“Aaand?” Quinn dragged out.
Daria rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. The pontiff still ordered her execution. She was first stoned and then buried alive, but hey, how many saints end up with Disney-inspired happy endings?”
“Fair point, but face it: you’re the order’s first novice with a master’s degree and a rap sheet. Don’t get me wrong: you know I think you’re the coolest, but how you passed whatever test it took to get in there in the first place is a frickin’ miracle.”
Her cousin gave an impish look. “Be nice now. Who else is going to say extra prayers for a smart-mouth like you?”
She dropped the haul just inside the door of the kennel next to Guinefort House, noting Tricia had done the same. She glanced left and right—no signs of Vienna’s mocking girl anywhere.
“Where did she go?”
One side of Sister Daria’s lip quirked up. “She took off as soon as our backs were turned.”
“Figures.” Quinn walked to her truck, RBG’s cue to crawl through the cab’s open rear window and wait for her in the passenger seat. Quinn hoisted herself through the window to clip RBG’s seat belt. “I can drop her off and come back and pick you up you for breakfast, if you want. Or you can squeeze in. There’s room.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Daria said. “I’ll meet you over there. I want to change out of the penguin outfit first.”
“Why are you wearing it anyway?”
Sister Daria fanned her arms out. “We like to dust off the old wimple-habit combos when we have to confront owners of puppy mills, which I had to do at the crack of dawn this morning, along with some animal control officers. We’ve found some of these mill owners respond to old-school authority better than police uniforms sometimes.”
“Man, it’s a good thing you’ve never succumbed to the dark side.”
Sister Daria winked. “May the force be with you, nerd-girl.”
Quinn waved as she maneuvered herself into the driver side, closing the door. “See ya in a few!” she said, pulling away.
Minutes later, she rolled her truck toward one of the town’s more impressive historic estates, right on the curve of Walnut Lane. But this was not her house.
Once the home to Harmon Salsbury, a Union captain in the Twenty-Sixth Regiment of the Colored Infantry during the Civil War, the Salsbury House had belonged to Quinn’s Auntie Johanna and Uncle Jerome “Jerry” Caine for more years than she’d been alive. “Belonged to” was Quinn’s phrasing, not theirs, for she knew they regarded themselves as the house’s caretakers, not owners. An apt ideology for a town steeped in often-told American stories, albeit with a surprising twist of agency for its black citizenry.
Ever since her return from overseas, Quinn had lived behind her aunt and uncle’s residence, in a renovated, farmhouse-chic gem. Painted in traditional red with white trim, the once dilapidated barn was where they used to play hide-and-seek behind haystacks as kids. When Jerry and Johanna remodeled the barn, they admitted that they intended for their daughter—Quinn’s cousin—to have it. But when Elizabeth, now Sister Daria, took the veil, shunning all worldly comforts, she convinced them to work out a sweet rent-to-own deal for Quinn.
“At least it stays in the family,” Aunt Johanna had said with a sigh. “Plus, I know you’ll love it right. You’re a details girl, the same as me.”
Quinn had been grateful for the chance to be a homeowner at such a young age, especially in a coveted and increasingly expensive area. Otherwise, there was no way she could afford to live in Vienna on a bookbinder’s salary.
Quinn knew the arrangement had been bittersweet for them. Her aunt and uncle had wanted a traditional path for their daughter: to get married and have children. She had thought her cousin was halfway there when she met Raj back in grad school, the only man Quinn thought worthy of such a gem of a girl. Until something changed, and then he wasn’t anything anymore.
In addition to her rent, Quinn demonstrated her thanks to her aunt and uncle by feeding and caring for the chickens on the property and maintaining Aunt Johanna’s herb and vegetable garden. Sometimes, Quinn would catch Aunt Johanna watching her doing chores from the kitchen window, a sweet, sad smile on her ageless face. She’d give an enthusiastic wave, but Quinn knew: her presence was a consolation prize.
As soon as she and RBG walked through the front door that day, her dog baby went straight for her water bowl in the galley kitchen, slurping up the cold refreshment. When Quinn had adopted RBG, she had gotten into the habit of slipping a couple of ice cubes into the dog’s bowl, wanting her to have fresh, cold water at the ready. In no time she realized RBG liked munching on the ice cubes just as much as she enjoyed the drink, and every time she heard that crunching sound, Quinn couldn’t help grinning to herself. Along with the chickens clucking in the yard, the sound of crushing ice made her feel at home.
“All right, I’ve gotta go, girl. See ya soon!”
RBG looked up from her bowl, tail wagging while she licked her nose. She gave a short “ruff” as if to say goodbye. Quinn smiled to herself as she locked the door: I swear she understands most everything I tell her. I don’t care if everyone thinks I’m a crazy doggy mama.
Once buckled up in Golda and back on Church Street, Quinn got lucky with a parking space right in front of her favorite eatery. Three tiny bells rang over her head as soon as she walked in the door.
“Oh good! Quinn’s here. You get a good haul today?”
Even after having one heck of a morning, Quinn never got sick of walking into Church Street Eats and having her people check in with her. That included Ms. Eun Hutton, who owned the place, with her husband, Greg. He did the cooking, and she did what she called “the managing of all the things,” which some thought was code for waiting on customers and keeping up on the town gossip.
“Best one yet.” Quinn slid onto a stool at the counter. Ms. Eun handed her a laminated menu and a glass of seltzer, her usual.
Greg flipped a couple of sausage patties. “Hey, so where’s Mother Teresa?”
“She’s on her way. She just needed to change first.” Quinn and Daria usually had breakfast together after she unloaded the monthly donations.
Ms. Eun pretended to glare over her shoulder at her husband. “Now why do you do that?”
“What did I do?” he asked, a wicked grin curling under his mustache.
He totally knows what he did.
Ms. Eun thrummed her short fingernails on the counter. “You know … calling her everything except by her saint’s name.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “To me, she’ll always be little Lizzy Caine. Not Sister Maria, Donna, Conchita, or whatever it is now.” Greg eyed Quinn. “Hey, give an old man a break. I used to coach her softball games and break up her fights.”
Quinn grinned. “Ah right—I forgot about those.”
As a teenager, her cousin had taken it as her personal mission to pummel anyone who bullied another kid. Quinn despised bullies just as much but preferred less physical, more clandestine methods of retaliation.
Ms. Eun leaned her forearms on the counter in front of Quinn. “So, did you hear the news?”
She didn’t even wait for Quinn to respond.