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

by R. L. Syme

  All of the man’s features went as dark as a hurricane sky. I shifted toward the center table, steadying myself and giving him a clear path out the door if he felt like he needed it. I didn’t want to get in his way.

  “I didn’t know they’d made an arrest.” He took one step, then another. “The sheriff just said something about finding a bakery box at the scene, and he asked me if I’d ever heard Claire talk about coming here. I came right away this morning so I could check it out and…” With a shake of his head, he indicated me. “Here you are. The woman who wouldn’t stop asking questions about my wife.”

  “I was only asking because my bakery box ended up at the scene and now Malcolm thinks I’m involved somehow. He’s taken that as evidence of some sort of connection, even though I’d bet money it was planted there.”

  “That’s cops for you,” Derek scoffed, looking at the ground in front of his steel-toed boot. “I don’t trust any of them.”

  “Well, I did not have anything to do with her being killed. I promise you that.”

  “That’s a great comfort,” he said, feigning a smile. “When I’m laying alone in my bed at night, I will rest easy knowing that you promised you didn’t kill her.” He took a long breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. “You think the cops have this wrong?”

  I nodded. “I think they’re barking up the wrong tree with Henry.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I thought back to his reaction in the restaurant—the shock he’d clearly felt at the news of Claire’s murder. I’d always been able to read people, but it was next to impossible to explain that to someone without sounding like a wannabe psychic. The best explanation I could muster was to liken it to profiling. It was the combination of little factors all strung together to form an assumption that was almost always right.

  “Do you know who Henry is?” I asked.

  Derek just stared at me, like he was waiting for the answer to the question.

  “He’s a Hollywood movie star. He’s in town for meetings about his mother’s estate.”

  “Why do they think he killed Claire?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure the box they found at the scene belonged to him.”

  His face went dark, wrinkled in frustration. “Then how do you know he didn’t kill her?”

  “Because as far as I know, the only thing tying him to the crime scene is a planted box of macarons.”

  “You think they made an arrest based on a box of cookies?” Derek asked, shaking his head.

  “I don’t know that they’ve made an arrest yet. Malcolm came here to get me to identify the box, and then I told him about Henry, and…” I stopped. That wasn’t exactly how it had gone, though, was it? Malcolm had arrested Scarlet first. He’d said her prints were in the system. “It was right after they’d found her, I think.”

  Derek turned around fast, like he was looking for something to kick, and my reflex was to jump at the threat of violence, but he held himself back. He slumped over the back table, body heaving.

  I rushed over to him, resting a hand on his back. But he wasn’t crying. He was huffing air like a bull about to charge. I couldn’t tell if he was holding back tears or anger, but my response would have been the same. My hand moved along his back, trying to soothe him.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m sure she was a lovely woman.”

  His laugh was harsh and quick. “No one will miss her…except me.” The last words were so sad, like part of his grief had started before her murder.

  I wanted to kick myself for the lovely woman comment, but sometimes, grief was overwhelming for the spectator. Platitudes pressed at your lips even if you knew they wouldn’t be helpful.

  There was a tendency, among people outside of the death industry, to assume that every death was sad. But I’d seen reactions from family members in grief that ranged from happiness to relief to elation to anger to retribution. Every death was as different as every life.

  Apparently, Claire Hobson wasn’t the kind of woman whose death was going to be a sad occasion for everyone in her life. It made me wonder how Nikki and Austin were handling things, the morning after. And how Mike and Jenna Van Andel were wrapped up in the situation. It had sounded like they all had frustrations with her. But surely they would be sad about her death.

  I hoped Derek was wrong.

  “You really think the cops are botching this?” he asked, turning his head just enough to look straight into my eyes.

  My hand stilled. I wasn’t sure how to answer. Part of me was always at odds with Malcolm Dean, and it made me angry that he suspected I could be part of this. But there was no denying he took his job very seriously.

  “I don’t think they have all the evidence right now,” I finally said, caution underlining my words. “Once they do, they’ll release Henry.”

  “What other evidence do they need?”

  I knew enough from Sherlock and Criminal Minds to know about MMO: Means-Motive-and-Opportunity. Did a person have the means to commit the crime, did they have a motive, and did they have the opportunity.

  The sheriff hadn’t arrested Henry until after Scarlet’s interrogation. I wasn’t sure exactly what Malcolm knew, because I didn’t know what Scarlet had told him, but now I knew that Henry had at least had the opportunity to kill Claire.

  Which was my fault for sending them left when they should have gone straight. I would never stop feeling guilty about that decision.

  The thing I didn’t understand was the motive. It seemed to me that anyone could have means and opportunity. But motive?

  Why was always the hardest part to understand—unless you were dealing with a serial killer, which was not my bag. But the psychology of what would drive a normal human to kill had always fascinated me.

  It was part of what had led me into the pastorate. Needing to help people find and accept and release the darkness inside them. Not so much to punish them, as to help them heal. I had definitely sensed Henry’s need for healing, but his wounds just didn’t seem like the type that would drive him to murder an innocent woman.

  But I didn’t know him well enough to say that for sure.

  “I don’t really know what evidence they have,” I said. “All I know about is the bakery box. They found fingerprints on it, and I’m assuming some of them were Henry’s. I know some of them were his agent’s. She was the one who threw the box in the trash.”

  A high-pitched jingle rang out, jolting me to attention, and I hurried out of the kitchen, around the little half-wall, and out into the front room, asking Derek to wait there in case it was a customer. Emma rushed through the tables, holding out her arms and hugging me as she came around the bake case.

  The coffee ladies leaned in. They were so far across the room, they couldn’t possibly have heard Derek and I talking. But now, I was out in the open.

  “Oh, Vange. I heard about the sheriff questioning you.” My friend was breathless, and dressed like she’d come from home before getting ready for work. Green Bay Packers pajama pants, a gray cotton T-shirt with a purple jacket over the top. Her blonde hair was piled into a messy bun, not unlike the one Derek had pulled off so effortlessly.

  “I promise I’m okay.” I patted her shoulder. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “But Netta said she saw you getting carted off over on Mockingbird Lane.” Emma’s eyes were wide and worried. “And that they found some of your stuff at a murder scene.”

  “Well, Netta is wrong.” I stepped away, pulling on the straps of my apron, trying not to get angry, and trying to keep my voice down so I didn’t make a scene in front of the coffee ladies. “Malcolm did detain someone. I was present for it, and I did drive to the station after that, but I was never questioned, and they didn’t find anything of mine at any crime scene.”

  Sometimes, the gossips of the town really needed to get their stories straight.

  “Oh.” Emma canted her head. “What were you doing going down to the station?”r />
  “I had to take…” I paused. I hadn’t exactly told Emma about the dinner with Henry, or really anything that had happened after the lunch rush was over. I hadn’t seen her again since Henry and Scarlet’s morning visit to the store, and she usually closed up her shop if the foot traffic was too low. Like me, Emma had another job. She made the most beautiful handmade, hand-carved, intricate furniture and wood pieces. She did sell some of them at her gift shop. Others, she consigned to a furniture store in Madison Falls. But she couldn’t do woodwork in the agate store, and when business was slow, she had to cut her losses.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, giving me a quizzical eyebrow. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Henry. The guy who was in here yesterday.”

  “Captain America?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

  A little laugh burst out of me at that thought. He did have a bit of that look. “Yeah, him. He came back after lunch and asked me out.”

  Emma’s eyes rounded. She clearly hadn’t been as privy to the town gossip as she thought. “Wow, Vange. Look at you!” She squealed. “Oh, you have to tell me all about it.”

  I wasn’t sure where to start. With the widower in the kitchen, or my—married—date in the jail cell. I decided to start from the beginning. I pulled her close, lowered my voice, and told her as much as I could about the last day, leaving out my thoughts and theories about what had happened, since the window to the kitchen was right above my head, so I wasn’t sure if Derek was listening or not. I left out most of the tangled situation with Austin and Nikki, since Emma didn’t know them well. Plus, it felt strange revealing confidences about them within hearing of Austin’s estranged uncle. I still didn’t know Derek, and frankly, I didn’t know who to trust anymore. I did, however, tell her that Henry was married, and separated from his wife, but even that didn’t dampen her excitement.

  Emma seemed thrilled by the whole sordid tale, which was odd, considering part of the reason my meeting-slash-date with Henry had ended was because he’d gotten arrested for murder.

  “But you don’t think he did it?” she asked, blue eyes bright. “You know, I heard something about him last night, too.” She looked around and leaned in. “Did you know he was a movie star?”

  “Is that why you call him Captain America now?” I said, barely containing an over-the-top eyeroll. It was such an Emma thing to say.

  “No, I call him Captain America because he looks like a big, hot superhero. Which, by the way, is probably why he’s a movie star. You know, I really don’t get why this hasn’t hit the big national news yet.”

  But I knew. After the knowledge that Scarlet had offered Irma money not to talk to anyone, I wasn’t surprised to see it not hit the national news. Not to mention, Saint Agnes was a tiny, rural town. I wasn’t even sure they knew what Twitter was.

  Emma nudged me with her elbow. “Come on. You have to admit you had a good date. Murder investigation aside.”

  Date? Was it really a date? I supposed, technically, I had gotten dressed up and we had gone out for dinner, although my hope had been to give him pastoral counseling, rather than a kiss goodnight at the end. As to whether or not I’d enjoyed myself… It was the closest I’d had to a date since Edward. Henry was polite and entertaining and probably not a murderer.

  Maybe probably. Definitely probably.

  Was it too sad a thing to admit that the murder investigation had been more interesting than the date?

  “He was a gentleman,” I finally said, settling on something benign.

  “Well, that’s no fun.” Emma smiled, glancing over my shoulder. Her eyes settled on something behind me.

  I turned to find Derek Hobson standing in the awning to the kitchen, face dark, arms crossed. He clearly wasn’t happy.

  “You went on a date with this guy?” he said, raising a brow. “You don’t think he murdered my wife because you have the hots for him?”

  I walked toward Derek with my hands held out, but he backed up, anger melting off him like buttercream at a summer wedding. He smacked one of my hands away. I heard the murder-mystery-play-gasping-audience-routine again, and rolled my eyes. It was my destiny to put on a good show for the coffee ladies.

  “You’re trying to get information out of me so you can get your boyfriend out of jail. I’ve seen this before.” He pushed past me and then ran straight into Emma.

  She went flying backward and Derek rushed to catch her, apologizing and setting her upright. She held on to him, urging him to wait and assuring him she was all right.

  My heart was beating fast. I couldn’t lose Derek Hobson. I needed his help. He was going to be my link to Claire’s life. Derek deserved some justice, and so did Henry, and I wanted to find it for both of them. Not because of hormones. Because it was the right thing to do.

  “I promise you,” I said, standing back as far as I could while still remaining within his line of sight, “That’s not what’s going on here. Not at all. Henry didn’t do this. But I will find out who did.”

  He heaved breaths in and out, looking from me to Emma and back, like he was looking to her for validation that I was trustworthy. Even I couldn’t answer that question for him, let alone Emma.

  “What happens if you find out your boyfriend was the one who killed my wife?”

  “If there’s evidence that proves Henry did this, I will turn it over to the police.” I raised my hands in defense of myself. “I’m after justice here.”

  Derek stared, his breaths coming slower now, but gave me no hint about what was going on in his head. I hated it when people could go flat like that. It meant I couldn’t read them, and that always worried me.

  “Fine,” he finally ground out, his tone hard and uncompromising. “If you really think he’s innocent, and you think the police won’t find out who really killed her, then I want to help you.” He picked up a pen from the counter and scrawled something on one of my order slips, tearing the sheet off the top, and handing it to me. “Here’s my address, and my phone number. You find something out, you track me down. I want whoever did this to pay.”

  I nodded, feeling the tension diffuse inside me, but then I looked up and saw Nadine, with a disapproving look on her face. Of course, all five of them had likely overheard everything we’d just said. Given the strength of the collective gossip mill in this town, it would be all over Saint Agnes in a matter of minutes that the Honorable Reverend Evangeline Vale was helping a biker get a criminal out of jail.

  Just what I needed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I sent Derek home for a shower, and Emma home to get ready for her day, and tried my best to sweet talk the coffee ladies out of repeating what they’d overheard. Nadine seemed only partly convinced that it would be a bad thing to mention this little bit of interesting news to everyone she knew.

  But I did finally manage to convince them.

  I hoped.

  The coffee ladies were still sitting in the corner, buzzing around their half-finished pastries, when the little bakery bell rang over Nikki Krantz’s head. She looked like she hadn’t slept all night, and she was holding my coat.

  My coat. I hadn’t even realized I’d left it at her house. It was my good coat, something my sister had picked out for me for a birthday. Hand-stitched by some famous designer in the Garment District, no doubt, like everything Priscilla owned.

  Nikki held the item out, some kind of apology tumbling out of her mouth. I pulled her back behind the bake case, where I was at least a little sure the coffee ladies couldn’t see us.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I just…”

  “You’re exhausted,” I finished for her, touching her shoulder. “I completely understand.”

  “Austin told me, last night, what he told you.” Her face crumpled like wadded paper. “He’s so…angry with me.”

  “It’s all fresh. He’ll be okay in a day or two.”

  “He’s too much like his father
. Sullen. He’ll hang on to a grudge for so long.” Nikki shook her head, sniffing. “Anyway, I wanted to stop by to return your jacket, and to say thanks for talking to Austin last night. I wasn’t ready to do it myself.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” I said, stroking her shoulder. “You’ve both been through a trauma, losing a family member, and part of my job as a pastor is to comfort those who are in mourning. I’m happy to do it.”

  Tears fell down her face, and I noticed, for the first time, a very light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. I hadn’t ever been this close to Nikki before. Usually, I saw her at the bank, or in the crowd while I delivered one of my sermons, or in passing when she came to pick up Austin from the bakery. But her beauty had layers.

  “I’m sure Austin will be here after school again,” she said, pulling a tissue from her black purse and wiping her nose. “He went to Leo’s place after we fought last night and I haven’t seen him since. Can you tell him something for me?”

  I nodded, shifting the jacket to my other hand. “Of course I can.”

  “Tell him I never meant to hurt him. I always had his best interests at heart.” Her lips tightened, and tears welled in her eyes. “I’m his mother, after all.”

  “Nikki, you know I’ll do whatever I can to help.” I held the jacket tight, feeling the cold press of the material against my skin. I almost told her that I was investigating Claire’s death, but she seemed so fragile. I didn’t want to overload her. It could wait until I saw her again, hopefully in a calmer state.

  Besides, I still didn’t understand her relationship—or lack thereof—with Derek, and I didn’t want to make her day any harder. She was dressed in her best banking outfit, and it looked like she had a whole day of work ahead of her. We could talk about these things later.

  “I appreciate that, Vangie.” She grabbed my free hand and pressed both hers around mine. “I don’t know what I’d do if Austin turned his back on me.”

  “Anything I can do.”