I didn’t have a lot of backstory on Livingston, either. I had tried to look him up online, but he must have died long before the Internet. I didn’t know how long he’d been in Hell, or even why. I only knew he was Coop’s BFF, and he hadn’t been “created” by Satan like her, and she wouldn’t have allowed him to stay here if he were truly evil.
Which begged the question, how had he landed in Hell to begin with? I wondered if it hadn’t been a bargain for his soul with the devil gone awry. Despite how difficult he could be about his likes and dislikes—especially when it came to food—he loved Coop.
Alas, for now, we had bigger fish to fry. But in due time, I’d ask…
“Who are Tom, Dick and Harry, Trixie?”
Now Livingston let his head fall to his chest, before he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, won’t ya help a bird out?”
“Hey. Forget Heaven. What do you know about the hoosegow, pal?” I asked facetiously—well, sort of.
Livingston swiveled his head, his wide eyes, glassy and unblinking. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, lass. Someday, we’ll have a nice wag about it, and you’ll need to be sittin’ down when we do—maybe with a pint.”
I giggled, closing the container of my eggs. “I don’t like beer. Anyway, back to the guts thing. Livingston is right. I don’t mean spill his guts as in, eviscerate him, Coop. I mean, get him to tell us what he can about who might have wanted to kill Fergus. It’s just another one of those expressions.”
She set her sword down and leaned back in the plastic vinyl chair, her lips almost forming a full-blown pout. “I’m in a constant state of confusion between your metaphors and expressions and analogies, but please don’t even get me started on oxymorons. Will I ever learn the subtleties of being human?”
“I know, Coop, and of course you will. It just takes time. I had thirty-two years to learn. You’ve only had a little under a year. That’s why we’re here. To help you understand and to learn.”
Cupping her chin in her hands, she rested her elbows on the scarred veneer table. “How do you feel today, Trixie?”
“Me?” I asked, surprised by her question. “I’m good, I guess. I want to get this mess cleared up so we can start tattooing, but otherwise, I’m okay. Why?”
I wasn’t sure if she was asking because I’d taught her it was polite to be interested in the people around her, or if she really wanted to know.
Again, she looked right through me and peered into my soul with that dead gaze. This was her worried expression. “You talked in your sleep last night, Sister Trixie Lavender. I worry you’re having nightmares, and we know what nightmares lead to.”
My stomach turned and my hands went ice cold. I didn’t remember having any dreams at all. In fact, I was so tired, I’d gotten into my bed with the ugly, outdated paisley bedspread and passed out.
“What did I say?” I asked, almost afraid.
“You were talking about the relic and Father O’Leary. You kept calling his name.”
“’Tis true, lass. You did cry out.”
My eyes went to the far side of the room where a painting hung, ships in a stormy harbor somewhere. I missed Father O’Leary. He’d been my confidant, my mentor, one of the most influential people in my life for a very long time.
I was sick over the fact that not even he’d believed my story about what had happened the night I was possessed. I couldn’t believe he didn’t remember any of it. But I suppose it’s only fair, when you consider the idea that I don’t remember what happens when I’m possessed, either.
However, I do remember the aftermath, when I wake up on a floor or in some corner with Coop on top of me, holding me down like an unhinged, snarling tiger. Why didn’t he at least remember something like that? Surely our experiences were similar? What had happened to him after the spirit left his body? And was it the same spirit that had hopped into mine?
But maybe that was why I was dreaming about him—due to all the upheaval as of late. But did dreaming about him mean I was headed for another round with whatever possessed me? Was it stress that led to my allowing this thing into my body? I couldn’t go on ignoring its existence forever. Especially if whatever this was took control in a public place.
I cringed. Heaven’s gates and angel wings, that would be dreadful. So far that hadn’t happened, but it certainly could, right?
“I don’t remember having any dreams,” I replied woodenly, and I truly didn’t. But I suppose if I did, I wouldn’t want to recount them.
Coop looked down at her phone, using her thumb to scroll, and nodded. “Our calendar says it’s been over three months since your last possession. That’s the longest time between possessions so far.”
Swallowing, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t going to focus on that or I’d go mad. “Good to know,” I said with a stiffness to my voice even I heard as I rose from my chair and cleared my place at the table. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road. We need to find out how to get in touch with Crowley McDuff and chat him up. Then, for my peace of mind, I’d like to find Solomon. Even if he won’t answer any questions, I’d like to see if I can get him to a doctor. Livingston? We’re going to have to leave you covered for today, buddy, and I’m sorry. But we’ll put the Do Not Disturb sign up as double insurance and so you can sleep all day without the intrusion of the maids.”
He rasped a sigh and hopped from the back of the chair to the top of his antique white cage on the floor, where he waited for me to open the door. “Of course ya do. I wouldn’t have it any other way. What ever would I do if I didn’t have a garbage bag suffocatin’ me half to death all bloomin’ day long? It just wouldn’t be another day in paradise.”
I laughed as I gathered my purse and my phone, catching one last glimpse of myself in the mirror to ensure I looked decent enough. I didn’t have much in the way of clothes. Since leaving the convent, I’d picked up some jeans and T-shirts and a dress or two.
If nothing else, I looked clean in my white cotton capris and melon-colored top. Running the brush through my hair, I fluffed it around my shoulders and smoothed the blue streak I’d defiantly dyed myself after leaving the convent for good.
“Promise you’ll be quiet, Livingston. We can’t afford to arouse any suspicion. The motel doesn’t allow pets, and we might need to be here a little while longer. Deal?”
“I am not a pet, kitten.”
Coop hauled his cage up, the finely toned muscles in her upper arms flexing, and closed the door, giving him her sternest gaze. “Listen to Trixie and acknowledge her, please.”
As he settled on the perch, he sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll be quiet as a church mouse.”
Leaning down, I wedged a finger into the cage and Livingston rubbed his head against it. “You do know I love you, right? That I’m only doing this for your own good? For all of us?”
“Isn’t that what all kidnappers say to their hostages, lass?” he teased with a purr, his round, glassy eyes closing in contentment.
“No. That’s what all good friends say—in an effort to keep them from being a government science experiment, mind you—to their friends when they can talk and are trapped in an owl’s body. And still with all your fussing, I love you. So stay quiet, please. You feel me, winged one?”
His feathers rustled as he nestled into his favorite position. “Love-schmove, lass. Now off with ya. I have rest I’m needin’.”
Chuckling, I turned to head for the door with Coop in tow. As we stood in the landing hallway with nothing but a railing overlooking the parking lot, I stopped. First, I smelled the fresh air, crisp and cool as most mornings are in Cobbler Cove until the sun took over and the day warmed. Then I inhaled, loving the warmth of the shafts of sunshine, letting them settle in my bones.
“You want to review what we’ve figured out so far about Fergus’s death?”
While I hadn’t shared my encounter with Dumpster Diver, I did tell her all about Solomon and the “bad mad guy” and that Higgs had
once been an undercover cop, something I couldn’t stop thinking about last night while we unloaded my boxes, but she hadn’t given me much input about it.
“You mean we should review nothing?” she asked innocently, putting her hands on her hips, waiting for my answer.
I scoffed at her suggestion we had nothing. “We don’t have nothing, Coop. We have some leads.” We did. Sort of. Not big ones, but some…
“If Stevie were here, she’d have more leads.”
I frowned. Sometimes Coop really hit hard with her direct nature even if that was probably true. But fair was fair.
“I call foul. I’m new at this, and if you’ll remember correctly, Stevie kind of fell into the answer to the last landlord death, but I did help her.” I had. I’d googled things. That was helping.
“But she solved a lot of murders before that one. She has a track record. Ask Crispin Alistair Winterbottom.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t hear him, remember?” I teased. “Only you and Stevie can hear him because he’s a ghost. Now, do you want to cast blame and point fingers, or do you want to review?”
“Miss Lavender?” A man dressed in a dapper gray tweed suit, complete with a vest and shiny black shoes, approached us from behind Coop, who, at the sound of his voice, whirled around, ready to pounce.
I latched onto her arm, always afraid she was going to eat her way through a new person’s esophagus before they had the chance to explain who they were. “Ask first, Coop,” I whispered in her ear, feeling the tension in her arm. “You know the rules.”
“Who are you?” she crowed, making him stop dead in his tracks. His head, mostly bald but for the smattering of white hair sprinkled around the sides of his skull, gleamed under the bright sun, now out in full force.
He held up a hand, as though he sensed Coop’s tension. “My name is Crowley McDuff. Are you Cooper O’Shea?”
She puffed her chest out and lifted her chin, her hair blowing in the breeze and directly into my face like a glorious piece of silk. “That’s my name. I live in Cobbler Cove, Oregon, and my social security number is—”
“I’m Trixie Lavender, Mr. McDuff. How can I help you?” I stepped in front of Coop, who still didn’t understand when was the right time to give her stats, and spat her hair from my mouth. Holding out my hand, I let him take it. Very curious about why he’d come to see us.
His skin was papery and warm, and his eyes, very like Fergus’s, danced with a smile, which were very unlike Fergus’s. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m so glad I found you. That nice fella down the way from your place said you were here. The big one with all that dark hair.”
Higgs?
When I didn’t answer, he explained, running a hand over his head. “As you can see, I don’t have much of my own. So I’m a little envious, I suppose.”
“Right. Because you’re bald, and Cross Higglesworth is not,” Coop said in her matter-of-fact way.
“Coop!” I hissed, poking her in the ribs.
But Mr. McDuff held up a hand and smiled, appearing not at all offended. Man, he was nothing like Fergus. “No, no. It’s quite all right. She’s correct. I am bald. Not to worry on that front. Anyway, pardon me for bothering you ladies, but might I speak to you both? Maybe we could have a cup of coffee? My treat.”
Both Coop and I stared at him, and I knew she was thinking what I was thinking. How could this man, this pleasant man, be related to crabby old Fergus?
“I don’t drink coffee,” Coop responded, emotionless. “I drink orange juice, apple juice, sometimes ice tea but only if it’s infused with ginger and green tea leaves. Never soda because it rots your teeth.”
Oh, dear. Patting her arm, I looked directly into Crowley McDuff’s eyes. “But I do, Mr. McDuff. I’d love to have a cup of coffee with you, and please accept my condolences on your brother’s passing.”
He cleared his throat, tucking his hand into the lapel of his jacket. “You mean his untimely demise? The one he probably deserved?”
My eyes flew open wide. I didn’t know what to say. But his words… If we followed Stevie’s rulebook, didn’t that make him a suspect?
But Crowley wisped a hand over my arm. “Come, ladies. Let’s have some coffee down the street and we’ll talk, yes? I know a cozy little place.” He gestured with his hand to allow us to proceed ahead of him.
As Coop and I made our way down the long hallway and toward the stairs, she whispered, “Was I rude, Trixie? Hellfire. I don’t want to be perceived as rude. I’m nice. I mean, I feel nice anyway.” She pinched her arms to show me she felt nice. “See? Nice. Yet you chastised me.”
I smiled in sympathy and patted her shoulder as we headed down the stairs, my heart aching for Coop’s insecurities.
“We’ll talk about it later, okay? For right now, you’re very nice, Coop. A very nice girl. Don’t worry about it. But let’s go see what Mr. McDuff has to say, okay? He seems very willing to chat with us, and we could use some help here. Maybe he knows something about what happened to Fergus.”
When we hit the bottom of the stairs, I let Crowley take the lead and we followed him across the pitted parking lot to a small café down the way called Betty’s, where he held the door for us. We chose a booth, with Coop and I seated together across from Crowley McDuff.
The café was kitschy, with funny, cheesy pictures like the one where the bulldog is playing poker, and even a velvet Elvis painting. The floors were brown-painted concrete, and the booths were a light blue vinyl. A familiar genre of coffee shop music played, languid and with lots of guitar, and the delicious scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with hazelnut swirled around my nose.
The cheerful waitress (most everyone’s pretty cheerful here in Cobbler Cove) brought us menus and water before remarking, “You’re the girls who just moved into that dump across the street you’re gonna turn into a tattoo parlor, aren’t you? Where that cranky SOB was murdered? Welcome to Cobbler Cove, you two! Coffee’s on me. I’m Delores, by the way. Betty was my great grandmother.” She grinned down at us, her dark ponytail curling at the ends, in her cute retro red apron with white polka dots and ruffles.
I winced, but decided it was best to share who Crowley was in the effort to thwart more hurtful conversation. “This is the murdered man’s brother, and that dump is his,” I stressed, which made Delores bite her lower lip. “This is Crowley McDuff.”
But Crowley was quick to reassure her by doing what he’d done with us. He waved a dismissive hand, smiling with his kind eyes, and said, “It’s fine, Delores. I knew my brother and all his faults. He was unpleasant at best. Unkind at worst. Please do carry on. Cobbler Cove has been good to me for many years, and I hope it will be good to the two of you after such a harsh introduction. Get to know one another. It makes my heart happy.”
I smiled up at her. “I’m Trixie, and this is Coop. How’d you know who we were?”
Delores planted a jaunty hand on her hip and tapped her pencil against her ruby-red lips. “I might as well start our friendship off right, because I know we’ll be friends. There isn’t a soul up and down this street who didn’t see your gorgeous friend here. She’s made all of us rethink a visit to the nearest plastic surgeon, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Coop whispered to me, tugging on my arm. “Who performs surgery on plastic, Trixie, and why?”
And that’s why it’s impossible to hate Coop and her ethereal beauty. “I’ll explain later. She means you’re beautiful, Coop. It’s a compliment.”
Delores scoffed. “I’m not sure beautiful’s the word. It’s bigger—better than that. I just can’t find one that fits, so ‘near perfect’ will have to do,” she said on a cackle, nudging Coop’s arm.
“Thank you very much, Delores. Those are very nice words.” Coop reached out for her hand and grabbed it, pumping it up and down.
Delores raised one dark pencil-thin eyebrow, but if she found Coop strange, she kept it to herself and smiled a bright smile. “Anyway
, we all heard about what happened, and the mess that’s left you ladies in. Oh, and my condolences to you, Mr. McDuff. Anyway, if you girls need anything at all, just holler. I’m happy to help. We all are.”
And with that, she took our orders and swished off behind the festively bright red counter, leaving us with Crowley, who toyed with the black-and-white checkered napkin on the paper placemat.
I folded my arms together and asked, “So, Mr. McDuff, what can we do for you?”
“Please, call me Crowley.” As the sun shone in through the windows, revealing his wrinkled but tanned face, I saw the hesitance in his eyes.
I grinned. I don’t know what it is about Crowley, but I liked him. “Done. How can we help?”
“I hate to do this after everything you ladies have been through yesterday, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Coop’s eyes narrowed and her posture went stiff.
Me, on the other hand? I could barely breathe. “And that is?”
“I’m selling the building, Trixie.”
Chapter 9
I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open, but Crowley reached across the table and patted my hand. “After this mess with Fergus… It’s time. I hope you understand my position. I’m not getting any younger, and with Fergus gone, I’m too tired to handle things on my own.”
This was the second space we’d lost in just a few months. So now what? Oh, universe, what do you want from me? What have I done that I can’t seem to rectify? I tried to swallow, but there was a big lump of fear between words and my vocal chords.
So Crowley continued. “I’ve let things alone for many years because Fergus needed to have a job on the books—”
“On the books?” I squeaked.
What did that mean? Not that it mattered. We were going to have nothing in just a few short seconds. So it wouldn’t matter if we found the killer or not. Deflated didn’t cover how I was feeling. Defeated came close, though.
Then There Were Nun Page 11