“I knew Suzanne was a bad egg, kiddo. Believe me, I did…deep down, anyway. But she needed me. Sometimes, that takes away some of the loneliness—when you’re needed.”
A tear stung my eyes and I had to gulp back the urge to let them flow freely. “She needed you for all the wrong reasons, and I know you know that in your heart of hearts. But we need you, too, Knuckles—me, and Coop, and even Mr. Cranky Pants. We need you. We need you to be happy and healthy and with a wonderful woman who treats you like the absolute gem of a prince you are.”
I gave his shoulder a nudge with mine. “Now, listen. I know this sounds like a bunch of bunk coming from a friend, and you’ll probably think I’m only saying this because I am your friend, but you mean the world to us. You are our world—a huge part of it—one of the reasons we have a shop, and a place to live, and the feeling that we belong. That we matter. I know it’s not the same as having a life partner, but we’re here, Knuck. We’ll always be here for you. Promise.”
He wrapped his big arm around my shoulders and pulled me in close, his voice gruff. “I like you, Trixie girl. I like you so-so much,” he said, mimicking Coop’s favorite phrase.
My heart swelled and my eyes filled with tears of so much gratitude, I almost burst. “I like you, too, Knuckles. So-so much.”
* * * *
Three Days Later
Myer Blackmoore held up his arm and smiled wide from his seat in Coop’s tat chair. “This is absolutely fantastic, Coop. Thank you! From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
Coop nodded, her eyes intense as she pulled off her gloves and patted Myer on the back with an awkward thump. “My pleasure, Myer Blackmoore. Wear it in good health.”
Myer was too enthralled with his new tattoo to notice the strange way Coop addressed him, and he should be enthralled. It was a beautiful tribute to his friend—a tattoo of a man on a bicycle with Agnar’s name and the dates of his birth and his death.
The group—minus Grady Hanson, who’d left in an embarrassed hurry—was finally on their way back to LA after being cleared by the police, and they were happy to be doing so. So many bad things had happened to them since their arrival—the death of their friend, the downfall of Suzanne—it was time for them all to move forward. But they’d stopped in to commemorate their last ride with their friend by getting tattoos.
Seeing the shop full like this brought so much joy to my heart as I watched everyone mingling—even Knuckles, who chatted with Myer despite his heartache over Suzanne. Though quiet these last couple of days, with all the news reports on Suzanne and David, Knuckles appeared lighter of heart, and I hoped he’d heed my words of the other night.
Because I’d meant them from the depths of my soul.
Jeff still couldn’t remember anything about this message he claimed to have for me. Thus, the search continued to find a way to help him remember. As frustrating as that was, I had to remind myself patience was a virtue and let it go for the time being. That we were all happy, safe, and together meant everything to me. The rest could wait.
My demon, still nameless, hadn’t reappeared since I’d knocked Suzanne around, but I wasn’t in a rush to find out what its name was, either. I know the day will come when I have to hit that problem head-on, but right now, with the shop just picking up steam, I set it aside in favor of the hope this demon would go away and never come back.
Edwin sidled up to the front counter and leaned in, his tattoo from Goose—a sculpture he’d asked me to sketch, one Agnar had treasured—freshly covered with cling wrap.
“I don’t suppose you’d put in a good word for me with your friend Coop, would you?”
I looked into his handsome face and shook my head in the negative. “No, sir. I absolutely would not.” Then I laughed to soften the blow. Edwin knew he was a cad, and he also knew I didn’t want one of my dearest friends involved with a cad.
He tipped his head and smiled. “Fair enough. Hey, I was looking over your Facebook page…you know, you being an ex-nun gone tattoo shop owner…and I happened to see a picture of you with a rare artifact. Mind telling me where you found it?”
I gave him a confused look. A rare artifact? Did he mean Sister Gwendolyn Ann? She was indeed pretty old, and rarely did one live as long as she. “I don’t know what you mean. Can you pull it up on your phone?”
He dragged his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket and scrolled until he found what he was looking for. “This one here. See that statue? That’s pretty old. Can’t remember where I saw it, but I do remember someone mentioning it’s been around for thousands of years. Has some sort of alleged curse attached to it, I think. Know anything about it?”
I forced my face to remain impassive, but my heart chugged and lurched in my chest.
It was a picture of me with the relic that had started this whole possession mess. I’d totally forgotten about putting it on my Facebook page. It was the only one I had of me from my days as a nun.
Licking my suddenly dry lips, I fought to keep the shakiness from my voice. Edwin knew about rare art. Maybe he could help? Maybe he could make sense of this?
“You know, I don’t know anything about it, other than it was in the convent the entire time I was there. But if you ever find out any details, I’d really appreciate knowing its history?”
He reached over the countertop and pinched my cheek with a smile. “You bet, sunshine. I’ve got your email.” Then he turned to face his friends. “Can we please leave this state now? I need some palm trees and a good stiff drink, folks.”
Everyone laughed as they gathered their bags and headed toward the door, shaking hands and smiling. Lucinda gave me a quick hug and whispered, “Remember what I said, Trixie. If you ever want some help with your personal style, I’m your girl. Now I’m really your girl after what you did for Agnar.”
I smiled at her and nodded my head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As they all plowed out, yet another chapter in this new life closing, Higgs passed them on his way in, pizza boxes in hand.
“Lunch has officially arrived, folks. Get it while it’s hot and gooey!”
With a sigh of relief, I followed everyone to the back of the store where we had a table and enough chairs for all of us to share a meal, lovingly stroking Livingston’s head on my way. We all took our usual places, except for Coop, who’d stopped to answer the shop’s phone.
“Higgs, did you remember to get black olives?” I asked as he pulled in his chair and reached for a pizza box.
“Would I forget something as important as that?” he asked with a chuckle. “The last time I forgot, you said, ‘the next pizza I brought into this store better have black olives or you die an ugly death, Cross Higglesworth!’”
I pointed a finger at him and wagged it under his nose. “And I meant it, buddy. What is this pineapple and ham nonsense anyway?”
“Trixe Lavender?” Coop called, holding up the shop’s phone. “Phone call.”
I turned to Higgs and gave him my best sour nun face. “I’d better not come back and find pineapple on my pizza, buddy.”
We all chuckled as I made my way to the phone, taking it from Coop, who went off to eat. “Hello, this is Trixie Lavender.”
“Trixie?”
My stomach sank right to my feet.
I knew this voice. I knew it, and had once cherished it. It was the voice that had betrayed me not so long ago.
“Yes?” I said, though my voice trembled something fierce.
“This is Father O’Leary from Saint Aloysius By The Sea…
The End
Thank you so much for joining me for book 2 in the Nun of Your Business Mysteries! I so hope you’ll come back for book 3, titled House of The Rising Nun, coming soon!
Preview another book by this author
Play That Funky Music White Koi
A Lemon Layne Mystery, Book 2
Dakota Cassidy
Chapter 1
“Is that the music from Dateline I hear in the background,
Lemon?” my BFF Coco Belinski asked, her tone rife with accusation.
I clicked the television off in guilt. “Don’t be silly, Coco. I was just getting ready for bed. You know too much stimulation is a sure trigger for my insomnia.”
“I do. That’s why I bought you that MP3 of a bunch of monks chanting. To help you sleep. That’s also why Dateline and all other murder mysteries, either real or even the tamest of strains known as Murder She Wrote, should not be a part of your daily diet anymore, Detective Layne. We’ve discussed this, haven’t we? This is your mental health calling and it likes status quo.”
I snorted at her favorite endearment as of late as I made my way to my bathroom to brush my teeth. I was no more a detective than she was a sheep herder.
It’s been almost three months since Coco and I were a given a bird’s-eye view of a real-life murder investigation, involving my mother’s ex-boyfriend, Myron Fairbanks. An investigation that brought up tons of unresolved issues, for me in particular. Issues from my past…
An investigation that also reminded me, solving a crime on a television show is decidedly different than solving one in real life.
Coco’s overprotective nature is the reason she’s calling me just before bedtime, and has every night since that chaos all went down—because she knows me well enough to know I’ve been having a bout with insomnia.
Though, my insomnia doesn’t all surround the murder of Myron, mind you. But I admit, there are nights when the vision of him in our gas station bathroom with a hole cut out of the back of his head does still haunt me.
So when given too much time on my hands, like when I can’t sleep, I inevitably turn to any sort of mystery I can get my greedy hands on. That’s always been my way.
It doesn’t have to be a murder mystery. It could be something as uncomplicated as the case of the missing thumbtack, and I’m britches deep, all on board to solve the case. My problem is the total immersion that occurs when I sink my teeth into any kind of puzzle.
The bigger problem? I can’t let go. I jump in both feet to the exclusion of all else until I figure it out.
Now, you’d think after the last mess I’d ended up in—which, by the by, included the invasion of a zombie hunting club in our small town of Fig Harbor, WA, mass hysteria over government conspiracies, a killer with his gun pointed at both Coco and I, and a brush with death—my mystery-solving days would be over.
Nope. In fact, that very encounter is what continues to fuel my passion—because I wasn’t nearly as good at solving a crime as I’d once thought. I’d missed things. Important things. There were clues I didn’t investigate thoroughly or look more deeply into because quite frankly, I’m an armchair sleuth at best.
And that bugged me no end. My mother’s innocence had been in question for a moment or two during the investigation, and I’d fumbled the ball. It left me kicking myself, mostly late at night when the shadows of the trees in our backyard made black-talon silhouettes out of their limbs on my walls.
“Lemon? You still there?”
I sighed as I squeezed minty toothpaste onto my toothbrush. There was no lying to Coco. She could see right through me. I’d been caught.
Looking away from my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I confessed as such. “Okay. Confession. I watched Dateline. Guilty. But The Bachelor’s on hiatus and there was nothing else on. Anyway, it’s over now and I’m going to bed. Promise.”
She yawned into the phone. “Give JF a big smooch from me and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. Now get some sleep, fledgling detective. When I walk into the store tomorrow, I don’t want to see those unbecoming shadows under your eyes. Sweet dreams.”
I clicked off the phone and brushed my teeth, yawning, too. I thought about the irony of my yawn as I turned off the light. Sure, I was yawning now—before I got into bed. Once I got there, all snug under my favorite comforter, my mind whirled like a dervish.
But I prepared for another sleepless night anyway by scooping up my rescue spider monkey, Jessica Fletcher, from her fake tree limb perch in my room and dropping a kiss on her mischievous head from Auntie Coco. She gave me a sleepy coo and snuggled against my chest before I deposited her in her cage and tucked her favorite stuffed unicorn against her cheek.
I set about brushing my unruly, shoulder-length hair, a fruitless act for sure. No matter how many fancy highlights I got in burnt umber slathered all over my muddy brown hair, no matter how much product I used, it would always be too kinky-curly and uncontrollable to do much with but put in a ponytail.
Dabbing moisturizer beneath my eyes, I had to admit if I had nothing else, I had clear, bright eyes and decent skin. I’d acquired a light tan from the occasional outing to the docks in town for lunch or drinks with Coco, giving me a healthy glow and naturally blushed cheeks.
Unfortunately, that’s sort of all I have going for me. I’m pretty short, and while I’m wiry and in decent enough shape, I’m not exactly bodaciously gifted, if you know what I mean. Sighing, I set the moisturizer down and put my brush away, dreading this time of night.
And then I turned and looked at my bed in all its big, beautiful king-size glory, with plump pillows in ivory and periwinkle blue, the matching fluffy comforter with eyelet trim, and sighed again. Lately, my bed had become my torture chamber, but I was trying to do what the doctor in town told me to do after I’d finally seen him about my insomnia—keep a regular schedule for sleep. No coffee after three in the afternoon, go to bed at the same time every day, rise and shine at the same time every day, exercise, eat well, blah, blah, blah.
Throwing my bathrobe over the end of the bed and turning off the soft-blue glass lamp on my nightstand, I did the same thing I’d done for the last three months—got in, flipped on my monk chants on my phone and waited for my thoughts to spin out of control.
As I hunkered under the covers, forcing myself to think about the coming of spring and all the things I wanted to do with my koi pond out back, I found a rather pleasant spot in my brain where tulips and daffodils swayed gracefully in the breeze amongst the rocks surrounding my fish. While I imagined the wind, warm and filled with the tang of the ocean, ruffling my mop of unruly hair, I closed my eyes.
A sudden banging from somewhere far away startled me to an upright position. I bolted forward, pulling the comforter from around my midsection, and blinked at the sun streaming across the bottom of my bed.
Glancing at the clock, I noted it was seven in the morning.
Holy cats, I’d slept for seven uninterrupted hours until that incessant banging. Seven lovely hours without dreams of zombies and brains, dead men and detached limbs, walloping me over the head.
Pushing my way from the bed, I grabbed my robe and stuck my arms in, pulling it around my body as I slid into my slippers and peeked out the window of my bedroom—the one overlooking the front of the house. Leon was supposed to open our family-owned convenience store/barbecue, the Smoke and Petrol today.
My mother May and I own and operate the store, but we have occasional help, even in the off season. Fig is a tourist town, set amongst the trees, mountains and water of the Pacific Northwest, and just a quick ferry ride from Seattle. Leon’s our most reliable part-timer, a high school kid who often opens for us before he goes to his classes.
But why would he be banging on something? Leon was astute, responsible, and quiet. But all that banging sounded like he was in the process of rebuilding Rome.
I left Jessica in her cage and flew down the stairs, hoping to avoid waking my mother. She’s seventy now, and about as easy to keep track of as a herd of greased cats. But even greased cats need their rest when they play as hard as Mom does, and she’d had a late night last evening at her current obsession, hot yoga.
As I plowed down our wood and wrought iron spiral staircase to the front door, I realized the banging came from someone rapping on the door. I hesitated, and if you remember what happened to me a few months ago, you’ll understand why I’ve had a new security system installed, complete wi
th intercom.
Pressing the button on the intercom, installed right next to our beautiful wood door with the stained-glass cutout in bright blues and oranges, I asked, “Who is it?”
There was a shuffling noise, as though someone were trying to get their footing, or maybe even rearrange the porch furniture for all I knew, and then I heard, “Who’s there?”
I tilted my head. Maybe it was because I was awakened from a very sound sleep, but I didn’t recognize the gruff voice. “I don’t know. You rang my doorbell. Who the heck are you?”
“Lemon-Meringue? Is that you?” someone crooned with a croak. “Or is it just somebody who sounds like Lemon? Like a pod Lemon who invaded the real Lemon’s body?”
Sighing, I realized I didn’t need to look out the window to see who it was. Only Waylan Caprice—or Cappie, as he’s known to us Figgers—could think I’d been abducted by alien body snatchers. But I wanted to be sure.
“Is that you, Cappie?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Question is, is that really you, Lemon?”
I was still a little ticked at Cappie after all the trouble he’d stirred up by broadcasting one of his crazy conspiracy theories when Myron was killed. The unusual circumstances of Myron’s death had turned into a sensationalistic nightmare after Cappie got on his YouTube channel and told his bananapants followers Myron had been killed by a governmentally engineered zombie (you know, because of the hole in his head and the piece of his brain missing).
All hell had broken loose in Fig because of him. People insane enough to believe that theory had shown up with signs and zombie-killing weapons, hoping to see and maybe even capture a real zombie. They’d camped out in the woods and all over the docks in town, creating havoc everywhere they went, and the only thing they’d ended up catching was the flu and the poor mayor, who’d been out fishing. But that’s another story for another time.
Suffice to say, I’m still a little chuffed with our local doomsday prepper/conspiracy theorist. “Yes, it’s me, Cappie,” I said, typing in the security code and flinging the door open.
Hit and Nun (Nun of Your Business Mysteries Book 2) Page 20
