Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  “Oh, Pastor,” she wheezed, clutching at me. “I’ve only just heard.” She pulled me through the hall, toward the front door, and my anxiety rose a little with each step. “That poor girl. I mean, can you imagine?”

  I shook my head, looking past Loretta, through the flung-open door. Her husband was closing the trunk of his car. When he found out, he was going to blow a good-old-fashioned gasket. As much as I wanted the killer to pay for what he’d done, I preferred for Peter not to know about my involvement.

  “And to think she’s one of our own.” Loretta put one wrinkled hand over her mouth, fluttering her fingers. “Was one of our own. Oh, Vangie.” She collapsed against me again, and that brought Peter’s attention to us.

  “What’s the matter now?” he called across the gray, snow-patched grass, and his wife turned her head, giving a melodramatic sob. I righted the woman, shepherded her out the door, and shut and locked it behind us.

  “Someone’s been killed,” Loretta spat out. “That’s all.”

  Peter’s bug eyes went buggier and he hurried down the sidewalk, looking around like they were about to get caught doing something naughty. “Who died?”

  “Claire Hobson, according to Irma at the sheriff’s office.” The old woman wiped at her nose and pulled away from my shoulder. “She’s Nikki Krantz’s little sister.”

  Those words struck me straight in the center of my chest. Nikki, from the bank. Nikki, Austin’s mother. I saw them practically every day. Her in-laws were regular members of my congregation.

  “Auggie’s widow?” Peter stroked at his chin. “Poor woman. She can’t be more than forty herself. Her sister must have been young. What happened?”

  “Irma didn’t say.” The old woman wiped at her eyes, shaking her head. “All I heard for sure was that there was going to be an investigation. It’s only just happened.”

  “I’m surprised Malcolm didn’t mention it when I talked to him earlier,” Peter said. He looked up at me. “You know Nikki Krantz, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I stammered, as the woman’s kind face surfaced in my memory. “I just saw her, maybe fifteen minutes ago, when she picked Austin up from the bakery.”

  “Oh, that poor boy,” Loretta said, fluttering her fingers against her lips again. “To lose his aunt like that…”

  “I didn’t even know Nikki had a sister.” I looked up as a car honked, and someone waved at me through the open window of their pickup truck. It looked like Danny Murphy.

  I waved back, holding my hand in the air, and marveling over the strangeness of life, No matter how much evil took place in the world, time continued its relentless plod. People waved from cars, people ate cookies, people complained about property lines, and the world just kept turning.

  Meanwhile, Nikki Krantz would never see her sister alive again.

  I shook myself out of the moment and put a hand on Loretta’s shoulder. “I should get home.”

  “You should go and visit Mrs. Krantz,” the old woman said, her brows arched high.

  “Nikki doesn’t attend SACC, though.”

  “But Auggie’s parents have been long-time members of our parish, even if they haven’t attended much lately, and Nikki’s not going to church right now. Who else will visit her?”

  “Her mother’s a Lutheran,” Peter offered. “Best to get over there before Tom does.”

  I paused with my mouth open to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. The thing was, it wouldn’t look good for me to go to Nikki’s, not when a box of my macarons had been found at the crime scene.

  “She’s at the high school,” I remembered aloud. “There’s a basketball game tonight, and Leo told me she was going with Austin.”

  “You don’t think she’d go to a basketball game after finding out her sister’s been killed, do you?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t think she knows yet.” There hadn’t been any darkness to Nikki’s features. No ominous pronouncements to Austin. Just a quick wave in my direction, followed by a direct path toward the high school. “She was at work until five, and then she came to the bakery to pick up her son. It didn’t seem like anything was wrong.”

  “Maybe the sheriff hadn’t had a chance to notify her yet.”

  I concentrated on the memory of Malcolm Dean in my kitchen. He hadn’t used the woman’s name, and he’d asked me more than once to identify her. Had he recognized her? Of course, I’d learned how much cops liked to withhold information to test your responses, so it was possible he’d known the whole time and hadn’t said anything as a test of my honesty.

  I wouldn’t put anything past Malcolm Dean.

  “I’ll tell Irma about Nikki being at the basketball game so she can let the sheriff know.” Loretta grabbed her husband by the arm and pulled him toward their car. “We’ll go by on our way to the senior center.”

  “I don’t want to stick our noses somewhere they don’t belong,” Peter said, reluctantly allowing himself to be dragged away.

  I couldn’t help wondering if that was really true. If I’d told Peter about the sheriff stopping by the bakery to ask me a few questions about a murdered woman, would he have taken such a highbrow posture?

  I waved at the Mayhews as they drove off, but they were too engrossed in conversation with each other to notice. I got into the Tank, ignoring the other box of macarons that sat, undelivered, in my front seat. The drive across town seemed longer than normal, and I avoided the high school and the B&B, taking the long way.

  When I turned a corner and saw the lanky, well-dressed form of Henry Savage walking along the side of the road, I couldn’t help the lump that formed in my throat. Part of me had known, when Malcolm came to the bakery, that I should cancel this meeting with Henry. No matter what he needed to say. But I hadn’t called. And now, I couldn’t drive past him without him knowing it was me. It was impossible to go incognito while driving the Tank.

  My kingdom for a Subaru.

  I pulled up behind him, and he turned, his face lighting up when he saw me. He had ear buds in, the long white strings hanging around his neck, but he pulled them out and shoved them in his pocket.

  “Well, Vic. Fancy meeting you here.” He walked toward me, coming around the side of the Tank and resting his hand on the frame.

  I felt myself leaning back into the seat, like he was coming too far into my personal space. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  “I was just out for a walk. Scarlet was being a pill, and I wasn’t in the mood to get yelled at.”

  “You don’t have separate rooms?” I pulled my brows together. “Isn’t there any escape?”

  “They put us in a suite,” he said. “Adjoining rooms…with no locks. Let me tell you how much that thrills me to death.”

  “Well, you could have worn a coat, all the same.”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t bring one. But I’ve been colder, wearing less than this, and still survived.” The smile that curved over his lips was downright devious, and I couldn’t help echoing it. He was amusing, if nothing else.

  “I live just up the road,” I said, pointing toward the base of the pine-covered mountain. “If you don’t mind waiting in the car, I could change clothes and we could have an early dinner right now. That way, you could get back and get some rest before your meeting tomorrow.”

  And I could ask you some questions about a certain box of cookies.

  “All right, but no funny business,” he said with a wink. ”I have a date later with an adorable vicar.”

  I nearly swallowed my tongue. A date? Is that what this was?

  Crap on a cracker.

  Henry walked around the front of the Tank, keeping those bright eyes on me, and the speed of my pulse amped up, reminding me just how attractive he was. It was easy to forget when he was sparring with me. Calling me nicknames, making jokes. It was a kind of flirting I hadn’t done in…so long. Even then, Edward hadn’t been half the flirt Henry was.

  He opened the door, and his eyes went wide at the sight of the whit
e box. He grabbed it off the seat and slid in where it had been. “These cookies, Vic,” he said, touching the plastic window on top of the box. “They are just incredible.”

  I stared at him unabashedly as he put the cookies in his lap, fastened his seatbelt, and pulled the door closed. There wasn’t a shred of artifice or shame in him. I had a radar for those things, and he did not act like a guilty man.

  “Did you end up finishing all the ones you bought?” I asked offhandedly, putting the Hummer into gear.

  “Scarlet wouldn’t let me,” he said, frowning down at the little confections in his lap. “I’m supposed to read for this role when I get back and she’s all up in arms about calories.” Henry shot me a slit-eyed, conspiratorial look. “Which is why this dinner of ours has to be an absolute secret.”

  “Secret?”

  “I’m planning to have pasta tonight.” His smile went wide and my heart fluttered. Just enough that warning bells started going off in my head. I hadn’t felt a flutter like that since Edward, and there weren’t enough sirens in the world for that.

  “I promise not to tell on you,” I said, tearing my eyes away from him and turning the last corner. My light green bungalow came into view, hidden behind the long hedge row that led back to a walking path, joining a larger system of paths that curled through the whole town. I turned down my driveway, looking beyond it to the sheriff’s house. His vehicle wasn’t in front of his garage, as far as I could tell.

  “Just let me change into something a little less caked in sugar, and we can leave from here.” I put the Tank into park.

  The curl of his lips sent my stomach sinking again. His eyes went dark with mischief and he nodded his assent. “That sounds just fine to me, Vic.”

  “I’ll leave the car on if you want to wait out here,” I said, opening my door and feeling the cold air wash over my skin. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

  “Right-o, then.” He passed the box across the console, but I stopped its progress, shaking my head.

  “Those are leftovers. I can’t have them in the house.”

  “So you’re leaving them here with me? What if I eat them all?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said with a smirk. “But don’t blame me if you ruin your pasta.”

  I had to close the door before the flirting got too out of control. What was I thinking, agreeing to have dinner with this guy? And it had turned into a date? I couldn’t be his pastor and his date. Not appropriate.

  At least he hadn’t reacted with anything other than pleasure at the sight of the cookie box, which put a stroke in the not-a-murderer column.

  It was just dinner, anyway. He wasn’t proposing. We were two people who were going to eat pasta across the table from each other. There was nothing in the world wrong with that.

  Nothing.

  Chapter 5

  The black-skirted hostess found us a quiet booth in the corner of the Madison Steak House—the fanciest restaurant in town. It was more tourist trap than steak house, truth be told, and it looked more like a set for Legends of the Fall than a legitimate modern restaurant. The walls were rustic, made of barn-door wood, and animal heads adorned all the prominent spaces. But it was probably the only place in town where we could get a decent plate of pasta.

  The closest Italian restaurant was the Olive Garden in Madison Falls, and that was not happening. Not only were the winter roads unsafe at night—especially the canyon on the way to the only major city in the region—but a part of me was genuinely afraid to leave town. Malcolm Dean wasn’t done with me, and I couldn’t afford to show even the slightest bit of nonchalance when it came to this murder investigation.

  Henry ordered a tagliatelle dish, musing about whether or not the pasta would be hand-made, and a glass of red wine. I picked the tenderloin with a loaded baked potato. I passed on the alcohol, but watched with interest as Henry performed the wine connoisseur’s ritual upon receiving his glass. I typically did not do pastoral calls that included table service and a sommelier.

  He glanced up at me, his nose still in the bouquet, and gave me one of those lightning-bug smiles. “What?”

  “There’s quite a buzz around town about you, y’know,” I said, playing with my small water glass.

  “What sort of buzz?”

  “Oh, just that you’re some big Hollywood star. Your own TV show and everything.”

  “Not for long.” His features darkened. “Scarlet says they’ll cancel us at the end of this year. Not pulling in the ratings we had last year, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” A strange desire came over me, pushing me to reach for him and offer comfort. It was a natural, pastoral instinct, and I had to check myself to make sure it wasn’t more than that.

  Henry Savage had crawled under my skin. It was partially his attractiveness—I was only human—but his sadness had struck me on a much deeper level. Even underneath his brightest smiles, there was a layer of despair so evident, it almost screamed at me.

  Henry was profoundly unhappy, and doing his best to cover it up with the whole James Bond act.

  “Something else on your mind, Vic?” he asked, taking a long pull on his wineglass, connoisseur’s ritual forgotten. “Ask away.”

  “I’ve been wondering…what the accent is all about.” I rearranged the forks into straight, perfect lines, aiming at nonchalance. “I mean, I heard you’re from here, and I don’t hear a lot of British accents floating around Saint Agnes.”

  His expression didn’t falter, but he set the glass down. “It’s called method acting,” he said, in the same accent. “It’s not widely known yet, but I’m up for a recurring role in a very popular television show… Let’s just say there’s an of in the title.” His brows waggled in an almost comic way.

  But he wasn’t going to derail me.

  “Because it seems like you’re hiding something.” I waited for the words to land, but he had either practiced not responding…or…was it possible he wasn’t hiding anything? Was I being too paranoid? I narrowed my eyes at him. “And the sheriff showed up at my bakery today, asking about the murder of a woman named Claire—”

  “Wait.” He held up his hand. “Claire? What’re you talking about?” Henry’s accent had disappeared, and his face took on the strangest, brow-knit look. I couldn’t quite place the emotion. “Claire Barnett?”

  “No, not Barnett.” I reached for his hand, gripping it. “Hobson. I don’t even know her, I only know her sister. But the box of macarons you bought this morning was found on Claire’s body…”

  Henry shook his head, closing his eyes like he was shutting everything out. “Who is her sister?”

  “Nikki Krantz.”

  His face went white, bringing more attention to the small dusting of freckles on his nose. “Nikki Barnett. She married Auggie Krantz. Barnett was her name when I knew her.”

  “Oh.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry, Henry. Did you know her well?”

  A flash of pain crossed his features and he continued to shake his head, like he couldn’t assimilate what was happening. He started mumbling, nearly inaudibly, and I leaned closer to try to make out what he was saying. No go. I looked around the dining room, which was practically empty, then pulled myself out of the booth and grabbed my purse. “Henry,” I said, nervously smoothing down my long, black dress, “are you okay?”

  He had his phone in his hand before I saw what he was doing. The strange mumbling had stopped, but just barely.

  I touched his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to register my presence. He pressed the phone to his ear without looking at me. I flagged down the waitress and asked for our food to go, handing over my credit card.

  Whatever was happening to Henry at the moment, it was obvious he needed to leave. I didn’t want to stick the restaurant with uneaten, un-paid-for food. And I wanted Henry to have his pasta.

  “Scarlet, where are you?” Henry hissed into the phone, his British accent reappearing. “Wake up and call me back right now. Some
thing’s happened to Claire.” He tapped the screen and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, touching his shoulder again. This time, he glanced up at me, eyes wide.

  “Scarlet won’t answer her phone.”

  “After the waitress comes back, I’ll take you back to the B&B so you can check in on her.” He just stared at the wall, a blank look on his face, but I decided to take that for a yes. After a stop at the B&B, I would have to take him to the police station. If he was this worked up, he clearly knew something that would help the police find Claire’s killer. At the very least, he could explain to them how his box of macarons had ended up in the hands of a murdered woman. A murdered woman he knew.

  Right after he finished explaining it to me.

  The waitress appeared with a little black folder. I signed the slip, put my credit card back in my wallet, and left the folder on the edge of the table.

  “Come with me.” I lowered my voice to a whisper, pulling on Henry’s hand. “People are staring.”

  That made his back go straight. He nodded and stood, pulling a couple of bills from his pocket and tucking them into the folder. He gave an awful fake smile and made some comment about always leaving a good tip.

  I allowed him to take me by the arm and lead me out of the dining room. The waitress followed, handing me a white plastic bag with two paper boxes inside. Our food.

  The ride to the B&B was almost silent, with Henry trying Scarlet’s phone every minute or so. He didn’t say a word to me.

  My mind was filled with dozens—no, hundreds—of questions, but I wasn’t quite sure what to ask him. It was obvious that he didn’t want to tell me anything about his agitation, but the change had been so dramatic…

  As we turned onto Mockingbird Lane, I caught sight of a familiar vehicle sitting in front of the B&B. My breath caught in my throat and I instinctively reached for Henry’s hand.

  The big, block letters of the word Sheriff were blazoned across the back of the tan SUV. I saw that vehicle every day and would have known it anywhere, even without the identification on the back. After all, he was my neighbor.