It doesn’t make sense. Wyatt wanted Tricia for himself. Surely he’d try to “off” her fiancé before hurting her—at least that’s what Quinn’s logic dictated.
A little voice in the back of her mind spoke up: But you’re not dealing with logic. You’re dealing with rage and an anger stoked hot enough to murder.
Maybe someone didn’t like the idea of Tricia hanging out with a man who wasn’t her future husband. Wyatt wasn’t the only man in Tricia’s life who got jealous. There was another: huge ego, crazy-possessive, always something to prove, and someone who drove one of those ridiculous sports cars that emitted a ton of white smoke—if memory served.
Scott Hauser.
The idea of him killing Tricia made the bile rise up in her throat, but Quinn couldn’t deny it: her fledgling theory had legs. What if it had been Scott driving the getaway vehicle? He might have been on the short side for a guy, but Scott was strong. He worked out daily, so he could’ve been the person who had unceremoniously dumped Tricia’s body in the middle of the park. She needed to find out where he was the night his fiancé died, but it wasn’t like she could just walk up to him and ask. That was more cojones than even Quinn possessed.
Crap on a cracker … she wished she had been able to identify the car. The only evidence left had been the tire treads.
Wait a second. Hadn’t she taken photos of the marks left on Nutley Street? She dropped her mushroom bag, with only a few inside, and whipped out her phone, scrolling through her pictures: her dog, a plate of food, Mom, books, dog, dog, another dog photo …
“Bingo.” She had taken them.
She ran over to Officer Carter, who had his head halfway inside his foraging bag, sniffing his fungi finds. He peeked up when he sensed he had an audience.
“Rosalie is going to love these cooked up in some garlic and butter! Mmm!” He must have noticed Quinn’s agitation because he straightened up, peering down at her. “You alright there? Something’s got you more wound up than an eight-day clock.”
He’s got that right. “Let me ask you something. Did you ever see the movie My Cousin Vinny?”
Two lines formed between his brows. “Of course I did. I’m a cop. I watch all the cop movies.”
Awesome. At least her dad’s friends were up on pop cultural references. “Okay, so the part in the movie when Marissa Tomei testifies as an automotive expert, being able to tell what kind of car the real culprits were driving based on the tire marks. Was that part real?”
“Oh, that’s real all right.” He shooed some gnats away from his face, probably drawn to his perspiration. “Although her testimony wasn’t totally accurate.”
“How do you mean?”
He scratched the underside of his jaw. “There were actually three cars—not two—made in America with a similar body type to the Buick Skylark that had positraction and independent rear suspension and enough power to make those marks.”
Mr. Esfahani stared. “Now how would you know that, Ned? I own a car dealership, and I wouldn’t have known that.”
Officer Carter cracked his neck with a swift twist. “Oh, I didn’t know it either until I had Lucas over for a movie and barbeque night at my house last summer.” He turned to Quinn. “Lucas is a master mechanic. He owns Frankie’s Garage. When that part of the movie played, he had to walk out of the room, he got so aggravated with the mistake.”
Now her wheels were spinning.
“I see that crazy look in your eye. You’re not planning on doing anything outside your jurisdiction as a private citizen. Right?”
Dr. Franklin scoffed. “Ned, never tell a woman with determination and gumption she’s crazy.”
Ned’s expression transformed right in front of them, from affable forager to steely-eyed cop. “She got lucky last time, Barbara—that maneuver with the dog and the nuns. Next time, Quinn might not come out the other side.”
“Agreed.” Her dad walked over, his fungi bag filled to the brim. “I thought we were foraging, not talking about something that can get you hurt.”
Two against one. That’s never good.
“Dad, bad mushrooms aren’t the only things in Vienna that can hurt someone. There’s a killer out there.”
“I am well aware, Quinn Victoria, but last I checked, you fixed books, not criminal wrongdoings.”
She sighed, her hands on her hips. “You’re right. And the last thing I want to do is worry you.”
A wave of relief washed over him. “So, we’re done with all this?”
“You won’t hear another word.”
He pinned her with his gaze—his equivalent of making her chug a bottle of truth serum—before letting out a long breath, like a bird trapped inside a house that suddenly finds an open window. “Good. Now, let’s see what kind of haul you managed.”
She nodded, opening her bag and directing her focus down on the paltry fungal treasures inside. That way, her dad and Cop-Eyes-Carter wouldn’t catch the look of guilt written all over her face. Quinn had told the truth—and lied—all in the same breath:
Finn Caine would not hear one more word about his daughter meddling in the Pemberley case. And that’s because she was keeping her mouth shut.
No way was Quinn quitting her investigation.
She was finally gaining some momentum—her first real lead—as well as earning some begrudging respect from Aiden. But in the process of trying to catch a killer, had she laid the groundwork for losing her father’s trust?
Chapter Fifteen
“It’s easy to be friends when everyone’s eighteen. It gets harder, the older you get, as you make different life choices.”
—Zadie Smith, British novelist
Foraging mushrooms in nature might have been a Pinterest-worthy, albeit strange, way to spend an afternoon, but it wasn’t the place to find a cell signal. As soon as Quinn got back to civilization, she tried phoning Aiden. Her call went right to voicemail.
The same happened the next day too. When she texted him her latest theory, he replied with “Got it. Thanks.” And that was it. No follow-up. No ‘How are you, by the way?” Nothing.
Guess we’re not “partners in crime” after all.
“Working solo is better anyway,” she lied to herself. Quinn checked her lip gloss in her car visor mirror before exiting the truck. “Here goes nothing.”
Quinn wasn’t meeting a date, although she was starting to think maybe she should be more open to the idea. Because being hung up on a guy who was letting her down was beyond a drag. Anyway, Quinn had decided to head straight for the source for all things happening—and in the town of Vienna, that meant meeting with the “Clink-n-Drink” ladies.
Rumor had it one of their daughters had coined the nickname as a tribute to the moms who enjoyed their weekly “wine o’clock” soirees. The Clink-n-Drink gals not only knew what was happening in Vienna’s business community, they knew everyone’s business in the community.
Withers Hammock was one of them. No surprise. So was Sarah Jovanovićh, owner of the most adorable dog “barkery” in town, a business she readily admitted to opening just to have the excuse to take her mini Australian shepherd, Skipper, to work with her every day. If Withers was the town crier, then Jennifer Ranier was its mayor, at least in spirit. A former Texas sorority girl, Ms. Jennifer knew everybody’s life stories, because she was uber-friendly and extroverted. It also didn’t hurt that she was a realtor, which meant she’d been in almost everyone’s home at one time or another. The last one was Carina Adelman—definitely the odd duck of the group: first, because she was from San Francisco and not from below the Mason-Dixon line like the rest of them, but more so because she was an introverted author who preferred books to people. On paper, they sounded like the start of one of those tacky jokes: “A Catholic, a WASP, a Jew, and an Anglican walked into a bar …” And yet somehow their friendship worked.
Quinn might not have walked into a bar, but she did arrange to meet up with them at Maple Avenue Restaurant during happy hour. To call
them gossips would have rendered them a tremendous disservice. Rather, they were the town’s civic memory, its pendulum marker, and its caretakers. It just so happened they knew exactly the kind of dirt under everyone’s fingernails.
So now the Clink-n-Drink gals were seated in a semicircle around her. The owner of the restaurant herself was waiting to take their order.
Quinn wanted to start off on the right foot. “Ladies, drinks are on me. Order whatever you want.”
They shared glances with one another and tittered.
“Ah, honey, you’re sweet, but that is totally unnecessary.” Ms. Jennifer leaned toward the the owner. “You are not to take one cent of this young lady’s money. You hear me?”
She laughed, offering a pretend salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ms. Jennifer nodded. “Now Amy, why are you the one waiting on us? Aren’t you in rehearsal for The Pirates of Penzance or something?”
It was a good question. Amy Lyons not only owned the restaurant; she was one of the most sought-after local thespians in the DC Metro area—not a small feat considering the innovative theater scene. If she wasn’t at Maple Avenue, she was in rehearsal for another new production.
Amy blew wisps of hair from her deep-set hazel eyes. “Petra’s having the baby.”
“Omigosh, how exciting!” Ms. Jennifer turned to Quinn. “Petra helps run the place with Amy. This marks baby number three for her. I don’t know how she does it.”
“Nice.”
Ms. Withers muttered. “You’d think she never heard of a baby being born before.”
Ms. Jennifer opened her mouth, but her friend raised a palm to her face. “I know you want to ask another ten questions, but some of us are starving and need sustenance.” She shrugged Amy’s way. “I’m sorry if I’m being rude.”
Amy chuckled. “No problem, Mrs. Hammock. What can I get you?”
“We want a bottle of prosecco, right?” She checked in with the group. Everyone but Quinn nodded. “Do you not like prosecco? That can’t be possible. It’s the house wine of Vienna!”
“I’ll just have a bottle of Pellegrino, a glass with ice, and a wedge of lime.”
Carina tilted her head. “Are you in the program or something?”
Quinn’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
She wiped the corners of her mouth with a cocktail napkin. “The program. AA.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped. “Car, I can’t believe you just asked her that!”
“Why? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I, myself, come from a long line of addicts and alcoholics.”
Quinn wished she could’ve recorded what was happening. The Clink’n’Drink ladies were hilarious. “Not in AA. I’m just not much of a wine drinker.”
“Carina, leave her alone.” Sarah elbowed her friend. “Can we get an order of truffle fries and some of that Brie toast too? She gets ‘hangry’ this time of day.”
Quinn smiled to herself. They sounded like one of those old television sitcoms—like Golden Girls, but younger. She could sit there and listen to them all day.
The rest gave their orders.
Quinn cleared her throat to get their attention. “Okay, now for the uncomfortable portion of our scheduled program. Do you have any theories about who could’ve wanted Tricia dead?”
Sarah took a big swig of water. “First that doctor what’s-his-name and now this. It’s awful.”
Ms. Withers swirled the ice around in her glass. “I can’t believe it. Everyone’s wondering what’s happening around here.”
“I showed a condo to the loveliest young man the other day. He’s an officer at Vienna PD,” Ms. Jennifer said while cutting into her Brie toast. “He said that before all this ugliness, there hadn’t been a murder in town for over thirty years.”
Ms. Withers eyed her plate. “Who eats a Brie bite like that? It’s finger food. You’re like Costanza on Seinfeld, eating a candy bar with a knife and fork.”
Ms. Jennifer put down her utensils and scrunched her nose like a bunny rabbit. “Hey, I actually like that episode and thought it was a good idea.”
“It’s a fancy-pants, fussy idea is what it is,” Ms. Withers answered.
The other two friends shared a glance.
“The twins and Scott graduated your year, right?” Ms. Carina picked up a couple of fries. “You and your friends must know more about Tricia than any of us.”
Quinn hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know about that. We weren’t exactly close, and not too many of my former classmates still live around here.”
“Yeah, but there’s got to be a few.” Sarah speared a Brie bite with her fork.
Ms. Withers stopped mid-sip. “Now you too?”
“What? Jen had a good idea. This way, I don’t get cheese grease all over my fingers.”
“That’s a fair and valid point.” Ms. Carina waved Amy over. “Can we get another order of those Brie bites?” She handed her the empty plate. “They went fast, as you can see.”
Quinn grabbed some more fries. They were ridiculously addictive. “Was there anything going on with her family?”
“Tricia’s? Oh please, her parents are the nicest people.” Jen took the bottle and refilled her glass as well as the other ladies’.
Ms. Withers leaned in and said in a low voice. “Can’t say the same for her fiancé’s family. Scott’s all right and Carlson’s a sweetheart, but Milly … yeesh. Can you imagine having that woman as your mother-in-law?”
“What about Maxie? She graduated with you, right? Maybe she knows something.”
Quinn hadn’t thought about Maxie. “Hmm. Maybe.”
Ms. Carina rummaged through her purse. “Hey, does anyone have an extra hair tie? I’m feeling all schvitzy up in here.”
Quinn had never heard that word before. “Uh, is that like psoriasis?”
The usually taciturn author stifled a laugh. “No, honey. It’s not a disease. Schvitzy is Yiddish for ‘sweaty.’”
Ms. Jennifer took a hair tie off her wrist and handed it over. “I brought an extra one just for you.”
Ms. Carina fanned her pretend tears. “See? This is why I love you!” She took the tie and threaded her hair through before refocusing on Quinn. “By the way, I still think talking with people Tricia had regular contact with is the best way to go.”
She had a point. Maxie worked the morning shift at Caffe Amour, only a block away from the twins’ real estate office. She knew Trina’s coffee order without having to blink. When Quinn had mentioned Trina, all the joy had drained away. Perhaps she knew something about Trina that others didn’t? Maybe she’d observed something critical between Tricia and her killer?
“That’s a really good idea. Thank you.”
Ms. Carina beamed, giving her a wink. “If you end up solving the case, you know I’m writing a book about you, right?”
Quinn snort laughed. “Oh please, who would ever want to read a book about me?”
Chapter Sixteen
“Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.”
—Marc Brown, American children’s book author
“How are things going between you and Daria?”
Quinn eyed her brother over her auntie’s beanstalks, as he leaned his shoulder against the tool shed.
“I don’t know. How are things going between you and Rachel?”
He frowned. “That bad?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up an extra gardening tool and handed it over. “You know Aunt Johanna’s motto: ‘If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.’ Weed with me.”
Even though he was in what appeared to be a new pair of jeans, he didn’t hesitate to come on over, take the weeder, and get right to work. Being a Caine meant two things: keeping one’s nose in a book and being knee-deep in the dirt. Family lore told tales of how all Caine children kept seedlings in their tiny hands so they could till soil while tottering at the same time.
“You know you and Daria are going to be fine, right?”
Bash stopped what he was doing, glanced over at the hand tools Quinn had laid out on a nearby blanket, and handed her a small shovel. “Dig deeper.”
She gave him the “are you kidding?” look. “If you are trying to turn this moment into some lame life lesson metaphor, I’m going to brain you next time your head turns.”
He tossed the shovel into the dirt in front of her. “See? Now you’re making it weird.” He pulled out a chunk of weeds, throwing them on a pile Quinn had started.
“So, what about you and Rachel? Where does that stand?”
He chuckled under his breath. “I know you’ve been dying to ask. Surprise you held out this long.”
“Ha! I would be offended if it weren’t true, but you’re right—I have been waiting with bated breath. And I believe I deserve a gold star, if you must know.”
His usual humor evaporated.
Oh crap, did I overstep? First Daria, now Bash. “What’s wrong?”
He pushed the weeder in deep, almost like he was trying to excise something out of himself. “She says she still loves me.”
Spring bloomed inside her chest. “That’s great, Bash! So then why are you—”
“Because she doesn’t want a thing to do with me, that’s why.”
Quinn jolted like she’d been slapped. “Elaborate, please.”
He brushed the dirt off his hands, resting his weight on his haunches. “Can we take a walk or something? I need to get some energy out.”
“Sure, let me just wash up and get RBG and my purse.”
“You don’t need your purse. If you need anything on the way, you know I’ll just buy it for you.”
She was going to fight him on that one but decided against egging him on. He might have been keeping his ire to himself, but Quinn could tell: he was in a state over Rachel. They both washed their hands at the outdoor garden sink, and then they were off.
To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 18