Then There Were Nun

by Dakota Cassidy

  Inhaling, I tried to absorb everything that had happened today and where to go from here, but my mind was a blank.

  “So what’s next, Trixie?” Coop asked, craning her neck to look at me with intense eyes.

  But I had no answer. I was at a loss. I’d spent so much of our time since leaving the convent juggling plates, trying to keep everything in the air so we could move forward, I’d used up all the tricks in my hat.

  Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I shook my head. “I… I’m not sure what’s next, Coop.”

  Knuckles grunted, his stomach jiggling. “I am.”

  I turned my head to look at him. “You’re what?”

  “Sure what to do next.”

  “What should we do next, Knuckles?”

  He turned and smiled down at me with warm eyes, a twinkle in them just like Santa Claus. “Solve a murder, of course, m’dears.”

  My heart clenched in my chest. There but for the kindness of strangers…

  Chapter 5

  “You live here?” I asked on a squeak—and I know I squeaked—which is horrendously rude, but I was astonished and awed all at once. “I mean, this is all yours?”

  “Yep,” Knuckles responded, sweeping a broad hand in a gesture that said we should enter his not-so-humble abode via a maroon door with stained-glass panels. “Welcome. Happy to have you.”

  I looked around at the entryway to his house, the floors flanked in bleached hardwood all the way through the open concept space, where each room blended into the next. It was beautiful—stunning, in fact. So stunning, my mouth fell open.

  The walls were done in creamy pale beige with wood-framed pictures of people and their tattoos, people I’m going to assume Knuckles had tattooed personally, seeing as he was in some of the pictures. And then there was the canvas art, splashes of green and blue with no particular design, but a perfect accent to his moss-green kitchen cabinets and gray and off-white furniture.

  There were the plants and flowers—everywhere, too. Blue and pink hydrangeas in terra cotta vases, three or four fichus trees, and an entire corner by the dining room’s wide French doors dedicated to various potted greenery I couldn’t identify off the top of my head.

  In a word, it was gorgeous.

  “It smells nice in here,” Coop commented, setting Livingston’s cage down. He was under strict orders to keep his little beak shut while we were at Knuckles’s house. We had enough trouble. We didn’t need more if someone found out we had a sass-talking owl with an Irish accent to boot.

  “Eucalyptus,” Knuckles said plainly as he scooped up Livingston’s cage and set it on the deep gray-and-white marbled countertop of his kitchen island. “I love eucalyptus.” Then he drove a finger into our ornery owl’s space and said, “Hey, little guy.”

  Coop was at his side in two seconds flat, fearing what I feared.

  That Livingston would bite his finger off.

  He can be a cranky little bugger given just an inch. We were always on guard with him because if he had the chance, he’d take advantage of the fact that we couldn’t reprimand him the way one would a toddler (which was how we approached his behavior) without looking as though we were out of our gourds.

  I shot Livingston a look that said do it and die, and to his credit, he settled on his perch quite nicely, but the swivel of his head said he was annoyed (surprise-surprise!).

  “Does he need mice or something?” Knuckles asked, his forehead furrowing.

  Livingston’s feathers ruffled in discontent, and groaned. “Ack! That’s disgus—”

  “That’s delightful of you!” I chirped over our bird, casting him a stern nun’s frown before putting a hand on Knuckles’s shoulder and nudging him away from the cage, hopefully distracting him from Livingston altogether. “But he’s eaten for the day. We’re good, Knuckles. Thank you, though.”

  Knuckles smiled for the second time since I’d met him earlier this morning and pointed to the white ceramic kettle on his shiny silver chef’s stovetop with the red knobs. “How about some tea? Grew the herbs myself.”

  Tea? Why had I expected he’d offer us some Jack or maybe even moonshine?

  Because I was stereotyping and it was rude.

  “Don’t go to any trouble. Please,” I said on a smile. “We don’t want to be in your way. You’ve already been too kind.”

  And he had. It was Knuckles who’d suggested we go back to his place to try to figure this thing out so we could move into the store. For the time being, he’d been cleared of any wrongdoing due to the fact that Fergus’s body was hours old and I’d told Detective Primrose that Knuckles had only shown up this morning to apply for a position.

  Also, he had an alibi for yesterday right into this morning.

  So, as we’d followed him over in our hot mess of a Caddy that there but for the grace of God was still running, we wondered out loud where a man like Knuckles would live.

  Coop figured it was in the back of some dive biker bar, and I’d guessed maybe a small apartment with peeling paint and a rusty showerhead.

  When we’d pulled onto Knuckles’s street, lined with beautiful green trees and manicured front lawns, tiny as they were, and had seen the houses, all mostly Craftsman style, we’d been convinced he lived with his mother. Maybe even his grandmother, if long life spans and having children early ran in his family—and some cats. Because Coop said all the TV shows she watched with men who lived with their parents at Knuckles’s age (which was almost sixty, according to his application, by the by) had cats—lots of cats.

  Thus, we’d gone with caution. Coop can scent a lot of things, but according to her, she can’t always tell if someone’s intentions are good. Though, she’d declared her general first impressions were much like mine, in Knuckles’s case.

  His eyes were kind, and that was enough for me. I didn’t worry so much about his size if he did in fact have ill intentions. Coop could take him. I’d seen her in action on several occasions and for someone so pretty and finely boned, she could be a frightening warrior if the opportunity presented itself.

  But when we’d pulled up to Knuckles’s beautiful steel blue/gray and white house with a generous front porch and copper hanging lanterns swaying from the ceiling in the late-afternoon breeze, we were both flabbergasted. Add in the amazing guesthouse, a miniature replica of the main house, in his backyard, and I was floored.

  That’d teach us to make assumptions, eh?

  “This is very unexpected, Trixie Lavender,” Coop whispered as Knuckles set about making the tea he’d offered.

  “Yeah. But what a lovely surprise, yes?”

  She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears. “It is. It’s almost as nice as Stevie’s house, don’t you think?”

  Stevie lived in a mini-mansion high on a cliff overlooking Puget Sound, or as she’d dubbed it, Mayhem Manor. An old Victorian she’d renovated with Win’s help, and it was amazingly beautiful and we both had fond memories of the comfy beds and Egyptian cotton sheets—a far cry from the shoddy, cheap-by-comparison motel we were in now.

  “If not as big, but yes. It’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a Mrs. Knuckles?”

  “Nope. Just me,” Knuckles said from behind me, his gruff voice making me jump.

  My face went red, my palms sweaty. “I’m sorry, Knuckles. That was rude. You have immaculate taste. We had no business speculating.”

  He held up two mugs of steaming tea and hitched his square jaw toward the plank-wood dining table with the soft beige tufted chairs surrounding it. “Don’t sweat it. I get that all the time because of the flowers and plants. Everyone always thinks I either live with my parents or I have a wife. Oh, and cats. A passel of cats. But really I only have two.”

  I fought a giggle as I followed him into the dining room and he removed a glass vase of freshly cut lilacs from the table. He had us pegged, for sure. Still, I didn’t want to be like everyone else. I wanted to live my life without assumption—without stereotyping. How could I live it any other way i
f I expected people to accept an ex-nun possessed by an evil spirit and her demon friend?

  Reaching a hand out, I patted his brawny arm in another form of apology. “Regardless, it was rude of us to assume you weren’t capable of such a beautiful home. Especially seeing as your tattoos are so amazing and detailed. You’ve obviously done very well for yourself, Knuckles. Good on you.”

  Coop’s eyes went to the pictures of him with his clients and she nodded as she took a seat. “Definitely amazing.”

  High praise coming from a skilled artist like my Coop. High praise indeed. In all the time we’d spent browsing the Internet, looking at shops and other artists’ work, she’d mostly only grunted, with the occasional nod of approval. But to hear her use the word amazing was positively gushing for someone as unenthusiastic about almost everything the way Coop was.

  And that brought me to one of my bigger fears. Our history. I figured I needed to get this all out of the way before we became any more involved with Donald P. Ledbetter. You could put whatever you wanted on a piece of paper, like names and social security numbers, but we had zero experience in real-world tattoos.

  I couldn’t very well explain that Coop used to be the devil’s head tattoo artist, could I?

  I cleared my throat and looked Knuckles directly in the eye. “Which brings me to this again. Why would you choose Inkerbelle’s? We’re definitely not established. The space is a wreck. We have nothing to show in the way of a resume but the tattoos on Coop—”

  “Hold the phone, Nellie! Who inked that on you, Coop?”

  Coop gave him her direct stare. “Me.”

  “You inked that yourself?” he asked with wonder in his gruff tone, eyeing the intricate unicorn tattoo on the front of Coop’s left shoulder in all its beautiful colors, peeking out beneath her spaghetti-strap top.

  Oh, dear. Had I revealed something I shouldn’t? Was it unusual to do your own tattoos? Did demons have some magical high tolerance for pain a human wouldn’t?

  But Coop nodded after taking a sip of her tea. “Yep. I did.” And that was all she said.

  “How did you do that all by yourself?”

  I bit my tongue because I didn’t know how she’d done it either. I just took for granted she’d done some magical demon thing and poof—tattoo.

  But Coop just looked at him dead on, relaxed as ever. “I used a mirror and I’m ambidextrous.”

  He half-smiled, his nose ring shifting when his lips rose. “Wow. Impressive.”

  I kept my sigh of relief on the inside and said, “Anyway, it’s obvious you’ve had bigger fish to fry, Knuckles. We need you far more than you need us. So let’s lay all our cards on the table before we go any further. Why us?”

  Knuckles shrugged, pulling off the handkerchief he’d put on his head earlier before looking down into his mug of herbal tea. “Like I said, and I’m tellin’ you true, can’t explain it. Just know it’s right. Yep, your place is a dump. Nope, I don’t need to rent a space or work for anyone if I don’t want to. I’ve done all right for myself. I choose to work because tattooing is what I love. Well, that and my flowers and cats. But I don’t want the hassle of owning my own shop.

  “I’ve been looking around for a few months now, and when I saw your Facebook page, hit me like a ton o’ bricks. I just knew. I know it sounds weird, but that’s the truth. I got a good feeling about you gals. I’d like very much to work at Inkerbelle’s. And after hearing Coop did her own tat, I’d really like to work with you ladies.”

  I grinned at him, my heart full. Even Coop managed to move her facial muscles just a hair in the direction of a smile. “Then I won’t ask again, I’ll just be grateful the universe sent you to us.”

  He patted my hand with his much bigger one and smiled. “Fair enough. Now can I ask you a question?”

  I tried not to stiffen, but I knew what was coming, and I wanted to be as direct as I possibly could without making a liar out of myself. I know he heard Detective Primrose ask me about being a nun. Were I Knuckles, I’d want to know why I’d left the convent, too.

  “You absolutely can.”

  His pause was thoughtful, as though he were measuring his words so he wouldn’t offend me. Blowing out a breath, he straightened in his chair. “What made you decide to leave the convent and take up tattooing? Kinda unusual for a nun, don’t ya think?”

  “It’s definitely unusual, but I didn’t really choose tattoos. They sort of chose me, I guess. When Coop and I met, I commented on the beauty of her tattoo and she liked some of my sketches. The rest just sort of happened.”

  Out of necessity, mind you, but how we’d come to our endeavor was mostly true. Once the mess at the convent had simmered down and I was out on my keister with Coop stuck to me like glue, we just started brainstorming, and it all fell into place.

  Either way, I thought he’d be satisfied with my answer, even though I hadn’t really answered his question at all. But he said as much when he asked, “So you still haven’t told me. Why did you leave the convent?”

  Listen, sometimes the truth really is stranger than fiction. I figured if I led with the truth, I wouldn’t have to lie-lie—which I hated doing, and I knew Knuckles would think I was merely joking. So, short of being dropped off at the nearest psych ward for evaluation, I let ’er rip.

  Keeping my face as serious as I could, I asked, “If I told you it was because I was possessed by an evil spirit who made me do horrible things—like moon my fellow nuns and steal a centuries-old relic once allegedly owned by the archangel Gabriel—all while trying to eat my soul, would you believe me?”

  That was mostly the truth. I’d left out the part where my most cherished mentor and priest, Father O’Leary, was the one who’d asked me to get the relic in the first place. And I’d blindly done his bidding without thinking twice, even though his request was incredibly out of character.

  But that was neither here nor there.

  Coop hissed a breath, but she remained silent, her posture stiff as a board as her hand curled around the mug of tea.

  Knuckles, on the other hand?

  Knuckles burst out laughing, throwing his head back and literally howling. In fact, he laughed so hard, he had to bend over as he shook his head. “Noooo!” he squealed on a series of snorts that sounded hilarious coming from a man so large. “I wouldn’t believe that.”

  I grinned and squeezed his hand even as his shoulders still shook and he wiped tears from his eyes with his thumb. “Then suffice it to say, I had a crisis of faith, and I happened to meet Coop at the right time and place when I needed a change in my life, and…” I spread my arms wide. “Here we are.”

  Inhaling deeply, he blew raspberries from his lips to shake off his fits of giggles then bounced his graying head in response. “Good enough. And you’re funny. Really funny. All the nuns I’ve ever met were cross and very serious, but not you, eh, gal?”

  I chuckled. Yeah. Funny.

  Coop eyeballed me over his head and I could tell she was breathing a mental sigh of relief.

  Next up, diversion, something I’d become very good at.

  Rubbing my hands together, I looked at them both and smiled. “Then let’s solve a crime, huh?”

  * * * *

  Three hours and an Uber Eats delivery of some amazing Thai food later, and we were all not only yawning, but at a standstill.

  I’d done what Stevie had done when we were trying to figure out who’d killed our landlord in Washington. I’d printed all the pictures of the crime scene and spread them out on Knuckles’s dining room table. I’d even texted Stevie to get some tips from her on how to go about this crime-solving thing and what to do next.

  As a result, we’d come to some small-ish conclusions.

  We had no idea what we were doing—Stevie really had made it look much easier than it was—and we were probably out of our heads to even attempt to solve this without help from a skilled expert. Still, we persevered.

  I pointed to the picture of Fergus’s head and the wide
pool of blood beneath, tapping it with my nail. “Obviously, Fergus was clobbered over the head. We don’t have an official cause of death, but I feel secure in saying it was probably blunt force trauma. Nothing left behind one can see with the naked eye.”

  Except a lot of debris. There definitely was plenty of that spread around Fergus’s body, and I wanted to kick myself for not at least taking closer pictures of it. A stray piece of newspaper or a crushed soda can could hold key evidence.

  Knuckles leaned back in his chair and let his hand rest of his burgeoning belly. “Blunt force trauma. That’s a pretty technical term.”

  “Blame it on Monk.” I didn’t solely watch Law & Order, thank you very much. I spread my mystery-loving binge watching around.

  He grinned and pointed to the back of Fergus’s head, where you could just see the edges of the gash in the picture. “Okay, so blunt force trauma. With what? Who nailed him over the head like that? Because wowee and a hootenanny, that’s some gash in his noggin. That means someone was madder n’ a hornet, right?”

  My finger shot up in the air as I gave that thought. “Good point! It definitely suggests someone was angry with him or at the very least there was passion involved. So maybe he has a wife or a girlfriend he angered? But anger also points to that Higgs man. He had an argument with Fergus yesterday right outside the store.”

  “The guy who runs the shelter? Cross Higglesworth?” he asked, frowning.

  “That’s the one.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Oh, I dunno.” I heard the doubt in Knuckles’s tone—oddly, it sounded like Detective Primrose’s brand of skepticism. “He’s a pretty good guy from what I hear on the street. He’s always out bringing blankets to the folks under the Hawthorne—hot food, too. Offering them a place to stay. Helping them get jobs.”

  Could this Higgs do no wrong? Not only did everyone know him, everyone liked him. He was a real rock star around Cobbler Cove.

  I looked at Knuckles’s broad face thoughtfully. “So you know him personally?”

  “Nope. I know of him. He’s legend in the community. I’ve seen him at some of the places I do community service. In fact, he was at the Children’s Center last year when I played Santa. He helped decorate the tree and read a bedtime story to the kids at the pajama party afterward.”