by Vicki Tyley
“Yeah, well, maybe so…”
She laughed again. “Seriously, though,” she said, rounding the corner into the kitchen, “I don’t know where Fen got the idea about you coming on too strong. You know her better than I do. Does she usually make up stories?”
“No.” Ash pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, sometimes. More truth-stretching than story-creation, though.”
“Believe me, if there was any truth to what Fen said, you would know about it. And not from Fen either.” Jemma switched on the kettle to reboil.
“Sorry, did I interrupt your supper?”
“Not much to interrupt.” She waved her hand over the breadboard. “Want some?”
He shook his head. “I should leave you in peace and get going.”
Wait until she saw Fen. “Sure you don’t want to stay and join me.” She took a large bite of Vegemite toast and made loud, appreciative noises, hoping at least to raise a smile from him.
He rewarded her with a half one. “No, I better be going. Call me if you want to talk or anything.” He leaned over and wiped the corner of her mouth with his finger.
She flinched, unable to prevent the involuntary reaction as his skin touched hers.
His eyes said it all.
CHAPTER 19
Jemma flailed about for the snooze button. Just five more minutes. Except her alarm clock didn’t vibrate. She prized one eye open, blinking as daylight hit her retina.
Her hand closed around her mobile phone. “Hel—” She swallowed and tried again. “Hello.”
“Did I wake you?” asked a low, male voice.
“Chris? What time is it?”
“Morning.”
She yawned and stretched. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Like I pulled the autopsy report on Sean Mullins?”
Her body went rigid. “You did?” She rolled her legs off the couch and sat up, instantly alert.
“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t discover anything new. The results were inconclusive, but there really isn’t anything in them to warrant further investigation. The V-shaped bruising on his neck is what you would expect from a hanging. A straight bruise, on the other hand, would have definitely raised a red flag. It’s more difficult to strangle yourself.”
“You did say it was inconclusive, though, which means homicide can’t be ruled out, right? Maybe I’ve been watching too many CSI episodes, but can’t murder be staged to look like suicide – or an accident?”
“No doubt,” Chris said, “but you have to realize it’s not a matter of tossing a coin. The coroner doesn’t make his findings based on the pathologist’s report alone. He has to take into account all the available evidence. In this case, there really wasn’t anything to suggest that his death was anything more than a suicide or a tragic accident.”
“And Tanya?”
“Ditto.” He sighed. “I really want to be able to help, Jemma, but I have to have a lot more to go on than the niggling doubt of one the deceased’s relatives. That said, I don’t expect you to go off and start your own investigation. In fact, I strongly suggest you don’t. Because if there is anything at all to your suspicions, you’ll be putting your own life at risk. If there is a killer – or killers – out there responsible for the death of your sister and her fiancé, do you honestly think they would hesitate to do it again? I’m serious.”
“I hear you.”
“Yes, but are you listening?”
“Yes, you would rather a killer went free than pursue him. Tell me,” she said, before he could retort, “what exactly would it take for the police to reopen the cases?”
“First of all, it’s not a matter of a killer going free – though I won’t deny that could happen – it’s more to do with keeping you out of harm’s way. Second, there has to be damned compelling evidence for anyone even to consider reinvestigating a case.”
“So you’re saying that unless this evidence jumps into your lap that’s the end of it?”
He laughed. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when it’s something important.”
“Okay then, where’s the motive? She’s your sister. Who benefits from her death or her fiancé’s?”
Jemma slouched forward, her elbows propped on her knees. “Financially, I do. Not that it’s much.”
“So then ask yourself, what could either or both of them know that would be worth killing for? Who hated them enough to want them dead? Look for commonalities, like the fact they both worked for Bartlett. Might be coincidental, might not. He’s made his fair share of enemies over the years.”
She bit her tongue.
“And,” he continued, “if you can’t come up with a plausible motive you might have to concede that the authorities know what they’re doing after all.”
“No motive, no crime?”
“Basically.”
She let the subject drop. Chris had given her more than enough to think about. After agreeing to catch up for coffee sometime during the week, they said their goodbyes. He had a stack of reports to get through. She had researching to do. Her mind already on the task ahead, she hung up.
Midway through entering Marcus’s name into Google, her PDA beeped. She finished typing and clicked Search, before resetting the reminder to make an appointment with the lawyer attending to Tanya’s estate. Returning the PDA’s stylus to its slot, she glanced up at her laptop’s monitor.
Results 1 - 100 of about 4,530 for "Marcus Bartlett."
Jemma blew out a breath. How many men shared the same name? She scanned down the page, clicking on a promising-looking Wikipedia link. Not that she trusted the accuracy of the free-for-all encyclopedia’s data, but it was as good a place to start as any. With luck, it would at least provide some insight – factual or not – into the man and his reputation, not to mention relevant links.
The article’s anonymous author didn’t go into a lot of detail, skimming over Marcus’s early working life as a builder’s laborer to the time when he began to make a name for himself as a property developer. It appeared from the timeline provided, that the more successful he became, the more rumor and scandal dogged him. Allegations of insurance fraud, money laundering, bribery, and blackmail to name a few. But nothing substantiated. Tall poppy syndrome or was there more to it? Jemma read on.
Married three times, widowed twice. A water-skiing accident had claimed the life of Marcus’s first wife. His second wife had died of a prescription drug overdose. One was unlucky; two was…
A muscle twitched at the corner of her left eye, but her gaze remained fixed on the screen. His third wife – the wife whom she’d had the not so divine pleasure of meeting – Danielle, had indeed been a model as Jemma suspected. Not much more was written about the current Mrs Bartlett, except to say she was prominent on the charity circuit. Some good lay behind those feline features, after all.
Descendants: one son, Ashley Marcus Granville Bartlett, to his first wife. Tick. One fact she knew to be true. Fen was right. Ash would be a good catch if wealth were to be the deciding factor. As the only child, he stood to inherit his father’s empire.
Her gaze traveled back up to the section about the Bartlett wives. She couldn’t recall Tanya ever mentioning the deaths of the first two, though she must have. She shook her head. Get a grip. Marcus didn’t have the monopoly on dead spouses. Tanya’s ex-husband, Brent’s, first wife had drowned whilst swimming in the surf near their home. Did that make him a murder suspect? Of course not.
She returned to the search page and spent the next few hours glued to the screen, going from link to link, combing through webpage after webpage looking for information to either verify or elaborate on the Wikipedia article, or to refute it. When she found herself going in circles, she stopped.
Rolling her shoulders back and forth, she reflected on what little information she had managed to gather. The Bartlett Developments’ website was all gloss and promotion with no reference to any of the allegations pointed at Marcus. Not
that she had expected it to. What she had found, though, were news articles elsewhere in which Ash’s name, along with his father’s, was linked to a fire that had destroyed a derelict warehouse complex. Though arson was suspected, no charges were ever laid. The insurers paid out. While evidently not newsworthy enough an item to have featured in the Western Australian news, she was yet again left wondering why Tanya had kept it from her. What else had her sister not told her?
She stood and stretched her cramped muscles. A hollow ache in the pit of her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten. She checked the time: almost midday. Too late for breakfast. Her mind still processing the information she had read, she headed to the kitchen to grab a coffee and biscuit.
Marcus’s business dealings were obviously less than squeaky clean, even if only a fraction of the allegations against him and his company were true. Is that what irked Chris so much? That nothing could be pinned on the wealthy developer? The elastic blue line as Ash called it.
She scooped coffee grounds into the stainless steel plunger, opened a packet of low-fat fruit slice and waited for the kettle to boil. If Sean’s death was murder, it had been an emotive, intensely personal act. Staging his death to look like an accident or suicide was one thing, but staging it as some lewd sex act gone wrong was another. Who would go to that much trouble? A woman scorned? A woman strong enough to overpower a large man? She sighed. Perhaps Chris was right. Perhaps she was trying to make something out of nothing.
Without realizing it, she had munched her way through half the packet of fruit slice. She closed the pack, pushed it aside, and finished making the coffee. Her mind churned like a software application stuck in a loop. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t accept the authorities’ findings? Was she simply in denial as everyone had implied, or did it come from deeper down? Was her subconscious trying to tell her something?
The intercom interrupted her brooding.
“Fen!” The last person she expected to see.
“We should talk.”
Jemma couldn’t have put it better herself. “Sure. Come on up. I’ve just made a pot of coffee.”
Fen looked away from the camera. “I don’t think I can.”
“Sorry?”
“I can’t. I just can’t.” Fen’s bottom lip trembled.
“Oh,” Jemma said, realization dawning. “There’s a café around the corner that looks like a giant Lego set. How about I meet you there in a few minutes?”
With a nod, Fen disappeared from view.
Ten minutes later, after a quick change of clothes, Jemma slid into the seat across from Fen at the rear of the packed café.
“I just wanted to apologize in person for my behavior yesterday and tell you not to take anything I might have said too seriously,” Fen said, before Jemma had a chance to draw breath. “It was the drink talking.”
Jemma delved in her bag for her wallet. “Does this mean you’re rescinding your offer to help me?”
“No, no, not that. I meant more about what I said about Sean’s ex being capable of murder. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have shot my mouth off like that.”
“Was it the drink talking, too, when you told Ash that I thought he was treating me as a Tanya substitute?”
Fen twiddled with the teaspoon on her saucer. “That’s the other thing I wanted to talk about.” She looked up, her expression sheepish. “Did you want a coffee or something?”
An ‘or something’ would have gone down well right about then. “I’ll order in a minute. Go on.”
“When did you talk to Ash?”
“He turned up last night.”
“Weren’t you going out last night?”
Jemma gave a half-laugh-half-snort. “That’s a whole other story.”
“So what did Ash say?”
“I think you know what he said. The question is why?”
Fen bowed her head. “He was pissing me off. All he could talk about was Jemma this, Jemma that. I did it to shut him up.”
“What did he actually say?”
“You know, how you’re kindred spirits and all that crap.”
Jemma laughed, not so much at Fen’s words, but at the face she was pulling.
“I’m serious. He might not have come straight out and said it, but he’s definitely got the hots for you – big time. And after what you said about not liking him in that way, well, I thought I should say something.”
“So you were doing me a favor?”
Fen’s face brightened. “Exactly.”
“One small problem: he now thinks I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Maybe. You know him better than I do. I didn’t help, though.” Jemma told Fen about her reaction to Ash’s touch. “But only because he caught me by surprise. I would have jumped, regardless of who it was. Mind you, even if I had been prepared, I would’ve still felt uncomfortable.”
Fen nodded. “That’s just Ash. He’s a touchy guy. But I know what you mean. Do you want me to talk to him?”
Jemma cocked her head, her eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, I know,” said Fen with a chuckle. “I’ve done enough damage already.”
“Hold that thought,” Jemma said, getting to her feet. “I need a coffee.”
While standing in the queue at the counter, her gaze drifted around the room. Her heart skipped a beat. Seated at one of the street-front tables, deep in conversation with the same platinum blonde woman she had seen him with in Carlton Gardens, was Ethan Kelly. She quickly averted her gaze, grateful when the man in front of her moved off. She took his place, ordering a cappuccino.
On her way to rejoin Fen, she couldn’t resist a furtive glance toward the front of the café. Ethan and his lady had disappeared. She breathed out and continued on her way, her step a little lighter.
Jemma squeezed back into her seat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask away,” Fen said.
“Do you know, or know of, an Ethan Kelly?”
Fen’s eyes rolled up for a moment. “Can’t say I do. Why?”
“Just curious. It’s not important,” Jemma said, picking up her cup.
“Of course it is. Who is this mysterious man?”
Jemma sipped her cappuccino. “No mystery. He’s the apartment building’s property manager.”
“More,” Fen said, making circling motions with her hand. “You don’t get away with it that easily.”
“There’s no more to tell. Not about that anyway.”
Fen leaned in, her dark eyes shining with expectancy.
“What I want to know is what makes Sean’s ex so scary?” Jemma asked. “Friday, you seemed to think her capable of murder.”
“I told you,” Fen said, pushing away from the table, “it was the drink talking.”
“But if it hadn’t crossed your mind, you wouldn’t have said it – drink or no drink. You did say you wanted to help.”
“And I do, but I don’t want to fill your head with any crazy ideas either.”
“Sure, I understand that, but you know these people much better than I do,” Jemma said. “I knew Sean’s ex was being a pain in the proverbial at one stage, but not to the extent that he was forced to take out an intervention order against her.”
Fen huffed. “As if a piece of paper is going to stop anyone out to cause trouble.”
“Agreed, but if the order is breached, they can be arrested.”
“Not if it can’t be proven.”
“What was she doing?”
“You know the sort of thing. Phone calls and hang-ups at all hours of the day and night, anonymous notes addressed to Tanya implying Sean was sleeping around, slashed car tires, etcetera etcetera.”
“How long did all that go on for?”
Fen scratched her head. “I don’t think it ever really stopped. It seemed to happen in waves. Nothing for ages then whamo. Probably to do with what time of the month it was or something.”
“And the police couldn
’t warn her off or anything?”
“They tried, but of course she always denied any wrongdoing. She made Tanya’s life hell – even after Sean died.”
Jemma stared at Fen. “What? That doesn’t make sense. Her beef was with Sean, surely, not Tanya.”
“You don’t know? Sean left her for Tanya.”
Another bubble burst. “Seems I didn’t know much at all about my sister. Did she think I would judge her for it?”
“Actually, I think it was more about how she judged herself. She never set out to be a marriage wrecker. It was just the way it turned out. She always carried a certain amount of guilt about it, which wasn’t at all helped by Kerry Mullins’ carry ons.”
Jemma jammed her fist into her mouth, her teeth hard against the knuckles, and gazed into her cappuccino’s thinning froth. When had real life become a soap opera, one in which her sister played a starring role? “How do I get in contact with Kerry Mullins?”
Fen’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? That would be asking for trouble.”
“I just want to talk to her, hear her side of the story.”
“Oh yeah, good idea, if you want to be her next target.”
“I have no intention of riling her.”
“You won’t have to. Just being her nemesis’s sister will be enough.”
Jemma gnawed her lip, her mind tossing around solutions. “Who says she has to know? I could be just another rejected wife, looking for advice.”
“If it’s advice you’re looking for, try this: stay away from her! No good will come of it.”
“And what if she knows something that could help unravel everything that’s happened?”
Distress flecked Fen’s eyes. She lowered her gaze. “Can we talk about something else? Please.”
Tension hung like a pall over them. Jemma supped her cold coffee. What was it about the ex Mrs Mullins that had Fen so freaked? “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to put all the pieces together, because at the moment nothing seems to fit.” She set her cup down. “But let’s forget about that for now. What would you like to talk about?”
Fen shrugged, her gaze focused in the depths of her coffee cup.
