“No, I’m not. That girl always had a coffee with her through school. It’s one of her favorite things. Trust me, a chilled coffee drink will break the ice.”
“Very punny.” Daria rolled her eyes. “Come on—you’re buying.”
They walked through doors, the intoxicating aroma of java surrounding them like a siren’s spell. Caffe Amour was the real deal, roasting beans on site from growers all over the world. Quinn got a kick out of the pile of burlap sacks in the corner, imagining little kids would love to jump all over them, like on those cool bean bag chairs from the seventies. Mr. Amour’s state-of-the-art roaster sat almost smack dab in the middle of his shop, gleaming brilliant, a circular, silver cauldron. Customers would often catch him hovering over his beans, whispering incantations soft and low to them.
Her cousin pointed up in the air as they walked in. “They’re playing one of my favorites.” Daria waved to the people they knew inside—which was most everybody. If a Vienna neighbor wanted the latest “tea”—gossip, not Lipton—this was the place. If you actually wanted somewhere quiet to get work done, buy some Bose noise-canceling headphones or park at the library, because it wasn’t going to happen over here.
Quinn listened. “Who’s playing?”
Daria’s mouth sprang open. “Wow, are you telling me that you, former college DJ and forever vinyl record hoarder, aka queen of the mixtape and playlist, can’t name that tune?”
Two lines creased between Quinn’s brows. “If you’re trying to irk me, you’re succeeding.”
“Doesn’t take much, does it?”
“It’s times like this when I wish we were still little because I could get away with flicking your head really, really hard.”
Maxie, one of the baristas, leaned over. “Don’t feel bad. None of us knew who it was either.” She tightened the ribbon on one of her blue-dyed braids. “The band’s called Rainbow Kitten Surprise. One of the new guys brought it in.”
Daria sported a wicked grin. “My seemingly sweet cousin is actually a closet music snob, and her not knowing some new hip band is killing her inside—the same as if I forgot evening vespers.”
Maxie laughed aloud, mouth wide enough to spot her tongue piercing. “We all got our thing. What can I get ya?”
Quinn ignored her cousin’s glee. “I actually want to order a drink for someone else.”
“Coolio, what can I getcha?”
“It’s for Trina Pemberley. She must come in here a lot. Her office is a block away?”
All humor left the barista’s face. “Yes, she’s a regular.”
Guess someone’s either not a fun customer or not a generous tipper. Probably both.
Quinn went on. “You wouldn’t happen to know her coffee order offhand, would you? I need to stop over there and am looking for any help I can get.”
Someone behind them spoke up. “Oh please. Everyone knows you didn’t kill her sister, so there’s no need for you to kiss the butt of the Wicked Witch of Vienna Northwest. Didn’t you see the Vienna Patch this morning?”
Quinn and Sister Daria turned around. It was Withers Hammock, a third-generation Vienna native, like the Caines, and one of Finn and Adele’s neighbors. It was appropriate they would run into her at Caffe Amour because everyone knew Ms. Withers was the unofficial town crier. Folks around said she knew what happened to people before they knew it themselves.
Daria bit first. “No, we didn’t see it. What does it say?”
“Hold on.” Her blunt-cut, straight black hair, with a lone blonde streak down the side, fell forward as she scrolled through her phone. Quinn had always admired her style, eschewing the typical suburban mom uniform for her own take on Gen X-chic. Today she was wearing faded black skinny jeans with a well-worn Sufjan Stevens concert T-shirt and high-heeled, gladiator sandals. Quinn bet she had a whole closet filled with vintage tees from the coolest bands over the years.
“Here it is.” She squinted, trying to read the print on her phone. “It says the autopsy results indicated she died of liver and kidney failure. ‘While foul play hasn’t been ruled out, the results are inconclusive.’ The article also states that ‘this is the second suspicious death in Vienna in under six months, the last being Dr. Chaim Levine, who also died of liver and kidney failure.’”
Maxie rang up their coffee order. “Whoa—doesn’t sound like either went gently into that good night.”
Quinn appreciated the barista’s apropos use of Dylan Thomas in the moment. Fellow English literature majors unite! “Indeed not. Having the liver and kidneys shut down like that … it sounds painful.”
Withers put her phone away. “You think they’re linked?”
“It seems the reporter who wrote that article does.” Quinn paid for the coffee while Daria took it from one of the other baristas down the line. “We’ve got to get moving. Give my best to your parents.”
“Sure thing. You’re coming to my mom’s show, right?”
“What show?”
Withers reached into her bag and pulled out a glossy five-by-seven card, handing it over. “I’m sure we sent one to your folks. I should get both of your addresses for the next time.”
Daria tittered. “No need to send one over to the abbey. It’s not like we can afford any of it. Didn’t I hear some of her work was purchased for the Smithsonian’s permanent collection? That’s awesome, by the way.”
Her mom, Mei Hammock, was a reowned pottery artist, a master of the Kintsugi technique that she learned in her native Japan before moving to the United States years ago.
Withers waved away the excitement. “It’s great—don’t get me wrong—but this show’s not some high-falutin’ shindig. Think of it as part art show, part fundraiser for The Women’s Center.”
Withers Hammock had followed in her father’s footsteps and earned her PhD in psychology, except once she was part of The Women’s Center’s team, her love for systems and finance made her a natural to take over as executive director. Quinn hearing Mei Hammock was availing her art to benefit the counseling nonprofit didn’t surprise her in the least. It was hard to say no to Withers.
“Listen, whatever happens when you go over to the Wicked Witch’s office, come to the funeral, regardless, okay?” Withers asked.
The service was being held at Vienna Presbyterian, the Pemberleys’ home church. Then her family would head over to Flint Hill Cemetery.
Quinn gave a nod. “All right, I’ll be there.”
“Good. You come too, Daria.”
“Will do. Give my best to your family.”
They both waved, getting out of the coffee shop and on their way. Quinn held the large, iced ten-ingredients-in-one-coffee drink in hand. “Well, that was an interesting development.”
Daria made an inaudible sound. “I have a bad feeling. These murders are definitely linked. Do you think we have a serial killer in our town?”
Quinn peered over. “And I thought I was the designated overreactor in this sleuthing duo.” She switched the drink to the other hand, wiping it down her shirt. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Remember what we learned in science class: correlation isn’t causation.”
Daria snorted. “If it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck …”
Before too long they had arrived at Trina’s office.
Quinn took in a deep breath. “Okay, here goes nothing.”
She swung open the door, stepping into the lobby. Soothing notes of bossa nova floated through the office’s surround sound speakers. Quinn whiffed a couple of times, detecting hints of coconut and citrus in the air. It was like walking into a synthesized vacation, and she’d bet money the twins had paid for one of those scent-designer companies to pump fragrance into their air. Everything was in its designated spot, exactly where it was supposed to be—except for the people. There wasn’t a receptionist at the front desk, nor other realtors circling around. It was as if they had walked into an alternate universe—and just as creepy. She checked the time on her phone.
“It’s not
lunch hour or anything.” Quinn peeked behind one of the dividing low walls for signs of life. “Wonder where everyone is?”
Daria pointed toward the back, at a closed door. “Well, only one way to find out. I can hear her talking. Sounds like she’s on the phone.”
“All right, let’s do this.” Quinn straightened her shoulders and walked across the office, her gusto wasted on a bunch of empty Eames chairs. Her stomach growled.
“Ignore that, please,” she told Daria.
“Couldn’t eat beforehand, huh?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed.
“Because you get all gassy when you’re nervous?”
Quinn huffed. “I know what you’re doing—trying to make me laugh so I can relax. It’s. Not. Working.”
Daria shrugged. “Fine. Resist my helpful intervention.” She gestured toward the door with her chin. “Knock already, then.”
Quinn did as she was told, hearing Trina stop talking for a second before calling out, “Come in! The door’s open.”
She turned the knob and stepped inside. Trina’s office looked like something out of Elle Décor—at least Quinn thought so. She’d never actually read that magazine, but if she ever had, this office would definitely be exactly the type of “workspace” featured. Lots of white with dove-gray chevron patterns. A bright kelly-green velvet couch with matching chaise lounge. White fur throw pillows. There was a wet bar off to the side, mirrored, with a gunmetal-gray bar glass set. It was more like a chic nightclub than a place of business, except for the wall filled top to bottom with real estate awards and plaques. It was the quintessential Trina Pemberley alpha woman cave.
Quinn had expected to find Tricia’s twin a wreck, or at least as much as she’d allow. Maybe her eye makeup would be smeared from crying. Perhaps she would have given up her signature suits for a mopey T-shirt and sweats. At the least, Quinn expected her to be in the same state of mind she was in when yelling at her at church two Sundays ago.
But none of those assumptions proved to be true. Trina Pemberley was flawless. Every hair in place. Not a smudge fettered her complexion. Her eyes were clear and bright, like those of someone who had gotten plenty of rest.
Quinn didn’t want to judge someone else’s grief process, but Trina didn’t appear to be struggling anymore over the loss of her sister, or if she was, Trina had completed the five stages of grief in record time.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
Well, there’s that.
Daria ignored her comment. “Where’s your staff?”
Trina’s gaze turned from hot pokers to ice. “They had to go, not that it’s any of your business.”
This wasn’t going the way Quinn needed it to.
“I’m sorry we didn’t call first. I wanted to bring you your favorite coffee,” Quinn put the drink on her desk, then held up the book bag. “I also brought you Tricia’s yearbooks.”
Trina let out a sardonic laugh. “If you think I’m drinking that, you’re crazy.”
Daria groused. “Don’t be ridiculous. My cousin wouldn’t poison you.”
Quinn forced a polite smile. “Well, at least take the yearbooks.”
Trina stood up. “Ugh, I forgot about those. That was when I thought … never mind. Give them to me.” She held out her hand while tapping one of her pointy, high-heeled toes against the marble floors.
Quinn held out the bag, and Trina grabbed the handles, immediately diving inside to retrieve the yearbooks. Once the first book was in her hands, she stopped dead, studying the repairs. She did the same with the next two, examining them before placing them with care on her desk.
“These look brand new.”
Quinn smiled. “Thank you. I wanted to get them just right.”
Trina looked confused. “But you never called me to confirm a quote. I’m not paying you for these.”
If there’s a special prayer for patience, Jesus, put it in the front of my prayer book-now.
“I didn’t call because I’m not charging you.”
“So … what … you think fixing a few old yearbooks makes up for what you did?”
“Get off it, Trina,” Daria snapped. “Everyone knows Quinn’s been cleared of any suspicious involvement. I’m sure you’ve heard the results of the autopsy, just like the rest of us.”
Those words only made Trina purse her lips even tighter. It was not a flattering look.
“Fine. Whatever. I’m still not paying for it.”
Quinn gazed upward, taking a deep breath. “Again, there’s no charge.”
Trina gazed back down at the yearbooks. “These actually don’t look horrid.”
Daria sat down in one of the chairs opposite the desk. “Listen, we also came by to ask you something.”
Trina blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, make yourselves at home, why don’t you?”
Quinn sat down in the chair next to Daria. “I noticed, going through the yearbooks, particularly the one from eighth grade, that she had saved a lot of handwritten notes from Wyatt Reynolds.”
Trina’s face contorted like she had eaten a lemon. “Ugh, that freak. He is so lame. Always has been.”
Interesting. “You remember him from middle school? Because I didn’t.”
Trina rolled her eyes while plopping back down in her chair. “Well, of course you wouldn’t remember the turd. He wasn’t in honors classes with us. Tricia met him through one of the clubs or something. Of course, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day, but she always had a soft spot for the lost puppies who followed her around.”
Of course, Tricia didn’t like actual dogs, but whatever.
Trina started tapping her long fingernails on her glass desktop. Just talking about Officer Reynolds worked her up. Quinn and Daria shared a look.
“You guys don’t even know,” she went on. “Even after he moved away, he was still trying to get with her. For years even. As if he’d ever have a chance. When he learned to drive, he came all the way down from Baltimore just to take her out for a coffee after school before turning around and heading home again. I think it died down for a while in college, mostly because we moved across the country. But he stayed in touch with her, one way or the other. I told her over and over to blow him off, and now … she’s gone.”
Daria seemed to be taking in what Trina had shared. “And how did Tricia feel about him?”
Trina scoffed. “My sister didn’t ‘feel’ anything for him, at least not romantically. They were friends. Of course, she knew he was in love with her, but that was part of her game—to make as many men fall in love with her as possible—at least before that idiot, Scott, came into the picture.”
Quinn couldn’t help but think it wasn’t looking good for Officer Reynolds. “Did you see the two of them together in the days leading to her death?”
The front door to the main office buzzed and opened. “Hello, anyone here?” someone called out.
“Excuse me, that’s one of my clients. I trust you can show yourselves out?”
“Sure thing,” Quinn said. “Thanks for talking to us.”
Trina breezed by but stopped short before opening the door. “Hey, listen … um, thanks for redoing her yearbooks. And the coffee.” She looked over at Quinn, as if seeing her for the first time. “It took guts walking in here, especially after I bulldozed you at your church.”
If Quinn wasn’t witnessing the moment in real time, she wouldn’t have believed it. “Don’t worry about last Sunday. It’s already forgotten. Call if you need anything.”
Trina nodded and then walked out, her red-bottomed Christian Louboutin shoes clicking against the marble, echoing through the space.
Daria stood up. “All right, well, that was informative. Let’s get out of here.”
“Hold on. I need to use the bathroom.”
Quinn walked toward the private en suite inside Trina’s office. The bathroom was just as stylish as the rest of her office, with lush, deep emerald-green ferns alongside sparkly silver fixtures
. Hanging on the inside of the door was a framed poster—one of the twins’ first ads as a real estate duo. Arms folded and back-to-back, they looked like they could conquer anything as long as they were together.
Quinn finished up, washing her hands with the lavender-scented French soap, realizing too late that Trina was out of towels. Turning off the water, she flicked the droplets into the sink, looking around for something to dry her hands on. There was nothing.
“Great,” she muttered, noticing the closet on the other side of the bathroom facilities. She opened the folding doors. Inside were tons of bathroom supplies as well as extra business “swag.” She reached for some paper towels, only to notice some signage propped up in the back.
But these weren’t the typical posters—at least not for their business.
A knock on the bathroom door made her jump.
“Hey, are you feeling okay?” Daria called out from the other side of the door.
Quinn rushed over, turning the handle to let her cousin in. “Hurry up!” she whispered loudly. “And close the door!”
Daria did as she was told, her head rearing back when Quinn locked the door behind her. “What’s going on?”
“Let me show you.” She went back over to the closet, being careful when she took out the posters and laid them on the floor. “Notice anything?”
Daria’s eyes darted back and forth, recognition dawning on her. “Oh wow, these only have Trina in them.”
“Right. What else?”
“Well, instead of saying ‘The Pemberley Sisters: Northern Virginia’s Real Estate Duo,’ these read ‘The Pemberley Group: Featuring the #1 Realtor in the DC Metro Area’ … wow, she didn’t waste any time.”
Quinn gave her a look. “C’mon—there’s no way she could’ve had these done so fast.”
“Well, let’s see.” Daria bent down. She leafed through the posters. Each one had Trina in a different pose with another outfit.
“These were well thought-out. She had to have time to plan her outfits, choreograph how she wanted each photo posed.” Quinn studied the posters, crouching down to the floor, getting closer. “She even changed her makeup for each look. That takes a lot of time, Daria.”
To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 11