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

by R. L. Syme

  Nikki gave me a quick side-hug and walked away, clutching her purse to her side and giving a quick wave to the women in the corner. They had a predatory look, like they might, at the slightest provocation, swoop in with casseroles and hungry ears. Nikki was wise to avoid them.

  I stowed my jacket with my bag, in the little office in the back of the kitchen, and pulled out a file of Norman’s sermons to peruse.

  My mornings in the bakery typically followed a few waves. After the farmers and coffee ladies—and whatever stragglers stopped in—it was usually dead for a couple of hours before the second wave started. Early lunch farmers, business people on their midday break who wanted better coffee, and straggling high school students who decided to drive all the way out here—some of the girls looking hopefully around for Leo, who was never around at that time of time. And then there would be another lull, with only the occasional customer, until the after-school break began.

  I could typically use my down times to catch up on reading or do the computer work that needed to happen to keep the church running, but Peter and Loretta and the parish council did most of the day-to-day work. They only paid me for fifteen hours a week at the church—with the parish house as a bonus—so I had to devote the majority of my time to the bakery. Without the distraction, I would have gone mad. Fifteen hours a week was about fifty less than I’d devoted to my old job. But the bakery took all fifty.

  There was a little window in the kitchen wall, and if I sat just so, at one of the cleaned-off prep tables, I could read and watch the front of the business at the same time. If there were customers other than the coffee ladies, who didn’t need my attention at all, I would sometimes sit at the back counter in the front of the bakery and do my reading there, but I preferred the quiet of the kitchen.

  Nadine and her little flock had left by the time I looked up from the last batch of Norman’s sermons I’d brought with me. I’d been making my way through the Lenten series, and he was using The Cost of Discipleship as his reference point in the group of sermons I was studying, which was giving me all sorts of ideas about my own series.

  The bell dinged and I glanced out to see Malcolm Dean striding across the dining room with purpose. I quickly came around the half-wall that functioned as a kitchen door. My old drop-in-center-training wouldn’t let me be isolated with anyone where there might be a potential conflict, and I still didn’t know if Malcolm had it out for me or not.

  “What can I get you today, Sheriff?” I asked, like he was an old customer.

  “I saw you this morning.” His voice was so gruff, it sent chills across my skin. “I told you not to come on my property.”

  “You saw me?”

  He tightened his lips. “I saw something, and I’m sure it was you. My—” He swallowed whatever accusation he’d been about to level. “I told Peter Mayhew that if this happened one more time…”

  I tried to hold back my frustration, but given how much Malcolm and I had come to loggerheads these last couple of days, I was just done. “I can’t get any reception in my house, Malcolm. None. The only place even remotely close to my house where there’s even a half bar of reception is at the corner of our property, by that little bush, and it’s got to be a hundred feet from your house! It’s practically my own property, anyway.”

  “This is not my problem. Get a landline.”

  “I will. But for the love of Pete, it takes more than a minutes to do that.”

  “Well, make the call today, then. That’s my property you’re on, and you do not have my permission to use it.” A curt shake of his head stopped the conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to fight. “But that’s not why I came here.”

  Tension started to crawl across my chest. He was going to arrest me. I could feel it. Or, if he wasn’t, he sure wanted to.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I need you to come down to the station and get finger-printed. Willingly, I’d prefer. I don’t have enough evidence to arrest you for anything right now, but don’t push me.” Malcolm rested his hands on his hips, shifting his weight from side to side. “I need yours for elimination. There are two more sets of prints on the box, and I assume one of them is yours, but we need to know for sure.”

  The whole thing sounded suspicious to me. The police could ask you for DNA or prints or anything, but they couldn’t make you cooperate. Giving fingerprints was only involuntary after you were arrested.

  While the old adage of running-makes-you-look-guilty applied to the assumptions cops made, it did not apply to civil rights. I was under no obligation to provide my fingerprints to the department, but I also wanted to prove my own innocence.

  “Elimination, meaning, you don’t think I’m involved anymore?” I asked. “Because you just threatened to arrest me, so I’m disinclined to acquiesce to your request…”

  “I want to know why a box from your business with the prints of two of my suspects was clutched in the hands of a dead woman. And I want to know who else had their hands on that box.”

  Oh, honey, if I could tell you that, this would all be over…

  I wanted the answers as much as he did, but there was little point in telling him that. I was sure he wouldn’t believe me.

  “I can tell you as much as I know,” I offered. “They stopped in to get coffee, and they bought a box of macarons. When they left, they took a wrong turn, which is how they ended up in Rolo…and missed their bank appointment.” When I let it all tumble out like that, it didn’t seem quite so scary.

  “Why did they take a wrong turn? The sign out there says—” he made a left-turn gesture with his hand, “—Rolo, this way.”

  My jaw dropped open, like it was going to answer by itself, but I didn’t want to admit to what I’d done. The ultimate reason why I felt invested in this case, above and beyond whatever sympathy I felt for Henry, whatever sadness I felt for Austin and his mother and his uncle. I felt responsible for Henry and Scarlet getting caught up in this mess.

  I felt like it was my fault they were in jail.

  “I told them to take a left to get to the bank,” I finally said, turning my gaze toward the white and glass countertop. My hands desperately wanted to be cleaning something, but I couldn’t move under Malcolm’s glare.

  “You what?” His tone had a sharp takeoff, like a rocket ship.

  “It was a simple mistake. I just…” No, I wouldn’t lie. Heaving out a long breath, I shook my head. “Scarlet said something awful to Emma and me on her way out the door, and when they asked for directions, I gave them the wrong instructions.”

  “Evangeline.”

  “I know. It was a momentary lapse in judgment. I figured when they saw they were heading away from town, they would turn back, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. But they got all the way to Rolo, and I guess they stopped at a gas station. Scarlet threw out the box while Henry was inside asking for directions.”

  Malcolm pulled the white hat off his head and walked away from me, frustration coming off him in waves.

  “I wasn’t thinking. I just...it’s not a proud moment for me, okay? I just had to admit to you that I did an uncharitable thing because someone hurt my feelings. I’m not proud of what I did, but I didn’t do anything criminal.” I came around the bake case, meeting him face-to-face. “Look, I don’t know what Scarlet told you, but Henry couldn’t have killed her. They were barely there for two minutes.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malcolm snapped, using his hat to point at me, like he was scolding a small child. “You’re parroting whatever he told you, and that’s not the truth of what happened. I’ve spoken to Scarlet, and I’ve spoken to the convenience store clerk, and they both say that she was the one who went inside to get directions. Not only that, but she was there long enough for him to have stabbed Claire and return to his car before anyone was the wiser.”

  My mouth hung open, and my face had to be reflecting the disbelief running through my veins. The weird inner lie detector that to
ok up residence between my ears was almost never wrong. Henry really had been shocked to learn about Claire’s death, I knew that like I knew the sun would rise tomorrow. But he’d also told me a version of events about their stop in Rolo that wasn’t true. I had known at the time that there was something he wasn’t telling me, but it hadn’t seemed possible for his version to be that different from the truth.

  I should have known better. Never trust a beautiful man.

  “All right, fine.” I threw my hands up. “I have been lied to. I’ll come down to the station to get fingerprinted so you know which prints are mine. But you’re going to give me something in return.”

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What?”

  “I want to talk to Henry.”

  I could tell how little he liked the idea from the way he immediately sucked in his breath, but I was beyond caring. I needed to look in Henry’s eyes and ask him exactly what was going on, and I wanted him to tell me the truth.

  “I’ll tell you what,” the sheriff said, putting his hat back on his head. “I’ll give you five minutes, while he’s waiting for his lawyer to show up, but I can’t guarantee it will be private.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t need privacy.” I crossed my arms. I just needed the truth.

  Malcolm left, somewhat satisfied, and I closed up my bakery and put up a sign saying I’d be back in half an hour. I took the Tank down to the station, where I willingly offered up my fingerprints.

  By the time I finally sat down in front of Henry, I was downright angry. He looked haggard, gray-skinned, and tired, which made it harder to stay mad at him.

  “Hey, Vic,” he said when I took one of the metal chairs on the other side of the table from him. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” His accent was in full force.

  “You can cut the method acting thing. I’d rather talk to the real Henry for five minutes.”

  He lifted his hands, unsurprised by my outburst. “This is the real Henry. The real Henry is an actor who’s trying to get ready for a major role that could make his career. The real Henry isn’t going to miss an opportunity to perfect an accent that not even trauma can shake.” His face turned ashen, like some important realization had just set in. Like he’d realized he wouldn’t have a chance at that part if he didn’t get out of this. “I can’t give up this far in.”

  “Your accent was coming and going last night. Practically at the drop of a hat.”

  A strange shadow passed across his face. “I let my guard down.”

  I took a short breath and went for the gut punch. “Did you let your guard down with Claire? Or were you the real Henry with her?”

  That landed. His whole demeanor changed, like a switch had been flipped. He went from the confident, calm character he played in front of others to a worried, untrustworthy accused criminal. “Okay, Vic. Okay. I’ll stop.” He’d reverted to the all-American boy I’d seen flashes of the night before. “There. Now will you believe me?”

  I crossed my arms. “I don’t know how I can, when you keep lying to me.”

  “So, you found out about Claire?” he asked, his shoulders slumping, head bowed. “I was hoping to avoid this.”

  “Avoid what?”

  “Having the talk about this, with you.” He glanced up quickly and met my eyes. There sadness there almost made me reel. “You were from here, but you weren’t, and you were such a refreshing change from the girls I meet in LA. It was like I could have the best of both worlds with you. I didn’t want you to know.”

  “Know about what?”

  “About Claire.” He shook his head, blowing air out slowly. His eyes settled somewhere on the wall, but they seemed unfocused. “I saw her yesterday, at the convenience store, and I didn’t think anyone knew. There was no one around. It happened so fast.”

  My breath caught in my throat. What was he about to say?

  “She’s been following me for a while, on and off, like a sporadic thing.” A hollow note entered his voice, like he was reciting something rote. “She came to a couple of shooting locations.”

  “I thought you’d only known her from around town.”

  His gaze went dark. “She’s been stalking me for months, Vic. I mean…Vangie.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “I can’t remember.” He waved a hand. “Scarlet would know for sure. I figured she would stop eventually, when she realized I didn’t want her around, but then I’d see her again at another shoot.”

  I tried to process that, but something was nagging at me. It wasn’t a lie. I could tell, this time, it was the truth. But was it the whole truth?

  “Why did you tell me Scarlet stayed in the car?”

  “She told me to.” He gave a little shake of his head. “That’s what has me so confused about all of this, I guess. The sheriff clearly knows that I talked to Claire, but I don’t think Scarlet would have told him. Before I’d even heard about the murder, Scarlet told me to switch stories, so I did. We were going to file a restraining order against her, tom—well, today, I guess. Now.”

  “So, you had a conversation about what you were going to tell the judge to get the restraining order,” I finished for him.

  “Yeah. We fought about it most of the way back to Saint Agnes. She wanted to keep my name out of the papers and she thought that if she filed for the restraining order, she could keep me out of it. But I promise you, Vangie. When I left her behind that store, Claire was alive.”

  The door behind me opened and I heard Malcolm’s voice call out, “You’re done, Evangeline.”

  “Please, Vic,” Henry said, urgency in his voice. “You have to believe me.”

  “I said, you’re done,” Malcolm repeated, coming around the table.

  “She was alive,” Henry said. His accent had returned.

  “Your lawyer is here.” The sheriff hauled Henry out of the room, and I sat there stunned, unable to speak. Yes, Henry might have lied—he might still be lying about some things—but I firmly believed that last statement was true.

  Claire had been alive when he’d left her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I sat with Irma, just long enough to watch a deputy bring Scarlet out of the interrogation room. Like Henry, she looked haggard—skin sallow, eyes red. She still had on the same green shirt dress she’d been wearing the previous evening, and I imagined that she could do with a shower and a change of clothes.

  The deputy walked her out through the office, guiding her toward where I was sitting, which made my stomach churn a little. I didn’t know what to make of Scarlet, and from the look on her face, I was pretty certain she was still mad at me, which was absolutely understandable. I was still a little mad at me.

  “Sheriff said to let this one go,” he said, releasing her at the desk. He reached back, under the counter, and grabbed a yellow envelope. “This is what she came in with.”

  The lack of security at this station was a little amazing to me, given what I was used to in urban settings. I mean, there were procedures here, just like anywhere, but it wasn’t the same. I wasn’t sure if that encouraged or frightened me.

  Irma busied herself with some paperwork, while Scarlet massaged her wrists and scowled. She finally signed the forms and took her envelope, turning to me like I was the last guard on the way out the door.

  Her eyes narrowed on me. “This is your fault, you know. I hope you’re happy that you ruined all of our lives.”

  “I’m so sorry, Scarlet,” I said, keeping my seat. I’d ostensibly stayed with Irma to get feedback on the additional box of macarons I’d brought with me, but I found myself caring less about this season’s tourist flavors, and more about doing penance for this woman.

  I owed her.

  “That’s not good enough,” she spat back, clutching the envelope.

  “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  “Well, it did. So you can keep your sorry. It doesn’t undo any of what’s happened in the last twenty-four ho
urs.” With that, she turned on her heel and stormed through the doors.

  I made my apologies to Irma and ran out after Scarlet. This was mine to fix.

  She stood on the sidewalk, staring around the parking lot, no doubt realizing that she had no way to get back to the B&B. I pointed to the Tank.

  “Let me at least give you a ride.”

  “I don’t need your charity,” she snapped.

  “It’s not charity. I owe you. Really. Let me help.”

  A momentary flash of terror crossed her features—why? Something told me I needed to know—but she stuffed it down admirably. She had enough self-control to make the fear go away when she needed it to. I would’ve loved to have that ability.

  She finally took a step toward my giant green Hummer and I climbed into the driver’s seat. Her entrance was reluctant and slow, and I didn’t blame her for the hesitancy. When she was strapped into the passenger’s seat, I back out and pulled into the street, heading for the B&B.

  It didn’t take long for her odor to catch me by the nose, but I wasn’t going to say anything to her about it. Spending a night in jail—in who knows what kind of accommodations—was excuse enough. But there was something besides just body odor in her sweat. She’d consumed alcohol yesterday, and lots of it. Maybe last night, maybe earlier, but it had stuck to her skin.

  “You’re just a diversion.” Her words were sharp and caustic. “To Henry.”

  I was surprised that her assessment didn’t hurt me, but I’d already had to distance myself from Henry, so it didn’t sting like she probably intended it to. I nodded. “I know that.”

  “When we leave here, you’ll never hear from him again.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “So you can stop trying to be helpful in the hopes that you’ll, like, get discovered or something. We don’t do that.” The way she said the last sentence gave me pause, like she was trying to convince herself of something.

  “That’s not why I’m helping you,” I said with a quick laugh. “I’m not interested in Hollywood or movies or television or anything.”