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

by R. L. Syme

  “I’m not a serial killer,” he said, spreading his arms out, like that would convince me. Didn’t he know how much Criminal Minds I’d seen in my lifetime?

  “Which is exactly what you would say if you were a serial killer,” I said, slipping my phone back into my coat pocket. “Either way, if you do anything to me, my sister will know I was with you.”

  “Did you take a JIC picture of Henry?” He lifted a brow, like he knew everything about me.

  The tension in my chest about misjudging Henry hadn’t really left me, even after driving all the way here and busying myself with work and Facebook stalking for a couple of hours. Derek was right. I had trusted Henry. I shouldn’t have, but I had.

  “Just get in,” I said, unlocking the Tank with my key fob.

  If there was one good thing about that beast of a car—apart from the fact that I would be all set in case of zombie apocalypse—it was the interior setup. Someone had converted it from what had no doubt been military equipment into a pretty amazing home-away-from-home setup. The console between the two front seats was as wide as an entire seat. It had a flat, corrugated surface that would hold almost anything still, including my laptop, on occasion, when I had to travel and sleep in the vehicle. The massive cup holders easily accommodated a Nalgene bottle. There were three of them spread across the front of the car, and they were all in easy reach. There was even the equivalent of a dinner tray just behind my seat that would have nicely held a picnic basket.

  The whole console kept me almost three feet from Derek, giving us the privacy he wanted with at least a measure of the safety I wanted. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that everything inside me felt as tight as an over-tuned guitar string.

  “Okay,” I said, turning in my seat to face him. “Spill the beans.”

  He pursed his lips and I felt a buzz in my coat pocket while he formulated his words. That would be Priscilla texting me back an OK that she’d gotten the JIC, and probably a little scolding that I’d woken her. But it could wait.

  “I need you to promise me, this stuff won’t go any further than this vehicle,” he said, placing his big hands on the dashboard like he was tempted to use it as a launching pad to jump through the windshield. “We’ve worked hard to keep this stuff out of the papers, and I want to make sure it’s not going to get leaked.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone,” I said.

  With a heavy breath, he settled back into the seat. “Henry was supposed to set up a fund for Claire, but he and the agent missed their bank appointment. The fund…it was something he and Claire had talked about once before, on one of her trips to see her kid.”

  “Claire had a kid?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve never met him.” He looked down at his hands. “She would never let me.”

  “How long had this been going on?”

  “A couple of years.” He sniffed. “She cleaned up, Claire did. For a long time, she was a junkie. We would split up for a year or two at a time because of it. Me hoping she’d get sober. A few years back, she got clean and took off for California. When she came back, she told me about her son, and how she was trying to get in touch with the kid’s dad. I didn’t learn until yesterday that it was Henry Savage.” Derek said the words without a trace of anger.

  There was no way he knew about the assault, which made me wonder how recent it had been. Had it happened before the Hobsons’ move to Rolo? If so, it meant Henry had been back here more recently than he’d indicated.

  Oh, Lord.

  Had he assaulted her yesterday?

  Every single inch of my skin tried to crawl off my body. Henry had touched me since then, more than once. Bile rose up in the back of my throat and I had to struggle to hold it down.

  “Vangie.” Derek reached across the console, taking my arm and putting his other hand on my back. “Are you all right?”

  I tried to nod, but I was afraid to lose my latte. “I’m fine,” I choked out. “I just…I think I had some bad shrimp.” I couldn’t tell him about the assault, not when I knew so little about it. Not when we were sitting in an enclosed space together.

  He kept patting my back until I managed to calm the nausea.

  “So,” I started, hoping I could finish my sentence intact, “when you saw Scarlet yesterday, was it the first time you’d seen her?”

  “Sort of. Claire had given me her phone number, and I arranged to meet her to talk about all of this, but she was gone by the time I got up there.” Derek’s hand remained on my back, stroking me like I was a sick child. “The number…it was in a letter Claire left me yesterday morning. It said her son lived in Saint Agnes, not California. Henry was the father, and she was going to get money from him. She said it was super important not to let anyone else know. No one. That was in the letter several times. She said Henry was going to open a bank account for the kid and put our names on it so we could take care of him. One of the bank higher-ups who was about ready to retire and move to wherever, Snowbird City, was going to set it up without anyone at the bank knowing about it. The guy wouldn’t be around to tell anyone anything.”

  I swallowed, hard. The story about his mother’s estate had been a lie, and Claire hadn’t been stalking him at all—she’d been trying to get him to take responsibility for their child. Was there any end to the lies that Henry had told me? Was anything he’d said true?

  “The only stipulation Henry had, I guess, was that we couldn’t ever tell anyone. No newspapers or reporters, no town gossips. No one.” He gestured around the interior of my vehicle. “That’s why I needed secrecy. I couldn’t chance someone else hearing this stuff. But you, you’re a minister. You’re used to keeping secrets.”

  With a half-hearted smile, I nodded. He was right—people felt compelled to tell me their secrets, and I usually felt compelled to keep them.

  Not this time, though.

  The ride back to Saint Agnes, once I’d divested myself of Derek, was numbing. I felt like I was driving back into the heart of some horrible darkness. As much as Derek wanted secrecy, I knew I had to talk to Malcolm Dean again. His house was dark when I got back, and I knew better than to rouse him from sleep.

  I didn’t get my sister’s text message until I was on my way to the bakery the next morning, and in cell range.

  Evangeline Susanna Vale, what are you doing on a date with a BIKER?

  No matter what happened in my life, Cilla had a way of popping in and making me smile. I texted her back, He’s not a date. Just having a conversation and wanted a JIC.

  I got the standard in a meeting, call later text, but I was itching to talk to her. Tuesdays and Thursdays were her busy days at the university, and she might be in meetings and class until the afternoon. I needed someone to debrief with me, still. If I couldn’t process all this, I was going to go nuts.

  I wanted her to tell me not to call the sheriff. Even though I knew I needed to. I hated breaking a confidence. But there was just no other option. He and I had the same goal: justice.

  Didn’t we?

  After the breakfast rush and the coffee ladies’ departure and a call to the telephone company to put in a landline at my house—just in case he asked me—I called the sheriff’s department. Irma picked up on the first ring. When I asked to speak to Malcolm, her unease was almost palpable, but she put me through. Lord’s barnacles, had he even told Irma about the trespassing stuff?

  This town was too small.

  “Hello, Evangeline.” Malcolm’s greeting was less gruff than I had expected. He sounded tired. We were all tired.

  “I wonder if I can come in this morning, I—”

  “You won’t be able to see Henry Savage.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Just let me finish.” He sighed and there was a scruffy sound, like he was passing his hand over his face. “We found Henry hanging in his cell this morning. I guess I should have taken his belt, but I never…”

  He kept talking, but I dropped the phone.

  Henry was dead
. Lord have mercy. Henry was dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emma was standing in her gift shop, among the glass display cases of rocks and jewelry. I’d staggered over to her store after closing the bakery. Instead of putting up the customary back-in-30-minutes sign, I had scrawled Temporarily Closed on a piece of printer paper and taped it to the inside of the door.

  The whole world felt foggy, like I was trying to walk out of a storm that just wouldn’t pass. Emma must have known something was wrong just from looking at me, because she hurtled toward me, arms out.

  “Oh, Vangie, what’s wrong?” she asked, enfolding me into a hug.

  I couldn’t speak. There were tears in my eyes, but they wouldn’t fall. I kept blinking at them, trying to expel them. Everything inside felt numb. I barely remembered the rest of my conversation with Malcolm.

  “Henry is dead,” I whispered, clutching at her. “They found him hanging by his belt in his cell this morning.”

  Emma made all sorts of exclamations, some including God’s name, but I could understand the sentiment.

  “I saw him last night. He was so…” I stopped myself from saying the word that came to mind. It would seem disrespectful to say so now, but he had looked pathetic. Like he was ready to throw in the towel.

  Still… Suicide?

  “You saw him before he killed himself?”

  “Yeah. I stopped at the station to see Malcolm, and Irma let me head back to the group cell to see Henry.” I sniffed, stepping back, out of the hug.

  Emma’s face was lined with concern and she looked around, drawing me toward a couple of chairs behind the sales counter. “Did he give you any indication?” she asked once we were both seated.

  I tried to remember, but the night was such a blur in my head. Things had happened so quickly and changed so much, and then…I had just gone to sleep like there would be another day tomorrow. Because there always was.

  But not for Henry.

  “I don’t know. I mean, he was definitely down. He was facing murder charges, but…” Something clicked into place in my brain. “Wait. Malcolm hadn’t even charged him yet.”

  “He hadn’t?” Emma twisted in the chair and grabbed me a tissue. I wiped at my cheeks. The tears had fallen, after all.

  “No. Malcolm was still looking for the murder weapon. He was holding Henry because he thought he’d caught the murderer, but Malcolm never actually booked him. It just doesn’t make sense. I mean…Henry seemed relieved when I told him I’d bring him a new suit from the B&B.”

  My friend, bless her heart, was concerned for me, but there was something hanging out under the surface, some nervousness that I couldn’t quite place. The tick of a finger against her leg, the teeth on her lip.

  “Do you think his death was a confession?” I asked.

  “What’s that razor thing you’re always talking about?”

  I grunted in response. “Occam’s Razor?”

  “Yeah. The don’t-make-up-a-complicated-theory-when-the-events-tell-the-right-story thing. You wouldn’t let me call the police about being burgled, because you said—” she smacked her hands together, “—Occam’s Razor, Joshua took the money. And he did! I would have wasted all this time trying to install security cameras and all that…”

  When her voice trailed off, I could see the pain twisting her pretty features. What she didn’t say to finish the sentence was, instead of assuming my husband was stealing from me. She was never ready to go there.

  I didn’t blame her. Love really was blind.

  But I hadn’t been in love with Henry Savage. I wasn’t trying to explain away his bizarre behavior because I couldn’t let myself believe that he’d done something horrible. I had been ready to break confidence, last night, to help the sheriff keep him behind bars.

  Even so, I couldn’t get over the fact that suicide just didn’t make sense. Sure, he had been down—there was no denying it—but suicidal?

  Over the years I’d spent doing urban ministry in churches in Raleigh and Durham, both during Seminary and before, I’d seen my fair share of suicidal people. Some successful, some not, but they all shared that same bone-deep despair that seemed to come off them like it had a texture, taste, and smell.

  Henry hadn’t been like that. Sad? Yes, deeply. Afraid? Yes. But, suicidal?

  No. I just didn’t see it. “No,” I said aloud, shaking my head. “I don’t see it.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Emma said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. Her short blonde curls bounced on her shoulders when she made contact. “You think that because he was excited about getting a clean suit, his suicide wasn’t a suicide?”

  “That’s not exactly what I’m saying.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to clear my thoughts, “I could just tell.”

  “How?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but I couldn’t exactly pinpoint how I knew. The lack of extreme emotion. The verbalized assumption that we would see each other again. Heck, he’d made a pass at me! The first time he’d been aggressively romantic.

  All rolled together, the little signs seemed so minuscule, and explaining them out loud would make it seem like I was pretending to be psychic. But I did have a knack for picking up on subtleties like that, and she knew it. Heck, she was always the one who pushed me to do the Matchbaker thing.

  “I can’t explain exactly how I know, Em. I just do.”

  The door opened and a couple of people wandered in. Strangers. Emma stood to greet them, but I stayed in my seat, still a little dumbfounded. It didn’t feel real. It was like talking about the death of a character I’d really cared about in a TV show or book. Like I could still just go down to the jail to see Henry.

  Maybe it would help me accept the truth if I asked the coroner to see his body. Not to examine anything, just to know he was dead.

  A huge crash startled me to my feet and I looked around. It had sounded so close, like it was next to my head, but nothing in the store appeared to have been toppled or ruined. One of the tourists ran to the door of the shop, and I followed him. Nothing could be seen out of the window, which was painted with the same impenetrable mural as mine.

  We all rushed into the parking lot. As soon as I stepped outside, I could hear a woman screaming. I pushed past the tourist and found Scarlet, in black yoga pants and a purple puffy coat, launching another giant rock at the window of my bakery. It bounced off the white wood below the window and plopped harmlessly onto the sidewalk. The glass had already shattered from the first stone.

  At least it was the one with the mural. Tiny favors.

  I ran at her with my hands out, but she turned on me and swung as soon as I was within swinging distance. She missed, but she wasn’t done.

  “You!” she wailed, taking another swing. “This is all your fault!”

  I finally managed to get my hands on her arms and settle her. Emma called out that she’d get the police on the line, but I waved her off.

  “Just go back inside, Emma. I’ve got this.” I didn’t want to get Scarlet in any more trouble than she was already in with the Saint Agnes police. “I’ll handle her.”

  The tourists were reluctant to leave, watching Scarlet with wary, worried glances. Emma pulled her cell phone out of her pocket as they all went back inside, but I wasn’t going to press charges. They could send all the deputies they wanted.

  Scarlet had every right to be angry.

  “This is your fault,” she repeated, chest heaving. “If we hadn’t stopped at this stupid bakery, we never would have gone to that stupid gas station and that stupid girl wouldn’t have cornered Henry for more money and he would still be alive right now.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her whole face was red. She stared at me with such hatred in her eyes, it took my breath away.

  I knew it wasn’t my fault. Claire had been following him around, and she would have confronted him regardless of where he’d gone. But I hated that I’d played a roll in this. Of course, none of that wou
ld matter to Scarlet. She was just angry, and that was okay.

  “I’m so sorry, Scarlet,” I said, reaching for her shoulder, but she yanked away from me so fast, I lost my balance a little.

  “Like that makes anything better.” She sniffed and ran her jacket sleeve across her nose. “You can’t just apologize and then, poof, Henry is back.”

  “I know.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “And don’t try to pull the cutesy pastor thing on me.” She pointed a long, skinny finger at me. “That crap might have worked on Henry. You sweet-talked him into thinking you’re a good person, but I see you. You are evil.”

  Those words struck the core of my being. I took a long breath, holding back tears. She knew how to push my buttons, all right.

  “I really am sorry about Henry. I know you cared about him—”

  “Cared about him?” she scoffed, walking toward the shattered window with her hands on her hips. “I was the only one who really loved him.” Her words had such a caustic edge, I was afraid she might pick up another rock and hurl it at me. I could tell that was what she really wanted to do. Hurt me.

  “I’m sure he knew that,” I offered, trying to give comfort.

  “Of course he knew that. Idiot.” She rolled her eyes skyward. “And if you think he really killed himself, you’re dumber than I thought.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe he did. Unless something changed after I saw him last night.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “While you were talking to the deputy with your lawyer.”

  Scarlet crossed her arms, turning away from me and facing the broken window. “I saw him after that.” Her voice shook. “He didn’t tell me you’d been there.”

  “I wasn’t there long.”

  “But he tells me everything.” A sudden tremor went through her, and she straightened her neck. “Told. He told me everything.”

  I crossed the space between us and put my palm, tentatively, on her shoulder. I half expected her to pull away, but she dropped her head into her hands and began to cry in earnest. We stood there like that for a long while before she pulled her Miss Georgia persona firmly back into place.