Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep

by Donna White Glaser

“I know. You told me. I already called the station and asked around.”

  “Did you talk to Belch?”

  I heard a sound halfway between a snort and a hurrumph. “Your little friend is in a boatload of trouble.”

  “He didn’t do it, Del. I know he didn’t.”

  “You don’t know. You hope. They got his fingerprints all over the place, and a witnessed argument between him and the deceased the day before.”

  “So? They probably have my fingerprints all over, too. I was there.”

  “I heard.”

  “Were any of his prints in the… um…”

  “Blood? No. Not on the knife, either, but I hear Belch’s pretty satisfied with his catch. And he’s not one to let go once he gets his teeth in. Not even if he’s dead wrong.”

  I could feel my heart sink with every nail being pounded into Paul’s skin.

  “And your friend isn’t helping himself, either,” Blodgett went on. “He starts out all friendly and helpful, just falling all over himself with information. Talked so much he talked himself right into an arrest.”

  “They actually arrested him?” My voice quavered.

  “Relax. Arrested doesn’t mean charged, and charged doesn’t mean convicted. They’ll take him up to be charged tomorrow, probably. Has he got a lawyer?”

  “I think so. I mean, I think he’s getting one. I’ll make sure…” The thought of Paul all alone in a jail cell momentarily closed my throat down. “Del, he has to be so scared. Can you do anything?

  He avoided my question.“You’re right; he is scared. They got him on suicide watch, and that doesn’t look good for him, either. Letty, you might have to, uh, prepare yourself. Everything I heard points to he did it. Belch’s a jackass, but he’s usually right.”

  “Paul’s not a killer, Del. You’ve met him. He’s a… helper. He helps people.”

  “Well, looks like he’s the one needs help now.”

  And it was up to me to make sure he got it.

  I called Beth as soon as I possibly could the next morning and filled her in on Blodgett’s phone call.

  “Suicide watch?” Beth repeated. “That poor kid. Do you think he really would?”

  “I think it’s… possible.” Very possible. I pushed that thought away. “Del says Belch is convinced Paul’s the killer, and he’s not likely to look any further than that. And Paul… Paul doesn’t know how to protect himself. Not from Belch. Not from anyone. He can’t go to prison, Beth. He just—”

  I swallowed the lump that clogged my throat, then went on. “Could you do me a favor and check with Chad on the lawyer?”

  “Sure thing, doll. And look, if Chad hasn’t come up with anyone, I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m not sure what Paul can afford—”

  “Can it. It’ll be handled.”

  I smiled into the phone. The only thing bigger than Beth’s bank account was her heart. Lucky Paul. And lucky me.

  After agreeing to meet up at Taz later, we hung up.

  Realizing we had no clue about the schedule for Trinnie’s funeral service, I grabbed the stack of newspapers piled on my desk from the last few days, then brewed a pot of coffee, and settled in on my couch. Siggy claimed my lap, forcing me to hold the newspaper at arm’s length, because he hated the paper touching any part of him. Every time it did, he’d ruffle his fur haughtily, and swipe at it with a chocolate-brown paw.

  Eventually, I found a one-column article in the Saturday Metro section. Not much there I didn’t already know. Today’s paper, Sunday, listed Trinnie’s obituary with the dates and times of the service. It was being put off until Wednesday evening. I wondered if the delay was due to investigatory reasons, such as autopsy results, or because of some family complication.

  I wanted—needed—to pay my respects, and it would also be a prime opportunity to meet Trinnie’s family, especially Kitty and her son, Bruce. Trinnie had been fond of an aunt, too, but her name escaped me.

  While I pondered, lack of sleep caught up with me and drowsiness jumped me from behind, dragging me into a sweaty romp through a dream-state House of Horrors. Unable to wake, I thrashed through fragmented memories of Trinnie, Paul, and for some reason, my sister Kris.

  I woke two hours later, lethargic, my brain thick and sluggish. The nap had been a huge mistake. Ma always told me if I was going to rest, I should only sleep for twenty minutes or so. I never listened. Curling up on the couch in the middle of the day is too much of a treat to parcel out in twenty minute increments.

  I hauled myself off the couch, dragging myself into the shower where I shampooed, soaped, rinsed, and dried until I felt human again. A glass of skim milk and an English muffin with lots of butter and strawberry jelly completed the restoration process. I considered trying to decipher the dream, but beyond cringing at the Freudian cliches, decided if my brain was trying to communicate with me it would need to spell it out in neon letters. I don’t do self-therapy.

  Still unsettled, I decided I needed an evening meeting before resuming Beth and Letty’s Big Adventure. The irony of taking in a meeting before heading out to a bar did not escape me. Hopping into my car, I made it to the club with barely a minute to spare. Unfortunately, the meeting felt flat, un-stimulating—likely a result of my lingering bad mood. Still, maybe it would help lay another brick in the foundation of my sobriety. Bricks are good. Just ask Little Pig Number Three.

  THIRTEEN

  By 6:45 that evening, I was pulling into the parking lot across from the Taz Bar. I was early so I spent the time trying to get my restlessness under control. The last thing I wanted to do is walk into a bar with an attitude.

  Beth pulled in next to me. “Well, are you ready for Round Two?” she asked, as she sauntered up to me.

  “Ding.”

  “What the hell was that?”

  “That’s the bell for Round Two,” I said patiently. “Duh.”

  “You’ve worked with children for too long, dear. See if you can raise it up a notch.”

  “Speaking of children, check out the logo.” I pointed to the five-foot high mural painted on the front of the bar. It featured the cartoon character as drawn by a five-year-old who may possibly have suffered a stroke.

  “That’s got to be a copyright violation, don’t you think?” Beth responded. “Do they really think Disney wants one of their characters splayed across some dump like this?”

  “Not Disney, Looney Tunes.”

  Beth snorted. “Whatever. It’s just so tacky.”

  “Probably someone’s kid sister who’s ‘got a future’ in art. I see it all the time in therapy, although often it’s sports. You know, a father pushing his kid into football, because Dad always wanted to be quarterback. The mom who traipses little Suzy down the pageant runway, because Mom was teased all through high school and has esteem issues.”

  “You can catch all that off one drawing?”

  “More than you know.”

  “Right. Okay, then, if we’re not going to call the Disney-police, let’s mosey on in.”

  “Mosey? You’re kidding, right?”

  We squabbled our way across the street and all the way in. Our relationship reminded me of the tart bantering affection that I used to have with Kris. I’d been missing her a lot lately, and I forced myself to set aside the welling sadness. I had to be in top form if I was going to keep bopping in and out of bars.

  The same architectural plan as Bruisers, as most bars really, had been used for the Taz Bar. Laid out in a straight rectangle, the bar running the length of the space. Here, unfortunately the bathrooms branched off the main room, creating a potential for some nasty aromas to float around your beer and pretzels. Video games, dart boards, and a juke box lined the walls and corners.

  Surprising to me, Taz was quite a bit seedier than Bruisers.

  “What a dump!” Beth quoted, wafting her hand around languishingly, as if holding a burning cigarette. She did a pretty mean Bette Davis imitation.

  “Let’s hope it’s no
t a ‘bumpy night,’ too.” I replied. “Not a lot of people yet.”

  Beth scanned the joint. “Nope. But it’s early and a Sunday, always a slow night. People gotta look respectable for work on Monday.”

  “True. Well, it gives us a chance to catch the bartender anyway. How about you do that?” I pulled Trinnie’s list out of my purse, scanning it. “Ask about Endora, especially. She’s the one Trinnie said got her kicked out of “T’s”. Maybe look around for Big Dude. I’m glad I brought the list or I wouldn’t have been able to remember all of them.”

  “Hard, isn’t it? So many names with no way to picture them except as caricatures, like some big giant guy or whatever.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “Don’t forget the love life. That’s a pretty good line to follow. Lots of potential for anger there. Let’s see, there’s Lover Boy of course, and Saint Bitch, the married couple, right?”

  “Right. And her other boyfriends, husbands, whatever—Angel, Mick, Foxy, and Studly.”

  “Studly-Do-Right! I’d almost forgotten that,” Beth snorted. “OK. Let’s see what we can find out.

  “I’m going to talk to that group by the TV. There’s no game on so it should be a good time to get their attention.”

  “Good luck.” Beth made her way to the end of the bar where the server hunch-backed over the low metal sink, lethargically washing up glasses.

  The trio by the TV all looked to be in their mid to late thirties or so. Dirty jeans, work boots with a light dusting of sawdust over head and shoulders proclaimed their profession dealt with manual labor. Two were sharply fit, blond studs like the sweaty dude on the Pepsi commercial. The glances they tossed at me as I came up said they knew it.

  I elected to address the third of the group, a pudgy guy with a couple fingers missing, and found out I was talking to Stan, lead foreman of first shift at the quarry. He, in turn, introduced the other two guys: Tyler and Bill. Mucho manly. Their blatant vanity was annoying but, for all I knew they might be exactly the kind of guy Trinnie would get tangled up with. What did I know? Most alcoholic women hook up with guys who make them miserable. A built-in excuse to get drunk.

  One of them, Tyler, wore a slim gold wedding band. Lover Boy? Bill made a point to smile and run his eyes over my figure before pushing out the stool next to him. Who could refuse such a gracious invitation?

  Faint surprise flickered over their faces when I asked about Trinnie. Although each recognized her picture, they claimed they didn’t know her well. Not surprising—the news of her murder had spread.

  Stan confirmed that Trinnie had gotten kicked out of Taz several months ago. “Before the holidays,” he said. “November, maybe? She and this other chick got in some big argument.”

  He and Bill laughed.

  “Over what?” I asked.

  The three exchanged sly glances. “Dora was sleepin’ with Leo, the owner here,” Stan said. “She and that Trinnie chick got to arguin’ over somethin’—who knows what—and Trinnie starts all this ‘I’m gonna tell Leo’s wife’ drama.” Stan snorted.

  Tyler said, “Not smart, ‘cause next thing you know little Trinnie’s out the door. Leo’s not going to let someone run around bad-mouthing him.”

  “Dora wasn’t sleeping with Leo?”

  “Hell, yeah, she was,” Tyler said. “But that’s no one’s business but Leo’s.”

  “And his wife’s,” I couldn’t resist adding.

  Tyler shrugged, smirking.

  Bill, finally figuring out the discussion wasn’t ever going to center on his favorite subject—himself—had grown bored with the conversation. Turning away, he alternated between staring into the mirror behind the bar and scanning for more likely prospects. Tyler, more married and appparently more desperate, hung in a bit longer. His answers were coy, mocking, as if he believed my questions were only a ruse to engage him in conversation. His expression, an irritating mixture of amusement and condescension, started to irk me. Only Stan seemed willing to take my questions at face value. By the time I finally thanked them for their time, Tyler looked pissed.

  As I turned to move back to my place at the bar, he shook his head in disbelief. I wondered what life was like for his wife. I’d bet that, once upon a time, she thought she was the luckiest girl on earth. Of course, he’d agree.

  Beth remained deep in conversation at the other end of the bar with the scrungy bartender. I didn’t interrupt. Moments later, Beth headed back. I hoped she’d been able to nail down a few more facts than I had.

  “So, what did you learn?” I asked.

  “The owner is a pig.”

  “Granted.”

  “The bartender told me he’s had to run interference with the wife. Oh, and I checked to see if maybe Trinnie had been fooling around with the owner. What’s his name?”

  “Leo,” I inserted.

  “That’s it. But, anyway, he said no. Trinnie wasn’t the boss’s type, which happens to be big-haired and busty.”

  “So, you don’t think Leo could be Lover Boy?”

  “Any thing’s possible, but I doubt it. However, the bartender, Jerry, may have taken her home for the midnight ride. If so, he’s not saying. But he blushed once or twice when I was asking him about Trinnie’s love life, and he doesn’t strike me as the blushing type.”

  “Maybe you reminded him of his mother.”

  “Bite me.”

  Before I could toss back a decent comeback, a distinctive voice rumbled behind me. “Ladies, such language. I’m shocked.”

  FOURTEEN

  I spun around. What was he doing here?

  From across the room, Jerry called, “Snake!” Grinning over his shoulder at my confusion, Eli walked over to Jerry where much manly backslapping and complicated handshaking gestures commenced.

  “Did you tell him to meet us?” Beth asked.

  “No. He must have found out we’d be here from Reggie.”

  “Reggie knew we were coming tonight?” Beth looked as skeptical as I felt.

  “Not exactly, but she knew I was asking which bars Trinnie frequented. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out. What I don’t know is why he’s here.”

  Beth snorted. “Well, that’s not too hard to figure out.”

  I tried to stop watching him but, against my will, my eyes kept sliding over to watch him talking, laughing, moving. Of course, he glanced over, and caught me mooning at him like a freakin’ adolescent. Eventually, he made his way back over to our seats, taking the stool next to mine. Jerry wandered over, bringing a cup of coffee.

  “Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean you can’t,” I said. “I’m in the middle of a bar. I don’t expect people not to drink around me.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker anyway. Besides, I’ve got a test early tomorrow.”

  “If it’s a school night, why are you out to begin with?”

  “Does it bother you?” He side-stepped the question. He’d make a good lawyer with that.

  I pondered his question, wondering how candid to be. Oh, to hell with it.

  “How did you know we’d be here?” I asked.

  His eyebrows rose. “Maybe I didn’t.”

  I gave him a look, which only made him smile.

  “Okay, Reggie did tell me you were asking about this place,” he relented. “I figured if you were so gung-ho that you’d risk pissing Beth off to come to Bruisers, this would be your next stop. Listen, I’ll stay in the background, but I plan on keeping tabs on you. On both of you.”

  “What if I don’t want you to stay?”

  He shrugged, looking sheepish. “I’m not going to interfere with whatever it is you’re doing. I brought my books. I’m going to sit over in that corner and study. It’s as quiet in here tonight as it would be at the library.” He gave a little smile, then moved to the booth he’d indicated.

  Apparently, I’d acquired a guardian angel. Juggling equal parts suspicion, reassurance, and lust made me queasy. After ordering a Sprite, I did my best to ignore him.

&nbs
p; Beth and I took turns talking with the few patrons. Around 11:30, a former AA member walked in. It took me a minute to dredge up his name. Scooter. He’d obviously been drinking long before he rolled into Taz. Tacking his way to a seat like a wandering sailboat, he anchored his dinghy to the stool, and docked.

  It was truly unsettling to watch him lift a foamy mug of beer to his lips, swallow and sigh. I remembered holding hands with him during the group’s recitation of the Serenity Prayer. What really hurt was when his bleary eyes turned and settled on me. The look that flash-flooded his face was a churning mix of guilt, shame, fear, anger. Anger won.

  “What the hell are you looking at, bitch?”

  Heads snapped around to look, then all motion stopped as if a pause button had been pushed.

  Scooter locked eyes with me, teeth bared in a growl. If I wasn’t so afraid he was going to rip out my throat with his teeth, I would have giggled at the over-the-top theatrics. Drunks are unpredictable, though, and he wasn’t acting.

  Two things happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Eli rising to his feet. At the same time, Beth threw her head back, letting fly with a raucous burst of laughter. She stepped between Scooter and me.

  “What are we looking at?” she said. “Just one drunk looking at another drunk, Scooter. No harm in that, right? How the hell have you been?”

  For a moment the tension intensified, as Scooter’s booze-sodden brain processed her flippant remark. Then he laughed, and the air surged with moist carbon dioxide as everyone exhaled in unison.

  Beth tossed me an eye-rolling glance, then claimed the stool next to Scooter. She pulled Trinnie’s picture out of her purse, ready to pump him for whatever information he could come up with.

  My stomach hurt and a wave of exhaustion made my muscles ache. I went over and sat down next to Eli. Not even across the table from him. Just smack damn, thigh-to-thigh next to him. My action surprised the hell out of both of us.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I am now.” His eyes deepened into mine. Not only did he have the whole amber-glint thing going, but to-die-for thick, black lashes fringed them.

  “Why do guys always get the good eyelashes?” The flash of whatever it was that had driven me to his side deserted, leaving a heart thudding nervousness and a peevish tone. He gave his trademark slow smile, which did not help. “I’m serious. Women spend thousands of dollars in their lifetimes just to come close to what you Neanderthal men take for granted.”