Quinn pretended to glare at him. “Rach, remind me to taunt and torture this one later.”
He gave his most naughty cackle. “Less talking. More dancing.” He winked at Quinn, then took Rachel’s hand, staring the whole time. “C’mon, one more dance. Then I’m going to wolf down the rest of those latkes. I’ve been craving them for years.”
“Do you mind?” Rachel asked Quinn, her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes wide.
She shooed them away. “Go forth. Prosper. Have fun. I’m going to cut out early.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Have fun. We’ll catch up.”
They took off, and Quinn stayed just long enough to sign the guest book and say goodbye to her parents, who said they’d get a ride from someone and gave her the car keys.
Good thing, because Rachel’s parents’ house was on the other side of town, and there was no way Quinn would have been able to walk the whole way home. She took off her heels, holding them by the straps in one hand while retrieving her phone with the other. It was a longer walk to the car than she had expected, because her dad had dropped her and her mom off at the front. The Slingbaums had their fair share of friends, and they had invited family from all over as well—which made for quite a schlep to where her dad had parked the car. Looking at the street names, she realized she was fairly close to the Hausers’ home. The thought made her shiver.
Scrolling through her contacts, she found the number she was looking for.
“Hi, Aiden, it’s Quinn.”
“I know who it is. Are you okay?”
She let out a nervous laugh. “I’m fine. Listen, sorry to call you so late, but I overheard something at the party tonight—and the other day while walking my girl. I promise I haven’t been investigating, but you said if I heard something …”
She then proceeded to share with Aiden everything else she’d heard regarding Tricia and Trina—from Milly Hauser herself, at the Patron residence. She recapped the conversation about Dr. Hauser’s uptick in referrals. She even offered her theories on the case. By the time she got to the car, she had told Detective Aiden Harrington everything. She felt good too. Clean. Like she could sleep in peace for the first time in a long while.
What she didn’t realize was, the whole time she was talking, someone else was listening, taking an evening stroll and keeping just close enough to hear everything she said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.
—Flannery O’Connor, American novelist
All through the night, and into the following morning, her favorite detective/rock star’s words echoed on a loop in her brain.
“I don’t want you to worry about a thing. My team and I are on top of it. Let me bring in Tricia’s killer. You go to the fundraiser, take Daria to Viva Vienna, and have some fun for once. The Vienna PD’s got this.”
And so that’s exactly what she was doing. She picked up her cousin and walked into The Women Center’s art fundraiser. Her family was probably already there.
“Wow, I had no idea the place would be this packed.”
Quinn had to agree. “It’s probably because they’re featuring Mrs. Hammock’s art. She’s a big deal. I know my mother couldn’t stop talking about it.”
“Daria! Quinn! Over here!”
It was her mom, standing with her dad. She made eye contact and waved, then shimmied through the crowd in order to get to where they were standing.
Quinn tried to be heard over the crowd. “Why are you all the way up here?”
Her mother’s face was scarlet, rivulets of sweat dripping down her temples. “Because the auction is going to start any minute, and I’m not missing a chance to own an original piece of art from Withers’ mom!”
Her father blanched. “It’s a bunch of urns and teapots, Adele. You can get the same thing at the Bowman House art show for a fraction of the cost.”
Her mother rolled her eyes and shook her head. “It’s a good thing he’s handsome …”
Ms. Withers walked up to the podium and, gavel in hand, started banging on the wood block to get everyone’s attention. “We are going to begin the auction in five minutes. Remember, one hundred percent of what we raise tonight will go toward The Women’s Center. Since 1974, The Women’s Center has provided affordable mental health care, support, and education to Northern Virginia and D.C.”
Finn Caine started patting up and down his person, spelunking into his pants and jacket pockets. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t tell me I—”
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
He let out a frustrated groan. “I left my checkbook and wallet on the desk in my home office.” He turned to her mother. “Del, did you bring your wallet?”
She held up a clutch the size of a credit card. “I brought my lipstick and my driver’s license. That’s all.”
“Really? You don’t have anything on you? What would you do if you needed money for a cab?”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why would I need money for a cab? I could walk home from here. Besides, I’m here with you. Are you planning on leaving me here?”
This argument was going nowhere. “Guys, guys! I’ll run home and get Dad’s wallet and the checkbook. You stay here and enjoy the auction.”
“I’ll come with you,” Daria volunteered.
“Nah, don’t bother. I’ll be in and out in a jiff. Besides, I know you. You’ve been dying to see her work for a long time. You love art more than I do. Stay and have fun.”
Daria gave her a grateful smile. “Well, that’s very nice of you. Hurry back, though.”
“You bet.” She turned around and made her way out of the party room, secretly grateful she had an excuse to get away from the crowd and have a bit of air.
She hopped in her truck and made it to her parents’ place in no time. Quinn unlocked the front door and walked into her father’s study.
Wow, what a mess.
For someone so fastidious about his books and files, his desk was like the floor of a crime scene. She searched through his papers: bills, invitations to speak at law conferences, a list of books he planned to review for the store’s newsletter, junk mail.
Geez, Dad, remind me to introduce you to a fabulous utilitarian device called a trash can someday.
Then there was also a small booklet—hand-printed by The Vienna Mycological Society. She smiled, thumbing through it, remembering her outing with them not too long ago. The publication was a combination field guide/brag book/membership directory. It seemed all the members had their own page to write about whatever they wanted—mushroom related, that is. She skimmed through her dad’s page—full of puns, arcane ’shroom trivia. Typical Finn Caine. Ned Carter wrote about his affection for any time he was able to spend in nature—‘in the green,’ as he called it—and Barbara Franklin was a hoot, saying how her professional mission as an allergist was to learn about everything and anything in nature that might set off a reaction.
Then there was a page she didn’t expect—one member who hadn’t been present that day she had gone foraging with the group. Someone whom no one had ever mentioned, including her father.
It was Dr. Carlson Hauser, M.D.
On his page he wrote about how he initially got interested in foraging because of his wife, Milly, a vegetarian, who enjoyed the different ways he used mushrooms in his cooking. But then his interest grew as he became fascinated by claims of their medicinal properties.
Twice a year, I travel to South America with the medical philanthropic organization Surgeons without Border Walls to donate my time and skills to those less fortunate. Through the years, many of my patients have sworn by the medicinal benefits of certain fungi. I began to study them, curious whether their belief was evidence-based or simply folklore. In the process, I’ve become an avid mycologist. While I have yet to find a mushroom to cure heart disease, I have found plenty that could kill you. I offer my expertise to the group,
to identify those that are medicinal and those that are poisonous for human consumption.
And holy Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—in the photo he was wearing a hoodie—with a crossed fish logo. Just like in the video footage.
Quinn’s hands started to shake. I can’t believe it … he’s the one who killed Doctor Levine and Tricia Pemberley!
A wooden floorboard squeaked behind her.
Her heart pounded into her throat, the blood rushing fast and fierce through her ear canals. Quinn found it hard to breathe.
She turned around. Slowly. Carefully. As if one wrong move would shatter the floor beneath her feet.
And there was Dr. Hauser, standing less than six feet from her.
“Imagine my surprise, after following you from the fundraiser, to find you here. You left your front door wide open, Ms. Caine. Didn’t your parents ever teach you to lock the door to keep out danger?”
It was a rhetorical question.
“It’s almost going to be too easy.”
His pupils were almost fully dilated. And he had a wet cloth in his hand.
“Too easy for what?” she asked.
His head cocked. “Why, to kill you, of course.”
She stopped breathing. “But I thought you were supposed to be the nice Hauser.”
He offered a slow, creeping smile. “Brilliant, no? I fooled everyone.”
Quinn eyed the front door, open wide. His cheek ticked as he shook his head. “Oh no, dear, it’s too late for that.” Before she had a chance, he lunged forward, smothering her face with the cloth, a sickly sweet smell invading her nostrils, smothering her lungs.
And then everything went black.
Chapter Thirty
“I love stories where women save themselves.”
—Neil Gaiman, British author
She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, but by the time Quinn came to, her mouth was as dry as a desert, and her limbs were heavy like concrete. She felt like she’d been run over by a bus. With effort, she opened her eyes, hoping to find herself in her own bed, with the memory of what happened being just a bad dream.
Instead, she was on a concrete floor, her back against something made with aluminum siding. No windows. No air-conditioning either. It felt like she was in a steam room without any way to breathe.
“Oh, thank God, you’re finally up. Please tell me someone is coming to rescue us?”
She knew that voice. Cracks of light peaked through the bottom of the door in front of her. It was just enough illumination to make out the form next to her.
“Mrs. Hauser?”
“Yes, it’s me. He’s gone crazy. Please tell me someone knows you’re here. I don’t have much time!”
Images rushed back. The auction. Her father’s desk. The mushroom directory. She tried wetting her lips, but it was like all the saliva had been vacuumed out of her mouth.
“What do you mean, you don’t have much time?”
She groaned. “My own husband! I can’t believe it. I think he’s been poisoning me.”
“But why would he hurt you? I don’t understand.”
She started crying. “Neither do I! I thought we were fine. Is anyone coming? Did someone see him take you?”
“I don’t know. I was at my parents’ house. He used something to knock me out. They were at the auction.”
She got quiet. “Then we’re going to die in this shed, behind my very own house.”
The door to the shed lurched open. It was Dr. Hauser. Quinn’s instinct told her to try to make a run for it, but then she saw the gun.
“Don’t even bother screaming, because no one will hear you.”
With the light pouring in now, Quinn could see Mrs. Hauser more clearly—her complexion was the color of ash. If she looked off the other day, Milly Hauser was gravely ill now. Still, she tried smoothing down her hair, feigning a smile for her husband.
“Please, honey, let’s talk this out. Just give me the antidote, and I promise I won’t press charges. I’ll do whatever you want.”
He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. “It was you who was supposed to die, not Tricia. I put enough poisoned mushrooms in that quiche to kill an elephant.”
He waved the gun back and forth between them, sweat dripping down his face. “Can you believe it, Quinn? The one time she decided to act like a human being and offer that girl a touch of kindness. She invited Tricia over for dinner so Scott could quietly prepare his proposal in the backyard. She offers her a big slice of my quiche; which Tricia ate because she wanted to please my witch of a wife.” He turned his attention to Milly, who was still on the floor. “You took a photo of my boy on one knee, the happiest day of his life, something you didn’t deserve by the way. All the while, Tricia’s got the poison meant for you.” His maniacal gaze locked back on Quinn. “This one over there,” he said pointing the gun at Milly, “only eats a few bites herself in order to watch her figure. I got home later that night and saw a chunk of it gone, and I thought, ‘Finally, I’m free. Now I just have to wait.’ You can’t imagine my reaction when she told me how Tricia scarfed down the quiche and wanted the recipe so she could make it for Scott. I wished I could’ve warned her, but that would’ve given me up and, well, my boy will find someone else. My only consolation is, I finally convinced Milly to eat more than her usual two measly bites. She’ll be dead by nightfall.”
Quinn’s head was spinning, and it wasn’t from the effects of the chloroform.
“I thought Mrs. Hauser was the one who killed Tricia. I heard you say to Mrs. Patron how you had to finish what you started for Trina.”
Milly’s lids were heavy, her lips cracked and bloody. She looked like she hadn’t had water in days. “What? Oh, you mean … I wanted to work for Trina’s group—as a realtor. Ophy is an old friend. She was going to let her house be my first listing. That’s what you heard. I would never—”
How could I have been so wrong?
“Cut the sorority chitchat.” He reached for Quinn, grabbing her by the arm—hard. “I only came back here for you to tell me whatever else you know. I heard most of it last night while you were on the phone with that detective, but I need to know the rest.”
He jammed the gun into her stomach, hard. She sucked in a sharp breath. “Like what?”
He was right in her face. “Right now, they all think Milly did it, don’t they?”
“Don’t tell him anything, Quinn! He’s going to kill you as soon as he doesn’t need you anymore!”
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the barrel of the gun to his wife’s temple. “Will you stop talking for one second of your life! Your voice is like nails down a chalkboard! I can’t think with that voice in my head!”
Milly Hauser used whatever life force she had left to straighten up. “I’ll stop talking as soon as you let her go. Then I promise I’ll never say anything again. Quinn is innocent in all this. If you let her go, I’ll give you all the money you want. You can run off and never come back. Just don’t hurt her. She’s young. She has her whole life ahead of her.”
He started laughing, high pitched and crass, jamming the gun back into Quinn’s ribs. “Oh, so now you’ve finally grown a heart? Maybe I should’ve poisoned you years ago. Maybe those death caps somehow killed the nasty in you. But you’ve got the right idea … a new start. Marry myself someone young and sweet, and forget I ever laid eyes on you.”
He was so caught up in his rant that he moved the gun away from Quinn’s middle, using it to gesture around the tiny shed, but he still had a vise grip on her arm.
Then the sound of sirens stopped him cold.
Milly’s head lolled to the side, her breathing shallow, but she still had some vinegar left. “They’re coming for you, Carlson. I may die in this shed, but it’ll be worth it just to see them take you away in handcuffs. You were always weak. If you didn’t have that gun, you’d be nothing.”
He was ignoring his wife, panic written on his face. “Crap, I’ve got to get you out o
f here!” He pulled Quinn’s arm hard enough that she heard it pop. There was a flash of pain, but she couldn’t focus on it. He was dragging her out of the shed. The light blinded them both.
On the other side of the door someone yelled. “Now!”
Dr. Hauser grumbled. “What the heck?”
That’s as far as he got. It was so bright, he didn’t see the real threat barreling down the grass, straight for him.
Quinn was having a rough time focusing too, but her hearing was unaffected. And that’s when she heard it—two growls, one from a Rottweiler and the other from a German shepherd. Both were headed dead center for their target, the rottie for the throat and the shepherd for the leg.
“Ahhhh! Get them off me! Get these mongrels off me now!
Then Quinn heard the sound of a low groan behind her.
Omigod … Ms. Milly!
Her left arm was useless, hanging loose down her side, like a sausage roll from a hook, but Quinn spun around and ran back into the shed.
“Quinn!”
She heard Aiden calling for her, but she didn’t respond. There was no time left. Milly Hauser had shown signs of being ill weeks ago at Frankie’s Garage. Then again at the Patron house mere days ago. Her husband must have been poisoning her, little by little at first, before realizing that approach wasn’t working. That’s when he had insisted she eat one big piece of quiche—a substantial dose. Death by mushroom quiche. Had Dr. Hauser used the same method to off Dr. Levine, his professional competition?
She had a lot of questions, but none of that mattered. Mrs. Hauser was dying. She had to save her.
Quinn scanned the inside of the shed, noting that Ms. Milly had somehow crawled into the corner and curled into a fetal position. Eyes closed. A low, whimpering moan the only sound she was making. Quinn ran to her.
Shoving her shoulder under Mrs. Hauser’s armpit with her good arm, Quinn said a silent prayer, then hoisted her up.
To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 28