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

by R. L. Syme

  “I had just signed a contract to represent Henry when Heath Ledger died, you know. We watched the academy awards together that year, and he made a comment to me about how great I’d look accepting an award on his behalf.” She sniffed, not looking at me, wiping at her cheek quickly. “And I told him that I would never accept an award on his behalf—that he would have to be there, or the podium would stand empty, and he promised me…promised me, that it would never be empty.”

  She finally pulled away from me. Apparently, the time for comfort had passed. I was at least mildly certain that he wasn’t up for an Academy Award this year. At least Scarlet would be saved that moment.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked, taking a step toward the bakery and pulling the keys from my pocket. “I could put on some coffee.”

  “I don’t particularly want to talk to you.”

  Coming around to the front door, I could finally see her face, and she was a red, puffy, swollen mess. She needed not to be alone right now.

  “You don’t have to talk to me at all,” I said, pulling the door open. That stupid bell jingled out a painful memory of the first time I’d met Henry, so handsome and full of life, but I tried to push it down. “I’ll just make the coffee.”

  She reluctantly agreed and came inside, taking a seat in front of the bake case, near the coffee stand. I put on the pot to brew, and while I waited for it to finish, I got out the big broom and brushed all the glass into one pile. The floor-to-ceiling window would need to be completely replaced. Most of the mural was gone, although there were bits of paint on the jagged glass that remained.

  I poured Scarlet a cup of coffee, doctored it up for her with cream and sugar, and set it on the table in front of her. She was staring off into space, but I knew she’d eventually come around and drink the coffee. I tore some garbage bags open and taped them, one at a time, over the gaping hole left by the broken window. By the time I’d finished, Scarlet was done with her coffee, and I poured her another cup.

  “You would have been his next wife,” she said in a hollow voice, as I brought over the cream and sugar. I froze with my mouth open, ready to deny that whole notion, but she waved off my reply. “You don’t know him like I do. I saw the look in his eyes when he saw you. He would have pursued you until you said yes. He has a thing for cherubic girls.”

  I choked out a laugh and put the cream carafe and the sugar shaker on the table. “Is that a fat joke?”

  Scarlet shook her head. “No. That was… You have a fresh face, an unspoiled look. You could practically pass for Mandy Moore with short hair. He always had a thing for her. Those big, innocent eyes.”

  Subconsciously, I pulled at my hair. I didn’t like being described to my face. Especially by someone like Scarlet, who could so easily turn a compliment into a slice-and-dice.

  She poured cream and sugar into the cup and stirred it with the little red straw I’d left in there. “That’s part of what made me so mad about having to stay here. He’s still not divorced from Dara and he’s already picked out his new target.” Scarlet’s stirring hand paused. “Or, had.”

  I sat down in the chair across from her and tried to come up with a way to respond to that. I was at a loss. I don’t know that I’d liked Henry that way, even before I heard about the assault, although there was no doubt he was attractive, and flirty. But his next wife? Definitely not. Still, it seemed best not to argue with her.

  “The sheriff is convinced he killed himself,” she said, sipping at the coffee. “But you and I know he didn’t.”

  “And if he didn’t, then that means he was murdered,” I supplied for her. “And whoever killed Claire probably killed him.”

  “That was my thought, too.” She took a long drink, like it was alcohol or oxygen. “I need to find out who did it, before anyone gets wind of this and it hits social media or TMZ or something. That sheriff sure isn’t going to investigate. Not when he thinks the case is finally closed.”

  That was a problem. That meant it would be up to us, for sure.

  Us. I had never imagined being grouped into a category with Scarlet. Until about half a second ago, I would have said she wasn’t even on the same side as me. But apparently, we were slated to be allies.

  “Where should we start?” she asked, finishing her coffee and setting the cup down. She looked determined, which made me like her a little more than I had before.

  “I should close, anyway, and call the window guy to come and replace this. So I’ll have some time today.” I gestured around the bakery. “I wonder if you can get us in to talk to the banker. It sounded like he knew something about the situation, and I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet.”

  “What banker?”

  “The one you were using to open the account for Claire and Derek.”

  Scarlet scoffed at me, with a little shake of her head. “What account?”

  “That’s why you were at the bank. To open a secret account, to give money to Claire and Derek so they’d keep quiet about Henry’s kid.”

  “Well, that’s a lie.” She smacked her hand lightly on the table for emphasis. “Henry was in town to settle his mother’s estate and sign the final paperwork to transfer her house loan so we could sell that eyesore. There was no secret account, and I don’t know what banker you’re talking about.”

  “What about the money for Claire and Derek? For the kid?”

  “He’s been sending money for that kid for years, long before I ever became his agent.” Scarlet pushed up from the table, grabbing her cup and walking over to the trash can. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  All the air seemed to suck out of the room. Derek had lied to me, about all of it. But he had seemed so certain. Was it possible that Claire had lied to him?

  I needed to talk to Derek Hobson before he skipped town. If he hadn’t left already.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Scarlet dropped her car at the bed and breakfast, and I picked her up in front so we could find Derek. The address he’d given me brought us to a rundown shack in a row of other rundown shacks on the north side of town.

  The roof of the place was low and flat, and seemed to have some sort of metal or shine to it. This did not seem like the house someone would rent or buy if they had a bunch of money from blackmailing.

  I almost said as much aloud to Scarlet, but decided against it. She was in a fighting mood. I needed her cooperation—if I could get the two of them in a room, I might actually have a chance of figuring out exactly what was going on with the blackmail and the money.

  “His bike is here,” I said, pointing to the Harley sitting in the driveway. There was no other vehicle. “Let’s go inside. Follow my lead.”

  She made a disagreeable noise in the back of her throat, but she didn’t argue. Scarlet was unpredictable, and I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect of her behavior today. So far, it had vacillated between destructive and depressive. I wasn’t sure how Derek would respond to either one.

  I knocked on the door and heard someone call out from inside. In a matter of seconds, a shirtless, surprisingly ripped man with long hair was standing in the doorway. I had to look up from the abs to see that it was Derek.

  “Vangie?” he said, a little stunned.

  Scarlet pushed past him. “Why did you lie to her?” She disappeared into the dark room, and I could do nothing but stare at Derek, a little shell-shocked by her direct approach.

  “Uh. Come in?” He stepped aside, a little sarcasm in his tone. “You could have called. I would have dressed.”

  The sweatpants look worked on him. The house smelled faintly of dude, but it appeared clean. Spare on the furniture end, with only a couple of pieces in the room we entered, but there was no garbage. No messes. I was impressed. Not a lot of guys were this clean.

  But not a lot of guys had cleaned up after a drug addict most of their lives, either. That probably had something to do with it.

  “You haven’t heard yet?” I asked, ignoring Scarlet’s tappin
g foot.

  “Heard what?” Derek lumbered down the hallway and came back with a shirt, which he pulled over his head. “I only just woke up.”

  “Henry was killed last night.” I let the words tumble out, fast, and watched them land on Derek’s face. The stunned look on his face read as genuine, but I wasn’t sure if I could trust my instincts anymore.

  Derek paced across the room, passing a still-angry Scarlet, and plopped onto the green sofa. “What happened?” he finally managed.

  “They found him hanging in his jail cell,” Scarlet snapped at him. “But Henry wouldn’t have killed himself.”

  “Wait. Who are you?” Derek asked, looking at her with his head cocked to one side.

  “I’m Scarlet Jakes. Henry’s agent.” She looked down at her hands, pausing. “And his friend.”

  Derek offered his hand and introduced himself. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for two days. I even came by your hotel.”

  “Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve been busy being questioned by the police,” she said with a snarky scowl. “Sorry if that got in the way of your cash grab.”

  “It wasn’t a cash grab.” He put his hands on the couch like he wanted to push himself up, but then gave his head a little shake instead. “I was just trying to save Claire from having to do the dirty work.”

  I came around the green couch and took a seat on the blue couch that lined the opposite wall of the narrow room. It had the feel of a dorm room or a bachelor pad, with the distinct garage sale look.

  “What you told me yesterday in the car,” I said, leaning forward. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “Lie?” he said, face wrinkling in frustration. “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “You said Henry was going to set up an account for you two.” Scarlet came to stand directly in front of him, arms crossed, legs wide. “That’s an outright lie.”

  “That was what Claire told me.” Derek launched himself off the couch and went down the hallway again, returning with a piece of paper. “Read it yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  Scarlet took the letter and read through it. Her shoulders relaxed and she looked up at Derek. “So, you’ve got the kid here? Or is he at school?”

  His brows drew together. “Why would I have him here?”

  “You’ve got to have him with you. How else could she expect to get even more money out of Henry?”

  “More money?” Derek asked, his tone getting a little harder.

  “Hang on, now.” I came off the couch and stepped between them, trying to diffuse the situation, but it just left the three of us in close proximity, everyone on edge. This was a recipe for disaster.

  “She was getting money already,” Scarlet said, dropping her shoulders and facing off against Derek, through me.

  “That’s not possible. I have access to all her accounts.” Derek shook his head, leaning forward just enough to be intimidating. “She was broke all the time.”

  “Well, he was sending her money, constantly. When he told me about the kid the first time, he showed me the transactions. Said if anything ever happened to him, he’d leave everything to his son.” She narrowed her eyes, looking between Derek and me. “That’s confidential.”

  “Then why would Claire tell her husband she was going to get money?” I asked, turning around just enough so that Scarlet was at my back.

  He sighed and I could feel the tension fading. Grabbing the letter from Scarlet’s hands, he folded it as he walked over to the couch. He rolled it up in one hand and stuck it in his back pocket. “She had a tendency to lie when she wanted to do something she thought I would be angry about.”

  “Crap on a cracker.” I threw my hands up. “How are we ever supposed to get to the bottom of this?”

  “I know an easy way.” Scarlet crossed her arms. “Show me the kid.”

  “I don’t have the kid,” Derek said. “Claire used to go see him in California, but she said in this letter he’s here in Saint Agnes.”

  “He was never in California,” Scarlet shot back. “She told Henry he was with her in Minnesota.”

  “Then what was she always doing in California?”

  “She was stalking Henry!” There was a healthy dose of anger behind the words, and I was worried she’d resort to some sort of physical violence.

  I put my hands on her arms, trying to back her out of the living room. The last thing we needed was a noise complaint that brought the police. We had to stay off their radar until we had a better handle on this situation.

  “She wasn’t stalking anyone.” Derek came off the couch again, and I felt like I was in the middle of a very dangerous game of keep-away.

  “Oh yeah?” Scarlet said. “Then why did she always used to show up on Henry’s sets when his show was shooting? Henry would call me up whenever he saw her, and I’d come down to the set with a couple of security guys. She’d only back off when it became obvious she wasn’t going to get near him alone.”

  “Okay, everybody,” I said, putting my arms out between them. “Let’s all just take a deep breath and settle down.” My heart was racing and I was worried that adrenaline would turn us all into half-crazed fight-or-flight idiots if we didn’t cool off all the emotions in the room.

  “We’re finally getting to the bottom of this, Vangie.” Derek held his hands out, like he was showing me he hadn’t been hiding his brussel sprouts. “I don’t have the money, and if Claire had it, she was hiding it from me and not spending it. As far as I know, she went to find Henry on Tuesday so she could finally get some money out of him. But Scarlet says he’s been sending money somewhere for years. What was really going on?”

  The information swirled in my head, and I kept trying to remember everything Henry had said to me in the interrogation room and the jail cell. Had he said anything that could shed light on the situation? But why would he lie to me about it? Or Scarlet? That didn’t make any sense.

  The one person who seemed to have been lying to everyone was Claire Barnett. Couldn’t get around that.

  “What I really want to know is, where is this kid?” Scarlet said. “He’s not in Minnesota, or in Saint Agnes with Claire and Derek. Where is he, and who has him?”

  “Do you have access to Henry’s accounts?” Derek asked, his tone almost helpful.

  “Well, his accountant would. I have access to his accountant.”

  “Can you find out where the money was going?” I said. “Maybe that would lead us to the kid. If the kid even exists.”

  Both of them took a step back with their mouths open, like they hadn’t considered that possibility. Derek spoke first.

  “You think she made the kid up?”

  “Well, do you remember her being pregnant?” I asked.

  He had to think about that for a long minute, then he shrugged. “There were several times, when she was on a bender, that we were broken up long enough for her to have gotten pregnant and given birth. But I have no idea what she would have done with the kid. I always figured she’d left him with his father.”

  “Henry definitely did not have a kid in LA.” Scarlet shook her head. “We were together so often, I would have known.”

  I backed away from the whole conversation, trying to gather my thoughts. Everything was swirling in my mind, memories of conversations and glances and information, and I couldn’t make any of it fit.

  There was a knock on the door, and I automatically reached for the handle, pulling it open. A look of recognition passed over Jenna Van Andel’s face, followed quickly by a frustrated pull of her brows.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, a bite in her words. She carried a big black duffel bag, holding it up against her body.

  Derek ran up behind me, pushing the door closed and standing in front of it. “Just give me a second.” He slipped on a pair of shoes and slid through the door, closing it solidly behind him.

  Scarlet shot me an angry look. “Who was that?”

  My jaw flapped for a f
ew seconds before I found any words. Seeing Jenna here was like seeing your father at a Green Day concert. Incongruous.

  “Jenna Van Andel,” I said, pressing my ear to the door. It wasn’t very thick, so there was a chance I could hear through it.

  Nothing but mumbles.

  “Who’s Jenna Van Andel?”

  “They all went to high school together.” I waved Scarlet off. “Quiet. Let me listen.” I pressed my ear to the seam of the door, where I could feel just a touch of cold air leaking through. The sound wasn’t any better. Either they’d stepped away, or they were talking in such hushed voices it was impossible to hear anything.

  “With Henry?” she asked.

  “Shhhh.” I kept listening, but when the doorknob turned, I stepped back.

  Derek slid back inside, carrying the bag low in his hands. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize Jenna was coming by.”

  “What’s in the bag?” Scarlet asked, a tight look on her face.

  “Just some of Claire’s stuff. I ran into Mike Van Andel yesterday and he said that Claire’s family had packed up a bag of her stuff from the Barnett house. They wanted me to have it. I told him I’d try to make it over to Frances and Nikki’s before I left town, but—”

  “You’re leaving?” she spat out, zero to angry in half a second. “Your wife got killed and you’re just gonna skip town?” Scarlet advanced on him, her finger held out. “How do I know you didn’t kill Henry? Huh? And her?”

  Derek dropped the bag, stunned. “I did not kill my wife. I loved her.”

  While the two of them argued, I knelt beside the duffel, too curious to stop myself. Mike Van Andel had made a comment, back at Nikki’s place, about Derek coming around for money. A bag like this could hold a lot of cash.

  Expecting to be stopped at any moment, I worked fast, pulling the zipper open and the flaps apart. Glinting up at me, from on top of a folded, ratty Saint Agnes sweatshirt, was a familiar-looking knife. Derek’s hand came from out of nowhere, reaching for the bag.