by Quinn, Lucy
Henry’s jaw worked wordlessly. He squeezed my fingers and looked at me, all the light gone from his eyes. “Looks like someone beat me to it.”
“What’s going on, Henry?” I asked, pulling in behind Malcolm’s empty vehicle. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t believe you had anything to do with this.”
And when the words left my lips, I knew they were true. It wasn’t just that I felt sorry for him, and it definitely wasn’t attraction. There had been a moment of such genuine loss on his face when I told him about Claire. Even a great actor can’t fake that kind of immediate, unconscious response.
It felt a little Benedict-Cumberbatch-y to say, but I just knew, in an instant, that he didn’t kill Claire. I often wished I was completely aware of how I knew things, like Sherlock was, but it didn’t make me any less certain. It was like the Matchbaking. The combination of little details told a story.
“They train us well, Scarlet’s people,” he said with a touch of sadness. “Don’t speak to anyone, once the police are involved.”
“Scarlet’s people?”
“It’s the rule of thumb in Hollywood. Never answer questions. Not from the press, not from the police.”
“What about the clergy?” I said, as he reached for the door.
“We don’t have any of those.” Henry gave a tight, unbrilliant smile and shook his head. It was the most normal, honest thing I’d seen him do all day. “Thanks for your help, Vic, but I should get inside to Scarlet.”
He opened his door and stepped out into the cold night, which had only gotten colder now that the sun had gone down. I considered whether I should follow or not. On one hand, Peter had made it quite clear that one more whiff of scandal—even if it was cell-phone related—would warrant a call to my archbishop. That would be it for me. On the other hand, I couldn’t let Henry face this on his own. Not when he looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Leaving him this way wouldn’t be the charitable thing to do.
I followed him toward the house, but just as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the front door of the B&B opened, and Malcolm Dean pushed Scarlet out onto the porch, holding her hands behind her back. She was clearly fighting him, but he had the same dark-faced, set-jawed look he always had when he was getting things done. I’d never seen him arrest someone before, but this was exactly how I’d imagined it going down. No nonsense. No drama.
Scarlet’s yell cut the air—a wordless, feral sound, followed by a barrage of angry half-understandable things. “…if you don’t…my lawyer…can’t pin this…redneck hick!”
The last words were completely crisp and clear, but they made no apparent impact on Malcolm. He just kept walking the struggling woman forward, holding her arms so she wouldn’t misstep when they hit the stairs. He finally caught sight of Henry and paused.
Scarlet’s yells turned more intelligible. “Henry! Henry, don’t say a word. Don’t answer any of their questions. Remember, you have the right to remain silent.”
The tall, suited actor had frozen in place on the sidewalk as soon as Scarlet had emerged, and hadn’t moved since. I couldn’t see his face, but his body language was that of a deer caught on a mountain road with a car barreling toward it at full speed.
“Henry Savage?” Malcolm’s deep voice thundered out in the cold night air. When he looked farther up the sidewalk and his eyes locked on me, his whole face went dark. “Evangeline. What are you doing here?”
“I’m…I just dropped…” I held up the plastic bag with our takeaway dinners, like I was making an excuse to a grade school teacher. “We came back from dinner when he couldn’t get ahold of Scarlet.”
“You,” Malcolm pointed one finger at Henry, “Get in the car. I’m taking you down to the station. And you,” he pointed at me, “go home and keep your nose out of this.”
“You can’t take him into custody without arresting him,” Scarlet yelled out, planting her stockinged feet in the grass so that Malcolm had to push her forward to get her to move. “Henry, don’t get in his car unless he arrests you.”
“I’m telling you, lady, I have questions for him.” Malcolm wrestled her forward, passing both Henry and me through the grass. He opened his back door. “If you don’t come with me, I’m going to mark you down as uncooperative.”
“Don’t go! He can’t make you go. You have rights.” Scarlet kept screaming at him until Malcolm got her into the SUV, hand on top of her head, and closed the door. Her words were drowned out by the glass, but she was still livid.
The sheriff rested his big hands on his lean hips and stared at Henry. “Either you come with me right now, or you come down to the station of your own free will later, but you’re going to answer my questions, or I’m gonna arrest you for what I should be arresting her for.” He thumbed back toward the window where Scarlet was still yelling.
“And what was that?” said the actor, his British accent crisp and clear.
“Murder.” Malcolm walked around the SUV and climbed inside. Scarlet wouldn’t stop screaming as he drove off, and in the silence of the Saint Agnes night, I could hear her angry cries long after Malcolm’s car was out of sight.
Henry seemed frozen in place, although some of his poise had returned. He stared at the ground, and I could see the gears turning in his head. I wanted to know what was going on in that brain of his, but the more pressing thing seemed to be that he needed to get to the police station.
I walked up to him, touching his arm with the lightest of contact. Henry’s gaze flashed to mine, dark and stinging with the hidden pain I’d sensed before. He didn’t try to smile it away this time, and moisture formed a sheen over his brilliant blue eyes.
“I can give you a ride to the station,” I said.
He covered my hand with his, providing a little barrier of warmth against the chilly air. “I should take my own car. I don’t want to make you wait for me while the sheriff asks me questions.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” I raised the white bag of food. “I’ve got your pasta, too, if you want it.” When it looked like he might argue, I bowled over his objections with a simple shake of my head. “I won’t take no for an answer, Henry. You’ll have to wait while Malcolm questions Scarlet anyway, and I don’t want you to be alone.”
I wasn’t completely sure why I had offered my company—or, rather, insisted on it—other than the fact that Henry seemed so listless and alone, so much like a little boy who’d lost his mother at the fair. I wanted to make sure he was safe, and that Malcolm didn’t intimidate him into admitting to anything he hadn’t done.
I’d read enough true crime to know that even normal people sometimes admitted to things to get interrogation to stop. Something told me that Malcolm might push him too far. I could do my Christian duty and sit with this man who was clearly in turmoil.
Finally, he gave in and climbed back into the Tank. Would it count as a scandal to Peter Mayhew if all I did was sit in the sheriff’s office and eat a meal with a man who might be accused of murder? Surely even Peter couldn’t spin something like that into an issue. No one would ever get wind of it, except the people at the station, and half of them were in my parish already.
I’d bring a few cookies inside to ensure their stomachs were happy. Something about the way Henry’s demeanor had changed had me on edge, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t do anything to incriminate himself, especially since I was so certain he was innocent of the murder. Whatever he was hiding, it wasn’t that.
It couldn’t be.
Chapter 6
The box of macarons was apparently an acceptable bribe because Irma—the department administrator—allowed us to dine on one of the empty desks in the back of the bullpen. Memories of visiting the precinct in Southeast Raleigh, or of the Durham police department made this bullpen dinner seem like a scene straight out of Mayberry.
My steak was lukewarm, but tasty enough with the creamy gorgonzola sauce. Irma warmed up Henry’s pasta in the microwave and the thick ropes of hand-cut tagliatelle steamed as he p
ut the first bite into his mouth.
Henry had been in a daze ever since we arrived at the station. Malcolm had already taken Scarlet down the back hallway into what was likely an interrogation space.
“Did the sheriff arrest her for Claire’s murder?” Henry said, his accent back in full throttle. He wiped his mouth with one of the napkins.
“I’m not sure. I guess they don’t technically have to arrest you in order to detain you, right?”
I cut the skin of my baked potato and took a starchy bite. The toppings were cold and I found myself wishing I hadn’t put it in my mouth. I pushed the plate away.
“Why would he do that?”
“Do you know Scarlet didn’t kill her?”
Henry didn’t answer right away, and he twirled another bite of pasta onto his plastic fork. “I know I was with her a good part of the day.”
“But not the whole day.”
“No.”
“Look, I have a feeling this is going to come out anyway, so I’m just going to tell you…” I put my fork down and crossed my hands in my lap, affecting my very best comforting minister posture. “The sheriff came by my bakery early this evening, and he showed me some pictures of the crime scene.”
Henry wouldn’t meet my eyes. He twirled his fork around, loading it up with more slippery tagliatelle.
“The box of macarons you purchased,” I said. “Do you know what happened to them?”
He shrugged, giving off the tense look of a little boy in the principal’s office. “I think I threw the rest away when we stopped. Or maybe Scarlet did.” He pursed his lips, finally meeting my eyes. “When you sent us up the road to Rolo, I didn’t realize it at first. I haven’t been back here in probably twenty years, and they moved the highway.”
A tight fist squeezed in my chest, like it was holding my organs hostage, but he didn’t seem to be accusing me of anything.
“By the time we hit the city limits, Scarlet was a mess. We had this stupid meeting at the bank at noon, and we were clearly going to miss it, only she doesn’t really understand the geography around here, so she kept saying, It must be just around this next corner. You know how that road is—I mean, it’s a winding mess, and there aren’t many turnouts.”
“I know.” I nodded, feeling the heavy press of guilt, and lowered my gaze to my half-eaten expensive meal. “I am still so sorry for that.”
“She really did deserve it,” Henry said, and it was obvious a kind of relief washed over him when he said those words out loud. “She always says horrible things like that to people, and neither of you girls are fat, anyway—not that it would make it okay if you were, but she was just…” He let out a long, weary sigh. “She can be truly horrid.”
“Yeah, but I should have just ignored her.”
“It’s not your fault, Vic,” he said, squeezing my hand. He picked up his fork again and tried another twirl of pasta. “Scarlet turned right at that stoplight in Rolo and kept looking for the bank, and by the time I realized what was going on…I was on the phone with my lawyers, and I just wasn’t…it wasn’t my best moment.”
“It wasn’t mine, either.”
“I’m choosing glass-half-full,” he said, raising the Styrofoam cup of water Irma had given him like it was a wine glass. He touched it to mine. “Because we missed the meeting, I got to spend some time with you.” His smile was dazzling and camera-ready, and it made my insides go a little jumpy. “Besides, we’ll make the bank appointment in the morning. I’ll be back in Malibu this time tomorrow.”
My internal trampoline-fest came to a screeching halt.
Of course he was leaving tomorrow. I’d known that all along. His job was in LA, and my jobs were both here. As much as I’d like to be on my way back to a beach in the morning, too, my life would go on, in land-locked Saint Agnes.
I cleared my throat, trying to clear the silly school-girl stuff that had popped up out of nowhere, and focus on the problem at hand. “So, did you stop somewhere and throw the box out?”
“Box?”
“The box of macarons you got at my bakery.”
Henry gave a little shake of his head, like I’d stumped him on that one. “I can’t remember. I think one of us threw it out when we stopped for directions.”
“Where did you stop?”
“We circled back to the gas station by the baseball field. Right when you come to that stoplight.” He stabbed at the pasta and put a bite in his mouth, guiding the straggling ends in with the utensil.
“Did you see Claire Hobson?”
That name stopped him mid bite. Henry choked a bit and had to down some of his water. “Why do you ask?”
“Because if you didn’t see her, then you can tell the sheriff as much. It’ll help convince him to send you on your way.” I felt a little heat rising in my throat, like the emotion of being cast aside was already catching up with me.
His brows knit together. “Do they even know how she died?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“I’m assuming that’s a yes, then.” Henry put his fork down, leaning in with just the tiniest bit of aggression. “All this for a box of macarons? Do they know for sure it’s the same box that I bought this morning?”
“I didn’t sell any other boxes of macarons today, and I made the first batch I’ve ever made this morning. So, they’re pretty sure.”
“But you’ve been giving them out all over town,” Henry said, pointing at the front of the room where Irma had the big white box open on the front of her desk. “How can they know it’s mine?” He stood from the rickety chair. “I’m going to get my car and find the box that I bought, just to prove it to you.”
He was halfway to the door when Malcolm Dean cleared his throat behind us and said, “And just where do you think you’re going?”
Henry didn’t stop right away. “I’m going to get my car.”
“There’s no need for that, Mr. Savage.” Malcolm stepped out from the hallway and into the main room, his arms crossed. “It was your box at the crime scene. Scarlet’s told us everything.”
The immediate freeze of Henry’s body was so similar to his reaction at the restaurant and outside the B&B, it was like muscle memory. Or method acting. I was beginning to fear there was no difference.
“What do you mean, she’s told you everything?” he asked, turning slowly around until he faced the sheriff.
“I mean we have enough to arrest you now, so I’m going to call the DA and then read your rights, and we’re going to book you for murder.”
The words hung in the air, like they were being held there by the three of us collectively not moving. He seemed awfully calm for someone who was about to arrest a dangerous criminal.
“What evidence do you have?” I asked.
Malcolm glared down at me, as if from on high. “What’s it to you, anyway, Evangeline?”
“I’m his…” I hesitated on the word date. After all, we hadn’t managed to have one—the closest we’d come was our dinner at this empty desk at the police station.
“His…what?” Malcolm asked again, a hard smirk on his face. “I have news for you, missy.” He pointed at Henry. “This one’s married.”
My breath actually stopped moving in my chest. It felt like my blood and the earth and time had all stopped moving at the same time.
He’d told me he wasn’t married to Scarlet, but I guess I’d never thought to ask if he was married to someone else.
I tried to form words, but they wouldn’t come. This red-hot humiliation was not new to me, and I could feel the press of tears in my throat, threatening to choke me.
“Vic, it’s not—”
“Don’t call me that,” I snapped, anger bubbling up suddenly. “You’re not British, and I’m not a vicar.” I held my breath for a long moment to keep the tears away, then rounded on Malcolm. “And why would it matter to me if he’s married?”
“If not, why would he matter to you at all?” Malcolm raised his brow.
&n
bsp; “I’m a pastor. It’s my job to stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.” I said the words slowly, in case he had a hard time processing them. “Not only that, but it’s a free country, and if I want to be here, I can be here.”
“Well, you can’t be in the interrogation room, and you can’t be here when I book him, so you might as well just scurry along home.” Malcolm gestured for Henry to come to him. “It’ll go easier on you if you cooperate, son.”
He said the word son like he was some ancient, Old West marshal with a shot-up silver star and a six-shooter. But he wasn’t. He was barely any older than me or Henry, and he was an elected official. I wanted to rub all that in his stupid face, but I couldn’t find the words. I was still too stunned by the news that Henry was married.
I should have trusted my gut. Something had told me he was married from the moment he’d walked into my bakery—partly because I was so attracted to him, and my lot in life was to be attracted to unavailable men, and partly because of the way he carried himself. His flirting had also seemed too casual, the dabbling of a man who wasn’t single but remembered how much he’d enjoyed it.
One of these days, I would learn my lesson.
Henry offered his hands, Malcolm pointed toward the hallway he’d just come through, and they disappeared into the back.
Would Scarlet be on her way out, or would he charge her? I still didn’t know what kind of evidence they had on either of them.
But I couldn’t help remembering the look that had crossed Henry’s face upon leaning of Claire’s death. It hadn’t been a look of guilt. He’d been shocked by the news, but more than that, he’d seemed profoundly sad.
He was certainly guilty of stringing me along, but he wasn’t guilty of murder. And if Henry hadn’t killed Claire, the sheriff had the wrong man in custody.
That meant the guilty party was getting away.
Chapter 7
I stood in the back parking lot of the high school, leaning against the front fender of the Tank, debating my better angels about heading in there to look for Nikki Krantz in the stands of the gym. Outside in the dark, it genuinely felt like I was arguing with heaven.