The Smoking Nun: Book 4 Nun of Your Business Mysteries

by Dakota Cassidy

  Tansy, leaning against the edge of Father Rico’s enormous walnut-colored desk, licked her lips and scribbled on her pad. “So you needed more candles,” she prompted.

  “Yes. There were several latecomers. So I went to get more, and when I tried to open the storage closet door, I couldn’t. I thought it was stuck. I swear, I thought it was only stuck!”

  Tansy nodded. “And the door opens inward, yes?”

  Carla looked at her, dark eyes swollen from crying, her lower lip trembling. “Yes. I don’t know who designed the closets in this drafty tomb, but all the doors stick and push inward. Anyway, I pushed on it. I mean, I really gave it a good, hard shove with my shoulder. I guess,” she paused and swallowed, running a hand through her hair, “I guess the…the body was holding the door shut or it was up against it and it fell or… I don’t know. I just know it fell out and onto the floor right at my feet! That’s all I know!”

  Reaching out, I put my hand over Carla’s tightly closed fist, her skin freezing cold to my touch. Both Tansy and I looked at each other, her eyes sending me the message that she’d gotten as much as she could from Carla.

  We’d become pretty good at reading each other’s facial expressions since we’d been working together, and it was clear this was all Carla could provide. She’d been stretched as thinly as possible and she needed a break.

  Tansy dug into her soggy blazer and held out one of her business cards. “All right then, Miss Ratagucci. Let me give you my card and if you can think of anything else, anything at all, I’d be ever so grateful if you gave me a ring. If we need anything else from you, I’ll let you know.”

  Rising from my chair, I held out my hand to Carla. “Let’s get you home safe and sound, yes?”

  Without a word, Carla rose on wobbly legs, taking my hand. When I opened the door to Father Rico’s office, there was a small crowd of people waiting for us.

  Higgs and Coop were there with Knuckles and Goose, and so were both of the deacons. Their faces all bleak with worry and lined with their weariness.

  Knuckles gave me a hug and said against the top of my head, “You want me to take Carla home? Happy to do it if you need me to.”

  I turned in his embrace and asked Carla if she’d be all right with that. Her nod was silent, her movements sluggish as she let Knuckles herd her toward the door, leaving the rest of us to stare at each other in more shell-shocked silence, still in a state of disbelief.

  Higgs was the first to speak when he said, “I’m stunned. I’ve seen a lot in my time on the force. I’ve seen a lot undercover, but I’ve never seen a killer be so careless. It’s almost as if he wants to get caught.”

  Leaning back against the wall, I closed my eyes and nodded with a tired shake of my head. “There has to be something on the body to help us. Some fibers, a fingerprint—anything.”

  Goose leaned into me, giving me a nudge with his bony shoulder. “Speaking of fingerprints…”

  I popped my eyes open and looked at him, head cocked. “What about them?”

  Jamming his hands inside the pockets of his worn leather vest, he gave me a concerned gaze. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  My shoulders slumped. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Lemme have it.”

  Moving closer to me, as the forensics team and police officers began to clear out, he said, “Whoever did this, Trixie girl, they didn’t just chop off his head. I heard that forensics guy Pickles talkin’ about it.”

  I fought a gasp and my weary legs began to tremble and I’m not sure if that was from fright or exhaustion, but I had to ask. “What?”

  “You heard me, kiddo. This sicko didn’t just cut his head off. They burned off his fingerprints, too.”

  Chapter 8

  I was still trying to come to grips with the brutality of this particular murder as Coop and I entered our house—a place that had become my haven in all its soft hues and comfortable furniture.

  Yet, I didn’t feel as soothed by my surroundings as I normally did. My eyes were on fire and my legs were sore and shaky from tension. I knew I needed to sleep, I just didn’t know how that was going to be possible.

  I had no idea how I was ever going to get any rest tonight with the images of that body emblazoned in my brain. Add to that the idea that the corpse’s fingerprints were burned off, and I couldn’t shut my brain down for anything.

  “Trixie Lavender? Would you like me to make you some chamomile tea to help you sleep?”

  I plopped down on our couch and let my aching body sink into the deep cushions with a grateful sigh. The muted colors of the guest cottage we rented from Knuckles always brought me peace. His knack for decorating, for adding soothing warmth to a space, was most appreciated tonight.

  Jeff hopped up next to me, tucking himself beside my thigh.

  “Ya all right there, Trix?” he asked, putting his head in my lap and sighing.

  We’d offered to bring him home with us so Higgs and Cal could settle the men at the shelter, who were quite uneasy, as a by the by. They weren’t over their last run-in with a killer on the loose being so close to home. Adding another to the mix had left them nigh on paranoid, and who could blame them?

  There was someone out there, killing nuns and throwing headless, fingerprint-less bodies into church storage closets with abandon. This wasn’t a careful, methodical killer. He (and I use the pronoun loosely) was wandering around willy-nilly, and that was downright scary.

  Still, I scratched Jeff’s head, enjoying the warmth he provided. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

  “I did a whole lotta snoopin’ around out there tonight, Trix. Listened in on a whole lotta conversations, heard pretty much nothin’. If the killer was there, he was careful.”

  “Well, at least he was careful about something. He sure isn’t careful about leaving bodies lying around, is he?”

  Livingston groaned from his perch. “Bodies, dumplin’? As in, now there’s more’n one?”

  Leaning my head back on the couch, I explained what had happened tonight with all the grim trimmings.

  Livingston whistled long and low when I was through, spreading his wings. “Heavens to mergatroid,” he muttered.

  “Tell me about it. I mean, who dumps a body in the storage closet of a church, for cripes’ sake? Don’t you find that a little bold?”

  He scoffed and shuffled, his feathers rippling. “I’m still wonderin’ who kills a sacred vessel of the Lord. I don’t understand the motive for harmin’ a harmless nun. I’m beginnin’ to wonder if it has to do with somethin’ she knew, Trixie. You keep sayin’ the way she was snuffed out was done with vengeance, but who has hate for a nun ’cept for Satan himself?”

  “Right?” I crowed, slapping my thigh. “What I really need to do is sit down with a pen and paper and hash this out in black and white. Your idea that this crime was motivated by something she knew makes perfect sense, and I need to hash that out. But for some reason, I haven’t been able to get my feet under me since this thing started. Higgs says it’s because I’m emotionally invested, and he’s probably right. I’m not thinking with my head, but I’ll need to if I’m ever going to catch who did this.”

  Coop returned with a steaming mug of tea and handed it to me, settling herself in the plump chair opposite the couch.

  “I think it’s best for all concerned if you get some sleep, Trixie. This day has been taxing enough without the added stress of murder boards and sticky notes.”

  I sipped at my tea and looked at her over the rim of my mug, letting the warm liquid slide down my throat. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again, Coop. I can’t get the image of that body out of my head.”

  Nodding, Coop eyed me with her critical gaze, her raspy-smoky voice honest when she spoke. “It was pretty gruesome, but what good will you be if you don’t get some rest? You can’t go on with so little sleep. What help is that to Sister Ophelia?”

  Ah, my Coop. Always the voice of reason. Jabbing a finger in the air, I agreed. “You’re righ
t. Maybe some of this yummy tea will help me relax enough to rest, and I’ll wake up with all the answers to my questions about Sister Ophelia and the unidentified body in the storage closet.” Or maybe I’d simply create more questions.

  Coop pursed her lips and cocked her head to the left. “You know, speaking of the body, where do you suppose the killer left the head? It must be somewhere out there. Do you think the police will look for it? How would you even look for such a thing?”

  Blanching, I fought a cringe as I leaned forward and set my half-empty mug on the coffee table. Death, even a brutal one like that of the headless body in the storage closet, didn’t faze Coop in the way it did the rest of us. And that was through no fault of her own.

  I had to remember she’d seen her fair share of horror, living in Hell for so long. She’d been witness to unspeakable horror, in fact. Seeing a beheaded body was probably akin to an afternoon stroll in hot lava before forty lashes with a whip.

  Her matter-of-fact tone was simply her realism, poking its head through the muck of these murders.

  “Good gracious, Coopie,” Livingston chastised with a cluck of his tongue. “Don’t be so crass, girl. ’Tis unseemly!”

  “You hush, Quigley Livingston. I’m not being crass. I’m being practical, and practicality says the police will look for the head that belongs to the body. How else will they identify it? They don’t even have fingerprints, so they’ll need teeth to try to match with dental records.”

  Coop, schooled in the college of Law & Order: SVU and CSI, had obviously learned a thing or two about what came next in an instance such as this.

  “She’s right, Livingston. Though, I don’t know how they’ll do it or where they’ll even begin. If the two murders are tied together, I don’t know what the common thread could be, but whoever murdered the person in the storage closet doesn’t want them to be identified. Yet, I can’t help but wonder, is this even related to Sister O’s death at all?”

  “Two murders at a church are certainly not a coincidence, Trixie Lavender.”

  “Okay, so let’s look at the method of murder. Sister Ophelia was strangled. The body was beheaded. Was the body strangled, too?”

  “Strangulation is an angry act, Trix. Real angry,” Jeff chimed in. “I saw a news report on it when Higgs was watching Dateline.”

  “Okay, so what’s a beheading if not angry, right?” I shook my head and sipped more of my tea. “None of this is making any sense. But right now, my priority is Sister Ophelia’s murder—at least until we find out who the body belongs to and if they’re connected in some way.”

  Coop crossed her slender legs, leaning forward to stroke Jeff’s spine. “So tomorrow, after you’ve had a fortifying night of sleep, we’ll sit down and do what we always do. We’ll start with social media, we’ll look at all the parties involved and see what they’re posting, who they know. You know, the usual, and then branch out from there.”

  “I have a feeling social media isn’t going to be much help, Coop. I mean, we’re talking nuns here. At least in Sister Ophelia’s case, there won’t be much to find. They’re people of faith. They don’t use social media the way we do. Facebook is more like a global bulletin board for them rather than a way to socialize.”

  “That’s probably true, but maybe someone who does use social media on the reg posted on one of their pages. And after we do all that, we talk to people, right? Deacon Delacorte was one of the last people to talk to Sister Ophelia. He’s a start. Then we move on to Deacon Cameron and Sister Patricia and so on.”

  I loved Coop’s optimism, especially when I lacked any right now. That and focus. I was having trouble staying the course. I should have talked to those people before I ever left the church the night the sister was murdered, and if not then at least the next day. Though, I wasn’t sure exactly what more they could tell me that hadn’t already been told.

  Still, it wasn’t like me at all.

  “Yes,” I confirmed tiredly. “We can definitely do those things, Coop. But my hope is Tansy will have more information tomorrow once this new body’s seen the coroner’s eyes. Maybe whatever they used to kill Sister Ophelia was what they used to kill the person in the storage closet, and we’ll have some kind of evidence to help us.”

  Coop took my empty mug from me and set it on the wood coffee table. “I think for now, you should call it a night and get some rest. At least try to sleep. I don’t have any appointments until late afternoon. So I can help you in the morning.” She held out her hand to me. “C’mon. Bedtime.”

  I didn’t refuse her because protesting was futile. Not to mention, I needed some time alone to process what was happening and find a way to come to terms with the images burned in my brain.

  Grabbing her hand, I dropped a kiss on Livingston’s head and plodded toward my bedroom with Jeff in tow. “Thanks, Coop. you were awesome tonight with Solomon. I appreciate you and everything you do.”

  She glared at me before pulling up either side of her mouth with her fingers, making a smile. “I’m always happy to help. Even if you can’t see it on my face.”

  I giggled before I gave her a quick hug and whispered, “I’ll see you in the morning. Make sure you fire up your laptop so we can social-media stalk our very few suspects.”

  She gave me the thumbs-up sign. “You bet. Wake me if you need me.”

  I closed the door and let the silence of my bedroom permeate my ears. Jeff slid silently to the far side of the bed and situated himself in his usual place of rest on a set of cushiony pillows, while I headed in to wash my face and brush my teeth.

  As I ran a quick brush over my hair, I ignored the deep shadows under my eyes and the pinched look on my pale face. All I wanted to do was block out the night’s events and attempt some sleep. I padded to the edge of my bed and pulled down the fluffy comforter, not even bothering to remove the throw pillows Knuckles had so painstakingly chosen.

  Crawling into bed, I clicked the light off and stretched from head to toe before rolling to my side and staring off at the wall, watching the reflection of the lights dance from outside on our small patio.

  I reached out a hand and stroked Jeff’s back, the wiry texture of his fur soothing me. The last thing I remember before the bliss of sleep overtook was Sister O’s face, smiling at me as she told me about the last episode of Perry Mason she’d watched. She loved Perry Mason almost as much as I loved Monk and Jessica Fletcher.

  Clinging to that image, I drifted off to sleep.

  “Trixie! Wake up!”

  I felt the bed sag and ripple beneath me and heard Jeff’s voice from somewhere far off.

  “Coop! Coop, get in here now! Trixie’s havin’ a wicked nightmare! Cooop!”

  I fought to open my eyes, but it felt as though they were glued shut. So I jolted upward, my body pitching forward, only to crash to the floor and knock my head on the corner edge of my nightstand.

  I managed to force my eyes open, holding up my hands to thwart Jeff, who was inches from my face, his hot breath whooshing under my nose.

  Then Jeff was on top of me, pawing my arm, seconds before Coop burst in looking fresh as a daisy. “Trixie? Trixie, what happened?”

  I scooted up and pressed my back against the nightstand. “I don’t know,” I grumbled, my throat sore and dry.

  “She was doin’ that thing again, Coopie!” Jeff declared, his body shaking, his tone anxious as he danced from foot to foot. “Drawin’ on her sketch pad like her fingers didn’t belong to her. She was drawin’ and rockin’ and it was wicked bananas! I tried to wake her up, but she couldn’t hear me.”

  I placed my hands on either side of my body and hauled myself upward, wobbling when I was fully erect. Coop had switched on the light, giving me a clear glimpse of the mess I’d made. Pillows were on the floor, the comforter rumpled and shoved to one side, and there in the middle of it all was my sketch pad.

  The vanilla paper, covered in my pencil strokes, loomed in front of me. I reached for it, my hands shaking as I tr
ied to clear the cobwebs in my head and focus on what I’d sketched.

  “How odd,” Coop said from over my shoulder.

  And I had to agree. How odd indeed.

  “If you think that’s odd, you shoulda seen her drawin’ it,” Jeff exclaimed, hopping up on the bed and dancing around. “She was sketchin’ like her life depended on it, but her eyes weren’t even open!”

  Ah. So evidently, Artur was back, and back with a vengeance. The last time I’d done something like this was when Dr. Mickey had been killed, and the sketch I’d drawn—or should I say, Artur had drawn—had been a clue. We didn’t understand it at the time, but it all made sense once Dr. Mickey’s murder had been solved.

  This time, I planned to pay closer attention.

  It’s not like I had anything reliable to go on. This phenomenon had only happened once. Could I even trust it was a clue?

  “Artur?” I murmured to Coop as I craned my neck to look at her.

  She blinked and shook her head. “I don’t understand. If we consider what little information we have on the demon inside you, he apparently helped us the last time you did this. Remember?”

  Nodding, I rubbed my eyes, realizing for the first time it was morning and, while the sun wasn’t exactly shining, it was certainly light out.

  “I do. How could I forget?”

  “So if he’s evil, why did he help you last time, even if we didn’t realize he was helping, and what does this mean?” She held up the sketch and I examined it more closely.

  “I don’t get it either,” I whispered, my words shaky.

  Yet, my drawing was very clear. In fact, if Artur was the one responsible for this, he was pretty good—far better at shading than I’d ever be.

  Coop scratched her head, pushing her long dusky-red hair over her shoulder. “It’s just a picture of a television.”

  It sure was. And that was all it was—a picture of a TV with nothing on the screen. How bizarre.

  I looked to Coop, feeling ridiculously helpless. “I don’t understand. Is this a clue like the last time? Does this mean I should watch the TV? Or do you think it has something to do with Sister Ophelia and the headless corpse?”