Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep

by Donna White Glaser

  “But would you kill over it? Next up is Ms. K, whoever that is, and her comment is Told Kitty, after she said she wouldn’t. Ms. K, huh? What did she tell Kitty, and when?”

  “She’s sounding like a kid again. Would you have said that Trinnie acted immaturely? Some of these comments sound exactly like my step-kids when they were younger.”

  “Drinking arrests emotional growth and she started when she was a teen. She often came across as immature. But maybe this is referring to something that actually did happen when she was a kid. I think you’re right about the phraseology. It does sound adolescent. ‘Ms. K?’ That sounds like an authority figure, doesn’t it? Add that to the part about telling Kitty. Maybe Trinnie confided something to a teacher or guidance counselor, and they reported it to her mom.”

  “What about confidentiality?” Beth asked.

  “Teachers and counselors, including therapists, are mandated reporters. We have to report abuse. Usually that’s to social services, so maybe this wasn’t about abuse.”

  “Or maybe the teacher didn’t want to bring social services in. Just because you follow the rules doesn’t mean everyone does. It would have had to be pretty serious for a teacher to break a promise. And don’t forget you said Trinnie’s folks had money.”

  “Big Mouth,” I said.

  “I resent that very much.”

  “That’s the next name, Big Mouth, and it says: Should have MYOB.”

  “MYOB? Mind your own business? Who says that anymore? I haven’t heard that since in high school.”

  “Yeesh,” I said, smiling. “Cut her some slack. Maybe she was just abbreviating.”

  Beth’s face paled. I reached over and took her hand. It felt cold. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” Beth snorted. “I’m sitting here criticizing a murder victim. I mean, how callous is that? The poor girl is lying in the morgue with lab guys poking at her guts, and I’m sitting here calling her immature. What the hell is wrong with me?”

  “Look, we’re both guilty of making light of the situation. I did it just a few minutes ago. It’s human nature, a way of coping with the horror. That’s one reason why we have funerals and such. Some of the rowdiest parties I’ve been to were wakes. There’s even some study that reports an increase in sexual activity after the funeral. People don’t mean any disrespect by that behavior. It’s just their way of pushing back death, of holding on to life.”

  We sat silent for a minute or so. The rooms outside seemed quieter, too. Between meeting times the club often emptied out.

  Time to push on; I picked up the list. Beth sat up straighter, running her fingers through her hair. “Last one,” I said. “Then, we’ll let it go for a while, all right? So, let’s see, Endora. ‘Got me in trouble at T’s. Witch got me kicked out. Big, fat liar.’”

  “I wonder if Endora is her real name. It sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Where have I heard that before?”

  “Remember that 60s TV show?” I said. “The mother-in-law witch? It sounds like a nickname to me.”

  “Makes sense. If she got kicked out, it should make it easier. People would gossip about that.”

  “True,” I said, sticking the list in my back pocket. “Well, that’s all of them.”

  Beth gave me attitude with her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

  I sighed. “Okay, already. Paul. Technically, he’s on the list, too.”

  “How well do you think he knew her?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought he knew her at all, besides from here, I mean. They got sober around the same time. Paul a little before her, maybe by a week or two. I never saw them hanging out or anything.”

  “No, but if she hung around you and so did he…” She trailed off without stating the obvious.

  “I’ll ask him about it,” I promised.

  FIVE

  I‘d been forced to leave a message for Blodgett, but Paul agreed to meet me at the club later that evening. I felt bad. He sounded so jazzed at my call that I didn’t have the heart to ask him about Trinnie over the phone.

  I needed to see his face when I asked.

  When I arrived at the club, Beth was already there. She waved hello, but was deep in conversation with a guy whose coffee cup jittered so badly it endangered everyone in his general vicinity. From the looks of it, he or someone close to him would soon need the burn balm we kept in the club’s First Aid kit.

  I made my way over to the bar to get my own cup, nudging past several friends, saying hello to folks as I went. The donation jar—a seven-year old, rusty coffee can—sat out on the counter. My tetanus vaccinations were current, so I plunked in several coins to help subsidize the coffee fund and slowly scanned the room. No Paul. However, I heard Trinnie’s name cropping up in several conversations nearby. No surprise there.

  The gossip and the politics that went on were some of the biggest drawbacks to this kind of community gathering. If the benefits didn’t vastly outweighed the negatives, I’d have tried to find another way to stay sober. As a way of finding out about Trinnie’s recent lifestyle, however, it couldn’t be more helpful. At least Beth and I wouldn’t stand out as we asked about Trinnie.

  Results varied. Most of the members had gotten their information from a mixed bag of sources, including the TV news, friends, friends of friends, and what sounded like just plain made-up bullshit. Typical.

  I’d brought a photo to jog memories, but the TV bulletins had already done the job. In the picture, she and I posed on a half-wall made of rocks and concrete at the park. It was the club’s Summertime Romp picnic and volleyball tournament. The picture caught me stupid, eyes shut and mouth wide open. Trinnie, on the other hand, looked pretty good. She’d donned a pink jumpsuit that brought color to her face. At the time of the picture, she’d been sober just long enough to get some flesh back on her face, clearing the bags under her eyes. Sunlight danced in golden streaks off her blond hair, so different from my own. She looked fresh and full of fun. Full of life. I’d forgotten how pretty she was in a delicate, faded kind of way. She reminded me of someone. Uneasy, I stuck the picture in my back pocket.

  As the meeting time neared, people trickled into the hall. Paul still hadn’t arrived. As Beth and I moved against the tide to couches lining the side of the room, I checked my phone. He hadn’t called, either.

  Once the lobby had cleared, Beth spoke up. “A couple people are saying suicide.”

  Right. Having landed face first in the gory evidence of Trinnie’s murder, I dismissed that scenario.

  Beth continued, “There’s a lot of talk about her involvement with married men.”

  “I heard that, too, and it matches what we know from her Fourth Step. Or, at least, one married man, anyway.”

  “I’m hearing that it was more than an isolated case, but who’s to say? Let’s keep an open mind. Did anyone mention names?” Beth asked.

  “Nope. No one knew any specifics, which is why I’m not convinced it was a recurrent thing. But I agree we should keep checking. How about the lesbian thing? Did you hear any of that?”

  “Not a word. Are people saying that, too? Her Fourth Step didn’t include any women she might have been romantic with, did it?”

  “No,” I said, “but there’s a chance we just assumed. I don’t remember any suggestion of that from talking with her, though, so I doubt it,” I said. “What’s more likely is it’s just wishful fantasizing by a bunch of guys.”

  “Pigs. We’ll keep an open mind on that, too. Anything else?”

  “One girl thinks there’s a serial killer who is targeting women in recovery. I pointed out that it takes more than one killing to make it a serial, and no other recovery woman has been killed. In fact, Trinnie wasn’t even in recovery. She just got real owl-y looking, said ‘not yet,’ and then slinked away.”

  “Was that Cheri?” Beth asked. “Stubby, little blonde with nine earrings running up her ear lobes? She’s just looking for an excuse to get drunk. Why can’t she just pick a fight with her bo
yfriend like everyone else? Instead, she’s got to create some kind of late-night TV show plot. Next, it’ll be aliens in UFOs doing invasive procedures up her orifices.”

  “Which she’d probably enjoy.”

  People do strange things to put a little pizzazz in their lives. On the other hand, Cheri wasn’t the one hunting down a murderer. My gut churned.

  And Paul still hadn’t shown up.

  “So,” I finally said. “Is anyone saying anything about Paul?”

  She shook her head.

  “He said he’d be here,” I felt stupid stating the obvious. I’d already told her I planned to talk to him tonight.

  She took a deep breath, but before she could speak the big double doors pushed open.

  Unfortunately, not Paul. But not a bad substitute. His sponsor, Chad, made for our couch. He dragged a chair over. He didn’t look happy.

  “Paul’s in jail, Letty.” His eyes searched mine. I didn’t say anything. “He called me to find out if I know a lawyer. He told me to tell you, too.”

  Couldn’t talk.

  Beth said, “They think he killed Trinnie? Really?”

  “I think it’s just questioning right now. He said they haven’t officially charged him, but they read him his rights and they’re asking all kinds of questions, which really freaked him out. They took his clothes, too. I guess they’re holding him while they figure things out. And I gotta tell you, Letty, it’s not good. He and Trinnie—”

  “They were, what… dating?” I finally found my voice.

  “He says no,” Chad said. “But he gave her rides, made sure she was eating. Things like that. They were friends or something. Or at least he was her friend. I never heard of her doing anything but being on the taking end of that deal.”

  “He never mentioned her,” I said. “I never even knew that he…”

  “He never said exactly why,” Chad continued, “but he sure was hell-bent on getting her back into AA. At first, I figured he had a crush on her but he kept saying it wasn’t like that. I never could figure it out. And I couldn’t get him to let it go, either. Whatever the reason, he was determined.”

  A blush warmed my neck and cheeks.

  “What?” Beth asked in response.

  “I was the one who wanted Trinnie back,” I mumbled. “Maybe… I wonder if he was doing it for me?”

  “Huh,” Chad grunted. He sat back in the chair, a look of understanding dawning as he parsed my answer. “That makes sense. He’d do anything for you, Letty.”

  Uncomfortable, I steered us back to the issue. “But why would the cops think he had anything to do with it? That’s crazy.”

  “Not really. I guess they had a big blowout fight that morning before Trinnie was killed. Landlady heard it. And I’m pretty sure I know what it was about, so I hope like hell I don’t get called in as a witness. I don’t think sponsors can claim confidentiality.”

  “I heard there was some case in Michigan where the courts said we can. But what were they arguing about?” Beth said.

  “Trinnie stole his credit card. Ran the dang thing up to eleven grand in just the last two weeks. I guess he hardly ever uses the thing, pays it off every month like a good boy, never knew it was missing til he got a call from the company.”

  I cleared my throat. “Why did he assume it was Trinnie?”

  “I guess she bought some furniture. Something he’d seen last time he was over there. I can’t believe she’d be so stupid, letting him in to see everything. She had to know he’d figure it out.”

  “Maybe she didn’t think he’d do anything. He’s kind of…” My voice trailed off. Weak was the word that popped to mind, but it seemed cruel.

  Chad shook his head. “He told the credit company he’d check into it. He wasn’t ready to report it stolen. I don’t know what he was thinking. It’s not like she had any way of paying him back.”

  “She might have,” I said. “She comes from money. Maybe she’s got a trust fund or Paul thought she could get a loan from her family.”

  Beth’s face crinkled in thought. “Does that work for him or against? Not reporting it stolen might mean he was giving her a break. On the other hand…”

  “Maybe he planned to take care of the problem himself,” Chad finished. Catching sight of my face, he hastened to add, “That’s what the cops might think. I know Paul would never hurt a fly. He’s the most nonviolent guy I know. He doesn’t even use live bait when he fishes.”

  I had another question. “Can you find out from Paul where Trinnie was hanging out? What bar, I mean.”

  “I don’t have to ask. Bruisers. Trinnie called Paul from there plenty of times to get a ride home. And he went, every time.” More head shaking.

  I’d heard of Bruisers, although I hadn’t ever been there. I’d been in some pretty skanky bars in my time but Bruisers was a pit stop that ranked just above drinking out of a paper bag in the back alley with the rats. Which is not to say that Bruisers didn’t have rats.

  Identifying the bar Trinnie frequented disturbed me for other reasons. As the first crumb in the trail of her past, it meant going there ourselves. Maybe even tonight, since it was only a little after nine o’clock. Any alcoholic with the sense God gave a goat would be nervous. Each time I exposed myself to alcohol, the odds that I might drink went up. Common sense. Like we say in AA: if you don’t want to get your haircut, stay out of the barbershop. Corny, but accurate.

  After Chad left, Beth and I laid out some ground rules. First of all, neither of us would ever go into a bar alone. Buddy system all the way.

  Secondly, if either of us needed a break, no questions asked. We also agreed that we shouldn’t talk about our plans to anyone else, except our sponsors. This created another knot in my stomach, because my sponsor, Sue, would likely beat me with my own Big Book once she had an inkling of our plans. Luckily she was off on a romantic jaunt with her on-again, off-again boyfriend. Hopefully, sex would put her in a better mood if she heard about this when she got back.

  Meetings were out, too. Regardless of the ideal of “what’s said here, stays here,” the morally self-righteous would harangue us for entering drinking establishments, while the merely curious would increase our vulnerability by telling everyone, including their mother’s second cousin, what we were up to. Definitely something to be avoided.

  We sat there for a while longer trying to think of more rules, which neither of us really wanted. At the end of a long day even my procrastination skills had dwindled.

  An all-too-scant fifteen minutes later, I sat next to Beth as she carefully navigated her Mustang across the rutted parking lot behind Bruisers.

  SIX

  We sat in the car for a few minutes, garnering our strength or girding our loins. Stalling. I practiced deep breathing exercises, but only succeeded in fogging up the windows. Now, whoever passed by would figure Beth and I were making out. Good move.

  I forced myself out of the car, leaving Beth no choice but to follow. I heard her muttering behind my back, but ignored it. Three overhead lights in the lot were busted, but a nearly full moon helped guide us across the blacktop. I picked my way gingerly towards the front of the place trying to avoid the vile-smelling dumpster and whatever lurked underneath it. Beth caught up with me as I came even with a dilapidated panel van.

  “Don’t serial killers drive that kind of van?” I fretted.

  “Shut up. I’m nervous enough already. I can’t believe after nearly eight years of sobriety, I’m voluntarily walking into a bar. Especially this kind of bar. Even when I was a full-blown lush, I never went to this kind of dive,”

  “A drunk’s got to have standards, right, Beth? I can see you in a chi-chi bar with wine tasting events, lots of ferns, and a water fountain tinkling in the background. Am I right?”

  I caught Cheshire-cat gleams of enamel in the moonlight as Beth flashed a grin. “You laugh, but you’re not far wrong. I never could stand fountains, though. They always make me want to pee. So, are you telling me this is yo
ur kind of hang out? You strike me as a neighborhood sports bar girl: jean jackets, chilled beer mugs, a ball game on the TV in the corner, looking for a change from your buttoned-down therapist role.”

  We had reached the corner of the building several minutes ago and were carrying on our mutual character analysis on the sidewalk next to a telephone pole studded with chewed gum wads. Might have been kind of interesting to see how long we could procrastinate in front of the bar, but the dark street was giving me the willies. Signs flashing neon beer ads graced the bar windows, and a battered cardboard sign hanging on the door said OPEN. Treating this last as a command, I reached for the handle and pulled. Nothing. The sign lied. A tide of relief washed over me until Beth heaved a theatrical sigh, pushed the door, and walked through.

  The familiar sound of chimes announced our arrival. I used to love the tiny “welcome” from their little bell voices. Now I imagined a set like those hanging over the gates of my personal Hell.

  The bar was like a million other bars: one long room crammed with the usual pin-ball machines, dart boards and juke box and a pint-sized back room, with the back area cramped tightly around a lone pool table. Four people sat scattered randomly along the bar rail.

  The usual beer posters with busty bimbos falling out of their lederhosen plastered the walls. After all, everyone knows girls like a nice beer with our boobies thrust out over the Alps. Made me want to yodel just thinking about it.

  A four-by-four foot bulletin board also hung on the side wall. Lots of caught-in-the-pose photos of regulars had been skewered to the cork with silver thumb tacks. I went over to search the board for pictures of Trinnie. The photos appeared to have been taken at Easter or maybe a baby shower—lots of pastel colored decorations and ribbons and people eating white cake. Who would have a baby shower in this dump?

  Looking around, I realized for a dump, the place was surprisingly clean. The smell giving me a knot in my stomach wasn’t puke or urine—the typical eau-de-dive—but just the usual beer smell. There wasn’t even a cigarette funk.