by Quinn, Lucy
Maybe probably. Definitely probably.
Was it too sad a thing to admit that the murder investigation had been more interesting than the date?
“He was a gentleman,” I finally said, settling on something benign.
“Well, that’s no fun.” Emma smiled, glancing over my shoulder. Her eyes settled on something behind me.
I turned to find Derek Hobson standing in the awning to the kitchen, face dark, arms crossed. He clearly wasn’t happy.
“You went on a date with this guy?” he said, raising a brow. “You don’t think he murdered my wife because you have the hots for him?”
I walked toward Derek with my hands held out, but he backed up, anger melting off him like buttercream at a summer wedding. He smacked one of my hands away. I heard the murder-mystery-play-gasping-audience-routine again, and rolled my eyes. It was my destiny to put on a good show for the coffee ladies.
“You’re trying to get information out of me so you can get your boyfriend out of jail. I’ve seen this before.” He pushed past me and then ran straight into Emma.
She went flying backward and Derek rushed to catch her, apologizing and setting her upright. She held on to him, urging him to wait and assuring him she was all right.
My heart was beating fast. I couldn’t lose Derek Hobson. I needed his help. He was going to be my link to Claire’s life. Derek deserved some justice, and so did Henry, and I wanted to find it for both of them. Not because of hormones. Because it was the right thing to do.
“I promise you,” I said, standing back as far as I could while still remaining within his line of sight, “That’s not what’s going on here. Not at all. Henry didn’t do this. But I will find out who did.”
He heaved breaths in and out, looking from me to Emma and back, like he was looking to her for validation that I was trustworthy. Even I couldn’t answer that question for him, let alone Emma.
“What happens if you find out your boyfriend was the one who killed my wife?”
“If there’s evidence that proves Henry did this, I will turn it over to the police.” I raised my hands in defense of myself. “I’m after justice here.”
Derek stared, his breaths coming slower now, but gave me no hint about what was going on in his head. I hated it when people could go flat like that. It meant I couldn’t read them, and that always worried me.
“Fine,” he finally ground out, his tone hard and uncompromising. “If you really think he’s innocent, and you think the police won’t find out who really killed her, then I want to help you.” He picked up a pen from the counter and scrawled something on one of my order slips, tearing the sheet off the top, and handing it to me. “Here’s my address, and my phone number. You find something out, you track me down. I want whoever did this to pay.”
I nodded, feeling the tension diffuse inside me, but then I looked up and saw Nadine, with a disapproving look on her face. Of course, all five of them had likely overheard everything we’d just said. Given the strength of the collective gossip mill in this town, it would be all over Saint Agnes in a matter of minutes that the Honorable Reverend Evangeline Vale was helping a biker get a criminal out of jail.
Just what I needed.
Chapter 13
I sent Derek home for a shower, and Emma home to get ready for her day, and tried my best to sweet talk the coffee ladies out of repeating what they’d overheard. Nadine seemed only partly convinced that it would be a bad thing to mention this little bit of interesting news to everyone she knew.
But I did finally manage to convince them.
I hoped.
The coffee ladies were still sitting in the corner, buzzing around their half-finished pastries, when the little bakery bell rang over Nikki Krantz’s head. She looked like she hadn’t slept all night, and she was holding my coat.
My coat. I hadn’t even realized I’d left it at her house. It was my good coat, something my sister had picked out for me for a birthday. Hand-stitched by some famous designer in the Garment District, no doubt, like everything Priscilla owned.
Nikki held the item out, some kind of apology tumbling out of her mouth. I pulled her back behind the bake case, where I was at least a little sure the coffee ladies couldn’t see us.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I just…”
“You’re exhausted,” I finished for her, touching her shoulder. “I completely understand.”
“Austin told me, last night, what he told you.” Her face crumpled like wadded paper. “He’s so…angry with me.”
“It’s all fresh. He’ll be okay in a day or two.”
“He’s too much like his father. Sullen. He’ll hang on to a grudge for so long.” Nikki shook her head, sniffing. “Anyway, I wanted to stop by to return your jacket, and to say thanks for talking to Austin last night. I wasn’t ready to do it myself.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I said, stroking her shoulder. “You’ve both been through a trauma, losing a family member, and part of my job as a pastor is to comfort those who are in mourning. I’m happy to do it.”
Tears fell down her face, and I noticed, for the first time, a very light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. I hadn’t ever been this close to Nikki before. Usually, I saw her at the bank, or in the crowd while I delivered one of my sermons, or in passing when she came to pick up Austin from the bakery. But her beauty had layers.
“I’m sure Austin will be here after school again,” she said, pulling a tissue from her black purse and wiping her nose. “He went to Leo’s place after we fought last night and I haven’t seen him since. Can you tell him something for me?”
I nodded, shifting the jacket to my other hand. “Of course I can.”
“Tell him I never meant to hurt him. I always had his best interests at heart.” Her lips tightened, and tears welled in her eyes. “I’m his mother, after all.”
“Nikki, you know I’ll do whatever I can to help.” I held the jacket tight, feeling the cold press of the material against my skin. I almost told her that I was investigating Claire’s death, but she seemed so fragile. I didn’t want to overload her. It could wait until I saw her again, hopefully in a calmer state.
Besides, I still didn’t understand her relationship—or lack thereof—with Derek, and I didn’t want to make her day any harder. She was dressed in her best banking outfit, and it looked like she had a whole day of work ahead of her. We could talk about these things later.
“I appreciate that, Vangie.” She grabbed my free hand and pressed both hers around mine. “I don’t know what I’d do if Austin turned his back on me.”
“Anything I can do.”
Nikki gave me a quick side-hug and walked away, clutching her purse to her side and giving a quick wave to the women in the corner. They had a predatory look, like they might, at the slightest provocation, swoop in with casseroles and hungry ears. Nikki was wise to avoid them.
I stowed my jacket with my bag, in the little office in the back of the kitchen, and pulled out a file of Norman’s sermons to peruse.
My mornings in the bakery typically followed a few waves. After the farmers and coffee ladies—and whatever stragglers stopped in—it was usually dead for a couple of hours before the second wave started. Early lunch farmers, business people on their midday break who wanted better coffee, and straggling high school students who decided to drive all the way out here—some of the girls looking hopefully around for Leo, who was never around at that time of day. And then there would be another lull, with only the occasional customer, until the after-school break began.
I could typically use my down times to catch up on reading or do the computer work that needed to happen to keep the church running, but Peter and Loretta and the parish council did most of the day-to-day work. They only paid me for fifteen hours a week at the church—with the parish house as a bonus—so I had to devote the majority of my time to the bakery. Without the distraction, I would have gone mad. Fifteen hours a week was a
bout fifty less than I’d devoted to my old job. But the bakery took all fifty.
There was a little window in the kitchen wall, and if I sat just so, at one of the cleaned-off prep tables, I could read and watch the front of the business at the same time. If there were customers other than the coffee ladies, who didn’t need my attention at all, I would sometimes sit at the back counter in the front of the bakery and do my reading there, but I preferred the quiet of the kitchen.
Nadine and her little flock had left by the time I looked up from the last batch of Norman’s sermons I’d brought with me. I’d been making my way through the Lenten series, and he was using The Cost of Discipleship as his reference point in the group of sermons I was studying, which was giving me all sorts of ideas about my own series.
The bell dinged and I glanced out to see Malcolm Dean striding across the dining room with purpose. I quickly came around the half-wall that functioned as a kitchen door. My old drop-in-center-training wouldn’t let me be isolated with anyone where there might be a potential conflict, and I still didn’t know if Malcolm had it out for me or not.
“What can I get you today, Sheriff?” I asked, like he was an old customer.
“I saw you this morning.” His voice was so gruff, it sent chills across my skin. “I told you not to come on my property.”
“You saw me?”
He tightened his lips. “I saw something, and I’m sure it was you. My—” He swallowed whatever accusation he’d been about to level. “I told Peter Mayhew that if this happened one more time…”
I tried to hold back my frustration, but given how much Malcolm and I had come to loggerheads these last couple of days, I was just done. “I can’t get any reception in my house, Malcolm. None. The only place even remotely close to my house where there’s even a half bar of reception is at the corner of our property, by that little bush, and it’s got to be a hundred feet from your house! It’s practically my own property, anyway.”
“This is not my problem. Get a landline.”
“I will. But for the love of Pete, it takes more than a minutes to do that.”
“Well, make the call today, then. That’s my property you’re on, and you do not have my permission to use it.” A curt shake of his head stopped the conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to fight. “But that’s not why I came here.”
Tension started to crawl across my chest. He was going to arrest me. I could feel it. Or, if he wasn’t, he sure wanted to.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I need you to come down to the station and get finger-printed. Willingly, I’d prefer. I don’t have enough evidence to arrest you for anything right now, but don’t push me.” Malcolm rested his hands on his hips, shifting his weight from side to side. “I need yours for elimination. There are two more sets of prints on the box, and I assume one of them is yours, but we need to know for sure.”
The whole thing sounded suspicious to me. The police could ask you for DNA or prints or anything, but they couldn’t make you cooperate. Giving fingerprints was only involuntary after you were arrested.
While the old adage of running-makes-you-look-guilty applied to the assumptions cops made, it did not apply to civil rights. I was under no obligation to provide my fingerprints to the department, but I also wanted to prove my own innocence.
“Elimination, meaning, you don’t think I’m involved anymore?” I asked. “Because you just threatened to arrest me, so I’m disinclined to acquiesce to your request…”
“I want to know why a box from your business with the prints of two of my suspects was clutched in the hands of a dead woman. And I want to know who else had their hands on that box.”
Oh, honey, if I could tell you that, this would all be over…
I wanted the answers as much as he did, but there was little point in telling him that. I was sure he wouldn’t believe me.
“I can tell you as much as I know,” I offered. “They stopped in to get coffee, and they bought a box of macarons. When they left, they took a wrong turn, which is how they ended up in Rolo…and missed their bank appointment.” When I let it all tumble out like that, it didn’t seem quite so scary.
“Why did they take a wrong turn? The sign out there says—” he made a left-turn gesture with his hand, “—Rolo, this way.”
My jaw dropped open, like it was going to answer by itself, but I didn’t want to admit to what I’d done. The ultimate reason why I felt invested in this case, above and beyond whatever sympathy I felt for Henry, whatever sadness I felt for Austin and his mother and his uncle. I felt responsible for Henry and Scarlet getting caught up in this mess.
I felt like it was my fault they were in jail.
“I told them to take a left to get to the bank,” I finally said, turning my gaze toward the white and glass countertop. My hands desperately wanted to be cleaning something, but I couldn’t move under Malcolm’s glare.
“You what?” His tone had a sharp takeoff, like a rocket ship.
“It was a simple mistake. I just…” No, I wouldn’t lie. Heaving out a long breath, I shook my head. “Scarlet said something awful to Emma and me on her way out the door, and when they asked for directions, I gave them the wrong instructions.”
“Evangeline.”
“I know. It was a momentary lapse in judgment. I figured when they saw they were heading away from town, they would turn back, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. But they got all the way to Rolo, and I guess they stopped at a gas station. Scarlet threw out the box while Henry was inside asking for directions.”
Malcolm pulled the white hat off his head and walked away from me, frustration coming off him in waves.
“I wasn’t thinking. I just...it’s not a proud moment for me, okay? I just had to admit to you that I did an uncharitable thing because someone hurt my feelings. I’m not proud of what I did, but I didn’t do anything criminal.” I came around the bake case, meeting him face-to-face. “Look, I don’t know what Scarlet told you, but Henry couldn’t have killed her. They were barely there for two minutes.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malcolm snapped, using his hat to point at me, like he was scolding a small child. “You’re parroting whatever he told you, and that’s not the truth of what happened. I’ve spoken to Scarlet, and I’ve spoken to the convenience store clerk, and they both say that she was the one who went inside to get directions. Not only that, but she was there long enough for him to have stabbed Claire and return to his car before anyone was the wiser.”
My mouth hung open, and my face had to be reflecting the disbelief running through my veins. The weird inner lie detector that took up residence between my ears was almost never wrong. Henry really had been shocked to learn about Claire’s death, I knew that like I knew the sun would rise tomorrow. But he’d also told me a version of events about their stop in Rolo that wasn’t true. I had known at the time that there was something he wasn’t telling me, but it hadn’t seemed possible for his version to be that different from the truth.
I should have known better. Never trust a beautiful man.
“All right, fine.” I threw my hands up. “I have been lied to. I’ll come down to the station to get fingerprinted so you know which prints are mine. But you’re going to give me something in return.”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What?”
“I want to talk to Henry.”
I could tell how little he liked the idea from the way he immediately sucked in his breath, but I was beyond caring. I needed to look in Henry’s eyes and ask him exactly what was going on, and I wanted him to tell me the truth.
“I’ll tell you what,” the sheriff said, putting his hat back on his head. “I’ll give you five minutes, while he’s waiting for his lawyer to show up, but I can’t guarantee it will be private.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need privacy.” I crossed my arms. I just needed the truth.
Malcolm left, somewhat satisfied, and I closed up my bake
ry and put up a sign saying I’d be back in half an hour. I took the Tank down to the station, where I willingly offered up my fingerprints.
By the time I finally sat down in front of Henry, I was downright angry. He looked haggard, gray-skinned, and tired, which made it harder to stay mad at him.
“Hey, Vic,” he said when I took one of the metal chairs on the other side of the table from him. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” His accent was in full force.
“You can cut the method acting thing. I’d rather talk to the real Henry for five minutes.”
He lifted his hands, unsurprised by my outburst. “This is the real Henry. The real Henry is an actor who’s trying to get ready for a major role that could make his career. The real Henry isn’t going to miss an opportunity to perfect an accent that not even trauma can shake.” His face turned ashen, like some important realization had just set in. Like he’d realized he wouldn’t have a chance at that part if he didn’t get out of this. “I can’t give up this far in.”
“Your accent was coming and going last night. Practically at the drop of a hat.”
A strange shadow passed across his face. “I let my guard down.”
I took a short breath and went for the gut punch. “Did you let your guard down with Claire? Or were you the real Henry with her?”
That landed. His whole demeanor changed, like a switch had been flipped. He went from the confident, calm character he played in front of others to a worried, untrustworthy accused criminal. “Okay, Vic. Okay. I’ll stop.” He’d reverted to the all-American boy I’d seen flashes of the night before. “There. Now will you believe me?”
I crossed my arms. “I don’t know how I can, when you keep lying to me.”
“So, you found out about Claire?” he asked, his shoulders slumping, head bowed. “I was hoping to avoid this.”
“Avoid what?”
“Having the talk about this, with you.” He glanced up quickly and met my eyes. There sadness there almost made me reel. “You were from here, but you weren’t, and you were such a refreshing change from the girls I meet in LA. It was like I could have the best of both worlds with you. I didn’t want you to know.”