Discarded Promises Read online

  Quilla smiled encouragingly at Sadie. “I’ll make sure she has the best.” Three hundred would go a long way toward that end.

  Sadie threw her an anxious smile. Quilla hunted for a topic that would take Sadie’s mind off her dog.

  “Congratulations on your new book. I saw you on television. Do you know the release date?”

  “Next November, I’m afraid.”

  “That long?”

  Sadie blew out a long breath. “Publishing seems to take forever.”

  “You’ve been writing stories since I was a kid. I thought you were a gifted writer. I know you’re going to be successful,” Quilla said. “Be sure to remind me when your book comes out. I know I’m going to enjoy reading it. You can leave some flyers here.”

  “Thanks,” Sadie said and all but ran for the door. “Happy holidays.”

  “You, too,” Quilla called out, but Sadie was already breezing down the street.

  Quilla frowned after the disappearing woman. She put the money in the cash register and logged Sadie’s name and the amount in her accounting file. Grabbing a jacket and broom, she marched outside to hang a “Faithful Companion” windsock and a plastic golden retriever. Then she swept the sidewalk in front of her store, waving to other shop owners.

  Cars passed in a steady stream along King Street. Others hurried into the underground garage across from her. Finished with her sweeping, she stopped a moment to enjoy the cloud-shrouded sky. The weather was unusually warm this last week of November, and Quilla decided to take advantage of the warmth to go for a jog as soon as the student arrived to work in the shop after school.

  She took some biscuits left over from the day before and broke them into bite-size pieces. She then placed them, along with other treats, in an oversized dog bowl and set it on the countertop. She put a bowl of water on the sidewalk in front of her store. If she left the treats outside, the first dog coming past would eat the entire bowl, leaving nothing for the next one. Finally, she turned the sign hanging in the front door to OPEN.

  Quilla threaded her way to the kitchen in the back of the shop. As her workday began, she speculated on Sadie’s mad dash out of town. Only a dire emergency would tear Sadie away from her precious Lucky. And where was she going that she couldn’t take the dog?

  Quilla squinted against the watery sunlight peeking through tufts of clouds. She lived just a few blocks from the Potomac River, and the Mount Vernon Trail beside it extended south to George Washington’s home. Quilla ran the trail almost every day from spring through fall—and the rare Indian summer once the cold set in. She rubbed her gloved hands together. She really hated cold weather.

  Although she’d grown up in Alexandria, her home hadn’t been in Old Town. She’d grown up in Mt. Jefferson, close to the old rail yard, which now had been developed into expensive townhomes and a large shopping area. Her father still lived there, and although just a few miles separated them, Quilla hadn’t seen him since she left for college eleven years ago.

  A letter from him had arrived that morning. So had a call from the man she’d recently broken up with. Lucky her. She wasn’t superstitious, but her mother often had said trouble came in threes. So what’s next? she wondered.

  Her father, an alcoholic, destroyed anyone and everyone in his circle. He’d sapped the life from her poor mother years before she died, and Quilla had promised herself she wouldn’t let him destroy her the same way. That morning she’d tossed the letter into the trash, but before she emptied the garbage, something made her retrieve it and leave it on the kitchen counter. She hadn’t gone so far as to open it yet. It just sat there, pestering her like a bad omen. What was it about a family’s umbilical cord that kept a person attached whether she wanted to be or not? As much as she’d told herself that she’d excised her father from her life, in her heart it just wasn’t so. He was still family—the only family she had left.

  And then there was Eddie. Her last boyfriend. They had split in October on an unseasonably warm afternoon when she’d surprised him with a visit to his new townhouse. The surprise had been on her. Through the French windows flanking the front door, she expected to see a foyer table with the vase of silk flowers she’d given him as a housewarming gift. Instead she’d caught him groping and kissing some woman in a very intimate embrace. In their haste to get at each other, the vase of flowers had been knocked aside.

  Quilla had jammed a finger on the doorbell. They sprang apart as if a jolt of electricity had shocked them.

  “You’re history!” Quilla shouted at him.

  “We’re just good friends,” Eddie said, zipping his pants. He had tried to explain as he’d scrambled to the door and the woman stuffed her breasts, two cup sizes larger than Quilla’s, back into her bra and fumbled with the buttons on her blouse.

  “Listen, damn it. It’s not what you think it is. Dorian had some good news, and I was just congratulating her. It kind of just happened. It didn’t mean anything. Not like you and me, baby.”

  “Un-hum. You didn’t have to lie and cheat. You only needed to tell me it was over with us.” She yanked the car door open. “Go back to your celebrating.” She’d gotten into her car and torn away from the curb, spraying gravel.

  Here she was, yet again, singing the singles blues and approaching the holiday season without a man to trade gifts with. The story of my life. She should write a book about that.

  Quilla jogged past storefronts, apartments, condos, and townhouses until she reached the more remote wooded area. Although it wasn’t the safest time of day to jog in a deserted area, weaving in and out of thick groves of trees, Quilla enjoyed the solitude, the peace, the opportunity to clear her head. No dodging bicycles, joggers, and other walkers on the trail.

  Her Nikes slapped against the wet wooden planks on one of the many bridges that stretched through the marsh. A slow, cool drizzle sprayed her, but she didn’t care. The lunchtime crowd had escaped to their offices.

  Entranced by the foliage and calm waters of the Potomac, Quilla slowly relaxed. The tightness in her chest receded.

  She wasn’t quite alone, though. Approaching another footbridge, she saw a man climbing out of the marsh and onto the bridge. He wore jogging shoes and heavy dark gray sweats. He must have heard her approach because suddenly he glanced at her, his face pinched. His scrutiny raised the hair on her nape, but then he turned and ran south.

  Winded, Quilla slowed her pace to a brisk walk, inhaling the river scent. She glanced at the marsh as she crossed the bridge but merely saw lily pads floating gently in the water. After a few feet, the marsh gave way to the Potomac. On the shore across the river was Maryland, where homes skirted the edge of the riverbank.

  An engine roared and a car sped away from the parking lot, one of the many situated between Alexandria and Mount Vernon. Was it the man? Why was he so impatient? Soon Quilla approached the lot, her two-and-a-half-mile turning spot. The car was out of sight.

  The drizzle increased to a steady downpour. Cold clothes plastered against her skin made her shiver.

  Why was that man wading in the marsh instead of staying on the path? Somehow she sensed that he had not merely dropped something and was retrieving it. He looked as if he were prepared to dive into the water. But then he could have been examining some aquatic creature or plant. She was inclined to do the same at times, but she always stayed on the trail. That didn’t account for his close scrutiny. And for some reason, his close regard sent chills down her spine.

  I’m being silly, she thought. As she neared the bridge again, she stopped at the railing and peered over the side.

  Red painted fingernails emerged through the mud like tiny tulips.

  Quilla screamed. Her heart slammed in her chest. She leaned over farther, hoping her eyes had deceived her. Shakily, she looked around and then plunged onto the grassy embankment, her Nikes sinking into the mire, her knees knocking. Underneath the wooden bridge Sadie lay sprawled in the mud like a limp rag doll. Green eyes stared back at her—seemingly life
less green eyes.

  “Sadie?” Quilla called out just in case Sadie was stunned instead of dead. “Sadie!”

  Not even an eyelash flickered.

  Quilla’s skin crawled with eerie sensations as she suppressed another scream. She leaned over and pressed a trembling finger to Sadie’s neck. Her skin felt warm. Quilla willed a pulse, even a weak beat, anything against her fingertip. Please, please, God, she prayed. Nothing! Death was something she read about in the papers and novels or watched on the news. Her mother had died peacefully in a hospital. This dumping of a human being like trash was an abomination.

  Clutching a hand to her chest, Quilla gasped, trying to clear her thoughts. Her fight-or-flight instinct was working overtime, with the emphasis on flight. Quilla glanced around, looking for the man in the sweats. The place was still deserted.

  I have to get help. Scrambling back, she climbed onto the wooden planks and tripped. The last thing she saw was a wooden pole approaching her head.

  The rain was thundering down like a shower. Lights flashed from the park police cars stopped helter-skelter on the street.

  After Quilla had regained consciousness, she had stumbled across the parkway to a house to call the police.

  “I don’t understand,” Quilla finally said. Pain reverberated in her head. The ice pack the medical technician gave her helped only a little. “Sadie was right here.” She pointed to the muddy area below. Now she saw only rain puddles, rapidly filling holes in the muddy embankment.

  The officers crowded around. “Where exactly did you see the body?” asked Detective Trait Wilson, a tall man with skin like rich chocolate. Quilla had dated him briefly years ago when she had been a sophomore in high school.

  Quilla pointed to the area on the ground at the edge of the bridge. “She was right there. Look, there’s a depression where she was.” Upon closer observation, it looked as though the ground had been smoothed out.

  Trait stooped by the area and looked around. Quilla moved to climb off the bridge.

  “Stay back, Quilla. I can’t have you crowding around and destroying evidence.”

  Slowly Quilla eased back, leaning over the rail to watch the officers comb the area.

  More officers joined the others. One started stringing up yellow crime-scene tape.

  “What did she look like?”

  “She was my height—five-six, curly brown hair.” Flashes of Sadie came back to Quilla. “She wore a red Gianfranco Ferré pantsuit, Ferragamo shoes, and a full-length lynx coat.”

  “Ferragamos out here?” a female officer asked.

  Trait stood and glared at her. Water fell from his hat brim like a miniature waterfall. “You checked the labels?”

  “No, I saw her earlier at my store. Everything she wore was high fashion, sold only in exclusive stores.” Quilla gestured toward the path. “Her clothes were out of place on a jogging trail. She told me she was leaving town. I don’t know why she’d be here.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “She didn’t say. But the man who’s dog-sitting for her might know. I have his phone number at my shop.”

  “Was she shot or cut?”

  Quilla frowned. “I didn’t see any blood.”

  “So what makes you think she was dead?”

  “I felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one.”

  “I see.” The way he narrowed his eyes unsettled Quilla. “You aren’t on any medication, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. What would that have to do with Sadie’s death, anyway?”

  He eyed her narrowly. “You saw a woman in your shop. You go jogging and you get hit in the head. You’ve got a pretty big lump on your head there. Your perception could have been distorted.”

  Quilla gritted her teeth and pointed an imperious finger at the embankment. “I saw her before I was hit in the head. Her body was right under the bridge. You’d be better off trying to find her.”

  “I’m trying to make sure there was a murder. There’s no evidence pointing to a murder.”

  “It happened.” Quilla put a hand to her head. The medical technician urged her toward the ambulance.

  “Ebrium?” Trait called out, giving Quilla the narrow eye.

  “Yeah?” An officer dressed in a blue uniform jogged over.

  “Follow Ms. Day to the hospital and give her a pad and pencil, then take her to her shop for that phone number.” His gaze pointed at Quilla again. “Write down everything you remember.”

  Giving him one last glare, Quilla watched him as he returned to the site.

  “We’ll check out the area,” the officer said, “then we’ll let you know what we find.”

  Resigned to the officer’s gentle prompting, Quilla walked to the ambulance and climbed into the back.

  Rain came down in a steady stream, but not hard enough to have washed the body out into the Potomac, Quilla thought as she watched the officers comb the area. Someone handed her a blanket and she wrapped it around her numb body.

  The man must have come back. Why hadn’t anyone else seen him? Worse—he’d seen her.

  Quilla quickly glanced around, clutching the blanket in her fist. A crowd had gathered. Even now the man could be watching her from the throng. Was she in danger? Would he try to kill her, too? She scanned the area once more before the medical technician took the ice pack from her and began to take her vital signs. Quilla sighed. She didn’t expect very much help from Detective Wilson.

  First thing Tuesday morning, Quilla dialed Trait’s number.

  “There isn’t a case,” he said in answer to her questions. “I talked to several tenants in the apartment, as well as to the owner of the building. Ms. Croft had asked for time off. Mr. Manning also says she asked him to watch her dog for a couple of weeks.”

  “I know that, Trait. She was murdered before she could leave, so where do you go from there?”

  “Quilla, my hands are tied.”

  “But she’s dead. Aren’t you going to look for her body? Have the river dragged? She could have been dumped there.”

  “Where in the river? We have enough cases with bodies to solve.” Quilla heard his long sigh over the line—a rattle of paper in the background like he was unwrapping a mint. “Look, more than likely she regained consciousness in the rain and left for her trip. She’ll probably show up in a week or two. There isn’t sufficient evidence for us to continue this search.”

  “I’m telling you she’s dead. Someone must have moved her body. She was very worried about something when I saw her yesterday. I’m a taxpaying citizen of Alexandria. She’s a taxpayer. I know she’d planned to leave town, but she was murdered before she left. Isn’t that enough? Look at the money D.C. spent on finding that missing intern, Chandra Levy. Couldn’t you spare time for Sadie?”

  “You’re talking about two separate situations. Two people said she left town. Mr. Manning said she left to tend to a dying friend. She didn’t just disappear. I know you’re concerned, but until the friend calls and says she failed to show, we don’t have anything to work with.” He sighed. “Tell you what. Give it two weeks. If she doesn’t show up, give me a call.”

  Pompous ass. No wonder we didn’t date long. Quilla dropped the phone on the cradle. Angrily she paced in the confines of the shop. She had no intention of waiting two weeks while the evidence evaporated and the murderer became impossible to track. Where had she read that if a murder wasn’t solved quickly, chances were that it wouldn’t be solved at all?

  She sighed. Is that all a woman’s life is worth? she asked in the quiet space. Detective Trait Wilson didn’t respect Sadie enough to look deeper into the matter. She wasn’t a high-profile case. She’d disappeared quietly with only Quilla to care. Sadie wasn’t connected to a politician. Her case would be filed away before it was even researched.

  Quilla stopped next to the glass case holding twenty-five different dog treats. What on earth had happened? Had a serial killer suddenly gone on the rampage? But for fate, it could just as easily have been her under
the bridge instead of Sadie.

  She rubbed her temple. She saw shades of herself in Sadie. No family to speak of, Sadie was a hardworking woman who lived alone with her dog. Quilla respected Sadie for the work she put into getting published. Publishing wasn’t easy.

  She wanted Sadie’s death to matter, not for her to wind up a forgotten corpse. But Quilla wasn’t surprised. No one bothered themselves with ordinary people.

  Every time Quilla thought of Trait’s refusal to do anything, her anger spiked. Quilla’s mother had always said, if you want to get something done, do it yourself. Trait certainly wasn’t going to pursue Sadie’s disappearance.

  As Quilla’s first customer entered the store, she remembered the slip of paper with Sadie’s dog-sitter’s phone number and address. Certainly the man knew more than he’d offered the detective. Maybe he had access to Sadie’s apartment. Would he keep Sadie’s dog now that she wouldn’t return? Many questions hovered in Quilla’s mind.

  Perhaps the answer to Sadie’s murder lay in her apartment and perhaps Quilla would have to find the answers for herself. She wasn’t a private investigator, but she’d let her common sense guide her. After all, how else would she find out who the killer was? For all she knew, he may be after her next.

  Quilla thought back to the beginning of her run and the old maxim that trouble came in threes. Had Sadie gone to meet the man who’d been hovering over her body, or had he brought her there after he had murdered her? Nobody walked on the trail in four-inch heels and dressed in a lynx coat.

  Chapter 2

  Quilla glanced at her watch. She’d called Denton Manning a half hour earlier asking if she could stop by to talk about Sadie. The reluctance in his voice didn’t deter Quilla.

  “Good night, Mrs. Keating,” Quilla said to her last customer. Mrs. Keating was an older woman who’d brought her poodle to Quilla’s shop since the week it opened. Tonight she was with her husband of fifty years.