Then There Were Nun

by Dakota Cassidy

  Now his eyes—a hazy blue if I wasn’t mistaken, when they flashed under the streetlamp—went wide as he scanned the sidewalk and the surrounding street. “Not now, but he’ll be back! Yes, yes, yes. He comes back. He always comes back! He’s everywhere!”

  Sliding off the box, I winced when my feet hit the concrete. My knees needed an aspirin and a warm cloth to soothe them. Yet, I wanted to handle this as carefully as I could, but still glean some information from him.

  “Well, he’s not back now, Solomon. Why don’t you sit with me a spell? I have to figure out what to do with these boxes, and I have nowhere to go until I do.”

  Just when I thought he was going to join me, he began to back away. “But he might come back right while we’re sitting here. He does bad things. That’s the mad guy. Bad and mad!”

  “What if I promise to protect you from the bad mad guy?”

  He shook his head so violently, the Viking hat he wore almost fell to the ground. “Nobody can protect me. He’s too big. He’s too scary. He has powers! Special powers! Laundry powers!” Solomon yelped, his thin frame wobbling with the force of his words.

  This was going south fast, and I knew it. So I made an executive decision to push just a little bit, but with a gentle hand.

  Taking a chance, I reached out and placed my palm on his arm, hoping to reconnect him with the world around him. “Solomon? Do you know what happened here last night?”

  He coughed, the phlegm-filled hack echoing around my head, but it appeared to slow his roll just a little. Running a finger over his throat to mimic a knife, he said, “He’s dead.”

  Just my hand on his arm had me worried. He was warm enough even through the army blanket to fry an egg. He needed medical attention. But first, I had to keep him calm before I could convince him to see a doctor.

  “Do you know who died, Solomon?” I asked, wishing I’d brought my purse so I could at least offer him some tissues.

  “Yep, yep, yep I do. Old Fergus McDuff bought the big one last night. He was mean to me and the people of my kingdom. Mean, stupid, mean!”

  “Is he the mad bad guy you’re talking about?”

  Solomon shook my hand off and began to shrink away from me. “No! But he knows him. He knows him. They tell secrets. Ugly secrets!”

  “Who tells ugly secrets, Saul?”

  At the sound of the new voice, one not unfamiliar to me, Solomon didn’t just back away, he plowed backward, pushing his shopping cart so hard, I thought it might tip over. Solomon’s eyes were as wide as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “You—you stay away from me, you rapscallion! I’m not going with you. No I’m not!”

  “It’s okay, Saul,” the voice said, emerging from the darkness. “Everything’s fine. You know I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

  “No it is not either, you…you…meaniepants! Nothing is fine. You leave me alone!” Solomon bellowed, turning to break into a running start as he gave his cart a hard shove to get it moving, the wheels clacking against the pavement sounding his escape.

  And that left me alone with the voice, and not much else.

  Unless you count the boxes.

  I still had the mountain of boxes.

  Mercy.

  Chapter 7

  I closed my eyes and inhaled. Just when I was finally getting somewhere with Solomon, who was also apparently Saul, I’d been foiled.

  Argh.

  “How’s it going?”

  I popped open my eyes instantly at the sound of the now familiar husky voice tinged with that hint of amusement. Cross Higglesworth stared right at me, his dark eyes smiling, his mouth in an upward tilt as he made his way through the maze of my inventory to where I stood.

  I backed away, swallowing hard, almost knocking over one of the stacks of boxes. Could he be who Solomon was talking about—or maybe even the person in the dumpster?

  I sniffed the air, but I didn’t pick up the scent of garlic. Instead, I smelled a freshly scented cologne. So he probably wasn’t the person from the dumpster.

  And if Higgs ran a shelter, he’d surely crossed paths with Solomon. He had called him Saul, meaning he obviously knew him.

  Thus, I folded my arms across my chest, and in a random moment, noted the greasy spot of pho on my T-shirt. Still, I stared Higgs dead in the eyes anyway. I was all about the motto “show no fear”—even if my knees were wobbling and my pulse raced like a Formula 1 race car.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the snitch,” he said, his tone teasing and light.

  Hah. Hah.

  In my resolve for bravado, I chose sarcasm as my weapon and lobbed his words back at him. “Well, well. If it isn’t the murder suspect.”

  Higgs chuckled, deep and rumbling, tucking his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, his stance casual and relaxed. “Me? A suspect? I’m not a suspect. No one ever said I was a suspect.”

  I jabbed a finger in the air. “But the question is, should you be?”

  He thumped his chest in the vicinity of his heart. “That cuts me deep, Trixie Lavender. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  My eyes narrowed and my fists clenched. “But would you hurt a human? In particular, a human named Fergus McDuff?”

  He laughed again, and this time it was attractively warm. Which, I’ll tell you, I didn’t like one little bit. Also, he didn’t answer, he skipped right over my question and moved on to Solomon.

  Leaning against a stack of the boxes, he crossed his feet at his ankles. “So I see you met Saul—or King Solomon, to his minions under the Hawthorne Bridge. It depends on what day it is. Some days he’s Captain Swarthy, pirate of the Bearded Lady.”

  I fought a smile. I liked Solomon more and more, and if it weren’t for the fact that I hadn’t yet mentally cleared Higgs of murder, I’d like him, too—for the service he did for the community. That is if, in fact, Solomon wasn’t running away from him, meaning Higgs was the mad bad guy who had laundry, or did laundry, or something along those lines…

  “I did meet him. He was camped out here on these boxes. Boy, did he take off when he saw you, huh?”

  “Saul’s a good guy, you know,” he said as though he needed to defend him. Which I found a little admirable, and yes, I hated that, too. “He’s just a little mixed up in his head, and terrified of the social workers who canvas in their efforts to help the homeless. He’s sort of lumped me in with them as being part of the larger conspiracy to lock him away forever.”

  “And are you a bad guy?” More specifically, a mad bad guy?

  But he didn’t answer my question directly. “He thinks they’re going to lock him up and throw away the key. Which they might, I suppose. He obviously has issues requiring medical attention. I don’t have much background on him, but he’d never hurt anyone, in case you’re wondering. He’s more afraid of you than you could ever be of him. You have my word.”

  Higgs appeared to worry I’d consider Solomon a problem, and I guessed it was because his life revolved around helping the homeless. His effort to reassure me and vouch for Solomon might have been well received if not for that little niggle in the back of my head, screaming he could be a killer.

  So I waved him off, the motion reminding me there was still blood on my fingernails. “He wasn’t a problem at all, and I certainly wasn’t afraid. The whole medieval speak was fun for a minute or three. But he did have a cough that concerned me. Sounded like bronchitis. I’m guessing he’s afraid of doctors, too?”

  Higgs’s eyes went dark with concern. “Argh, matey! He’d sooner die of the scurvy than see one of those quacks. His words, not mine. Anything having to do with the medical field is a strict no-no for Saul. I’m also a no-no for Saul. That’s why he ran away. For some reason, he thinks accepting a bed and a hot meal means I can lock him up and throw away the key. He sees me as an authority figure with the power to put him on lockdown rather than a helper.”

  I liked that he used the word helper. I’d read Mr. Rogers once said his mother had told him if t
here were ever a scary situation, he should always look for the “helpers.” You’ll always find people helping, and it had stuck with me ever since.

  So I wondered if Solomon hadn’t run away because he was afraid of Higgs? Or was this just a cover-up story to keep suspicion at bay? Or did Solomon have something to be afraid of concerning Higgs?

  “Your impression of a pirate is pretty aces,” I commented.

  He grinned. “Ya think? I’ve been practicing in the hopes Saul will let me be a part of his band of merry men.”

  “Wasn’t that Robin Hood? I don’t think Robin Hood had any pirates, and pirates don’t have a band of merry men.”

  “Hey,” he said, reaching for my injured fingers. “What happened? Let me take a look.”

  I shooed his hand away and drove mine into the pocket of my jeans. “I just had a little accident and tore a couple of nails. No big deal.”

  “And is that why you’re covered in dirt?”

  Either that wasn’t him in the dumpster or he was a really good actor, and I couldn’t use that excuse for everything he did. I decided that hadn’t been him in the dumpster. There hadn’t been enough time for him to go back and clean up afterward.

  I looked down at my jeans, streaked with dirt. “Mud wrestling. I figured I’d better take on a second job to pay the rent until we can get into the store and start tattooing. Somebody’s gotta pay the bills, right?”

  He nodded, his smile back on his face. “Ahhh. I prefer Jell-O. Green, mind you, because I’m a lime-a-holic, but to each his own.”

  I fought a giggle but managed to remain silent, despite his eyes, which felt like they were seeing right through me.

  Higgs paused a moment and peered into the darkness, his eyes clouding over in seriousness. “So Saul has a cough, you say?”

  I remembered the hacking sound and cringed a bit. “A pretty rough one. And his skin was warm. I felt it right through the blanket on his arm.”

  Higgs blinked, clearly surprised. “Wait. He let you touch him?”

  “Only for a second or two, but yes, and I’d bet he has a fever. That, coupled with the cough, says he should really see a doctor. Do you know where he stays at night?”

  I planned to go and see if I could find him after I figured out where to put these infernal boxes.

  And during my search, I fully intended to go over every word of my conversation with Solomon. He knew something about what had happened to Fergus. I knew it.

  Higgs was on his cell phone, texting someone before I’d even finished my sentence. “I’m letting one of my staff know. They’ll send someone to look for him and hopefully convince him to see someone. So confirm for me again, Saul let you touch him?”

  I guess that was super unusual… “I swear he did. It was very brief. Is that unusual?”

  Higgs sighed. “I suspect a touch of autism. Not confirmed, mind you. He won’t let anyone near him for long enough to find out, so that’s not an official diagnosis. But Saul’s not fond of anyone touching him, ever. So color me impressed that he let you. He must feel comfortable with you.”

  My chest tightened. Poor Solomon. “Had I known, I never would have attempted it, and I’ll be far more careful in the future.”

  “You plan on communing with the homeless a lot?”

  My chin shot up in the air. “I plan on doing tons of community service, thank you very much. That means communing with all those in need—including, but not exclusive to, the homeless.”

  “I keep forgetting you’re a nun. Though, based on the bits of the conversation I heard, you were very nice to Saul. Very kind.”

  He’d heard the conversation? Did that mean he knew Solomon was possibly ratting on him? Maybe he was the mad bad guy and this was all a ruse?

  “Ex-nun, and I’d do it if I were a ditch digger.”

  I think I saw admiration in his eyes, and for a moment, my heart wiggled in my chest. But I crushed that movement like an annoying fly. It wouldn’t do for me to preen if Higgs were the killer.

  Cocking his head, his shiny hair catching the streetlamp in all its gleaming, rich color, Higgs asked, “So, what are you doing out here so late anyway, Sister Trixie Lavender? Don’t you have to wait for the police to clear the store?” He pointed at the yellow crime scene tape sprawled across Inkerbelle’s dirty glass door.

  I didn’t answer him. Instead, I used Stevie’s trick to avoid his inquiry. I answered a question with a question. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyebrow rose, dark and skeptical. “Did someone teach you to answer a question with a question?”

  I peered into the darkness and noted there wasn’t anyone else around. That made me lift my chin to show him I was no scaredy cat. So if he was planning on murdering this girl, he was in for a fight.

  “No one taught me that. I thought it up all on my own.”

  Higgs scratched his head and scanned my eyes for a moment before he appeared to shake it off. “What do you say we start again? What brings you to the store so late at night when you can’t even get into the store until the police clear it, Sister Trixie? Is it these boxes? Are they yours? I don’t have my contacts in, so I can’t tell.”

  I leaned against a stack of boxes, refusing to be riled by him calling me sister. He knew I wasn’t a nun anymore. It was a blatant tactic meant to stir my pot. “What brings you down to my end of the street so late at night? Don’t you have a homeless shelter to run?”

  “Well, duh. I was doing what all good murder suspects do. I was looking for my next victim, silly.”

  He said it with such amusement in his voice, I almost laughed out loud. But to my credit, I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to believe he had nothing to do with this. I didn’t have gut feelings on this the way Stevie claimed she had whenever she found herself embroiled in a murder investigation (and apparently, that was quite often). At least not yet, anyway. So I had to stay on my toes and consider all angles.

  Instead, I countered, “That’s what I figured. Everyone who’s looking for their next victim comes to the scene of a crime to hunt their prey. I hear in murderer circles, it’s the trendy thing to do.”

  He gave me a lopsided grin, the dark night enhancing his very white teeth. “You know, for a nun, you’re kinda funny.”

  “I’m an ex-nun, and for a murder suspect, you’re not so funny.”

  “Murder isn’t exactly a humorous business.”

  “You know, for a guy who could go to jail for murder, you don’t look terribly worried.”

  “That’s what makes me so good at my murdery job. I don’t sweat the small stuff.” Then he paused and looked at the boxes. “So, is this all yours?”

  My eyes narrowed and my stance shifted. “Maybe…”

  “It’s sort of a yes-or-no question. Either they’re yours or not.”

  “What if they are?”

  He clucked his tongue at me in admonishment, his eyes roaming over the stacks of boxes I’d enmeshed myself in. “Now you’re just being combative for combativeness’ sake, and it’s hurting my feelings. As your neighbor, I’m just trying to be helpful. So, once more, for the cheap seats, are they yours? Because if they are, you’ll want to get them somewhere safe. It’s not terribly dangerous here at night, but unopened boxes are just a little too much temptation for almost anyone. Just ask this alleged murderer. If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know if I could have continued to withstand the temptation to see what’s inside them.”

  Now I did laugh. He was really willing to go the extra mile with my accusation, and he certainly wasn’t taking it very seriously.

  I held up my hands like two white flags. I could be wary and distantly friendly at the same time. In fact, if I were at the very least cordial, maybe he’d slip up and say something he shouldn’t about killing Fergus and we’d solve this mess and be done.

  And in truth, if I let my character assessment of Higgs be my guide, he had a decent enough vibe about him. Or maybe he was simply a good actor. But maybe not…

  Chee
se and rice, I was bad at this. I waffled more than a waffle maker.

  Which was what made me decide to make a little peace but continue to stay wary. “Okay, okay. Listen, I saw what I saw yesterday. I can’t change that. I won’t change that. I told the detective the truth, which is my obligation as a concerned citizen with a dead guy in her newly leased store. That said, I just want to get into the store and start handling the mess. I mean, have you seen it? It looks like Hiroshima in there minus the mushroom cloud. In fact, as of right now, I don’t even know what’s going to happen to our lease because Fergus is dead. That could mean his holdings and real estate will go into probate and we’ll be out on our ear.”

  Just like they had at the last store we’d leased. Golly, that would be the crummiest of crummy crumbs.

  “Oh…I guess you didn’t know or maybe he didn’t tell you? Fergus doesn’t own the building, Trixie. He just does the dirty work, like collecting rent and code enforcement—stuff like that. The building is owned by Crowley McDuff. His brother. So he’d be the guy to talk to about where you stand with the lease.”

  My eyes widened in surprise. How had that piece of information slipped past us? “I had no idea. Fergus made it appear as though he owned the space.”

  Which, in turn, instantly made me wonder if he’d raised the rent so he could skim off the top, and if so, had he done that to other tenants? Tenants who might be angry and want to murder him?

  How did Stevie handle all these questions? No sooner was one answered than another one cropped up.

  Higgs’s jaw, already razor sharp, tightened and he planted his hands on his hips. “You know why that is, don’t you? That’s because Fergus McDuff was a jerk. Ask any of his other tenants and they’ll tell you the same.”

  Uh-huh. Though, Solomon had backed that statement up.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I wondered aloud, “Should you be telling me, the snitch? It doesn’t look good for your defense.”

  “I’m just speaking the truth. And the truth is, I didn’t kill Fergus McDuff, and truer still, he really was a jerk. I didn’t wish him dead, but how he lived his life was a testament to his character. He was cruel to a lot of the guys who come to the shelter. He didn’t like the lines of guys waiting to get a bed at night. Claimed it detracted from any businesses moving into the spaces he took care of for his brother. But my guys are good guys, just a little lost—and okay, maybe some a little more lost than others. They’re not all saints, but they’re not monsters, either. They just need a break. Maybe a little redemption. A hot meal and a purpose. A reason to get up in the morning.”