Hit and Nun Page 8

  Knuckles hitched his jaw at Goose, squinting one eye. “It wasn’t like that, Goose. I broke up with her.”

  Goose sipped his coffee and nodded his head, the wrinkles on his cheeks deepening as he grimaced. “Yeah, you did. After ya found out she was foolin’ around with somebody else. You didn’t believe any of us at first. She did ya wrong, pal—didn’t like it way back when, don’t like it now. You still can’t see her for what she is, can ya?” he asked in his hushed tone.

  Since we’d hired Goose, he hadn’t been much of a communicator. He was quiet and quick about everything he did. That he was speaking up meant something. The more I got to know him, the more I got the feeling he didn’t talk unless he had something important or meaningful to say.

  Knuckles shrugged his wide shoulders as Coop patted him on the back with an awkward thump of her hand. “Water under the bridge. Long since over. She was young, Goose. I think we all have a story or two about the stupid things we did at that age—especially you, buddy. And if you ask me, I moved on to greener pastures, because breaking up with Suzanne led me to my Candice.”

  Coop was immediately interested, her face open and curious. “I love Candice stories, Knuckles. So-so much. They make me happy because she made you happy. I like it best when you’re happy.”

  Knuckles gave her a brief smile, reaching up to chuck her under the chin. “I’m glad to hear that, Coop. I’d hate to think all my babbling bores you two.”

  We loved to hear about his late wife and all the wonderful things they’d done together. He told us stories over dinner or when something on TV reminded him of her. They’d been so happy; Knuckles had been so happy that sometimes his recollection of that joy made my breath catch in my throat.

  “Then maybe you should think of Candice tonight, Knuckles,” Coop suggested, curling up on the sofa next to him and patting him on his tattooed arm. “Then you won’t be so sad.”

  If only it were that easy. Maybe for Coop it was that easy, but I could see Knuckles struggling with an emotion I wasn’t even sure he understood.

  He ran a hand over his beard before he reached over to the arm of the couch and stroked Livingston, who allowed Knuckles to pet him and only complained about it when we were alone, in the confines of our own space.

  “I’m not sad in the way you think, Coopie. I’m sad something bad happened. You know, like when you hear about someone dying tragically on the news, but you don’t know them—it makes you sad, right?”

  Coop looked like a deer in the headlights, unsure how to answer. She didn’t differentiate feelings the way we all do—to date; it was black and white with her. Her eyes went to my face, looking for answers, gauging my reaction.

  So I stepped in, nodding my head in understanding. “Yeah. Like the story about the little girl who was lost up on the trails at Mt. Hood, remember that, Coop? We didn’t know her, but when we heard what happened, we were sad that she was probably alone and frightened in the woods.”

  Coop nodded vigorously. “But they found her safe and sound with her dog. That was nice. Very nice.”

  “Yes, it was. But that’s the kind of sad Knuckles means. Sadness sometimes has degrees.”

  “It sure do,” Goose commented, reaching over and ruffling Coop’s hair with his slender fingers.

  A knock on the glass made us all turn around to see Higgs at the door. He’d promised Knuckles he’d use his connections at the Cobbler Cove precinct to find out what was happening with Suzanne and the rest of her friends. I hoped he had something to brighten Knuckles night.

  I jumped up to let him in, letting Jeff burst through the door and hop up into Coop’s lap, where he settled with a contented sigh. He might struggle with being one with the dog, but he had the lap sitting down pat.

  “Hey, guys,” he said as I grabbed him a stool and motioned for him to sit. “Knuckles? How ya feelin’?”

  “How’s Suzanne?” he asked, pushing himself to the edge of the cushion.

  Higgs’s lips went thin as he took a deep breath and looked at Knuckles, his brow furrowing. “I think ‘emotional’ is the word best used to describe her right now, but physically, she’s fine. She’s in good hands, Knuckles. I promise Tansy will be gentle.”

  I was still learning about Higgs, and two of the things I paid particular attention to were his facial expressions and tone of voice. His tone of voice said he was choosing his words carefully so as not to offend Knuckles. Meaning, Suzanne was maybe overdoing the grieving widow act.

  Goose cackled softly, slapping his jean-clad thigh. “Told ya. Milkin’ it for all it’s worth is what she’s doin’, the little viper. Always the actress.”

  Knuckles let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it in forever. “Look here, Goose, let it be, okay? That was well over twenty-something years ago. Maybe she’s changed. People grow up. They mature. Back then she was just a kid—an impulsive, selfish kid. But we all grow up. So look here, the woman lost her husband. She has every right to milk the situation. That’s the end of it. I don’t want to hear any more of your nonsense.”

  So obviously, something more than just a breakup had occurred between Suzanne and our Knuckles. He’d made it sound very casual, but Goose certainly saw it quite differently, and it rubbed Knuckles the wrong way.

  Goose lifted his hands in the air in surrender, but his eyes said he was worried for his longtime friend. “Fine by me. Just remember how she tore your guts up is all I’m sayin’. And now, out of respect for you and your wishes, I won’t say no more.” He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee, zipping his lip as promised.

  “So have we heard any preliminary findings on how Agnar died, Higgs?” I asked, hoping to diffuse the tension between Goose and Knuckles.

  Higgs scrolled his phone, probably for a text from his friend at the station. “Nothing official, mind you, but talk is either a heart attack as you suggested or maybe internal injuries.”

  I jabbed a finger in the air. “I’d bet that’s what Solomon meant! I bet he was hit by a car,” I reasoned. That felt right. I don’t know why, but the words coming from my mouth felt right.

  Higgs nodded. “You could be right, but word is no one made mention of it if it happened. No one from the group, that is.”

  I pursed my lips and leaned forward, putting my elbows on my knees. “How far ahead could he have been that they missed him being hit by a car? And if a car hit him, how the heck was he still riding his bike by the time he got here with nary a mark on him to be found? Coop said he got off the bike and sat down. And how did a car get in the mix anyway? There weren’t supposed to be any cars on the Naked Bike Ride route, if I recall correctly.”

  The corner of Higgs’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “That’s why it’s called a hit and run or a criminal act. If that’s even what happened. We don’t know anything yet. Maybe his adrenaline went into overdrive after he was hit? You know, fight or flight concept? I’ve seen it happen after seeing someone shot. So don’t make assumptions. You can hypothesize until the cows come home, Trixie, but we have no conclusions to draw from.”

  I heard the warning in his tone. In other words, slow my roll. But note to self, ask Solomon about the make and model of this steed of steel, or at least the color, the location of this alleged event, and whether he saw anyone else around.

  “So none of that group saw anything at all?”

  Higgs clucked his tongue. “Well, here’s the word on that. Apparently, Agnar bet that guy Edwin—”

  “The man who thinks I’m a good person.” Coop crowed while I fought a giggle when Higgs gave me a questioning look.

  Later, I mouthed.

  “Anyway, Agnar bet Edwin he could beat him to the finish line. He was almost a mile ahead of the rest of the pack. So if he really was hit, there’s a chance no one saw it—not from his group, anyway. But maybe someone on the sidewalk or a shop owner saw something. The guys at the Cobbler Cove precinct will do a sweep and canvass the area, I’m sure. If it comes to that, I mean. If it
was a heart attack, then game over.”

  Another note to self: Find out bike route and talk to shop owners, but only if this becomes a criminal investigation. Otherwise, you have a shop to run, Trixie Lavender. Mind your p’s and q’s and run your shop.

  “So they’re all still at the station now? Did anyone bring them clothes, see if they need something to eat? I can tell you from experience, the hospitality there gets a solid two stars from me on Yelp. And that’s only because someone was kind enough to give me directions to the bathroom. Otherwise, it’s a bust.”

  Higgs laughed as Knuckles’s phone buzzed, and when he pulled it from the pocket of his leather vest, we all sat up in rapt attention. He’d been waiting to hear from Myer Blackmoore, his client and longtime acquaintance, but I’d begun to think we wouldn’t hear anything until morning.

  From the look on Knuckles’s face—a sour one, by the way—whatever the message was, it couldn’t be good.

  “Knuck? You okay?” I asked, my concern for him real after what Goose said.

  “It’s Suzanne. She’s afraid to go back to her hotel room alone, but the police have released her—for now, anyway.”

  Goose cleared his throat but stuck to his original promise to keep his lips zipped. Yet, I knew from the look on his aging face, he was dying to give his input.

  I gave Knuckles a sympathetic smile. “Afraid to go to her hotel room? Why?”

  He shrugged his wide shoulders and scooted forward on the couch. “Her husband’s dead and everyone else is still being questioned. Maybe she just doesn’t want to be alone. Would you want to be alone right after your husband died?”

  Okay, point. I’m not sure what it’d be like to have a husband, but my heart ached for her anyway. “What can we do for her? How can we help?”

  He rose, his solid frame looming over me. “I’m gonna go pick her up and bring her back to my house. She can stay there until the police say she can leave town or whatever it is they do after they’re done investigating.”

  Lifting my hips, I reached in my pocket for my keys. “You can’t bring her home on the bike, Knuckles. Take the Caddy and go get her. We’ll go back to the house and make something for her to eat.”

  “How will you get home if I have your car, Trixie girl? I’m pretty sure Mr. Cranky Pants won’t like the back of the bike,” he said, making Livingston ruffle his feathers.

  “I got them, Knuckles. You go get Suzanne. You can ride in with Trix and Coop tomorrow. I’ll keep an eye on the bike tonight. Just move it ’round back at the shelter. No worries, friend,” Higgs offered with a smile.

  Knuckles slapped him on the back and shook his hand, but he wasn’t smiling, his face was as somber as I’ve ever seen it. “Thanks, buddy. See you in a little while.” He took off out the door without a backward glance, leaving us all to ponder Suzanne.

  Goose was the first to speak as he rose and picked up his coffee mug and shook his head. “You mark my words, that woman is poison and she always will be. He’s still runnin’ after her just like he used to, cleanin’ up her messes. I’m not sayin’ another word about it because it stirs up Knuck, but she’s no good, Trixie. Never has been, never will be, and I don’t care how pretty she still is. She’s bad news, and I don’t want nothin’ to do with it.”

  I reached a hand out and patted his arm to soothe his ruffled feathers. “You’re a good friend, Goose. He’s just caught up in the moment of seeing her. You know how it is, right? Sometimes you forget all about the bad and can only focus on the good times when you see someone after years apart. Once he sees more clearly, I’m sure he’ll understand why you stated your concerns and all will be well.”

  Tipping his coffee mug at me, I noted his deep-set hazel eyes flash all manner of emotions. But I guess he decided it wasn’t worth creating more trouble. “I’m too close to the situation because of that dang woman’s history. You keep an eye on him. That’s all I’m askin’.”

  “Will do,” I reassured him with a smile, hoping to alleviate his fears.

  With that, he took his cup to the small kitchenette we had in the back of the store without another word, leaving us all to ponder Suzanne.

  Well, all of us except for Coop. She already knew Suzanne was bad news.

  When she looked over at me, her gaze steady as a rock, she lifted an eyebrow. “I told you she had a bad aura.”

  * * * *

  “Here you go, Suzanne.” I handed her a steaming cup of some crazy mixture of herbs and tea leaves she’d insisted was the only thing she drank at night aside from water. It was what kept her looking so youthful, according to her.

  I rather felt like that youthful glow had more to do with Botox, but what do I know. The only skincare I use is soap and water and a clean towel. My priorities had little to do with anything other than having my hair brushed and clean. I didn’t know how to use makeup or curl my hair—among the many things nuns don’t do very often.

  Coop, who sat as far away from Suzanne as possible with one eye on the television playing in the living room, eyeballed her from across the room as though this aura of hers were rising in toxic steam from the top of her head.

  When Suzanne wasn’t looking, I squinted to see if I could see what Coop saw, but I didn’t see anything except for the glorious, curly mane of hers, so coppery red and shiny, I bet it hurt to look at in the sunlight.

  “Is there anything else I can get you, Suzanne?” I asked as we sat around Knuckles’s beautiful kitchen island, hoping to ease her fears while we waited for more news on Agnar’s death.

  She’d acquired clothes from somewhere, a slim-fitting pair of skinny jeans that enhanced her curves and a flowing Bohemian top in yellow with small blue flowers that clung to her figure in all the right places.

  While we’d waited for Knuckles to arrive with her, I’d done some research on Suzanne Rothschild-Andrews-Stigsson. Yep, that’s her full name, hyphens and all. She’s had a couple of husbands since she and Knuckles broke up. A couple of very rich husbands.

  If you looked at her Facebook page, she was as good as Hollywood royalty. There were tons of pictures of her with famous people, at lavish parties, one where she was even on a yacht. Yet, if you believed what IMDB said, she’d done a lot of movies that didn’t even classify as D-listers, and her score from Rotten Tomatoes was pretty rough.

  Though, I found it very interesting the bulk of her work was in horror movies—she was a scream queen, and certainly that accounted for her dramatic flair.

  In fact, she had a semi-decent following on her Facebook and Instagram pages—if you read the comments, they were mostly from men, young and old, some who’d followed her around since her career began. That she was an actress made perfect sense. She certainly had the pretty pout and the exaggerated facial expressions down pat.

  When she looked up at me, she paused for what felt like forever as she scrutinized my face and my clothes—which I’m sure in her world were about as far from designer as one could get. I mean, I’d gotten my overalls at a used clothing store, for golly’s sake, not some pop-up exclusive boutique in LA. I guess I couldn’t blame her when her style was so effortless.

  “Suzanne?” I repeated. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

  “No, thank you, Tipsy. I’m fine with this.” She held up the mug and gave me a small smile.

  “It’s Trixie,” Coop said from the other end of the glossy island. “Sister Trixie Lavender.”

  My eyebrow shot up as I glanced in Coop’s direction. Was I hearing a snippy response from my normally unmoved demon? Whatever was the world coming to?

  Suzanne eyeballed Coop, sucking in her cheeks. “My apologies, Sister Trixie,” she cooed in her sultry voice, her eyes never leaving Coop’s face.

  It was then I recognized what was happening right under my nose. Suzanne had virtually ignored Coop since she’d sashayed into Knuckles’s house like royalty. I thought it was due to the fact that Coop came off very aloof, even standoffish, and that could be interpreted as self-in
volved and maybe even conceited, considering her incredible beauty. But that wasn’t it at all.

  Suzanne had a case of the green-eyed monsters. Coop was a stunning woman—near flawless—and if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, that’s no exaggeration and said with zero malice.

  Sometimes, you just had to call a spade a spade. Suzanne was certainly beautiful, but she was fading fast, and so far I hadn’t seen anyone who could hold a candle to Coop. For someone who was likely used to adoration all day long, who relied on their looks the way Suzanne did, it had to be hard to run into someone like Coop.

  I got the distinct impression Suzanne was feeling her age, and Coop didn’t make her feel any better, with her lithe body and youthful glow. Then I felt like a dreadful person for thinking those thoughts.

  In order to be a good person, you couldn’t go around judging a book by its cover, and I was going to stop doing so this second. Her husband was dead. Maybe these wild swings of emotion had to do with that, and weren’t a proper representation of who Suzanne really is.

  “I’m just Trixie now. I’m an ex-nun,” I said, smiling at her as I fought wrinkling my nose over the stench of her tea. Whatever the concoction was, Knuckles had woken Liam from Ye Old Spice Shop, a place to buy exotic tea and spices, in order to please Suzanne. Or was that appease? I wasn’t sure.

  “How interesting,” she drawled before she sighed, long and wistful.

  “Suzanne? Meet Noodles and Biscuit,” Knuckles said proudly as he carried his two cats out into the kitchen and held them up for her to see.

  Livingston, who perched on the bar Knuckles had specifically hung in the kitchen for him, so he’d always be with us on movie nights and during meals, stirred.

  While Jeff was learning to be a dog, Livingston was fighting his urge to be an owl, and Noodles and Biscuit were prime prey.

  Suzanne held her hands out to the felines, gathering Noodles, a gorgeous calico, in her arms when Knuckles handed her over. But Noodles squirmed out of her grasp, fighting to get away and scratching her on her bare arm. She took off back into Knuckles’s bedroom, the pads of her paws skidding on the hardwood floor, with Biscuit hot on her heels.