Then There Were Nun Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Then There Were Nun

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

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  Note from Dakota

  eBooks by Dakota Cassidy

  Excerpt

  “Well, at least he didn’t boot us out on our butt-ox.”

  I burst out laughing as we drove back to the motel, the sun only just now beginning to set at almost nine in the evening. One of the million things I loved about summer.

  I crossed my eyes at her and giggled. “It’s buttocks, Coop. All one word. And really, buttocks?”

  She shifted in her seat to face me, the fading sun kissing her model-like cheekbones, her brow creased. “Isn’t that the right word?”

  “It’s definitely the right word. It’s a little formal. You could just say butt. Or backside, even.”

  “Or arse!” Livingston said on a rumbly chuckle, clearly pleased with himself for his contribution to our conversation.

  I made a face and wrinkled my nose in distaste. “Are you still learning new words, Coop?”

  “I am. I study Webster’s Dictionary online every day. I’m up to the letter P. Today I learned palpebrate.”

  “Wow. Sounds like something you catch in a public pool,” I joked, pulling onto the highway.

  “How do you catch a public pool?” Coop pondered, her interest clearly genuine.

  My favorite owl rasped an annoyed sigh. “Ya can’t, goose. And it means eyelids, or rather that ya have eyelids, lass,” Livingston provided.

  I eyed him from my rearview mirror. “Are you learning the dictionary with Coop, too, buddy?”

  “Hah. Not on purpose, mind ya. I’m forced to hear her drone on and on while she studies, stuffed in this cage the way I am. Sometimes I pick up a ting or two in the learnin’. None of it worth a hornswaggle, mind ya. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone, as per your orders. Remember?”

  Coop turned around and stuck her finger in Livingston’s cage, something she did quite often. “You’re not allowed because humans will be afraid of you. There are no talking owls in the history of owls ever, Quigley Livingston. We’d stick out like a sore finger—”

  “Thumb. Stick out like a sore thumb,” I corrected.

  “Yes. That. And you should pay closer attention to the words I’m learning, my feathered friend. It’s important we learn all things human.”

  He hooted in response (and if you listened closely enough, you’d hear the sarcasm in it, the way I did). “Have ya heard a single soul use the word palpebrate in a sentence since we’ve been here with the infernal humans, Coopie?”

  “No, but it can’t hurt to expand your mind, Livingston. Knowledge is a good thing. It’s useful. I want to be useful.”

  “But must ya learn it all in one day, lass?”

  Coop turned back around, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she stared straight ahead and folded her arms over her chest.

  “Are you afraid you’re going to miss something, Coop?” I knew my demon pretty well by now. Coop was mostly an open book, and one of her biggest fears was being shipped back to Hell—in a handbasket—a phrase she’d begun to use the moment she’d heard it on some show she’d been watching.

  “Maybe,” was all she offered from tightly compressed lips.

  Coop didn’t like to show any kind of fear, big or little. It left her feeling vulnerable, not to mention weak in front of her superiors in Hell. Her words.

  “Coop… Talk to me. Remember what I said about keeping everything bottled up?” I nudged, shooting her a glance of sympathy, my heart aching for the uncertainties she kept deep within.

  “Then yes. I want to learn everything so if I have to go back to Hell someday, I’ll have knowledge on my side.”

  “For all the good knowin’ what the fiddle-dee-fee palpebrate means. Ya won’t have to worry ’bout your eyelids because Satan will surely burn ’em off after ya betrayed him by escapin’—and he’ll take me wit ya.”

  “Livingston!” I admonished, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. “No one’s going back to Hell. Not as long as I’m around, okay? Now knock off all the doom and gloom, both of you, and let’s focus on this murder.”

  Livingston shifted in his cage, his gray speckled wings flexing and rustling against the bars. “What’s there to focus on, lass? Did ya suddenly become Sherlock Holmes? Nice bloke, by the way.”

  “You knew Sherlock Holmes?” I paused with a frown. “Wait, is he in Hell?”

  “’Course I did. Fine chap he was.”

  “Livingston is pulling the wool over your head, Trixie. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote the fictional character Sherlock Holmes. Livingston knew the pretend Sherlock Holmes. That one came from Queens, New York, and he was quite cruel. And he picked his nose. He was not a fine chap at all.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Livingston and squeezed the steering wheel. “He’s pulling the wool over my eyes, Coop. And no, Livingston. I’m not Sherlock Holmes. I’m just trying to hurry things along so we can get into the store. The sooner we get into the store, the sooner we open shop. We need to open soon.”

  “Do you think Knuckles is still going to want to work for us, now that he knows this is the second landlord we’ve killed?”

  I rolled my eyes. “We didn’t kill either one of them, Coop. Don’t say that out loud.”

  “But what if he thinks we did. What if, deep down, he thinks we’re murderers?” The worry in her voice was something new.

  I wasn’t sure if humanizing her, so to speak, teaching her how to have empathy and morals and all the things a kind human should have, was actually a good thing, because along with those emotions came doubt and fear.

  So I set out to soothe her with a gentler word. “I think he was just a little rattled…”

  Poor Knuckles. Just when I’d thought he was at peace with who we were, we lambasted him with another surprise. I think that ended up being the icing on his acceptance cake. After we told him our previous landlord was dead, too, he grew very quiet. That made me sad. We never even had the chance to meet his cats…

  And that’s not to say he wasn’t a complete gentleman, but his silence left me feeling uncomfortable. In light of the fact that I couldn’t do anything but tell him the truth or he’d find out anyway, I had to allow him the time to digest—or not. It was his choice.

  So we took our leave, and now we were going to pop by the store to see if the police tape was still surrounding the door.

  Foolish? Probably. It had only been a few hours and likely we’d find it as we’d left it, but maybe luck was on our side today.

  Coop’s face went a bit sour when she wrinkled her nose. “Rattled? Does that mean afraid, Trixie? I would never want Knuckles to be afraid of us. I like him so-so much. He’s an outstanding tattooist—a true artist. Did you see those pictures on his wall?”

  “You mean the ones with the celebrities and their tattoos?”

  “Yes!” she said with about as much passion as I’d ever heard in her voice. “He’s amazing. I don’t want him to be afraid we’ll kill him. I’d never kill him. I want to learn from him. I want to be his friend. Just like Stevie’s.”

  I gnawed on my lower lip before I said, “I don’t think afraid defines what was happening with Knuckles, Coop. It was just a lot of revelation for one day. That’s all. Sometimes, folks need to le
t things digest. They need to process the words—absorb them. Let’s not worry about it for now. He said he’d call us, and he seems like a man of his word.”

  Or he could blow us off forever—and who could blame the poor guy?

  Then There Were Nun

  Nun of Your Business Mysteries, Book 1

  Dakota Cassidy

  Published 2018 by Book Boutiques.

  ISBN: 978-1-946363-88-6

  Copyright © 2018, Dakota Cassidy.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Book Boutiques.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.

  Manufactured in the USA.

  Email [email protected] with questions, or inquiries about Book Boutiques.

  Blurb

  My name is Sister Trixie Lavender, and I’m an occasionally possessed excommunicated nun.

  Okay, that’s a lot to swallow at once. But it’s true I was booted from the convent after doing something unspeakable. Something I had no control over. Something that lives inside me to this day, exploding out like that chestburster in Alien when I least expect it.

  But I have help. My amazing friend Coop—the demon who saved me from an ugly end—remains by my side, loyal and true. She was Hell’s best tattoo artist back in the day, and together with my designs, we’re opening Inkerbelle’s Tattoos and Piercings, right in the heart of Portland’s most darling district, Cobbler Cove.

  Of course, our bid to fit in would be a little less rocky if I could help Coop assimilate with humans, keep a lid on our sassy talking owl, Livingston…oh, and if someone hadn’t killed our landlord on day one—in our shop.

  This mystery-loving, bumbling ex-nun and her trusty demon sidekick are on the case! If I don’t bumble my way right into my own demise first…

  Acknowledgements

  Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs, Tibbs Design

  Author’s Note

  Welcome to the Nun of Your Business Mysteries! I so hope you’ll enjoy this first adventure for Trixie Lavender and her pal Coop, an ex-nun and a demon, respectively, just trying to make their way in the world—together.

  Please note, I currently live in the beautiful state of Oregon, just outside of Portland. And though not a native (New Yorker here!), I’ve fallen in love over and over again with my new home state every day for the almost five years we’ve been here. That said, I’ve created a district (sort of like the Pearl District, for you natives) in a suburb of Portland that is totally fictional, called Cobbler Cove. You may recognize some of the places/streets/eateries I mention, but do keep in mind, I’m also flagrantly instituting my artistic license with the geography of gorgeous Portland to suit my own selfish needs. Any and all names for characters or groups mentioned herein are completely fictitious.

  As I’ve mentioned in my previous cozy mysteries, there is an ongoing mystery surrounding Coop and Trixie that will play out over the course of the series (sorrysorrysorry!), but the central mystery in each story will be all wrapped up in a pretty package with a nice bow by book’s end.

  That out of the way, welcome to the crazy world Trixie and Coop inhabit. I hope you come to love them as much as I do!

  Also, in gratitude to my amazing narrator, Hollie Jackson, who brings all of my indie projects to life in audio. Her voice is one part Mary Poppins, two parts Disney princess. In other words, sweet and sassy. As such, Trixie is written in her honor with much love.

  To my editor, Kelli Collins, an owl lover, and the one responsible for suggesting Trixie and Coop’s sidekick have an Irish accent. Quigley Livingston is for you!

  And last, but never least, to Scott Preston Drummond, for the amazing series title after a fun post on Facebook. You rock!

  Dakota Cassidy XXOO

  Chapter 1

  “So, Sister Trixie Lavender, how do we feel about this space? Open concept, with plenty of sprawling views of the crumbling sidewalk from the leaky picture window and easily room for eight tat chairs.

  “Also, one half bathroom for customers, one full for us—which means we’d have to share, but there are worse things. A bedroom right up those sketchy stairs with a small loft, which BTW, I’m calling as mine now. I like to be up high for the best possible views when I survey our pending tattoo empire. A tiny kitchenette, but no big deal. I don’t cook anyway, and you sure don’t, if that horse pucky you called oatmeal is any indication of your culinary skills. Lots of peeling paint and crappy plumbing. All for the low-low price of…er, what was that price again, Fergus McDuff?”

  Short and chubby, a balding Fergus McDuff, the landlord of the current dive I was assessing as a candidate for our tattoo parlor, cringed and visibly shuddered beneath his limp blue suit.

  Maybe because Coop had him up against a wall, holding him by the front of his shirt in white-knuckled fists as she waited for him to rethink the price he’d quoted us the moment he realized we were women.

  Which was not only an outrageous amount of money for this dank, pile-of-rubble hole in the wall, but not at all the amount quoted to us over the phone. It also looked nothing like the picture from his Facebook page. I know that shouldn’t surprise me. He’d probably used some Snapchat filter to brighten it up. But here we were.

  A bead of perspiration popped out just above Fergus’s thin upper lip.

  Coop’s dusky auburn hair curtained his face, but his stance remained firm. “Like I said, lady, it’s three grand a month—”

  Cutting his words off, Coop tightened her grip with a grunt and hauled Fergus higher. His pleading gray eyes darted from her to me and back again in unadulterated fear, but to his credit, he tried really hard not to show it.

  Coop licked her lips, a low hum of a growl coming from her throat, her gaze intently focused on poor Fergus. “Can I kill him, Sister Trixie Lavender? Please, please, pleeease?”

  “Coop,” I warned. She knew better than to ask such a question. “She’s just joking, Fergus. Promise.”

  “But I’m not. Though, I promise I’ll clean up afterward. It’ll be like it never happened—”

  “Two thousand!” Fergus shouted quite jarringly, as though the effort to push the words out pained him. “Wait, wait, wait! I meant to say two thousand a month with all utilities!”

  That’s my demon. Overbearing and intimidating as the day is long. Still, I frowned at her, pulling my knit cap down over my ears. While this behavior worked in our favor, it was still unacceptable.

  We’d had a run-in with the law a few months ago back in Ebenezer Falls, Washington, where we’d first tried to set up a tattoo shop. Coop’s edgy streak had almost landed her with a murder charge.

  Since then (and before we landed in Eb Falls, by the by), we’d been traveling through the Pacific Northwest, making ends meet by selling my portrait sketches to people along the way, waiting until Coop’s instincts choose the right place for us to call home.

  Cobbler Cove struck just the right chord with her. And that’s how we ended up here, with her breathing fire down Fergus McDuff’s throat.

  Coop, who’d caught on to my displeasure, smirked her beautiful smirk and set Fergus down with a gentle drop, brushing his trembling shoulder with a careful hand to smooth his wrinkled suit.

  “That’s nice. You’re being nice, Fergus McDuff. I like you. Do you like me?”

  “Coop?” I called from the other end of the room, going over some rough measurements for a countertop in my mind. “Playtime’s over, young lady. Let Mr. McDuff be, please.”

  She rolled her bright green eyes at me in petulance and wiped her hands down her burgundy leather pants, disappointment written all over her face that there’d be no killing
today.

  Coop huffed. “Fine.”

  I looked at her with my stern ex-nun’s expression as a clear reminder to remember her manners. “Coop…”

  She pouted before holding out her hand to Fergus, even though he outwardly cringed at the gesture. “It was nice to meet you, Fergus McDuff. I hope I’ll see you again sometime soon,” she said almost coquettishly, mostly following the guidelines I’d set forth for polite conversation with new acquaintances.

  Fergus brushed her hand away, fear still on his face, and that was when I knew it was time for me to step in.

  “You do realize she’s just joking—about killing you and all, don’t you? I would never let her do that,” I joked, hoping he’d come along for the ride.

  But he only nodded as Coop picked up his tie clip and handed it to him in a gesture of apology.

  I smiled at her and nodded my head in approval, dropping my hands into the pockets of my puffy vest. “Okay, Fergus. Sold. Two grand a month and utilities it is. A year lease, right? Have a contract handy?”

  Fergus nodded and scurried toward the front of the store to get his briefcase. It was then Coop leaned toward me and sniffed the air, her delicate nostrils flaring.

  “This place smells right, Trixie Lavender. Yes, it does. Also, I like the name Peach Street. That sounds like a nice place to live.”

  I looked into her beautiful eyes—eyes so green and perfectly almond-shaped they made other women sick with jealousy—and smiled, feeling a sense of relief. “Ya think? You’ve got a good vibe about it then? Like the one you had in Ebenezer Falls before the bottom fell out?”

  And you were accused of murder and our store was left in shambles?

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from bringing up our last escapade in a suburb of Seattle, with an ex-witch turned medium named Stevie Cartwright and her dead spy turned ghost cohort, Winterbottom. It was still too fresh.

  Coop rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek and scanned the dark, mostly barren space with critical eyes. Any mention of Eb Falls, and Coop grew instantly sullen. “I miss Stevie Cartwright. She said she’d be my friend. Always-always.”