To Kill a Mocking Girl Read online

  She may have been a nun-in-training, but she was still Quinn’s smart-mouthed, suffer-no-fools cousin and best friend. And one look at her expression told Quinn that Daria was in the mood to throw down some morning sass.

  “Tricia, please tell me I didn’t just hear you take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Me? No! Um … well … good morning, Sister. We were just joking around.” Tricia pinned Quinn with her gaze. “Right, Quinn?”

  As if. “Well, actually—”

  “Actually, I have some big news,” Tricia interrupted, flipping the long bangs of her bob out of her face. She bared her teeth in something resembling a smile while thrusting her left hand forward. “Scott proposed last night! Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Sure enough, there was a big, round rock, set in platinum, glittering away in the morning sun. Quinn noticed how the diamond’s fractal light shimmered like stars across Tricia’s metallic nail polish. Between her smile and the ring’s glimmer, she was her own constellation of happy.

  Her cousin broke out in a wide grin. “Wow, that’s wonderful!”

  “Uh, congratulations, Tricia.”

  Better never break up with him. That is one man-boy who does not take rejection well.

  Tricia was staring at Quinn. “Are you sure you’re happy for us?”

  She stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “Your words say one thing, but your tone says something else.” Tricia put her hand on her hip, elbow out.

  “There’s no tone, Tricia. Really and truly.” She tried to reassure her.

  She was being truthful too. Just because Quinn couldn’t tolerate Scott for longer than a drive-by pleasantry didn’t mean she’d begrudge Tricia Pemberley the joy she’d found in their impending nuptials. Although, the idea of those two as Vienna’s new power-hungry couple was enough to make Quinn shudder. As Oscar Wilde once mused, “Some people create happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.”

  Quinn summoned a kinder response. “I am very happy for you both.”

  Tricia’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Well then, that’s good to hear. Glad there are no hard feelings.”

  Hard feelings over … what exactly?

  Quinn gazed skyward, shaking her head.

  Thankfully, her cousin threw her a Hail Mary. “That’s an impressive haul you’ve got there. Seems like our ‘pet’ project has really taken off.”

  Ah, a change of subject. Quinn mouthed a thank-you. “Yeah, I was surprised too. It’s twice the usual amount we get for donations. At this rate, y’all won’t have to buy dog food for months. Speaking of which …” She dragged the words out. “I need to get these bags inside. Can I count on some help from the blushing bride?”

  Tricia’s smile melted off her face faster than lipstick on a pig in summer.

  “Why, Quinn, that’s a great idea,” Sister Daria piped up. “What do you say?”

  Tricia made an “eek” face. “Oh, well, y’all know I’m all about volunteering, but I’ve got to get a move on. You two have no idea how much goes into planning a wedding, especially since Scott wants to marry me as soon as possible.”

  Quinn pulled down the truck gate. “Why? Is he expecting?”

  Her cousin stifled her snort, coughing to cover it up.

  “You think you’re so funny,” Tricia huffed.

  “Oh, c’mon now—I was just teasing. You are going to make a beautiful bride.”

  That was true. Quinn may not have thought much of Tricia as a human being, but she had been a gorgeous child, one who had grown into a stunning woman. There was a reason why she’d won all those pageants back in the day, even with her slightly tone-deaf rendition of “God Bless America.”

  Quinn grabbed one of the dog-food bags and handed it off to her, not really giving her a choice. “Making a nun do manual labor is, like, seven years of bad luck.” She hoisted another bag toward Tricia. “That’s no way to start off your married life.”

  The bride-to-be might pretend to be dainty, but that girl looked like she lived at the gym. She could handle the heavy bags.

  Tricia grimaced. “I thought seven years of bad luck was for when you broke a mirror or something.”

  “Oh really? You want to risk it?” Quinn asked. “Nope, there’s no way I can let you take that chance.”

  “Fine, but this load is it.” She gave Quinn the stink eye before heading toward the kennel next to the abbey, with her arms full.

  Sister Daria waited until the bridezilla-to-be cleared the doorway. “You know I am more than happy to help you bring this stuff in.”

  “Oh, I get that. And you will.” She stretched herself across the flatbed for another bag. RBG head-butted the kibble in her direction, her adorable way of trying to help. Quinn cooed and gave her a scratch along her jaw and neck. Then she handed a couple of sacks over to her cousin.

  “You know, using my being a nun as a way to mess with Trish only adds to my prayer load.”

  “Please, you know the only reason she was even over here this morning was to tell me they got engaged. Everyone knows I’m always here the first Friday of the month.”

  Her cousin’s shoulders shook from her silent laughter. “Don’t look at me to confirm your theory. I’m under contractual obligation with the big JC to assume the best in people—and you have no idea how much of a challenge that can be sometimes.”

  “Oh please, you’re a softie.”

  “Maybe so, but don’t forget: I can still pick a lock and hot-wire a car without getting caught.”

  “The Reverend Mother must be so proud.”

  “She is. Just because I’ve had a unique past doesn’t mean I can’t be your typical nun and be of service.”

  Quinn couldn’t hold back the snort of laughter that time. “Being of service is one thing—being typical is something else.”

  “I’m not that unusual of a candidate.”

  “Oh please, what other novitiate chose their name after their favorite MTV animated character?”

  Even with her arms full, her cousin waved the comment away like an annoying bug. “That’s just a coincidence. Saint Daria was real. After she helped convert a bunch of Romans, Daria was sent to a brothel as punishment, where a lion defended her honor.”

  “Aaand?” Quinn dragged out.

  Daria rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. The pontiff still ordered her execution. She was first stoned and then buried alive, but hey, how many saints end up with Disney-inspired happy endings?”

  “Fair point, but face it: you’re the order’s first novice with a master’s degree and a rap sheet. Don’t get me wrong: you know I think you’re the coolest, but how you passed whatever test it took to get in there in the first place is a frickin’ miracle.”

  Her cousin gave an impish look. “Be nice now. Who else is going to say extra prayers for a smart-mouth like you?”

  She dropped the haul just inside the door of the kennel next to Guinefort House, noting Tricia had done the same. She glanced left and right—no signs of Vienna’s mocking girl anywhere.

  “Where did she go?”

  One side of Sister Daria’s lip quirked up. “She took off as soon as our backs were turned.”

  “Figures.” Quinn walked to her truck, RBG’s cue to crawl through the cab’s open rear window and wait for her in the passenger seat. Quinn hoisted herself through the window to clip RBG’s seat belt. “I can drop her off and come back and pick you up you for breakfast, if you want. Or you can squeeze in. There’s room.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Daria said. “I’ll meet you over there. I want to change out of the penguin outfit first.”

  “Why are you wearing it anyway?”

  Sister Daria fanned her arms out. “We like to dust off the old wimple-habit combos when we have to confront owners of puppy mills, which I had to do at the crack of dawn this morning, along with some animal control officers. We’ve found some of these mill owners respond to old-school authority better than police uniforms sometimes.”
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br />   “Man, it’s a good thing you’ve never succumbed to the dark side.”

  Sister Daria winked. “May the force be with you, nerd-girl.”

  Quinn waved as she maneuvered herself into the driver side, closing the door. “See ya in a few!” she said, pulling away.

  Minutes later, she rolled her truck toward one of the town’s more impressive historic estates, right on the curve of Walnut Lane. But this was not her house.

  Once the home to Harmon Salsbury, a Union captain in the Twenty-Sixth Regiment of the Colored Infantry during the Civil War, the Salsbury House had belonged to Quinn’s Auntie Johanna and Uncle Jerome “Jerry” Caine for more years than she’d been alive. “Belonged to” was Quinn’s phrasing, not theirs, for she knew they regarded themselves as the house’s caretakers, not owners. An apt ideology for a town steeped in often-told American stories, albeit with a surprising twist of agency for its black citizenry.

  Ever since her return from overseas, Quinn had lived behind her aunt and uncle’s residence, in a renovated, farmhouse-chic gem. Painted in traditional red with white trim, the once dilapidated barn was where they used to play hide-and-seek behind haystacks as kids. When Jerry and Johanna remodeled the barn, they admitted that they intended for their daughter—Quinn’s cousin—to have it. But when Elizabeth, now Sister Daria, took the veil, shunning all worldly comforts, she convinced them to work out a sweet rent-to-own deal for Quinn.

  “At least it stays in the family,” Aunt Johanna had said with a sigh. “Plus, I know you’ll love it right. You’re a details girl, the same as me.”

  Quinn had been grateful for the chance to be a homeowner at such a young age, especially in a coveted and increasingly expensive area. Otherwise, there was no way she could afford to live in Vienna on a bookbinder’s salary.

  Quinn knew the arrangement had been bittersweet for them. Her aunt and uncle had wanted a traditional path for their daughter: to get married and have children. She had thought her cousin was halfway there when she met Raj back in grad school, the only man Quinn thought worthy of such a gem of a girl. Until something changed, and then he wasn’t anything anymore.

  In addition to her rent, Quinn demonstrated her thanks to her aunt and uncle by feeding and caring for the chickens on the property and maintaining Aunt Johanna’s herb and vegetable garden. Sometimes, Quinn would catch Aunt Johanna watching her doing chores from the kitchen window, a sweet, sad smile on her ageless face. She’d give an enthusiastic wave, but Quinn knew: her presence was a consolation prize.

  As soon as she and RBG walked through the front door that day, her dog baby went straight for her water bowl in the galley kitchen, slurping up the cold refreshment. When Quinn had adopted RBG, she had gotten into the habit of slipping a couple of ice cubes into the dog’s bowl, wanting her to have fresh, cold water at the ready. In no time she realized RBG liked munching on the ice cubes just as much as she enjoyed the drink, and every time she heard that crunching sound, Quinn couldn’t help grinning to herself. Along with the chickens clucking in the yard, the sound of crushing ice made her feel at home.

  “All right, I’ve gotta go, girl. See ya soon!”

  RBG looked up from her bowl, tail wagging while she licked her nose. She gave a short “ruff” as if to say goodbye. Quinn smiled to herself as she locked the door: I swear she understands most everything I tell her. I don’t care if everyone thinks I’m a crazy doggy mama.

  Once buckled up in Golda and back on Church Street, Quinn got lucky with a parking space right in front of her favorite eatery. Three tiny bells rang over her head as soon as she walked in the door.

  “Oh good! Quinn’s here. You get a good haul today?”

  Even after having one heck of a morning, Quinn never got sick of walking into Church Street Eats and having her people check in with her. That included Ms. Eun Hutton, who owned the place, with her husband, Greg. He did the cooking, and she did what she called “the managing of all the things,” which some thought was code for waiting on customers and keeping up on the town gossip.

  “Best one yet.” Quinn slid onto a stool at the counter. Ms. Eun handed her a laminated menu and a glass of seltzer, her usual.

  Greg flipped a couple of sausage patties. “Hey, so where’s Mother Teresa?”

  “She’s on her way. She just needed to change first.” Quinn and Daria usually had breakfast together after she unloaded the monthly donations.

  Ms. Eun pretended to glare over her shoulder at her husband. “Now why do you do that?”

  “What did I do?” he asked, a wicked grin curling under his mustache.

  He totally knows what he did.

  Ms. Eun thrummed her short fingernails on the counter. “You know … calling her everything except by her saint’s name.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “To me, she’ll always be little Lizzy Caine. Not Sister Maria, Donna, Conchita, or whatever it is now.” Greg eyed Quinn. “Hey, give an old man a break. I used to coach her softball games and break up her fights.”

  Quinn grinned. “Ah right—I forgot about those.”

  As a teenager, her cousin had taken it as her personal mission to pummel anyone who bullied another kid. Quinn despised bullies just as much but preferred less physical, more clandestine methods of retaliation.

  Ms. Eun leaned her forearms on the counter in front of Quinn. “So, did you hear the news?”

  She didn’t even wait for Quinn to respond.

  “Tricia Pemberley and Scott Hauser got engaged last night.”

  “I heard,” Quinn told her. “Tricia came by the abbey this morning.”

  Ms. Eun rolled her eyes. “Well, of course she did. She’s always been bothered that you two dated.”

  Quinn let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t see why. It was barely a blip on the radar.”

  “Maybe not to you, but it was to him. You’ll always be the girl who got away.” Ms. Eun wasn’t done. “And some people think you might still be harboring a secret crush of your own because you haven’t been seen with anyone since being back in town.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Quinn stared, pausing mid-sip. “I’ve only been back a couple of months. Who works that fast?”

  “Good point, but no one could fault you if you had your eye on someone. Anyone in particular?”

  And there it was … Quinn had walked right into that trap. Rookie move.

  “Not these days, no.” She took another sip of her seltzer. “And for the record, I’m good with that.”

  The little bells over the door rang.

  Ms. Eun appeared unconvinced. “Really? Because there are some really nice boys at my church that I am more than happy to set you up with, especially since you’re—”

  “Leave her alone.” Daria walked in and parked herself at the counter. Now she looked more like the cousin Quinn had grown up with, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a worn Young Life T-shirt. “Trust me, Quinn. I’ve seen the boys at her church. You aren’t missing a thing.”

  Ms. Eun gave her the stink eye. “Hey, just because they’re not Anglican doesn’t mean the boys at my church aren’t good enough for Quinn.”

  “Hey, I’m not saying they’re not good enough because they’re Presbyterians,” Daria said. “I’m saying they’re not good enough because they’re boys. In case y’all haven’t noticed, Quinn is all grown up now. She needs a man.”

  Greg called out from behind the grill. “Eunnie, you gonna find out what the girls want, or you gonna keep yapping about boys like you’re at a sleepover?”

  “All right, all right … I’m getting to it.” She leaned a slender hip against the counter, taking a pencil out of her pixie-cut black hair. “What’ll it be?”

  Her cousin didn’t need to see the menu. “I’ll have the Gooey Grilled Cheese and a ginger ale.”

  The tiny bells above the door rang again.

  Ms. Eun wet the tip of her pencil on the tip of her tongue. “And you?”

  Quinn handed back the menu. “I’ll have the Shredde
d Herbed Chick Omelet.”

  Ms. Eun nodded, jotting her order down. “Side of almost-burnt home fries?”

  Quinn smiled. They knew she adored the crispy potato edges. “Always.”

  Someone spoke behind her. “You know, Mom still considers that her chicken recipe. If she catches you eating any version of her creation outside the house, she’ll go nuts and burn a bunch of sage in your old bedroom to cleanse your chakras or something.”

  She knew that voice.

  Quinn spun her stool around. “Only our mother throws parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme onto a chicken and proclaims Simon and Garfunkel taught her to cook.” She jumped into her older brother’s arms. “I can’t believe you’re back!”

  There he was, her handsome, brilliant, and irreverent brother—Sebastian “Bash” Caine. She hadn’t seen him since her welcome-home party.

  “Of course I am. Where else would I be?” Bash gave her a long squeeze before smiling at their cousin. “Hey, dork.”

  Sister Daria laughed. “Hey, stink face.” She gave him a tight hug. “Look at you! Still in one piece.”

  “So far, so good. Must be all those extra candles you’re lighting for me.”

  Her cousin scoffed through a laugh. “The Catholics do that, not us, genius.”

  “Then do that thing where you toss my sins on bread crumbs into the river instead.”

  Daria’s eyes darted between Bash and Quinn. “Is he trying to be annoying? Because I know you know that’s the Jewish atonement tradition of tashlikh.”

  Bash knew exactly how to push people’s buttons. It was a miracle he was as well liked as he was. “It used to be harder to rile you up,” Bash said. “You’re getting soft-headed in your old age, cousin.”

  Greg opened one of the ovens and retrieved a succulent roast chicken. “By the way, Adele Caine is a kick in the pants, but for the last time, this is not her recipe.”

  “It’s not yours either, Mr. Hutton,” Daria piped in. “It’s from a song.”

  Quinn ignored the religion and chicken debates. “I thought you weren’t coming back for another week or two.”