by Quinn, Lucy
“She was only thirty-two years old, y’know.” He sniffed, putting his hands on the handles of his bike. “It’s not fair.”
I finally gave in to my pastoral instincts and put my hand on his shoulder. He paused, dropping his head for a second. There was no pot around this time, so I was pretty sure he was getting emotional, not doing a party hunch. I stepped a bit closer and moved my hand along his back.
“Death is never fair,” I said, trying for my best pastoral-comfort-voice. I must have missed the mark, because he laughed.
“You mean murder, don’t you, Vangie?” He shook his head and lifted it. “That’s what the sheriff said in there. That they were opening a murder investigation.”
My hand stilled. I had already known they were investigating Claire’s murder, of course—I’d just been in the interrogation room myself—but it suddenly occurred to me that Malcolm might have said any number of things to Derek.
“They’re going to have more questions for me,” he said, wiping at his face. His voice wavered and he turned a key on his bike. “Sheriff asked for my alibi and everything. What kinda BS is that? Like I would ever kill her.” His lip quivered. “She was my world.”
“I’m sure it’s just standard procedure,” I said, parroting every TV cop I’d ever seen. Always look at the spouse—apparently, even if you had a potential suspect in custody.
“Well, the sheriff told me not to leave the area, so I guess I’m stuck in this dump for who-knows-how-long.” He shook his head at me, finally making eye contact again. “I can’t stand this place.”
“I’m sorry.”
His tongue moved around in his mouth, lodging somewhere between his back molars, making his lips curl over like he was thinking. He gave me a tight smile. “Don’t say any of this to Austin, okay? I was just spouting off. He’s a good kid. It’s his mom I don’t like.”
Nikki and Claire must have had a much more complicated relationship than I’d realized, because he hadn’t been just spouting off. There was genuine anger under there somewhere. Anger at quiet, respectable Nikki. The money had to be important.
“Thanks for talking to me, Vangie Vale.” He pushed down on the pedal to start his bike, and the noise roared in my ears. I backed up and he waved at me as he guided his bike out of the parking lot. He was a hurting man, that much was for sure.
Part of me wanted to head straight back to the Krantz house, but I wasn’t sure if the Van Andels would still be there. I didn’t want to have to talk about the situation with Derek in front of other people, however close they were to Nikki.
The door to the building clicked, and I looked up to see Malcolm exiting the office. His eyes met mine and darkened. He shut the door behind him and came out into the night.
“Evangeline. I thought I told you to go home.”
I thumbed behind me. “I was just talking to Derek Hobson.”
Malcolm’s brows came together hard, like bumper cars. “You know him?”
“No. He was parked beside me.” I dropped my hands to my sides in frustration. He was determined to think the worst of me. “He needed to vent about his wife’s death.”
“You shouldn’t be talking to him.” Malcolm crossed his arms. “Or do you just have a thing for criminals?”
“Don’t assume that he’s a criminal just because he rides a Harley.”
“He is a criminal, Evangeline.”
I hated the way he said my full name all the time. Like he was my father or something. And I hated the patronizing tone, which conveyed the message that he thought I was just some stupid girl who couldn’t handle herself.
“I’ve been around plenty of so-called criminals in my life,” I shot back, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. “And let me tell you, sometimes they’re better people than the so-called good guys.”
“Except this guy actually has a rap sheet.” His patronizing tone was back in full force. “So, by definition, he’s a bad guy.”
“Rap sheets aren’t proof that someone is a bad person.” I walked toward him, feeling my anger flare again. I hated the self-righteousness that bubbled up when people judged each other. Like they were white-washed. “People commit crimes for all kinds of reasons—usually desperation, not evil. So don’t you dare judge him.”
Instead of indignation, which I had expected, Malcolm cocked his head to one side and studied me like I was a puzzle with a missing piece. Something to solve. “You’re pretty worked up about this. You have a thing for him, too?”
“I don’t have a thing for anyone.”
“Derek doesn’t have an alibi for the time of death, and I know he was in Rolo all day because he was seen there.”
“Good, then, that makes him innocent.”
“What?” Malcolm reared back, shocked. “If we hadn’t already caught the killer, it would make him one of the primary suspects.”
“How? If she died here?”
His eyes went dark. “Claire died in Rolo.”
My mouth dropped open. I searched my memory of Malcolm’s first visit to the bakery. I was positive that he’d said the box of cookies had been found in Saint Agnes. Positive that the crime scene had been here, too.
“I thought…” I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing pulse, as the sheriff advanced on me again. I backed up against the hard edge of the Tank’s door. “I thought she was found here.”
“No.” He stopped, putting his hands on his hips, a confused look on his face. “Her body was found behind a gas station in Rolo.”
The breath that had been filling my lungs suddenly stopped, pulsing there as I held it in. A gas station in Rolo. I was afraid to ask which one, in case there was only one. In case it was the one that Henry had stopped at. I couldn’t process the information fast enough, and Malcolm took one step closer.
“So I want you to stay away from Derek Hobson. I mean it, Evangeline.” He grabbed my arm, but I wasn’t listening to him much by that point. I was still trying to process the fact that Claire had died behind a gas station in Rolo. With a box of cookies in her hands that had been purchased by Henry Savage.
And I was the one who’d sent him there.
I managed to nod my head. Somehow, I got into the Tank and started the drive home. Malcolm watched me leave the parking lot all the while, like I was in some sort of danger. Or like I was the danger.
But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the convergence of events. The box of cookies. The gas station in Rolo. The wrong left turn.
This was all my fault. Claire had died because of me.
Chapter 11
I didn’t sleep well that night, and by the time I woke up at three a.m., having tossed and turned for the last time, I decided I was up for good. It was pitch black outside, but it didn’t matter. I bundled up in my down coat and fur-lined boots and went outside. I needed to talk to my sister.
The lilac bushes between Malcolm Dean’s property and mine had turned spindly and emaciated. I crunched across the crust of snow that hadn’t quite melted yet, watching the bars on my phone for any sign of life as I paced next to the bushes, sticking as close to my own property line as possible.
Unfortunately, the mountain hadn’t moved in the night, and I still couldn’t get any reception. It wasn’t until I walked all the way into the street and around the hedge that I got my first bars.
Peter’s stark warning still rang in my ears. Malcolm had called the parish council, which meant it was an official complaint to my superiors. He could, of course, arrest me for trespassing. But I could be super quiet on the phone. He had to be asleep. He’d never even know I was out there.
I made a mental note to call the phone company about that landline.
There was a bite to the morning air, like there was snow coming. I wouldn’t be out for very long. Cilla would just be finishing her Miracle Morning—the program that made her get up at ungodly-o-clock—sitting down with her coffee and her success journal. My sister and I used to share a bungalow in Raleigh, North Carolina, and our morni
ng routine had been the same every day.
Priscilla was so unlike me, with her goals and her vision board and her desire to rule the world. She’d been doing this morning visualization and alignment practice ever since I could remember, and it was the most Cilla-esque thing I could imagine. I used to wake up near the end of her hour-long focus session, and make her another cup of coffee in the Keurig, and we’d sit at the kitchen counter and talk about our plans.
There were days when I missed her so much, my heart actually ached, but this was my life. I’d made my own choices, and it was time for me to do my penance. Maybe, at the end of all this very cold, very painful absolution, I’d get to go home and be the prodigal daughter.
One could hope.
I checked Malcolm’s windows for signs of life. I was still a good half an acre away from his house. The lots up against the mountain tended to be a little wider than they were long, and the houses were farther apart. Small favors. There’s no way he would hear me.
Everything was dark in the Dean house, and I took my life into my hands, pulling off one glove and bringing up my sister’s number. On the days when I was already at the bakery at three a.m., I could put her on speakerphone while I did my work. The reception over there was only slightly better. But I wasn’t due at work for another hour, and I needed to unburden myself now.
“Hello?” Cilla’s voice immediately eased the tension building in my chest. I kept one eye on Malcolm’s windows—thankfully, his bedroom was on the other side of the house—and hugged as close to the bushes as I could get. I’d done this enough to know where the hot spots were.
“Hi,” I whispered, going for a little noise as possible.
“Hello?” my sister said, louder.
“Shhhhh. I have to be as quiet as I can.”
“Vange? I can barely hear you. Are you out at that stupid bush again?” She was already frustrated, and it was barely five in the morning back there. Not a good sign.
I raised my voice half a click, still speaking in a whisper. “I’m in a little bit of trouble.”
“There we go,” she said, her tone easing a bit. “I had to turn off my audio book.”
More tension ebbed away. I could imagine the scene as easily as if it were right in front of me. Priscilla—whom I have called Cilla and Silly interchangeably since she was born—would be stretched out on the slate gray tufted chaise lounge in her home office, white porcelain mug of coffee on the side table, iPad on her stomach, eyes closed, listening to some self-help book on Audible. She had likely just returned from jogging around the Boylan Heights neighborhood, which I could still do in my sleep.
“What was it today?” I asked, smiling. “Tony Robbins? Or Tony Robbins?”
“Oh, stop.” Cilla laughed, and I cringed, wondering how far the sound traveled. I should have brought my headphones, but they often made me talk louder, and I couldn’t risk that.
A rush of emotion caught me by the throat. “I’m in trouble, Sil.”
“Van. What did you do?”
“I went on a sort-of-a-date with a guy, and he…may…or may not…have…murdered someone.” Halting the sentence to search for the right words did not make the content any less awkward, and my sister squealed.
“What!?”
“I know. I know. I just…I didn’t see this coming.”
“Evangeline Susanna Vale.” A healthy dose of scolding saturated her voice, and she was right to be mad. I would have scolded myself—in fact, I’d spent most of the night wondering how I could have been so blind. The sheriff’s revelation about Claire’s place of death had changed my thinking. There was a chance Henry was guilty. I just didn’t want to see it.
“Look, I’m not calling to vent. I’ll do that later from work. I need to know what your schedule is like today in case I need you to go in to head office, and I know you don’t check your email until you get to work.”
She took a long breath. My sister was not a religious person, and she really only tolerated my first profession, but she did it like a champ. While she did not personally attend a church, she had, on several occasions, been to the denominational offices with me. She’d struck up a rapport with one of the secretaries that had proven useful when I was going through my…relocation. I couldn’t risk calling anyone directly, but I knew that if Priscilla went in with her designer handbag and had a casual conversation with the fashion-conscious-but-budget-constrained secretary, there was a good chance she could get me the information I needed without the request coming directly from me.
In other words, there would be no record of my inquiry.
“I have to teach at ten,” she said on a sigh. “And I have office hours after that, until four, and then a client meeting, but I can go in before ten. I swear, Vangie, I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but you are sabotaging yourself at every turn.”
A light flickered on in Malcolm’s house and my heart almost stopped. Case and point.
I ducked down, but there was nothing to hide behind. I was in front of the hedge, so that wasn’t going to cover me. Crap on a cracker.
“I’ll call you when I get to the bakery,” I said. “Gotta go.”
I scurried around the hedge and hid on my side of the property, watching as the light came on in another room, farther toward the back of the house. That was Malcolm’s room, I was pretty certain. I flat-out ran for my house, trying to make as little noise as possible. By the time I was safely inside, my heart was racing so fast, I had to stop in the hallway to calm myself before I went back to the window to see if Malcolm had come outside.
With all the lights off in my house, I went into the living room, which faced my one and only neighbor. I slipped along the wall, peering out into the yard from the very edge of my curtained picture window.
Both of the lit rooms in the other house had covered windows, so I couldn’t see what was going on inside, but at least Malcolm wasn’t out in the yard, looking for evidence that I’d been trespassing. And thank God there was a Chinook on, so the ground wasn’t covered in snow—which it had been just last week.
Suddenly, the curtains in the side room of his house flew open, and the sheriff stood there with his arms spread wide, staring out at me. I jerked back, holding my breath.
Like he could hear me breathing. Ugh.
When I peeked back out, he was still standing in the light, but he was looking around the whole yard. He had on a rumpled gray T-shirt, and his brown hair had some fly-aways. I smoothed my hand across my own head.
Only he couldn’t see me like I could see him. My lights were all off, but he was illuminated against the dark by the bath of yellow behind him. I could see the set of his jaw. Yup, he was mad. He knew it was me, too, probably.
At least he hadn’t caught me this time. He couldn’t prove it was me.
I collapsed onto my slate gray, tufted love seat. The one that matched the chaise lounge my sister had back in North Carolina. They were supposed to be a set. Just like us.
I wanted to go home.
I closed my eyes and let the silence sink into me, thinking about what I’d done to earn my exile. It wasn’t something I’d shared with anyone else in Saint Agnes, and the only people who knew the reasons for my displacement were Priscilla, four people at the head office, and Peter Mayhew.
They’d promised me three years. Turn this little church around in three years, and I could go back home. Maybe even start moving up in the ranks again. Maybe get my classes back at Duke. Probably not. But maybe.
I certainly wasn’t going to get any reinstatement if I got arrested for trespassing. Or murder.
There had to be something I could do to help close this case. I felt too responsible to back away, now. I sent Scarlet and Henry to Rolo, and Claire had died. If there was something to be done to right my wrong, I was going to do it.
I’d come all the way to Montana to right one. I couldn’t let another hang in my balance.
I did half an hour of yoga, showered and dressed, and packed
a black clerical shirt and my white collar in a duffle bag. I had to work at the bakery all day before I started making congregational and hospital visits, and I didn’t want to be the Pastor Baker. Being the Matchbaker was bad enough, as far as reputations went. I’d been informed on more than one occasion that the idea of the Matchbakery was uber-touristy, which didn’t always sit well with the locals.
The customary outfit I wore to work at the bakery was a robin’s egg blue T-shirt with the Matchbakery logo scripted across the front in royal blue. The irony of those juxtaposed colors was lost on the Montanans in a way people back home would raise hackles over. It was my sister’s alma mater jab, and the shirt always made me think of her.
I felt fresh-faced by the time I got to the bakery, and I called Cilla and put in my cordless headphones while I worked. I needed to vent about the situation, and it felt good to chat with her, like we were sitting at the breakfast nook in our old house.
The pastry dough had been chilling in the refrigerator overnight, and while I chatted, trying to clear my head, I started baking up the few sweet rolls that I would need to have fresh upon opening. By the time I could smell the pastry in the oven, my sister had to leave the house, and I reluctantly put my headphones away. She promised to stop by the denomination offices, and I tried to keep my thanks on the effusive side. We agreed that she’d keep it casual, but she was going to try to find out if Peter Mayhew had called the bishop.
I lost myself in the baking. Baking relaxed me, and as I did precise measurements and lost myself in the morning prep, the yuck I’d been feeling all the previous day just melted away. I felt in control again. Right.
Nadine Winters was already waiting in my parking lot in her silver sedan when I finally opened the doors at six a.m. She was my favorite of what I called the “coffee ladies,” and seemed to be the one in charge of organizing them.
The coffee ladies were a set of widowed older women who frequented the Matchbakery every morning. Nadine’s late husband, Norman, had been a pastor at Saint Agnes Community for almost forty years. It was so unusual to have a pastor in our denomination stay at a post for that long. I had immediately latched onto her when I came to town, wanting to learn more. She reminded me of my own grandmother, and I often imagined what Norman might have been like. His sermons were erudite and thoughtful, so I pictured him as a white-haired, spectacled, reedy man with a perpetual collar, nose always buried in a book.