Creep - Jennifer Hillier [84]
Jerry gave the man a quick rundown while Morris sat and listened. The office was hot and stifling. He tugged at his shirt collar.
Fisher thought before he spoke. “I wish I could tell you I knew she was planning to leave. But she never said anything to me about it.”
“When did you last see her?” Jerry had his notebook in hand.
“Two weeks ago. She came to the meeting.”
“Are you her sponsor?” Morris asked.
Fisher shook his head. “Cross-gender sponsorship is a no-no. She never wanted one, though—not everyone is comfortable with that component of the program. She mentioned she had a therapist. Not that it’s any help to you.”
“Therapists never talk about their patients. This I know from experience.” Jerry scribbled something down in his notebook. “So, was Sheila acting differently that night at the meeting? Anything weird about her behavior?”
Fisher pondered the question, his fingers drumming on the desk. “I can’t recall anything specific, although maybe she was a little quieter than usual. We spoke for a bit before the meeting started. I was impressed she made it in, what with the wedding coming up and all. It demonstrated how committed she was to her recovery, and I told her that.”
Morris turned to Jerry. “We should ask some of the other members. Maybe someone else might know if there was anything going on with her.”
Fisher shifted in his chair. “I can’t allow that. The members value their privacy and we do everything we can to protect it. She didn’t form any close friendships with anyone here that I noticed—and I would have noticed.” He thought for a moment. “There was a new member she talked to during the break.”
“A man?” Jerry’s eyes shifted to Morris.
“Yes. He sat near the front so I got a pretty good look at him. Late thirties, I’d say, around six feet, two hundred pounds.”
“White? Black? Hispanic? Asian?”
“Black,” Fisher said firmly, then added, “but not black black.”
“I beg your pardon?” Jerry’s pen froze over his notepad. “What exactly is ‘black black’?”
Fisher flushed a deep crimson. He looked at Morris as if to plead for help.
Morris bit back a smirk and said nothing. Good luck, buddy.
Fisher tried to explain. “You know, like he wasn’t really black. Like, I mean, he wasn’t dark-skinned . . .”
“Like me?” Jerry said.
“Well, no, not exactly . . .”
“He was light-skinned?”
“Yes, light-skinned. As if he was . . .”
“Of mixed race?”
“Exactly.”
Jerry’s jaw worked, but he jotted the information down. After a moment of excruciating silence, he said, “Okay, what else?”
“He was very attentive during the meeting, not at all uncomfortable. I got the impression he was either a member somewhere else and had just moved here or was visiting and didn’t want to miss a meeting. I overheard them chatting a little bit. He had a slight limp. And a funny accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“Couldn’t tell you. He just sounded different.”
“Name?”
“Not sure. John? James?” Fisher paused. “James, I think.”
“Did she leave with this guy?” Morris asked, his throat dry.
“No idea.”
“Anything else you can think to mention?” Jerry said.
“No.” Fisher looked upset. “But you could see if she went to Tony’s Tavern afterwards. She usually did. It’s just down the street. And I’ll ask some of the other members if they noticed or overheard anything. Better I do it than you guys. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”
Jerry put his card on the desk. “Just call me with whatever you learn, even if you don’t think it’s significant. You never know what it might lead to.”
Fisher stuck the card in his shirt pocket. “Please keep me posted. Stella was a friend.”
“Sheila,” Morris corrected again.
Fisher’s smile was sad. “She was Stella to me.”
Tony’s Tavern was dimly lit, and it reeked of grease and beer. Morris’s kind of place. He enjoyed his porterhouse steak and his forty-year-old