Vangie Vale and the Murdered Macaron (The Matchbaker Mysteries Book 1)

by R. L. Syme

  He shrugged. “Didn’t bring one. But I’ve been colder, wearing less than this, and still survived.” The smile that curved over his lips was downright devious, and I couldn’t help echoing it. He was amusing, if nothing else.

  “I live just up the road,” I said, pointing toward the base of the pine-covered mountain. “If you don’t mind waiting in the car, I could change clothes and we could have an early dinner right now. That way, you could get back and get some rest before your meeting tomorrow.”

  And I could ask you some questions about a certain box of cookies.

  “All right, but no funny business,” he said with a wink. ”I have a date later with an adorable vicar.”

  I nearly swallowed my tongue. A date? Is that what this was?

  Crap on a cracker.

  Henry walked around the front of the Tank, keeping those bright eyes on me, and the speed of my pulse amped up, reminding me just how attractive he was. It was easy to forget when he was sparring with me. Calling me nicknames, making jokes. It was a kind of flirting I hadn’t done in…so long. Even then, Edward hadn’t been half the flirt Henry was.

  He opened the door, and his eyes went wide at the sight of the white box. He grabbed it off the seat and slid in where it had been. “These cookies, Vic,” he said, touching the plastic window on top of the box. “They are just incredible.”

  I stared at him unabashedly as he put the cookies in his lap, fastened his seatbelt, and pulled the door closed. There wasn’t a shred of artifice or shame in him. I had a radar for those things, and he did not act like a guilty man.

  “Did you end up finishing all the ones you bought?” I asked offhandedly, putting the Hummer into gear.

  “Scarlet wouldn’t let me,” he said, frowning down at the little confections in his lap. “I’m supposed to read for this role when I get back and she’s all up in arms about calories.” Henry shot me a slit-eyed, conspiratorial look. “Which is why this dinner of ours has to be an absolute secret.”

  “Secret?”

  “I’m planning to have pasta tonight.” His smile went wide and my heart fluttered. Just enough that warning bells started going off in my head. I hadn’t felt a flutter like that since Edward, and there weren’t enough sirens in the world for that.

  “I promise not to tell on you,” I said, tearing my eyes away from him and turning the last corner. My light green bungalow came into view, hidden behind the long hedge row that led back to a walking path, joining a larger system of paths that curled through the whole town. I turned down my driveway, looking beyond it to the sheriff’s house. His vehicle wasn’t in front of his garage, as far as I could tell.

  “Just let me change into something a little less caked in sugar, and we can leave from here.” I put the Tank into park.

  The curl of his lips sent my stomach sinking again. His eyes went dark with mischief and he nodded his assent. “That sounds just fine to me, Vic.”

  “I’ll leave the car on if you want to wait out here,” I said, opening my door and feeling the cold air wash over my skin. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

  “Right-o, then.” He passed the box across the console, but I stopped its progress, shaking my head.

  “Those are leftovers. I can’t have them in the house.”

  “So you’re leaving them here with me? What if I eat them all?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said with a smirk. “But don’t blame me if you ruin your pasta.”

  I had to close the door before the flirting got too out of control. What was I thinking, agreeing to have dinner with this guy? And it had turned into a date? I couldn’t be his pastor and his date. Not appropriate.

  At least he hadn’t reacted with anything other than pleasure at the sight of the cookie box, which put a stroke in the not-a-murderer column.

  It was just dinner, anyway. He wasn’t proposing. We were two people who were going to eat pasta across the table from each other. There was nothing in the world wrong with that.

  Nothing.

  Chapter Five

  The black-skirted hostess found us a quiet booth in the corner of the Madison Steak House—the fanciest restaurant in town. It was more tourist trap than steak house, truth be told, and it looked more like a set for Legends of the Fall than a legitimate modern restaurant. The walls were rustic, made of barn-door wood, and animal heads adorned all the prominent spaces. But it was probably the only place in town where we could get a decent plate of pasta.

  The closest Italian restaurant was the Olive Garden in Madison Falls, and that was not happening. Not only were the winter roads unsafe at night—especially the canyon on the way to the only major city in the region—but a part of me was genuinely afraid to leave town. Malcolm Dean wasn’t done with me, and I couldn’t afford to show even the slightest bit of nonchalance when it came to this murder investigation.

  Henry ordered a tagliatelle dish, musing about whether or not the pasta would be hand-made, and a glass of red wine. I picked the tenderloin with a loaded baked potato. I passed on the alcohol, but watched with interest as Henry performed the wine connoisseur’s ritual upon receiving his glass. I typically did not do pastoral calls that included table service and a sommelier.

  He glanced up at me, his nose still in the bouquet, and gave me one of those lightning-bug smiles. “What?”

  “There’s quite a buzz around town about you, y’know,” I said, playing with my small water glass.

  “What sort of buzz?”

  “Oh, just that you’re some big Hollywood star. Your own TV show and everything.”

  “Not for long.” His features darkened. “Scarlet says they’ll cancel us at the end of this year. Not pulling in the ratings we had last year, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” A strange desire came over me, pushing me to reach for him and offer comfort. It was a natural, pastoral instinct, and I had to check myself to make sure it wasn’t more than that.

  Henry Savage had crawled under my skin. It was partially his attractiveness—I was only human—but his sadness had struck me on a much deeper level. Even underneath his brightest smiles, there was a layer of despair so evident, it almost screamed at me.

  Henry was profoundly unhappy, and doing his best to cover it up with the whole James Bond act.

  “Something else on your mind, Vic?” he asked, taking a long pull on his wineglass, connoisseur’s ritual forgotten. “Ask away.”

  “I’ve been wondering…what the accent is all about.” I rearranged the forks into straight, perfect lines, aiming at nonchalance. “I mean, I heard you’re from here, and I don’t hear a lot of British accents floating around Saint Agnes.”

  His expression didn’t falter, but he set the glass down. “It’s called method acting,” he said, in the same accent. “It’s not widely known yet, but I’m up for a recurring role in a very popular television show… Let’s just say there’s an of in the title.” His brows waggled in an almost comic way.

  But he wasn’t going to derail me.

  “Because it seems like you’re hiding something.” I waited for the words to land, but he had either practiced not responding…or…was it possible he wasn’t hiding anything? Was I being too paranoid? I narrowed my eyes at him. “And the sheriff showed up at my bakery today, asking about the murder of a woman named Claire—”

  “Wait.” He held up his hand. “Claire? What’re you talking about?” Henry’s accent had disappeared, and his face took on the strangest, brow-knit look. I couldn’t quite place the emotion. “Claire Barnett?”

  “No, not Barnett.” I reached for his hand, gripping it. “Hobson. I don’t even know her, I only know her sister. But the box of macarons you bought this morning was found on Claire’s body…”

  Henry shook his head, closing his eyes like he was shutting everything out. “Who is her sister?”

  “Nikki Krantz.”

  His face went white, bringing more attention to the small dusting of freckles on his nose. “Nikki Barnet
t. She married Auggie Krantz. Barnett was her name when I knew her.”

  “Oh.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry, Henry. Did you know her well?”

  A flash of pain crossed his features and he continued to shake his head, like he couldn’t assimilate what was happening. He started mumbling, nearly inaudibly, and I leaned closer to try to make out what he was saying. No go. I looked around the dining room, which was practically empty, then pulled myself out of the booth and grabbed my purse. “Henry,” I said, nervously smoothing down my long, black dress, “are you okay?”

  He had his phone in his hand before I saw what he was doing. The strange mumbling had stopped, but just barely.

  I touched his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to register my presence. He pressed the phone to his ear without looking at me. I flagged down the waitress and asked for our food to go, handing over my credit card.

  Whatever was happening to Henry at the moment, it was obvious he needed to leave. I didn’t want to stick the restaurant with uneaten, un-paid-for food. And I wanted Henry to have his pasta.

  “Scarlet, where are you?” Henry hissed into the phone, his British accent reappearing. “Wake up and call me back right now. Something’s happened to Claire.” He tapped the screen and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, touching his shoulder again. This time, he glanced up at me, eyes wide.

  “Scarlet won’t answer her phone.”

  “After the waitress comes back, I’ll take you back to the B&B so you can check in on her.” He just stared at the wall, a blank look on his face, but I decided to take that for a yes. After a stop at the B&B, I would have to take him to the police station. If he was this worked up, he clearly knew something that would help the police find Claire’s killer. At the very least, he could explain to them how his box of macarons had ended up in the hands of a murdered woman. A murdered woman he knew.

  Right after he finished explaining it to me.

  The waitress appeared with a little black folder. I signed the slip, put my credit card back in my wallet, and left the folder on the edge of the table.

  “Come with me.” I lowered my voice to a whisper, pulling on Henry’s hand. “People are staring.”

  That made his back go straight. He nodded and stood, pulling a couple of bills from his pocket and tucking them into the folder. He gave an awful fake smile and made some comment about always leaving a good tip.

  I allowed him to take me by the arm and lead me out of the dining room. The waitress followed, handing me a white plastic bag with two paper boxes inside. Our food.

  The ride to the B&B was almost silent, with Henry trying Scarlet’s phone every minute or so. He didn’t say a word to me.

  My mind was filled with dozens—no, hundreds—of questions, but I wasn’t quite sure what to ask him. It was obvious that he didn’t want to tell me anything about his agitation, but the change had been so dramatic…

  As we turned onto Mockingbird Lane, I caught sight of a familiar vehicle sitting in front of the B&B. My breath caught in my throat and I instinctively reached for Henry’s hand.

  The big, block letters of the word Sheriff were blazoned across the back of the tan SUV. I saw that vehicle every day and would have known it anywhere, even without the identification on the back. After all, he was my neighbor.

  Henry’s jaw worked wordlessly. He squeezed my fingers and looked at me, all the light gone from his eyes. “Looks like someone beat me to it.”

  “What’s going on, Henry?” I asked, pulling in behind Malcolm’s empty vehicle. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t believe you had anything to do with this.”

  And when the words left my lips, I knew they were true. It wasn’t just that I felt sorry for him, and it definitely wasn’t attraction. There had been a moment of such genuine loss on his face when I told him about Claire. Even a great actor can’t fake that kind of immediate, unconscious response.

  It felt a little Benedict-Cumberbatch-y to say, but I just knew, in an instant, that he didn’t kill Claire. I often wished I was completely aware of how I knew things, like Sherlock was, but it didn’t make me any less certain. It was like the Matchbaking. The combination of little details told a story.

  “They train us well, Scarlet’s people,” he said with a touch of sadness. “Don’t speak to anyone, once the police are involved.”

  “Scarlet’s people?”

  “It’s the rule of thumb in Hollywood. Never answer questions. Not from the press, not from the police.”

  “What about the clergy?” I said, as he reached for the door.

  “We don’t have any of those.” Henry gave a tight, unbrilliant smile and shook his head. It was the most normal, honest thing I’d seen him do all day. “Thanks for your help, Vic, but I should get inside to Scarlet.”

  He opened his door and stepped out into the cold night, which had only gotten colder now that the sun had gone down. I considered whether I should follow or not. On one hand, Peter had made it quite clear that one more whiff of scandal—even if it was cell-phone related—would warrant a call to my archbishop. That would be it for me. On the other hand, I couldn’t let Henry face this on his own. Not when he looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Leaving him this way wouldn’t be the charitable thing to do.

  I followed him toward the house, but just as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the front door of the B&B opened, and Malcolm Dean pushed Scarlet out onto the porch, holding her hands behind her back. She was clearly fighting him, but he had the same dark-faced, set-jawed look he always had when he was getting things done. I’d never seen him arrest someone before, but this was exactly how I’d imagined it going down. No nonsense. No drama.

  Scarlet’s yell cut the air—a wordless, feral sound, followed by a barrage of angry half-understandable things. “…if you don’t…my lawyer…can’t pin this…redneck hick!”

  The last words were completely crisp and clear, but they made no apparent impact on Malcolm. He just kept walking the struggling woman forward, holding her arms so she wouldn’t misstep when they hit the stairs. He finally caught sight of Henry and paused.

  Scarlet’s yells turned more intelligible. “Henry! Henry, don’t say a word. Don’t answer any of their questions. Remember, you have the right to remain silent.”

  The tall, suited actor had frozen in place on the sidewalk as soon as Scarlet had emerged, and hadn’t moved since. I couldn’t see his face, but his body language was that of a deer caught on a mountain road with a car barreling toward it at full speed.

  “Henry Savage?” Malcolm’s deep voice thundered out in the cold night air. When he looked farther up the sidewalk and his eyes locked on me, his whole face went dark. “Evangeline. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m…I just dropped…” I held up the plastic bag with our takeaway dinners, like I was making an excuse to a grade school teacher. “We came back from dinner when he couldn’t get ahold of Scarlet.”

  “You,” Malcolm pointed one finger at Henry, “Get in the car. I’m taking you down to the station. And you,” he pointed at me, “go home and keep your nose out of this.”

  “You can’t take him into custody without arresting him,” Scarlet yelled out, planting her stockinged feet in the grass so that Malcolm had to push her forward to get her to move. “Henry, don’t get in his car unless he arrests you.”

  “I’m telling you, lady, I have questions for him.” Malcolm wrestled her forward, passing both Henry and me through the grass. He opened his back door. “If you don’t come with me, I’m going to mark you down as uncooperative.”

  “Don’t go! He can’t make you go. You have rights.” Scarlet kept screaming at him until Malcolm got her into the SUV, hand on top of her head, and closed the door. Her words were drowned out by the glass, but she was still livid.

  The sheriff rested his big hands on his lean hips and stared at Henry. “Either you come with me right now, or you come down to the station of your own free will
later, but you’re going to answer my questions, or I’m gonna arrest you for what I should be arresting her for.” He thumbed back toward the window where Scarlet was still yelling.

  “And what was that?” said the actor, his British accent crisp and clear.

  “Murder.” Malcolm walked around the SUV and climbed inside. Scarlet wouldn’t stop screaming as he drove off, and in the silence of the Saint Agnes night, I could hear her angry cries long after Malcolm’s car was out of sight.

  Henry seemed frozen in place, although some of his poise had returned. He stared at the ground, and I could see the gears turning in his head. I wanted to know what was going on in that brain of his, but the more pressing thing seemed to be that he needed to get to the police station.

  I walked up to him, touching his arm with the lightest of contact. Henry’s gaze flashed to mine, dark and stinging with the hidden pain I’d sensed before. He didn’t try to smile it away this time, and moisture formed a sheen over his brilliant blue eyes.

  “I can give you a ride to the station,” I said.

  He covered my hand with his, providing a little barrier of warmth against the chilly air. “I should take my own car. I don’t want to make you wait for me while the sheriff asks me questions.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.” I raised the white bag of food. “I’ve got your pasta, too, if you want it.” When it looked like he might argue, I bowled over his objections with a simple shake of my head. “I won’t take no for an answer, Henry. You’ll have to wait while Malcolm questions Scarlet anyway, and I don’t want you to be alone.”

  I wasn’t completely sure why I had offered my company—or, rather, insisted on it—other than the fact that Henry seemed so listless and alone, so much like a little boy who’d lost his mother at the fair. I wanted to make sure he was safe, and that Malcolm didn’t intimidate him into admitting to anything he hadn’t done.

  I’d read enough true crime to know that even normal people sometimes admitted to things to get interrogation to stop. Something told me that Malcolm might push him too far. I could do my Christian duty and sit with this man who was clearly in turmoil.