The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.
—Flannery O’Connor, American novelist
All through the night, and into the following morning, her favorite detective/rock star’s words echoed on a loop in her brain.
“I don’t want you to worry about a thing. My team and I are on top of it. Let me bring in Tricia’s killer. You go to the fundraiser, take Daria to Viva Vienna, and have some fun for once. The Vienna PD’s got this.”
And so that’s exactly what she was doing. She picked up her cousin and walked into The Women Center’s art fundraiser. Her family was probably already there.
“Wow, I had no idea the place would be this packed.”
Quinn had to agree. “It’s probably because they’re featuring Mrs. Hammock’s art. She’s a big deal. I know my mother couldn’t stop talking about it.”
“Daria! Quinn! Over here!”
It was her mom, standing with her dad. She made eye contact and waved, then shimmied through the crowd in order to get to where they were standing.
Quinn tried to be heard over the crowd. “Why are you all the way up here?”
Her mother’s face was scarlet, rivulets of sweat dripping down her temples. “Because the auction is going to start any minute, and I’m not missing a chance to own an original piece of art from Withers’ mom!”
Her father blanched. “It’s a bunch of urns and teapots, Adele. You can get the same thing at the Bowman House art show for a fraction of the cost.”
Her mother rolled her eyes and shook her head. “It’s a good thing he’s handsome …”
Ms. Withers walked up to the podium and, gavel in hand, started banging on the wood block to get everyone’s attention. “We are going to begin the auction in five minutes. Remember, one hundred percent of what we raise tonight will go toward The Women’s Center. Since 1974, The Women’s Center has provided affordable mental health care, support, and education to Northern Virginia and D.C.”
Finn Caine started patting up and down his person, spelunking into his pants and jacket pockets. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t tell me I—”
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
He let out a frustrated groan. “I left my checkbook and wallet on the desk in my home office.” He turned to her mother. “Del, did you bring your wallet?”
She held up a clutch the size of a credit card. “I brought my lipstick and my driver’s license. That’s all.”
“Really? You don’t have anything on you? What would you do if you needed money for a cab?”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why would I need money for a cab? I could walk home from here. Besides, I’m here with you. Are you planning on leaving me here?”
This argument was going nowhere. “Guys, guys! I’ll run home and get Dad’s wallet and the checkbook. You stay here and enjoy the auction.”
“I’ll come with you,” Daria volunteered.
“Nah, don’t bother. I’ll be in and out in a jiff. Besides, I know you. You’ve been dying to see her work for a long time. You love art more than I do. Stay and have fun.”
Daria gave her a grateful smile. “Well, that’s very nice of you. Hurry back, though.”
“You bet.” She turned around and made her way out of the party room, secretly grateful she had an excuse to get away from the crowd and have a bit of air.
She hopped in her truck and made it to her parents’ place in no time. Quinn unlocked the front door and walked into her father’s study.
Wow, what a mess.
For someone so fastidious about his books and files, his desk was like the floor of a crime scene. She searched through his papers: bills, invitations to speak at law conferences, a list of books he planned to review for the store’s newsletter, junk mail.
Geez, Dad, remind me to introduce you to a fabulous utilitarian device called a trash can someday.
Then there was also a small booklet—hand-printed by The Vienna Mycological Society. She smiled, thumbing through it, remembering her outing with them not too long ago. The publication was a combination field guide/brag book/membership directory. It seemed all the members had their own page to write about whatever they wanted—mushroom related, that is. She skimmed through her dad’s page—full of puns, arcane ’shroom trivia. Typical Finn Caine. Ned Carter wrote about his affection for any time he was able to spend in nature—‘in the green,’ as he called it—and Barbara Franklin was a hoot, saying how her professional mission as an allergist was to learn about everything and anything in nature that might set off a reaction.
Then there was a page she didn’t expect—one member who hadn’t been present that day she had gone foraging with the group. Someone whom no one had ever mentioned, including her father.
It was Dr. Carlson Hauser, M.D.
On his page he wrote about how he initially got interested in foraging because of his wife, Milly, a vegetarian, who enjoyed the different ways he used mushrooms in his cooking. But then his interest grew as he became fascinated by claims of their medicinal properties.
Twice a year, I travel to South America with the medical philanthropic organization Surgeons without Border Walls to donate my time and skills to those less fortunate. Through the years, many of my patients have sworn by the medicinal benefits of certain fungi. I began to study them, curious whether their belief was evidence-based or simply folklore. In the process, I’ve become an avid mycologist. While I have yet to find a mushroom to cure heart disease, I have found plenty that could kill you. I offer my expertise to the group, to identify those that are medicinal and those that are poisonous for human consumption.
And holy Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—in the photo he was wearing a hoodie—with a crossed fish logo. Just like in the video footage.
Quinn’s hands started to shake. I can’t believe it … he’s the one who killed Doctor Levine and Tricia Pemberley!
A wooden floorboard squeaked behind her.
Her heart pounded into her throat, the blood rushing fast and fierce through her ear canals. Quinn found it hard to breathe.
She turned around. Slowly. Carefully. As if one wrong move would shatter the floor beneath her feet.
And there was Dr. Hauser, standing less than six feet from her.
“Imagine my surprise, after following you from the fundraiser, to find you here. You left your front door wide open, Ms. Caine. Didn’t your parents ever teach you to lock the door to keep out danger?”
It was a rhetorical question.
“It’s almost going to be too easy.”
His pupils were almost fully dilated. And he had a wet cloth in his hand.
“Too easy for what?” she asked.
His head cocked. “Why, to kill you, of course.”
She stopped breathing. “But I thought you were supposed to be the nice Hauser.”
He offered a slow, creeping smile. “Brilliant, no? I fooled everyone.”
Quinn eyed the front door, open wide. His cheek ticked as he shook his head. “Oh no, dear, it’s too late for that.” Before she had a chance, he lunged forward, smothering her face with the cloth, a sickly sweet smell invading her nostrils, smothering her lungs.
And then everything went black.