by Vicki Tyley
She ignored the connotation. “I don’t think she was specifically accusing Kerry, just saying she was capable of it. If I remember correctly, she actually said everyone is capable of it. And I guess, given the right circumstances, we all are.”
“Speak for yourself.” He pointed to the wine bottle. “Another of the same, thanks,” he said to the waiter clearing the table.
“So if it came down to it you would rather be killed than kill?”
That stopped him in his tracks. “Now,” he said, drawing out the word, “that you put it like that.” His hand came within caressing distance of her shoulder and then withdrew. “Jemma, what we talked about the other night, you don’t believe that, do you?”
“I need to know the truth – whatever it is.”
“Why? What do you hope to achieve?”
“Can we please not go over this again?” Why could no one understand why it was so important to her?
“Fine, but let me just say one thing. For your own sake, you have to give up any foolhardy notion you have that Tanya and Sean’s deaths were anything more than a tragic chain of events.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Ash’s eyes flashed. “Of course not. I’m concerned about you, that’s all. I don’t for one moment think your suspicions are founded, but if by the remotest chance, you are onto something, who knows what sort of danger you would be putting yourself in.”
She studied her hands. Why was everyone so intent on warning her off? It wasn’t as if she expected to track down and confront the killer herself. Her only objective was to have both cases re-opened, the evidence re-examined and a definitive ruling made that foul play was or wasn’t involved. And for that, Chris said, she needed motive.
She pasted a smile on her face and looked up. “It’s nice to know you care, but nothing’s going to happen to me.”
Ash leaned back, hands behind his head. “I hope not.”
The waiter’s arrival helped lighten the situation, giving them something to look at besides each other for a few moments. After the waiter left, Jemma plucked up the courage to ask Ash if he had sent her the roses.
He scrutinized her. “And if I had, would that be a good thing or a bad thing?”
“So it was you. Why—”
He held up a hand. “As much as I would like to take credit for them, I can’t. Tell me more. Are you talking about the roses I saw on the table last week?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Those and another lot today.”
“Popular girl.”
“Special woman.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s what the card said: ‘For a special woman.’”
“Most likely then that loverboy sent them to remind you of how much he’s missing you?” He grinned at her. “Have you checked with him?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Was that a loaded question? Had Fen already let on to him that she and Ross were no longer a couple?
CHAPTER 22
The lift doors opened. People jostled past her, in a hurry to get to where they were going. Jemma’s feet remained rooted to the floor. More people piled into the lift, hemming her in. She blinked, fighting her way to the front just as the doors started to close.
Out in the huge limestone-tiled lobby, she looked around, trying to get her bearings. Her head swam. If what she had just heard was to be believed, Tanya had not only been an employee of Bartlett Developments, but also a major shareholder. The lawyer estimated the value of her estate in excess of a million dollars. How had a young woman on a personal assistant’s salary managed to amass such wealth? Employee share options? Canny investing? What? She knew of only one person who could answer that.
Moving out of the thoroughfare, she rummaged in her bag for Marcus Bartlett’s business card. She knew his offices were in St Kilda Road, but not exactly where. Moments later, card in hand, she emerged onto the street and hailed the first taxi she saw. She had neither the time nor the inclination to work out where the tram stops were.
Seated in the back of a taxi stuck in traffic, watching tram after tram trundle past on dedicated rail in the centre of the road, she soon realized her folly. At least her driver would deliver her to the right address. Not that she could be sure Marcus would even be there. Nor had she wanted to forewarn him of her arrival by phoning ahead. She sighed. If they ever got there.
The tower block housing Bartlett Developments was more glass than anything else, a raised monumental stone portico heralding the building’s entrance the main exception. She scrambled out of the taxi, grateful to finally escape the confines of the vehicle’s backseat. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she made her way across the footpath and up a series of concrete steps. The metal handrail was almost too hot to touch.
Sensors picked up her approach, the glass front doors parting on cue. The chilled air on the other side shocked her lungs. It was as if someone had accidentally set the thermostat to freezing. She only hoped it wasn’t a harbinger of what was to come.
Another couple of steps in, she stopped, shivered, and gazed around. Two sweeping staircases leading up to a mezzanine framed both the foyer and its centerpiece, a stained-glass chandelier the size of a small planet. The rest was open space. She made a beeline for the lifts as soon as she spotted them on the back wall. The cold didn’t encourage loitering.
She took a lift to the seventh floor. The doors closed behind her before she had a chance to change her mind, leaving her stranded in a navy-blue carpeted reception area. For a second, she wondered if she had the right place. Then she saw the sign on the wall behind the deserted front desk.
“Hello, anyone there?” she called.
A phone rang somewhere in the depths of the offices. A high-pitched squeal followed, a door slammed, and then nothing.
She waited.
When no one came out, she decided to go searching for someone, anyone. Feeling like an intruder, she crept down the corridor, her ears straining for the slightest sound. She glanced through each open doorway she passed, not encountering a soul along the way. Just when she started to think that perhaps everyone had been sucked into a vacuum, she glimpsed a silver-haired man standing in a large-windowed corner office. He had his back to her.
She rapped the back of her knuckles against the open door. “Marcus?”
He whirled around. “Jemma!” He continued tucking in his shirt and zipped up his pants. “How nice to see you,” he said, his tone light, as if getting caught in flagrante was an everyday occurrence.
Not that it mattered; from the feel of her face, she was red enough for both of them. The air smelt faintly of gardenia and something else she would rather not think about.
“Please, come in.” He waved a hand at a couch Jemma felt sure she could still see the heat rising from.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll stan—”
A young pink-cheeked woman with masses of bouncy, strawberry-blonde curls sailed into the office, a cloud of gardenia following in her wake. She came to an abrupt stop. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t…”
“That’ll be all for now, Carly, thanks. Close the door on your way out.” Marcus walked around behind his desk, putting the expanse of polished jarrah between him and Jemma. “Business or pleasure?”
“Pardon?” she spluttered.
“I assume you’re here for a reason.”
She gripped the strap of her bag. “Business.”
“In that case, how can I help you?” He motioned to the two straight-backed visitor chairs in front of his desk.
She had intended to stay standing, but her legs weren’t as strong as her resolve. He waited until she was settled before doing the same. Even seated he looked down at her, his black leather throne raising him a good half a head above her.
“I’ve just learnt something from the lawyer looking after my sister’s estate that I didn’t know before,” she said.
Marcus’s expression didn’t change, as if he already knew what she was about to say.
�
�It appears Tanya was much more than just an employee in the business. According to the lawyer,” she said, spreading her hands wide, “my sister owns a decent chunk of all this.”
“That surprises you?”
“Well, yes. How many of your other employees are also shareholders?”
Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in his chair. “Quite a few, actually. Employees with a vested interest makes good business sense.”
“Maybe so, but a million dollars worth? That’s a hell of a lot for a lowly personal assistant. What bank did she have to rob?”
He laughed. “The shares weren’t always worth that much. Indeed, at one point, they weren’t even worth the paper they were written on.” He uncrossed his arms. “I really don’t see what your problem is. The company policy is that an employee can opt to take any bonuses payable in shares, share options, cash or a combination of any of the above. An employee leaves, I buy the shares back at market value. A win-win situation for all concerned.”
“No wonder she stayed in the same job for so long. I’d be loyal for a million dollars, too.” She did a few mental calculations. “That’s what, an annual bonus in excess of fifty-thousand dollars?”
Marcus rose and came around to the other side of the desk. She shrank back as he perched on the desk edge within body heat distance of her. “What you obviously don’t know about your sister was that she was an astute businesswoman. I didn’t give her those shares out of the goodness of my own heart. She earned them and then made them work for her.” He picked up a notepad and pen from next to the phone. “Actually, you saved me a phone call. If you could write down the name and address of your lawyer, I’ll get my lawyer to liaise with him – or her – about buying back Tanya’s shares.”
“Win-win? What if I don’t want to sell?”
“There’s a clause in the contract that says that when a person leaves the employ of Bartlett Developments, all shares owned are to be sold back to the company at market value and any share options are to be forfeited. So unless you’re looking for a job, you don’t have much choice in the matter. What is it that you do again?”
“Information systems auditor. I analyze computer systems and processes for companies, check the accuracy and validity of data and the like.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“No job openings?” she asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t the sort of businessman who would appreciate anyone with any know-how poking around in his affairs, IT or otherwise.
“Not at the moment, no, but…” He laid his hand on her shoulder at the same time as the door burst open.
Jemma leapt to her feet. A split-second later, Marcus’s wife stormed into the room, a flushed Carly on her heels.
“I tried to stop her, Mr Bartlett,” said the strawberry-blonde woman.
Mr Bartlett? Jemma clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the humph sound. She bet the nubile Carly didn’t call him that when she had him locked between her naked thighs. Or maybe she did.
Danielle Bartlett flicked the air, shooing Carly away.
“I should be going, too,” Jemma said, making a move toward the door. “We can finish discussing that matter some other time.”
Hands on hips, Danielle barred the only exit. She sniffed the air, giving Jemma a look that could kill. “The bloody sister! I knew it.”
CHAPTER 23
Jemma hung up from her boss in Perth and dialed her aunt.
“Gail, it’s me.”
“Is everything all right?”
Why did Gail always ask her that? “Just checking in with my favorite aunt.”
“You make me sound like your parole officer.”
Jemma chuckled. “Let me rephrase that. Not checking in, just calling to say hello and let you know I’ve spoken with Troy. He’s agreed to extend my leave for another month—”
Gail talked over the top of her. “Another month. But why, Jemma, love? Is there a problem with the lawyer or something?”
“Not a problem exactly.” Jemma hesitated, unsure how much she should tell Gail straight away. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Only if it means it will bring you home sooner.”
“How much money do you think Tanya left in her will?”
“Goodness,” Gail said. “I don’t know. What makes you ask?”
“What would you say if I told you your eldest niece was a millionaire?” Jemma waited for the news to sink in. “Gail?”
Silence.
An image of her aunt slumped on the floor flashed through Jemma’s mind. “Gail!”
“I’m here, love. No need to shout.”
Jemma exhaled. “Sorry, when you didn’t say anything I thought you must’ve fainted.”
“I’m made of much sterner stuff than that.”
“You don’t sound that surprised. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Not much fazes me these days. No, I was just thinking how sad it was that your sister isn’t going to be around to enjoy her money. But why do you have to stay on in Melbourne? Can’t you just sign what has to be signed and come home? I miss you, Jemma, love.”
“I miss you, too, but it’s not quite as simple as that. Tanya’s assets are tied up in employee shares, which have to be sold back to the company.”
“Surely that could be done from here. After all, isn’t that what all this new fangled technology stuff is supposed to help with?”
Jemma smiled. It had taken her long enough to convince Gail of the benefits of email and the Internet, now her aunt was turning it back on her. “It’s easier in person, she said, wandering as she talked, drawn toward the roses on the table. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. Promise.”
“Huh! Where have I heard that before?”
“I’ll call you soon, okay? Love you.” Ending the call, she regarded the vase of roses in front of her. Beautiful as they were, they had to go. No more game playing. If the anonymous someone wanted to waste his or her money, so be it.
The bouquet proved too large for the flip-lid rubbish bin in the kitchen. She ended up breaking all the stems in two, before wrapping the whole lot in wads of newspaper and plastic shopping bags. Leaving the parcel at the door for her next trip down to the rubbish skip in the basement, she went to check her emails.
Her Inbox contained nothing of any real interest. She opened a new Internet Explorer tab and gazed at the blank page. Gail wanted her home in Perth, and Jemma wanted to go home, but until she had done her utmost to uncover the truth behind Tanya’s death that couldn’t happen. She clicked the Home icon, bringing up the Google search page, and typed in “Kerry Mullins.”
She scrolled through the first hundred results, searching for anything that looked remotely like the Kerry who had been Sean’s ex. The first eight links she clicked amounted to nothing, but she struck it lucky with the ninth. Or at least she hoped it was the right one. After all, how many personal trainers in Melbourne could be named Kerry Mullins?
ShapeZone, an inner-city women only gym, employed a number of ‘qualified and experienced’ personal trainers, of which Kerry Mullins was listed as one. ‘Book now for your obligation-free health and fitness appraisal.’ Before she knew what she was doing, she had completed the online form, using her mother’s maiden name and nominating Kerry as her personal trainer of choice. She hesitated for a brief moment and then pressed the Submit button. Except for a few kilos, what did she have to lose?
Within minutes, an email arrived confirming her appointment for the next morning. It went on to advise her to restrict herself to a light breakfast and to wear comfortable, loose-fitting clothing. She screwed up her face and checked the time. If she hurried, she could make it to the shops before they shut. She hadn’t thought to pack any gym gear, not that what she owned was suitable for public exhibition, anyway.
She grabbed her keys and purse, gathered up the newspaper wrapped bundle of crushed roses, and charged out the door.
The lift doors opened to the car park
basement. She darted out, hurled her bundle at the large green rubbish skip. Not waiting to see if she had hit her mark, she raced back and pressed the lift button, hoping no one upstairs had called the lift in the seconds she had been gone.
“Damn.” She hopped from foot to foot, watching the floor number indicator light move from B to G to 1 to 2 to 3 to 4 to 5 to 6. It stopped on 6, her floor, and then started to descend again. She counted it down, one foot forward in readiness.
As the lift doors parted, she came face to face with Ethan Kelly. He flashed her a smile. “Just the person—”
Jemma jumped in the lift. “Sorry, can’t stop. I’ll—” The doors closed before she could finish.
CHAPTER 24
A sweet smell hung in the air, a melting pot of deodorizers, sweat and pheromones. Not unpleasant. The clanking and whirring sounds emanating from beyond the wall behind the reception desk, on the other hand, were more akin to torture. She still had time to change her mind.
Jemma approached the front desk with trepidation, the pouty-lipped smile of the Barbie doll waiting to greet her not helping. “Karen Wheatley,” she said, using her mother’s maiden name. “I have an appraisal booked with Kerry Mullins.”
“Welcome to ShapeZone, Karen. Kerry will be with you shortly.” She handed Jemma a clipboard, a yellow pen dangling on a chain attached to the clip. “If you could just fill out this form while you’re waiting, that would be great.”
Jemma glanced down at the form and cringed. Date of birth, occupation, medical history, next of kin… More fabrications to go along with the pseudonym she had adopted. She only hoped she would be able to remember them all and not trip herself up somewhere further down the line. She took a seat over by the door and started writing.
“Karen Wheatley?”
Jemma gave the woman peering down at her a blank look.
“Are you Karen Wheatley?”
She wasn’t off to a good start. “Sorry, yes,” she said, standing and extending her hand.
