To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 5

  She moved at a snail’s pace, just a little bit closer.

  “Wait, that’s not … oh no …”

  It wasn’t hay. It was hair. Human hair. And it was blonde … ash blonde.

  Quinn’s gaze darted up and down the body, her brain trying to catch up to where her eyes and gut had already arrived.

  That’s because the body wasn’t just anybody.

  Face up, with empty eyes and mouth hanging open, lay the last person she’d ever expect to find: Tricia Pemberley.

  RBG strained the leash, itching to investigate, but there was something wholly unnatural about the way Tricia was lying there.

  “No, girl. Stay.” Quinn’s voice came out hoarse because she was finding it hard to breathe. She was no medical expert, but it didn’t take one to know for certain: Tricia was dead. With her hands shaking even more badly now, Quinn slid the bar on her phone and called the police.

  * * *

  The cop tapped his pen on his notepad. “Did you get a look at the license plate?”

  Her mind going blank, Quinn shook her head.

  “What about the make or model of the car?”

  “No, I just heard it. It took off so fast, I couldn’t even tell you what kind of car it was. There was all this … this white smoke coming from the tailpipe.”

  She thought she knew almost everyone in Vienna, but this guy was new-ish. There was something familiar about him, the way someone would be if you’d met him once at a party or if he was a customer who had come into the store more than once, but not enough to be a regular.

  “You say you knew the victim?”

  It was weird to hear him say that, to think of Tricia Pemberley as a victim of anything. I can’t believe she’s really dead.

  Quinn snapped out of her fog. “Yes, I’ve known her almost all my life.”

  “Would you say you two were close?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Now it was the officer’s turn to express surprise. “Oh? Were you two enemies?”

  “What? No! We may not have been friends, but …”

  Something in his expression hardened, grew cold even, before he smoothed it over. But she hadn’t missed it.

  “Tricia was gorgeous, successful, and engaged to a guy with big bucks. I’d understand if you were envious, wanting what she had.”

  Oh great. Another one who thinks every woman’s sole purpose is to find a husband.

  “Listen, Officer”—she glanced at his nametag—“Wyatt Reynolds, I don’t know where you came from before being assigned to the Vienna PD, but trust me when I tell you, I wasn’t jealous in the slightest. And there’s no way I’d ever hurt her—or anybody for that matter. Especially like that. No one deserves that.”

  The sirens’ blare cut through the atmosphere, with blinding lights flashing by; it was a squad car, followed by an ambulance and an SUV. Officers Shae Johnson and Ned Carter emerged from a black-and-white. Shae had graduated five years ahead of Quinn, and Ned was one of the few people who had been born and raised in town, part of the local Carter family, all descendants of Keziah Carter, a freed woman of color who, in 1842, purchased fifty acres of land from what had been the original Wolf Trap plantation, almost unheard of in the Antebellum era. If someone encountered a Carter around these days, chances are he or she was one of Ms. Keziah’s descendants, but Quinn—just like everyone else in town—rarely thought about the Carters’ history. For her, Ned was just one of her father’s good friends, two grown men who had bonded over their mutual interest in mushroom hunting, of all things—particularly morels—enough to form a mycological club. They even had T-shirts saying “I’m not weird—I’m a fungi.”

  Of course, emerging from the SUV was none other than Detective Aiden Harrington. He might have been the same age as Bash and just as tall, but he was the physical opposite in every other way. While Bash had a slender build, a mop of light brown hair, and boyish good looks, Aiden was all thick, ink-black hair and stormy gray eyes, and he was built like a Mack truck.

  In other words, he was all man—admittedly too much man for Quinn, growing up. After all, there was a six-year age difference between them. When she’d been twelve and he’d been seventeen, that had been a big deal, an impossibility. Not that this had stopped her from writing “Ms. Quinn Caine-Harrington” all over her notebooks back in school.

  But now, she was twenty-five and he was thirty-one. When she had come home from her latest—and last—overseas teaching gig, her family had thrown her a welcome-home party at The Maple Avenue Restaurant—part of the trend in town to have a place with the most unimaginative, prosaic name, all while serving truly inventive food. She knew he’d be there—she was counting on it. She’d even had her hair and makeup done, finally allowing her longtime hair stylist, JoDene, free reign to bibbity-bobbity-boo on some highlights, give her hair more than a typical trim. Quinn had even sanctioned use of that torture device-slash-curling iron of hers, which JoDene wielded like a Lord of the Rings conjurer, transforming her rod-straight mop into these loose, beachy, sun-kissed waves.

  And when she spotted him enter the restaurant, Aiden made a beeline her way, like the detective/rock star he was, if there ever was such a thing.

  They locked eyes.

  He smiled—no, scratch that—he beamed.

  And when they were finally toe to toe, her head craning up—even in those ridiculous heels, to take in those eyes warm and soft only for her, she knew, down to the marrow of her bones, this was their beginning.

  Quinn and Aiden. Aiden and Quinn.

  She had the fantasy tattooed in her mind: her friends would tease and call them “Q&A,” and they’d share a look between them before laughing long and deep the whole time.

  That had been the fantasy, until he’d reached out … to ruffle her hair.

  Just like her brother did.

  “Good to have you home, Quinnie,” he said, before sauntering over to chat up the new redheaded server.

  Quinnie. He had called her Quinnie. Only her family still used that childish nickname—oh, and apparently, Aiden Broadwater Harrington.

  That’s when it had hit her—he would only ever see her as Bash’s little sister, the tag-along-kid who made sure to blend in well enough so they’d not mind her presence much. It didn’t matter that she was a young woman now, one with an Instagram-worthy dress and strappy, grown-up shoes, magic hair, and dewy-fresh makeup. She would always just be lil’ Quinnie Caine.

  She had plastered on a smile for the rest of the evening, making sure to visit with each and every person who had come by to welcome her home. But under the surface and out of sight, the tiny, long-nurtured hope of there ever being a Quinn and Aiden went out, the same way Tinkerbell’s light died when children dared say they didn’t believe in fairies. Flutterless wings lay dormant, her long-held dream dying under twinkle lights.

  That had been five weeks ago. She had seen him since, but not often and never for long. Now, while the other officers were securing the scene and the EMTs ran over to Tricia, attempting to revive her, Aiden stalked over to where she was standing, along with Officer Reynolds and, now, Officer Carter.

  “Tell me you’ve got a good reason for being out here, Quinn.” Aiden stopped in front of her, hands on his hips, exposing his sidearm.

  Officer Reynolds’s face blanched. “You know each other?”

  “Yeah, you could say that. Now answer me, Quinn.”

  At least he’s not calling me Quinnie.

  He was wearing an olive-colored corduroy blazer with a pressed, button-down shirt and black jeans. He was also clean-shaven and smelled like sexy-musky-man. He always looked good for work, but considering it was almost two in the morning, Quinn was guessing he had been involved in another kind of activity before being called to the scene.

  “Sorry if I interrupted your hot date.” Hashtag sorry, not sorry.

  A vein in his left temple pulsed. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t looking to cause any t
rouble. I promise,” she said. “RBG got spooked is all, and once we were out here, we heard a thump. By the time we found her, someone had taken off in their car. I called nine-one-one first thing.”

  “Can you explain to me, then, why you were out here alone in the first place? Vienna’s safe, but it’s never a good idea for a woman to walk alone at night.”

  “Aiden, I told you. RBG got spooked, barking and growling until I took her out to take a look. And P.S.: She’s a German shepherd. I was safe with her.”

  He frowned in response.

  “Hey, I wasn’t even sure what I heard out here,” Quinn went on. “It could have been the wind for all I knew. I wasn’t going to call nine-one-one until there was something to see.”

  “Or until you were sure your accomplice got away,” Officer Reynolds muttered.

  Officer Carter flashed a warning glare. “Reynolds.”

  Aiden pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t touch the body? Or contaminate my crime scene any further?”

  “No, of course not. I just … I just can’t believe Tricia’s dead.”

  RBG let out a short woof. Guess not everyone was broken up about her passing.

  Quinn couldn’t stop staring at Tricia’s lifeless face, numbly watching as one of the EMTs performed CPR through a protective barrier. With gloves on, the other tech held her wrist, feeling for a pulse. For ten minutes, nobody else dared move except the EMTs. It was as if they were all collectively holding their breaths until Tricia could regain hers.

  “I’m sorry, folks, but I’m going to have to call it,” one of them said. “Her lungs have collapsed, and there’s evidence of paralysis, not just on the left side of her face but also in her throat and upper extremities.”

  Quinn couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But aren’t you going to take her to the hospital? Don’t give up yet!”

  “She’s gone, miss,” the other EMT said, his expression somber. “Detective, I’m going to call the ME.”

  Aiden gave a nod.

  “And now it’s time you come down to the station with me.” Officer Reynolds grabbed Quinn’s upper arm in a vise grip.

  RBG went nuts, barking and snarling. If Quinn hadn’t been holding her leash, RBG would’ve tackled the officer to the ground. She tried dislodging her arm. “Hey, let go!”

  Aiden got right in his face. “You will take your hands off her right now. Are. We. Clear. Sergeant?”

  Officer Reynolds released her arm, which Quinn immediately started massaging. RBG rubbed her head against her leg, licking her hand. “It’s okay, girl—I’m fine.” She stroked the dog’s head and scratched along her jaw.

  “She still needs to come in for questioning, make a statement,” the officer bit out, beads of sweat peppering his upper lip.

  Aiden grimaced. “I don’t know how they conduct themselves at the Baltimore PD, but in Vienna, we respect the chain of command, which means I give the order, not the other way around. Understood?”

  Officer Reynolds gave one last glare toward Quinn before answering, “Yes, Detective. Understood.”

  Just then, the medical examiners arrived. Unfortunately, they were followed by a TV news van.

  “That’s just great,” Aiden muttered. “Reynolds, make yourself useful and get the others to finish securing the scene. I don’t want to see any of those vultures near here.”

  With those parting words, Aiden stormed off toward the medical examiners; all the while Reynolds leaned into her air space, a fiery gleam in his eyes.

  “Don’t even think about going anywhere. You may have them fooled, but I’m onto you. And there’s no way I’m letting you get away with it.”

  Chapter Four

  “If all the world hated you, while your own conscience approved you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.”

  —Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

  “Off the record, having a lawyer and a person of the cloth meet you at the station makes you look even guiltier.”

  If Quinn thought she had misjudged Officer Wyatt Reynolds’s surly behavior before, his words now were a reminder that she’d been spot on: he was convinced she had killed Tricia and was hell-bent on proving his theory correct.

  She had called her parents while still at the crime scene, asking her mom to bring over something for her to wear. And that’s because—in the backseat of a police cruiser, with Shae Johnson on guard—she was made to peel off her clothes and surrender her shoes for forensic testing, to rule her out as a suspect. And that was my favorite sweater too. Might as well toss it right in the giveaway pile because no way in Hades will I ever wear it again. Disposable booties donned her feet, along with a Vienna PD sweatshirt with matching sweatpants—all about three sizes too big for her.

  Her dad and Sister Daria were already waiting for her at the police station when they arrived. She ran into their waiting arms, bathed in relief to be with family. She broke off mid-hug. “How did you know I was here?”

  Her cousin let go. “Would you believe it if I told you our bond is so strong I felt your distress, even in the middle of the night?”

  Her eyes rounded. “Really?”

  “Wow, still gullible.” She shook her head. “Your parents called me. The Reverend Mother insisted I come, so Uncle Finn picked me up.”

  One glance at their drawn, weary expressions wracked her with guilt; she hated that she’d woken them up in the middle of the night. Without a word, though, her cousin took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze, a simple gesture that meant everything, reminding her she wasn’t alone and hadn’t done anything wrong.

  She offered a grateful smile, then eyed over their shoulders. “Where’s Mom?”

  “On her way,” Daria told her.

  “Your mother went over to your house to fetch you your own clothes and let in RBG,” her dad finished. “Officer Shae Johnson dropped her off.”

  Well, that’s good. One less thing to worry about.

  Then Finn Caine peered over his glasses toward Wyatt. “By the way, Officer, we’re her family, and it is wholly appropriate that we are here for Quinn. The fact that my niece is a novitiate and I’m a retired attorney should have no bearing on the efficacy of my daughter’s statement for your investigation, nor her presumed innocence. And frankly, your remarks are unbecoming of an officer of the Vienna PD. I know most of the fine men and women who serve with you, and none of them would condone such behavior or act in such a manner.”

  Quinn’s gaze widened. “Wow—go, Dad.”

  “Yeah, Uncle Finn. Go you,” her cousin added. “You’ve been getting your geek on at the bookstore for so long, I forgot that you used to kick butt in the courtroom.” She eyeballed the officer. “Rarely lost a case in thirty-one years as a litigator. Not that Quinn needs him for that, but good to know, wouldn’t you agree?”

  For the first time since Quinn had met him, Officer Reynolds seemed unsure of himself in the presence of the Caine clan. Quinn had forgotten how intimidating her father could be when he was in “lawyer mode.” A lifelong rower, her father still had broad shoulders and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, although there was way more salt these days. When in a loving, playful mood, her mama called him “Clark,” as in Clark Kent, because he could be both dashing and nerdy, having a habit of hiding behind his glasses when uncomfortable. Watching him staring Officer Reynolds down like a guard dog, Quinn knew it was the other guy’s turn to fidget.

  Sister Daria had also inherited the fierce Caine spirit. Since returning home, Quinn had learned something vital: that habits often serve as superhero capes.

  Just then, the double doors of the police station swung open as Bash and her mom hurried in.

  “We’re here! We’re here!” Adele Caine called out as she performed a combo power walk/jog into the station. She had her hair in a loose bun, tendrils flying, with one hand grasping the ends of her lavender shawl to her bosom. Quinn noticed she had her Lady Justice pin on, which made the corner of Q
uinn’s mouth curl up. Bash had a canvas bag tucked under his arm.

  Adele was out of breath when they reached her. “Sorry we’re late, honey.”

  Quinn’s gaze darted back and forth between them. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s all good,” Bash interjected. He handed over the canvas bag, but just as she was about to take it, Officer Reynolds swiped it out of his hands.

  “Hey! That’s for me!”

  Bash scoffed. “Dude, really? It’s not like any of that stuff’s going to fit you.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny, and I don’t need you to tell me my job. I’m entitled to take a look.” He stuck his hand in the bag, rummaging through, practically sticking his face inside.

  Her father rolled his eyes, and her mama looked as if she was ready to smack him into next Tuesday. “Jesus be my fence,” she said under her breath. “Don’t you think you’re going just a tad overboard? There’s no contraband in there, Officer. Just my daughter’s shorts, a blouse, and sandals, along with a fresh pair of panties.”

  Officer Reynolds’s face reddened at the mention of her unmentionables. He thrust the bag at Quinn. “Fine. All clear. You can change after you give your statement.”

  Sister Daria tsked under her breath. “It’s not like they were going to sneak in a file for Quinn to shave down metal bars or something.” She turned her focus to her aunt and Bash. “What took y’all so long to get here? You live less than five minutes away.”

  Bash shoved his hands in his pockets. “The streets around the house have already been blocked off for the morning’s festivities. It slipped my mind that this weekend is Walk on the Hill.”

  Walk on the Hill was one of many beloved traditions in her town. Held each spring since 1974, the event offered self-guided tours for fifty-odd participating gardens in Vienna’s historic Windover Heights neighborhood.

  In Quinn’s opinion, her parents’ home wasn’t just a lovely addition to the tour: it was a highlight. Mama’s flowers were some of the prettiest around, but she made it extra special by offering folks homemade ginger-mint iced tea, along with sachets of fresh lavender and seed packets so they could start their own award-winning gardens. It was also common for Mama Caine to don a pair of fairy wings, made with the same iridescent fabric as her “magic” wand. “For the wee ones,” she’d explain to the people who thought she might be a bit touched in the head. She’d lead them through her gardens, where it wasn’t unusual for a child to find hidden treasures like Chinese yo-yos or rainbow-haired troll dolls. Quinn and Bash used to debate whether it was the kids or their mama who had more fun with the town tradition.