Girl Undone (TJ Peacock & Lisa Rayburn Mysteries Book 3)

by Marla Madison

  Bart turned off his phone, frustrated. His ears were still ringing from that damn explosion, his hearing distorted. He was having a hard time accepting that another man had died in him place. He hadn’t even called his insurance company yet, but he couldn’t resist opening his blog and studying the note. The tone of it was the same as all the others. He still believed the guy was screwing with him.

  Jen came back into the room, pulling her suitcase. “I’m ready to go.”

  Bart packed up his laptop, and they left in the rental car for Eric Schindler’s estate. They’d pick up Jen’s car later.

  When Conlin told him about Schindler’s offer for Bart and Jen to stay there, Bart’s immediate reaction was that it was a bad idea—for him, anyway—although he said nothing in front of Jen. Jen acted like staying with Schindler was an adventure akin to a trip to Disneyland, but she didn’t have the history with the man that Bart did. He was too embarrassed to admit to her that Schindler probably considered him a huge asshole and that he had reluctantly agreed to put them up because someone had talked him into it.

  When they arrived at Eric’s property and turned into the drive, Jen gasped. “Wow, what a place.’”

  The house, built with rust-colored logs and stones the size of bowling balls, blended in perfectly with the wooded setting. The lawn, what was left of a lawn in December, was minimal, and most of the property left in its natural state, or perhaps designed to look natural. Bart was envious. Schindler’s sprawling home looked like the kind of house he’d always dreamt about.

  Jen’s smile widened. “This might be fun.”

  Bart didn’t share her enthusiasm—just as he hadn’t shared the fact that he was going to be living in the same house with people who had every reason—just like Conlin—to hate his guts.

  Eric Schindler left his classic car dealership early and arrived home shortly after one in the afternoon. He’d said yes to Lisa when she had asked him to house the blogger and his girl, but he wasn’t feeling good about it. If Kosik was anything like his writing, the atmosphere at home wasn’t going to be pleasant. Kosik had badmouthed all of them to the world when he’d hinted that any one of them could be a vigilante, had even run their pictures in his blog.

  When the story hit cyberspace and went viral, the publicity it generated reaffirmed Eric’s decision not to go back to practicing medicine. His former specialty, obstetric surgery, was one that drew malpractice suits like flies to honey. That fact alone made him reluctant to go back into it despite the need for the specialty, plus the impact on his practice from the notoriety caused by Kosik’s innuendos would have been too much added to the prison stay he’d endured. Since then, owning the classic car dealership and taking part-time teaching gigs at the university in Madison kept Eric satisfied with his life—that, and his relationship with Lisa.

  After having worked together for months with TJ and Jeffrey Denison, trying to find out what had happened to so many missing women, he and Lisa had progressed from an instant dislike of each other to a closeness he’d never before shared with a woman. Lisa moved in with him about three months after the case wrapped up but kept her house on Oconomowoc Lake where they spent their weekends in the summer.

  They had talked about marriage, even having a child, but those discussions tended to stall because they didn’t want to change what was working so well for them. Lately, though, Lisa had been quiet, as though she was hiding something from him. He’d planned on cornering her and discussing it, but with so many houseguests, finding time for that might be difficult.

  The security guard was outside making his rounds. Eric had been fortunate to get the same man who had done a good job the previous year. TJ didn’t like the guy, but she wouldn’t have liked anyone he hired, always insisting that her skills were enough to keep everyone safe. However, even TJ couldn’t be in two places at one time, and they needed round-the-clock protection from this new threat.

  When the doorbell rang a few minutes after he arrived home, Eric opened the door to Bart and Jen and escorted them into the house. They were nothing like what he had pictured. He introduced himself.

  “I’m Bart Kosik,” the guy said, reaching out his hand. Eric shook it, surprised that the guy didn’t look at all like the dirtbag he’d pictured him to be. He was small, with thick, reddish hair and seemed nervous, another trait Eric hadn’t expected. He had imagined Bart as tall, arrogant, and with a permanent, smarmy smile on his face.

  “And I’m Jen Hoff,” the girl said. Her hand, like the rest of her, was long and slim, and her tiny features gave her a waifish appearance. She towered over Kosik but appeared comfortable with her height.

  Eric hadn’t asked Lisa where to put them. He knew that she’d given TJ and company the lower suite, so that left two options for them, depending on whether they wanted to be together or separate. He thought about asking them then opted not to.

  “Why don’t you leave your things in the kitchen for now, and I’ll give you a tour of the place.”

  Jen’s eyes widened when she saw the kitchen. “This is magnificent!” She walked around, inspecting the expensive gadgetry and appliances. “I love to cook. Do you think your wife would mind if I prepared something for us?”

  “I’m sure she would say you’re welcome to it.” Lisa would love having a guest willing to share the food preparation. He didn’t correct Jen’s use of the term “wife”. It was simpler that way, easier than calling Lisa his girlfriend.

  They toured the downstairs where he introduced them to JR and Donna, and then Eric showed them his office and the guest room with the adjoining bath. “You could use one of these rooms—or both if you like; the sofa in my office opens to a nice queen-size bed.”

  Then he showed them the rooms above the garage, which were actually a small apartment that had a kitchen-living room combo and two bedrooms with a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. “You can stay here if you would like more privacy.” Eric couldn’t read whether they wanted to be together. They appeared undecided. “Why don’t we go back down to the kitchen and have something to drink before you decide where you want to stay.”

  47

  TJ left Pewaukee and headed back to Milwaukee. As she neared her office, she called Rina.

  “Is Kelsey with you?”

  “Yes, she just got home. We’re having lunch.”

  “She say she needed to talk?”

  “No, why?”

  “She’s got somethin’ to tell you, an’ you need to hear it now. If she doesn’t open up, make her talk even if you have to strap her down.”

  That done, TJ went to her office and started gathering facts on her whiteboards. Seeing them posted in front of her always helped to get a feel for what she had to do next. Minutes passed before an answer popped out.

  She dialed Turner and his phone went to voice mail the second it stopped ringing. She left a curt message: “Get your ass over here. Now.”

  An MPD contact had reported to TJ that Turner had been on the straight and narrow since starting his cell-phone business. The guy had also heard that Turner was trying to get on the MPD’s consultant list. If the rumor was true, that would explain Turner’s urgency to be an employee of TJ’s; his employment would be a helpful bullet point on his resume.

  An hour later, Geo Turner showed up at the office holding an eight-by-ten envelope.

  “About time.” TJ snatched the envelope from his hand.

  “That’ll be seven hundred-fifty dollars since I’m not on your payroll yet.”

  TJ flipped through the pages, saw what he’d found, and was impressed with the thoroughness of his work. “Not bad. I’ll write you a check.” She pulled her business’s checkbook out of the desk. She’d already decided to take him on as an outside source, but she didn’t want to make it too easy for him.

  Turner’s eyes narrowed in a face that looked like it had seen everything, good and bad, that the world had to offer. “Hey. I thought we had a deal.”

  “Don’t remember makin’ any promises.” She
took a pen out of the drawer and began dating a check.

  “Okay, okay. I need this gig with you so I can get on MPD’s consult list. If I get some cred on my resume, I might have a chance to get more business. Gimme a break here. I could make all kinds of cash doing other jobs, but one stay in jail was enough for me. I’m trying to support my ass legally.”

  She looked him over. He’d improved since starting his cell phone business and she actually felt sorry for him that it was failing. His thinning hair was neat, and he was dressed in a late-model pair of jeans, a clean white shirt and a down jacket, looking nothing like the run-down ex-con he’d been the last time he did a project for her.

  “All right. You gotta deal.” She put away the pen and checkbook. “Just ‘cause I hate t’ see a grown man beg. What do you need? A form filled out or a letter of reference?”

  The minute he left, she opened the report again. Whitney Chamberlain had been born and raised in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Her real name was Lindsey Blair, a name she changed to Mrs. Thomas Caruthers when she had married at the age of eighteen. Caruthers, an ex-serviceman-turned-fireman for the city of Marion, had a long history of anger issues. The couple had been the source of more than one domestic disturbance call during their three-year marriage. The incidents weren’t on record; Caruthers had never been charged. Turner had performed his magic.

  A month after the couple’s three-year anniversary, Lindsey disappeared from the Cedar Rapids area. Her husband had filed a missing-persons report, but whether or not the couple’s history had influenced how hard they worked the case, the police hadn’t turned up any clue as to what had happened to her. Some of her friends believed she’d taken off, although one or two of them thought Caruthers had killed her. The others said they’d seen him shortly after Lindsey disappeared and didn’t think the guy was capable of faking the rabid-dog anger he had displayed at her exit. The case died on the vine

  The third page of the report—TJ didn’t want to know how Turner had managed to get his hands on it—was a doctor’s report. Lindsey Blair Caruthers, aka Whitney Chamberlain, had been pregnant when she left Cedar Rapids.

  A yellow sticky note on the last page listed the cost of the report as seven hundred fifty dollars, with a post script marking it paid in full. Turner hadn’t doubted she’d take him on once she saw what he’d found on Chamberlain.

  TJ wondered how much this new information would even help. The woman had covered her tracks expertly once. A second time would be even easier, which left TJ with more questions than answers: What happened to Whitney’s baby if she was pregnant when she left Caruthers? What if he’d managed to find his wayward wife? And, was she even alive? Richard hadn’t told TJ if the woman they’d found at Bart’s had had a child, but that could be something he wouldn’t be able to share with her. TJ wasn’t even sure the fact that she’d had a child would show up on an autopsy if she’d had the baby nearly a year before.

  Past two p.m. already, it was too late to drive to Iowa. That trip would have to wait. TJ studied what she had written on the board and decided to drive to Madison and talk to Whitney’s friend again. She considered calling Richard and sharing what she’d found out but decided not to in case he insisted she stay away from Iowa. When she left the office, the first snowflakes of the month were dancing in the air, not heavily enough to seem threatening, but enough that she opted to take the Highlander rather than the Mini.

  From what TJ recalled of Denise Zimmerman’s schedule, the woman should be working at the restaurant in downtown Madison. When TJ arrived there, luckily finding a convenient parking spot right across the street, the lunch hour rush had ended, and the air was heavy with the delightful aromas of grilled meat and warm bread.

  Avoiding the randy bartender, she took a table out of his field of vision and ordered a salad from a tall, frizzy-haired waitress who promised to send Denise over to her when she arrived.

  Deciding it would be a while before she had to drive again, TJ added a glass of Moscato to her order. She savored every bite of the fancy salad, built with dark greens and covered with grilled strips of chicken, pecans, and strawberries, and topped with a delicious vinaigrette dressing. The hot rolls served with the salad were every bit as good as they’d smelled when she walked in. She was buttering the last roll when Denise appeared at her table.

  Already in her uniform, a tight white blouse with a high starched collar over a short black skirt and apron, Denise’s dark hair had tiny tendrils outlining her face. The rest of her hair stood in one-inch spikes. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Have a seat,” TJ ordered. “Need to talk to you.”

  “I already answered your questions,” she said, but sat down across from TJ.

  “I’m thinkin’ you left out the good stuff.”

  Denise flushed.

  “Your friend’s missin’. I’m tryin’ to help her here, Denise.” TJ studied her for a few moments, wondering why she wouldn’t want to help find Whitney. “I know about her husband.”

  Her eyes widened. “Then you know everything.”

  Denise’s response was accompanied by a definite tic that TJ interpreted as a tell. The chick was holding something back. “Don’t think so. What about her baby? She left the guy because of the kid, so where is it?”

  She said softly, “She had a miscarriage.”

  “When?”

  “It happened right after she started working here. She was really upset, but the doctor told her not to worry about it, it happens sometimes and there was no reason she couldn’t get pregnant again.”

  “So why’d she take off? Did her husband track her down?”

  “I don’t know. She never told me she was going to leave Madison. She didn’t even give notice here and these jobs are hard to get.”

  TJ said, “S’pose her leavin’ left you with an opportunity, right?”

  “No, not really. Our shifts overlap so I’ll only get one more day, if that.”

  “What about boyfriends? Got any second thoughts on that?”

  “I told you—she didn’t date much.”

  TJ pulled out her notebook, pretending to review what Denise had told her last time. “Yeah, but you said there was a guy who picked her up sometimes. Can you remember anything else about him? Somethin’ she might have said?”

  “Not really. I asked her about him once and she told me to mind my own business. I figured he was married.”

  Figuring she’d gotten all she could from the woman, TJ let Denise start her shift. She paid her bill and confirmed with the manager that Whitney had left her job without notice. TJ headed back to Waukesha, where she and her family would be spending the night; with Lisa, Eric, Shannon, and—who woulda thought?—Bart Kosik.

  48

  Lisa came home early to find a strange woman in the kitchen, humming and chopping up vegetables for a salad.

  She looked up. “Oh, hi. I didn’t see you come in.” She reached out her hand after wiping it on a dishtowel. “I’m Jen.”

  “Lisa Rayburn.” Lisa evaluated the woman. Jen looked to be in her late twenties, tall, probably five foot ten. Her hair hung ruler-straight just shy of her shoulders. Her face was rather plain except for a spattering of freckles across her small nose and a wide smile enhanced by a slight, but attractive, overbite.

  “Thank you so much for putting us up here,” Jen said.

  “It looks like I should thank you for fixing dinner.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I love to cook, and since I live alone, I don’t have anyone else to cook for very often. Plus, it really relaxes me.”

  “I enjoy cooking too, just not very often. So, you can make yourself comfortable in my kitchen anytime.” She noticed she had just referred to the kitchen as hers, even though, like Jen, she was, technically, a visitor. But calling herself a visitor wasn’t really fair. Eric would have gladly made her the lady of the manor whenever she was ready for the role. Lisa thought it odd that Jen apparently didn’t cook for Bart but didn’t question
their relationship. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Mr. Schindler went back to the dealership and said he’d be here by six thirty for dinner. Bart’s upstairs, working on his blog. I met Donna and JR—he’s so adorable—but he’s down for a nap now and Donna’s watching her shows.”

  They were alone. Lisa said, “Should we open a bottle of wine?”

  By the time they had shared a glass of wine and Jen had the chicken in the oven, Lisa had found out that Jen and Bart were not in a romantic relationship although Jen admitted that she suspected Bart might be interested in her that way. Lisa filled the girl in on her own relationship, after which Jen expounded on the joys of marriage from the point of view of a wedding planner, hinting that if Lisa and Eric ever decided to make their relationship permanent, she would love to offer her services.

  TJ arrived in time to join them for dinner, and noticed that Lisa and Jen were way ahead in the wine department, all giggly and red cheeked. She had a moment’s annoyance at their camaraderie, then her gaze landed on Bart. She was still amazed that the little weasel had turned out to be rather soft-spoken and almost shy. She had the impression he was afraid of her and had to admit she found the fact enjoyable. Hard to imagine what was going through his head at that moment, she thought, surrounded by people he’d crapped on in his blog and was dependent now on their charitable nature to keep him safe.

  “Listen, I know having me here is awkward for all of you,” he gestured around the room, “but I want you to know that Jen and I are grateful. It couldn’t have been easy to take us in like this.” He took a deep breath. “I’d just like to say that nothing I put in my blog was personal.”

  TJ snickered.

  “I don’t blame you for being skeptical. But when I first started my writing and was having a hard time developing a following, I found out that—no surprise, I’m sure—the more sensational the blogs, the more popular they were. Did I actually lie about anything or anyone? If you’ve read my work, you know I don’t do that. I admit I often deal in innuendo and insinuation—circumstantial evidence, I guess you could call it. I’ve just never wanted to apologize for it before.” His last words trailed off into a near whisper. The room was silent.