Whittaker 03.5 If Nothing Changes Read online

  “Do you want to go get some coffee?” I finally asked after we’d been interrupted for the third time.

  He smiled, slowly, like “coffee” was code for “sweaty, hot monkey sex.” Making matters worse, I blushed, which only widened his grin. His teeth, of course, were pearly white. One front tooth - slightly crooked - proved that nature, not orthodontics, was responsible for their near perfection. Nature had done Quinn right.

  I drove myself, not wanting to add to his ego or to the rumors that would surely be flying at our pairing off and leaving together right after the meeting. Besides, if he was a killer, I should probably have my own ride.

  He’d already claimed a booth, sitting slouched at an angle with his back against the corner, so he could watch for me. Despite remaining seated as I neared the table, I felt the full brunt of his attention. Quinn’s eyes drank a woman in, sexy as hell but appreciative, too, which took the creep-factor out. He wasn’t a gentleman, but that only made the thought of bedding him more exciting.

  I needed a drink of water. And a reminder of his marital status. “How come you don’t wear a wedding ring?” I blurted.

  His left eyebrow raised in that classic, Clark Gable-amused expression. “I used to, but I can’t wear it at work, and I kept losing it. Besides, rings don’t cover everything.”

  “Meaning?” I knew what he meant, but I had the feeling his “rings” statement was a repeated favorite. I wanted to see what he would do if it was challenged.

  For a brief flash, his face leached of emotion, as though someone had pulled a switch. A blink later, he straightened up, facing me squarely and folding his hands together in front of him. The abrupt mood shift unsettled me. His sudden movement placed us closer than social norms usually dictate. I struggled to not pull back.

  The waitress - Angelique, if her nametag could be believed - arrived to take our order. Coffee and cherry pie for Quinn. I dittoed the order. Despite our brevity, the young waitress seemed loath to leave. Practically panting, she locked eyes on Quinn, willing him to look as she leaned over to cleavage her way into his attention. Unlike her peers, whose uniforms were generic, pink sacks, she’d altered hers to tourniquet-grade tightness with a hem so short I was certain we’d see Buns For Sale embroidered on her undies when she turned around. How he resisted, I couldn’t imagine.

  He didn’t take the jail-bait. In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice. He kept his focus steadily on me, his gaze never leaving my face. It should have been flattering, except his interest was empty. I realized suddenly that Quinn was on auto-flirt. Angelique finally gave up and flounced away.

  “I’m glad you suggested this,” Quinn said. “It makes me wonder why we haven’t done this sooner.”

  “Hmm … Well, I can think of a couple of reasons.”

  “Oh, really? What are those?”

  “Your wife, for one.”

  He nodded, pulling back. “Nan. Of course. You don’t have to worry about that.” His tone was assured, but his eyes flicked away from mine, sweeping the restaurant, and his forehead creased briefly.

  Another strange reaction. His glib response told me he’d answered that query enough times for it to be routine, but the eyes and that fleeting expression implied something different. I pushed the point. “Really? I would think a wife would be a huge obstacle.”

  “You said a couple reasons,” he replied. “What are the others?”

  “I don’t like to share, and I knew you and Jillian were an item.”

  That caught him off guard. His defenses dropped again, bleak despair flooding his face. Angelique chose that moment to drop off our order, making a production of setting paper napkin-wrapped silverware and a creamer in front of Quinn. I had to reach for mine. She fussed so much, I was concerned she would try to feed him. She pulled a red-and-white can out of her apron pocket.

  “Whip cream?” she asked, in an applying-to-be-a-phone-sex-girl voice.

  Oh, please. “Could you excuse us?”

  She glanced my way, confused. Obviously, her brain synapses must not be geared for female voices.

  “You need to leave. We’re talking.”

  That she understood, and we were treated to more flouncing. Quinn smiled this time, as though used to women fighting over him, but that also seemed automated. He feigned interest in the pie, staring down at his plate like he could read the future in the red cherry blobs and flaky crust. Or maybe it was the past that held his attention. I couldn’t think of a graceful way to reintroduce Jillian to our conversation, so I settled for crude. “You and Jillian?”

  “What’s your interest in Jillian?” Quinn asked, his voice flat. “You know she’s dead, right?”

  “I found her,” I said.

  That made him look up.“That was you?” he said.

  When I nodded, he sighed, pushing his plate to the side. “What do you want?”

  “To know what happened.” I left the statement purposely vague.

  “We fell in love,” he said. Then, he left.

  * * *

  Having the woman you are cheating on your wife with find you in bed with a third woman is fairly newsworthy. Certainly in the A.A. community it was. I turned up the other other-woman’s name relatively quickly. We met at a local coffee shop, the 4:30 AM Coffee House. Weird name, great coffee. Thank god, we didn’t have to be there at that time.

  At first glance, Shayla didn’t look like a mistress. Not at second glance, either. She was my height, 5‘7,” with carrot-red hair, a gap between her front teeth she could spit a watermelon seed through, and had what my non-PC mother called “good breeder” hips. When she came back to the table with her order, she had an extra cinnamon roll that she gave me, and I immediately upgraded my assessment of her alluring qualities. I can be bought.

  She also had no hesitancy discussing her relationship with Quinn. According to her, they’d been involved, off and on, more than six years.

  “I know, I know,” she said, raising her hand to forestall my comment, even though, I hadn’t planned on saying anything; my mouth was crammed to capacity with cinnamon-y goodness. “‘He’s married.’ ‘He’s never gonna leave her.’ ‘God is going to strike me dead for fornicating with a married man.’ Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all.

  “And sometimes,” she continued, “I listened. I started feeling guilty. Let me tell you, guilty sex only works when you’re a teenager. But eventually I’d run into Quinn at the club or wherever and end up back in bed.” Shayla shrugged. “What the heck? I like Quinn, and it’s not like any other guys are hanging around, you know?”

  “Maybe they would if they didn’t have to compete with Quinn.”

  “Humph. Maybe. But let’s face it, I don’t want to hook up with a drinker, and the guys in A.A. aren’t the most dependable, anyway. There’s not a lot to choose from.”

  I could have argued the point - there were plenty of guys in and out of A.A. who were decent dating material - but she was going to do what she was going to do. Besides, I wasn’t the Morals Police.

  “Did Quinn ever suggest he’d leave his wife?”

  She gave me an arch look, as though trying to decide if I was being snarky.

  “This is about Jillian,” I reminded her. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened between her and Quinn.”

  “Isn’t that the cops’ job?” Without waiting - which was good, because I didn’t have an answer - she said, “He never said he’d leave Nan. Not to me, anyway. Just the opposite, in fact. But Jillian?” She shook head. “I think he got in over his head there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Quinn never lied about what he had to offer. It was never some big, romantic thing, and I always knew he was seeing other women. It was just … sex. Really, really good sex, I might add. When he’s with you, it’s like he’s studying for a test and your pleasure is his A-plus. The man is seriously skilled.”

  I took a quick swallow of coffee, burning through four layers of taste buds.

  “But I t
hink Jillian was different,” Shayla continued.

  “How so?”

  “For one thing, he cut it off with me. He’d never done that before. It’s always the woman who breaks it off with him, not vice versa. I’ve talked with a lot of his girlfriends or exes or whatever you want to call them, and they all say the same thing: he didn’t break up with them. Why would he?”

  I could think of bunches of reasons, but I kept them to myself. “You said he broke up with you, but didn’t you two get, um, caught?” In Jillian’s bed, my mind added.

  “Yeah, we did. He broke up with me after, when he was trying to get Jillian back. And that was unusual, too. He never pursues any girl if she leaves. I mean, besides just flirting, you know? Once you broke it off with him, he let it go. If you came back, fine. If not, there was always someone willing to jump in bed with him. But he really tried with Jillian. He wanted her back bad.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, fascinated.

  Shayla snorted. “He came and talked to me about her. Can you believe it? I wanted to smack him, but … I don’t know. He looked too pitiful. I actually felt sorry for him. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “That last time? Even before Jillian walked in on us, he was having trouble.” She waggled her eyebrows at me to indicate the exact nature of Quinn’s sexual difficulty. “At first, he told me he didn’t want to, but I was, like, ‘Come on. One last time?’ It wasn’t a good idea, though. His heart just wasn’t in it, and I guess that ruined it for Mr. Winky, too.”

  I coughed. Mr. Winky? “Why Jillian’s bed? Wasn’t that just a setup for getting caught?”

  “Yeah, well, my place was getting fumigated, and obviously we couldn’t go to Quinn’s. I didn’t want to waste the money on a hotel, which, considering Mr. Winky’s performance, was a good thing.”

  “What about Nan in all this? She has to know he’s cheating on her, especially if he’s dating women from the club.”

  “I’m sure she does, deep down,” Shayla said. “But they’ve got the four kids, and she had Quinn coming home every night. I guess she was willing to look the other way.”

  I’d seen it too many times in counseling to be surprised. For whatever reason, some spouses made that trade-off. Maybe for the kids, maybe for the money or status, if those were part of the equation, but mostly, I thought, because they just didn’t trust that they would survive the pain that facing reality would bring. As past president of the Avoid Reality At All Costs club, I couldn’t judge.

  “Do you know if she came to the Halloween dance?”

  “I know she didn’t. Quinn wouldn’t have danced with Jillian if Nan was there. He’s got some discretion, after all.”

  Debatable. “If Jillian danced with him, could that mean she was taking him back?”

  “I’m sure she would’ve wanted to teach him a lesson, but there isn’t a woman alive who could resist Quinn if he really put his mind to it.” She sighed.

  “Do you think…”

  Shayla waited.

  “What would Nan do if he asked for a divorce?”

  * * *

  “I’d kill him, too.”

  I wasn’t sure if Sue was kidding. We sat in the HP & Me club’s lobby, waiting for the Tuesday night Al-Anon meeting to end. I’d tried to get there before it started to see if Nan showed up, but I got stuck at work. A lot of folks milled around, most of them waiting to file into the main hall for the open speaker meeting that started soon. I could barely hear Sue, who sat across the table.

  Jay, still mourning, sat entrenched in his spot in the corner. He’d been there so long and so often, a Jay-hole eroded the seat in the already used-and-abused couch, making Jay sink deeper and deeper into the threadbare cushions.

  He didn’t look good. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his hair flopped dull and stringy in his face. His body odor had developed layers and nuances that made my eyes sting. I was surprised no one had intervened with him before now, and I felt guilty.

  “Doesn’t he have a sponsor?” I whispered to Sue.

  “He fired his sponsor two days ago. People are starting to get worried, but no one knows what to do. It’s awkward, but we can’t kick him out and wouldn’t want to, anyway. Seems to me, this situation is more in your line of work, isn’t it?” She gave me a severe, do-something look.

  “I’ll give it a shot, but I want to talk to Nan first.” I doubted the chat with Jay would be a short one, and I didn’t want to risk missing Quinn’s wife.

  “You haven’t talked to her yet?”

  “No. I would have, but I didn’t see what Nan’s motive would be if Jillian had already broken up with Quinn. What would be the point?”

  “Maybe she didn’t know about them until the Shayla-Quinn episode? Everyone in the club was talking about that when it happened. No matter how self-deluded Nan would want to be even she couldn’t have avoided hearing about them.

  “But then why not kill Shayla? She was the one found with Quinn, not Jillian. And Jillian broke up with him. Besides, the Halloween party was months after Shayla and Quinn were discovered. Why wait?”

  “Opportunity?” Sue conjectured.

  In the corner, Jay put his head down and started crying. We were far enough away that I didn’t think he could have overheard our low conversation, but maybe he’d guessed. Or maybe he could read lips. Or maybe it was just his time to cry.

  I promised myself a visit with him as soon as I finished with Nan. I didn’t know if he’d be willing to talk to me, especially after I brought up hospitalization, which I planned on. It looked like a psych ward stay might be advisable. Someone had to bring it up and, like Sue said, it was in my line.

  Even though the last time we’d talked he’d said he was afraid to leave the club, I’d believed him when he’d denied wanting to hurt himself. He’d been too adamant, too appalled at the notion. Of course, he could have been a great actor. Alcoholics are known for that skill. But despite his wretchedness, my gut had told me he wasn’t contemplating suicide.

  But why “afraid,” then? He’d used that word. If he wasn’t afraid of hurting himself, what - or who - did he fear? Did he know something more about Jillian’s murder than he’d let on? Was he trying to stay in public among witnesses? That hadn’t worked for Jillian, although considering the supply closet a public area was debatable.

  Jay had said something else, too, when he’d talked about being afraid to leave. He’d referred to the club as a sanctuary. A strange choice of words. I should have asked him about it, but I’d been so focused on the potential for self-harm I’d missed the chance.

  Sanctuary …

  Rhonda pushed through the club’s double doors, catching sight of Sue and me. She didn’t smile, but her face registered two degrees less hostile, so I knew she was glad to see us. She got a cup of coffee and came over.

  “Hey, Letty, remember when you were asking about Roger?”

  I’d given up on that line, especially since no one I’d asked had seen him around for several weeks. No one had remembered him the night of the Halloween party, either.

  “He’s in jail,” Rhonda said. “For beating up his landlord. Guy showed up to get the rent, and Roger was drunk. The neighbor lady heard the commotion and ran out and hit Rog over the head with her nine-iron. Gave him a concussion, too. Do you think it’s too late for me to learn golf?”

  The room started clearing as the open speaker meeting began. Jay stayed put, his head buried in his hands. It sounded like he’d stopped crying, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “You guys going to the meeting?” Rhonda said.

  “Not tonight,” I said. “I’m waiting for the Al-Anon meeting to end so I can talk to Nan.”

  “Good luck. She hasn’t been around. I heard from a friend of her sponsor that she’s not doing very well and that she’s saying she won’t come back. She’s too embarrassed. Someone said she’s even kicking Lover Boy out.”

  My eyes met Sue’s. “So, she did find out about Quinn and J
illian then.”

  “That, and the cops have been talking to her,” Rhonda added.

  “They think she killed Jillian?” Sue asked.

  “I heard she was following Jillian around after the whole Shayla thing. Showing up here about five minutes after Jillian came in and stuff like that. She couldn’t exactly follow her into the meetings, the A.A. ones, I mean, but she waited out here for Jillian to come back out.”

  I turned back to Sue. “See? She’s angry at Jillian, not Shayla. How does that make sense?”

  “Jillian was a threat,” Sue said. “She could ignore Shayla like all the others.”

  “Was Nan at the dance?” I said to Rhonda. I couldn’t put aside the notion that Nan could have been in costume. If Sue hadn’t already told me that it had been Jay dressed up as a sheep, I wouldn’t have recognized him in that get up. I hadn’t even recognized Jillian when I’d found her lying there on the floor. Of course, her face was distorted and that thin, purple line circling her neck had been a tad distracting.

  I frowned. Something about that purple band … and costumes … But Rhonda was going on and I had to pay attention.

  “My friend said Nan’s sponsor said she wasn’t at the dance. She’s got an alibi, I guess, which is why they haven’t arrested her. Yet.”

  “What’s her alibi?” Sue asked.

  “How should I know? I mind my own business.” Rhonda rose to refresh her coffee, and I watched Sue struggle with the urge to attack.

  I grabbed her arm. “Don’t do it. Besides, it’s her second cup. She’ll probably get heartburn. Coffee that bad should be a crime.”

  Thinking about crime, both big and small, brought me full circle to the nagging thought that Rhonda’s arrival had interrupted. “Sue, what does ‘sanctuary’ mean?”

  “Refuge. Asylum. Why?”

  “But wasn’t it for fugitives from the law? Like, they could run into the temple - the sanctuary - and be protected from the authorities?” Most of my knowledge about sanctuary came from an old James Michener novel, but while I was sure he researched the hell out of his subjects, I wasn’t on firm ground. Sue was a teacher. She’d know.