by Quinn, Lucy
So unlike the man who’d followed him.
Norman’s widow was the epitome of a small-town busybody, but she would have made a great pastor’s wife. As the other ladies started to arrive, she herded them to their customary table, bussing the coffee cups herself, pouring coffee, making orders. She was a marvel.
By the time I brought out the first tray of steaming pastries, they had all arrived and taken up residence in the corner table—the perfect place for inconspicuously spying on the patrons who entered, but thankfully, not in the direct path of the kitchen, so they couldn’t spy on me. The table was nestled against the packaged goods case, which held the breads, buns, rolls, and cookies that I kept stocked for customers—some fresh that day, some not. That corner rarely got traffic during the morning breakfast time, which was mostly farmers and ranchers on their way to the field or range, the coffee ladies, and the occasional couple who’d come in for a treat.
The coffee ladies’ normal routine was to include me in the gossip of the day, which I usually tried my best to avoid. This morning, however, it was obvious they were talking about me—when I approached with their food, they all quickly zipped their lips.
I set down a plate in front of each of them, trying to maintain my distance, knowing they wanted to get back to their gossip, but something struck me. Between the five of them, they probably represented the full history of Saint Agnes. They had certainly been around long enough to know a thing or two about Claire Hobson.
With my best, brightest smile, I asked about the coffee. I got very little response—they weren’t coffee connoisseurs, not like Scarlet had been—but it at least got them talking. Still, not one of them had made eye contact.
I put the serving tray under my arm and shook my head. “Okay, ladies. You’ve obviously heard some gossip about me. I want you to spill it right now.”
All their eyes went wide, like white rims around little colored saucers. Nadine finally smiled, setting down her coffee cup, and gave me a direct look.
“There was a murder over in Rolo yesterday, and I’ve heard—that is to say, we’ve heard—that you were involved, somehow.”
I released a low sigh, keeping my smile. “Well, not directly involved.”
“Oh, no,” giggled one of the ladies—I still hadn’t memorized all of their names. “You didn’t commit the murder, of course.”
“We just meant, your name came up in the investigation,” said another, over a sip from her mug.
“Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?” I said, soldiering on past their insinuations.
“Ask away, dear.” Nadine offered me a polite smile, and they all gave me their attention.
“Did any of you know Claire Hobson?”
“I did,” Nadine answered, looking around at the others. No one else spoke up. “I taught over at the elementary school for a couple of years after my kids left the house. I had been subbing for Miss What’s-Her-Name who had the baby and then quit before her maternity leave was over.”
“Colter,” offered one of the women. “Bethanne Colter.”
“Right. Missus Colter.” A heavy accent on the married part. Nadine waved her hand. “Anyway. I had Claire in my music class.”
“What was she like?” I asked, leaning on the sturdy side of the open shelves.
“Sullen.” Nadine made a face like she’d swallowed a lemon. “She was always scowling. Fighting with her family. Eventually, her mother got so tired of dealing with her trouble-maker ways, she sent her off to live with her aunt in Minnesota.”
“I heard she went to a school for troubled kids out there,” said a woman in a purple hat with pinned flowers.
“Well, I don’t know where she went, exactly, because she left in the summer, so I went from having her one year to not having her the next. I think she would have been up in the high school by then, anyway, so maybe that’s why I didn’t think anything of it.” She raised her hands, palms up, around her shoulders. “I don’t know. Bad family situations tend to breed bad kids, so I just chalked it up to teenagers needing to make their own way. I know my girls both had their rebellious phases, but I never had to send them off to another state to get them to behave.”
That set off a round of conversation about other rebellious teens—their children, most of whom were no doubt full-grown adults, and kids in town—which was a topic I couldn’t stomach. Some of the most dangerous decisions any of us ever make happen in our teen years. I loved working with kids in that age group. I missed my job back in Raleigh.
I was about to go back into the kitchen when the bell over the door rang. I turned with a big smile, ready to welcome whatever green-capped farmer had decided to darken my doorstep, when my breath caught in my throat.
Derek Hobson stood in front of the muraled window, leather jacket hanging open, long hair in a man bun, dark eyes round with shock. His hands moved to his hips and he choked out a caustic laugh, shaking his head.
The coffee ladies gasped, like a murder mystery play audience, and I imagined their hands fluttering over their mouths—one lady’s actually did. They clearly knew Derek Hobson, and his relationship to Claire Barnett Hobson.
He swore and advanced on me. “I should have known.”
Before any lasting damage could be done to my already floundering reputation, I grabbed his arm and pulled him into the kitchen, away from the nosy busybodies outside.
I had no idea what he was doing in my bakery, but I had a feeling he’d heard about the white box his wife had been holding when her body was found. Either that, or word about my macarons was really getting around in this town.
I closed my eyes and prayed for the latter.
Chapter 12
“Is this why you gave me the third degree last night?” Derek asked, stalking toward the back of my kitchen. He raised his arms wide. “Because you or someone at your bakery was involved in Claire’s death?”
I shushed him—which got me a caustic laugh—and tried to gather my thoughts. “I was actually there to see…” I came to a quick stop with that one, too. Man, I was striking out again. Impulse told me to lie and say I’d come to see Irma, but I didn’t want to do that. I blew out a long gust of air. “I was there to see Henry.”
Derek rounded on me. “Who’s Henry?”
“Henry Savage. He’s the one that the sheriff is questioning in your wife’s…case.”
All of the man’s features went as dark as a hurricane sky. I shifted toward the center table, steadying myself and giving him a clear path out the door if he felt like he needed it. I didn’t want to get in his way.
“I didn’t know they’d made an arrest.” He took one step, then another. “The sheriff just said something about finding a bakery box at the scene, and he asked me if I’d ever heard Claire talk about coming here. I came right away this morning so I could check it out and…” With a shake of his head, he indicated me. “Here you are. The woman who wouldn’t stop asking questions about my wife.”
“I was only asking because my bakery box ended up at the scene and now Malcolm thinks I’m involved somehow. He’s taken that as evidence of some sort of connection, even though I’d bet money it was planted there.”
“That’s cops for you,” Derek scoffed, looking at the ground in front of his steel-toed boot. “I don’t trust any of them.”
“Well, I did not have anything to do with her being killed. I promise you that.”
“That’s a great comfort,” he said, feigning a smile. “When I’m laying alone in my bed at night, I will rest easy knowing that you promised you didn’t kill her.” He took a long breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. “You think the cops have this wrong?”
I nodded. “I think they’re barking up the wrong tree with Henry.”
“How do you know that?”
I thought back to his reaction in the restaurant—the shock he’d clearly felt at the news of Claire’s murder. I’d always been able to read people, but it was next to
impossible to explain that to someone without sounding like a wannabe psychic. The best explanation I could muster was to liken it to profiling. It was the combination of little factors all strung together to form an assumption that was almost always right.
“Do you know who Henry is?” I asked.
Derek just stared at me, like he was waiting for the answer to the question.
“He’s a Hollywood movie star. He’s in town for meetings about his mother’s estate.”
“Why do they think he killed Claire?”
“Because I’m pretty sure the box they found at the scene belonged to him.”
His face went dark, wrinkled in frustration. “Then how do you know he didn’t kill her?”
“Because as far as I know, the only thing tying him to the crime scene is a planted box of macarons.”
“You think they made an arrest based on a box of cookies?” Derek asked, shaking his head.
“I don’t know that they’ve made an arrest yet. Malcolm came here to get me to identify the box, and then I told him about Henry, and…” I stopped. That wasn’t exactly how it had gone, though, was it? Malcolm had arrested Scarlet first. He’d said her prints were in the system. “It was right after they’d found her, I think.”
Derek turned around fast, like he was looking for something to kick, and my reflex was to jump at the threat of violence, but he held himself back. He slumped over the back table, body heaving.
I rushed over to him, resting a hand on his back. But he wasn’t crying. He was huffing air like a bull about to charge. I couldn’t tell if he was holding back tears or anger, but my response would have been the same. My hand moved along his back, trying to soothe him.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sure she was a lovely woman.”
His laugh was harsh and quick. “No one will miss her…except me.” The last words were so sad, like part of his grief had started before her murder.
I wanted to kick myself for the lovely woman comment, but sometimes, grief was overwhelming for the spectator. Platitudes pressed at your lips even if you knew they wouldn’t be helpful.
There was a tendency, among people outside of the death industry, to assume that every death was sad. But I’d seen reactions from family members in grief that ranged from happiness to relief to elation to anger to retribution. Every death was as different as every life.
Apparently, Claire Hobson wasn’t the kind of woman whose death was going to be a sad occasion for everyone in her life. It made me wonder how Nikki and Austin were handling things, the morning after. And how Mike and Jenna Van Andel were wrapped up in the situation. It had sounded like they all had frustrations with her. But surely they would be sad about her death.
I hoped Derek was wrong.
“You really think the cops are botching this?” he asked, turning his head just enough to look straight into my eyes.
My hand stilled. I wasn’t sure how to answer. Part of me was always at odds with Malcolm Dean, and it made me angry that he suspected I could be part of this. But there was no denying he took his job very seriously.
“I don’t think they have all the evidence right now,” I finally said, caution underlining my words. “Once they do, they’ll release Henry.”
“What other evidence do they need?”
I knew enough from Sherlock and Criminal Minds to know about MMO: Means-Motive-and-Opportunity. Did a person have the means to commit the crime, did they have a motive, and did they have the opportunity.
The sheriff hadn’t arrested Henry until after Scarlet’s interrogation. I wasn’t sure exactly what Malcolm knew, because I didn’t know what Scarlet had told him, but now I knew that Henry had at least had the opportunity to kill Claire.
Which was my fault for sending them left when they should have gone straight. I would never stop feeling guilty about that decision.
The thing I didn’t understand was the motive. It seemed to me that anyone could have means and opportunity. But motive?
Why was always the hardest part to understand—unless you were dealing with a serial killer, which was not my bag. But the psychology of what would drive a normal human to kill had always fascinated me.
It was part of what had led me into the pastorate. Needing to help people find and accept and release the darkness inside them. Not so much to punish them, as to help them heal. I had definitely sensed Henry’s need for healing, but his wounds just didn’t seem like the type that would drive him to murder an innocent woman.
But I didn’t know him well enough to say that for sure.
“I don’t really know what evidence they have,” I said. “All I know about is the bakery box. They found fingerprints on it, and I’m assuming some of them were Henry’s. I know some of them were his agent’s. She was the one who threw the box in the trash.”
A high-pitched jingle rang out, jolting me to attention, and I hurried out of the kitchen, around the little half-wall, and out into the front room, asking Derek to wait there in case it was a customer. Emma rushed through the tables, holding out her arms and hugging me as she came around the bake case.
The coffee ladies leaned in. They were so far across the room, they couldn’t possibly have heard Derek and I talking. But now, I was out in the open.
“Oh, Vange. I heard about the sheriff questioning you.” My friend was breathless, and dressed like she’d come from home before getting ready for work. Green Bay Packers pajama pants, a gray cotton T-shirt with a purple jacket over the top. Her blonde hair was piled into a messy bun, not unlike the one Derek had pulled off so effortlessly.
“I promise I’m okay.” I patted her shoulder. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“But Netta said she saw you getting carted off over on Mockingbird Lane.” Emma’s eyes were wide and worried. “And that they found some of your stuff at a murder scene.”
“Well, Netta is wrong.” I stepped away, pulling on the straps of my apron, trying not to get angry, and trying to keep my voice down so I didn’t make a scene in front of the coffee ladies. “Malcolm did detain someone. I was present for it, and I did drive to the station after that, but I was never questioned, and they didn’t find anything of mine at any crime scene.”
Sometimes, the gossips of the town really needed to get their stories straight.
“Oh.” Emma canted her head. “What were you doing going down to the station?”
“I had to take…” I paused. I hadn’t exactly told Emma about the dinner with Henry, or really anything that had happened after the lunch rush was over. I hadn’t seen her again since Henry and Scarlet’s morning visit to the store, and she usually closed up her shop if the foot traffic was too low. Like me, Emma had another job. She made the most beautiful handmade, hand-carved, intricate furniture and wood pieces. She did sell some of them at her gift shop. Others, she consigned to a furniture store in Madison Falls. But she couldn’t do woodwork in the agate store, and when business was slow, she had to cut her losses.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, giving me a quizzical eyebrow. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Henry. The guy who was in here yesterday.”
“Captain America?” she asked, her eyes going wide.
A little laugh burst out of me at that thought. He did have a bit of that look. “Yeah, him. He came back after lunch and asked me out.”
Emma’s eyes rounded. She clearly hadn’t been as privy to the town gossip as she thought. “Wow, Vange. Look at you!” She squealed. “Oh, you have to tell me all about it.”
I wasn’t sure where to start. With the widower in the kitchen, or my—married—date in the jail cell. I decided to start from the beginning. I pulled her close, lowered my voice, and told her as much as I could about the last day, leaving out my thoughts and theories about what had happened, since the window to the kitchen was right above my head, so I wasn’t sure if Derek was listening or not. I left out most of the tangled situation with Austin and Nikki, since Emma didn’t kno
w them well. Plus, it felt strange revealing confidences about them within hearing of Austin’s estranged uncle. I still didn’t know Derek, and frankly, I didn’t know who to trust anymore. I did, however, tell her that Henry was married, and separated from his wife, but even that didn’t dampen her excitement.
Emma seemed thrilled by the whole sordid tale, which was odd, considering part of the reason my meeting-slash-date with Henry had ended was because he’d gotten arrested for murder.
“But you don’t think he did it?” she asked, blue eyes bright. “You know, I heard something about him last night, too.” She looked around and leaned in. “Did you know he was a movie star?”
“Is that why you call him Captain America now?” I said, barely containing an over-the-top eyeroll. It was such an Emma thing to say.
“No, I call him Captain America because he looks like a big, hot superhero. Which, by the way, is probably why he’s a movie star. You know, I really don’t get why this hasn’t hit the big national news yet.”
But I knew. After the knowledge that Scarlet had offered Irma money not to talk to anyone, I wasn’t surprised to see it not hit the national news. Not to mention, Saint Agnes was a tiny, rural town. I wasn’t even sure they knew what Twitter was.
Emma nudged me with her elbow. “Come on. You have to admit you had a good date. Murder investigation aside.”
Date? Was it really a date? I supposed, technically, I had gotten dressed up and we had gone out for dinner, although my hope had been to give him pastoral counseling, rather than a kiss goodnight at the end. As to whether or not I’d enjoyed myself… It was the closest I’d had to a date since Edward. Henry was polite and entertaining and probably not a murderer.