Officer Reynolds scowled. “Because she wants to appear innocent.” He tapped his head. “Reverse psychology.”
It was now Quinn’s turn to look up to the heavens and mutter, “Deliver me.”
Aiden approached him. He was a good four to five inches taller than Wyatt, and Quinn noticed how Officer Reynolds thrust his chin out and squared his shoulders back—a shorter man’s habit, one she remembered Scott doing often. Quinn felt like Jane Goodall with an ape in the wild, seeing the runt attempting some sort of dominance in spite of being out-alphaed.
“I’m going to have Shae submit the evidence, Reynolds. That way there’s no chance of anyone being accused of impropriety. And I suggest you rein in that attitude. If I have to warn you again, I will not hesitate to write you up. Do we understand each other?”
Reynolds’s cheeks puffed out like a blowfish. Quinn could almost taste the bitter in his mouth.
“Yes, sir,” he muttered.
“I’ll check these into evidence straightaway,” Officer Johnson said, her gaze settling on the cousins. “Our tech guys will comb through her data. This is an important find. Thanks.”
Daria threw her hands up. “See? Now that’s how you say thank-you.”
Quinn ignored her cousin’s outburst. “I read a study by the United Nations that stated while most men are murdered by a stranger, the majority of women—I think it was fifty-eight percent—are murdered by a partner or family member.”
Three pairs of eyes stared back at her.
“What? It means her phone will, most likely, have pertinent personal info to lead you to her killer. That’s a good thing.”
Officer Reynolds’s mouth was hanging open. “Now how and why do you have that kind of information?”
Aiden and Sister Daria said in unison. “That’s just Quinn.”
She ignored both of them. “Anyway, it’s going to help loads.” She shoved her hands deep into her pockets. “Especially if she’s like most people our age. We live on our phones.”
“Right, well, I’ll meet you two back at the station in a bit,” Aiden said to the officers.
“All right.” Shae took the filled evidence bags from him. “You two? Maybe leave the rest of the police work to us from now on.”
She might have made it sound like a question, but there was no mistaking that it was a command. Shae wrapped her hand around the bend of Officer Reynolds’s elbow, almost dragging him back to the squad car like a stubborn mule.
As soon as they were inside the car and headed in the opposite direction, Quinn let out a sigh of relief. “Well, glad that’s done.”
“Indeed.” Daria glanced at the time on her phone. “I need to get back to the abbey.”
“Yeah, I need to get to the bookstore. I have a ton of projects to work on.”
Aiden’s gray eyes darkened, something she noticed they did whenever he had a lot on his mind, as if he had his own rain clouds following him around. “Listen, you two finding that phone … it’s appreciated, but Reynolds made a point others can make just as easily.”
Her eyes widened. “What—that we planted that phone there? That’s ridiculous.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “You know that and I know that. But others don’t. The more time I have to spend proving you’re innocent, the less time goes into finding out who’s guilty.”
He had a point there.
“But your cousin is right,” he added, taking a couple of steps into Quinn’s space, close enough for her to catch a hint of his soap-and-cotton scent. “You two found something my entire team missed.”
Her gaze focused on the tops of his shoes, suddenly too shy to meet his eye. “Oh, well, it’s understandable, with that green cover and the tall grass not being mowed by the fence. Anyone could’ve missed it.”
“Everyone else did miss it, but not you,” he said, his stare so strong she felt it warm her skin. “I’d try recruiting you for the police force, but Adele and Finn would tan my hide for even thinking it.”
She looked up, to determine if he was teasing her or not, but all she could see was him beaming down at her like the sun framed around his head. Her mouth went bone dry.
“C’mon, let me give you both a ride.”
* * *
Quinn should’ve known something was up as soon as she walked into the bookstore. Instead of being at her garden, hosting the Walk on the Hill, her mom was behind the register. That was her first clue. Being greeted by her pained expression? That was clue number two.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t know you were planning on coming in today. I would’ve told you to take the day off, especially after that ghastly scene at the police station.”
Usually Mama Caine welcomed her with a warm smile or chilled tea. Her dad would glance up from his book, his round spectacles perched on his forehead like a hood ornament, and give a short nod before returning to his reading. And then, if it was busy, Quinn would pitch in behind the counter, serving drip coffee, wine, or a variety of easily assembled nibbles. If it was quiet, she’d retreat to her office in the back.
It was late Saturday afternoon, and besides her parents, there wasn’t another soul in the entire store. She double-checked the time on her watch: it was just shy of five o’clock, exactly when the place should’ve been abuzz with people enjoying glasses of sauvignon blanc or a cold pale ale. Usually, there would already be customers assembled on the white leather cushion stools in a row by the counter while others would be seated outside on the front patio.
They were more than customers, really. They were her neighbors and friends, people she’d known all her life, as well as new faces of those who had just moved to Vienna. Because Prose & Scones was more than a bookstore: it was the town’s unofficial welcome center.
One of the ways the Caines made everyone feel at home was by planting annuals and tending to the perennials in the patio’s surrounding flower boxes. Virginia bluebells, three-petaled purple spiderworts, and orange daylilies as bright and brilliant as summer decorated the outside of their shop. Even though the town did a splendid job of landscaping, mother and daughter took it upon themselves to do some extra gardening along the green patch that divided the street from the sidewalk. Not too much—just a little something-something, to make their slice of Vienna more colorful and fabulous.
There was also a lovely bench nearby, painted with classic book titles under stars, parked right before the patio entrance. That was Quinn’s preferred seat when they weren’t hard at work, not only because the bench artist had depicted copies of her favorite books but also because of its ideal placement in the sun.
Quinn froze by the register, the perfect vantage point to survey everything around her: the store, the patio, and the bench—all vacant. If it weren’t for the Spotify playlist strumming in the background, there wouldn’t have been a sound.
That is, until the toilet flushed.
Her father emerged from the bathroom, surprise coloring his features as soon as he spotted Quinn. “Oh, we should have called.” He plastered on a smile. “Go home and rest. You’ve had a day of it already.”
“Wow, you two really suck at this whole distracting thing.” She whizzed past her mama at the register and then her dad by the lavatory. “Excuse me, I have work to do.”
Before either could stop her, Quinn had made her way to the back of the store and opened the door to her office.
As usual, there was her desk, felt-lined, with many of her bookbinding tools laid out like a surgeon’s instruments: her awl, different-sized bone folders, and her favorite English backing hammer. On the shelves she had stocked a variety of adhesives, small rolls of linen tape, stacks of book boards, and a ream of white woven bound paper.
The adjoining bookcase housed all her current bookbinding projects. Not long ago, the well-maintained piece had been teeming with old books and photo albums, aged yearbooks and rare diaries—assignments that would take her months to refurbish. On last count, she was working on three simultaneously, with over fort
y in the queue.
It only took her five seconds to ascertain that she was now down to twenty-three.
Hot tears stung her eyes as Quinn tried to swallow the sorrow lodged in her throat. A large, warm hand rested on her shoulder. A chin nestled on top of her head.
“They’ll come back around. You’ll see,” her dad said into her hair.
“These are supposed to be my people. They’ve known me forever.” Quinn willed her voice steady. “How could they think I would do such a thing?”
He turned her around to face him. “They don’t know what to think, with the shock of it all. What you’re witnessing is a knee-jerk reaction. Not many may have liked Tricia Pemberley, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t feeling this loss in a profound way.”
Her mother hurried over. “Listen to him, honey. What you’re seeing is a small sample size, not the majority.”
“Not by a long shot,” her father added.
Quinn couldn’t help but balk. “How can you say that when there’s not one customer in here, and with half the projects gone!”
“Because I’m older than you and, hence, can take the long view.” Her father pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Give them time. Soon they’ll remember who they are, and then they’ll remember who you are.”
Adele stroked her daughter’s hair, cupping her chin in her hand. “The people who took back their books were people who don’t know you—or our family—well at all. You stay strong, you hear me? This here’s just a tiny glitch on the radar. It’ll pass, no matter how big a mouth Milly Hauser has.”
The blood drained from her face. “Is Scott’s mom telling everyone I killed Tricia?”
“Adele,” her father warned.
She gave him her “oh hush” look. “It’s better she hears it from us than from some other busybody out there.” Adele let go of Quinn’s face. “She’s carrying on, saying you must’ve been more devastated by his engagement than you let on and that you convinced yourself that if Tricia was out of the way, Scott would find his way back to you.”
Quinn pressed the backs of her fingers to her lips, trying not to vomit.
“If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one Milly’s indicting. She also castigated Trina, right in front of King and Cole.”
King & Cole was the local funeral home. Founded in 1881, it was also the oldest business in town.
“What did she say?”
Her mother brushed wisps of hair out of her way. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I only heard what happened secondhand, on our way into the store today. Supposedly everything started off fine enough. The Hausers accompanied the Pemberleys to make all the arrangements. But as they were leaving the funeral home, Milly Hauser started carrying on, right there on the street, in front of everyone, how she wouldn’t be surprised if Trina turned out to be the killer because she was raving mad with jealousy over her twin marrying first, especially to such a prize as her son.”
Quinn blinked. “Wow, she’s even more delusional than I thought.”
“Milly Hauser may not be my favorite individual, but she’s a mother who loves her children. Seeing your child in pain is an extraordinary hell I don’t wish on anyone.”
Her father stretched up to turn off the light in the back office. “Indeed, but let’s not lose sight of the fact that William and Abigail Pemberley are the grieving parents—not Millicent Hauser.”
“Dad, why are you shutting off the light? I was about to go in there and get some work done.”
He peered down, his spectacles slipping down to the tip of his aquiline nose. “I’m calling time of death on the workday.”
Quinn groaned. “Dad jokes? Really?”
Her mother glanced at the watch on her wrist. “But we don’t close until eight.”
Finn Caine cleared his throat. “I am very well aware, love of my life, but after selling only two coffees and a tacky greeting card so far, I say we pack it in.”
Adele’s hands went to her hips. “Excuse me, but we don’t sell ‘tacky’ greeting cards.”
His brows perked up. “The card said, ‘Everyone wants your opinion. Signed, Alcohol.’”
Quinn laughed, snorting a little. Adele let out a titter.
“Fine, let’s close early. We now have ourselves a free Saturday night. Any suggestions?” her mother asked him.
His impish glint faded away. “As much as I’d prefer to take my bride out, we need to go to Whole Foods and stock up.”
“For what?” Quinn asked.
Awareness set into her mother’s features. “He’s right. We need to make a meal for the Pemberleys. Offer our condolences, even if the funeral’s delayed because they’re waiting on the autopsy.”
The idea of Tricia being the subject of such an invasive examination was almost too much for Quinn to bear. She turned her head away, willing herself not to lose it.
Finn Caine brought her in for a hug. “Listen, kiddo, deep down the Hauser’s and the Pemberley’s know you didn’t do this heinous thing. But you’re a walking, breathing reminder of what was taken from them. Milly may be letting her ire out on you, but that won’t last. Carlson has always known how to calm his wife. He’ll get her to reason. Then, soon enough, the real culprit will be found and brought to justice.”
Her mother joined their hug. “Until then, hold onto us. Because until they catch who did this, you might be the town scapegoat.”
Chapter Seven
“Resist much, obey little.”
—Walt Whitman, Caution
Quinn must have walked through those metal and glass double doors thousands of times. Even before she attended James Madison High School as a freshman, she had often visited on Bash’s behalf. Football games. End-of-year awards ceremonies. She knew her way around the halls well before her own first day there. Another reason for her familiarity: her family’s church rented the high school’s auditorium for their Sunday services. Maybe someday the Anglican congregation would build their own edifice, but for now, they preferred that the money raised go to help people in need instead of to a building fund.
Quinn really wished Bash was with her now, but he had been called into the fire station unexpectedly and couldn’t join the Caine clan for church that Sunday morning. At least her parents could make it, as well as her Aunt Johanna and Uncle Jerry. She spied Daria on the dais, tuning her acoustic guitar with the other church musicians in preparation for the service.
It wasn’t like she was alone—not even close—but she kept thinking about what Tricia had said about her leaning on her brother for protection. Had she been right? Did she use Bash as a shield when she felt unsure of herself? And if so, did the habit stem from just having an older sibling, or was she relying on his being a guy—a good-looking, popular one at that—as a way to avoid uncomfortable confrontations?
She suspected there was a grain of truth in Tricia’s words because they stung. Even with her delayed reaction, she still experienced a physical sensation, right under her ribs. The Pemberley sisters might have resembled twin Barbie dolls, but to assume that their Real Housewives appearance foretold all they were would be a tremendous disservice to them both. They had earned high marks throughout school, not an easy get in the nationally ranked Fairfax County school district. They were the tops in their field, another hard-earned accomplishment in the competitive Northern Virginia real estate market. And they had deserved their mean-girl reputations not just by being aloof and callous, but through their ability to assess other people’s frailties fast enough to spew back the perfect zinger. A bull’s-eye every time. Quinn always thought it a shame they used their powers in such a twisted way. Because even Darth Vader eventually came back from the dark side. She had hoped, someday, they would too.
Plenty of people offered Quinn a tentative smile, a brief wave, but they kept their distance. She wasn’t sure if it was because they thought being near her might be bad luck, like finding a body was somehow contagious. Or perhaps they were giving her space out of res
pect for her privacy even while in public. She really wanted to assume the latter but was afraid it was the former.
Truth was, she didn’t know what to think anymore. Quinn was numb and exhausted. She followed her family, without thought, through the aisle. Quinn was always last because she preferred the end seat. It was less claustrophobic for her.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing your face, especially in a house of God.”
She swirled around. It was Trina Pemberley, standing behind her. Seeing Tricia’s twin made her gasp, like seeing a ghost in the flesh. Same ash-blonde bob and wide-set hazel eyes. Same rose-gold nail polish. Even though her glare contorted her face, Trina was still beautiful, although she wasn’t wearing her usual classic designer suit. She had opted for simple black jeans and a cream-colored, button-down Ralph Lauren shirt with a Kelly-green cardigan.
“Um, oh wow, Trina,” she sputtered. “What are you doing here? This isn’t your church.” Quinn realized how awful that sounded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. It’s just … I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”
Trina ignored Quinn’s condolences, her anger so strong it was like a living thing between them. With teeth. “I came here to see you. I need to hear you say it … admit what you did.”
She was gob-smacked. “I—I swear, I didn’t do anything, Trina.”
“You’re lying!” she screeched, silencing everyone around them, but Trina didn’t notice. She grabbed Quinn’s wrist. “Just tell me why … why would you kill my sister?”
Her throat closed up. “I—I didn’t. I didn’t do anything but take my dog for a walk and find her.”
It was like Trina hadn’t heard her. “While you were traipsing around the world, avoiding any real, adult responsibilities, my sister was building a multimillion-dollar business with me, fighting off the most eligible bachelors around, including your ex. Did it stick in your craw, witnessing all she had, seeing her take chances you’d never have the guts to even consider?”
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