“Don’t ask.” She twisted around in her chair, grabbing a series of three thick books tied together. “I’m still surfing the shame wave, and I’m not up for the replay and feedback loop just yet.”
“Ahhh,” Daria dragged out. “Must be something with Aiden.”
Damn it. “Stop with the whole perspective thingy. It’s annoying.”
“Copy that. Whatcha doin’?”
She let out a long sigh. “I’m at the store, about to work on projects. You?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Daria said. “I have the rest of today off.”
“Wait—aren’t Sundays like your busiest day of the week? That’s like giving an accountant April fifteenth off.”
“Funny,” Daria deadpanned.
She then proceeded to talk about her latest attempt at expanding Guinefort House’s dog program into training emotional support dogs. “The others want me to wait awhile, to focus on my own spiritual process before I suggest changes. But I think it’s a good tie-in with my master’s in social work, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Quinn agreed, even though she wasn’t really listening. That’s because the three yearbooks in hand, one from Louise Archer Elementary, one from Thoreau Middle School, and the last from James Madison High School—all had her same year of graduation. They were really banged up except for one, even ripped in some places. On top of the stack was a folded note.
“Hold on a sec,” she told Daria. “Something interesting came in.”
“I’m about five minutes away. Want me to pick up a chai tea latte for you?”
She knew her so well: Her bookstore served delicious drip coffee, but sometimes Quinn needed the high-octane sugar rush only an overpriced, fancy latte could provide.
“When have I ever said no to that offer?”
Daria chuckled. “Exactly. See you in a bit.”
“Okay, bye.”
Quinn hung up the phone and unfolded the note:
Hey Quincy,
Sorry I missed talking to you in person about the project. Please keep it quiet, as I want it to be a surprise for Tricia. These are her yearbooks from sixth grade, eighth grade, and senior year. I looked through them the other day and noticed her boyfriend (soon to be fiancé) had written something awesome for her each time, even before they were a couple. Unfortunately, the books aren’t in great shape. Any chance you can fix them up for her? I’d love to give them as a present, as part of her hope chest. Expense is not an issue. Call me with a quote, and let me know when you can have them complete.
Thanks, Trina P.
She checked the date on the letter: it had been written two days before Tricia’s murder. Perhaps Scott had given Trina the heads-up about his impending proposal, maybe had her take the photo that was on her sister’s phone. And in her excitement, she had perused all their old stuff and found these.
Thumbing through the high school yearbook first, she found the inscription Trina had mentioned. Scott went on and on about how smart and beautiful Tricia was, how lucky he was to know her. It was obvious he was smitten. It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it had its charm. Of course, there were plenty of other inscriptions from other male admirers, although many were written more in acronyms than prose, like S.W.A.K. and 2Good2B4Got10.
Gag.
She perused their middle school yearbook, also finding another note of admiration from Scott. As she skimmed through the others, most with names she’d known forever, there was one in the corner of a back page, in thick black marker, that caught her eye.
I will never forget you. Don’t forget about me. Baltimore is not far away. You are the prettiest girl in the whole school. Text me at 703.555.9294.
Love, Wyatt
Holy shitake, could it be?
A knock on the door scared her bad enough to make her jump in her seat and cry out.
The door opened. “Gee-Zeus, what’s the matter with you?” Daria came into the small space, putting her latte down on her desk. “You look like you saw Poltergeist, the Live Show.”
“Hold on, I need to see if I’m right about something.” She flipped through the yearbook, scanning through the faces of the eighth-grade class.
Daria took a sip of her coffee before placing it besides Quinn’s on her desk, then grabbing the elementary school yearbook. “Oh, this is from your year. I’m not in it, then.” She skimmed through the annual. “Wow, this is wild. Look how young everyone was … I wonder if Mrs. Kass still works there. She was my favorite.”
“Me too, but she left years ago. She’s the author of a bestselling picture book series now. The name escapes me …” she said, her voice drifting off as she scanned through the names and faces. “Quentin … Ranier … Reginald … ah, there it is—Reynolds. Wyatt Reynolds.”
Daria bent over to see. “You mean the officer with the stick up his—”
“Yes, the same one—look!”
Sure enough, there was Officer Wyatt Reynolds in early teen form.
“Wow, he was actually a really cute kid,” she said. “How come I don’t remember him?”
“See if he’s in the yearbook you’ve got,” Quinn instructed.
Daria leafed through it. “Nope, he didn’t attend Louise Archer Elementary.”
Quinn did the same with the high school yearbook before answering, “Nope. He didn’t graduate with my class. It seems as if he was only here for middle school before he moved to Baltimore.”
She couldn’t get over the photo of him either: sable-colored hair in a mop, big brown eyes, and a huge smile—complete with a full set of braces.
Quinn thumbed through the rest of the yearbook. She perused the club photos toward the back, noticing the only activity Tricia had participated in that overlapped with Wyatt was Safety Patrol.
“Figures,” Daria snorted. “I never could stand those guys. Power hungry, even then.”
“Indeed.” When she got to the end of the yearbook, she saw there was a pouch filled with papers. “Should I?” she asked.
Daria gave her a look.
“I know. Dumb question.” Quinn dumped the contents of the insert out onto the desk. They were all handwritten notes, like the kind kids pass in class. “There must be dozens in here.”
“Divide them up so we can both read them.”
They divvied the pile, realizing quickly that most were from the same person: Wyatt Reynolds.
Daria let out a low whistle. “Whoa, this kid had it bad for her.”
“I’ll say …
“There will never be anyone as pretty as you, Tricia. You are also nicer than your sister, and I don’t think you get enough credit for that. I will always be here to make you feel better.”
“You don’t think he still has a thing for her, do you?” Quinn asked.
“Probably. It sure explains why he was so jacked up about her death and talking as if he knew her. Because he did.”
They both got quiet, because they were thinking the same thing, but each was waiting for the other to say it first.
“Okay, fine, I’ll say it,” Quinn started. “You don’t think he’d …”
Daria scratched the back of her neck and shrugged. “That’s a big leap, Quinn—from schoolboy crush to stalker-killer.”
“I heard Aiden say Reynolds transferred from Baltimore not too long ago. Do you think he came here for her?”
Daria shuddered. “Can you imagine? Holding a torch that long for someone, with little to no encouragement for years?”
Quinn scanned all of the unfolded pages. “Why would you assume that? Look at all these notes. What do they have in common besides most being from Wyatt?”
Daria drew a blank. “I don’t know. They’re all written on notebook paper?”
She held a bunch in her hand. “Tricia saved them. A girl doesn’t keep notes from someone she doesn’t at least care about in some way.”
“Good point.”
Quinn sighed. “Of course, these notes don’t prove anything.”
“They’re proof he had
some sort of relationship with Tricia. What else is he hiding?”
Quinn cracked her knuckles. “Okay, let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that Wyatt Reynolds returned to Vienna because he was obsessed with Tricia. Wouldn’t you think, then, he’d kill Scott, and not the object of his affection?”
“True, true,” Daria said, leaning her shoulder against the edge of the bookcase by the door. “Although, it depends on how far down the rabbit hole he went in terms of his fixation. If he’s truly been obsessed with her all this time, he may see Tricia’s engagement as a betrayal, one needing to be punished. Maybe it went too far.”
“I wish I had looked through her phone before handing it over to the police, to see if Wyatt’s been in contact with her.”
“Well, that ship has sailed,” Daria chewed on the corner of her thumb. “We’re probably way off here, by the way.”
“Why do you say that?”
Daria shrugged. “Because don’t police officers have to take a boatload of psychological tests before graduating from the academy? I’d think obsessive tendencies would have shown up.”
“They have to take the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.” It’s a multiple-choice personality assessment exam. Candidates also have to sit down for an in-person interview with a psychologist,” she added, noticing the expression on her cousin’s face. “What?”
Daria tsked. “Yeah, I know what an MMPI is. I’m a licensed clinical social worker, remember? The question is, how do you know all of that?”
“I remember Aiden telling me and my family over dinner, years ago, when he was going through all the testing himself.”
“So, then Wyatt had to pass those tests too.” Daria checked to make sure the office door was all the way closed and locked. “Listen, I don’t know if I’m breaking the rules or anything, but there’s something you should know.”
“Breaking what rules?”
Daria paused before blurting out, “Okay, this is between us. You promise?”
Quinn tsked. “As if you even have to ask.”
She nodded. “Right. Well, remember the other day when we were having breakfast, but I had to leave early?”
“I do remember. In fact, I meant to ask you later if everything was all right, but, in typical ‘me’ fashion, I forgot.”
“No biggie. Sister Lucy called, saying some policeman had come to the abbey wigging out. She needed me to come back right away.”
Quinn put her cup down. “What happened?”
“Well, I got there, and it was Wyatt.”
Quinn looked aghast. “Talk about an order of humble pie with extra awkward sauce.”
Her cousin slapped her thigh. “I know, right? Anyway, I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t share why he was upset, even after I told him I was a licensed social worker. He insisted on speaking to—and I quote—‘a real priest.’ When I explained to him that we were an Anglican order—of nuns—he got all flustered and left in a tizzy.”
Quinn let that one sink in.
“Do you think I broke any rules telling you that?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, you screwed the pooch on this one.”
“Great.” Daria slumped in her chair.
“Since when did my cousin, the former detention mainstay and misdemeanor queen, suddenly give a flip about rules?”
Daria responded by nibbling on the edge of her thumb again.
“Hey, it’s me.” Quinn placed her hand over Daria’s favorite chew toy. “Consider me your walking secret repository. We’ve always shared stuff we couldn’t—and shouldn’t—say to anyone else. I’m your vault and you’re mine. Okay?”
Daria seemed to relax. “You’re right. I’m being ridiculous. You’re my family,” she sighed. “Of all the vows, it’s the one asking for obedience …”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence; they both understood that the struggle was real. Quinn loved her cousin. She respected her too. However, even after two years, her becoming a novitiate was still something of a mystery Quinn was trying to solve.
“Even if he didn’t kill her, there’s something fishy going on with Officer Reynolds,” Daria finally said.
“Agreed.”
Her cousin eyed the mess on Quinn’s desk. “Should we take the yearbook and notes to Aiden?”
Quinn shot her a look. “In the words of the late, great Whitney Houston, that’s a ‘hell to the no.’”
She picked up her coffee. “Wait—why?”
“Because I’d like to avoid yet another head pat from the man, followed by a ‘Go get ’em, tiger.’”
Daria almost did a spit-take. “He did what now?”
“Yep. Ruffled my hair like I was five.”
Her cousin swallowed. “Oy. That’s no bueno.”
Yeah, no kidding. “So, we’re on our own here. If we find something linking Wyatt and Tricia in the present day, even if it was just in his paranoid imagination, then we’ll loop Aiden in. If it’s nothing, then no harm done and no patronizing, paternalistic shade. Are you with me?”
A once-buried, mischievous spirit sparked behind Daria’s eyes, glittering with a fire Quinn hadn’t seen since she’d been back home. “Oh, I’m with you, cuz. You and me. We’ve got this thing.”
They did their special handshake, one they hadn’t done in years. Forget Bat-Signals. The Cousin Secret Handshake heralded the beginning of a new era: the end to either of them residing in their comfort zones. The last time they’d enacted “the shake,” they had both landed in jail for a night, but Quinn brushed that thought aside. That was high school. They were grown women now. How much trouble could they possibly get into?
Chapter Eight
“Very few of us are what we seem.”
—Agatha Christie, British mystery author
Quinn opened the first volume. It had taken her longer to restore Tricia’s yearbooks than she’d thought it would-over a week-but once they were done, she had insisted Sister Daria come over.
“You wouldn’t believe how much work this one from our elementary school days needed.” She breathed in deep through her nose, floating in the delicious aroma of aged schoolbook. Forget the beach; Calvin Klein needed to bottle various book scents for its next fragrance line: library book smell, brand-new book smell, aged book smell—not to be confused with old book smell, which, FYI, was just mildew.
Even though she didn’t receive a response, Quinn kept going. “I had to glue the bindings on the folio, then I had to rebuild the spine. It was like someone had flapped the book like a spastic bird, breaking the thing right down the middle.”
Daria glanced up from her book. “Uh-huh.”
“The one from high school just needed the gold lettering filled in and a few stitches. Easy-peasy. The middle school one was in the best shape.”
“Okay cool,” Daria said in a rush. “Can we go now?”
She knew Daria had no interest in her bookbinding prowess, but something about the condition discrepancies between the yearbooks kept niggling at her.
“It’s weird.” Quinn kept turning around and examining the middle school yearbook again. “Most people keep them all together, in the same place, so the condition of each remains fairly uniform.”
Her cousin let out a loud sigh, which Quinn ignored.
“It’s like she had made sure to put this volume away on the shelf. She took care of this one, Daria, like it contained something precious. The others might as well have been left lying around in the back of her closet or something.”
“And?”
Quinn put the book down. “Annnnd … my theory is, those notes—or something else about middle school—meant something to Tricia. Enough to care for this book better than the others.”
“Or she put it somewhere and forgot about it,” Daria countered.
“That could also be true.”
Quinn checked on the books one last time. She wanted each scholastic tome to be perfect, not only because her work reflected on her and her family, but because she
was putting a great deal of weight onto mere paper: willing books to serve as olive branches.
She placed the three yearbooks inside a reusable bag. It had taken time to repair Tricia’s yearbooks, mostly because she’d needed to special-order a particular brand of gold leaf to redo the monogram on the front of the senior year annals. The company was still in business, but the shade of gold had been more yellow back then. All the current metallic tones skewed toward rose gold or silver, avoiding anything brassy or classic gold.
“Okay, enough theorizing for now. We’re never going to get answers sitting around here. Let’s go.”
The cousins walked out of the bookstore and down the brick-laid path along Church Street. Plenty of people were sitting outside on painted benches, leaning against lampposts while licking ice cream cones and sipping chilled coffee drinks. As usual, residents of Vienna only had the pleasure of a few traditional spring days before sliding right into the heat of summer. It was early May and already almost ninety degrees.
“I have to admit, I’m nervous.”
Daria cackled. “Well, of course you are. The last time you saw her, she was spewing venom all over you like a spitting cobra. I’m surprised your stomach’s holding up. It used to be, someone would look at you funny, and you’d be running for the bathroom.”
Quinn gave her cousin some side-eye. “Wow, way to score low on the comforting scale, Ms. Social Worker–slash–Woman of God.”
“Please, you have no idea how lucky you are. I’m so much nicer than the older nuns.”
“Setting the bar high, I see.”
Her cousin gave her a playful shove with her shoulder as they walked. “C’mon, I’m here with you and for you. Besides, it’ll be good to see if you two can clear things up before the funeral. The last thing anyone needs is a scene at Tricia’s gravesite. No one wants to upset their mom and dad more than they already are.”
“I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.” Quinn noticed no line at the coffeehouse as they were getting closer. She grabbed her cousin’s arm. “Wait. We need to bring Trina sustenance in the form of caffeine, foam, and sugar.”
Daria stopped walking, shaking her head. “You’re stalling again.”
To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 10
