Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep Read online

  STEP FOUR

  Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

  STEP FIVE

  Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

  ONE

  For someone who was at the bottom end of an eight-month binge, Trinnie’s place wasn’t too awful. I’d seen worse. To be honest, I’d lived in worse. Bottles and glasses everywhere, but it wasn’t rancid with filth the way a lot of dumps get. Maybe she didn’t use the kitchen as anything other than a liquid re-fueling station. The stove top was free from grease, the curtains over the sink white with yellow flowers. An empty ice tray sat on the counter, but no visible signs of any food source other than several booze bottles existed. Sunlight shone through the clear glass of one of the bottles that stood on the window sill, casting a tiny rainbow on the far wall. I was able to set my Big Book—AA’s bible for sobriety—on the table without worrying that it might sprout mold after we left.

  Beth popped open the refrigerator. “Hey, Letty, check it out.” She pointed at the bottles of wine standing alone on the top shelf. “We’ll have to get rid of these for her if she plans on going through with it.”

  I set my book down on the table, automatically straightening a chair.

  Finishing her examination of the fridge, Beth headed through the open archway into Trinnie’s living room. The closed curtains created a dark cave, so I flicked the lights on. The matching blue-and-white striped couch and loveseat were brand new, looking as out of place as a nun in a biker bar. In contrast, the cherry coffee and two side tables clashed with the golden teak tones of the couch set. Burn marks ran down the length of the outer edge of the coffee table and a side table. Trinnie had the dangerous habit of resting her cigarette on the edge of the table instead of in the overflowing ashtray. Mismatched lamps gave off a grimy light and had a low-end Goodwill store feel to them.

  An empty pizza box and several sticky glasses covered the coffee table, further indicating where Trinnie spent her time. An old-fashioned, plug-in-the-wall phone sat in the middle of the couch, next to her copy of the Big Book. The book, navy blue and steady-looking, perched sedately in the midst of the alcoholic mess.

  Beth propped hands on hips and peered down the hallway. “Must be sleeping pretty deep if she hasn’t heard us clattering around in here.” She fashioned a megaphone out of her hands and yodeled down the hall. “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home? You have company!”

  We stood a few minutes in indecision. “I’m going to start the treasure hunt in the kitchen,” Beth said. “Is it only booze I’m looking for or does she dabble in other stuff, too?”

  “Just booze, I think.” With a sigh, I headed down the hall. Trinnie slept in the back bedroom, but I paused to listen at the first. Why would anyone want to be a burglar? The adrenaline rush made my mouth taste tinny, and I had to pee like a racehorse.

  On the off chance that she’d passed out on the floor, I peeked into the bathroom. Sometimes drunks need a little siesta on the tiles. When you’re an active alcoholic, you think this is mighty clever.

  Other than the tan, seashell-dotted shower curtain, the room was a jarring Pepto-Bismol pink. She’d carried the seashell motif even further, gluing a wavy strip of wallpaper border waist high. She’d either had an inner-ear infection or was drunk when it was applied. Several threadbare towels lay piled on the floor in a damp, musty heap.

  An old-fashioned bottle of coke syrup and an economy-size bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen balanced on the rim of the sink. I’d almost forgotten that trick. Drunks will try anything to avoid a hangover; I know I did. This particular method worked fairly well if you discounted the enormous damage to your stomach lining.

  At the end of the hall, I paused again, hand hovering over the knob of Trinnie’s bedroom door. Maybe we should just leave?

  I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Blood climbed the walls like lacy red ivy, lush sprays blooming in chaotic, scattered patches. Trails climbed to the ceiling, then puddled in mirrored images on the floor. Red, the color of action, but frozen in the stillness of violent death.

  Trinnie lay sprawled across the bed, a pale island in a lake of bloody gore. Naked, torn, emptied. Her eyes, pale blue and blank, rested lightly on my face as though mildly surprised at my entrance.

  My eyes, fleeing that unwavering, relentless gaze, kept tracking the horror. Kept recording the details. A butcher knife lay casually among a jumble of wine glasses. A crucifix hung on the wall dripping unsanctified blood.

  Back to Trinnie. My horrified brain struggled to both process and reject the carnage before me. Failing to do either, it locked up.

  Which is why I barely registered the shadowy form rushing from the dark closet behind me. It grabbed me, one hand twisting in my hair, the other around my throat. Terror sizzled through my body. We lurched sideways, banging into Trinnie’s dresser, knocking over several wine glasses. They made an absurdly delicate tinkling sound as they toppled over. Then, the thing flung me forward. The thought of landing in the middle of that blood swamp finally broke through my stuttering brain. Almost mercifully, my temple struck the bedpost. I blacked out.

  TWO

  Beth’s pale face loomed above me, her hands clawing frantically at my shirt-front. She hauled me to my feet, and we stumbled out, away from that room and its contents. She had me by the arm, gripping hard, and we pulled each other down the hall to the living room. I gulped down sobs, shudders racking my body, and blood oozing from my forehead. Trinnie’s or mine? I raised a hand, felt a gash where my head had smacked into the bed post. My legs gave out, and I sank down on the couch. Beth snatched up the phone, dialing 9-1-1.

  She screamed out something to the dispatcher, then hung up.

  I pointed to the bedroom. “There… There’s… “

  “He’s gone,” Beth said. “I think.”

  Our eyes met. Grabbing my book, I ran for the back door, Beth at my side.

  Our footsteps clattered out-of-control down the stairs, and we skittered around the corner of the house to the driveway. As we passed her car, I flung my things into the front seat. Beth crossed to the front and stood leaning against the fender, holding her arms tight against her chest. I went to her, and we stood holding each other until the lights from the first police car turned our bare legs blue, then red, then blue again.

  Two hours later, I perched in the back of an ambulance still waiting permission to go home. Mosquitoes swarmed the blood on my face, behaving like nature’s version of telemarketers: brazen, bloodthirsty, relentless. Between the bugs and the nauseating stench of roses from the landlady’s nearby garden, I felt faint, but refused to admit I’d been too hasty when I refused to go to the hospital.

  They separated Beth and me almost immediately. An officer asked basic who-are-you, why-are-you-here questions and then turned me over the EMT’s while they continued questioning Beth.

  Watching the action from my solitary perch gave a unique perspective. I forced myself to concentrate. I didn’t like what I was seeing and hearing.

  A subterraneous shift in attitude had undergone many of the cops upon learning we were here because Trinnie was trying to get sober. Even worse, I overheard one of the cops say that she had the reputation for selling herself for a cheap buzz. Nobody stopped working, but a collective sigh swept through the ranks, leaving behind a thick sense of disappointment. Faces settled into been-there-done-that masks.

  Trinnie had called me because she was ready to change. Problem was, unless I confessed my own sordid past, I wasn’t going to come across as anything other than a naive do-gooder. Sitting amid the cloying reek of roses, I felt overwhelmed by how badly I h
ated what was happening to Trinnie, even in death. She’d lost the chance to rise above the illness we shared, and was being judged—and condemned—when she couldn’t defend herself. Most of all, I hated the reminder of my own shameful choices in life. Looking into a mirror of what could have been, I asked myself why it had been her and not me? Recognizing survivor guilt didn’t make it go away. Twelve Step calls often started out feeling like this, but they weren’t supposed to end like this.

  Alcohol—cunning, baffling, and powerful—had won.

  The sound of feet clumping down the stairs made me jump. A detective stood on the stair landing, crooking his finger at me, “come.” More questions. I heaved a sigh, rising slowly. Shock had sapped my energy.

  As I joined the detective in the front seat of his car, anxiety roiled through my gut. I wished I could ask for my friend, Detective Blodgett, but Del had retired months ago and set off cross-country with his wife Diana. My other cop buddy, Pete Durrant, was a fellow AA member and a good guy, but he and Sue were off romancing somewhere. After a childhood indoctrination in anti-police mentality, Blodgett and Pete, were the only cops I’d been able to trust. Ever. I took a deep breath, and vowed to stay open-minded.

  Unfortunately, glancing at his name tag triggered the hysteria I’d been squelching. Belch? Catching my glance, he flushed deep red. Not a great beginning, I thought. I rubbed the bandage on my head. Maybe he’d attribute my idiocy to head trauma. Deciding it might be beneficial to find some common ground after openly mocking the man’s name, I asked, “Do you know Del Blodgett? He’s retired now, but—”

  He grimaced. “This should only take a few minutes, ma’am.”

  “I don’t mind, Detective,” I lied, irritated at his interruption. Did he have something against Blodgett? And what’s with the ma’am? I was only thirty-two.

  “First off, let’s get your full name… “

  “Violet Whittaker.” I rattled off the address to my apartment, too. “I met Del last year. I think he’s in Arizona now, visiting their grandkids, but he was a huge help to—”

  “Stay focused, ma’am. Start from the beginning.”

  Well, all right, then. I’d call Del tonight to find out what he thought of this guy. For now, Belch’s narrow window of likability slid closed.

  He had me go over—step by step and back again—the attack and what I’d seen. His “method” consisted of asking the same questions seven different ways in random order. I understood he was checking for inconsistencies, but it’s not possible to deviate too much from “I didn’t see anybody.”

  Eventually, he shifted his focus to Trinnie, but I wasn’t much help there, either.

  “How long have you known the victim, ma’am?”

  “A little more than a year. Last night was the first I’d heard from her in at least eight months.”

  “She have any special reason to contact you, ma’am?”

  I sighed. “I already told you. She wanted help getting sober.” I hesitated a moment, then offered up a half-truth. “I’m a therapist.” Not my fault if he assumed too much.

  “Were you her therapist, ma’am?”

  “My client list is confidential, Detective.”

  Belch mirrored my weariness. “All right, ma’am. Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you know if anyone was angry with her? Unless it’s some nut job, this kind of rage usually means a relationship with the victim.”

  “I wish I could help. Like I said, I don’t know what was going on with her lately. From the little I do know, I can’t imagine anyone that angry. Not killing angry and certainly not—” I felt lightheaded “—what was done to her.” I swallowed down bile.

  Belch folded up his notebook, and sat looking at me like I was a science project. “What led you to come visit today? Seems like quite a coincidence, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know why it should,” I said. I sounded patient but only because of my experience dealing with children. Nobody can beat a young kid for repetition, although Detective Belch seemed determined to try.

  “Our friendship ended when she started drinking again. She knew I didn’t… approve. So when she was ready to quit, she called me. She mentioned phoning other people too. You should check on them.” Hint, hint, hint.

  He listened with faux-politeness. “What do you know about her prostitution behaviors, Ms. Whittaker?”

  Despite myself, I stiffened. “Nothing. The first I’d heard about that was today from you guys. I don’t even know if it’s true or not.”

  “Oh, it’s true, all right. She was pulled in last week. What I need to know is if I should start looking for a jealous boyfriend? Anybody been bothering her lately? Following her? She mention being afraid of someone? Anything like that?”

  “I wish I knew, Detective Belch. I didn’t know about the soliciting and I don’t know if she was seeing anyone. She wasn’t when I last saw her, and she didn’t mention being afraid of anyone last night. She’s been married at least once that I know of, years ago. I never even knew his real name. She called him Angel.”

  “So Angel’s not his real name?”

  “It could be, I guess. But maybe not. Trinnie’s always made up nicknames for people.” I waited for the next question, but Belch let the silence build, probably trying to goad me into speech. Didn’t bother me. I could give lessons in remaining silent. And I’d already told him everything I knew. Well, everything that I could.

  After several minutes dragged past, he shook his head in irritation. I’d had enough, too.

  “Is there anything else I can do to help? I’m tired. I want to go home.”

  “Hadn’t noticed you were much help to begin with,” Belch’s thin veneer of courtesy finally slipped. “If you want to fill me in on the coincidence of showing up here on the day of her murder, call me. Here’s my card. I’ll be following up with you in a few days.”

  Oh, joy.

  THREE

  The compulsion to hide from life was almost overwhelming; only the fear of succumbing to that force propelled me out of bed the next morning. Siggy, my recently adopted kitty, was more than happy to claim my warm spot in bed. I debated calling Blodgett; I’d been too tired last night. Instead, making quick work of make-up and hair, I dressed, fed Siggy, and shot out the door. The thought of food repugnant, I grabbed a bottle of water on the way out.

  If I could get to the Club in the next fifteen minutes, I’d be able to make the 9:00 a.m. Big Book meeting—not my favorite, but it would do for now. Beth had agreed to meet me at 10:00. As I pulled into the parking lot, I scanned the lawn area where the picnic tables and benches were set up in a little park. No sign of her, but it was early yet. Grabbing my book, I hurried inside.

  The comforting funk of the club hit me as I soon as I walked through the front door. If someone had told me that musty cigarette smoke and coffee vapors would ever smell like home, I’d have thought them crazy. The HP & Me Club was a two-story house that had been renovated for public use many years ago. Like most not-for-profits, regular intervention from a “Higher Power” was necessary to keep the doors open. And, apparently, HP was on a budget. A long counter bisected the main room, looking surprisingly like a bar. It even had a footrest on the bottom, so members could really belly up. At this time of the day, the chances of fresher coffee were fair-to-middlin,’, so I grabbed my cup from its hook on the wall.

  Like most recovery houses, the furniture looked like—and was—leftovers from various failed rummage sales. Faded bed sheets draped the couches; a scent of detergent-over-dust rising from their depths. Occasional burns marked where cigarettes held in shaking hands had charred through to the threadbare upholstery below. After a lengthy battle, the club had gone non-smoking almost a year ago, helping me in my own struggle to quit, but no one had bothered to buy new sheets. Or wash the old ones.

  The 9:00 Big Book meeting was home to several of flamboyant, grizzled retirees. These gentlemen, part of the core group who’d resisted the policy changes, weren’t up on the �
�new” ideas about sexual harassment, either.

  Various geriatric versions of catcalls greeted me as I stood in the doorway of the meeting room. I zeroed in on the source of the raunchiest: Harry. That figured. I’d known Harry since the first day I’d stumbled through the front doors. For reasons known only to him—but which probably had to do with my boobs—he’d graciously subdued his piggish tendencies that night in order to welcome and get me settled. Never happened again, but I still loved him to death.

  Making a face, I suggested he attempt an anatomically impossible act on himself. He laughed good-naturedly.

  Sitting, I placed my book in front of me on the worn banquet table. Around me, the guys chattered about some lawn mower repair crisis, so I zoned out using the few minutes before the meeting to settle in. At 9:01, one of the regulars reached for the laminated copies of the AA readings that typically start a meeting out: The Traditions, The Promises, The Twelve Steps. After badgering several people into “volunteering,” he opened the meeting in the traditional manner.

  “Hello. My name is Joey, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  The guy stuck holding the Traditions read aloud in a halting voice, and I reached for my Big Book. The Traditions bore me.

  I flipped open the cover and, suddenly, a shudder rippled through me. What the hell? This was not my book. Like most, after a period of time in the program, my Big Book had become another appendage. Part doodle pad, part address book, part lifeline—its inner cover was graffitied with names, phone numbers, and email addresses; sections highlighted and pages stuffed with scraps of paper; pamphlets and notes from working with Sue, my sponsor, or study groups stuck between random pages. The results created an intensely personal talisman, which is why I’d instinctively grabbed it when Beth and I bolted through the apartment yesterday. At least, I thought I had. What I’d actually done was grab Trinnie’s book.

  My stomach lurched as the realization sank in that I held one of the most personal links to Trinnie that existed and, equally appalling, some cop was probably, right at this minute, perusing my book.