Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  “Back at the B&B.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Scarlet went down for a nap, and I needed to get out and stretch my legs.”

  I glanced through the big, muraled front window of the bakery and saw Leo standing behind it, his arms crossed, staring at us. He gave me a crook of his head, like he was asking if I needed him to come out and kick some fake British butt.

  Henry followed my gaze and clucked his tongue behind his teeth. “That one has got a look, as Scarlet would say.”

  “A look?”

  “It’s what she says right before she pounces on someone.”

  “Well, that’s just gross.” I took a big step toward the Tank. “Epic gross. Leo’s only eighteen.”

  “Not like that,” Henry said, laughter lining his tone. “She’d want to see if he had representation. Hand out her card. That sort of thing.”

  “That’s marginally less gross.”

  “I really am sorry about the…” He gestured back at the bakery. “I didn’t mean to hit on a vicar.”

  I waved a hand, opening the door and stepping one foot up into the Tank. “Don’t worry about it. I’m only part-time at the church, anyway. It’s tiny. They barely use me fifteen hours a week.”

  “You don’t strike me as the vicar type.” He took another step forward, and I hugged back against the frame of the vehicle.

  “I’m sorry, but I really do have to run.” I inched my way up into the seat. When I finally landed in it, I reached for the door, but Henry held it. He had this look on his face…one I’d seen before. When someone needed to talk, but didn’t want to admit that need, they looked stoppered up, like a cartoon pipe holding back gushing water. A little desperate, but trying to hide it.

  “Well, if you have to run…” Henry released the door. “Would you mind dropping me back at the B&B?”

  “Sure. I’m just on my way to the bank.” I looked up to see Leo still in the painted window, joined by Austin. Both boys were shaking their heads at me in slow motion. But I had to make up for making him miss his appointment.

  “Great.” He settled into the passenger seat. “I really do appreciate this.”

  We drove through the small town, barely long enough for the Tank to fill up with Henry’s crisp, clean scent. Saint Agnes was a tourist center, on the edge of one of the country’s largest National Parks, and everything had that alpine look to it. The grand mountain vistas in the background dwarfed all the buildings, but there were moments when I thought I was in the Alps—or, rather, in a kitschy-theme-park version of the Alps—instead of in a little tourist town in Montana.

  Henry pointed to the auto shop on the corner of Mockingbird Lane, and I turned. Down at the end of the street, yellow school buses had lined up, waiting to be boarded by the students.

  “Is that the high school?” Henry asked, losing just a touch of his accent again.

  “Yeah, although it serves the whole county now. There used to be a school in Rolo, too, but they had to close, I guess. Now, all the students from three or four towns bus in to Saint Agnes. Bedford, Rolo, Four Buttes. They call it a co-op school.”

  “I’m right here.” Henry pointed to a Victorian-style, green-paneled home with a little sign out front that read Mockingbird Bed and Breakfast.

  The black sports car with the rental company sticker on the windshield sat in the well-manicured driveway. Neat piles of snow lined the sidewalks, and the streets had been cleared all the way to the curb. Likely by hand, given the precision of the rounded little banks.

  “Thank you for the ride, Miss Vee,” he said, opening his door. “Or should I call you Vicar?”

  “You can call me Vangie.” I pressed on the brake pedal and gripped the shifter, trying to ignore the little twinge of regret that he’d left my vehicle—and probably my life. Something felt unfinished, still. “And I am really sorry about sending you to Rolo.”

  “No, you were right to do it.” Henry leaned down, looking effortless and breezy. “She can be horrid, on her worst days, and today was…” His brows tightened. “Well, let’s just say, she deserved it.”

  “I hope things go well for you in Saint Agnes,” I said. The trick I’d pulled on Scarlet had caused Henry some grief, too.

  I was supposed to be doing penance, not vengeance.

  “Thanks, Vic.” All the tension released from his face. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. It’s short for Vicar. Somehow, Vangie just doesn’t suit you.”

  A tickle of amusement bubbled up through me. I’d never been fond of the name my parents had chosen for me. Evangeline, like they were branding me for the mission field. I’d chosen urban ministry over foreign ministry, and preferred Vangie to Evangeline and whiskey to wine. I excelled at letting my parents down.

  “I’ll answer to it.”

  “Look. Vic…” He paused and somehow, I knew what was coming. This man had something on his mind. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  “Probably reading sermons and watching Sherlock.”

  “Would you have an hour or so to chat with me? I’ll pay for the meal.”

  The words set off a little warning bell in my head. Typically, I didn’t make a habit of doing pastoral counseling one-on-one in restaurants. But being in the same room, alone, with him…that wasn’t safe, either. He was too…handsome? Charming?

  No.

  Smooth.

  But dinner was the least I could do. It was my fault Henry and Scarlet were stuck in town for the night. So when I pulled up in front of the Rocky Mountain Bank, I had a phone number in my pocket for one Henry Savage, and a promise he’d walk back to the Matchbakery without a coat, again, if I didn’t call.

  I walked into the bright lobby of the hometown bank, envelope in hand. Austin’s mother, Nikki Krantz, glanced up from her teller counter and motioned me forward. Our daily ritual.

  The woman was straight-up beautiful—the kind of stunner who drew your eye from across the room. I’d never met Austin’s father, Auggie Krantz, who had been killed in action years ago, but there was something to the adage that beautiful parents made beautiful children.

  I placed the envelope on the plastic pad emblazoned with the bank’s logo and smiled at Nikki. “How are you today?”

  Nikki Krantz didn’t answer me, clearly focused on her task. With elegant fingers, she began to sort the checks and count the cash, and her mouth drew into a thin line.

  “Have you heard?” said a voice from the next half-boxed, half-private counter. A pretty young blonde with a loose, low bun hovered over the top of Nikki’s space. “Henry Savage is in town!”

  My breath slowed almost to a dead stop. I tried not to let any emotion show on my face, but the little blonde’s eyes flashed when she spied interest.

  Nikki shook her head with a tiny exasperated sigh. “Tessa, you made me lose count.” The words were just clipped enough to get the other teller to back up, but Tessa’s didn’t stray from me.

  “I saw him in the bank, here, myself.” Her brows accentuated the myself and she looked around, carefully sneaking the edge of a smartphone over the top of the counter. “Don’t tell anyone, but I got a picture of him and that woman.”

  “Which woman?” I asked, trying to remember if Henry said he’d dropped Scarlet off before or after they went to the bank. Not that it would have mattered… Nikki looked up with another sigh. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you lose count again.”

  “No, you’re fine,” the teller said, moving to the side counter so she could tap the pile of checks back into order. “It’s been a tizzy in here, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m gonna put it on Instagram. Hashtag hottie,” Tessa whispered to me, drawing her lips to one side. “If Nikki and I hadn’t switched lunch breaks, I would have followed him and gotten his autograph.”

  “Wait,” I said with a shake of my head. “Autograph?” I’d guessed he was some sort of actor, but famous was a whole different ball of beans.

  “Of course.” The blonde smirked with a roll of her
eyes. “I love him in that TV show. The Western one, with all the pelts. He’s like a fur trader or something.”

  “Oh, Tessa, will you just shut up?” Nikki slapped her hand over the checks, then carefully offered me a consoling look. “I’m so sorry about that, Pastor Vale. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, no. It’s fine.” I raised my hands in apology. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve said much worse.”

  “Still. I don’t like to say those things.” The dark-haired beauty glared at the young woman at the next booth until Tessa slid off her stool and walked over to the little cluster of staff standing next to the drive-through banking tubes. “They have no sense of decorum.”

  I tried to stay silent while Nikki finished up her deposit, even though I wanted to sneak a few questions about Henry Savage in Tessa’s direction. I pulled my own smartphone out of my purse and set it on the counter so the bulk would hide my secret internet research.

  I opened the browser and went straight to Wikipedia. Sure enough, a search for Henry’s name pulled up a picture of a familiar sandy-haired stud. It looked like it had been taken at an awards ceremony—the white canvas drop cloth behind him was covered in gold words and a gold statue imprint, repeated every foot or so.

  His acting credits weren’t extensive, and it looked like he hadn’t been on the scene for very long. Until recently, he’d played mostly supporting roles. His current show, which had to be the fur trader show Tessa was so hot and bothered about, was called Bronson and he played a character called Tom Bronson.

  But a couple of familiar words along the right hand side of the screen caught my attention and I stopped breathing for real as I read his vital statistics.

  Hometown: Saint Agnes, Montana.

  Chapter 3

  When I returned to the bakery, a few cars dotted the parking lot. Second-hand, beat-up models that smart parents let their teenagers drive. Safe enough to protect the people inside, old enough not to be worth repairing if someone backed into them at the Wal-Mart.

  Austin did homework in the corner, avoiding eye contact with the girls at the next table. Leo was huddled behind the bake case, packaging something for a blonde about his age who bit her lip and rocked back and forth on one foot. He seemed oblivious, which was likely why he had such an extensive fan club.

  He handed over the paper box and went to the cash register to make the appropriate change. His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he came around the case, leaving the little blonde with her cash and her box of pastries.

  “That guy who was in here, the one who got in your car,” Leo said in a low voice. “Do you know who he is?”

  I set my purse down and took the apron he offered. “I do now. I didn’t when he was in here before.”

  “Turns out he’s some kind of big movie star.” Leo’s voice was low, reverent, like he was impressed, which surprised me. Henry Savage had never been on the Food Network and I wasn’t aware that Leo’s TV got any other channel.

  “Yeah, I guess he is.” I tied the apron around my waist, trying to forget how much I’d been thinking about that some-kind-of-movie-star. I did not add that we’d just gotten off the phone, fixing a time to meet.

  It was starting to feel like a dinner date.

  “He’s went to school here,” Leo said. “My mom knows him.”

  I grabbed a cleaning cloth and the vinegar spray and swiped at the counter. It was strange to be out-of-the-know in Saint Agnes. A big perk of pastoring in a small town was being privy to everyone’s everything. Yet I hadn’t heard a peep about the movie star who’d grown up here, let alone that he was flirty. Okay, and gorgeous.

  It unnerved me.

  I didn’t like not knowing things.

  “Did your mom go to school here, too?” I asked.

  “She went to Four Buttes, before the co-op.” Leo leaned against the back counter, looking out over the dining area, his face taking on the protective line from earlier. “It kinda seemed like he was hitting on you.”

  “I think he flirts with everyone, so I wouldn’t worry about me, kid.” I glanced at the clock over our heads. “It’s about time to close up. You have homework?”

  “Just Advanced Chem.” He waved me off the homework train. “It can wait.”

  “Then can you box up the rest of these macarons? I want to make a couple of stops on my way home.”

  Leo began constructing the little treat boxes. I started cleaning the counters, but the repetitive activity didn’t do much to keep me from thinking about Henry.

  I knew I should call and cancel. But it felt like he was hiding something, and I wanted to give him the opportunity to unburden himself. I often felt people’s need to confess before they even said a word, like they had swallowed something that needed to come back up and only I could see it.

  The bell dinged over the door, a little louder than usual from a forceful push. In walked the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-bearded cowboy sheriff of Twin Valley County, Malcolm Dean. Probably the last person I wanted to see.

  My hand clamped around the cloth and I took in a deep, soothing breath. Malcolm was my neighbor in the back hills, up against the mountain. He seemed to have taken an instant dislike to me, and the last couple of days, he’d been on me about using my cell phone out in front of my house.

  Okay, so maybe I was a little bit on his property when I was doing it. But just barely on the corner.

  Sheriff Dean stalked up to the counter, his eyes dead-fixed on me. I dropped my shoulders and stood straight, facing him.

  “Evangeline.” He gave me a John-Wayne nod. “I need to speak with you.”

  Leo was at my side in half a second. “Hi, Sheriff. What can we do for you? You here for the Matchbaker treatment?”

  Malcolm removed his wide-brimmed white hat, shooting a quick, annoyed glance at my afternoon help. “I’m here to see Miss Vale.”

  I held up a hand, calling Leo off, but he didn’t seem to relax one bit. “Can you finish those boxes? I’ll just be in the kitchen with the sheriff.”

  The sheriff waited for me to lead the way. I scooted in front of him, momentarily glad there were no donut jokes floating around in my head that might accidentally succumb to the typical Vangie blurt-to-relieve-tension.

  Malcolm Dean wasn’t one to laugh at himself. He took life way too seriously for that.

  We walked far enough into the kitchen to have privacy, but no farther. I wanted to be within sight of someone. Just in case.

  Malcolm set his hat on my stainless steel counter and reached into his pocket. “I’m going to show you a picture of a woman, and I want you to tell me everything you can about her.”

  I nodded, crossing my arms and preparing for mug shots. But when he turned his phone around, I saw a pallid hand clutching the edge of a Matchbakery treat box.

  My mouth went dry and my breath was hollow in a parched throat.

  A dead woman’s hand.

  My box.

  One pink macaron was still visible, nestled in white tissue paper. A rounded imprint cracked its perfect top. Like a fingerprint.

  He flipped to the next picture. Same scene, zoomed out. The box sat on the torso of a woman, just where her belly button might have been. A few inches above that, her shirt gaped open along a jagged tear. The edges were caked with blood.

  There were more gashes, but I couldn’t look.

  I had to grab Malcolm’s arm to steady myself, and the human contact restarted my breathing. He bent his knees, supporting me, keeping his arm tensed while I leaned on him. I realized I’d been pitching forward and righted myself.

  I didn’t want to faint in Sheriff Dean’s arms. It was just a picture of a dead body. And it wasn’t my first.

  He flipped to the next image, which finally showed her face. She had dark, wavy hair with frayed ends and large, soft lips. Her eyes were closed.

  Unfamiliar.

  “What can you tell me about her?” he asked.

  “I…I’m sorry.” I swallowed hard, releasing his
bicep. “I’m not sure who that is.”

  “Can you tell me when she was in here?” He flipped to the next photo, which was more focused on her face. Dirt smeared over one cheek and she had a gash on her lip. Light, yellow bruising mottled the skin around one eye and around her neck.

  “I don’t recognize her.”

  “But she was clearly in the bakery.” Malcolm flipped back to the first picture again. “This is your box.”

  “It is my box, yes. But she didn’t get it here.”

  “Look at her face again.” He slid his thumb across the screen until the frontal shot of her face came up. “You’re telling me you’ve never seen her? Not today or yesterday, or ever?”

  I took a step back, suddenly feeling crowded by his big body. “I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I’m lying to you.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Vale,” he said through grinding teeth, “but surely you can understand why I would be surprised that you don’t seem to know the girl who died with your product in her hands.” He clicked the phone off and stuffed it in his pocket, grabbing for his hat.

  “That’s Pastor Vale to you, Sheriff Dean.” I crossed my arms again, feeling suddenly protective.

  “You’re not a pastor right now.” His eyes swept down my body and he grunted, like that proved something. “Not that I’d trust you any more if you were. I’m speaking to you because a box of cookies from your bakery was found at the scene of a homicide.”

  “So I clearly must be involved.” I stepped back again, feeling the hard edge of the countertop press into my lower back. “I suppose you’re going after her clothing designers, too, and the people who made her shoes? Just in case they’re to blame?”

  “You’re blowing this out of proportion. I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’m just trying to establish the timeline of the murder.”

  “It sure feels like an accusation.”

  “I have to ask these questions, Evangeline.”

  I cringed at his use of my full name. Ever since our neighborly dispute, he’d refused to call me anything except Miss Vale or Evangeline, and it drove me insane…which, come to think of it, was probably why he did it.