Meanwhile, any nerves Dexter had been feeling earlier in his eulogy had burnt off.

  “But I will always remember the Chad that had my back. I can’t begin to tell you how many times he’d take me to dinner, trying to convince me he needed the company and wasn’t just making sure a starving actor was eating—or insisting I stay with him when I couldn’t afford rent. He’s the one who got me my first national commercial, which led me to my first reputable agent. He’s saved my life … all the more reason why I can’t believe his is over.”

  “See? Proves my point.” Lucas crossed his legs at the ankles, leaning back farther in his chair. “People are complicated. It takes time to really know someone. Most people have more layers than an onion.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “Nice Shrek reference.”

  “Thank you.” He pretended to tip an imaginary hat. “Chad could be a piece of work, but he had goodness in him. But you knew that already, right? You work to see the goodness in everyone.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  They locked eyes.

  “You, Elizabeth Caine, now Sister Daria of Saint Guinefort’s Order, are a good woman.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said, without thinking. “I’m weak. I can help others, but I run away from my own problems.”

  Where had that piece of truth serum come from?

  He shrugged. “So, now you recognize it, you have the power to change it.”

  “Shh!”

  That warning came from Sister Ceci—who never shushed anybody. Daria shrunk into her seat, embarrassed.

  Dexter removed some tissues from his jacket pocket, wiping his eyes and shoring himself up with a couple of deep breaths. “Chad loved growing up here. He regaled me with stories of singing at School of Rock gigs, especially in front of the Lincoln Memorial, of playing Tevye in his high school production of Fiddler on the Roof …”

  Chad’s manager pretended to clear his throat—and he was loud.

  “I guess that’s my cue that I’m taking up too much time,” Dexter said, taking another tissue to wipe the sweat off his neck and face. “I’d like to introduce a man who meant a lot to Chad, the one who made a Vienna kid’s dream of performing on Broadway come true.”

  Meanwhile, Lucas had more to say. “Hey, so I spoke with the Reverend Mother earlier, and after this, she said you can come with me to get what we need.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Forgive her, Lord, for how quickly she forgets,” he whispered toward the heavens, his hand on his heart as if she had wounded him. “You’re going to help my cousin and me get that storage shed built for you so I don’t have to keep a thousand pounds of dog food at my garage.”

  Oh, that.

  “What do you need me for? I know nothing about construction.”

  He let out a soft laugh. “Well then, pollito, guess you’re gonna learn.”

  Her skin began to burn. “Excuse me, but did you just call me a little chicken?”

  “Perfect for you—you squawk and cluck like a chicken who’s terrified the sky is falling just because the weather changes.”

  That was it. God forgive her, but she hated Lucas Diaz right then. Because she had the feeling he wasn’t really talking about the weather. And Lord forgive her again because, for the first time in, well, ever, she was royally ticked off at the Reverend Mother—for constantly throwing them together.

  She also wished this funeral was over already.

  “Now I will admit,” Mr. Fitzsimmons began, “when Chad told me he wanted to come home for a while in order to join forces with the Vienna Theater Company and build a state-of-the-art production company in the middle of suburbia, no offense, but I didn’t get it. Not only did I not understand, I flew down here with the specific purpose of trying to talk him out of it. But now, I understand.”

  Leah barely bothered to whisper this time. “Bet that trust fund helped make things real clear real fast.” Everyone seated around her murmured their agreement.

  “I’m proud to announce that it was my protégé Chad Frivole’s last wish that I stay here and head up this glorious effort—and to announce our ambitious plan to open the Miriam Frivole Center for Theater Arts in two years’ time.”

  The second Chad’s mother’s name left Mr. Fitzsimmons’s mouth, Chad’s father jumped up and kicked his chair off the small dais, making everyone gasp.

  “That’s where all my son’s money is going? A big box for boys to wear tights and play make-believe? I’m suing you,” he yelled, swaying toward the lectern. “If you grant the permits, I’m suing you.” He pointed to the mayor. “I’m even suing that pretty blonde lawyer of his for doing all his dirty work! Where is sh-she?” He stuttered and swayed. “Hey, blondie! Come show yourself!” He stopped, spotting Lisa McDevitt close to the front. “You! I bet you’re the one who talked my boy into this!”

  And then, before anyone could stop him, he lunged straight at her—falling right into Chad’s open grave.

  “Oh my gawd!”

  “I can’t unsee that!”

  “Someone stop him! He’s trying to open the casket!”

  Corri jumped up from her seat. ”This is all my fault! I’m—I’m so sorry everyone, but I can’t watch the man I love being so disrespected!” She grabbed her purse and worked her way through the crowd. She had huge black sunglasses on, Jackie Onassis style, but everyone could see she was crying.

  “Excuse me, I need to get to my friend!” It was Jenny, leaving the cluster of her fellow teachers and running after Corri. “Wait up! You shouldn’t drive when you’re this upset!”

  Lucas leaned toward Daria’s Order. “Sisters, I think this is our cue to leave. It’s not safe here for you.”

  Daria couldn’t agree fast enough. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Good call, young man.” Sister Theresa stood up. “Have her back before Vespers. Sisters? Breakfast at Amphora is on me.”

  Quinn speed-walked over. “Hey, can I grab a ride with you two? Aiden’s going in to retrieve Mr. Frivole. Don’t worry, he called for backup.”

  “Yeah, no worries. Should I go over and help?” Lucas asked.

  Quinn shook her head. “Uh, no, definitely not. You do not want a piece of that hot mess.”

  Sure enough, Aiden had dashed over, hopped in the hole, and retrieved Mr. Frivole from his son’s grave. Even with him being drunk and flailing his fists around, Aiden didn’t even break a sweat subduing Chad’s dad. Someone else had retrieved the chair he’d kicked over.

  “Now, you can either sit here and calm down, or I put the cuffs on you in front of the whole town, and that’s what everyone will remember.” Aiden still had a tight hold on the man. Chad’s father’s shoulders drooped as he nodded, resigned to cooperate. Once Quinn witnessed the scene calming down, she said she was ready to go.

  The three of them walked toward Lucas’s truck. “Am I dropping you off at your place or the bookstore?”

  Quinn worried the corner of her lip, eyeing Daria.

  “What?”

  Quinn looked over her shoulder and around. “Did you see how Corri yelled that Chad’s murder was her fault?”

  Daria muttered, “Hard to miss.”

  “Listen, this may be our only chance to find out if or how those women are responsible not only for Chad’s death but for the attempted murder of my brother.”

  “I’d like the chance to clear my sister’s name,” Lucas said. “I refuse to believe Ella had anything to do with this, but I wouldn’t put it past some of those so-called friends of hers.”

  Quinn’s phone beeped. She checked for a message. “That’s Aiden. He’s going to put Chad’s father in holding until he dries out, and he’s having his team investigate local rehabs. Assuming he’ll go.”

  “Well, that’s something, I guess.” Daria folded the funeral program and stuck it in her pocket under her tunic. She surveyed the grave site, noticing that most of the people had left.

  Lucas leaned against the side of his truck, arms still crossed, the wheels in his brain almost visible to her naked eye. “Chad Frivole was, what, thirty-two, maybe thirty-three years old?”

  Daria shrugged. “I think so. I’m not sure. Why?”

  He scratched the side of his jaw. “How many young, single guys do you know who have a will?”

  Quinn and Daria looked blankly at each other.

  “Exactly.” He went on with his theory. “Chad’s in New York. No wife. No significant other. No kids. The only relative he really loved has been dead since he was a kid … I would think the last thing he’d be thinking about is his own death.”

  “And he still drew up a will.” Daria continued his thought. “You don’t do that unless …”

  “Unless you have a reason to think you might die.” Quinn finished her cousin’s sentence.

  The three of them let that soak in.

  Lucas blew out a frustrated breath. “Well, if someone was threatening him long enough for him to draw up a will, that means the possible killer had contact with Chad before he came back to Vienna. No way that’s my sister. She’s a man-eater, for sure, but she’s no killer. You need to know, my only reason for going along with all this is to make sure Ella is no longer a suspect.”

  “I respect that.” Quinn shoved her hands in her pants pockets. “My motivation is keeping my brother and Rachel safe.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.

  —Shakespeare’s The Rape of Lucrece

  The three unlikely musketeers ended up finding Corri in the first spot they checked, thanks to Daria.

  “Well, you were right. There’s Corri’s car,” Lucas mused as he parked behind her. “I’d know that cold blue steel Ford anywhere.”

  Quinn opened the passenger door. “And just in case there’s another blue Ford Mustang in town, that license plate is a dead giveaway. Everyone knows Corri’s a huge Anglophile.”

  Vanity plates were cheap in the state of Virginia, so it was common for residents to add an extra slice of personality to their vehicles. Corri’s license plate frame had tiny Union Jacks peppered all around—and her license plate read UK-LVR.

  Lucas shut his door. “Looks like she didn’t come alone.” Parked on the street in front of Corri’s car was a 2010 Honda Civic. “It’s that teacher’s car.”

  Quinn peered over Corri’s ride to the parked car in front of hers. Like most Hondas, Jenny’s car might have started off nondescript, but she had added her personality all over it. Her whole life was on the back of her bumper: a sticker proclaiming Proud to be a James Madison High School Teacher, another spelling TEACHER with periodic table symbols, Gandalf from Lord of the Rings commanding YOU. SHALL. NOT. PASS! The last one made Quinn snort-laugh: I Believe in Dragons, Unicorns, Good Men, and other Fantasy Creatures.

  “Well, at least she’s consistent.” Quinn didn’t want to waste any more time. “Let’s go in. I have a feeling Corri’s ready to talk. If Ella is truly innocent, she’s the key to finding out. Maybe we can influence Jenny to put pressure on her?”

  Daria nodded. “Agreed. Jenny’s the conscience of the group.”

  The three of them walked into Saint Guinefort House, looking straight ahead, and found Corri seated in the back with Sister Theresa. Jenny had her arm around her friend and was trying to console her. Daria didn’t even hesitate to barrel down the main hallway, Quinn and Lucas in tow, and slid the glass door open, surprising all three of the women.

  Sister Theresa started. “You scared the wits out of me!”

  Quinn closed the sliding door behind them. “Sorry about that, Sister, but we really needed to speak with Corri, and Daria said she’d be here.”

  “Because she’s always here,” her cousin quipped. “What’s the deal with you two, anyways?”

  Corri lifted her head out of her hands, mascara streaming black down her face. Jenny hugged her friend closer to her thin frame. “This is not a good time, ladies.” Her gaze turned to slits. “Lucas, why are you here?”

  “A better question is why your girl lost her ever-lovin’ mind, yelling in front of everyone that his death was her fault?”

  Daria huffed. “Why don’t we let Corri talk for herself? And maybe Quinn can smooth the way for her when the police arrive here, which—in my calculations—may be any minute.”

  Corri wiped the black streaks off her face. “But I didn’t kill him! He told me on our date that he’d been diagnosed with a heart condition. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Doing eight shows a week was what was going to kill him. That’s one of the reasons why he changed his life and moved down here.”

  “I don’t understand.” Daria sat down next to Sister Theresa. “Why would you think you killed him?”

  Her tears kept coming as she wiped them with the sleeve of her blouse. “Because when the four of us had breakfast the next morning, I was talking about our date, and Senya and Ella were giving me a hard time. They couldn’t understand why I’d give him a second chance after everything he put us through. I told them about his diagnosis, but not to be gossipy. Just so they could understand what he’d been going through, ya know?”

  Jenny sighed, taking her arm off her friend’s shoulder. “Corri’s got a heart of gold. She’s the sweetest person I know, so I got it. I understood. But Ella and Senya, not so much.” She nudged Corri. “Tell them the rest.”

  “At first, they berated me pretty good, telling me I was all kinds of an idiot. But then, I don’t know, something came over Senya’s face. When I asked her what was up, she laughed, saying it served him right, that someone should give him a good scare. Teach him a lesson he really wouldn’t forget.”

  The veins In Lucas’s temples bulged. “And what did Ella say?”

  Corri looked to Jenny, who gave a slight nod, encouraging her to go on. She was just about to answer when a swarm of cops came from around the house, surrounding the huddle on both sides.

  “Corri Rypka, we’d like you to come in for questioning.”

  Sister Theresa stood up. “Is she being arrested?”

  Officer Shae Johnson came through the sea of blue. “And who are you to her, Sister?”

  Theresa pursed her mouth. “I offer her religious counsel. That’s all you need to know.”

  The officer tsked, taking a step forward. “She’s being brought in for questioning as a person of interest—and you’re lucky you’re not also at this point, Sister, especially since Ms. Rypka—who is not Anglican, nor a member of Christ Church Fellowship—seems to visit you no less than twice a week for the last seven weeks. Basically, ever since Chad Frivole moved back to town.”

  “She’s done nothing wrong, seeking my counsel.”

  “Not wrong,” Shae continued, “just unusual—especially since, no offense, you’re not exactly known as a people person. Of course, we can do this the hard way—and I get a subpoena to arrest Corri Rypka for being an accessory to first-degree murder and another subpoena to search her apartment and your abbey for any evidence.”

  “Please! Leave her and the abbey alone,” Corri cried. “She’s done nothing but be good to me—and that’s because … that’s because Sister Theresa is my aunt.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, heal’d by the same means, warm’d and cool’d by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?

  —Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice

  Aiden held up two ties. “Which one?”

  Quinn dabbed a touch of shimmering blush to each cheek, twisting her torso in her vanity chair to get a better look. “Either matches. But I like the blue one better—brings out the gray in your eyes.”

  He tossed the green tie aside and began knotting the blue one around his neck. “All right, so then what happened?”

  Quinn filled him in on finding Corri and Jenny at Saint Guinefort’s and learning Corri was Sister Theresa’s niece—but why was the sister being so evasive? She also related that Corri had volunteered to go in for questioning. She could tell from his expression that he knew everything she was sharing but was letting her tell her version of what happened.

  “You know, I thought you were going to cancel tonight, with having to interview Corri and all.”

  He straightened the knot. “If she’d been uncooperative, that would have been true. But Corri was more than happy to share everything she knew. Jenny too—although she was really just confirming everything Corri had said. They were also able to offer some gaps to our working timeline.”

  Quinn opened her clutch—another book transformed into a charming handheld purse thanks to the lovely Melissa, the artist behind Viva Las Vixens. She placed her phone and lip gloss inside, admiring how the federal-blue satin lining complemented the book purse cover of Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child. Quinn knew Rachel’s parents were avid cooks and had recently taken up French cooking lessons at Culinaria Cooking School, and the purse was a quiet tribute to them, since they were hosting tonight’s dinner.

  From one of the drawers of her antique vanity, Quinn pulled out another accessory to wear on her Peter Pan collar for the evening: an enamel rolling pin with the phrase Roll with it written in cursive. If Queen Elizabeth II and former secretary of state Madeleine Albright could signal their views via estate jewelry, so could she.

  “We better get going, or we’ll be late.”

  Quinn slipped her feet into her heels as she walked toward the front door, grabbing a bouquet of fresh flowers and a box of French macarons. Cindy Clawford and RBG, meanwhile, were poised and ready next to Aiden.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  Aiden bent over to give each of them a proper scratch. “We’ll be back soon. Mom and Dad have to play peacekeepers.”

  RBG licked his hand, and Cindy grumbled before strutting back over to her pillow. It seemed she was more interested in keeping her dog mamma company than actually going outside for an adventure.

  Aiden opened the door. “Any chance we can forgo the family dinner drama for something less ulcer inducing?”

 

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