Then There Were Nun

by Dakota Cassidy

  When he complains, we remind him his fate could have been plenty worse, as far as roadkill goes. He could have landed in the body of an opossum or a skunk or worse, a snake.

  Coop’s expression was one of distaste when she wrinkled her nose. “Aye, lass,” she said, mimicking Livingston’s Irish accent to perfection. “We can’t have the wee bairn goin’ on and on about how we starve him to death and the only ting standin’ ’tween him and death’s door was the last cupcake he stole right out from under my nose, can we?”

  I almost laughed at her accurate description of Livingston’s very dramatic take on just about everything—especially food—but then I remembered there was a dead man on our store’s floor and, even if he wasn’t the nicest man on the planet, he didn’t deserve to die because he was surly. Respect was owed.

  “Yes, that. So please go check and see if he’s still sleeping in his cage, would you?”

  Coop saluted me like she’d seen a character on Hogan’s Heroes do, one of her favorite new earthly addictions. “I’m on it.”

  Left alone with Fergus’s body, I sighed and sent up a small prayer for his soul.

  Habit? Maybe, no pun intended. But mostly, I liked believing there was someone out there looking out for all of us. Real or imagined, I needed that image in my mind to console me in my darkest hours. Hell certainly exists. I can attest to that. Coop can, too. So why not Heaven?

  Someday, I wanted to sit and have a long chat with Coop about its existence. I know she’d be open to answering my questions. I simply wasn’t ready for the hardcore truth, and my deep-rooted fear it would vary greatly from the solace I took in what I’d always believed—still mostly believed.

  Either way, the dead body didn’t frighten me. I’d seen plenty of them in my time as a nun when families sought aid and counseling from the convent. What frightened me was how this had happened—again. I was beginning to feel as though we were a real pox on surly landlords.

  Rooting around in the back pocket of my jeans, I pulled out my cell, turned on the flashlight app, and began to take pictures as discreetly as I could so as not to catch Knuckles’s attention. I didn’t want him to think me some sort of murder groupie.

  As I snapped away, sometimes quite haphazardly, and I listened to the low hum of Knuckles’s voice on the phone, I gave a critical look to Fergus and the surrounding area near his body.

  He’d clearly been hit on the head, judging by the size of the blood pooled underneath his skull. In fact, what little hair he possessed had begun to dry and mat in spots from the blood, meaning this had happened before we’d arrived at the store. But how long before?

  Which begged the question, why had he been at the store when we weren’t, in the first place? We’d tied up everything yesterday and he’d left us with this mess. Had it happened while we were at the motel last night? While we had dinner? Early this morning while we were showering and preparing for our day?

  I didn’t know how to judge times of death, but I’d certainly text Stevie and ask. Though, I was betting it had happened last night. He was still wearing the same blue suit he had on when we’d met him here at the store, and to be frank, he looked rather stiff.

  I took as many pictures as I could, just the way Stevie had when Hank Morrison had been killed, all the while wondering who would want Fergus McDuff dead?

  That’s when I noticed the angry red scratch marks on Fergus’s neck, right under his second chin and along the column of his throat.

  Leaning in a bit closer, I realized they weren’t scratch marks at all. They looked intentional. He certainly hadn’t had those marks on his neck yesterday. I’m positive of that much.

  Still, how odd. Was this some kind of serial killer’s work? Didn’t serial killers all have some kind of calling card? Could that be what the marks represented? And what the fiddle-faddle was that mark? But I didn’t have time to examine further. The police were going to be here any second, and it wouldn’t do to be caught hovering around a corpse.

  I shivered at that word, not as curious now as I was frightened.

  Then, in a rush of recollection, I remembered the good-looking man Fergus had argued with yesterday just outside the store and made a mental note to tell the police about him. Who was he, and was he the man responsible for this? He’d sure been angry yesterday—so angry, that other man had pulled him away from his conversation.

  As Knuckles’s voice grew closer again, I pushed my phone into my back pocket. I had no business getting involved in this. Stevie had Win, and he was an ex-spy. He knew what he was doing. I was an ex-nun, for pity’s sake, and about as far away from a spy as one can get. I truly needed to stop playing Nancy Drew and pay closer attention to this pickle we were in.

  And were we ever in a pickle. How could we hope to renovate a store if it had turned into a crime scene? When this happened back in Ebenezer Falls, they’d locked us out of our freshly rented space. We couldn’t afford to have this happen again.

  Then guilt washed over me in a tidal wave of remorse. I shouldn’t be thinking of anything other than this poor man’s death, and shame on me for doing everything but.

  Knuckles came into view, taking my mind off my worries, his enormous body lumbering its way to the back of the store with the phone pressed to his ear.

  In the distance, I heard official voices and took a deep breath, bracing myself for what was to come.

  And all the while, as I braced, I tried to think about anything but Fergus’s body, and the fifty bafrillion questions I had about how it had gotten there.

  * * * *

  “And you are, love?” the woman, maybe in her early forties, with tousled graying-at-the-roots blonde hair and very round glasses, asked in a clear British accent, reminding me distinctly of the ladies from Absolutely Fabulous and my dearly departed Nanna, who was British born and raised and loved that show.

  Also reminding me, at this very inopportune moment, how much I missed having Nanna in my life.

  The woman been one of the first officials on the scene; standing against the backdrop of the amazing mountains Portland had to offer as she leaned on one of the police cars parked at the crumbling curb.

  We stood outside the store on the cracked sidewalk while the police and forensics guys crawled all over the inside like ants on a hill, putting things in bags and swishing big brushes over tiny surfaces.

  The weather had turned from rainy to sunny, and now the breeze was warm and inviting, making me wish I was walking along the Hawthorne Bridge instead of answering questions about my dead landlord.

  I hated that I felt that way, but that’s just my truth. We’d had a lot of murder in our lives lately, and it wasn’t a bellyful of laughs by a long shot.

  They’d separated Coop and me, and as hard as I tried to keep one eye and an ear on what the other detectives were asking my far-too-honest demon, I had trouble doing as much because the police lady kept blocking my view of her.

  “Um, miss. Your name, if you would please?”

  “My name’s Trixie Lavender.” I tried not to squirm as I said it, but gosh my hands were clammy and my mouth was dry.

  She peered down at me over her owl-like glasses, her sparkling blue eyes a complete contradiction to the tired lines forming around her mouth. “Is that your stripper name, pet? You know, like the memes my mates post all over my Facebook page? The month you were born and the road you lived on when you were a lass equals your stripper name?”

  All I could do was stare blankly at her. I’m new to this social media thing. Sure, the convent had a Facebook page, but they definitely didn’t let me loose on it. I’m certain due to fear I’d spew some of my misgivings about the Bible.

  Also, I do know what a meme is. Stevie showed me a bunch on social media, and I’m really getting the hang of having an online presence, for both the store and my own personal page. I don’t remember anything about strippers, but I promise you, that won’t be for long. I intend to find out what my stripper name is posthaste.

  S
o I thought about what the lady said, and answered, “That would make me November Convent.”

  “You lived on Convent Road?”

  “No. I lived in a convent. Sorry, I must have misunderstood you. I thought it was my birth month and the place I lived.”

  Her penciled-in eyebrow rose. “You lived in a convent did you say, love?”

  “I did. I was a nun.” And that was all I said. Hopefully, the part about my being a nun would make her think twice about the possibility I’d lie.

  Stevie had said to always lead with that whenever I felt like someone doubted me—it was what she called my holy ammunition.

  The lady snickered a little, tapping her pen on her small notepad. “So I guess it’s Sister Trixie then?”

  “Nope. It’s just Trixie. As I said, I’m not a nun anymore.”

  She waved a hand in the soft breeze and smiled. “Neither here nor there. I was only having a laugh about your stripper name, of course.”

  So I laughed, because it seemed like the right thing to do. “Then it was very funny.”

  Then she cast apologetic eyes my way. “Apologies. It’s just your name is quite unusual. Is Trixie your real name?”

  I cupped my hands over my eyes to block out the bright sun that had decided to make an appearance. “That’s my real name.”

  She stuck out her hand. Her nails, though short, were polished in a bright red. “Detective Tansy Primrose.”

  “Is that your stripper name?”

  She threw her head back and laughed—like, really laughed, flashing white, not-quite-even teeth while producing lines around her mouth. “Touché, love. That’s my Welsh mother’s romantic nature rearing its flowery head. Do you have any idea how hard it ’tis to be taken seriously by a bunch of men at the station when your name is Tansy Primrose?”

  “Probably the same as it is when your name is Trixie Lavender.”

  “Touché again,” she said on a wink, and Detective Tansy, being so jovial, made me wonder if this was a technique Stevie had talked about. The one where you buddy up to a suspect in order to glean information from them. “So, this Fergus McDuff, he’s your landlord, correct?”

  “Was.”

  She jabbed a finger in the air, the motion batting away a fly. “Was. Right-o. Any ideas about what might have happened to our poor Fergus McDuff?”

  In the effort to never give more than is asked, I peered up at her very pleasant face. “He was killed.”

  Detective Primrose laughed again, the sound tinkling and light. “I don’t know if you’re pulling my leg or pulling my leg, but now who’s having a laugh, love? Though now,” she leaned down to me, her mouth half-tilted upward, “I must be very serious and play detective to keep my insurance benefits and my superiors content. I can’t cock this up or I’ll lose my job and be shipped right back to jolly old England with my tail ’tween my legs. Understood?”

  I didn’t say anything, but I nodded vigorously.

  “Righty then. First, I don’t see the immediate need to take you downtown, Trixie, because your alibi for last night checks out, and Mr. McDuff does appear plenty fermented. That’s good for your defense, innit? Plus, your wee stature makes you come off harmless and unassuming, but make no mistake, I will shuffle you right off to Buffalo if you give me the roundabout. So, if you feel like sitting in a putrid room vaguely smelling of a London trash bin with nothing but a table and a two-way mirror, say aye.”

  My stomach lurched. It was all fun and games until the sassy British detective got serious. “I vote nay. I most certainly do not feel like sitting in a putrid room with a table and a two-way mirror.”

  Her head bobbed up and down, a smile back on her face. “Indeedy. As long as you answer my questions and don’t give me a speck of trouble.”

  “Deal.”

  “So, did you see anything? Anyone suspicious?”

  “Do you mean did I see someone kill Fergus?”

  She eyed me for a moment, assessing me from head to toe with sharp eyes. “Aha. I see how this is. You’re a cut-to-the-chase kind of girl. I like that. Admire it even. And yes, that’s exactly what I mean. This is a murder investigation.”

  “Has is already been ruled a homicide?” Was that a stupid question to ask?

  “Well, love. I don’t know about you, but there’s a bloke in there with his head smashed six ways to Sunday. I think it’s safe to say he was murdered without too many repercussions from my higher-ups.”

  “Primrose?” a gruff, deep voice shouted. Not an unpleasant sound in my ears, mind you.

  Detective Primrose whipped around at the sound of the voice and broke into a smile—a wide smile, once more revealing her very white teeth surrounded by red lipstick that matched her fingernail polish.

  “Higgs? What in the name of all the king’s horses are you doing here in Cobbler Cove?” she asked, clearly pleased by his presence. Dare I say giddy, judging by the twinkle in her eyes.

  The incredibly good-looking man swooped her up in a big hug and swung her around while I watched before setting her down and grinning at her, his generous smile revealing grooves on either side of his mouth. “I got tired of living like an Eskimo in Minneapolis, so I left. Great place, Portland, huh?”

  Detective Primrose patted him on his broad shoulder and grinned even wider, then smoothed a hand over her navy-blue blazer. “You bet your daffodils. Anything’s better than homicide in Brooklyn, I can tell you true. Hades beats homicide in Brooklyn. That’s where I went when I left Minneapolis, by the way. Just transferred here a couple of months ago. But look at us now, bloke. Small world, init?”

  He chuckled, low and husky, just like his voice. “No kidding. Good seeing you. We should grab dinner or something. If Marvin will allow it, of course.”

  She laughed and made a face, her fair skin glowing under the buttery ball of sun. “Marvin Schmarvin. As if he has a say in whom I choose to dine with. Old coot.”

  Higgs gave a light squeeze to her shoulder. “An old coot who’s the love of your crazy life. Who are you trying to kid?”

  Pulling her notepad to her chest, she sighed, breathy and with longing. “You’re right. He’s my old coot, and now that I have my claws in him, I’m not letting him go.”

  “So you investigating this mess?” he asked, his dark eyes finally landing on me, very obvious curiosity in them.

  “You betcha,” she said in a pretty good American accent. “I was just having a chin-wag with Miss Lavender about whether she saw anyone or heard anything that might have been suspicious, wasn’t I?”

  Swallowing hard, I nodded and wiped my hands on my thighs, suddenly self-conscious about my ratty T-shirt and dirty sneakers.

  “You betcha,” I responded, making her grin.

  “So, where were we, Miss Lavender?”

  I inched closer to the detective. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. Out of fear. Higgs’s stare made me uncomfortable. “You asked if I saw anyone who might have murdered Fergus, I believe.”

  “Riiight, right, right. Sorry, I let myself get distracted by this handsome sod. We used to work together ages ago, didn’t we, Higglesworth?”

  Higglesworth? What an interesting name for such a manly-man. I’d have gone the opposite end of the spectrum and expected his name to be something along the lines of Spike or…or Lumberjack. But Higglesworth reminded me of a butler to a superhero. Like Batman’s Alfred.

  “We did indeed, Detective Primrose. In the frozen tundra,” he joked. His words breaking my reverie as he folded his arms over his broad chest and stared down at me.

  If my hands were sweaty before, now they were positively dripping.

  “Now off with you, mate. You’re distracting me from doing my job.” The detective turned back toward me then, her pen at the ready once more. “So, Miss Lavender, did you see anyone who might have hurt Mr. McDuff?”

  It was now or never. I summoned my inner Stevie in order to get through this. Stevie was a clever lady, and she’d never cower the way I wanted to cower. I
wanted to go back to the cheap motel we were temporarily staying in, grab my favorite blanket, and hide under it until my stomach stopped jumping around like a cat on a hot tin roof.

  But I asked myself, WWSD—what would Stevie do? She’d give the police as much real information as she had, and she wouldn’t bat an eye for doing so. She was no chicken, and in her honor, I wasn’t going to besmirch her good name and all she’d taught me by batting my eye, either.

  I say that as though I ever dreamed I’d end up in a situation almost identical to the one we’d left behind us in Ebenezer Falls, but here I was once more.

  Standing but a few hundred feet away from a dead body.

  Squaring my shoulders, I looked Detective Tansy Primrose right in her cheerful eyes and said, “I did see something. I saw your friend—Higgs, I think you called him—arguing with Fergus McDuff yesterday afternoon.”

  Chapter 4

  I leaned into her so she knew I was serious. “And it was quite heated. There were arms flying around, and hand gestures, and then another man came and pulled your friend Higgs away.”

  Higgs’s eyes flashed hot at me, but he didn’t speak a word. Which of course almost made me squirm. But then I thought about Stevie and, I’m proud to say, I didn’t flinch under his scrutiny.

  Okay, I admit, I was still standing close to Detective Primrose, and she did have a gun which helped in the non-flinching department, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I didn’t flinch.

  Rock solid was I.

  Also, we’d argued with Fergus, too. Now under normal circumstances, the one where Coop had never been accused of murdering our last landlord, I’d tell the detective. I pride myself on my honesty.

  But that wouldn’t work in our favor today, and I admit, I was a little afraid to tell her. Besides, the good detective would find out soon enough with a simple Google search. And another thing? I knew we didn’t kill Fergus. We had a rock solid alibi I’d dare anyone to refute.

  Detective Primrose eyed me hard, but I couldn’t read whether her gaze said she was surprised or mildly annoyed. “Let me be clear. You’re saying Higgs had an argument with Mr. McDuff?”