by R. L. Syme
A text from my sister was waiting on my phone when I finally got back to my purse in the back office of the bakery. You’re in luck. No calls to the bishop, she had texted me. And then, the next one, Try to stay out of trouble, V.
Even the Love you she ended with didn’t quite ease the tension churning in my gut. I was desperate to talk to someone about Claire’s murder and my fears about not being able to extricate myself from the situation. But she would be at the gym. Unreachable.
I sincerely hoped that talking to Malcolm would help put these things to rest.
It was just after five, and the sheriff’s office was dead when I got there. There was one car in the parking lot—a white Taurus that I thought I recognized but couldn’t quite place. Irma was still at the desk, writing something on a piece of paper that lay on top of a manila folder. She buzzed me into the office and placed the paperwork on the lower counter, folding her hands over the Formica and smiling.
“I have those little comment cards, if you’d like them,” she said.
“Thanks, Irma, but I’m here to see Malcolm. Is he around?”
“Oh, honey, you just missed him. He’s gone home for the night. But there are two deputies here, if you need to report something.”
Home. Malcolm was at his house, which happened to be next door to my house. I could easily stop by to chat—and drop some of my thoughts about the investigation into the conversation.
Y’know. Casual-like.
“I can probably catch him at home.” I glanced into the back of the office, toward the interrogation rooms and the hallway that led to the holding cell.
“Do you want to see Henry instead?” she asked, a compassionate drop to her voice.
My mouth hung open in surprise. I hadn’t even considered the possibility. We had been strangers thirty-six hours ago, but he and this murder case had sucked up so much of my focus. It would be strange to let go of Henry without seeing this through until the end.
Looking around, I didn’t see any of the deputies. No one else was around. No one to tell the Van Andels that I’d been in to see him. No one to tell Malcolm. I shrugged my shoulders. “Why not.”
“Let me take you back there,” she said, scooting out from behind the counter. “You’ll have to talk to him through the bars of the holding cell.”
I followed her past the interrogation rooms and through a big door that took her a solid minute and two keys to open. It was quite the setup for such a small jail, but I felt comforted by the knowledge that at least this was secure. If we did ever get real criminals in Saint Agnes, they would be handled.
Behind the bars, Henry sat on a cot, still wearing the same suit he’d had on the previous day, head in his hands, looking defeated. My insides melted a little. I hated seeing people like this. I hated seeing him like this.
“Stay back here, honey,” Irma pointed to a yellow line that ran along the back of the room, parallel to the holding cell. Henry looked up when she spoke, and his brows curled together when he saw me. He stood, walking to the bars and gripping them.
“When you’re done, buzz me on the intercom and I’ll come back and get you,” Irma finished, then used her keys to get through the door again.
“What are you doing here, Vangie?” Henry asked in his normal, American accent. It caught me off-guard and I stepped forward, over the yellow line.
I wanted to comfort him, but that wasn’t a great idea. I stepped back. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Whether there’s been any news.”
“My lawyer advised me not to talk about it.” He sighed, long and slow, closing his eyes. “But I’m going crazy in here. Have you seen Scarlet?”
“I took her home after they released her.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Mostly, she tried to convince me how insignificant I was, which…go figure. She also told me about your wife.”
“Ex-wife,” he said, turning back into the cell. “We may not be officially divorced yet, but that’s the next step.”
I felt some hesitancy rising in my stomach. “How many times have you been married?”
Henry gripped the bars on the left side of his cage, not turning to face me. He shook his head. “Scarlet told you I’d been married before?”
“She may have mentioned it.”
“She likes to tell women that so I don’t have anyone to rely on except her.” He pushed off the bars and came back toward me. “What if I told you it was a lot? More than once? Would that scare you off?”
I shrugged. “Henry, I’m only worried about getting you out of this jail cell.”
“Because it’s been more than once.”
“Fine.”
“More than twice, even.”
“Okay.”
“More than three times.”
“Got it.”
He finally cracked a smile, and everything inside me relaxed. I looked to my left, checking to see if anyone would notice if I crossed the line again. There was a camera over the door, and I didn’t want to push my luck, even though there was no red dot, the telltale sign it was recording.
“Like I said, I just want to make sure you’re okay,” I said. “I can’t shake the feeling this is all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, Vangie.” He lowered his head. Apparently, the Vic nickname was part of his British persona. “Claire must have been following me. It’s not like she hangs out at that gas station. She doesn’t even live around here.”
I opened my mouth to correct that statement, but decided against it. “How do you know where she lives?” I asked instead.
Discomfort radiated off him. He gripped the bars. “I can’t answer that question.”
“Why not?”
“My lawyer told me not to answer anyone’s questions about the incident.”
The incident. He said those words like Claire hadn’t been brutally murdered. Maybe he hadn’t killed her, but he’d lied about plenty of things—seeing her at the gas station, knowing her at all. What else was he lying about?
I wanted to ask more questions, but if I got lawyered one more time, I was going to stop being so charitable with him. There was no reason for him not to tell me what was going on. I was on his side. He had to know that.
“Where is your lawyer staying?”
“Scarlet’s giving her statement to one of the deputies. He’s in the interrogation room with her.” Henry shrugged. “I don’t know where he’s staying. Probably at that B&B.”
“Scarlet is here, giving her statement?”
“Yeah. She just came in to see me, with the sheriff looking on, of course.”
“What did you decide to do? Tell the truth?”
Henry’s face lined with concern. “I’ve been telling you the truth.”
I crossed my arms. That was blatantly untrue. “But, tell the truth to Malcolm? To the sheriff? About the real events of your morning yesterday?”
“Yes. My lawyer advised me to tell the sheriff what really happened. Why we switched our stories.”
“Good. If you’re innocent, you should act innocent with the police. Tell them the truth.”
He looked around the holding cell area, studiously avoiding me. I didn’t like the nervous look on his face. Even if he hadn’t killed Claire, there were plenty of things he could have done that were still criminal. I got that feeling again that there was something big he was holding back.
“I’m not that innocent,” he said, staring at the floor in front of my feet.
“What does that mean?”
Henry shook his head. “You’re going to find things out about me that you’re not going to like, Vangie.” He finally raised his eyes to look into mine. They were so red and bloodshot, I knew he was on the verge of tears. “I’m afraid of the look on your face when you do.”
I pressed my lips together, feeling an onslaught of emotion. This exchange had a goodbye feeling to it, like he was about to tell me to stop coming to see him. Probably the only thing he and the Van Andels h
ad in common.
“You could tell me yourself,” I said. “I promise, I’ll handle it better coming from you.”
“I don’t think I could bear watching you hear it.” He pushed on the bars, like he was Sampson. Or maybe Superman. But they didn’t move. “I’d rather be holding you.”
A shiver ran through me, standing all my fine hairs on end. Not with attraction, but with fear. Who said something like that to a near-stranger?
In my discomfort, I turned away just enough that I saw one of the interrogation room doors open through the cross-hatched security window in the big jail room door. The deputy who emerged stood with his back to me, ushering someone out of the room. I expected Scarlet and the infamous lawyer.
Instead, I recognized the elegant neck and up-do and profile of Nikki Krantz. My breath caught in my throat.
What was she doing here?
“What’s wrong?” Henry asked, pressing closer to the bars. “Is that Scarlet?”
“No. It’s Claire’s sister.” I walked to the intercom and depressed the button, calling for Irma. I looked back at him, and the tension rolling through him was palpable.
“Don’t leave me, Vangie,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t go yet. I can’t be in here alone.”
There was an urgency underlying his words that I couldn’t quite read. Henry reached one of his hands through the bars, as though he would physically stop me from leaving if he could. He had clearly formed an attachment to me that I didn’t return. I felt for him. Sadness. Sorrow. Pity. Not desire.
I squeezed his hand, quickly, waiting for Irma, who came trundling down the hallway toward me.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” I said to Henry. “I’ll stop by the bed and breakfast and get you a clean suit. A toothbrush, maybe, and deodorant. Just so you can be more comfortable.”
He gave me that million-dollar smile, looking up with hooded eyes. “I’ll bet you make a great vicar,” he said, his British accent returning. I could almost see him take on the character again. It was eerie.
“I bet you make a great actor,” I said, returning the smile.
Irma came through the door and escorted me out toward the front. Nikki Krantz was standing with her back to me, the deputy’s hand still lingering there. They were clearly friends.
“You don’t have to do this, Nikki,” he was saying. “I promise, we’ll get this guy without you.”
“Malcolm said you needed me,” she said, her voice low.
“He shouldn’t have done this.” The deputy stepped back, shaking his head and taking his hands off Nikki.
Irma pushed past me and toward the two of them, hustling Nikki to the front of the counter. When she turned around and saw me, her whole body tightened. Her smile was a few seconds too late.
“Miss Vee,” she said, her hand clutching her purse to her stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“I just dropped by to visit with Irma,” I said, regretting the lie only a little. “I like to bring my new pastries over to get feedback for the tourist season.”
“Oh, yeah,” the deputy said. “Those little cookies you brought were killer.” He offered a big smile as I walked around to stand near Nikki, on the civilian side of the intake counter. His shirt had the words Van Andel stitched into the brown fabric.
He was too young to be Mike’s brother. He couldn’t have been much older than Leo, although I knew Leo didn’t have any older siblings. Still, the sight of the name made my stomach churn a little. If he knew I’d been back visiting Henry…
“Macarons,” I said, speaking through a little tremor. “They’re called macarons.”
“Well, they’re great.” He stuck his thumbs into his thick belt and leaned back on his heels. “All tens. I filled out one of those little cards Irma makes.”
The secretary, as if on cue, gathered them together and handed them to me. “Thanks so much for stopping by, Reverend. The cookies were a big hit this week. They devoured both boxes.”
She smiled at me as I left the three of them standing at the counter. Nikki’s words rang in my ear: Malcolm said you needed me. To make the case against Henry, I assumed.
The whole ride back to my house, I was forced to contemplate which I needed more: a talented staff person, or an answer to what had really happened to Claire Barnett Hobson.
I decided to take my life into my hands and visit the sheriff at home. I hadn’t actually been to his house, which was something of a no-no for a clergyperson. It sort of defied the “love your neighbor” rule. But for me, it was a necessity. Malcolm had always made it clear he was no fan of mine. I tried not to annoy people who hated me.
Malcolm’s house was a little yellow box, with dormers sticking out on either side. The living room was in the front of the house, facing the street. When I reached the stoop, I could see the blue glow of a TV in the low light of the early evening.
Either no one was in front of the TV, or they were on the opposite side of the room, because I couldn’t see anyone sitting on the couch. I took my chances and reached for the doorbell, but there was a little black hole in the siding where the doorbell should have been. Instead, I knocked on the screen door.
Quick steps followed the knock, and I saw a head walk past the curtained window. Then I saw the rest of him—Malcolm was coming down the hallway, a T-shirt in his hands. Naked shoulders. He pulled the shirt over his head before opening the door. There was a hard set to his face as he pushed the screen door open. I backed down the cement steps so he could come out onto the stoop.
He had on a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt that looked vaguely familiar. He smelled like sweat, and I imagined I had either interrupted bedroom time or workout time. I did not want to know which one.
“What do you want, Evangeline?” He crossed his arms and came down the steps.
“Okay, hear me out.” I put my hands out, like I needed to placate him, and I suppose I did. I’d been warned off his property on more than one occasion. “Since you found a box from my bakery at that crime scene, and you initially suspected—”
“Still suspect your involvement,” he said, his tone dark. “Let’s get that straight.”
“How could you suspect me? I was at work all day.”
“You’re bending over backward to help Henry Savage.”
“Because he’s innocent.” I took a breath, trying to keep calm.
Malcolm narrowed his dark eyes. “He’s not innocent. This is why you leave the police investigation to the police, Evangeline.”
“I was with him when he found out Claire was dead. He was completely shocked, from the first moment. I know you’re going to say, ‘He’s an actor,’ but you have to understand how micro-expressions work. I know—”
“Don’t give me that,” he spat out, taking a step toward me. “I’m not going to just take your word that he’s innocent because you watched an episode of Lie to Me.”
“That’s not fair.” Frustration was bubbling up inside. I tried my best to diffuse it, but I just couldn’t. It was so hard to explain my ability to read people, let alone justify it. I could try to talk about how Henry’s face had looked at that moment: the ridge of his brow, the lines around his eyes, and the immediate edge of fear, but I doubted he’d listen to me if I told him none of those things pointed to guilt. I’d seen guilt often enough to pick up on it anywhere. But that sounded woo-woo, and I knew he wouldn’t set any stock in it.
“I was elected to this job, and I take it very seriously. The men and women who have served as my deputies all take it very seriously. We’re not just going to arrest someone because we don’t like them. I’ll arrest him because the evidence points to him.”
“What evidence?” I asked, putting my hands out between us, almost like I expected him to place the evidence there.
Maybe I did. Maybe I needed to see it for myself, because I just couldn’t shake my impression that there was a lot more to this than just Henry.
“When we close the case, you can request the file and I�
�ll be happy to let you read it. Until then, you need to stop interfering, or I’ll arrest you for obstructing the course of justice.”
I sighed, turning to one side and crossing my arms. “You clearly have a problem with me, Sheriff. I don’t understand it, but don’t discount what I’m saying because of how you feel about me. Don’t let that get in the way of justice.” I couldn’t look back up at him—I knew my eyes would have anger in them. He had all the answers to my questions, but he wouldn’t even give me a breadcrumb.
“I have a problem with you, because you continue to act like the law doesn’t apply to you, which doesn’t surprise me. You’re just like the rest of them.” His vehemence was shocking and I could feel his anger reverberating through me.
Wow, he had a problem with women. And probably women in positions of power, too. Double whammy. I wasn’t sure how to get around this issue between us, but I needed answers.
The only way, with guys like this, was to give in. Or appear to give in.
“Okay,” I said, turning back to him and dropping my hands to my sides. “Let’s say you’re right, and Henry is guilty. I’m not on anyone’s side, here. I just want to see justice done. So maybe I can help you put him away.”
“How’s that?” He looked a tiny, tiny, tiny bit interested. Or at least, not angry anymore.
“You still haven’t officially charged him. So there must be something keeping you from doing that.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s still in his suit. He hasn’t been fingerprinted yet. That’s why there’s no paparazzi, isn’t it? Because you haven’t filed official charges yet, so no one knows you even have him. And for now, Scarlett can keep it out of the papers, because he hasn’t been officially processed. You have forty-eight hours to charge him, and it’s been barely twenty-four. You could keep holding him without charging him, pretty much until tomorrow night. But you’re waiting on something. What is it?”
A muscle ticked in Malcolm’s jaw and he stared down at me. “Let’s say I am waiting on something. How are you going to help?”
“People have pretty much been answering all of my questions, which, I’m willing to bet, isn’t happening with you.”
