Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  “What can I get you?” I asked.

  “Coffee,” Miss Georgia said with a bite. “Wait.” She held up a hand and took a deep breath, her movements exaggerated. “Is it…organic?”

  “Organic and grass-fed,” I said. A sing-song answer to a drama-queen question. James Bond let out a small chuckle, and I found myself meeting his eyes. They were dark, deep, delicious, and…totally married.

  I recentered on his wife. “It is organic, yes.”

  “You should really put that on your sign.” Miss Georgia placed one finger on the white-wood counter. “You know, we almost didn’t stop.”

  Now, that would’ve been a travesty, y’all.

  Grabbing one of the paper cups, I bit my tongue and poured the coffee, leaving an inch below the rim. Miss Georgia seemed like a cream and sugar girl. I passed it across the counter and waited for more ordering.

  James Bond slid a hundred dollar bill in my direction while his wife made a clip-clop beeline for the condiment bar. “Keep the change,” he said in a low voice. “Sorry about her.”

  “We need to get to Saint Agnes before noon,” she said. “If you’re not ordering, Henry, just leave the poor girl alone.”

  “This is Saint Agnes.” I pushed the hundred back. “And I can’t make change for this.”

  “I mean it.” Henry covered my hand, stopping the progress of the bill. “Keep the change. Lord knows we can afford it.”

  When I looked down at his hand—no wedding ring—and glanced at his perfect jawline, I felt compelled to pull up a chair and ask him to read the phonebook. But he was definitely married, ring or not.

  “This is Saint Agnes?” Miss Georgia turned so fast, she almost caught the open-topped coffee cup with her elbow.

  “It sure is.” I pulled the bill out from under Henry’s hand and clicked open the vintage cash register. No luck. Clicked again. When the old drawer finally popped out, I shoved the money into the till and cursed my sister for convincing me to choose cute over functional.

  “We’re right on the edge of town,” Emma interjected with a low giggle. “That’s why my shop next door is called Saint Agnes Agates and Gifts.”

  “Hmmmm.” Henry turned a thousand-watt smile on her. “I suppose we should have noticed that.”

  Miss Georgia approached the counter like it was time to put the kibosh on the flirting. “Where are the city limits?”

  “You passed them, back at the sign that said Welcome to Saint Agnes,” I said. “Technically, you’re in the city limits right now, but just barely.”

  “I knew we should have asked for directions.” She swatted Henry’s arm. “I don’t care if they did move the highway, your memory is a sieve.”

  “You can ask us,” Emma said. “Tourists always stop in, asking for directions since we’re the first place you come to. We’re used to it.”

  “We’re looking for a bank.” Miss Georgia drew her neck straight and delivered her words with and-the-Oscar-goes-to gravitas. “The Rocky Mountain Bank.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s down on Broadwater,” Emma said. “You’ll want to take a right at the stoplight.”

  “The stoplight?”

  “There’s only one.” I offered a quick smile. “Can’t miss it.”

  “So, I have to ask.” Henry lowered an elbow onto the counter and looked up at me through dark lashes. “What is this Matchbakery business anyway?” He picked up one of the laminated menu cards and read from it. “‘Let the Matchbaker decide for you.’ What does that mean?”

  Pulling the card from his hand, I debated a snappy read-the-rest-of-the-card answer. My little sister, a professor of interior design, had helped with the branding for my new business. At the time, it had seemed memorable—given that the small town would know me for my other part-time job and given that my mother had been a baker. Baking had been my only solace since…well, since Edward. Baking made sense. But the Matchbaker branding sometimes gave me the eye-rolls.

  I slid the card back onto the pile. “I…match you. To a pastry. Or to a coffee drink or a sandwich, or whatever.”

  “What?” Henry’s brows both shot up. “You match me?”

  “She tells you what you want to eat today.” Emma sidled up to me. “Like a psychic.”

  “I am not a psychic. Let’s get that straight. I just…”

  “She reads people.”

  Henry held out his hand, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “Read me.”

  I pushed at his arm. “I don’t need to see your palm.” This was something I got pretty often too. The urge to roll my eyes was strong with this one.

  “Tell him what he wants, Vangie.” Emma gave me an elbow in the side.

  But I didn’t want to Match him. This LA-trendy, over-attentive married man. He didn’t need more attention. He needed a leash.

  “Yes,” Henry said, drawing closer, gaze going darker. “Tell me what I want.”

  “I can tell you what she wants.” I nodded at Miss Georgia, avoiding Henry’s strange, insistent eye contact.

  “Yes, you should do Scarlet. She’s the one who wanted to stop, after all.” He took his wife’s hand and pulled her to his side, in front of the counter, the wattage of his smile dimming just a touch. He wasn’t used to being turned down.

  I looked up and down Scarlet’s body. Of course that was her name—it matched all those long, Georgia vowels and pretty, petite features. A little self-indulgent, but too worried about appearances to order a mocha. “Dark roast with room for cream. That much was easy.”

  Scarlet made a pointed huff and turned her nose up—a classic for a reason. She wore a three-piece tailored skirt suit in slate gray, thick hose, and black ankle boots with stiletto heels and the kind of intricate silver bead and buckle work that couldn’t be done by a machine.

  She didn’t have the too-skinny look of a woman who avoided dessert for fashion’s sake, but she didn’t succumb often. She was the type who would order a fancy dessert, like a macaron—which she would both spell and pronounce correctly—and let it sit on her counter, taunting her, until she couldn’t hold out any longer. Or it went stale and was no longer appetizing.

  I stepped behind the glass case and constructed a small paper box. Henry shadowed my movements, leaving his wife to stew in front of the cash register.

  “I’m dying to know what you’ll pick for her. She really is addicted to sugar, y’know.” He leaned on the counter like an underwear model and the edge of his accent tapered off, turning almost American on his last words. Interesting.

  I slipped a glove on my left hand and pressed a sheet of tissue paper into the bottom of the box, crinkling it just enough that it would safely hold the delicate cookies. Using my sanitary hand, I selected a small, white macaron. Perfect smooth top, perfect ruffled foot, filled with a vivid red raspberry buttercream.

  “They’re macaroons, Scarlet.” Henry glanced up, proudly, his accent back in spades. “You’re a macaroon.”

  “Macaron.” Scarlet corrected him at once, sharpish, and I couldn’t help but indulge the victorious smile pulling at one corner of my mouth. Another score for the Matchbaker.

  Three more small delicacies joined the vanilla-raspberry in the box. Rich whirls of color nestled into the ruffled white paper. A bright green matcha cookie filled with ginger buttercream—because she would want people to think she was interesting enough to like green tea, even though she probably hated all things umami. A graham-cracker-crusted peach pie cookie—because it would remind her of home. And a strawberry cookie dusted with sanding sugar and filled with a glistening layer of jam—because her husband would actually eat one of them, and he would want something that sparkled.

  I folded the box top—more of my sister’s work. A clear plastic cut-out showed the customer their “matched” treats, above the script-y signature logo stamped in a robin’s egg blue. Henry took it out of my hands and pulled out the green tea macaron, holding it up to the light.

  “These are quite perfect,” he said, fully back into J
ames Bond mode. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Oh, give me that ridiculous box.” Scarlet grabbed for the green cookie, but Henry pulled it away, his thumb cracking the top.

  He turned it over and over in his hand. “It’s more fragile than I would have expected. When I pulled it out of the box, it felt quite hard.”

  I took off my glove and stepped back to lean against the counter beside Emma. She sipped at her coffee, clearly not as intrigued by Henry as I was.

  “Macarons are made from meringue, so they’re very delicate,” I said, as though he knew what meringue was. “Hard on the outside, but soft on the inside.”

  Henry bit into the cookie and it crumbled around his lips. His eyes went wide, and he stared at the little dessert tucked between his fingers. “That’s incredible.”

  “Oh, come on.” Scarlet pulled on his arm. “We can’t be late. You have a call with Brad at exactly one o’clock. You know they moved the shooting back just for you and we have a plane to catch tonight.”

  His golden brows drew together with artful precision, and all the pieces locked into place for me. He was an actor. Shooting. Accents that tried too hard. An aggressively put-together wife. So much LA in one little package.

  Scarlet sighed and stalked across the room, coffee in one hand and purse on the other arm, not waiting for his frustration to ebb, swaying to some internal runway rhythm.

  Her husband picked up the dessert box with a rueful smile. “Thank you for these, Miss Matchbaker.”

  “Henry.” Scarlet stopped in front of the door, her hot glare igniting the last smoldering straw. “Stop flirting.”

  “I’m being polite, darling. You should try it.”

  “You always flirt with the fat ones.” Her tone was a touch too loud, like the head cheerleader holding court in the cafeteria. “It’s like you have a pork fetish.”

  Henry glanced over his shoulder, his features constricted, shaking his head in apology. Before he could say anything, his wife yelled out, “What street did they say to turn on?”

  My chest moved fast, breath rushed. I hated bullies. Maybe more than philanderers. I gripped Emma’s arm before she could answer and plastered on that fakety-fake smile again. “Take your next left. Then look for the stoplight and turn right.”

  Henry gave us apologetic eyes but no more of his melty accent. Then the bell dinged again, and they were gone.

  “Evangeline Vale!” Emma hurried across the room, stopping at the window and watching the car pull away. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  I pulled the bake case closed with a hard tug. “Justice was served.”

  “Holy crap, girl. They’re really taking a left.” Emma put her finger on the window, pressing it in between two painted red hearts. “There she goes.”

  I stood behind her, watching the black car turn up the road. An old, beat-up pickup pulled in behind it, headed in the same direction. Away from Saint Agnes. I watched until the black car disappeared into the canyon. “Yup. They’ll be at the stoplight in Rolo in about fifteen minutes. Teach her a lesson.”

  “What lesson is that?” There was a touch of sarcasm in her bright tone. She already knew, of course. It was the same lesson everyone learned eventually.

  Karma occasionally wore a clergy collar and called itself the Matchbaker. At least, it did in Saint Agnes.

  Chapter 2

  By the afternoon, the sun was starting to peek through the silver sky. It looked like there might be actual warmth headed our way, if the Chinook stuck around. The glint of a car window turning off the road to Rolo cut through the Valentine’s mural, reminding me of what I’d done earlier. The guilt gut-bomb settled in like a bad meal. Hopefully, Miss Georgia and her apologetic husband had made it to the bank.

  A familiar voice called out, “Sorry I’m late, Miss Vee,” and the bell dinged as my afternoon help pushed through the door.

  “You’re always late.” I flashed Leo Van Andel a quick smile.

  “Hey, Miss Vee.” Austin Krantz, fair-haired and muscled with Clark Kent glasses, followed Leo inside.

  “Hi, Aussie.”

  The quiet quarterback of the Saint Agnes high school football team slid his books onto the corner table without another word. He was serious and focused and used the afternoon to finish schoolwork while his mother finished her shift at the bank.

  These were my secret weapons. Two strapping teenagers in black letter jackets. High school girl magnets.

  Smart marketing, that’s what I called it.

  “What are we doing today?” Leo emerged from the kitchen, coatless, tying a white apron around his waist. His dark eyes always lit up when there was baking to do. When he’d turned eighteen, his parents had encouraged him to get a job in a field he wanted to work in, and I had been the lucky recipient of a pastry-chef-in-training.

  “Can you guys hold down the fort while I go to the bank?” I slid off my own apron. “We can work on macarons when I get back.”

  “Sounds good.” Leo slipped his thumbs behind the straps of his apron. “Consider the fort held down.”

  “Emma’s next door, as always.” I grabbed my purse and pulled out the little cylinder of Febreeze I used to cover up bakery odors that clung to my clothing when I had to go out into the real world. Not everyone liked the smell of baking.

  Freshly Febreezed, I clicked open the cash register. It caught this time and both boys snickered. The running joke was, the ghost in the drawer had it out for me. I preferred to think it was just finicky.

  Leo walked over and pressed the button that made the drawer pop out. “There you go.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I picked the deposit envelope from under the drawer.

  Leo was rinsing out the coffee pot and the water hid whatever sarcastic reply he’d made, but I wasn’t paying much attention. The significant wattage of a familiar James Bond smile smacked me like a hand to the face, peeking through the lacy hearts in the window mural.

  Henry stepped through the door, looking strangely pleased. “Well, that was a treat, if I do say so myself. Better than the macaroons.”

  “Macarons.” I couldn’t help correcting him. I gripped the thick strap of my purse. “Sorry. I mean. I really am sorry.”

  “Actually, I enjoyed watching Scarlet implode. She has a vein that pops out when she’s truly enraged. It’s like a ride at Disneyland.” He leaned on the wooden wall near the door, looking impossibly hot and—I reminded myself—indubitably married.

  “At least you were entertained.” I tried to walk around him, but he blocked my path.

  “Yeeeees.” He purred out the word like a predatory cat. “I was…entertained.”

  He leaned in so close it made all the fine hairs on my neck rise, and I found myself stepping back, even though what I needed to slip past him.

  “Watch out for her, man,” Leo called out from the back of the bakery, full of both warning and laughter. “She’s what you would call a vicar.”

  Those perfectly-manicured eyebrows rose right on cue, and Henry stepped back, nearly into the wall. “A vicar? Really?”

  “Well, I prefer ‘pastor’,” I said. “Since we’re in America.” And you’re clearly not British, anyway.

  “But…” Henry looked from me to Leo and back, his dark brown eyes confused and wide open. “I thought… Aren’t you the Matchbaker?”

  “Part-time.” I shouldered past him, ready to be on my way. “Thanks, Leo. Bye, Aussie.”

  If I told him the whole story, we’d be there for hours. What could I say? I came here in scandal and agreed to stay out of the papers. That would go over well in the gossip capital of the known world.

  “Bye, Miss Vee,” Leo yelled after me as I scrambled out the door. Unfortunately, Henry didn’t take the hint, and he stepped out right behind me, his shoes scraping on the sidewalk.

  “Now I’m the one who’s sorry.” He grabbed my arm. “Please, let me apologize. I get…” He tripped over the edge of a large rock that h
ad also appeared, along with the mural, but kept his feet.

  There was now a cluster of filled-in truck tires sitting against the building between Emma’s door and my door, painted in bright colors and thick with dirt in the center. Around the edges were some large, boulder-like rocks, filling in the gaps, looking like the oddest garden I’d ever seen. I shook my head at Emma’s decorating and stopped, letting Henry walk around me before he really took a dive over the thing. I owed him.

  “It’s fine, really. Leo’s just protective of me. Like a little brother.”

  “No, I shouldn’t have been…well…you know.” Henry stuffed his hands in his very fashionable pockets. “This afternoon with Scarlet. It just got me on edge.”

  “Is your wife okay?” I looked around the parking lot. “I don’t see her.”

  “Wife?” Another articulated brow-raise. “Good heavens, no. Scarlet’s not my wife.”

  I cocked my head to one side, studying him. My first impressions of people were almost never wrong—it’s what made me able to do the Matchbaker thing. I had been so convinced he was married, even when he wasn’t wearing a ring. Was it possible he was lying to me?

  Not that it mattered. He had a plane to catch, and I was not interested in anything romantic with anyone for a long, long, long, long time.

  “She’s at this bed and breakfast we had to find.” Henry nodded back toward town. “We missed the appointment and the man I need to meet had to get a crown put on at one o’clock, so we’ll have to stay the night. Meet him first thing in the morning.”

  A pang of regret caught me hard in the chest. “I’m so sorry for sending you to Rolo.” The words tumbled out like warm laundry. “I don’t usually do things like that, but she was so—”

  “Really. It’s fine.” Henry put his hands out to calm me, but pulled back quick like a big Vicar sign had flashed behind his eyes. “She is impatient on her best day. It’s part of what makes her a good agent.”

  I dug for my keys, focusing absently on Leo’s old, beat-up Datsun truck, and the Tank, of course. I didn’t see another vehicle. “Where’s your car?”