Whittaker 03.5 If Nothing Changes Read online

  IF NOTHING CHANGES

  I’m ashamed to say that the first thing I thought when I found Jillian lying on the storage room floor was, “Who left that here?” The splayed figure looked like a prop for the ongoing Halloween party, not a dead girl.

  She lay on her back in a froth of white petticoats, her blond hair curled in tight ringlets, one hand tucked awkwardly underneath her body. The other arm lay on her stomach, palm up, red smearing the tips. A thin, engorged purple band ringed her neck - not a scarf or necklace - but the indication of how she’d died. Strangled, if my TV/thriller novel education was worth anything.

  I screamed just like in the movies, except that nobody came running because nobody could hear me over the band, Dry and Dirty. I screamed again with the same results, thus proving that A.A.‘s slogan “nothing changes if nothing changes” is as true with dead bodies as with addictive behaviours.

  I was either going to have to wait for the band to break or leave Jillian alone on the floor, but I felt as though someone had Gorilla-glued my feet to the sticky linoleum. Dressed up as Little Bo Peep for the costume contest, Jillian exuded a vulnerability made infinitely worse by the fact that nothing would ever hurt her again. I just couldn’t leave her.

  In the distance, the band thumped at a decibel level dangerous to human hearing. Conversations thrummed in a beehive hum. People laughed.

  I stood trapped in a bubble of secret knowledge. Unable to grasp that Jillian lay dead beneath the dusty shelves of generic toilet bowl cleaner and rug deodorizers and a half-used case of industrial strength paper towels. And only I knew it.

  Nobody was coming. I backed out into the hall and gave screaming another try. This time, it worked.

  For the next few days, the HP & Me members buzzed with speculation. Despite naming the club for our Higher Power, we all turned into amateur detectives, none willing to leave the job to HP or the real professionals, either. Drunks have trust issues. Besides, most were pissed that the cops forcibly relocated us to a local church basement while they “worked the scene.” Drunks also have logic issues, apparently. I needed to talk to Sue, my sponsor. I needed to talk out what it meant to find a dead woman on the floor, but every time I went to the club the gossips swarmed over me, flitting like ill-mannered gnats in my face. Although nobody would admit it, the excitement of murder close at hand - of somebody else’s, that is - was a rush. We take our highs however we can get them.

  Nearly a week passed before Sue and I could get together. I suggested we meet at a coffee shop so we wouldn’t be bothered; Sue suggested we slap the shit out of anyone who tried to bother us.

  I deferred to violence. We met at the club.

  Sue peeked inside an adjacent room that club members used for sponsor meetings and playing cards. Mostly cards, since a group of longtime buddies - nearly all of them veterans of distant war, men used to facing violence and death and chaos - had claimed squatters’ rights to the small room. It stank of cigarettes, old guys, and past conflicts. Sue had the room cleared in under thirty seconds, although not without a steady barrage of cussing and vile threats. The guys cussed back, which just encouraged her more.

  In the wake of battle, peace reigned over the stinky room.

  “So, how’re you doing, Letty?” Now that we were alone, Sue morphed back into a reasonable woman.

  “I’m doin’,” I replied. “How about you? You were Jillian’s sponsor, too. This has to be hard.”

  She nodded, looking away. “It is. She was doing well. She would’ve made it, I think. I know you’re not supposed to say that, but … She was working the program, doing service work, she’d even just taken over the treasurer spot for the Sunday night group. I know you can’t say this for sure about anyone, but I felt like she was going to make it.”

  I knew better than to offer a stupid platitude like, “Well, at least she died sober.” It was a good thing, of course, that she’d died sober, but mostly as reassurance for those of us still trying to find the silver lining in sobriety. At least no one’s last memory of her would be face down in the gutter with a mouthful of her own puke. There, but for the grace of God, go I.

  “Have the police been by?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I talked to them. You?”

  “They took a statement from me that night.”

  “I bet they loved your costume,” Sue smirked.

  I gave her the evil eye. Apparently, my Wonder Woman costume had been quite a hit, both before and after my gruesome discovery. There’d been more than a few jokes about using the Lasso of Truth, and I was pretty sure the cops hadn’t meant on criminals. Even while I was being questioned, I’d heard some joker in the background, humming something about all the world waiting for me.

  Time to change the subject. “What did they ask you?”

  “If she was seeing anyone, if she had any enemies, if she was in trouble with anyone. The usual.”

  Sue watched the same crime shows I did, and we traded Jonathan Kellerman and Kathy Reichs novels back and forth like … well … addicts.

  “Was she?” I asked. “Seeing someone, I mean?”

  “She’d been with Jay N. for the last four months. They seemed to be getting along just fine. She even got him to wear some hokey animal costume, which, if she hadn’t been murdered, would have made him the laughingstock of the club for the next year. Now that I think about it, making a guy wear that costume is a pretty good motive for murder.”

  I dimly recalled seeing somebody dressed up as a fluffy white cotton ball wandering around the dance floor. The fact that there was a brass sheep bell hanging around his neck made a tad more sense now. Sue was right. No man should ever be dressed up as a fluffy lamb.

  “She must have traded some pretty hefty sexual favours for that getup,” Sue mused.

  “Or maybe he’s in love?”

  Sue made a face. She didn’t believe in warm-and-fuzzy motivations. “Well, there’s always her ex-boyfriend,” she added. “Quinn. You know him, right? That Johnny Depp clone?”

  “Everybody knows Quinn. Do you know he showed up at the Halloween party as Jack Sparrow?” At Sue’s look of confusion, I added, “The character Depp played in Pirates of the Caribbean? Anyway, he spent the whole night swaggering around, waving a cutlass in everyone’s face, acting dashing. He’s so arrogant.”

  “He didn’t ask you to dance, huh?”

  “Oh, shut up. How long did he and Jillian date?”

  “Just long enough for her to figure out he was screwing two other women. About a month and a half. She caught him schnogging one of them in her apartment. I guess he didn’t want the chick to know where he lived. Or maybe he got a thrill out of doin’ it in another woman’s bed. Who knows? And, you know, the guy still acted surprised when she dumped him.”

  “I-can’t-believe-you-won’t-give-me-another-chance surprised or I’m-going-to-kill-you-dead surprised?”

  “I’d say the former, except Jillian’s stuck in a coffin at Becks Funeral Home.”

  “You think he did it?”

  Sue gave me a “duh” look that she must have seen a gazillion times when she taught middle school. It didn’t look any better on her grizzled face than it would on a sulky teen.

  “Anybody else?” I asked.

  “You mean, who else should we put on the suspect list, Nancy Drew?” Her frown served to remind me of the times I’d been caught up in unexpected and highly dangerous situations. None of them my fault, I might add.

  “Look, I’m just trying to make sense of this. It’s not like I found her on purpose.”

  “What were you doing in the supply closet, anyway?”

  “Looking for toilet paper.”

  “Would’
ve been better if you’d just drip-dried. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  “I’ve got higher standards now that I’m sober. Anyway, whoever killed Jillian must be one of us. Nobody except A.A. folks can come to the dance.”

  “A.A. people and their families,” Sue said.

  “Was Jillian’s family here?”

  “Not hers. But Quinn’s wife was.”

  Sue waited while I picked my jaw up off the table. “He’s married? How did I not know that? What was he doing dating Jillian?”

  “They’re in one of those ‘open’ marriages, although from what I understand, he’s the only one with the key to the door. I don’t think Nan’s ever hooked up with anyone else. Not that I’ve heard, anyway.”

  “Jillian wasn’t still seeing Quinn, was she? I mean, if his wife was going to kill her wouldn’t she have done that during the affair? Why wait four months?”

  “With Quinn, I wouldn’t rule anything out. He likes to play ‘doctors without borders,’ if you know what I mean. Jillian dating some other guy wouldn’t stop Quinn from making a play any more than his being married has. In fact, I could see her becoming more of a challenge for him.”

  “Why would his wife put up with that?” There were so many people at the club that it was conceivable I might recognize Nan without knowing she was Quinn’s wife. Especially since I hadn’t known he was married to begin with. Sue, having been in recovery far longer than me, had a better understanding of who belonged with whom in the club. “Do I know her?”

  “Probably not,” she said. “Unless you’ve been going to Al-Anon. Nan’s a regular there. She’s great at giving advice, but not so good at listening.” Sue gave me one of those “significant” sponsor glares, which was supposed to help me recognize one of my own character defects.

  “So, was she at the dance?” I persisted.

  Sue scowled. “I have no idea. I mean, I can recognize her if she comes to the club, but in a costume? No way.”

  I kept my eyebrows raised in expectation. She sighed.

  “Okay, I’ll ask around at the next Al-Anon meeting, but Letty, I’m not kidding. You be careful.”

  Well, duh. Of course, I’d be careful.

  * * *

  Jay N. was easy to track down. For one thing, everyone was talking about him. For another, he was the only male weeping openly in the lobby. And the meeting room. And in every connecting hallway and adjacent side room. Word had it that he only left the club to go to work, which was sporadic.

  As a therapist, I’m used to men who cry, but in Northwestern Wisconsin, I was in the minority by a wide, wide margin. Occasionally we get a drunk guy who stumbles in to the club bawling at the thought that sobriety might require actually giving up booze. That was easier to overlook. We’d all wrestled with that conundrum as we teetered on the cusp of making a change.

  Sponsors are usually okay with crying, too. Tears get shed when we look at our past, our mistakes, our willful wronging of others. That’s not uncommon in private meetings, or even in our home groups. Even strong men break down then.

  But in the lobby? Whoa.

  A six-foot radius existed around Jay, as men and women alike gave him a wide berth. He sat on the same couch every day, crying and picking absently at the threads on the armrest. Every now and then, when he’d used up all the tissues, some Good Samaritan would toss him a fresh box. I surprised him by plopping down beside him, immediately wishing someone had tossed him some deodorant. The hammer-blow-to-the-nose B.O. smell proved that the few occasions he’d left the club hadn’t included a trip home to shower.

  He recognized me. Grabbing my hand (which would have been fine if not for the soggy tissue squishing between our palms) he said, “You found her, didn’t you? My Jillian? You’re the one who found her.”

  “Yes, I did. I’m so sorry for y - “

  “I don’t know if I can deal with this. I feel like I’m going crazy. I know I’m freaking people out, but I’m afraid to leave the club. It’s my sanctuary. All I can do is sit here and cry.”

  Warning bells. “Afraid?”

  He waved a hand, wafting the odorous cloud around us. “That’s not important. I just can’t believe she’s gone. Jillian was - “

  “Jay, are you thinking of hurting yourself?” I had to be direct. Even if he wasn’t a client, if he was suicidal, I was obligated, morally, if not legally, to take action.

  “No, absolutely not.” He looked downright appalled at the thought. In fact, the question had shocked him so much, he stopped crying.

  I believed him. Nevertheless, I’d feel better if he had a support system. Something more than hanging out in the lobby of A.A.

  “Do you have someone to talk to? Family or - “

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand how this happened. I just don’t.”

  “There’s no easy answer, Jay.” I reclaimed my hand, surreptitiously wiping it on my jeans. Then I settled back to listen.

  Like many in the first throes of grief, Jay’s mind kept trying to escape to the past. He’d begin telling about their first date - Red Lobster and a movie - and his body would let go of the pain, physically relaxing into the memory. He’d float there, happy and in love, for a few heartbeats until the truth leaked back around the edges of his denial. Then he’d cry some more.

  Despite my initial suspicion of the person nearest and dearest to the murder victim, I couldn’t see this soggy mess doing anything as definitive as killing a woman in a janitor’s closet. Still, they’d only been dating a few months. Part of me felt that his show of grief was out of proportion, excessive even. Or was I, despite my training, just reacting to the violation of the “don’t cry, don’t feel” man-code of the Midwest?

  After fifty minutes - the usual therapeutic hour, I belatedly realized - I broke in with some questions. Sue mentioned that Jillian had recently taken over as treasurer for Sunday’s meeting. If the motive wasn’t jealousy, maybe it was money - although I couldn’t see anyone killing Jillian for the eighteen bucks a week that the Sunday evening meeting probably brought in.

  But you never know.

  When I learned who Jillian had replaced, my heart skipped a beat. I knew Roger. And not a skankier, slimier individual than he had ever existed.

  Roger had been in and out of A.A., which wasn’t that unusual. “Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly,” as we say about our progress. But Roger was the type of in-again, out-again drunk that wore the grease right off the club’s door hinges. My real issue with him was his habit of staring raptly at whatever female breast was in visual range. He claimed it was an OCD tic that required he count in multiples of two. It helped a little after Sue smacked him upside the head with her Big Book - twice, in case he wanted to count - but he was back at it again in less than a week. Even in July, baggy sweatshirts became popular during Roger’s “in” periods.

  After I left Jay, I hunted Sue down to see if she wanted to come with me to the Sunday night meeting. If Roger was a regular, I didn’t want to talk to him alone. If Sue were with me he’d still stare at my chest, but he’d flinch a lot.

  She wasn’t available, so I asked Rhonda, our Wednesday night group’s resident man-hater. Rhonda liked to carry an industrial-sized can of homemade “Slap My Ass And Call Me Sally” pepper spray in a sling that she’d hand-crocheted with flamingo pink yarn. She also wore a 32-AA bra, was sensitive about it, and was equally as likely to blast Roger with a shot of pepper for not looking as much as for looking.

  Put a man in a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t face-off with Rhonda, the Mad Pepper Sprayer, and he’d talk. Unfortunately for me, by the time Sunday night rolled around, Roger was having an “out” moment, and nobody knew which bar he favored. Rhonda had been primed for battle, and it was all I could do to keep her from bar-hopping on a Roger hunt.

  Besides, I wanted to stay for the meeting. Jillian’s recently vacated treasurer position was still open. I volunteered.

  ‘Cause I’m helpful that w
ay.

  Recovery clubs like to Keep It Simple (Stupid). Bookkeeping was no exception, which was a blessing for me since I can’t add beyond ten without using toes. That’s why I went into psychology. In therapy, other than OCD issues, counting doesn’t matter; it’s how someone feels about counting that pays the bills. But this was a relatively simple audit. The abrupt rise in reported collections when Jillian took over didn’t prove that Roger had been pilfering money from the basket, but he wasn’t around to ask.

  Neither was Jillian.

  I wanted to talk to Jay about whether Jillian had said anything about the discrepancy in collections, but he’d finally managed to haul himself off the club’s couch. Hopes were high that he would meet up with soap and water in the very near future. Lots of soap.

  After checking with Sue, who knew nothing about the collections issue, I decided to temporarily shelve that line and see if I could track down Quinn. Wasn’t hard. Like many of us, he had established a routine for himself, certain meetings he liked to attend, times that worked better for him than others. Tuesday night was one of his regular meetings, explaining why I didn’t run across him as much as I might have liked - before learning about the wife and harem he juggled, that is.

  Still, he was easy on the eyes and, despite my mind being clear on his despicableness, my body got distracted by his sheer hotness. The dimples didn’t help. Nor did the dark, long-lashed eyes that looked like they’d been waiting years just for the chance to smile into my own. Dimples and sexy, twinkly eyes should be restricted by law to those with honorable intentions. Along with slightly calloused, but not-so-rough-that-they-would-hurt manly hands.

  See what I was dealing with?

  As a car mechanic for a local Ford dealership, he was also counted among the highly prized employed males - a not always common trait in our recovery circles, one becoming even more endangered in the fragile, shifting economy. Word had it that he’d been laid off in mid-October, but no one I’d talked to knew for sure.

  It wasn’t hard to arrange a conversation on Tuesday night. Quinn adored being sought out and liked to reward that behavior with his attention. The difficulty lay in getting rid of the pesky women who swarmed to his side after the meeting, vying for dimple-time.