Whittaker 03.5 If Nothing Changes (2 page)

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 way.

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.

“
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.”