A midsummer nights schem.., p.16
A Midsummer Night's Scheme, page 16
“Good.” Officer Johnson turned the monitor closer to her and Officer Carter. “Fire it up, and let’s see what comes up.”
Leah nodded, and Quinn knew her heart was probably beating just as loud as hers.
She hit the return key. A new page pixelated across the screen with a list of all the books the member had purchased over the last several months:
Rattlesnake Recipes for the Zombie Apocalypse, by Laura Sommers
Rattlesnake Pet Guide, by Dr. Xan Xeo
The Native Mexican Kitchen: A Journey Into Cuisine, Culture, and Mezcal, by Rachel Glueck and Noel Morales
How to Get Away With Murder: Solve Puzzles to See If You Can Commit the Perfect Crime, by Brain Games
Leah swallowed. “The member is … Ella Diaz.”
“Right.” Shae shoved her notebook in her back pocket. “I’m going to need a copy.”
Leah hit the print button. “I’ll go get it. The printer is in Quinn’s office.”
Meanwhile, Quinn stared into nothingness, her brain unable to absorb the idea that Ella Diaz had wanted to hurt, possibly kill, her brother. She’d most likely murdered Chad Frivole with snakes she’d raised herself. Assassin familiars. “That is so messed up.”
“What does Aiden always say?” Shae reminded her. “Follow the evidence and let it speak for itself.”
Leah came back with the print copy requested and handed it over. “What’s going to happen now?”
Officer Carter opened the shop door. “We’re going to bring Ella Diaz in for questioning at the station. She’s our lead suspect.”
Chapter Fourteen
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
—Shakespeare’s Henry VI
“Well, if this ain’t the most highfalutin high-cotton funeral I’ve ever seen.”
“Did you see the swans in that little pond? I heard they were flown in special just for this!”
“Forget the swan lake show. Did you see the spread they’re setting up back at the main building? I heard his manager flew in five Gs’ worth of corned beef and pastrami from some New York deli named after cats.”
“It’s Katz’s Deli, you idiot: K-A-T-Z apostrophe S. They cure their meat for four weeks!”
Sister Daria, Quinn, and Aiden were doing everything in their power not to bust out laughing with all the talk swirling around them at Chad Frivole’s funeral. Daria had come by to say hello before rejoining her sisters on the other side of the grave site.
“Of course it would be more interesting where you two are hanging out.”
Quinn’s head tilted. “What do you mean?”
“Because no one’s going to smack-talk around a bunch of nuns, that’s what I mean.” Daria lowered her voice. “By the way, how are Bash and Rach doing?”
Quinn had called her late the other night to clue her in on the horrific ordeal the two had endured. Usually she would’ve been chastised for receiving a call so late, but when the Reverend Mother heard what had happened, she crossed herself and had everyone get on their knees, right in the middle of the living room, to pray for her cousin and his fiancée’s safety.
“They’re all right, although I think Rachel’s going a little stir-crazy. Between her dad giving his entire security system an upgrade rivaling the Pentagon to Bash taking time off work just to follow her around and watch her work, she’s over it.”
Daria gave herself a good scratch under her wimple, because while she might adore horror movies, she now got the itchies at the mere mention of spiders. “Remember when we were kids and we spent a week over the summer watching that Arachnophobe Beware Movie Marathon at the old theater on Maple, where the Spokes bike shop is now?”
Quinn’s face lit up. “Heck yeah I do! I miss being able to walk to a movie theater. That was awesome.”
Daria was a huge B movie horror fan—the cheesier, the better. “Those were classic kitsch, Aid. We’re talking The Incredible Shrinking Man, Possum, The Mist—and my personal favorite, with the William Shatner—”
“The King of Kitsch himself,” Quinn added.
“—in Kingdom of the Spiders. That one was especially fabulous because they used real tarantulas.”
The sound of someone weeping stopped their chitchat. It was Chad’s manager, walking toward the grave site, where three chairs awaited, facing the crowd of mourners. He had eschewed the purple suit for a more somber, traditional choice, but Daria noticed he had still color-coordinated his handkerchief with his tie—both in a muted sage green.
Quinn’s brows furrowed; her mouth quirked to the side. “I know everyone mourns in their own way, but how is it that the last time we saw this guy, he hardly demonstrated a reaction to hearing Chad was murdered—and now he’s inconsolable?”
The question was barely out of Daria’s cousin’s mouth when Ms. Jennifer—part of the Clink-n-Drink Ladies—swung around. “No kidding, he’s a mess!”
Daria had always liked the Clink-n-Drink gals, especially Ms. Jennifer. “Where’s the rest of your crew?”
“On their way. And they better appreciate me holding these seats, because everyone keeps giving me dirty looks when I tell them they’re saved.”
Mr. Fitzsimmons, Chad’s manager, took one of the seats by the open grave, taking out a new handkerchief so he could blow his nose. Right behind him was Dennis Frivole, Chad’s father, who plodded heavily toward the front—head down, muttering to himself. He took the chair on the other end, grunting almost the whole time.
The Lord himself couldn’t have picked two more polar-opposite men if He’d tried.
Ms. Jennifer tightened the tie in front of her outfit—a classic Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. Daria didn’t know bubkes about clothes, and usually didn’t care, but even she knew that dress was vintage coolness. She ran a hand down her plain tunic, wondering how many other women had worn this piece before her, curious if the wool blend had passed down to her because her predecessor had died or harbored doubts and left the Order.
“Hey, Jen! We’re here! So sorry, a meeting with my agent ran longer than I expected.”
It was Ms. Carina, another Clink-n-Drinker—also an up-and-coming mystery author. She might be rushed, her blonde hair disheveled, but it worked for her. So did the all-black wardrobe with red lipstick. She dressed that way even when there wasn’t a funeral.
“I got a call from Sarah—she can’t make it. She has to cover someone’s shift at the dog shop. And Withers said—”
“Let me guess,” Jennifer interrupted. “One of her kids has a volleyball game or a scrimmage?”
“Nope! Don’t say it! I’m here; I just decided to come in my own car,” Withers cut in, taking one of the seats. “I might not have known Chad, but I can be here and support the people who are mourning him.” Then she proceeded to stick her tongue out. It was like watching crack-the-whip banter between Clairee and Ouiser from Steel Magnolias.
Daria and Quinn exchanged a glance while Aiden focused skyward again, mumbling “Deliver me” under his breath.
That’s when the three friends remembered they had a mini audience. Carina shushed the other two. “We’re spooking the young’uns. I promise, we’re only playing.”
Jennifer gave a real grin this time. “Exactly! That’s just how we do.”
Withers’s head was still on what they were talking about before. “By the way, not to gossip further, but I heard Lisa McDevitt is Chad’s lawyer.”
“She’s awesome,” Carina piped in. “She’s my lawyer too.”
“Right, well, not that I heard this from her, because she’d never divulge, but I did catch from a bunch of others that Lisa read Chad’s will a couple of days ago—along with a personal letter to his manager about how much he credited the man for his career. Supposedly Halster Fitzsimmons had no idea Chad looked up to him like a father figure—enough to leave him a considerable sum of money.”
“Well, that explains it.” Quinn sighed, shaking her head. “The change in attitude, I mean. The tears down the left are from guilt and the tears on the right from gratitude.”
“Everyone, please take your seats.” A handsome, chubby young man spoke into the microphone. “We’re going to get started in a few minutes.”
Daria glanced back at where the nuns were seated. “I’ve got to go sit with my Order, but I’ll see you two around.”
Quinn grabbed Daria’s sleeve. “Oh, hey! I forgot to tell you … guess who got an invite to Rachel’s parents’ place tomorrow?”
“Your whole side of the Caine family tree?”
Quinn nodded.
Aiden chimed in. “I think they’re trying to mend fences.”
“Well, after Rachel’s mom schooled us, I’m hoping my brother is ready to make amends.”
Daria hoped so too. “Is he still planning on converting?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s genuinely into it.” Aiden stopped to take the programs from one of the passing ushers, keeping one and handing the rest over. “Uh, is it just me, or do all the ushers—”
“Eerily resemble Chad? That’s an affirmative.” Quinn took her copy and passed the rest to her cousin. “You don’t think Mr. Fitzsimmons hired models just to usher, do you?”
Daria fanned herself with her program. “Who knows? Probably. Maybe doppelgängers pair well with deli and swans?”
Sister Lucy whistled for her.
“Okay, I have to go now, for reals. Later.”
As Daria walked to the other side of the grave, she scanned the crowd to take note of who was there. Droves of School of Rock musicians and staff; almost the entire faculty of James Madison High School, including science teacher Jenny Kieval. Daria was surprised she wasn’t sitting with her crew—until she realized Corri was seated with the Inova Hospital medical team who had tried to save Chad’s life. Senya was seated far away from both factions. Was there a division within their ranks?
She recognized a couple of celebrities. No one over-the-top famous like George Clooney or Elizabeth Banks, but definitely faces she’d seen in commercials and soap operas. Not one of Chad’s fellow cast members from his last Broadway show had made the trip.
That said, front and center was Chad’s manager, tears streaming down, his whole body shaking with grief. All the while, Chad’s father appeared to be using every ounce of willpower to keep himself upright. Daria didn’t need to breathe his air to know it reeked of booze. He was wearing a suit two sizes too small, probably worn last in more sober days. His hair was washed and combed, but he still could’ve used a haircut and a shave. She heard the people around her, including some of her own sisters, whispering the same observations.
Meanwhile, Mr. Frivole was staring at his shoes. That’s what Daria noticed—that and how his chest rose and fell slowly, each breath laboring under the weight of all that had happened and what could now never be. Daria had to look away; his pain was too hard to witness.
If any of the women in her Order had noticed what she had, they weren’t saying; they were too focused on him showing up to his son’s funeral inebriated. It made her wish she could switch her seat. With her program in hand, she stayed with her Order. But for the first time in two years, Daria was embarrassed to be with them.
“Hello, everyone, thank you for coming out today. I’m Dexter Thorton, Chad’s best friend. He wasn’t very religious, so he asked me, via the reading of his will, if I wouldn’t mind leading the service today.” The young man was back at the mic. He stopped, letting out an aching sigh. “I don’t know what he was thinking, but I’m going to do my best.”
He brushed his thick red hair out of his eyes, then, resting his hands on either side of the lectern, dropped his shoulders. “I must say, Chad has a sense of humor, even in death. Because the last time I’ve done anything even remotely religious was when I played the saboteur Friar Lawrence in an off-off-off-Broadway rendition of Romeo and Juliet—and we all know what a turd heel that guy turns out to be.”
Everyone in the audience let go of some nervous chuckles. Daria felt a hulking presence take the seat next to her, the only one available.
“What did I miss?”
It was Lucas Diaz. In a suit, a well-fitting one. And he smelled like sandalwood and bad decisions.
“Shh!” Daria kept her focus straight ahead. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
He kept his voice low. “I’m here to represent the Diaz family.”
Now Daria was curious, enough to meet Lucas’s gaze. “How is your sister doing?”
He stared, something working behind his eyes. “You’re the first person to ask how she is. Everyone has already decided she’s guilty of murder. I know it doesn’t look good, but I know my sister: no way she did this.”
Daria couldn’t help herself; she took his hand in hers. “You’ve never wavered in your belief. That must mean a great deal to her.”
He shrugged. “She’s more pissed at the world to have time to feel anything else. Things are moving, anyway. My sources tell me that Senya’s now a suspect too. The police think she was purposefully stalling Chad inside the dog treat shop while my sister tossed in the snakes and rigged the car doors.”
“What do you mean, your ‘sources’? You own a garage, not a detective agency.”
“I’m in a service industry, guapa, which means people talk to me and around me, all the time.” He squeezed her hand. “I know it doesn’t look good—the snakes, her knowing her way around a car because of growing up in garages, the notebook—but I don’t care about any of that. No way did my sister hurt anyone.”
Daria wanted to believe him.
When he had committed to building her Order a climate-controlled storage unit, free of charge, she had initially thought he was doing it as an excuse to spend more time with her. There was no denying there was a heated vibe between them. She had even asked around, wondering how she’d been raised in the same town as this Cheshire cat character without ever meeting him. The answer had been simple: his parents had divorced when he was in middle school, and he’d lived two years in Vienna, Virginia, then two years wherever his mother—a colonel in the U.S. military—was stationed, going back and forth until he finished high school. A rough gig for a kid, if you asked Daria.
But after hearing how he was always helping people, she’d realized she’d been wrong. An invisible weight had lifted off her shoulders at the same time something in her stomach sank.
“You’re a good man, Lucas Diaz.”
The corner of his mouth curled up. “You’re just figuring that out, Elizabeth?”
Hearing her old name on his tongue made her blush. “I don’t go by that name anymore.”
His gaze studied her expression. “Shame. Suits you.”
She didn’t know how to respond, a rarity for any Caine woman. She took her hand back and rubbed her palms across the skirt of her habit, noticing all of a sudden how sweaty they had gotten. She wished she could air out under her arms as well.
“I … I don’t have a lot of experience being around men—that is, men not related to me.”
His eyes went from playful to kind—merciful, even, as his eyes moved to her mouth. “Do I make you nervous?”
Sister Theresa tapped her leg. “You two do realize we’re at a funeral?”
“Sorry,” she mouthed, turning her attention back to the dais, letting Lucas’s question lie dormant.
“Now, don’t worry,” Dexter went on, “like any properly trained thespian, I prepared for my role. In this case, that means I went online and registered for that Universal Life minister kit. My irrational rationale: if I can marry people, then I can send them off to the pearly gates.
“You know, we met on our first day of acting class. I was just an overweight, terrified kid from Mansfield, Ohio, still scared of girls and pinching myself that I’d gotten into Julliard in the first place. I was sweating so much the professor stopped class to ask if I needed an IV drip before I passed out from dehydration.”
His humor earned him some chortles.
“He’s not that funny,” Lucas whispered. “People are just grateful no one’s up there sharing what a jackwagon Chad could be.”
The irony was, he was correct—yet again—but no way was Daria engaging further. She just shushed him and pretended to not be interested in what he had to say.
“Out of everyone there, including the most beautiful people I’d ever seen in real life, Chad was the one who came up to me after class and asked if I wanted to run some lines with him. And that was it, best friends from then on.
“Back then, we didn’t appreciate what a gift it was, to meet close friends so easily. When you leave college, the business of keeping a roof over your head the size of a postage stamp takes over, the grind of landing acting jobs that actually pay becomes your focus. But Chad and I never lost touch—and he never struggled to get work. Yes, for the record, it was infuriating.
“For those of you who remember, Chad played Dr. Andrew Tennyson III—the wealthy brain surgeon on As the Tide Turns—before becoming a model and spokesperson for Ralph Lauren. Believe it or not, I had to convince him to take that job! As handsome as he was, Chad didn’t want to just be known for his looks. He wanted to be known as an actor’s actor—the kind other actors admired. What he really wanted—more than anything—was to be in the theater. You see, it was Chad’s first love, which means I can understand why he wanted his legacy to remain here too.”
The mention of Chad’s legacy made his father’s face go beet red, his expression a simmering rage. That’s when Daria heard two voices she knew well.
“Oh, wow, he looks like he’s ready to blow a gasket.”
Sitting in front of her was Leah Grover, Prose & Scones’ social media manager, loud-whispering to her husband, Ryan.
He let out a low whistle. “Whoa, no kidding. He’s not even trying to hide it.”
“I heard Chad didn’t leave him much in the will.”
Ryan turned his head. “Now how would you know that?”
She snorted. “Oh, please, everyone won’t shut up about it.”
