To Kill a Mocking Girl
A BOOKBINDING MYSTERY
Harper Kincaid
This book is a love letter to the town of Vienna, Virginia, a community that’s become the home of my heart, not just my stuff. It is also dedicated to the staff of Bards Alley bookstore, with deep affection and gratitude.
Acknowledgments
This book would have never been possible without the many characters that live and work in the Town of Vienna, Virginia. Don’t be fooled by all the Eddie Bauer and LL Bean-gear. Under the yuppie-wear resides much delightful weirdness. Thank you for making this outsider feel like a native.
Thank you to the Vienna Police Department, particularly to MPO Juan Vazquez, for answering all of my questions and for being a beacon of positivity. Thank you to our mayor, Laurie DiRocco for your enthusiasm and support as well. Your efforts-and that of the Town Council- help make Vienna an enviable place to live.
A special acknowledgement needs to go out to the Bards Alley staff, past and present. Thank you for being the inspiration for this series, especially to Pauline Murphy, Lynne Kohls, Sarah Katz, Cory Hill, Melanie Kosar, Leah Grover, Amy Lane, Will Ryan, and Jen Morrow.
Thank you to Christ Church Vienna for your love, support, and answering all my questions regarding the Anglican church.
As always, thank you to my literary agent, Jill Marsal, who helped me brainstorm the idea for this book years ago-who heard my pitch for a small-town Southern mystery series with a feminist heroine, a dog named after Ruth Bader Ginsberg and a superfluity of nuns and thought ‘well, it’s a lot on the page, but somehow, it works’.
Thank you to Faith Black Ross, my editor at Crooked Lane, for your candor, humor and lightning-fast turnaround. Every author has a dream editor in mind and you are that wish actualized.
Thank you to the editorial and marketing team at Crooked Lane: Matt Martz, Ashley Di Dio, Melissa Rechter, and Jenny Chen. You are tireless champions-and I sincerely appreciate every one of you.
Thank you to my fellow cozy mystery authors, whom have made me feel truly welcome, especially those at Crooked Lane.
A most grateful thank you to Misty Simon, Queen of the Cozy. If it wasn’t for your friendship, encouragement and late-night phone calls, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to enter the cozy mystery genre. I adore you beyond reason.
And lastly, but never least, to my family: David, Hunter, and Samara. You are my roots and wings and are proof of God’s love for me.
Chapter One
“Curses, like chickens, come home to roost.”
— Susanna Moodie, eighteenth-century Canadian author
Quinn Caine may have traveled all over the world, but she still thought nothing was more enchanting than springtime in Vienna, Virginia, especially driving with the windows down on Church Street. That’s where all the historic charm bloomed, with people she’d known since birth living close by. This was her hometown. Memories resided on each corner. As did oversized bags of dog food.
Quinn pulled up in front of the family business, Prose & Scones, Vienna’s only independent bookstore. Mama Caine stopped sweeping the sidewalk of stray petals from the flowering dogwood trees, leaning her weight into her broom handle.
“Need any help?” she asked.
“Nah, I got it.” Quinn hopped out of her truck and onto the curb, grabbing a sack under each arm before flinging them into the flatbed. Two pointy ears with a big smile and a wet nose poked out the passenger side window. Her German shepherd, RBG—Ruff Barker Ginsburg—always seemed to know when she was getting a treat. And sure enough, her mama’s hand spelunked down her jacket pocket. Then, palm out, she offered a liverwurst yummy in the shape of a lil’ cupcake, thanks to the new doggie “sweet” shop down the street.
“You spoil her, you know.” Quinn shook her head, pretending to mind.
“Please. This here’s just practice. Wait ’til I get my first grandbaby.”
Quinn chuckled. “New rule: Every time you drop a grandbaby hint, I’m delaying marriage and conception by at least six months, even if I meet the right guy.”
“Fine—eviscerate a mother’s hopes and dreams.” Adele Caine sighed, wiping the crumbs off her hand. Then, lightning fast, her expression clouded over. “In all seriousness, I’m glad you have RBG with you. Not just as company, but for protection.”
Her daughter gave her an “are you kidding?” look.
“I’m not kidding, Quinn. It used to be the worst thing to happen was getting your bike stolen if you forgot to lock it up. Vienna’s still lovely, but a lot has changed since you’ve been away.”
She was right. The town was in the midst of some growing pains, having transformed more in the last few years than it had in the quarter century before. Mainstays such as the Freemason Store, the Vienna Town Inn, and Caffe Amour had remained intact, but many long-standing institutions had closed. To the residents of Vienna, those businesses were more than just places of commerce; they were extended members of the family.
“I know change is hard, but it’s not all bad. I, for one, am doing a happy dance that we finally have some good tacos in town.”
Quinn’s attempt at levity was squashed by Adele’s stern-mama look. Every mother had one, and Adele Caine could wither the plumpest of grapes into hard raisins with hers.
“I’m not talking about tacos, Quinn. Someone was murdered here not too long ago.”
“Are you—oh, Mama, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Who was it?”
Her eyes went soft. “How could you have? You were living in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the world. Your father and I didn’t bring it up because we didn’t want you to worry. I wasn’t going to waste one second of my time with you on Skype talking about such tragedies.”
She had her there. “When did it happen?”
“Right before you came back. I don’t know the details, but supposedly, it was a strange death. It hasn’t been labeled ‘murder’ as such. But the police haven’t ruled out foul play either.” A strong breeze ruffled her blondish-gray hair all around, but Adele didn’t seem to mind. “I’m sorry I don’t know more.”
Quinn reached for her mother’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Adele’s cerulean-blue eyes lit up. “You know who would know?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Aiden. He made lead detective last year. The youngest in history, I believe.”
No surprise. Aiden Harrington was always going places. He had been her older brother’s best friend and Quinn’s secret crush since she’d been old enough to make pinky promises. He had movie-star good looks and a Superman physique, but those attributes—though a visually intoxicating bonus—weren’t why her heart pulsed a secret beat just for him.
Aiden “got” her. He appreciated her vast—and sometimes pointless—encyclopedic array of knowledge. Growing up, some boys had mocked her for being the first to raise her hand in class or for outscoring them on tests. But Aiden would remind her, “Any guy who’s intimidated by a smart girl will never grow up to be his own man. Keep those boys in your rearview, Quinnie. They’re well below your pay grade.” Such high praise from a beautiful, older, more popular boy had been heady liquor for a young girl. Every smile he gave and any chance to share his air intoxicated Quinn, her heart a swelling hope. Someday, she would think to herself. It was her most private wish.
He had always been a natural protector, so she hadn’t been surprised when he joined the police force after he graduated from the University of Virginia (double major in psychology and criminology with a minor in English literature—swoon). Her mom was right: Aiden was probably the perfect person to ask about what was happening in Vienna, but considering she regressed into an awkward, knobby-kneed tween every time she was i
n his presence, Quinn was going to pass on a one-on-one.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll talk to him later,” she lied.
“How many more pickups you got?”
Quinn glanced down the street. “Yours was the last one of the morning. We’ve been at it a while.”
She caught her mama staring.
“You okay?” Quinn rested her hand on her shoulder, gently bringing her back.
Her mother smiled. “Oh, don’t mind me. I know you’ve been home a little while now, but I swear, sometimes I look over at you and can’t believe you’re really here … that you’re back for good.”
“Well, believe it.”
Even with the reassurance, Adele’s hand still fiddled with a raven brooch on her jacket lapel. She collected intricate pins, getting the idea from former secretary of state Madeleine Albright. Years ago, Quinn had taken her to peruse the former secretary’s brooches on exhibit at the Smithsonian Castle, each pin a tongue-in-cheek “tell” on her mood and sentiments throughout her tenure. Quinn’s mama had been a collector ever since, encouraging her daughter to do the same. But Quinn wasn’t into the same fussy finery. She opted for some quirky pop culture–inspired enamel pins instead, some of her favorites being “These feelings would go good with pie” and “You can’t please everybody. You’re not a taco.”
Her mother rested her chin on top of the broom handle. “You ever miss the adventure?”
Quinn thought about it for a second. After graduating from The Catholic University of America, Quinn had spent the next three years teaching English all over the world, mostly in remote villages in Southeast Asia and Central America. For someone who hadn’t previously left the East Coast, let alone the United States, it had been a heck of a learning curve, one she’d never forget.
“I miss the people—a lot—but that’s about it. Don’t get me wrong—it was a phenomenal experience. But this is home. Besides, after living in yurts and huts, indoor plumbing and heat rock.”
Adele’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “I bet they do.”
Quinn went on, “Even more important, I promised my new bosses I was here for good.”
That made her mama laugh, deep and throaty, since her parents were her “new” bosses. “You have no idea how happy we are to have you. You’re not too overwhelmed now, with all the projects customers have brought in?”
“Not at all. You know I like being busy.”
When Quinn had come back to the shop, she had been worried there wouldn’t be enough work for her as a bookbinder. She had never been so wrong and was surprised by how many old books, journals, and even photo albums people had brought in for repair. She took the bounty as a sign her town was happy to have her home, enough for them to crawl into the creaking dark recesses of their attic spaces, confronting their forgotten, ancestral ghosts, all in order to dig up old family heirlooms for her to resurrect back to life.
Her dog gave a friendly yip.
“That’s my cue to get going,” Quinn said.
“Fair enough. Don’t forget my morning sugar.”
That was Caine family code for a hug and kiss goodbye. Quinn leaned in, taking in her mama’s delicious scent of orange blossom honey and wildflowers. Quinn could always tell when she had spent time in her prized garden, with a cup of tea.
She waved goodbye as she drove slowly down the street in “Golda”, her ochroid-colored, Ford F150, named after the first woman prime minister of Israel. Ever since buying her first car at sixteen, Quinn had been giving her vehicles nicknames—and she picked “Golda” for the same reason she’d chosen to buy a truck when she returned home from overseas. Both may not have been known for their conventional beauty, but they were tough, tenacious, and got the job done.
Quinn had it specially configured to play cassettes, along with outfitting Golda with the standard hookup for her iPhone. She pushed in her go-to driving mixtape, Venture a Highway—a word play on the classic hit by retro band America. Except this time Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” played, serenading her with the perfect song for driving down meandering roads. It wasn’t until she was almost at her destination that Quinn realized her mama never had answered her question about who had been killed in their town.
I’ll have to check on that later.
Quinn and RBG headed over to their next destination: Guinefort House—named after the only sainted canine in history—where Anglican nuns served the Almighty by breeding German shepherds and caring for rescues of all varieties. In fact, that’s where Quinn had gotten her own canine baby. The dog food donations she coordinated through local businesses weren’t much, but it was a small way for Quinn to give thanks and give back. The treats for RBG didn’t hurt either.
Even with all the bookbinding work that had come in, Quinn still needed something outside the shop to help her start rebuilding her life. Most of the friends she’d had growing up had not returned to Vienna, and the handful that had were squatting in their parents’ finished basements. She knew she was lucky, because the friends who had come back lived like retirees—complete with subsidized housing and working part-time in dead-end jobs. There was little more depressing for a young person than killing it through four years of college only to end up as a greeter at the local Walmart with your grandma’s canasta buddies.
Originally a rural farm town on the border of American history, over time Vienna had evolved into a sleepy bedroom community and was now a hot spring for tony families to raise their broods. Being ranked by several national magazines and news outlets as one of the best places to live certainly contributed to Vienna’s growing popularity and reputation. Blessings and curses often insisted on traveling in pairs.
When Quinn’s pilgrim spirit had finally been ready to settle, she’d discovered that what once was home was now, in many ways, new country. The same was true for some of the people. When she had left to teach English overseas, her cousin had been Elizabeth Anne Caine. Firebrand redhead. Social justice warrior. A little lost. A big chip on her shoulder in the shape of a broken heart. Now, she was Sister Daria. Nun-in-training. A woman with purpose. Someone actually interested in following the rules for the first time in her life. Quinn couldn’t help but wonder, Who was this person disguised as her beloved cousin?
Quinn understood a bit of the appeal: little compared to the beauty of Guinefort House, home of Sister’s Daria’s order. It was a Carpenter Gothic stunner, originally home to a family active in Northern Virginia’s Reconstruction efforts before it became the spiritual center for Anglican nuns and novitiates. Christ Fellowship Church in Vienna may have only been planted in 2011, but the Anglican Church had deep roots in Virginia, dating back to before the American Revolution, with founding father George Washington attending services at The Falls Church during his tenure as the nation’s first president.
Guinefort House’s moniker made Quinn chuckle as well, as it had been named for the only canonized pooch in history. She always forgot to ask: Had the nuns decided to breed German shepherds because of the name of the house, or had they named the home once they decided to breed dogs to support their order and rescue mission?
Quinn avoided asking her canine version of the question “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” because what she really wanted to ask her cousin and best friend was “Since when did monastic life become your go-to career option?” Quinn still remembered the shock she had felt over two and a half years ago after receiving Sister Daria’s letter. Quinn was six months into her first overseas teaching gig at the time. Her cousin wrote that she wanted to dedicate her life to the service of others, and being a social worker wasn’t enough. She was going to become a nun.
Out of nowhere, she had given away all her possessions and become a novice, taking her first vows two years later. Of course, Quinn had asked her why. So had the rest of the family. The only answer any of them received was that she felt called to serve in this way, through Guinefort House. In three more years, she’d take her final vows. Maybe by then Quinn would understand.
“Wow, a whole flatbed filled with kibble. I knew you and that fleabag did everything together, but I didn’t think you ate from the same trough.”
Quinn sighed, not wanting to turn around to address Tricia Pemberley. Because she loved her town. She really and truly did. But she was over mean girls like Tricia, who thought winning a few shiny tiaras back in high school still gave her some imaginary keys to the kingdom.
RBG wasn’t too thrilled either; her tan-and-black paws were on the gate of the truck, and she was grumbling low while staring straight at Tricia’s blanching face. But then again, dogs were excellent judges of character. That was one of the reasons Quinn had named her pup after the famous Supreme Court jurist, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Her girl was always able to assess people and situations. Quinn sometimes got it wrong, giving people the benefit of the doubt even when her instincts told her otherwise, but RBG? Never.
Tricia backed away. “Dear Lord, can’t you keep that dog of yours calm?”
RBG gave one of her warning growls, then a couple of quick, low grunts.
Quinn frowned. “She can’t help it. She’s responding to your mood.”
It was one thing for Tricia to pick on her, but no one—absolutely no one—was going to smack-talk her dog. “What are you doing here anyway? Don’t you go to Saint Marks? Or did the priest’s ears burn off after hearing your confession?”
Tricia narrowed her eyes. “Ha-ha. As if.”
Just when Quinn thought she’d have to deal with Tricia’s surliness alone, higher powers sent a reinforcement. At first, all she could see in her peripheral vision was flapping white and gray, like a wayward jaybird, hauling tail down the sidewalk. But it was Sister Daria. She wasn’t going to come out swinging, but she sure looked like she was at least entertaining the idea.
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