To Kill a Mocking Girl by Harper Kincaid

Author:Harper Kincaid
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Thirteen

“Hearing nuns’ confessions is like being stoned to death with popcorn.”

—Fulton J. Sheen, Catholic bishop, author, and television host

The upshot to having a weakness for retro fashion was that Quinn already had the perfect outfit for dining with a superfluity of Anglican nuns. It was another midi dress, this one in celadon blue, with a most charming Peter Pan collar. There were tiny fleurs-de-lis embroidered along the trim of the cream-colored fabric, which only served to complement her gold cross stud earrings.

When Quinn knocked on their door, one of the nuns answered, conducting a slow perusal, a hint of a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.

“Nice touch with the cross earrings. The purse is even better, although Maria von Trapp was Catholic, but that’s just being petty now, isn’t it?”

She was talking about the book purse Quinn had in hand, another in her growing collection: an upcycled copy of The Sound of Music. Artist Melissa Mason—Etsy shop owner extraordinaire of Viva Las Vixens—had turned the hardcover book into a purse, this time with a short, carved bamboo handle.

Quinn was standing on the stoop where, just a few days before, Detective Harrington had carted away former police officer Wyatt Reynolds in cuffs. The difference in circumstances was jarring.

The nun’s small, dark eyes and sharp bone structure only added to the severity of the first impression she gave. “I am Sister Theresa.”

Quinn opened her mouth to introduce herself, but she was cut off.

“Oh, no need. I already know who you are.” She stepped back, holding the doorknob in hand. “This way, girl.”

As Sister Theresa allowed her to step into the foyer, Quinn marveled at how everything was in order, as if nothing had happened. The only remnants were the two bullets holes in the wall plaster.

“Follow me,” the nun said, closing the front door and proceeding down the hall. “I see you have a gift under your arm. If it’s not something all of us can enjoy, the Reverend Mother will give it back. She takes her vow of poverty quite seriously, as do we all.”

Chill, sister, I’ve got this. That’s what she wanted to say, but Quinn didn’t have the cojones to execute her usual sass. Daria had been telling her for the last couple of years that the nuns of her order didn’t suffer fools—or sarcasm—but it was still something else, witnessing it for herself.

“The gift is something to share,” Quinn told her, wondering where the sister was taking her. They had already passed the dining room. “Is Sister Daria around?”

Sister Theresa half-glanced over her shoulder, stopping at a closed door at the end of the hall. She knocked.

“It is open,” a voice called.

The sister placed her hand on the knob before turning to face Quinn. “The Reverend Mother will see you now.” Sister Theresa opened the door but stepped aside so Quinn could enter. As soon as she did, the door closed.

And there she was—a kind, weathered visage and warm, hazel eyes with bushy eyebrows that had gone gray before the rest of the hair on her head.

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