some of the husbands might have had a problem with his hittin’ on their wives.”

  “As I mentioned earlier, the women from the neighborhood who spent time with Norman were all going through difficult times in their marriages. Some of them had spouses who were chronic cheaters. If any of the husbands had a problem with Norman they would have expressed it long before this, and their reactions would have been a lot less extreme than blowing up his house with him in it.”

  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 repre
sentation 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

  TJ 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.”