Discarded Promises Page 3
Fifty years. How would it feel living with the same man for fifty years? Sharing the same dreams, companionship, and trust? Many couples lived together for decades without trusting each other, living separate lives. Just by the way the Keatings responded to each other, Quilla knew their marriage was a love match. What did it take to keep love alive that long? she wondered.
“Good night, dear. It’s very cold out.” Mrs. Keating left, meeting her husband on the sidewalk. As Quilla looked on wistfully, Mr. Keating captured his wife’s hand and together they tottered in the direction of their townhouse.
Donning her parka, Quilla pulled the hood over her head, dimmed the lights, and walked out into the frigid night. The temperature had dipped more than fifteen degrees since the night before. She pulled the coat tighter against her chest.
The shop had been busy all day with shoppers, Quilla thought as she dodged stragglers who still roamed the streets, wandering to restaurants or just plain sightseeing. She’d have to order extra in her next shipment. The noise dimmed as she walked farther from King Street. In another block she was walking the cobblestone street to the Dover House. She pushed the button to apartment 3, announced her arrival, and waited for the buzzer to disengage the outside security door.
Beautiful hardwood floors in the hallway were covered with a thick Oriental runner. Pretty prints on the walls reminded her of country settings in the Blue Ridge Mountains. A man opened a door on the right and came into the hallway, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth. His narrowed eyes rolled over her once and everything but him faded into the background.
Quilla resisted the urge to smooth her hair, knowing it was wild with the wind blowing through it from her walk.
He towered over six feet and had an incredible bronze complexion. He appeared to be in his early thirties. His world-weary face had an attractiveness that probably drew women like bears to honey. He wore jeans and a blue T-shirt with “Virginia Is for Lovers” splashed across the front. As she passed Sadie’s apartment on the left, Quilla assumed it was Denton Manning. She approached him, reminding herself of her purpose.
“I’m Quilla Day,” she said, extending her hand.
“I know,” he responded, clutching her hand for a quick handshake. Strong hands, she noticed. He leaned casually in the doorway. His arms crossed a tightly muscled chest emphasized by the old T-shirt.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me so late.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “Come on in.” He moved aside and she entered his tasteful but sterile apartment, catching a whiff of just a hint of aftershave. He smelled fresh and his short hair was damp, as if he’d just left the shower.
In the apartment Quilla studied the surroundings trying to capture a glimpse into the man. The room could have been in a hotel, it was so bare of personal details. Only a picture of a man who favored Denton was propped on the bar across from the coffeepot, where a stream of smoke curled into the air. Must be a relative, perhaps even a brother.
The aroma of coffee reminded her of how hungry she was. Then she spotted Lucky sitting on one of the chairs, her head up and her tail thumping in recognition. A dog doesn’t forget the hand that treats it.
“Oh, Lucky,” Quilla called out.
The dog immediately leaped off the chair and dashed to her. Quilla bent and picked her up. Poor, poor Lucky, Quilla thought as she stroked the soft, luxurious coat. Lucky’s owner was gone. What would happen to her now? Quilla scratched behind Lucky’s ears as she watched Denton saunter toward the kitchen with easy strides.
“Have a seat while I get coffee. Or would you prefer wine?”
“Coffee sounds heavenly.” After the day she’d had, she needed something hot and soothing.
“I think I’ll join you.”
She pulled her thoughts together as he poured the two cups of coffee and handed one to her. As she stroked Lucky’s fur, the dog settled contentedly on her lap.
“How may I help you, Ms. Day?”
“Quilla.”
“Quilla.” He seemed to taste her name as a connoisseur would taste fine wine.
“I discovered Sadie’s body on the parkway yesterday. By the time I reported it, someone had moved her. The police don’t believe she was murdered. But she was.”
Denton nodded. “The police believe she was knocked unconscious,” he said and went on to tell her about his conversations with Sadie and the police.
“I was hoping you could tell me something that could lead to what may have happened to her. It could be a random killing or someone could have planned it. She was dressed in heels and a lynx coat for chrissakes. But why would anyone plan to kill her?”
“I wish I could help you, but I don’t know Sadie’s friends.”
“She must have trusted you. Otherwise she wouldn’t have left Lucky with you. She’s very protective of her dog.”
Denton glared at the dog, who had flipped on her back for Quilla to rub her tummy.
“You can say that again.” Watching Quilla stroke that dog invoked other images—images of Quilla stroking him. Where did that come from? He knew very well from where the thought emerged. He wouldn’t mind being stroked by Quilla. He was surprised by this surge of recognition, this attraction that tugged at the edges of his awareness. For three years he hadn’t thought of relationships or of anyone special.
There was an innocence, a natural aura about Quilla that pulled at a deep and elemental force in him. There was also a homespun quality that made him long for something permanent, but his job didn’t allow for a permanent relationship. He didn’t want a lasting relationship. His wife had divorced him three years ago. For the first time, he understood failure. Failure as a husband, failure as a brother. Marcy had let him know in no uncertain terms the kind of husband he made. Until this case was over, serious women were off-limits.
But Quilla was even prettier up close than she’d been on the tube. Even her beauty wouldn’t let him forget who he was and his goals. He wasn’t there to tempt Quilla—or be tempted by her.
“May I look through Sadie’s apartment?” Quilla asked.
Denton pondered for a moment and shrugged. There was nothing confidential in Sadie’s apartment. He’d checked it thoroughly the evening she left. Letting Quilla in could convince her that Sadie was fine.
“It shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll get the key.”
In moments they were in the apartment. Sadie’s living room and kitchen were neat. The note she’d left Denton was propped against the napkin holder. Her bedroom was in shambles. Clothing was flung on the bed and chairs. A few pieces had fallen to the floor. Things were tossed on her dresser in helter-skelter fashion. It all resembled Sadie’s quick, energetic movements.
Quilla perused the bedside tables, hoping to find an address book—at least one telephone number of a friend who knew Sadie’s family. Phone numbers were suspiciously missing. So were a computer and printer. If Sadie had written a book, where was the computer? No one used pen and pad anymore. But, then, she could have taken a laptop with her.
Quilla inspected the jewelry box that was placed in the center of Sadie’s dresser. For a moment she thought someone had ransacked the place, but in the box was a three-carat diamond ring. A thief certainly would have taken it. Sadie had left in haste, as if she sensed that danger lurked close by. Unfortunately, whoever was after her had caught up with her before she could disappear.
Quilla wandered to the phone, well aware of Denton’s presence. Sadie had caller ID, and Quilla began to scroll through the numbers. She found paper and pen and jotted them all down. Eight messages were recorded on the answering machine, and Quilla jotted them down, too. She leafed through mail but found nothing interesting—electric bill, phone bill, junk mail, credit card offers. Then she checked the rest of the apartment and left. Denton had shadowed her, but he’d given her space to thoroughly inspect the apartment at her leisure. Since he was persistent in trying to convince her Sadie was alive, she’d expected him to hurry her along.
“I didn’t think you’d find much,” Denton said, locking the deadbolt. “I hope you’re convinced Sadie is fine.”
Quilla tucked the messages into her pocket. “Time will tell. My greatest wish is for Sadie to come back healthy and happy, but I know it isn’t going to happen.”
Denton frowned. Her statement seemed to bother him. Before he could reply, the outside security door opened. Denton crossed his arms over his impressive chest and leaned against the doorjamb. Quilla’s stomach growled.
“Have you eaten?” he asked. “We could talk more about this over dinner.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“If I wasn’t quite convinced before, I am after looking through her apartment,” Denton assured her.
“She packed in a hurry.”
“Wouldn’t you if the woman who raised you was sick?”
“Okay. Let’s call her.”
“I don’t have the number. Do you?”
Quilla shook her head. “She left her dog with you and no number where you could reach her?”
“Probably forgot. She was in a hurry. Come on, let’s finish this over dinner.”
“Unless you know more than you’ve offered, I’ll pick up something on my way home.” Quilla didn’t try to keep the frustration from her voice.
“I’m starved,” Denton said, rubbing his washboard stomach.
Quilla sighed. Did she really want to eat with him? Better, did she want to alienate him?
“Quilla? Quilla Day? Is that you?”
Quilla swiveled toward the speaker. The man approaching them looked somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him. An attractive grin splashed across his face.
“Jake. Jake Foster. I lived a block from you, on Montrose.”
Quilla scrutinized his face. Gray eyes, mischievous smile. Now she remembered. He’d been a scraggly kid of about fourteen when she’d moved away—skinny legs springing from baggy shorts hanging to his knees. He had grown! He towered around six feet and had lost that baby cuteness. Now his jeans fit perfectly and he was very attractive in a rugged sort of way. “I remember,” she said.
“How are you?”
Quilla smiled. “I’m good, you?”
He eyed her with a grin that still showed his youth of twenty-five years. “You’re looking good.”
She raised her eyebrow.
“We were on our way out. I’ll catch you tomorrow,” Denton said.
“Yeah, right,” Jake said but, nevertheless, settled in for a chat. “Good to see you, Quilla. You live around here?”
“At Reo’s Gourmet. My apartment is above the store.”
“That’s your place?”
Quilla nodded.
“Popular place. Good for you.”
Denton eased from the doorjamb. “We’re going to catch a bite to eat. Stop by tomorrow,” Denton repeated to Jake.
“Oh, it’s like that. Maybe I’ll stop by sometime. Talk about old times,” he said to Quilla.
“Especially if you have a dog.”
“A gourmet dog shop,” Denton said after they placed their orders and handed menus to the waitress. “Why did you choose that?”
“There’s an amazing amount of money in dogs.”
“Especially if your customers are anything like Sadie.”
Quilla sipped some water, which chilled her even more than the walk. “You’d be surprised at what people will fork over for their pets.”
Denton nodded. “How long have you had the shop?”
“Two years. It’s fairly new.”
The waitress placed a carafe of hot water and tea on the table. Quilla poured the water over her tea bag and let it steep.
“What did you do before you became a shop owner?”
Quilla glanced up from her tea. “I was a marketing director for a children’s clothing chain.”
“From children’s clothes to a dog shop. That’s a big change. What prompted it?”
“I guess I’ve always wanted to own a business. I used to walk my dog along the waterfront and go to doggy happy hour. Everyone seems to have a dog. It dawned on me that a real opportunity had been overlooked.”
“And the rest is history?”
Quilla smiled. “So far,” she said, taking a sip of tea. “So tell me. What do you do?”
“VP of a local tech company.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”
“Not when you consider there are VPs for every department. VP of finance, VP of marketing, VP of shipping, and so on.”
They laughed. As the waitress placed clam chowder and crusty slices of bread on the table, Quilla relaxed for the first time in two days.
Through most of dinner they became more familiar with each other. Quilla enjoyed the company. She was glad she’d accepted dinner with Denton, although she was very aware he didn’t believe her about Sadie. Thinking of Sadie put a damper on the meal. After all, Sadie was the reason they’d met.
Denton swallowed a mouthful of clam chowder. “About Sadie,” he said as if he’d read her thoughts, “what will you do now? You really should keep prodding the police to do something. But you stay out of it. You could get hurt if it’s all real.”
“Of course it’s real. I saw what I saw. I’m going to go over the notes I’ve gathered and continue from there.” A needle in a haystack, she left unsaid. The warm chowder and tea thawed Quilla’s freezing body, but Denton’s words brought home the horrible task ahead.
“Investigating on your own isn’t a good idea. Why don’t you wait a few days?”
Quilla shook her head. Because a killer might be searching for me. But she said, “I saw the killer. I wasn’t close enough to identify him, but he saw me, too.”
“Do you think he could identify you?”
“No. I was too far away.”
“Just be careful.”
Denton finished his soup. In the face of Quilla’s insistence, Denton began to ponder if Sadie really was dead. Customs was investigating Tom Goodwill, the president of Smitherton. For the year that he’d known her, Sadie never got involved in Tom’s business. She wanted money and sex. And Tom was paying her for exclusive rights and providing her shelter in the guise of apartment manager. Sadie was smart enough not to get involved in their business. But the book wasn’t a smart idea. It could spook the man who, although he had Sadie on the side to provide sexual entertainment, wanted his home life intact. Wives who otherwise would ignore their husbands’ indiscretions wouldn’t take kindly to having mistresses thrown directly in their faces.
Denton and Quilla finished dinner at the small café, and Denton walked Quilla to her store. They halted at her door.
If Sadie had been killed, Denton didn’t want Quilla ending up dead, too. “Listen, if Sadie was murdered, you could be headed for danger. Take my advice. Stay out of it.”
“You said that before. I thought that was the problem. People don’t get involved enough.”
“In most cases. Some things are better left to the authorities.”
“Do you know something you’re not telling me? Why are you protesting so much?”
Denton didn’t want her suspicious of him. He shrugged and smiled, taking her hand in his. “No. But if something happened to Sadie, she wouldn’t want you to suffer the same fate.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back with a delicate stroke. The gesture was designed to be chivalrous, geared to help her forget her suspicion. Instead, her soft skin, the touch of her hand, sent a jolt through him. Their glances met and held—hers soft and luminous. His heartbeat quickened and he let her go. No. No. This wasn’t for him. Wrong time. Wrong decade. Long ago he’d forced himself to believe he didn’t need anything permanent. He couldn’t count on permanency. Hearth and home was written all over Quilla.
No, she wasn’t for him.
“Good night,” he whispered and turned abruptly, struggling to let the crisp night air whisk away her scent, her appeal. Wash away the awakening that wanted him to live again, not just exist. He wasn’t ready for this.
Quilla locked the door after Denton left, then walked upstairs to her apartment.
He had only kissed her knuckle. His warm breath grazing her skin had warmed her to her toes. What was it about him that appealed to her? she wondered as she peeled off her coat and hat and hung them on the coatrack.
Enough about Denton. Enough about the man who didn’t believe her. She sensed he was holding something back. But what? Sadie trusted him, and deep down, Quilla didn’t sense anything sinister.
When she entered her kitchen, she noticed her father’s letter. During the day she had plenty to keep her busy and to divert her thoughts from the letter. Now it was bugging her. What if he was sick and needed her? Although they were on the outs, if he needed help, she certainly would have to offer it. She tore into the letter. It was one page written in his horrible scrawl. She read it as quickly as she could decipher his writing.
He’d stopped drinking, he wrote, and he wanted to visit her, wanted to make up for the past. With jerky movements, Quilla folded the letter and stuffed it into the envelope. How many times had she heard that one? She threw the envelope into a drawer on top of a pile of bills.
The next morning, Quilla pried open her eyes. Jackhammers vibrated in her head. She stumbled out of bed to the cabinet for some aspirin. While pouring a glass of water at the sink, she squinted against the bright sunshine streaking through her blinds. Setting water to boil for tea, she toasted two slices of bread and ate her meager breakfast. Even after twenty minutes the medication only dulled the throbbing. Failure to fill the pain prescription the doctor had given her had been an enormous mistake. A shop owner couldn’t afford to take a day off simply for a headache.
She remembered the diary and put it in the living room. She didn’t expect to find much there, but she’d look through it after work. Then she sat at the kitchen table and began to dial the phone numbers she’d copied at Sadie’s apartment.