by R. L. Syme
Time to face the music.
I led Peter back to the kitchen, where we wouldn’t be seen if someone walked in. He stood in front of me, his back to the dining room, hands clasped behind his back.
“Part of your commission here was supposed to be reconciliation for what happened in Raleigh,” he said, not meeting my eyes on that last part. “And I thought I should tell you that, last week, when we thought you were involved in criminal behavior, I called the bishop in North Carolina.”
With a long breath, I nodded. “I expected you might.” He certainly didn’t need to know about my sister’s recon mission.
“But last Friday, when I spoke to him again, I learned a little more about the terms of your probation.”
“They didn’t tell you when I arrived?” I was surprised. They’d told me that at least one person on the council would know, and I’d assumed, given his cryptic comments, that someone was Peter.
“They just said you were involved in an incident in the church, and that you opted for reconciliation with the denomination rather than termination.”
My eyes went wide. That was the official story we’d issued when I left my church in Durham, but it was a vast oversimplification. There had been a lot of moving parts, a lot of people involved, and when the denomination had stepped in, the reconciliation had been required in order for me to remain a clergyperson.
“And what did he tell you on Friday?” I asked, leaning against the prep counter, fidgeting with one of the dings.
“He told me about Edward Archer. About what he did.”
My stomach tightened. Emotion gripped at my throat. I hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in months. Not even my sister said it anymore.
“And you didn’t know that before?”
“I didn’t.”
I nodded, shifting my weight from side to side. “I guess you know why I have such a problem with Mark Findlay, then.”
“I can see that, indeed. I find it strange that your bishop would request a posting in a church that’s recovering from an infidelity scandal when you were involved in one at your old parish.” He removed his glasses and set them on the silver counter with a clink. “But this is also the perfect place for you.”
“It is?” It was the last thing I’d expected him to say.
“Yes. God makes all things new, does He not?” His smile was fatherly, or maybe grandfatherly. He pulled a piece of paper out of the front inside pocket of his suit coat. “The Board has decided to offer you a new contract, Pastor Vangie. We’ve taken out all of the behavior clauses, in favor of a six-month review.”
“Won’t that be coming up next month?” I asked as he handed me the paper.
“Roughly mid-April, so we have a bit of time.”
I read the first page of the contract, which contained most of the changes, outlined in red font. The first contract I had signed with Saint Agnes Community Church had been full of Big Bother clauses requiring that I agree to consistent behavior reviews by the Board, the local bishop, and my bishop in North Carolina. A highly irregular contract, in my experience.
Tears settled in the corners of my eyes. I sniffed them back as I folded the contract back up and set it on the counter in front of me.
“What brought this on?” I asked. “If you know what happened with Edward and Melissa, then you know I wasn’t without fault. I would think you would go in the opposite direction. Make me report more often, have more behavior restrictions.”
“Your bishop agreed the fault wasn’t entirely yours, and even that the denomination bore some responsibility for not better equipping you for success. Given how small Saint Agnes is, we felt there would be more accountability built into the framework of the church. Not less.”
I blinked at him, finally able to do so without tears falling. “Thank you, Peter. And thank the Board for me.”
“Certainly. We’ll all convene at the next council meeting. They won’t know any more about the situation than they currently know, both to protect you and to protect the reputation of the church. But we will be dropping the provisions on your contract, effective immediately.” He replaced his glasses. “Provided there are no more shootings in your bakery.”
I couldn’t help a little smile at that comment. “I didn’t plan on that.”
“No, you didn’t, and it’s brought a little more attention to our town than we would like, but you’ve been wise to stay away from all these reporters.” He pointed to the contract. “You get that back to me as soon as you can.”
I put the papers in my purse and Peter showed himself out. When the bell dinged again, I looked up, but he’d gone. Emma Brent was standing in front of my beautiful, new window, with her paints spread out on a little table in front of her.
The urge to roll my eyes was real.
Instead, I grabbed my coat and walked outside. Peter’s car made a little burbling noise as it pulled out of the parking lot, and I stood beside Emma, looking at the pristine glass.
“You’re going to ruin my brand new window with another tourist mural?”
“The last one was a hit.” She bent down to pick up a brush from a piece of canvas she’d spread on the ground. “Get it? Hit? Cuz it got h—”
“I got it. I got it.” I allowed myself the eyeroll. “Is this going to be a regular thing?”
“Come on, Vangie.” Emma dipped her square, foam brush into one of the paint cans and came away with a vibrant blue. “You’ve got to be willing to do a little kitsch to pull in the tourists around here. They need a reason to stop.”
“That’s what my sister said when she talked me into the Matchbakery thing, you know.” I thrust my hands into my pockets as protection from the cold air. “The two of you are peas in a pod.”
“I’d like to meet her sometime,” Emma said, a somewhat somber note in her voice. “Priscilla.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will. She’s probably going to catch a plane up to Madison Falls over her spring break. It was all I could do to keep her away after the shooting.”
“It’s nice, y’know.” Emma stopped painting and a little glob of blue collected in her paused stroke. “That your family cares about you so much. Not everyone has that.”
I bit my bottom lip. I knew it was true, but I hated to acknowledge it. There had been little joy, since the shooting. Emma’s husband had gone off somewhere again, and they still hadn’t caught Stefan Van Andel. Or found his body. Whichever would come first. Austin still didn’t know who his real father was, and I wasn’t sure he would ever want to know. None of the choices would give him what he was looking for. A real family.
There would be a long trial, and I would be expected to testify, which meant I’d have to see Nikki and Frances again, in the flesh. I wasn’t wild about that. Derek was still grappling with the details of Claire’s estate—they were working on the whole mess of where the money had been kept and who would get it. And Austin would be with his aunt until he graduated. Leo had texted me on Wednesday to ask for another week off. I’d given it to him, of course, promising his job would always be waiting for him. But deep inside, I knew I’d have to find other help if I couldn’t get Leo back.
I didn’t want that.
I wanted what everyone wanted, in the wake of a tragedy. I wanted my normal life back. But normal didn’t exist in the same way anymore. Not for any of us. I’d never be able to look at my window without seeing it broken and covered in trash bags. I’d never be able to look at Leo or Austin without flashing back, at least briefly, to the memory of laying on my bakery floor, bleeding and passing out from shock.
“I’m sure you’ll get along with Priscilla,” I said, forcing a smile and a happy thought. Emma and my sister were a lot alike, and it would be fun to see them meet for the first time. “She would certainly approve of what you’re doing with my hair these days.” I touched the longer sides of my pixie cut, looking in the window for our reflection.
A truck horn honked, and I turned around to see someone waving. Someone I was
n’t totally sure I knew. It made me smile. That was Saint Agnes, for you. It reminded me of the old adage about never meeting a stranger. There were no strangers in this town, even when there were. I liked that.
I watched Emma paint, until it got too cold for me and I had to go back inside. But the mural continued to take shape on the window. Blue skies, white-dotted clouds, green trees on a mountain with snow caps. It was the best of Saint Agnes.
It was starting to feel like home.
—————————————
Thank you for reading!
Keep turning pages for the Big Sky Bakery recipe for the murdered macaron, and a link to the next Matchmaker Mysteries book…
COMING SOON!
Vangie Vale and the Corpseless Custard
by R.L. Syme
Releasing September 15, 2017. Click here to get an excerpt of The Corpseless Custard and read about Vangie’s next adventure.
Vangie Vale and the Strangled Strudel
by R.L. Syme
Releasing November 15, 2017.
Get news on this and future Matchbaker Mysteries books by signing up for the R.L. Syme newsletter here!
The Murdered Macaron Recipe
For the cookies:
142 grams confectioner's sugar
115 grams fine almond flour
89 grams room temperature egg whites
71 grams granulated sugar
1 T. matcha green tea powder
pinch cream of tartar
For the filling:
1 1/2 sticks softened butter
4 ounces sour cream
1 cup powdered sugar
3 teaspoons grated ginger
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup chopped crystallized ginger
Make sure you weight all of the ingredients (even the egg whites), instead of using cups and teaspoons as measurement. Those are less precise than the weight measurements, and precision is super important with these cookies.
In a food processor, combine the almond flour, confectioner's sugar, and matcha powder. Grind together until it's a fine, incorporated powder. Sift into a large bowl (if there's a lot of large material left, then grind again, and keep sifting).
In a silver mixing bowl, begin whipping the egg whites and cream of tartar, starting on a low speed, and gradually increasing. Slowly pour in the granulated sugar, allowing them to incorporate together. If you'd like your macarons to be more green than they will be with the matcha, put a couple drops of green gel food coloring in the mix (not liquid--gel only), but I like the light green color, so it's up to you. Once the egg whites form stiff peaks, put the dry ingredients in and fold them. until they are just incorporated, and there are no streaks left. But don't over-fold. It's a delicate balance.
Transfer to a piping bag and pipe out little 1/2" circles (with about an inch between them) either on parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Once they're all piped out, smack the cookie sheet onto your counter a few times to get rid of any air bubbles in the cookies, then leave the cookies out on the counter for about twenty minutes, until the cookies have a bit of a crust.
Preheat the oven to 350. Once the cookies have formed their crust, cook for 10-12 minutes, watching not to over-bake (and be careful of altitude--if you're at higher altitude, the air is thinner, so that affects your bake time). Take out the cookies and let them cool. Do not fill before they're cool.
For filling, whip the butter in a standing mixer until it's creamy. Add the powdered sugar, slowly, until it's thick, then add the sour cream. Add the grated ginger, cardamom, and cinnamon, and mix until incorporated. Mix in the crystallized ginger. Pipe into the center of the cookies and sandwich them together, checking for size fit with each cookie.
Eat and enjoy!
Afterword
If you loved Saint Agnes as much as I did, have no fear, it will return in future books. The Matchbakery and Vangie Vale will be back. For those of you who love Montana, I want to say, as a born-and-raised Montanan, it really is as amazing as we all write. There’s a reason it’s one of the highest-selling locations in fiction.
Because I’ve had questions about the level of fact and fiction in this book, I wanted to address a few things.
I have been to Seminary. I have been a pastor. I am not Vangie Vale, and she is not me. She is not based on anyone. She is not a stand-in for anyone. She is her own unique person, and I’m not just saying that because I think that’s what you want to hear. I’m saying it because I intentionally did not make her into me. I am not that interesting.
The Saint Agnes Community Church, and all the people who attend there, are also not based on any church I’ve ever attended or worked in. Neither is Peter or the bishop, or any one character. I have intentionally not made them out of real people, because a lot of ministry is confidential, and I want to be very careful not to write things that are someone else’s story to tell.
Saint Agnes, the town, is probably the best example of this “mosaic” of reality and fantasy. Those of you who are looking for the “real” Saint Agnes, as though it was a real place, will be sadly disappointed to learn that it’s nowhere. And everywhere. I took elements of six different Montana towns specifically when I made Saint Agnes. There are pieces of West Yellowstone and Gardiner (which are both entrances of Yellowstone National Park) and pieces of Saint Mary’s (which is one of the entrances for Glacier National Park), and there’s a little bit of Plentywood (the town where I grew up) and there’s a little bit of Belgrade and Livingston (towns on either side of where I currently live). Rolo is a similar conglomeration. So is Bedford. And so is Four Buttes. While I want to keep them “based on” real towns, because I have a lot of local experience, I specifically did not want any one town to be any one town.
The exception, in this book, at least, is Madison Falls, which is unapologetically a stand-in for the city of Bozeman, where I currently live. And the coffee shop Vangie goes to is the coffee shop I go to, where the baristas call out hello when you walk in the door, and where they know my name. This is my one, unapologetic one-to-one reality. I really do get the Glacier Chai with a triple shot of espresso, and it really is sweet and smoky and divine.
I love Montana. I will always love Montana, and I want these books to be a reflection of how much I love Montana. I hope that the way I write Montana makes you want to be here as much as I do.
There are many more murders per-capita in my fictional Montana than in the real version, where I have been a pastor and never once been part of a murder investigation.
I have also chosen not to make Vangie any one particular denomination. While there are denominations that do not ordain women, for their own theological purposes, I have also chosen not to address that issue in this book. I don’t want this book to be a political or theological statement. I just want to write pastors as they really are. Flawed, interesting, humble, proud, overbearing, kindhearted, self-centered, giving, sinful, glorious…complex human beings.
Because that’s who they are, in reality.
In later books, Vangie will be continuing to solve crimes and match-bake, and I hope you will join me for all the future mysteries set in Saint Agnes and parts as yet unknown…
-R.L. (Becca) Syme
Acknowledgments
I have to start, like I did in the dedication, by acknowledging how big a part my mother played in making this book series a reality. Not only did she introduce me to Nancy Drew as a very young kid—which has been the basis for my love of mystery novels from the age I was able to read them—but she is also the one who watches Sherlock and Midsomer Mysteries and Grantchester and Father Brown, and asks me, “have you seen the one where…?” Not only was she my high school English teacher, but she was the one who encouraged me to start writing books when I lost my job. She has always been my biggest fan.
She is my superpower.
My parents have both invested, literally and figuratively, in this series and in my ca
reer, and I could not be more blessed to have them as my parents. There are tears in my eyes as I write this. I do not deserve them, in any sense of any version of justice in this world. I love them so much for their unconditional and, at times, radically irrational love for me.
Also, any set of acknowledgments of mine has to include the women who write with me, and who encourage me daily—the women who quite literally thought Vangie into existence with me, sitting in a hotel conference room in Boulder, Colorado in 2016. Jodi, Krystal, KC… this one is for you.
And of course, I have to acknowledge my own Seminary cohort: Cohort J, from Bethel Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota. All of you—my classmates and my professors—played a part in seeing Vangie come to fruition. Vangie is not me. And I am not Vangie. Vangie is also not any of you. She has a little piece of several people I know, and a little (very little) part of me. But Vangie is all of us. All of us who went to Seminary, and who want to see God made real in this world, but who may or may not go about it the same way.
My theology professors clearly never saw this book coming. But I hope they enjoy it, anyway. A special thanks to Dr. Ferris, whose extreme love for the Old Testament made me see it in a new way. And to Dr. Irving, who teaches and embodies servant leadership in a way I always aspire to emulate. And to Dr. Lawrence and Dr. Nah, whose systematic theology classes blew my mind in the absolute best of ways. And to Dr. McCloskey, whose consult on my statement of faith literally changed my life.
The staff and pastors I have served and worked with over the years have all informed how I write clergy. Lynn Baker-Dooley, Dave McConnell, BJ Otey, Jared Little, Paul Utnage, Nicole Yenter, Chris Dooley, Gary Cook, Scott Makoutz, Jason Bowker, Daniel Hartzheim, Kay Lansverk, and so many others have given so much of their respective lives in service. I’m honored to know and have worked with all of you. And to all of the lay leaders and elders who have run boards and ministries that I’ve been a part of in the past, you all inspire me to truth and love and justice.
