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

by R. L. Syme

  “Well, that’s a lie. Why else would you go out with Henry?”

  “Um. Have you seen Henry? He’s gorgeous.” With a shrug of one shoulder, I tried not to blush at how quickly the words had spilled out of me.

  “If you’re into that type. Y’know, blonds.” Her indifference was stunning.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I’d never particularly been into blonds—in fact, Henry might have been the first one I’d ever found attractive. But he was potentially the perfect specimen.

  “Besides,” she continued, her neck straightening, like her haughty side was coming back in waves. “He’s technically still married, so he’s not doing anything long-term at this point.”

  “Technically,” I repeated, having already squared off with that demon. “Well, isn’t that a relief.”

  “She’s a doll, you know. Dara.” Scarlet opened the envelope and began to search through the contents. “British, redhead, just impeccable breeding, and her daddy wants to finance one of Henry’s movies.”

  “But they’re not going to stay married?”

  “Oh, no.” She waved off the question, like it was a ridiculous notion. “You don’t know Henry. He’s just…he’s not built for that stuff.”

  Those words settled into my chest. Maybe that’s what I’d sensed about him yesterday morning at the shop—less of the I’m-married vibe, and more the emotionally-unavailable one. Being able to read people well, sometimes I didn’t always know what it was I was reading. I just knew whether it made me uneasy, or scared, or happy, or safe. Generally, the pieces would click into place over time, and I would know what it was I had initially sensed. But I wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or anything. I couldn’t always figure it out.

  “Not everyone is built for marriage, I guess.”

  “Oh, he loves getting married.” Her smile was eerie, her enjoyment of that fact almost too keen. “That’s probably his problem. He likes the beginnings…the bloom, my grannie used to call it. But he is the worst at finishing.”

  I turned the last corner in silence, driving down the long street toward the school. The black sports car was still in the drive at the B&B. It was strange how familiar this all was, even though I’d only known the two of them—Scarlet and Henry—for just over a day.

  “This doesn’t mean we’re square,” Scarlet said, putting her hand on the door handle as I pulled up behind the rental car. “Just so you know, I still hold you responsible for this.”

  “I hold myself responsible, Scarlet.” I shifted into park. “I can’t apologize enough. You just…you made that comment about Henry liking fat girls, and I lashed out.”

  She didn’t balk at the reminder, but I could tell it hadn’t dawned on her there was a reason for my misdirection. Every woman has some kind of awareness of her body, and given everything her husband had put her through over the years, Emma was acutely aware of what she considered her shortcomings. To Scarlet, who had the unrealistic proportions of a Barbie, everyone who wasn’t a size zero was probably fat on some level, but words like that would be damaging for Emma.

  They hadn’t made me happy, either.

  But this was a steep price to pay for cruel words, and I had to have compassion for her. I knew all about paying steep prices.

  “You don’t know what you’ve done,” she finally said, a hollow quality to her voice. “We missed the meeting at the bank yesterday, which meant we couldn’t leave town for the meeting we had scheduled with a major producer last night. Now that Henry can’t get out of jail, we’ll miss the bank meeting again, and that’s one thing I can’t handle for him.”

  “Henry acted like it wasn’t a big deal.” I rested my hand on top of the steering wheel and turned to face Scarlet, like we were friends having a chat. “He said they’d keep rescheduling.”

  She laughed, sharply. “Of course he would think that. He thinks everything can just be rescheduled. That’s why I’m the one who runs his life.”

  “What’s going on at the bank, anyway?” I asked, trying to seem casual. I didn’t want to push her—she didn’t seem to like me much—but I did feel like I needed to keep helping them.

  “None of your business,” she snapped.

  “Scarlet, I’m just trying to help.” I reached for her arm, but the movement felt forced. I didn’t care for her any more than she cared for me, but I did feel a lot of compassion for her predicament. “I’ve been trying to get answers to the questions I don’t think are being asked, and people have been willing to talk to me, so far.”

  “You need to stay out of our lives. You’ve done enough.” She pushed the door open and climbed out without another word.

  I left the Tank running and went after her, walking up the steps to the B&B, trying to call out to her, but she was having none of it. She stalked across the long side porch and then in through the door, slamming it behind her. The old glass seemed to warp for a split second, and I thought it might actually shatter, but it stayed in one piece.

  Staring after her, I debated going inside. I really did want to help, but more than that, I wanted to get a better sense for whether she was telling the truth. The most accomplished liars often couldn’t keep their stories up when their emotions ran high.

  But she ran up the stairs in front of the door, and I didn’t want to follow her up to her room. That would just be creepy.

  A gray-haired head popped around the wall, to the edge of the glass, like a busybody cuckoo clock. I recognized the woman from around town, but couldn’t quite place her name. She didn’t attend Saint Agnes Community. She opened the door and came out onto the porch.

  “Reverend Vale,” she said. With a pointed glance at a sign next to the door, she raised her brows at me. It read: Please do not slam this door.

  I shrugged. “I’m so sorry. I just dropped Scarlet off, and I’m afraid she was in a bit of a rush.”

  “Well, I’ll have to slip a note under her door.” The woman ran her hand along the green door frame. “All the wood in this house is original, and I’d hate to have someone do damage we can’t repair.”

  “She’s been through a rough night. I’m sure it won’t happen again.” I reached out my hand. “I’m very sorry, Mrs.…?”

  “Oh, yes. We won’t have met before.” She took the offered handshake, if a bit limply. “Marvella Nelson. And it’s Miss. I go to the Lutheran church, just up the road.”

  “That’s good to hear.” I nodded, offering her a big smile. Most people started in on their religious histories directly upon meeting me, like they thought they needed to make excuses for why they hadn’t darkened the church doorstep. I was always happy to listen, but I was rarely asking the questions they assumed I was.

  “How do you know the Hollywood couple?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her little rounded belly. She had on a mid-calf-length gray dress with round red flowers dotted in regular intervals, and black loafers. Like Hyacinth Bucket.

  “I just met them yesterday.”

  “All this business with the sheriff is just ugly.” Marvella wrinkled her nose in distaste. “And that man on the Harley! No wonder they’re in trouble with Sheriff Dean.”

  I paused, a mini alarm going off in my head. “Man on the Harley?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded, stepping away from the door and leaning in. “He was here just after the handsome man went out yesterday afternoon.”

  “Here? You mean, here at the bed and breakfast? Was he looking for a room?”

  “No, no, no, no,” Marvella said, her head shaking in quick punctuation. “He was here to see her. Went up to her room and everything.”

  Her tone left no doubt—she considered it quite the scandal for Scarlet to have entertained a biker in her bedroom.

  “How long was he there?”

  “Probably an hour. He arrived just after the blond one left on his walkabout, and came right in. I only saw him for a minute. He had one of those…oh, what do they call them now?” She put her hands on top of her head, like a halo. O
r a crown.

  Or a manbun.

  “Did you happen to catch his name?” I asked, trying not to let the frog in my throat make me croak. I didn’t want her to think I was prying.

  “I didn’t speak to him at all.” Marvella nodded back at the door. “I usually don’t sit at the desk in the afternoons once all of our rooms are full. They know to ring me if they need anything.”

  “Then how did you see him?”

  “I was on the other side of that alley,” she said, pointing, “salting the ice on the back sidewalk. There’s a dip in the sidewalk, and when the snow melts during the day and freezes at night, we can get a little sheet like an ice rink back there. That’s where most of the guests park, so I need to keep it safe for them to walk.”

  She seemed so pleased with herself for this little detail, she practically beamed and I nodded my thanks. I apologized again for the door issue and made my excuses. It was time to get back to the bakery.

  But something nagged at me, the whole way back.

  If Derek Hobson was the manbun-wearing biker who had visited Scarlet’s room, it hadn’t been long after Claire’s murder. He’d either known to come here because he’d been following them, or because they’d agreed to meet—the B&B was too far off the beaten path to be a drop-by stop. And if Scarlet had arranged to meet Derek without Henry…something didn’t sit right about that.

  When I got back to the Matchbakery, Emma’s lights were on in her shop. The lot was empty. I usually had a bigger lunch rush on Wednesdays, so I needed to get to prepping.

  I hadn’t gotten far into my soup making before Emma came over to partake of the coffee pot. Her visits were practically like clockwork.

  “I saw you were gone when I got here,” she said, sipping from the cup and standing in the doorway, not really inside the kitchen. “What happened?”

  “Can you make a new pot for the lunch crowd?” I asked, putting the last of the vegetables into the soup pot. I was making my mother’s Ribollita, which was a bean, tomato, and cabbage winter soup with leftover bread that she’d often made when I was growing up. I hadn’t realized just how much I needed comfort until that moment. I was making my mother’s comfort food.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” Emma asked, her words gentle.

  “It’s not that.” I began cleaning the prep station, careful of the knives. Knives were my kryptonite. “I just wasn’t anticipating being gone this long, and I forgot to pick up the little notes Irma promised to give me about the macarons.”

  “You forgot them?”

  “I got distracted.”

  She filled the pot with water at the big silver sink. “By…Henry?”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. Emma had too much of an interest in doing my hair and fixing me up on dates. There was a murder to solve here, people.

  “By his agent.” I stood next to her, placing the knives into the appropriate sink and beginning the cleanup process. I had to concentrate a little more on food safety regulations, since my natural inclination was to cook with abandon.

  “What did she want?” Emma walked out of the kitchen, disdain in her voice.

  Mostly to belittle me. But I couldn’t tell my friend that. She’d get defensive on my behalf, and that move had already gotten us into trouble.

  “I gave her a ride home from the sheriff’s office.” My shoulders went up in anticipation of a tongue-lashing, but it never came. I wasn’t sure she’d heard me, until she stuck her head around the corner, her brows drawn together.

  “You feel guilty, don’t you?”

  “Of course I feel guilty. If I hadn’t sent them to Rolo, they never would have gotten into this mess.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” she snorted. “From what Joshua told me, it was just a matter of time before that whole mess imploded.”

  I placed the knives in the drying rack and wiped my hands on the towel hanging over my shoulder. “What mess?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows about this,” Emma said, sneaking into the kitchen with wide eyes. “And Joshua made me promise not to tell anyone—”

  “Wait. When did you talk to him?” I crossed my arms over my chest. Emma seemed to have this moth-to-flame thing with her deadbeat jerk of a cheating husband, no matter what he did.

  The most recent what was to run off in the middle of the night to some casino in Northwest Montana with about ten thousand dollars Emma had saved up for a new car, promising he could triple their money.

  While the jury was out on whether he’d had any luck, his type never returned with good news in the long run.

  “He called about an hour ago.” Emma looked at the floor, nervous. Normally, she told me everything, but it was obvious she didn’t want to talk about the purpose of his call. But I didn’t need her to share in order to know what he was doing. He always did the same thing.

  “Don’t give him any more money, Em.” I shook my head. “It was a big enough mistake leaving your savings book out.”

  “Will you listen for a second?” she said, an edge of anger in her voice. “I think there’s something you need to know.”

  “What’s that?” I didn’t uncross my arms. I was still looking for a way to talk out the situation with her husband. But she got prickly around that topic.

  “Claire Barnett is the reason Henry Savage left Saint Agnes.” She widened her eyes, looking at me with conspiratorial interest. “Joshua doesn’t know much, but he was in the same year as Henry, and they graduated right before the high school co-op. So they didn’t know each other well, and he doesn’t know exactly what happened. But he knows Claire and Henry were getting hot and heavy—which he thought was weird for a senior dating a freshman—and then, all of the sudden, Claire went nuts on him. Like, seriously crazy. We’re talking showing-up-where-he-worked-and-peeing-on-his-car crazy. He was supposed to stay through the summer, but he ended up leaving for Los Angeles early.”

  I swallowed against this new information. Somehow, I’d known there was much, much more to the story. The thought of Henry and Claire having this old relationship, in addition to the stalking, was throwing me for a loop.

  I needed more information, but I sure didn’t want to track down Josh Brent. I had to find a way to talk to Claire Barnett’s mother. Before someone else realized this connection and clammed up for good.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Austin didn’t show up with Leo after school, but I still had to leave him to run the bakery alone. Dressed in my clergy shirt and collar, with my hair brushed into what I assumed was a trendy comb-over and a little makeup on my face, I made a presentable pastor.

  The Barnett house was a short-pitched, ranch-style brick home, nearly across the street from the high school. It also happened to be just up the street from Henry and Scarlet’s bed and breakfast. The black sports car, I noticed, was still in the driveway.

  I still wondered about that little meeting between Scarlet and Derek, and I wanted to stop in and ask questions. Perhaps the collar would work on Scarlet.

  Hmm. Doubtful.

  The door opened and a bleary-faced Austin Krantz answered. I was a little taken aback. When he didn’t accompany Leo to the bakery, it was usually because he was lifting weights in the gym with the rest of the football team as part of their off-season workout.

  “Miss Vee?” he asked, quirking up an eyebrow. His eyes went immediately to my collar. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came by to see your grandmother.” I clutched at the plate of macarons I carried—my peace offering. At least it wasn’t in one of the white Matchbakery boxes.

  “She’s in the kitchen.” He backed up, opening the door all the way. “Come on in.”

  I followed him through the house, holding back the awkward questions that wanted to spill out of my mouth to fill time. Austin’s grandmother stood in front of the stove—a slight, dark-haired woman in a red, polka-dotted apron over grey slacks and a white shirt. She looked up through her glasses, her gaze first landing on my collar and then on
Austin.

  “Gran, this is Miss Vee. She’s here to see you.” He took the cookie plate I offered and set it on the counter. He slipped back into a chair at the kitchen table, books split open and papers spread, just like they would have been at the bakery.

  “Frances Barnett,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and then extending one. “I’ve heard a lot about you lately, Reverend Vale.”

  That was a loaded statement. I had a notion it wasn’t all good. I took Mrs. Barnett’s hand. “Please, call me Vangie.”

  Frances turned back to the stove, plunking a few potatoes into the water off a white cutting board. She gave the pot a quick stir and set the spoon on the counter, turning to Austin. “You keep an eye on that stew, honey. I’m going to go speak with Reverend Vale in the living room.”

  “Okay, Gran.” Austin moved his chair just enough that he could see the big stock pot.

  Frances pulled off her red apron and settled it on the back of the other chair at the table, then kissed Austin’s head. She led me through the house to two big wing-back chairs near a window, and gestured for me to sit in one of them.

  Her living room had a preserved feeling. Plastic on all the furniture, pristine carpets, wood grain visible on tables and bookshelves without a speck of dust. Impressive.

  On one side, opposite the short, wooden box that housed a television, was what could only be described as a shrine. Set into the middle of the bookshelves that lined the space, it was about three feet wide, and extended from the floor to the ceiling. A flag draped over the counter, coming about halfway to the floor. Framed pictures of military men sat on the flag. Above them, on another star-spangled shelf, sat two glass boxes displaying medals I couldn’t see. A framed set of knives that looked like they might have been from another century adorned the shelf above that.

  “Are you from a military family?” Frances asked, her eyes also on the display. She had a wistful, proud countenance. I couldn’t quite tell where she was looking, but there were three very large framed pictures on display, each obviously from a different era.