Incriminating Passion

by Ann Voss Peterson

  “I’m the district attorney in charge of the investigation into Wingate Kirkland’s death.”

  Marcella looked from him to Andrea, as if she suspected he was in charge of something that had nothing to do with the case. As if she’d been looking in his windows when he’d kissed Andrea this morning.

  He stepped toward Marcella, looming over the diminutive woman. “We’re looking for evidence the police may have missed.”

  “They missed nothing,” she said, scowling at the mess in the room. “They even ripped up Mr. Wingate’s floor.”

  Marcella seemed more broken up about the state of the house than Andrea did. Kirkland must have paid well to inspire that kind of dedication. “I’m sorry about the mess. But you’ll have to wait to clean until after we are done here.”

  “We? Why is she not in jail?”

  John flinched inwardly. Even the housekeeper had arrested, tried and convicted Andrea.

  Andrea raised her chin. As petite as she was, she was taller than the housekeeper. “I didn’t kill Wingate, Marcella.”

  The housekeeper folded her arms and glared back. “You can tell him all you want, but I know. You were never good enough for Mr. Wingate. You never loved him.”

  Andrea said nothing, as if she couldn’t refute the charge.

  Some measure of satisfaction seeped into John’s bloodstream. He gave himself a mental shake. What did it matter if Andrea had never loved her husband? It had nothing to do with him. He liked Andrea. He even wanted her. Wanted her with every fiber of his body. And he knew she liked him, wanted him. But love? He couldn’t even contemplate love. He would never let himself expect that much.

  “She shouldn’t be here. I’m calling the police.” Marcella stormed out of the room.

  Andrea looked to John. “What will they do if they find me here?”

  “Nothing. It’s your house, not the housekeeper’s. You have a right to be here.” Unease jabbed his gut. She might have the right to be here, but he doubted the powers that be would think he had the right—not to be here with Andrea at any rate.

  He glanced at his watch. The last thing he needed was for this to get back to the DA. The only thing that would come out of that was to have Wingate Kirkland’s murder shifted to another assistant district attorney. One who would prosecute Andrea with everything he or she could muster. Not a good development. The only good development would be to find the safe and get out of this damn house. Before the police arrived.

  He closed the door and locked it. Turning around, he surveyed the study. “Where do you remember seeing the safe?”

  “It was in the wall.”

  He scanned the cherry paneling and built-in bookcases that rimmed the room. “Which wall?” He ran his hands over the cherry paneling, pressing his fingertips against each seam.

  “No, it was over here, near the map.” Andrea motioned to a spot next to a giant framed map of one of Kirkland’s newest subdivisions on the outskirts of Madison.

  John moved beside Andrea. They worked quickly, pressing each board, each seam. Finally John felt something move under his fingers. “Got it.” He pressed again and the board opened on a hinge. A small safe nestled in the wall. A large dial and latch covered its front.

  Andrea eyed the dial. “How do we get it open? I don’t know the combination.”

  “Often people use a number they can remember easily. What dates or numbers were important to Kirkland?”

  She thought for a moment. “Try nine, nineteen, fifty. Wingate’s birthday.”

  He dialed in the numbers and tried the latch. It didn’t budge. “Can you think of another one?”

  A crease formed between her eyebrows. “How about four, fifteen, eighty?”

  He began dialing the number. “What’s that date?”

  “The date he made his first million. At least that’s the date he claimed his first million on his tax forms.”

  He tried the latch. No luck. “How about your birthday or your anniversary?”

  She shook her head. “He never remembered my birthday or our anniversary. Every year the only present I could count on was some token sent by his secretary. She even signed his name for him.”

  What a piece of work. The more he learned about Kirkland, the more relieved he was that Andrea had never loved the man. “Is there any other number you can think of?”

  Her eyes brightened. “Try ten, nineteen, forty-five.”

  “What’s that date?”

  She looked at the door of the study. Satisfied no one could hear her, she turned back to John. “Marcella’s birthday. I used to be in charge of getting her a present every year.”

  His fingers stilled. “Marcella? Why would he use the housekeeper’s birthday?”

  Andrea shrugged. “She’s been around longer than I have. Wingate treated her more like a family member than an employee.”

  It was worth a shot. He dialed in the number and gave the latch a tug. The safe popped open.

  Lined in blue velvet, the inside of the safe was unmarred. Empty.

  “The police must have found the safe,” Andrea said, her voice flat. “They must have taken whatever was in it.”

  “Or whoever shot your husband cleaned it out.”

  Andrea looked at him. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head, though inside he felt about as optimistic as she was. “That’s not it. We’ll figure out something.”

  Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t allow a single tear to fall. She nodded and turned back to the safe. She looked inside once again, as if unwilling to give up the possibility of the answers to her problems being inside. Suddenly her back stiffened. “The back is off-kilter. Look.”

  “Sure enough.” The back of the safe wasn’t quite square. Reaching inside, he pried at a corner with his fingers. It was loose all right. A false back.

  He pried harder. The velvet popped out. He peered into the hidden compartment. Inside were two videotapes. “Well I’ll be damned.”

  Andrea craned her neck.

  He lifted the tapes out of the safe, careful to touch only the corners with his fingertips. “Videotapes. Eight millimeter. The kind used in a small camcorder.”

  Her heart sank. “No money?”

  “Depending on what is on this tape, it could be worth far more to you than money.” He gathered them up, put them in the pocket of his overcoat and put the safe back the way they’d found it. He wanted to slip them into a camcorder or deck right now. But that wasn’t possible. Not with the police on their way. He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Andrea nodded, as if she was as eager to leave as he was. She strode out of the study and led the way to the foyer, John right behind her.

  Just as she reached for the brass doorknob, she froze.

  John tensed. “What is it?”

  She gestured through one of the long sidelights flanking the double oak door.

  He peered outside. Snow had begun to fall since they’d arrived at the house. It cascaded and swirled in the yard lights like blowing confetti, masking the darkness beyond. He squinted, trying to see past the snow to where a shadow hulked in the driveway.

  A black shadow with gleaming chrome.

  He sucked in a breath. “The black truck.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Panic pounded in Andrea’s head. She stared at the black hulk outside in the snow. Watching. Waiting.

  A truck door slammed.

  Andrea gasped. Even with the doors locked, the old house wouldn’t be hard to break into. And if the driver had a gun—

  John grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the back of the house. “Back door. Quick.”

  “Marcella.” Andrea struggled against his grip. “We can’t leave Marcella here.”

  He released her, his eyes on the door. “Find her.”

  She looked around the foyer, her gaze landing on the top of the staircase. “Marcella!” she called as loudly as she dared.

  Silence answered her.


  The house was so big, Marcella could easily be too far away to hear Andrea’s shout. “We have to search for her. We can’t leave her here. Not with him outside.”

  John looked back to the sidelight next to the front door. “Maybe she left. Do you see her car out there?”

  Andrea joined him at the sidelight. Cupping her hand to the glass, she strained to see through the swirling snow. “I only see your car and the truck.”

  “I didn’t see her car when we arrived. Would she have parked in the garage?”

  “Maybe.” She started for the garage, John on her heels. Reaching the door, she pulled it open.

  Two of the garage’s six bays were empty—the spot where she parked her Lexus and the space reserved for Wingate’s SUV, which was still at the body shop after a fender bender. The other slots were filled with three of Wingate’s late-model sports cars, and the farthest from the door housed one of his smaller sailboats.

  John stepped up behind her. “She must have left.”

  Andrea breathed a sigh of relief. The heat of his body calmed her nerves, at least a little bit.

  A thump came from the second floor.

  Her relief died. “He’s inside.”

  “Can we take one of these cars?”

  “We’ll have to drive right past the truck. If he has anybody with him, they’ll see us.” Her mind flew. She landed on the answer. “I have a better idea. Follow me.”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  She ran for the door leading to the basement. She yanked the door open and started down the spiral staircase. John followed, pulling the door closed behind them.

  They raced down the winding steps, their breathing echoing against stone walls. Halfway down the dimly lit stairs, John stumbled and fell to his knees, clutching the handrail. He was up in one stride, running behind Andrea once again.

  Reaching the basement, Andrea stepped into the game room. The room ran the length of the house and was furnished with pool tables, dart boards and a full-sized bowling alley. Deer heads lined the walls.

  John whistled softly. “It’s a Wisconsin sportsman’s dream.”

  “It was Wingate’s sanctuary.” She suppressed a shiver. Even with him dead, she felt strange entering it. As if he might pop out from behind a pool table or the old oak bar and scold her for trespassing.

  Another thump rang from above. This time it came from the first floor. An unmistakable smell drifted down the stairwell.

  Andrea’s stomach turned. There was only one reason for that smell. “It’s gasoline. He’s setting the house on fire.”

  “I hope to hell there’s a way out down here.” John’s voice echoed behind her.

  She nodded, dodging pool tables and bar stools. “When Wingate bought the estate, he restored the original cellar, complete with underground tunnel.”

  “Convenient. How far?”

  “Not far. This way.” Andrea took a sharp turn near the hot tub room. Running now, she reached the tunnel door. Jerking it open, she flicked on the lights.

  A mighty whoosh exploded above.

  She grabbed the damp stone wall and struggled to breathe as the air was sucked from the tunnel.

  John grabbed her waist from behind. He heaved her farther into the tunnel and slammed the door behind them. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, unsure her voice would carry above the beating of her heart.

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Clinging to his hand, she forged ahead. Several more steps down, and concrete sloped under their feet. Stone banked walls and arched into a ceiling. They wound through the dim tunnel, their footsteps echoing above the roar behind them.

  The lights along the tunnel walls flickered then died, casting them into blackness. Andrea broke into a sweat, whether from physical exertion or the fire above, she didn’t know. The scent of smoke clogged in the back of her throat.

  Finally they reached the place where the tunnel opened into the old carriage house positioned in the side of the hill. “This is it.” Groping the wall, she found the light switch and flicked it on.

  Nothing happened.

  “The fire must have taken out the electricity.” She groped along the wall until she found shelves. Her hand closed over the cool steel barrel of a Maglite. She turned it on and directed the beam over the contents of the carriage house.

  Tarps covering a line of hulking shapes filled the room. And under each tarp, four tires met the concrete floor.

  John scanned the room. “Another garage.”

  “Wingate’s collection. His pride and joy.”

  John walked past her. Moving from car to car, he lifted the tarps and let them fall. “A classic Bugatti. A Delorian. These cars are in mint condition. They must be worth a fortune.”

  “Pick one.”

  John raked a hand through his hair. Despite the heat licking at the backs of their necks, his eyes lit up like a little boy’s at Christmas. “Let’s try the fifty-seven ’Vette. I’ve always liked American.” He tore the tarp off the red convertible.

  Andrea directed the beam to the board on the wall. Each key had a hook, and each hook had a label. She grabbed the Corvette’s key. She hit the automatic garage door opener. Nothing. “The electricity.”

  “No problem.” John circled the car. He unhooked the garage door from the mechanism and raised it manually.

  They wasted no time climbing into the car. John slipped the key into the ignition and the Corvette started without a hiccup. They backed out of the carriage house. Smoke and snow swirled in the car’s beams. Taking the back drive, they wound over hills until they reached the main road just a mile down from the estate’s driveway.

  Bracing herself, Andrea looked up to the hill’s crest. The proud old house stood alone in the swirling snow, flames licking from its windows and lighting up the sky.

  STANDING AT HIS kitchen counter, John sloshed his friend Jack Daniels into two glasses. What a night. By the time the firefighters reached Wingate Estate and got the fire under control, the main house was destroyed along with any secrets it might hold. He and Andrea had told their story to the police and the fire inspector. It wouldn’t take long before Mylinski heard about the fire and their involvement. He just hoped to God that in that time, he and Andrea would find some kind of evidence pointing to Wingate Kirkland’s real murderer.

  He handed one of the glasses to Andrea. “Drink up. You need it.”

  Andrea tried to smile, but failed miserably. She’d handled the fire at Wingate Estate as well as she had dealt with the shooting in Chicago. But even though she’d kept her wits together and had led them to safety, he could tell the stress of the last few days was wearing on her.

  He threw back the contents of his glass. The whiskey burned down his throat, clearing away the residue of smoke.

  Andrea didn’t move. She merely stared into her glass, her eyes sunken. Shell-shocked. “I hope Marcella’s all right.” Ever since they’d escaped from the fire, Andrea had been on the phone trying to reach Marcella Hernandez at her home. But despite numerous calls, she hadn’t had any luck.

  “Her car wasn’t at the house. For all we know, she decided to drive to the police station instead of calling.”

  She nodded. “I hope you’re right. I just worry. She has no family. Wingate was all she had. That and Wingate Estate.” She held her hand over her mouth, as if she suddenly remembered what had become of Wingate Estate. “The fire is going to devastate her.”

  John’s hand moved of its own accord, reaching out and resting on Andrea’s arm. She was quite a woman. After all that had happened to her, she was still thinking about others’ feelings. Others’ needs. “What about you? How do you feel about all this?”

  She shook her head. “It was a beautiful house. But I’m not really sorry it’s gone. It held a lot of bad memories for me.”

  “And some things you can’t remember.”

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “I wonder…”

  “You wonder wha
t?”

  “I wonder if my memories are gone for good. Like the house.”

  She took a sip of whiskey. “Sometimes I don’t want to remember. Sometimes I just want the past to disappear so I can start totally new.”

  John nodded. “Everyone feels that way.”

  “Even you?”

  “Especially me.”

  “What do you want to forget?” She looked at him expectantly.

  He drew in a deep breath, filling his senses with her sweet scent. He knew just what he’d choose to forget. All the times he expected too much. Too much of other people. Too much happiness for himself. If he forgot it all, maybe he could take Andrea into his arms right now.

  And maybe he could truly believe it would be forever.

  He shook his head and poured another three fingers into his glass. “Not the last few days, that’s for sure. I would never want to forget meeting you.”

  A gentle flush stained her cheeks. Lifting the glass to her lips, she sipped, flinching as she swallowed the rest of the booze.

  John downed his own whiskey. Setting the glass down, his gaze landed on his overcoat. At least they’d recovered the tapes before the fire, even though their value remained to be seen. He picked up his coat and dipped a hand into the pocket.

  His fingers brushed the edge of a single tape.

  “No.” He pulled the tape from his pocket and groped for the second one. His pockets were empty. “Damn it.”

  Andrea’s eyes flared with alarm. “The other one is gone?”

  A sinking feeling descended into John’s gut. “It must have fallen out when I stumbled on the stairs.”

  “It might have survived the fire.” Andrea peered at him, waiting for his answer, waiting for some hope.

  Hope he couldn’t provide. “With a fire that hot…” He didn’t have to say the rest. They both knew the tape had been destroyed.

  He picked up the surviving tape. “At least we can see what’s on this one.”

  He led the way into his spartan living room. Andrea perched on the edge of his old brown couch as he crossed to the entertainment center. He plugged his eight-millimeter camcorder into the television, slipped the tape inside and switched on the TV. Snow filled the screen, almost as thick as the white stuff outside. Picking up the remote, he eschewed his recliner, instead sinking into the couch next to Andrea.