“Uh huh. That still leaves the danger aspect, and I like that even less.”
“See, there you go again, straight back to the point. But it’s like I told Beth, this is all dangerous. That guy got a good look at me when he knocked me out. And he knows someone else was in the house who may also have seen him. Neither of us is safe. We could be sitting in this bar right now with the killer. He could recognize us, and we wouldn’t even know it.”
“That’s why it would be better for you two to stick together.”
“I can’t tote a chaperone along on a… uh, to supper with this guy. It would spoil the mood.”
“What mood? I thought this wasn’t a date?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t know that. I’m Mata Hari, remember?”
“That part sounds like fun. Tell me more.” He moved in and started to nuzzle my neck at the spot just beyond where my hair usually fell. I’d put it in an upsweep to try to beat the heat and Eli was taking advantage of it. And I? I was letting him. The realization of how long it had been since I’d made out in a bar made me giggle. That, and it tickled.
Of course, all hell broke loose.
Pissed off women. Shrieks, rising over the cigarette smog and George Strait’s ‘Drinkin’ Man,’ pierced my eardrums like lasers. I couldn’t see anything, but the commotion came from the end of the bar where Beth had drifted.
I had a bad feeling.
Eli slid out of the booth, with me close behind. Sure enough, Beth stood in the middle of the fray, although for once she wasn’t the main attraction. To tell the truth, she looked more like a diminutive referee caught between two busty brawlers. My bet was one of the ladies was Endora.
The fighting styles of men and women are inherently different. Women use words to cut into their opponents and, therefore, run into less interference from authorities. Not to mention the fellas hope to see two females rip each other’s clothes off in a sweat glistening, booby-bouncing wrestling match. For several long minutes, Beth and I tried to separate the battling women, to no avail. Besides, only Beth knew what had sparked off the conflict. She was running her mouth faster than I’d ever believe possible, but reason was definitely not prevailing in this situation.
Fortunately, a lanky-haired, fat guy of about sixty came boiling out of the back office. His presence didn’t quiet the women by a long shot but it motivated Jerry and a few other guys, including Stan, into action. While they pulled the women off each other, Fat Guy acted like a human bulldozer, shoving the rest of us across the floor with his belly-wedge, and clearing the bar in seconds.
We found ourselves unceremoniously dumped on the dark sidewalk, staring at each other blankly. That seemed bass-ackwards. Usually the combatants get booted, not the peaceable, paying customers. Maybe Fat Guy, presumably Leo, wasn’t interested in putting his personal business—or his “ladies”—out on the street.
Beth promptly stuck her nose up against the window, funneling her hands around her face to cut the glare so she could see inside. She was shameless.
“Beth, what the hell just happened in there?”
“Oh, man. Did I screw that up or what?” she giggled.
I pulled her off the window and could have sworn I heard suction pop.
“I found Endora,” she said.
No shit.
TWENTY FOUR
Beth had indeed found Endora, and according to her, initially, the conversation had gone just fine. The two women knew Trinnie and admitted she had gotten kicked out of Taz, because of a fight with Dora. She seemed quite pleased about it, too. They had definitely heard about the murder, and were gleefully shocked to learn Beth had actually been in the apartment. Excitement abounded. In fact, they spent a sizeable chunk of the conversation grilling Beth about the experience of finding Trinnie instead of vice versa. It wasn’t until Beth tried to steering the topic back to her inquiries that things went south.
Beth—ever direct—asked if the fight with Trinnie had anything to do with the affair Dora was having with Leo. And was Trinnie involved with him, too?
Good questions, bad timing. Turned out that the third lady in the little confab was Samantha, Leo’s wife.
When we finally quit laughing, we debated whether we could cross either Dora or Samantha from the list of suspects.
“Maybe Trinnie was trying to blackmail Dora,” Eli pointed out. “She definitely had a secret. Besides, we shouldn’t set a precedent.”
“You just like practicing lawyer words,” I said.
Beth ignored me. “Not much of a secret,” she countered. “Except for Samantha, it sounds like the whole bar knew. And it didn’t stop Dora from having Leo kick Trinnie out.”
“True,” I chimed in. “It probably wasn’t either of them, but you never know.”
“Okay, but we can at least move on to more likely suspects. It certainly wasn’t a woman I saw leaving Trinnie’s apartment. If it was a woman, she had someone else do it. And it wasn’t Leo ‘cause he’s too short and pudgy. Plus, he’d probably have a heart attack if he tried climbing down that trellis. He looks like a poster boy for a heart attack.”
“You know,” I responded, “that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you give even a general description of who you saw. What exactly do you remember?”
“When the cops asked me, all I could focus on was what I hadn’t seen. Like his face or hair color and such. In fact, the only part of him I saw was his ass going out the window.” She paused in thought, then her voice grew quiet and broody. “I should have gone after him. Looked outside or something. But all I could think about when I got in there was all that blood, and you on the floor. I thought… I thought you were dead, too.”
“I never knew that,” I said quietly.
Hearing Beth admit she’d believed I’d been killed made the possibility of it seem more real, adding an extra layer to my anxiety concerning my pending non-date with Bruce.
I decided to hit a meeting.
It was a good idea. The topic was on “doing the next right thing,” which fit my situation perfectly. I went home refreshed, and in preparation for my Friday night ordeal managed to stock up on some much-needed sleep.
I called in sick on Friday. Considering the havoc anxiety was causing my head and stomach, it wasn’t really a lie.
Around mid-morning, I made my way over to Paul’s house. Or, I should say, his mother’s. Although Paul tried to keep it quiet, the fact that he lived with his mother—and always had—was well known. Since AA discouraged major life changes in the first year of sobriety, Chad as Paul’s sponsor, hadn’t pushed the issue.
The Lafontaines lived in a small, ranch-style home in a tidy subdivision on the east side of Eau Claire. White vinyl siding, cement sidewalks bordered by shin high evergreen shrubs, and a detached, one car garage with matching vinyl—not an ounce of personality anywhere. Paul’s new-to-him, beige Kia Rio was the only discordant note. Parked askew, it blocked the garage door, which gave me an uneasy feeling as I walked up to the side door. Paul didn’t have an askew bone in his body.
As I raised my hand to knock, the door sprung open.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lafontaine.” I paused in case she wanted to return the greeting.
She didn’t. Looking past her into the tiny kitchen, I spied two wine glasses drying in the dish rack. Not good. But maybe his mom had had company over.
“May I speak to Paul, please?” Can Paulie come out and play?
“He’s not here.”
Glancing over my shoulder at Paul’s crooked car, I sighed. “Mrs. Lafontaine, please. I know you’re worried about the choices Paul’s been making, but I just need to speak to him.”
“Well, you can’t. He’s sleeping.”
“Now he’s sleeping?”
She pressed her lips so tightly together they formed a single line. “He is. He didn’t get home last night until well after midnight.”
“Midnight?” My stomach sank, suspicions confirmed. “He’s drinking?”
“No. Are yo
u deaf? He’s sleeping.”
“Mom.” An expressionless voice interrupted.
Mrs. Lafontaine spun around. Paul stood just behind, hair mussed, barefoot, wearing jeans and a generic, sack-like grey sweatshirt. In July, yet.
He looked like crap. Didn’t smell too good, either. A line of pimples, bright red against his pasty, pale skin, dotted his forehead, color coordinating with his bloodshot eyes. His sad, sad eyes. They met mine briefly, then skittered away in shame.
“Paul—”
“Why did you come, Letty?”
I winced at the defeat layering his voice. His mother shot a triumphant look at me and made as though to close the door. I flung an arm out, stopping it.
“Paul, don’t do this to yourself. I know you didn’t kill Trinnie. We all know that, and so will the cops. But you can’t just hide here feeling sorry for yourself. You need a meeting. And a shower.”
My bluntness surprised a laugh out of him. Not so much, his mom.
“You little tramp! Is this how his so-called friends treat my boy? Lying and insulting and—”
“I’ve never lied to Paul,” I said. “Ever. And that wasn’t an insult; it was the truth.”
“You lie all the time and insult his intelligence. And mine! He’s not an alcoholic. That’s ridiculous. He just needs to learn to control himself. A little wine with dinner isn’t going to kill him. He just—”
“Mama, stop.” Paul mashed the heel of his hand against his right eye. To me, he said, “Wait for me.” He left the kitchen.
“Paul? Paul!” Mrs. Lafontaine hurried after him, her berating tones dopplering to the back of the house. An element of surprise crept into her angry, strident tone. I thought I heard Paul mumble once or twice, but wasn’t sure. A door slammed.
Paul, carrying a small leather suitcase and his tennis shoes, trudged around the corner. Without a word, he walked past me, out the door and over to my car. I scurried after, jumping into the driver’s seat. When I pulled out, I gave the gas a little extra snap to give that tire-squealing, livin’ dangerous flair to our exit.
Bet Mama heard that.
Paul stared bleakly out the window. I left him to his own thoughts, automatically pointing the car toward the club. After fifteen minutes, he finally spoke up. “Not the club. Take me to Chad’s.”
“Does he know you’re coming?”
“I called.”
Aside from telling me where to turn, we rode in silence. My gut told me not to break it, but it was torture.
When I parked in front of Chad’s two-story, hundred-year old farmhouse, Paul got out, said “Thank you,” and trudged up the sidewalk. Chad opened the door before he got there and Paul disappeared inside. I started to get out, but Chad shook his head.
I went home. At least I had my date with Bruce to look forward to.
TWENTY FIVE
Anxiety is draining. I nearly fell asleep in the bathtub, arriving at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. I wore my “little, black something” dress that never went of style. For most men, tight, short, and Wonderbra’d cleavage is timeless. I looked good.
The maitre d’ directed me to the bar where Potato-Face was ensconced on a stool. He caught sight of me in the mirror, turning to leer at me as I crossed the room.
Charming.
Sitting on a stool while wearing a high hemline is a learned skill. First, I smashed my butt against the seat’s edge, securing the fabric in place, then dragged myself backwards until I could sit without exposing my Inner Child to the entire room.
The second step, crossing my legs, offered a tantalizing pose while ensuring the same result. After a few minutes, I found myself wishing I’d drawn a face on my thigh. At least Bruce would have something to carry on a conversation with, since he had yet to look at my face. He was an equal opportunity creep, evenly dividing his leers between boobs and legs. Thankfully, we only had a brief wait until our table was ready.
As we crossed the main dining room, my attention was snared by a pair of gold-flecked hazel eyes. In my consternation, I nearly bowled the waiter over as he paused by our designated table. I tried to hide my consternation in the bustle of sitting and getting settled. I didn’t fool the waiter, who started searching the area for the source of my anxiety. As it didn’t concern my breasts, Bruce was oblivious.
In the time-honored fashion of film noir detectives, I secured a menu in front of my face before peeking over the edge. And found myself staring straight across the room at Eli. With some blonde. Cozy.
Eli, wearing a snappy looking suit, resembled a full-fledged member of the bar. Good to know he could clean up so nice. And just who the hell was he with? I couldn’t get a very good look at her face, but the harlot was wearing a ridiculously short dress. It was also black. My headache trebled.
Ripping my attention back to Bruce, I discovered him nattering on about his good taste in choosing this restaurant. I scrambled to come up an excuse for my inattention. Just as quickly I realized that, since it didn’t concern him or my physique, it wasn’t something I needed to worry about.
After ordering, Bruce clicked into his Get-To-Know-Your-Date program. He must have read a book on it somewhere. His moist lips glittered in the candlelight as he began with the usual starter question: What did I do for a living? I lied, telling him I was a high school teacher at New Hope Girls Academy. When he asked how I liked it, I led the conversation in the direction I wanted.
I spieled for a while on the difficulties of working with troubled, teenage girls and how quickly they seemed to grow up these days. He was more than willing to explore this topic, finally directing his attention to my face instead of my chest. Although he was careful to keep the conversation general, never once alluding to Trinnie or any personal interests, there were definite undercurrents.
“I’m appalled,” he said, looking anything but, “The overt sexuality I see today in young girls is unbelievable. I blame it on the media.”
I shot a glance at Eli’s table. He was laughing at something the blonde had said.
“To a certain extent I agree,” I said, turning back to Bruce, “but we must also look to the families for accountability.”
He ignored that and, under the guise of concern for their best interests, went on to verbally feel-up the hypothetical girls of our discussion. “They should really be made to understand the dangers they are exposing themselves to. Most of them bounce around without bras, wearing shirts that expose nearly everything, and the shorts are no bigger than underwear. They must be aware of how provocative they are.”
He continued in this vein for several minutes, nearly squirming at the images he conjured up for himself. Then, he seemed to pull back and refocus. “But it’s wonderful they have you for a resource. Young girls need someone to look up to, someone to emulate.” His eyes crawled over my breasts again.
“Someone to protect them,” I added. “It worries me how easily these girls can be seduced. They seem…” I accidentally glanced at Eli. He winked.
I glared.
“Eager for it?” he supplied. Not the word I was going for, but I let him continue without correction.
“I believe they’re looking for someone to direct them,” Bruce said. “To tell them what to do, in a sense. I’ve considered doing some mentoring, myself, but I haven’t yet found the time.”
I shuddered inwardly at the thought of Bruce mentoring any youth, much less a teenage girl. I’d like to think that most agencies would have better sense than to match him with an adolescent female. In fact, most established agencies would have strict protocols against such a pair, but there were plenty of community-based activities which were so desperate for volunteers or coaches or group leaders that there couldn’t be any guarantee. I decided to set that aside for later nightmares.
As for Bruce, he was happy enough to continue on this theme throughout the meal, and even though I wasn’t learning any specifics regarding Trinnie, I gleaned a wealth of knowledge about Bruce, his character—or lack thereof�
�and his potential for sexual aggression.
With nearly every word he displayed a fascination with young females, unveiling the abhorrent mind-set of sexual predators and other antisocial personalities. Namely, that the victim or some behavior of the victim is the originator of the crime, that the violation is not only deserved or somehow invited by the victim, but also somehow inevitable.
As I listened, I became more and more grateful that my experience and training kept me from losing my composure. My appetite had long since disappeared, but I picked at my meal, maintaining eye-contact. I noticed, as at the funeral, that Bruce had a troubling disconnect from what was appropriate to divulge to a relative stranger. He had very little awareness of how he came across to people and no discernable concern over their reactions. Considering the extensive schooling in social etiquette that he must have received growing up, the omission was even more glaring. I waited for a pause, then decided to throw a jolt into his monologue. The effect was interesting.
“Speaking of appropriate role models, I had lunch the other day with Judge Fochs. He tells me he’s a close family friend. He certainly seems to be a wonderful support for your mother.”
His face froze abruptly as he took in this information.
“With Uncle John? I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“We’ve met professionally. We had such a wonderful talk. He helped me understand Trinnie’s situation better.”
“In what way?”
“Well, her life, her choices, her childhood.” Leaning over, I forced myself to place my hand over his. I hoped Eli was watching; it would serve the sneak right. I smiled into Bruce’s eyes.
“I hope you don’t mind my bringing this up,” I continued. “I’m sure, as her brother, you must be simply devastated by your loss.”
“Oh, I am,” he said, quickly taking the script I had tossed him. “I mean, of course, we are. Mother and I, that is.”
“And your Uncle John. He seemed quite upset. I understand he served as Trinnie’s mentor after her father died?”
Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep Page 12