Daria chortled. “I think we’ve made a match.”
Everyone around them joined in. Quinn did too, but that wasn’t her only reaction. Her hands were shaking, so she stuffed them in her pockets. Must be the adrenalin.
“Meantime, you”—Aiden pointed over to Quinn with his chin—“come with me.”
Everyone in the kitchen went ooohhh out loud, like they were back in grade school. She wanted to crawl under the stairs and make herself a Harry Potter home.
She followed Aiden out of the residence, with all eyes on them.
“Where are we going?”
Aiden grunted as he stomped. “Somewhere I can speak loud enough to get through that skull of yours.”
She stopped. “I don’t need another lecture or for you to pat my head or rumple my hair.”
He whirled around and got very close to her face. “Is it possible you can wait until we get into the SUV to talk?” She didn’t budge and he noticed. “Please.” he added.
She could do that. “Yes, I can grant you that courtesy, seeing as you saved my cousin’s life and all. You were like a superhero back there.”
His gaze heated, moving from her eyes to her mouth and back again.
In her nervousness, she babbled on. “Although I’m betting what you did violated ten different rules of police protocol. If I had to guess. I need to remind myself to look that one up when I get home.”
He took a deep breath. “In. The. Car.”
“Fine.”
They walked along the narrow gravel driveway. Spotting her heels, she scooped them up before hopping into his SUV, and even though it was obvious he was beyond ticked off, he still opened the car door for her.
He closed it the normal way, not in the passive-aggressive slamming-hard fashion she was half-expecting. He folded himself in on his side and shut the door.
He raised his hand. “Let me speak first.”
She closed her mouth.
“If you share what I’m about to say outside this car, not only will I deny it, but I will charge you with interfering with a felony investigation. Do we understand each other?”
With eyes as round as saucers, she nodded.
“You could’ve gotten yourself killed back there.”
“I know. But I didn’t.”
His gray eyes darkened. “You could’ve gotten your cousin hurt or killed.”
She shut her mouth.
“That scenario could have gone down a million and one ways, most of them bad enough I don’t even want to picture them.”
Quinn looked down at her hands.
“What you did was reckless and dangerous, and it scared the sh—” He stopped himself, running his hand up and down his face a bunch of times. “Just tell me you understand that?”
Quinn knew he was right, which was why she kept staring at her hands.
He wasn’t done. “It may also have been the bravest thing I’ve seen in my life. The dog wasn’t bad either.”
Wait. What?
She looked up. “Really?”
“You were magnificent.”
She sucked in some air, not realizing she had been holding her breath, something she did when she was nervous.
He had more to share. “Now, this bizarre situation aside, I could say over and over again for you not to continue investigating and asking questions, but I know you well enough to understand you won’t stop until we catch whoever did this. You may not have liked Tricia, but on some level you feel it’s on you to make this right. You’re wrong, by the way, but I understand the instinct. Are you with me so far?”
She tried to wet her lips, but her mouth had gone dry, so she nodded instead.
“Okay, well, after you found Tricia’s phone, we did a scan and found texts and emails from Wyatt. A lot of them. Trina was correct that he’s been obsessing over her for years. However, it wasn’t a stalking case because Tricia answered him—often—and not to blow him off. It’s obvious to anyone from the outside that she was leading him on, but I’m guessing Reynolds never got that memo.
“But it was worse than even her sister knew. He fixed her speeding tickets. He gave her tips on future zoning ordinances discussed inside the department—anything that could possibly help her business. As far as I was concerned, he was as good as fired, but we kept him on, thinking maybe he’d lead us to the killer.”
“You don’t think it was him?”
“We can’t rule anyone out, but he was on duty the night she died. I don’t know—maybe he slipped her something before then. Not all substances are caught by a tox screen. But it had to be something because someone doesn’t go from perfectly healthy to dying of liver and kidney failure, partially paralyzed, without something to help that along. We’re investigating that now. We had hoped Wyatt would lead us to the answer, but obviously the plan has changed with this whole mess.” He stopped to grab a water bottle from the center console, cracking open the cap seal and taking a long drink. Quinn couldn’t help but watch his throat work, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Everything about him was utterly masculine.
Note to self: You really need to get out of the house more.
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
Aiden scanned the scene out the window before answering. “Because, while I knew much of what you’ve already shared, you got pieces of evidence and some informal statements no one on my team could get—and that’s impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not finished.” He put the water bottle back in the console, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Obviously Wyatt’s off the force and remains a person of interest in the case. Trina is also a person of interest. And as torn up as Scott is, we can’t rule him out because, unfortunately, most female murder victims knew their killer intimately. But the first two’s motives are sketchy. It’s speculation. We still don’t know what killed her.”
Quinn piped in. “Two healthy individuals dying of sudden-onset organ failure featuring partial paralysis. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“What? The Levine case?”
“Absolutely.”
His jaw shimmied back and forth. “You’re right, it’s odd, but there’s nothing tying them together. I can’t request a court order to exhume a body without something linking Doctor Levine to Tricia in some way. It’s a specious connection, at best.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn spotted her cousin leaving the abbey, a bandage on her neck, heading toward Aiden’s SUV. Rueger was trotting next to her and along with RBG.
Aiden noticed her cousin’s approach as well. “Hey, not a word about what we just talked about, even to your partner in crime over there.”
Quinn didn’t like the idea of keeping a secret from Daria. But then again, wasn’t her cousin keeping a few of her own? Like, what had really happened between her and Raj, and why the sudden interest in religious life as soon as Quinn left the country?
One has nothing to do with the other. You know better.
“Honestly, Daria’s been the one urging me to talk to you from the beginning, so maybe you don’t want to be so fast to leave her out of the loop.”
A shadow of disappointment flashed across his face. “May I ask why you didn’t?”
“Talk to you in the first place?”
“Yeah.”
She sighed, staring out the window. “Because I didn’t want you to mess up my hair yet again and tell me to go back to playing with dolls.”
He let out a laugh. “Quinn, every time someone gave you a doll, you chopped the hair off and threw it away.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t play dumb.”
His brows went north. “Play dumb? With you? Never.”
“Whatever,” she said retrieving her purse from the car floor and getting out a piece of gum. She had a sour taste in her mouth.
He eyed the book purse. “Nice choice by the way—the story of a man who loses his wife at the prime of her life. Fitting for the funeral today.”
That surprised
her. She gazed down at her Love is a Mix Tape book purse. “You’ve read it?”
He gave a lopsided smile. “Yeah, Quinn, I’ve read it. Cops read, you know.”
Of course, he’d read this book, and of course he understood her silent tribute.
“Stop being so cool, Aiden. It’s hard to stay annoyed at you when you do that.”
“You’re wrong about one thing, though, smarty-pants,” he went on.
“What’s that?”
He brushed some stray hairs off her cheek. “I don’t see you as a kid. Not anymore.”
Holy—did he just say what I think he said?
Just as Quinn and Aiden were finally getting somewhere, Daria came barreling to the car and opened the door, letting Rueger and RBG hop in first.
“Make room for me, lovebirds,” Daria said.
She froze, ready to die all over again, until she realized her cousin was talking to the dogs. Quinn’s eyes scanned Aiden’s face, but he was back in cop mode.
The moment was gone.
As soon as Quinn buckled herself in, Daria shut the door, scooted over to the middle, and leaned over, her forearms resting on the backs of their seats.
“All right now—tell me what I missed.”
Chapter Twelve
“I feel like someone after a deluge being asked to describe the way it was before the flood while I’m still plucking seaweed out of my hair.”
—Norman Rush, Mating
“Wow, two Caine women tangled with the law in under a month. I believe that’s a new record.”
Uncle Jerry was what her mama called “a real pot stirrer.” Quinn and Daria’s latest brushes with Vienna PD’s finest served as fodder for his favorite pastime: teasing with love. This had been his third joke in the last couple of days, but every time, his exaggerations grew more outrageous, even as his gaze lingered on Daria’s neck bandage.
Quinn watched father and daughter taking turns needling the other. Bad dad puns. Inside jokes. Father and daughter spoke each other’s language of twisted humor. Her cousin was close with both her parents, but someone would have to be blind not to notice her special bond with her father.
Everyone was at the store that day—not just family, but half of Vienna too. Quinn’s dad was ringing up a bunch of books on current events at the front register. Her mother was serving coffee and Mary Lee’s famous crackle treats—which everyone coined “crack” brownies because they were that good and addictive. Aunt Johanna and Uncle Jerry were sitting at the counter, chatting with Adele and the other customers as if they had all the time in the world. Daria had come in for a brief visit—mostly to get away from the press parked at the abbey. The attention was driving her batty, but having Rueger by her side seemed to make her feel better.
These were the days Quinn reveled in. They had propped the back door of the shop open, enjoying the rare treat of a fresh cool breeze. Whatever heat of summer they’d suffered under a few days ago had now been replaced by cooler temperatures and the promise of rain. They knew the breezes and low humidity wouldn’t last, so they had to soak in the outside goodness while they could. Quinn also had her office door wedged open so she could work and still feel a part of the store’s happenings, although considering the books for elementary school kids were situated right by her office, her work was becoming more show-and-tell than productive work session.
She didn’t mind. Quinn got a kick out of demonstrating how a book was put together and letting the children’s little fingers pull the linen thread to make the stitches. They found the process almost as thrilling as discovering a new favorite picture book.
Daria came over to help. “Who wants a story?”
“Me! Me!” the little ones exclaimed, some jumping up and down in place, their tiny arms shooting straight up while waving their hands.
“Thank you,” Quinn mouthed to her cousin, who smiled and settled into the green leather chair in the corner, the one with the white canvas pillow saying “Just One More Chapter.”
Daria perused the teeming bookshelf and chose one of her go-to standards, Dragons Love Tacos, and started reading. She was one of the most animated, versatile storytellers around, using her background in drama to conjure funny voices, especially her dead ringer of a British accent. The kids adored her.
Quinn was about to go back into her office to work on a journal with a juicy tale. It was delicate work, the leather worn, the boards partially rotted. It had belonged to Rachel’s maternal great-grandmother, and she felt honored Bash’s ex trusted the family heirloom to her care.
Before getting started on the project, Quinn happened to glance up, a quick peek out the back window, only to spot Rachel Brooke Slingbaum in the parking lot with her brother. Even with the door open, she couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could tell by their body language they were having one heck of an impassioned discussion. They were almost nose to nose, her hands clasped together, with his cupping hers. He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as she shook her head. But she wasn’t moving away either.
Quinn couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen two people so much in love. She wanted to be happy for them, but one glance at their expressions foretold they weren’t getting back together anytime soon. Quinn knew her well enough to understand Rachel was a stubborn woman. She was loving and generous, funny and brilliant, but she had her pride. And she could hold one mean grudge.
The spontaneous story time ended, and the children dispersed back to their parents. Daria curtsied, with a round of applause from the grateful parents, appreciative of the small break.
“I’m here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses on the way out.”
Everyone laughed, including Quinn. But that didn’t mean Daria hadn’t caught her staring out the window toward the drama in the back lot.
“Think those two will work it out?” she asked.
Quinn exhaled loudly. “Who knows? It’s going to take a lot more than some texts and a couple of conversations for him to win her back.”
Daria scratched her chin. “When it comes to women, Bash hasn’t ever had to work too hard. Think he has it in him?”
Quinn blew on some wet glue on one of the book boards. “That is an excellent question.”
Just then, Rachel backed away and headed straight for her car. Bash didn’t move, standing off to the side, hands fisting his hair, watching her drive off. Quinn hoped he was going to walk back to the store so she could ask him what happened.
But he didn’t. He left his car in the lot and took off in the other direction. She had no idea where he was headed, but she could tell he was all worked up: head bowed, shoulders tense and hunched up to his ears, his pace fast.
She wanted to run after him.
“Don’t,” Daria said, reading her mind. “Let him have some time, get himself sorted out.”
“But I could help him. Tell him what he needs to do to win her back. She needs a big gesture, something to prove he’s going to stick around this time.”
Daria gave a slight headshake. “Stay out of it, at least for a little while.”
“But why?”
“Because he’s over thirty and it’s time he figured some of this out for himself. His moving home and wanting some roots is a good start. Now, let’s see how far he gets on his own before we need to throw a life raft over.”
The phone rang in the store. “Hold that thought—I have to get this.” She picked up the phone. “Good afternoon. Prose and Scones. Quinn speaking.”
“Oh good! Just the person I was hoping to talk to,” the elderly voice said on the other end.
“Well, you’ve got me. Who, may I ask, is calling?”
“This is Reverend Mother Eugenia from Guinefort House.”
Oh wow. Why do I feel like I’m in trouble?
“Good afternoon. Are you looking for Daria?”
“No, I am calling for you, my dear,” she clarified. “I’d like you to join us for dinner this evening.”
Phone to her ear, Quinn’s eyes darted toward her cousin, who mouthed, “Who is it’?”
Still maintaining eye contact, Quinn answered, “Sure, I’d love to come to dinner, Reverend Mother.”
Daria’s face fell.
Uh-oh. Something was going on.
“May I bring something?”
“No, just yourself,” the Reverend Mother said. “Dinner is served promptly at five thirty.”
Five thirty? Was the abbey now offering an early-bird special or something?
“Sure thing. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Until then.” She hung up.
Quinn returned the phone to its charging cradle.
“Did the Reverend Mother of my order just invite you to dinner tonight?”
“I guess so. Have any idea why?”
Daria started chewing on the corner of her thumb. “I haven’t the first clue. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. Forget those clouds hovering over your brother; we need to get ready for the real storm coming.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Hearing nuns’ confessions is like being stoned to death with popcorn.”
—Fulton J. Sheen, Catholic bishop, author, and television host
The upshot to having a weakness for retro fashion was that Quinn already had the perfect outfit for dining with a superfluity of Anglican nuns. It was another midi dress, this one in celadon blue, with a most charming Peter Pan collar. There were tiny fleurs-de-lis embroidered along the trim of the cream-colored fabric, which only served to complement her gold cross stud earrings.
When Quinn knocked on their door, one of the nuns answered, conducting a slow perusal, a hint of a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.
“Nice touch with the cross earrings. The purse is even better, although Maria von Trapp was Catholic, but that’s just being petty now, isn’t it?”
She was talking about the book purse Quinn had in hand, another in her growing collection: an upcycled copy of The Sound of Music. Artist Melissa Mason—Etsy shop owner extraordinaire of Viva Las Vixens—had turned the hardcover book into a purse, this time with a short, carved bamboo handle.
Quinn was standing on the stoop where, just a few days before, Detective Harrington had carted away former police officer Wyatt Reynolds in cuffs. The difference in circumstances was jarring.
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