Inner Harbor
Page 11
I found it telling that the business sign the Quinns hung this afternoon contained Seth's name, but as a Quinn. I can't say if this disposal of his legal name is for their benefit or his.
The boy must certainly be aware that the Quinns are filing for custody. I can't say as yet whether he has received any of the letters Gloria has written him. Perhaps the Quinns have disposed of them. Though I sympathize with her plight and her desperation to get her child back, it's best that she remain unaware that I've come here. Once I've documented my findings, I'll contact her. If there is a legal battle in the future, it's best to approach the matter with facts rather than raw emotion.
Hopefully the lawyer Gloria has engaged will contact the Quinns through the proper legal channels shortly.
For myself, I hope to see Seth tomorrow and gain some insight into the situation. It would be helpful to determine how much he knows about his parentage. As I have only recently become fully informed, I've not yet completely assimilated all the facts and their repercussions.
We will soon see if small towns are indeed a hotbed of information on their inhabitants. I intend to learn all I can learn about Professor Raymond Quinn before I'm done.
Chapter Three
the typical venue for socializing, information gathering, and mating rituals, small town or big city, Sybill observed, was the local bar.
Whether it was decorated with brass and ferns or peanut shells and tin ashtrays, whether the music was whiny country or heart-reeling rock, it was the traditional spot for gathering and exchanging information.
Shiney's Pub in St. Christopher's certainly fit the bill. The decor here was dark wood, cheap chrome, and faded posters of boats. The music was loud, she decided, unable to fully identify the style booming out of the towering amps flanking the small stage where four young men pounded away at guitars and drums with more enthusiasm than talent.
A trio of men at the bar kept their eyes glued to the baseball game on the small-screen TV bracketed to the wall behind the bar. They seemed content to watch the silent ballet of pitcher and batter while they nursed brown bottles of beer and ate fistfuls of pretzels.
The dance floor was jammed. There were only four couples, but the limited space caused several incidents of elbow rapping and hip bumping. No one seemed to mind.
The waitresses were decked out in foolish male-fantasy outfits--short black skirts, tiny, tight V-neck blouses, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels.
Sybill felt instant sympathy.
She tucked herself into a wobbly table as far away from the amps as humanly possible. The smoke and noise didn't bother her, nor did the sticky floor or the jittery table. Her choice of seating afforded her the clearest view of the occupants.
She'd been desperate to escape her hotel room for a couple of hours. Now she was set to sit back, enjoy a glass of wine, and observe the natives.
The waitress who approached was a petite brunette with an enviable bustline and a cheery smile. "Hi. What can I get you?"
"A glass of Chardonnay and a side of ice."
"Coming right up." She set a black plastic bowl filled with pretzels on the table and picked her way back to the bar, taking orders as she went.
Sybill wondered if she'd just had her first encounter with Ethan's wife. Her information was that Grace Quinn worked at this bar. But there had been no wedding ring on the little brunette's finger, and Sybill assumed that a new bride would certainly wear one.
The other waitress? That one looked dangerous, she decided. Blond, built, and brooding. She was certainly attractive, in an obvious way. Still, nothing about her shouted newlywed either, particularly the way she leaned over an appreciative customer's table to give him the full benefit of her cle**age.
Sybill frowned and nibbled on a pretzel. If that was Grace Quinn, she would definitely be scratched from mother-figure status.
Something happened in the ball game, Sybill assumed, as the three men began to shout, cheering on someone named Eddie.
Out of habit she took out her notebook and began to record observations. The backslapping and arm punching of male companions. The body language of the females, leaning in for intimacy. The hair flipping, the eye shifting, hand gesturing. And of course, the mating ritual of the contemporary couple through the dance.
That was how Phillip saw her when he came in. She was smiling to herself, her gaze roaming, her hand scribbling. She looked, he thought, very cool, very remote. She might have been behind a thin sheet of one-way glass.
She'd pulled her hair back so that it lay in a sleek tail on her neck and left her face unframed. Gold drops studded with single colored stones swung at her ears. He watched her put her pen down to shrug out of a suede jacket of pale yellow.
He had driven in on impulse, giving in to restlessness. Now he blessed that vaguely dissatisfied mood that had dogged him all evening. She was, he decided, exactly what he'd been looking for.
"Sybill, right?" He saw the quick surprise flicker in her eyes when she glanced up. And he saw that those eyes were as clear and pure as lake water.
"That's right." Recovering, she closed her notebook and smiled.
"Phillip, of Boats by Quinn."
"You here alone?"
"Yes… unless you'd like to sit down and have a drink."
"I'd love to." He pulled out a chair, nodding toward her notebook. "Did I interrupt you?"
"Not really." She shifted her smile to the waitress when her wine was served.
"Hey, Phil, want a draft?"
"Marsha, you read my mind."
Marsha, Sybill thought. That eliminated the perky brunette. "It's unusual music."
"The music here consistently sucks." He flashed a smile, quick, charming, and amused. "It's a tradition."
"Here's to tradition, then." She lifted her glass, sipped, then with a little hmmm began transferring ice into the wine.
"How would you rate the wine?"
"Well, it's basic, elemental, primitive." She sipped again, smiled winningly. "It sucks."
"That's also a proud Shiney's tradition. He's got Sam Adams on draft. It's a better bet."
"I'll remember that." Lips curved, she tilted her head. "Since you know the local traditions, I take it you've lived here for some time."
"Yeah." His eyes narrowed as he studied her, as something pushed at the edges of his memory. "I know you."
The boy must certainly be aware that the Quinns are filing for custody. I can't say as yet whether he has received any of the letters Gloria has written him. Perhaps the Quinns have disposed of them. Though I sympathize with her plight and her desperation to get her child back, it's best that she remain unaware that I've come here. Once I've documented my findings, I'll contact her. If there is a legal battle in the future, it's best to approach the matter with facts rather than raw emotion.
Hopefully the lawyer Gloria has engaged will contact the Quinns through the proper legal channels shortly.
For myself, I hope to see Seth tomorrow and gain some insight into the situation. It would be helpful to determine how much he knows about his parentage. As I have only recently become fully informed, I've not yet completely assimilated all the facts and their repercussions.
We will soon see if small towns are indeed a hotbed of information on their inhabitants. I intend to learn all I can learn about Professor Raymond Quinn before I'm done.
Chapter Three
the typical venue for socializing, information gathering, and mating rituals, small town or big city, Sybill observed, was the local bar.
Whether it was decorated with brass and ferns or peanut shells and tin ashtrays, whether the music was whiny country or heart-reeling rock, it was the traditional spot for gathering and exchanging information.
Shiney's Pub in St. Christopher's certainly fit the bill. The decor here was dark wood, cheap chrome, and faded posters of boats. The music was loud, she decided, unable to fully identify the style booming out of the towering amps flanking the small stage where four young men pounded away at guitars and drums with more enthusiasm than talent.
A trio of men at the bar kept their eyes glued to the baseball game on the small-screen TV bracketed to the wall behind the bar. They seemed content to watch the silent ballet of pitcher and batter while they nursed brown bottles of beer and ate fistfuls of pretzels.
The dance floor was jammed. There were only four couples, but the limited space caused several incidents of elbow rapping and hip bumping. No one seemed to mind.
The waitresses were decked out in foolish male-fantasy outfits--short black skirts, tiny, tight V-neck blouses, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels.
Sybill felt instant sympathy.
She tucked herself into a wobbly table as far away from the amps as humanly possible. The smoke and noise didn't bother her, nor did the sticky floor or the jittery table. Her choice of seating afforded her the clearest view of the occupants.
She'd been desperate to escape her hotel room for a couple of hours. Now she was set to sit back, enjoy a glass of wine, and observe the natives.
The waitress who approached was a petite brunette with an enviable bustline and a cheery smile. "Hi. What can I get you?"
"A glass of Chardonnay and a side of ice."
"Coming right up." She set a black plastic bowl filled with pretzels on the table and picked her way back to the bar, taking orders as she went.
Sybill wondered if she'd just had her first encounter with Ethan's wife. Her information was that Grace Quinn worked at this bar. But there had been no wedding ring on the little brunette's finger, and Sybill assumed that a new bride would certainly wear one.
The other waitress? That one looked dangerous, she decided. Blond, built, and brooding. She was certainly attractive, in an obvious way. Still, nothing about her shouted newlywed either, particularly the way she leaned over an appreciative customer's table to give him the full benefit of her cle**age.
Sybill frowned and nibbled on a pretzel. If that was Grace Quinn, she would definitely be scratched from mother-figure status.
Something happened in the ball game, Sybill assumed, as the three men began to shout, cheering on someone named Eddie.
Out of habit she took out her notebook and began to record observations. The backslapping and arm punching of male companions. The body language of the females, leaning in for intimacy. The hair flipping, the eye shifting, hand gesturing. And of course, the mating ritual of the contemporary couple through the dance.
That was how Phillip saw her when he came in. She was smiling to herself, her gaze roaming, her hand scribbling. She looked, he thought, very cool, very remote. She might have been behind a thin sheet of one-way glass.
She'd pulled her hair back so that it lay in a sleek tail on her neck and left her face unframed. Gold drops studded with single colored stones swung at her ears. He watched her put her pen down to shrug out of a suede jacket of pale yellow.
He had driven in on impulse, giving in to restlessness. Now he blessed that vaguely dissatisfied mood that had dogged him all evening. She was, he decided, exactly what he'd been looking for.
"Sybill, right?" He saw the quick surprise flicker in her eyes when she glanced up. And he saw that those eyes were as clear and pure as lake water.
"That's right." Recovering, she closed her notebook and smiled.
"Phillip, of Boats by Quinn."
"You here alone?"
"Yes… unless you'd like to sit down and have a drink."
"I'd love to." He pulled out a chair, nodding toward her notebook. "Did I interrupt you?"
"Not really." She shifted her smile to the waitress when her wine was served.
"Hey, Phil, want a draft?"
"Marsha, you read my mind."
Marsha, Sybill thought. That eliminated the perky brunette. "It's unusual music."
"The music here consistently sucks." He flashed a smile, quick, charming, and amused. "It's a tradition."
"Here's to tradition, then." She lifted her glass, sipped, then with a little hmmm began transferring ice into the wine.
"How would you rate the wine?"
"Well, it's basic, elemental, primitive." She sipped again, smiled winningly. "It sucks."
"That's also a proud Shiney's tradition. He's got Sam Adams on draft. It's a better bet."
"I'll remember that." Lips curved, she tilted her head. "Since you know the local traditions, I take it you've lived here for some time."
"Yeah." His eyes narrowed as he studied her, as something pushed at the edges of his memory. "I know you."
