The Smoking Nun

by Dakota Cassidy

  But I was no longer hearing what Goose was saying. Instead, I found myself listening to Deacon Delacorte and Deacon Cameron talk to Tansy and Oziah Meadows, or Oz, as we called him.

  Deacon Delacorte looked positively shredded. His normally tanned skin was pale and his usually erect spine sagged.

  “I only went outside to catch a breath of fresh air!” Deacon Delacorte cried out as he pressed his fingers to his mouth. “And…and…she was just there—on the ground—crumpled in a heap. So I ran and grabbed her because it was pouring and she was getting wet. I thought she’d collapsed, or maybe it was her heart, but…”

  Deacon Cameron slapped him on the back. “Easy, Davis. There was nothing you could do.”

  Officer Meadows tipped his reddish-brown head in acknowledgement at me before he returned to scribbling on his pad while Tansy shot questions at Deacon Delacorte—whose first name was apparently Davis.

  I didn’t know the deacons’ first names, and while a nun, I’d never addressed any by their given names. Thus, it sounded odd to hear him called Davis.

  “So Mr. Delacorte, did you see Sister Ophelia go outside? Did you see her talk to anyone tonight? Did anything look off color to you? Out of sorts, maybe?” Tansy asked.

  But Davis Delacorte shook his head with a rapid side-to-side motion. “Everything was fine as far as I knew. In fact, earlier today, we were in the business of getting to know one another—I’m new here, you see. And then we chatted about the lesson for Bible study she’d planned for next week’s youth group. I helped her select the scripture.”

  The moment Tansy mentioned the words out of sorts was the moment I remembered our chat earlier today and, as per usual, despite my promise to her, I blurted, “Did she seem upset in any way, Deacon Delacorte? Stressed maybe?”

  Davis looked surprised, his angelically handsome face paling further. “Stressed, Trixie? No. No-no. Not at all. She was in a good mood when I saw her this afternoon. As far as I knew, everything was fine.”

  Tansy hitched her jaw at me and leaned in toward my ear. I thought surely she was going to reprimand me for interfering, but instead she asked, “What makes you ask if Sister Ophelia was stressed?”

  I guess now wasn’t the time to keep secrets, but I internally apologized to Sister Ophelia anyway. This was for her own good.

  “She was smoking. She said the only time she couldn’t kick the habit was when she was stressed.”

  “Did you ask her why she was stressed?” Oz wondered, his deep voice soothing and calm.

  Closing my eyes, I swallowed my regret and more tears. “I didn’t. I should have, but I didn’t. We got to talking about the speed-dating event and the conversation just got away from us, I guess.”

  Oh, I could kick myself for not remembering that until now when it was too late!

  Oz scribbled some more on his pad as Father Rico approached. Short and stout, he waddled his way over to us and held out a hand to Higgs, giving him a pat before he held it out to me.

  His soulful dark eyes, a rich coal black, searched mine. “Trixie, are you all right? I know you and Sister Ophelia had struck up quite a friendship. How can I help ease your pain?”

  He was such a kind man. I’d liked him the instant Higgs had introduced us. His wise words and calm approach to my faltering faith had warmed me from the inside out.

  I loved to listen to his rich baritone throughout the rectory when he gave his sermon. He didn’t preach doom and destruction, sin and sorrow. Rather, his messages were always of hope and the gift of life, and I’d come to respect how he delivered the Word to his parishioners.

  Gripping his pudgy, dimpled hand in return, I sought to soothe him. “She was a part of Our Lady long before I came along, Father. So the better question is, how are you?”

  He grimaced, his eyes squinting, making the wrinkles around them deepen. “Sister Ophelia was a wonderful servant for the Lord. So vibrant and fun, but she took no guff. I don’t know how Our Lady will manage without her. It’s a terrible tragedy. She was so upset earlier, and I was so pressed for time with Carla breathing down my neck—”

  “Upset?” I blurted, again forgetting my promise to Tansy. “About what?”

  Father Rico’s shoulders sagged beneath his casual black clerical shirt as he shook his head, his eyes full of grief. “I don’t know, Trixie. She came to me earlier this evening and said it was imperative she speak to me, but we were about to begin the speed-dating event and I had announcements to make. So I put her off. Sister Patricia was with me at the time. She can attest to the fact that Sister Ophelia appeared…frazzled, I guess is the word I’d use.”

  Frazzled. When I’d seen her earlier, she’d been easy-breezy. So what had happened to her between the time I’d left her at the church doors until tonight?

  Father Rico pointed over my shoulder. “Here’s Sister Patricia now. Maybe she can help?”

  Tansy held up a finger and a warning flashed in her eyes. “Let me handle this, love.”

  Sister Patricia, far more staid than Sister Ophelia, rushed toward us, her wimple floating behind her, her hands clenched together.

  “Father Rico!” she cried, her birdlike eyes darting from face to face. “What happened?”

  Tansy stepped between them and held up a hand. “You are?”

  Her face went from worried to fearful as she fingered the cross around her neck. “Sister Patricia Latimer.”

  “All right then, Sister Patricia. Father Rico claims you were with him when Sister Ophelia asked to speak with him on an urgent matter. Is that so?” Tansy asked, pen poised over her notepad.

  Sister Patricia’s normally pinched face crumbled as her thin fingers continued to worry her cross. “Yes,” she whispered quietly. “She was very concerned about something tonight.”

  Tansy lifted her chin, her eyes assessing. “But I’m assuming you don’t know why she fret?”

  Sister Patricia’s eyes darkened for a fraction of a second before she straightened her spine, her clear skin pale but for the two red spots on her cheeks. “I don’t. No. But she appeared quite upset. She said it was urgent she speak to Father Rico about a concern she had.”

  As I listened to Sister Patricia tell Tansy what had passed, I stayed as quiet as I possibly could. Absorbing the words she spoke, watching the way she tried to remain calm, I couldn’t help but feel an underlying current of nervous energy.

  But I couldn’t put my finger on why. Sister Patricia was a tough nut to crack. She was all about the rules, she spoke in the condescending manner one would expect from a crotchety, Bible-thumping nun from the days of old, even though she couldn’t be more than forty. I often joked with Sister Ophelia that at any moment, I expected her to pull a ruler from her habit and whack someone over the knuckles.

  But tonight, I was seeing a different Sister Patricia—a frightened one. The question was, why?

  I lost my focus when I saw them put Sister Ophelia’s body in a bag and load her onto a gurney, my eyes once more welling with tears as they zipped it up and carried her body off.

  Higgs squeezed my shoulders for support. He’d remained mostly silent throughout the questioning of Father Rico and company, respecting Tansy’s wishes, but I knew he’d want to talk about the events of the night as much as I’d need him to hear my thoughts on them, too.

  He was often the person I confided in when I was blue after a particularly difficult call with Tansy, and I cherished his calm approach and wise reasoning.

  It was when the forensics team came inside via the exit door, carrying a plastic bag containing evidence, that I gripped one of his hands, hard.

  Sister Ophelia’s wimple, clearly soaking wet but still in one piece, in one bag.

  And in the other—a lone cigarette butt.

  More proof Sister Ophelia had indeed been stressed.

  Chapter 3

  “Mornin’, Trixie, darlin’. Did ya manage to get any sleep?” Livingston asked as I entered Inkerbelle’s, his light Irish accent warm and soft.
r />   Coop had scooped him up and brought him in for an early client, leaving me to attempt to sleep in, but to no avail. I don’t think I slept a wink.

  I reached out a hand and stroked his round head, marveling at his glassy green eyes as he perched on the beautiful handmade limb Knuckles had crafted for him.

  “I didn’t sleep. I tossed and turned.”

  “Aw, my sweet. I hate that you’re goin’ through this. Ya do know that, don’t ya?”

  Sighing, I chucked him under the chin and smiled, my eyes grainy and tired. “I do. I know you’re not a fan of the church as a whole, but I appreciate your sympathies nonetheless.”

  “Roight. I’m not a fan of anytin’ havin’ to do with the threat of the fiery depths, for sure. But I didn’t wish the sister any ill for the preachin’ she did about the glory of redemption. I rather liked Sister Ophelia, even if she was scared out of her wits about my very existence.”

  I laughed. Sister Ophelia had indeed been afraid of Livingston. The first time she’d come to the shop to bring me a flyer to hang on our community board for a bake sale, she’d nearly had a chicken when Livingston had ruffled his feathers.

  She’d kept a safe distance from that moment on, explaining her fear of birds after being attacked by an overzealous parakeet as a child.

  “Trixie,” Coop called from the back of the shop, making her way toward me, her strut sleek as a panther’s. “How are you this morning?”

  “Tired. You?”

  Coop gave me a long look, her green eyes dull in comparison to their normal shine. “I’m sad, too, Trixie Lavender. Sister Ophelia was a part of our community. Now, we’ve lost a part of our community. An important, special part.”

  I nodded sadly and inhaled a deep breath as I made my way behind the counter where the cash register sat. “We have.”

  Leaning on the counter, she tucked the long strands of her gorgeous auburn hair behind her ear. “So are we going to figure out who killed her?”

  My lips lifted in a weak grin. That was my Coop. Ride or die. She knew I was beside myself about Sister Ophelia’s death. She also knew I wouldn’t rest until I found out who’d killed her even though I hadn’t said a word.

  Gnawing the inside of my cheek, I straightened our card reader and tried to shake off the cobwebs and vestiges of my shock.

  “We are. I promise. But first I think I just need to gather my head.”

  Coop frowned and tapped a finger on the counter. “You don’t need to gather it. It’s on your shoulders, right above your neck.”

  As tired as I was, I couldn’t help but laugh at my demon and her literal take on everything. “Gathering my head means getting it together, Coop. I mean, I need to sort my thoughts. I think I’m still in shock is all. I haven’t had time to think about anything but seeing Sister Ophelia lying there…”

  I gulped and gripped the edge of the cool counter as a vision of her, pale and battered, flew through my mind’s eye—it was the same one that had haunted me all night long and kept me from closing my eyes.

  Clearly, I was overly emotional due to my lack of sleep, but that wouldn’t get this crime solved. I needed to find my spine. Pronto.

  “Are ya sure ’twas murder, Trixie? I know what ya said last night, but I wasn’t sure if it was the ramblin’ of your grief, or ’twere a credible retelling of the incident.”

  My eyes narrowed at the memory of Sister Ophelia’s neck, and at Livingston, who occasionally liked to chalk things up to the hysterical woman theory. “Do you know anyone who dies by natural causes with ligature marks around their neck—marks so brutal, it left her skin blue and purple with bruises? I’m positive it was murder, Livingston. Positive as I stand here before you. Someone murdered her, and I’m not going to rest until I find out who.”

  He spread his beautiful gray and brown wings and shook them out. “Aw, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Trixie. I’m just checkin’. I only want to help ya.”

  Coop tapped Livingston’s beak with a fingernail. “You hush, Quigley Livingston. If Trixie says it was murder then it was murder. I saw Sister Ophelia, too, and in all my days, I’ve only seen one case with marks like the ones on her neck.”

  I shouldn’t ask. I knew I’d regret asking. But I asked, “You’ve seen marks like that before?”

  Coop stared back at me, her almost emotionless eyes intent when they captured mine. “Do I sense regret in your question?”

  Rolling my eyes, I nodded. “Never mind. I don’t want to know why you’ve seen ligature marks like that.”

  Coop bounced her head in agreement. “I thought not. So let’s move on to something else.” She pulled her phone from the pocket of her skinny jeans. “Look.”

  I took the phone from her and scrolled the pictures she’d taken last night. Several were selfies of the men she’d speed dated, all grinning like Cheshire cats, but some were of the actual event—and of Sister Ophelia’s body.

  “You took pictures?”

  It was then she reached out a hand, one I’m pretty sure was meant to comfort me, and placed it on my shoulder. “I hope you won’t find it disrespectful, but I, too, believe someone murdered Sister Ophelia, and that made my chest feel tight followed by an emotion I can’t yet describe. Maybe it was anger. I’m still unclear. Humans have so many emotions, they confuse me with their inflating numbers.” She paused as she pondered that, and then she said, “It doesn’t matter. If we’re going to find out who killed the sister, we have to be practical. Practicality means gathering evidence and pictures are evidence. I knew you’d want evidence, and I knew you’d want to investigate.”

  “Ahh, good on ya, Coop! Yer gettin’ the hang of this human ting, you surely are,” Livingston cooed approval.

  As I scrolled the pictures, I nodded. “You sure are, Coop DeVille. Thanks for keeping your head on straight last night while I had a meltdown.”

  “My head is always on straight. I only know of one person whose head was on crooked, and that was after—”

  “Coop!” both Livingston and I yelled in unison as I shook my finger at her in warning. “No tales from the hundredth level of Hell today.”

  “I’ll have you know, there is no hundredth level. The levels only go as far as—”

  “Coop!” we yelled again, but we all ended up chuckling together. A much-needed balm after last night’s events.

  At that point, Knuckles and Goose arrived for their morning clients, both quietly dropping a kiss on my forehead before heading off to their stations, and Coop went back to hers.

  I can’t tell you how grateful I am for these two men in my life—how grateful to have a purpose every day, a reason to get up. As I watched them settle into their chairs and gather their ink, I managed a smile as warmth flooded my heart.

  The shop was doing quite well, far better than I’d expected, considering the amount of tat shops in Portland alone. We had a steady stream of clients Goose and Knuckles had accumulated over the years, but we also had a nice uptick in new customers.

  And Coop? Well, what red-blooded male didn’t want a tat from my flawless demon?

  She brought people to the shop in droves. They might show up wanting a tat from a hot babe, which, if you listened to the whispers and elbow jabs to each other’s guts when a group of men came in, that was the general consensus for choosing Coop in the first place. But they left with some amazing artwork…and protection from demons courtesy of her special ink.

  Yet another otherworldly topic we still hadn’t openly discussed. I often pictured Coop in the bathroom sink back at our little guesthouse behind Knuckles’s home, stirring up a witch’s brew of some sorcery-filled recipe, but I hadn’t actually asked where or how she came about the ink. I was simply grateful it existed—no questions asked.

  With a sigh, my attention returned to the pictures on Coop’s phone. Unfortunately, they revealed very little. Unless you count the fact that they rebranded the image in my mind of Sister Ophelia’s dead body sprawled on the floor, while Deacon Delacorte h
eld her and sobbed.

  Sighing, I tucked Coop’s phone away on the counter and decided texting Tansy was the next plan of action. Surely the coroner must have some preliminary thoughts on what had been used to strangle Sister Ophelia.

  As I busied myself composing a text, the jingle of the bell over our etched-glass door made me look up. Higgs entered, with Jeff bounding alongside of him, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

  Higgs looked as tired as I felt. His tan face and gorgeous dark eyes had lines embedded around them, and his usually sharp gaze looked bleary. His normally powerful strides toward me were labored and slightly sluggish, but he still smiled in my direction.

  He patted the counter as Jeff ran circles around my legs. “Morning, Trixie. How are you today? Get any sleep?”

  I fought a yawn. It was going to be a long day. “Not a wink. You?” I asked as I reached down and scratched Jeff’s wiry fur.

  Jeff was really doing a fairly decent job of playing the part of dog. Coop and I did our best to give him as much verbal interaction as we could when he was alone with us, and he was learning to keep his ability to speak to himself.

  “Nope. I spent most of the night settling the men at the shelter. After their last scare with Dr. Fabrizio and that ape Griswald, they’re worried a murderer is running loose again.” He paused, an eyebrow raised. “Speaking of, have you heard from Tansy today?”

  “I just sent her a text. How about you?”

  “Nope. But I’d sure like to know what was used to strangle Sister Ophelia.”

  “So you think she was murdered, too?”

  We hadn’t talked much last night after they’d cleared the crime scene. We were both too depleted, I suspect. It really did take more out of you when you knew a murder victim personally.

  Higgs had made sure I’d gotten home safely. And then he’d obviously spent the night at the shelter with the men who’d heard the trickle-down version of events, to try and keep them calm.

  Higgs ran a hand over his freshly shaven face. “Is there any other possible scenario for the marks on her neck?”