The casino. What a nightmare. It occupied the first level of the hotel, the entire space enclosed by floor-to-ceiling glass walls that trapped most of the victims.
Finally, Rose meets my gaze. “Back then,” she continues, “zoning regulations didn’t require exit doors to swing out. When the fire engulfed the back half of the first floor, everyone charged toward the front entrance. In the panic, those leading were either trampled or crushed against doors that wouldn’t open.”
I knew this. My research—articles, photos, witness accounts—had clued me in. The victims experienced their own version of an incinerator. The terror is unfathomable and, as I always do, I push the images—stacks of charred bodies, human remains loaded into refrigerated trucks—from my mind. All those people dying so needlessly is too much.
Having never experienced such horror first-hand, I can’t begin to understand Rose’s grief. “Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry.”
She drags her focus from me. Beyond the pool about twenty yards down is a small cottage. A guest house maybe. Whatever it is, Rose locks her gaze on it and lets out a soft sigh. “It was a long time ago. I do miss them, though. They were good people. Gayle and I? Oh, we knew how to have a good time. She used to stay in the guest house when she visited. I had to adjust to her being gone.”
Again, I feel a stab. Like someone sticking an ice pick right into my chest. Stick, stick, stick. I chug my water again, closing my eyes while the cold liquid works down my throat. I drain the glass, then pour another. Just in case. So much for being a neutral journalist. All this death and heartbreak doesn’t seem fair.
So many victims.
“Rae?”
I set the pitcher down and shake my head. “It’s just so…horrible.”
“It is. I simply cannot imagine what it must have been like dying in that casino. It haunts me. For years, I’ve said how thankful I am that we didn’t have Phillip with us. The fire happened at his nap time. And then there’s poor Loretta Lonnie. That beautiful woman. Such a loss.”
Loretta, a bombshell model and actress, had been at the Grande and died in the fire. Long rumored to have a substance problem, Loretta was found her in her bed, dead from smoke inhalation. Gossip had it she’d been so intoxicated she never woke up when the alarms went off.
Given her high profile, I’d found tons of press on her death. None of it, however, mentioned a link to the Trudeaus. “Did you know her?”
“Yes. She wasn’t a client, but we’d been at several functions together. Fundraisers, premieres, that sort. After she died, Simon helped her heir with a licensing deal.” She shakes it off. “That damned fire. It shattered so many lives.”
“Exactly why I want to do this piece. So people remember the Grande. Remember your friends. That’s what I want. I mean, Rose, for such an extreme event, it’s barely mentioned anymore. Sure, if I search the Internet, I’ll find a bazillion articles, but only if I search. Most have long forgotten about the Grande.”
Rose jerks her head. “You’re right. But why is it so important to you? Aside from it being an anniversary piece. There are thousands of stories out there. Why this one?”
I’m not sure what to tell her. I mean, admitting I’ve been obsessed with her since I saw that Time magazine cover conveys a definite she’s-psycho vibe.
But it’s not exactly her I’m obsessed with. It’s her existence. On the surface, she’s led this privileged Bel-Air life, truly had everything. She’s the American dream. A young, ambitious woman making her own way in the world meets a handsome, accomplished lawyer and they build their empire. Add the successful children and Rose Trudeau’s life is a regular fairy tale.
Except for the fire. A tragedy so profound it altered hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.
I want to root around inside her and figure out how one moves on from that.
I lean in and meet her gaze. “This will sound crazy, but I think your story can help people.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I lift my hand. “Wait. Please. Just think about it. When people look at you, they see a woman who, on the surface, has everything. But, underneath all that, you’ve suffered from this fire. I think you could be an inspiration to so many people who’ve endured tragedy but can’t move on. You can change people’s lives.”
7
Rose
* * *
I sit quietly, pondering my next words before I say something that will sound selfish. Uncaring.
Rae is right. So many lives lost and now, all this time later, the Grande—if people even remember it—is an afterthought. But why do I have to be the savior? Why do I have to be the one to reveal my pain?
“The truly tragic part,” Rae says, “is that they never found the arsonist.”
Again, she’s spot-on. “The person either died in the fire or is still free. Either way, it keeps me up at night. I’ve dealt with the loss of my friends, but I’ll never get over the injustice. For the first year, I called weekly for updates from detectives. Each time, I was told the same thing. No new information.”
This seems to grab Rae’s attention. “Do you remember the detectives’ names?”
“There was one I spoke to each week. Gabriel Sanchez. I drove that man half crazy. Didn’t care then, don’t care now. I wonder if he’s still there. Perhaps he could give you some background.”
Ignoring her earlier statement about not taking notes, Rae grabs her pen and pad and jots something. “I’ll check it out.”
Yes, I like that idea. An update from investigators can only add to the story. There could be new leads as well. I’m doubtful, but…maybe.
“Wouldn’t it be something,” I say, “if your story reinvigorates the investigation?” I point at my guest, a gesture I typically avoid. “You, my dear, might wind up solving a cold case.”
Eyes still on Rae, I sit back. Sometimes my own brilliance astonishes me. RaeLynn’s youthful energy might be just what this case needs. “In fact, if you want to make a difference, forget the puff piece.”
Her lips form a hard line. “It’s not a puff piece. It’s a retrospective.”
Blah, blah. The idea of a cold case story rattles around in my brain. Craving the sun, I rise from my seat and step out from under the protection of the awning. Warmth washes over me as I stare at the tree I planted in front of the guest cottage in Gayle’s honor. Under the tree is a stone plaque with her name and a flying angel.
Poor Gayle. Justice never came for her.
I turn back to Rae. “Call it what you want, it’s a puff piece. Which is fine. Except you’re hungry for a challenge. Something that’ll make your coworkers—the haters—finally realize how damned good you are. Believe me, sinking your claws into a cold case—and solving it—will get you what you want.”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to do an investigative piece. This is human interest.”
A long silence drifts between us. Gayle, Gayle, Gayle. All these years, a murderer has been free while she perished, burned to death in that inferno.
Buried anger sparks inside. Is it selfish of me? Probably. There were hundreds of lives affected and all I can think about is my own loss.
But justice for Gayle means justice for all the victims.
“Think about it, Rae. Solving a cold case will get you national attention. Forget that newspaper you work for. Think bigger. Isn’t that what you really want?”
“Mother?”
My son’s voice swings me around. Jeremy stands in the doorway leading from the patio to my kitchen. He’s wearing dress pants, a sport coat, and an Oxford shirt with no tie. His presence in the middle of the day surprises me. “Hello, darling.”
Eyeing RaeLynn, he approaches. I walk to greet him, wrapping him in a hug that communicates how much I’ve missed him. I’ve treated him as my own, but being his stepmother—God, I hate the step part—came with the responsibility of not interfering with his biological mother. I was always careful of that. When Jeremy visited, he abided by my rules, but an awareness, an unspoken understan
ding, existed. At times, it created distance, but we found our way. He knew how much I loved his father back then, and even now.
He releases me from the hug and nudges his chin at Rae. “I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you had company. I was on a call in the neighborhood and thought I’d buy you lunch.”
How sweet of him. As a financial planner, when it came to his wealthier clients, he chose to meet in the privacy of their homes. Something that has won him quite the exclusive clientele. Including the woman down the street who owns a high-end escort service. Scandalous, I suppose, but according to Jeremy, she has quite the portfolio.
With my connections, I should have been a madam.
“Thank you,” I say, “but lunch today won’t work. This is RaeLynn Demming. She’s a reporter doing a story on the Grande.”
His eyebrows spike for the briefest of seconds. “The Grande? I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”
“Exactly why she’s doing the story.”
Finally, my son remembers his good breeding and turns to my guest, unleashing his devastating smile. Unlike Phillip, Jeremy is a clone of his mother. His cheeks are full, his face round and handsome and framed with curly hair I used to love to tug on. Still do.
He extends his hand to RaeLynn. “Hello. I’m Jeremy Trudeau. I apologize for being rude.”
Rae stays in her seat as she shakes Jeremy’s hand. “No prob. Your mom said you were there the day of the fire. If you’re open to it, we could talk.”
Good girl. Right down to business. She’ll go far, this one.
Before he can answer, Rae’s phone blares and rattles against the tabletop. She checks the screen, then hops up. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”
“Of course, dear.”
She walks around the pool to the edge of the guest cottage, where she’ll be afforded privacy.
Once she’s out of earshot, my son turns to me. “Well, this is something. Since when do you talk to reporters?”
I hold my hands up. “Believe me, I’m as shocked as you are. I’ll tell you about it later, but I like her. She’s got gumption.”
“She’s won you over. Good for her. Would you be okay with me talking to her? I know it’s a tough subject.”
“I thought it through last night. I had dinner with your brother and he helped me see that, perhaps, it’s time for me to discuss it. Release some of the pent-up emotions about Gayle.”
“I agree, but to a reporter?”
“You’d rather I see a psychologist? Allow them to rummage around in my head?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m not sure a reporter is the wisest choice. Not the first time.”
I glance over at Rae, holding the phone to her ear while she gestures wildly with her free hand. “She’s a pip, Jeremy. She reminds me so much of myself. She’s hungry and wants people to remember all those who died. I want that, too. And don’t worry. I did my research. Yesterday, I asked that private investigator your father used to work with to do a top-line background check on her. As he put it, she checks out. Will you speak with her?”
He looks to Rae marching toward us, her call apparently over.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “My editor.”
“The one who hates you?”
“Mother! Jesus.”
Rae laughs. “No, it’s true. Right now, he does hate me.”
Jeremy rolls his eyes and offers a soft snort. “The two of you together could be dangerous.”
“Could be fun,” Rae says.
I can’t help but agree.
8
Rae
* * *
After announcing she needs to retrieve something from upstairs, Rose disappears, leaving me with Jeremy. I watch as he moves toward the many seating options. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with a meaty build that’s neither overweight nor skinny.
One thing is for sure; between the gold watch, slicked-back hair, and clothing that fits too well not to be tailored, he screams money.
He settles back into Rose’s giant outdoor sectional, crosses one leg over the other, and casually checks his watch. Message received. He may have agreed to this, but he’ll control how long he participates.
Not unreasonable, I suppose.
“Ask away,” he says.
Since arriving, I’ve been choosing my words, editing my questions as carefully as I can, hoping to avoid insulting my reluctant interviewee. Jeremy, it seems, is not as reticent as his mother and it relaxes me.
I dive in. “Your mom said you were working at the hotel in the summer.”
He nods. “I was in college. At first, I wasn’t happy. I wanted to live with my friends for the summer. After I got there, though? Paradise. Now I can appreciate it. What kid wouldn’t love to spend the summer in La Paradisio?”
I sure would have. The way I was raised, you go home for breaks, work, save as much as you can, and go back to school. Maybe you get a week off to sleep in and hang with your friends. Maybe.
It never bothered me. I simply didn’t know any different.
Until now. Now, I’m wondering if I missed out. “You worked in the office?”
“Yes. About thirty hours a week. I was basically their intern. My dad thought a summer at the Grande would give me perspective.”
“Did it?”
He nods and his full cheeks bounce. “It did. That’s why I kept going back. I liked the accounting part. Not so much the day-to-day operations. By the time I left, I knew I’d do something in finance.”
“Where were you when the fire broke out?”
He closes his eyes for a brief second, lets out a long breath, then meets my gaze again. “That was a horrible day.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, his shoulders pressing down like an elephant is sitting on them. “It was a long time ago. I actually don’t mind talking about it. It helps.”
Call me selfish, but yay. Jeremy Trudeau has been an unlikely surprise.
“The day of the fire,” he says, “the restaurant was short-handed. Two busboys called out sick. They were all backed up, so I offered to help. It was that sort of operation. Everyone helped out. I’d never bussed before, but one of the waitresses gave me a rundown of what went where. I was damned lucky to be working the outside patio when the fire started. The office where I normally worked was just above the casino. My coworkers were all up there.”
“Did everyone make it out?”
“They did. Everyone went down the emergency stairwell that led to a side exit. I found them all across the street where the police had corralled everyone.” He drags his hand over his face and exhales slowly. “What a chaotic mess that was. People everywhere.”
“Did the police question you?”
“Briefly. Over the next few days, they went through all the employees. We were all cleared. Rumor was the union workers were responsible.”
I’d read about the contentious contract negotiations between management and the electrician’s union. As far as I could tell, this was still the working theory on the case.
Except, none of this should matter to me. At least, it didn’t until Rose called it a puff piece and dangled the idea of solving a cold case.
Retrospective. I’m doing a retrospective. A piece on the survivors and not the arsonist who has never been identified. For all we know, he—or she—could be dead by now.
“From what I found,” I say, “the men had been working without a contract for months and were threatening to strike. Research indicates the fire was started by a disgruntled electrician.”
Dang it. I can’t help myself.
Jeremy nods. “Yes, but investigators could never prove it. The only evidence was the flashpoint in a closet behind one of the ballrooms. Someone poured gas on a pile of rags or something—I don’t know—and the place lit up like Rock Center at Christmas.”
None of this was new to me. Back when I thought this would be an investigative piece, before CC Carter and his goon, I collected stacks and stacks of reports—thanks
to the Freedom of Information Act—that laid it all out. Some sort of accelerant was definitely used. “What do you think? Could it have been one of the union workers? Or union management?”
“Working in the business office,” he says, “I’d had contact with the union representatives. Good people. I can’t believe they’d do something like that, but if they had, perhaps they didn’t intend for it to be the inferno it was.”
Interesting observation. At the time, Jeremy was a young college student, not all that much younger than I am now. At twenty-two, I didn’t focus on people’s character. I had my friends and family and my biggest concern was, well, myself. I jot a note to check for union representative interviews, then bring my attention back to my subject. “I read in one of the firefighter statements that there had been other fires set in other hotels on the island. Rumor had it the union members started those fires. Do you remember anything about that?”
“Yes. They were all small and easily contained, some with handheld fire extinguishers. Not enough to make the news cycle. Precisely why I believe, had the union been responsible for the Grande, they didn’t mean for it to be the tragedy it was. Why would they go from burning paper in metal garbage cans to an inferno? Doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t think they were related?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always wondered.”
I’m wondering, too. I jot another quick note to research this angle. Maybe I can find out if the other fires were ignited in the same manner. Serial arsonist or disgruntled union worker? Both? Either way, it’s a new lead to chase.
If I was writing an investigative piece. I shake it off.
He smacks his hands against his thighs and stands. “I should go. Leave you ladies to it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Trudeau. I appreciate it.”
“It’s Jeremy. You’re welcome.”
I stand and shake his hand, watching as he enters the house in search of Rose. I stare down at my notepad and my barely legible note about the smaller fires.
Into the Fire Page 4
