Clipped to the last one was a receipt. “Ah, here we go.” Daria scanned the paperwork, frowning. “Right, this says someone from Donnell Printing took this order March twenty-fourth, completed it by March twenty-sixth, and it was picked up the first week of April. If I had to guess, I’d estimate the actual photo shoot was way before the print date.”
Quinn counted back on her fingers. “These were printed three weeks before Tricia died.”
The cousins locked eyes. She could see Daria visibly swallowing.
“She was making a move to go solo. But why? They were an off-the-charts successful real estate duo. Why would she risk that, along with having to change the branding—”
“And the staff,” Quinn reminded her. “Something was going on between the twins. And it wasn’t good.” She took out her camera phone.
“What are you doing?” Daria eyed the bathroom door.
“Getting photos of the evidence. Trina would certainly like the law to sniff around Officer Wyatt, but this here proves she may have motive for pointing the finger at him—”
“And far away from her,” Daria finished Quinn’s sentence.
“Exactly.”
Quinn took photos of the posters and the receipt, then Daria helped tuck them back in the closet, closing the folding doors. By the time they exited the bathroom and the office, they saw Trina escorting her client into her car. She even offered a quick head nod before getting in herself.
Daria gave a perfunctory wave back before leaning over to whisper, “She’s never been nicer to us, and I can’t help wondering: Is it because losing someone close to her has softened her heart—”
Quinn finished her sentence. “Or because she’s a mastermind, working us so we point the finger at Officer Reynolds for her murder.”
Chapter Nine
“I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a letter saying I approved of it.”
—Mark Twain, American author and humorist
Black might have been Quinn’s favorite color, but it lost much of its stylish appeal when it was mandatory attire for a funeral. She had on a midi-length dress, with one of her many book purses tucked under her arm. It was a creative find she had procured thanks to the awesomeness that was Etsy. This particular clutch was made from the memoir Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield; a modern-day ode to the author’s wife, who died in her twenties.
It was subtle. No one would probably make the connection, but Quinn gained comfort holding the repurposed tome to love and loss close to her. Despite their contentious history, Tricia’s death had shaken her; for although not a happy relationship, theirs was an entanglement nonetheless.
As the Caine family walked into the church, Quinn secured her dog baby to one of the posts, pouring the contents of her water bottle into a portable dog dish.
Quinn scratched behind her ear. “I won’t be too long, sweet girl.”
RBG woofed, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.
Bash came up next to them, offering his arm for Quinn to hold. She accepted, giving him a small, grateful smile.
“Good thing we got here on the early side,” he said. “The girl actually packed quite the crowd. Who would’ve thought?”
Their mother, holding onto their father’s arm in front of them, twisted her head around to shush him. “Sebastian Monroe, please keep your voice down. We’re in a house of God.”
Uncle Jerry chortled. “Oh please, Adele. Everyone else is thinking the same thing.”
Aunt Johanna pulled at his arm. “Maybe so, Jer, but she’s right. Keep your yapper quiet.”
Bash leaned close to Quinn’s ear. “I bet there are maybe six people in this whole place who will truly miss her. She was beautiful and smart, but not in the way that counted. Otherwise, the woman was vindictive and petty, and she and her sister seemed to take great joy in other people’s misery.”
Everything he said was true.
He also wasn’t done. “So, why do I feel so awful?”
Quinn understood it was a rhetorical question. Most of the people in the chapel were folks she knew weren’t close to Tricia, but they came anyway. To pay their respects. To offer comfort to the family. Vienna was a loyal town—tribalistic even, in the sense that they stuck by their own no matter what. Vienna Presbyterian was a mammoth congregation, able to seat hundreds of parishioners. One glance was all it took for Quinn to realize it would be standing room only soon enough.
Bash gave a quick wave. “Hey, there’s Aiden. Looks like he and his family saved us seats.”
Oh, that’s just great. Better make sure my hair’s ready for another rumple.
“Hey, man.” Aiden did that one-arm man hug all guys seemed to do. He locked eyes with her. “Hey, Quinn.”
Don’t get sucked into his hot-guy vortex. Remember, he sees you as just a kid.
“Hey, Aiden,” she said, being polite but turning her focus to his folks. “Hello, Mr. Harrington, Mrs. Harrington. Are the girls here?”
Aiden’s mama smiled, making the same gray eyes as her son’s crinkle in the corners. “Thanks, sweetie—no, they couldn’t come. They just had spring break a couple of weeks ago and are deep into midterms.”
Grace and Jessica were Aiden’s younger sisters. Grace was a senior at Virginia Tech, and Jessica was a sophomore at James Madison University. Quinn’s dad used to lament for their parents, who had an overlap of college tuitions.
Mrs. Harrington’s manicured hand rested on Quinn’s shoulder. “How are you holding up? Aiden says you’ve been an absolute rock through everything going on.”
“I’m all right, Mrs. Harrington. I think we’ll all feel better once Aiden catches whoever did this wretched thing.”
“No truer words said,” Mr. Harrington interjected, draping his arm over his wife’s shoulder. Like Aiden, his father was also a mountain of a man, which was why it was all the sweeter when he kissed the top of Mrs. Harrington’s head while giving her shoulder a cuddle. She beamed up at him—a private moment between two people married for thirty-two years. Growing up around families like the Harringtons was part of what made Quinn a self-professed, old-fashioned girl. Forget swiping right and guys sliding suggestive remarks into a woman’s direct messages on Instagram. Couples like her parents and the Harrington’s were the real “#relationshipgoals.”
“So, Bash? How’s the new job at Fairfax Fire working out?”
A good question, one Quinn hadn’t even gotten a chance to ask her brother. In fact, today was the first day she’d spent any kind of time with him since he had accepted the job offer.
He did his typical “aw shucks” expression. “It’s good. Busy. And not in the way I expected.”
“What do you mean?” Quinn and her mama asked at the same time. They glanced at each other.
“Jinx. You owe me a soda,” Quinn teased.
Her mama waved her off. “Little girl, I gave you life. We’re square.” She turned her attention to her oldest. “Come on now. Explain.”
Bash shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s cool. It’s just that the chief has spent more time introducing me to political bigwigs than having me get to know and bond with the other men and women of the unit, or even on learning their procedurals.”
The rest of them shared knowing looks with one another.
Their father cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “And what do you take that to mean, son?”
Bash didn’t hesitate. “I think it means the chief may not want to be chief much longer. I just wish he had told me as much during the interviewing process. This is going to be a much different job than I’d anticipated,” he said, seeming to let that knowledge sink in more now that he’d said it aloud.
Quinn let that one marinate too, for all of five seconds, before saying, “Wow, if that’s right, that would make you the youngest fire chief in Fairfax County history.”
Everyone was now focused on her. “Now how would you know that?” her brother asked, shaking his head.
“C’mon are
you new here? That’s just how Quinn rolls.” Aiden gave her a quick wink. “If I was a betting man, my guess would be that as soon as your sister found out you were going to be working for Fairfax Fire, she jumped online and started researching everything she could about the department, including its current chief. Am I right?”
Bull’s-eye. Wow, he really does know me.
She blushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, trying to avoid his gray-eyed gaze.
“Hello, Sebastian.”
Quinn knew that voice. Even if she had been unable to recognize its delicate cadence, no one else on the planet called her brother by his full name, not even their parents. She and the rest of their little group turned around.
It was Rachel Slingbaum, her brother’s ex.
But Rachel wasn’t just an ex-girlfriend. She was the one who got away, something Quinn took no pleasure in knowing he’d regret one day. Quinn might have been the younger sister, but even she knew Bash had made a terrible mistake when he broke up with Rachel in college. He had been at UVA with Aiden, and she had opted for Brandeis University in Massachusetts. They had made it work, up through their sophomore year, but the distance had gotten to him, and frankly so had the need to experience college life in all its debaucheries. Quinn even remembered Aiden giving him a hard time about what he called his “bonehead” decision.
“Hi, Rach, it’s really good to see you.” One second in Rachel’s presence and Bash got a dopey look on his face. “Although I’ll admit, I’d rather it be under better circumstances.”
“I know. It’s terrible what happened. It seems I keep coming to funerals.”
“Wait, what do you mean? Who else?” Bash stepped closer, as if he could serve as a human shield between her and all the world’s hurts.
Rachel threaded her long, caramel-colored hair behind her ear, awareness tingeing her cheeks as two families watched this exchange. “Hello, Mrs. Caine, Mr. Caine,” she said, leaning over to give each of them a hug before offering the same to Quinn. “So good to see you, by the way. We need to have coffee soon. Catch up and all.”
“I’d like that.” Quinn meant it too. Rachel was the best, almost like another sister. Speaking of other sisters, where was Daria? She should’ve been there by now.
“Hi, Rachel. It’s been too long,” Adele Caine said, her husband echoing her words.
Bash was losing patience. “Honey, are you going to tell me what you meant?”
She sucked in a lungful of air. “Please, don’t call me that.” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. He had embarrassed her, but if Quinn had to guess, it wasn’t because she didn’t like him calling her something affectionate. It was because she did like it, too much for her comfort level.
Rachel went on to explain. “My uncle Chaim died a few months ago. It was awful. We convinced him to move here last year, after his divorce. Everything was going so well, until …”
Quinn knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help barging into the conversation. “Until what?”
Rachel let out a heavy sigh. “That’s it. We’re not sure. He was healthy—maybe not in the best of shape, but otherwise fine. Never missed work. Always busy. He had a bad stomach flu and then that was it. He died. Out of nowhere. My family and I are still reeling from what happened.” She stared off, the pain still fresh. “You’d think, being a doctor, he would’ve known his whole body was shutting down.”
Over thirty years without a murder and now two in less than six months. Strange, dontcha think?
Quinn would prefer not to give Officer Reynolds any credit, but he had a point. “Did you have them do an autopsy to find out why his organs shut down so fast?”
The local paper was quick to draw parallels between the doctor’s death and Tricia’s. Were they right?
Rachel shook her head. “My uncle was modern Orthodox.”
Quinn drew a blank. “What does that mean?”
Bash’s ex explained, “There’s different levels of religious observance and interpretation. Him being Modern Orthodox meant he followed Jewish law, but in a way that allowed him to live in secular society. And the Modern Orthodox don’t believe in conducting autopsies unless there’s strong cause.”
Bash nodded. “It’s a way of demonstrating respect for the dead.”
Rachel eyes shone with unshed tears, as she gazed at Bash. “That’s exactly it.”
A sense of dread enveloped Quinn. Both she and Aiden locked eyes for a second before she asked. “Your uncle was Dr. Chaim Levine?”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “Yes! Did you know him?”
Quinn reached out to squeeze her hand. “No, but I heard about his death when I got back. I am so sorry for your loss.”
Rachel squeezed back. “Thanks, I appreciate that. He really was such a wonderful man. If you’d known him, you would have liked him.”
The reverend tapped the head of the microphone, making sure it was on. “Everyone please take their seats. Our service to honor the life of Tricia Pemberley is about to begin.”
Rachel took a quick glance over her shoulder. “I better get back to my seat. Lyle is waiting for me.”
The color drained from Bash’s face. “Lyle? You’re here with a guy name Lyle?”
“Hey, be nice. He’s a guy I’ve been seeing,” she said before leaning close to Bash’s ear, an attempt at privacy, but Quinn overheard ‘can’t see you’ and ‘it’s too hard.’”
They watched her walk away to join the guy she’d mentioned, who was waiting for her down the aisle on the other side of the sanctuary. He was the same height as Rachel—five feet nine—with dark brown hair, thick black glasses, and an olive skin tone. Besides being slender, there wasn’t one physical similarity between him and her brother.
“Well, at least she doesn’t have a type,” Quinn offered, a paltry condolence.
“How serious do you think she is about him?”
She studied Rachel and Lyle standing together. No lingering gazes between them. No clandestine touches. People kept approaching her: a former classmate, the wife of a family friend. Every time she introduced Lyle, he gave one of those tight-lipped, constipated smiles. Obligatory, with no heart behind it.
He is sooo totally wrong for Rachel.
He kept glancing over at the cross hanging over the dais, a mixture of apprehension and unease settling on his shoulders. Quinn couldn’t help but think that if the cross at a Protestant church spooked him, it was his good fortune they weren’t over at one of the Catholic sanctuaries. Those usually depicted Christ in the throes of crucifixion, bloodied wounds and all.
Bash was losing patience. “Well?”
“Not that serious. Rachel said he was a guy she was seeing. Not her boyfriend.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Uh, yeah, definitely, a big difference,” Aiden interjected into their conversation, sandwiching himself between them. “Move down, Bash. I need to talk to Quinn.”
Usually the maneuver would’ve been enough for her brother to raise an eyebrow, but he was too consumed with all things Rachel to notice. Like a mindless lemming, he moved down a seat.
“The service is starting. We’ll talk another time.” Quinn stared straight ahead, pretending to be absorbed in the service. She noticed funeral programs for Tricia’s service had been wedged in front of the prayer books in each of the pews. She slid one out to take a closer look. There was Tricia in full color on the cover, with a curlicue font reading: “Tricia Pemberley: A Celebration of Life.”
But Quinn’s efforts at distraction proved futile. Aiden got close enough for his lips to touch the shell of her ear, sending a shiver of goose bumps through her. Damn him.
“If you think you’re going to continue blowing me off, you are sorely mistaken,” he whispered, moving her hair off her shoulder. “Are you going to the gravesite after the service?”
“I wasn’t planning to, and I’m not blowing you off,” she said, still not looking at him and also working really hard not
to think how electrifying it felt, his hand touching her hair.
“You won’t even look me in the eye, Quinn—ever since I dropped you off at the store the other day.”
He had her there, but no way was she agreeing out loud.
Aiden had more to say. “Also, don’t think I missed that look on your face.”
Her brows came to a “V,” and she finally met his gaze. “What look?”
“The one you made when you heard about Rachel’s uncle.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she fibbed. “She’s suffered a loss. Of course I’m going to feel badly for her.”
“You suspect a connection.”
She froze—until she realized he meant a connection between Tricia’s death and Rachel’s uncle’s—not between him and her.
Quinn used her program to shield her face so no one could see her whispering. “It’s hard to know since the family’s not permitting an autopsy.”
He scratched under his chin, his nails dragging through the stubble. “Yeah, I had no idea Rachel’s family was so religious.”
“Her uncle was—they’re not. They’re probably just respecting his wishes.”
She glanced over. Wheels were turning behind his eyes, making him see without seeing. “Aiden?”
He came back. “You and me … after the service. We’re going to have a little chat.”
“But what if I—”
“Cancel them,” he insisted. “And don’t even think about trying to sneak out of here. I know you better than you think, Quinn. I’ll find you—and I’ll arrest you if I have to.
Chapter Ten
“True courage is in facing danger when you are afraid.”
—L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Inside almost every grown adult resided a little, snack-sized Veruca Salt who wanted—and expected—to get her way. Quinn Caine’s twelve-year-old self was the same, still coveting the attention of her brother’s best friend. Preteen “Quinnie” couldn’t fathom why her twenty-five-year-old self would purposefully avoid spending time with Aiden Broadwater Harrington.
To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 12
