Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  “Know about what?”

  “About Claire.” He shook his head, blowing air out slowly. His eyes settled somewhere on the wall, but they seemed unfocused. “I saw her yesterday, at the convenience store, and I didn’t think anyone knew. There was no one around. It happened so fast.”

  My breath caught in my throat. What was he about to say?

  “She’s been following me for a while, on and off, like a sporadic thing.” A hollow note entered his voice, like he was reciting something rote. “She came to a couple of shooting locations.”

  “I thought you’d only known her from around town.”

  His gaze went dark. “She’s been stalking me for months, Vic. I mean…Vangie.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “I can’t remember.” He waved a hand. “Scarlet would know for sure. I figured she would stop eventually, when she realized I didn’t want her around, but then I’d see her again at another shoot.”

  I tried to process that, but something was nagging at me. It wasn’t a lie. I could tell, this time, it was the truth. But was it the whole truth?

  “Why did you tell me Scarlet stayed in the car?”

  “She told me to.” He gave a little shake of his head. “That’s what has me so confused about all of this, I guess. The sheriff clearly knows that I talked to Claire, but I don’t think Scarlet would have told him. Before I’d even heard about the murder, Scarlet told me to switch stories, so I did. We were going to file a restraining order against her, tom—well, today, I guess. Now.”

  “So, you had a conversation about what you were going to tell the judge to get the restraining order,” I finished for him.

  “Yeah. We fought about it most of the way back to Saint Agnes. She wanted to keep my name out of the papers and she thought that if she filed for the restraining order, she could keep me out of it. But I promise you, Vangie. When I left her behind that store, Claire was alive.”

  The door behind me opened and I heard Malcolm’s voice call out, “You’re done, Evangeline.”

  “Please, Vic,” Henry said, urgency in his voice. “You have to believe me.”

  “I said, you’re done,” Malcolm repeated, coming around the table.

  “She was alive,” Henry said. His accent had returned.

  “Your lawyer is here.” The sheriff hauled Henry out of the room, and I sat there stunned, unable to speak. Yes, Henry might have lied—he might still be lying about some things—but I firmly believed that last statement was true.

  Claire had been alive when he’d left her.

  Chapter 14

  I sat with Irma, just long enough to watch a deputy bring Scarlet out of the interrogation room. Like Henry, she looked haggard—skin sallow, eyes red. She still had on the same green shirt dress she’d been wearing the previous evening, and I imagined that she could do with a shower and a change of clothes.

  The deputy walked her out through the office, guiding her toward where I was sitting, which made my stomach churn a little. I didn’t know what to make of Scarlet, and from the look on her face, I was pretty certain she was still mad at me, which was absolutely understandable. I was still a little mad at me.

  “Sheriff said to let this one go,” he said, releasing her at the desk. He reached back, under the counter, and grabbed a yellow envelope. “This is what she came in with.”

  The lack of security at this station was a little amazing to me, given what I was used to in urban settings. I mean, there were procedures here, just like anywhere, but it wasn’t the same. I wasn’t sure if that encouraged or frightened me.

  Irma busied herself with some paperwork, while Scarlet massaged her wrists and scowled. She finally signed the forms and took her envelope, turning to me like I was the last guard on the way out the door.

  Her eyes narrowed on me. “This is your fault, you know. I hope you’re happy that you ruined all of our lives.”

  “I’m so sorry, Scarlet,” I said, keeping my seat. I’d ostensibly stayed with Irma to get feedback on the additional box of macarons I’d brought with me, but I found myself caring less about this season’s tourist flavors, and more about doing penance for this woman.

  I owed her.

  “That’s not good enough,” she spat back, clutching the envelope.

  “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  “Well, it did. So you can keep your sorry. It doesn’t undo any of what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.” With that, she turned on her heel and stormed through the doors.

  I made my apologies to Irma and ran out after Scarlet. This was mine to fix.

  She stood on the sidewalk, staring around the parking lot, no doubt realizing that she had no way to get back to the B&B. I pointed to the Tank.

  “Let me at least give you a ride.”

  “I don’t need your charity,” she snapped.

  “It’s not charity. I owe you. Really. Let me help.”

  A momentary flash of terror crossed her features—why? Something told me I needed to know—but she stuffed it down admirably. She had enough self-control to make the fear go away when she needed it to. I would’ve loved to have that ability.

  She finally took a step toward my giant green Hummer and I climbed into the driver’s seat. Her entrance was reluctant and slow, and I didn’t blame her for the hesitancy. When she was strapped into the passenger’s seat, I back out and pulled into the street, heading for the B&B.

  It didn’t take long for her odor to catch me by the nose, but I wasn’t going to say anything to her about it. Spending a night in jail—in who knows what kind of accommodations—was excuse enough. But there was something besides just body odor in her sweat. She’d consumed alcohol yesterday, and lots of it. Maybe last night, maybe earlier, but it had stuck to her skin.

  “You’re just a diversion.” Her words were sharp and caustic. “To Henry.”

  I was surprised that her assessment didn’t hurt me, but I’d already had to distance myself from Henry, so it didn’t sting like she probably intended it to. I nodded. “I know that.”

  “When we leave here, you’ll never hear from him again.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “So you can stop trying to be helpful in the hopes that you’ll, like, get discovered or something. We don’t do that.” The way she said the last sentence gave me pause, like she was trying to convince herself of something.

  “That’s not why I’m helping you,” I said with a quick laugh. “I’m not interested in Hollywood or movies or television or anything.”

  “Well, that’s a lie. Why else would you go out with Henry?”

  “Um. Have you seen Henry? He’s gorgeous.” With a shrug of one shoulder, I tried not to blush at how quickly the words had spilled out of me.

  “If you’re into that type. Y’know, blonds.” Her indifference was stunning.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I’d never particularly been into blonds—in fact, Henry might have been the first one I’d ever found attractive. But he was potentially the perfect specimen.

  “Besides,” she continued, her neck straightening, like her haughty side was coming back in waves. “He’s technically still married, so he’s not doing anything long-term at this point.”

  “Technically,” I repeated, having already squared off with that demon. “Well, isn’t that a relief.”

  “She’s a doll, you know. Dara.” Scarlet opened the envelope and began to search through the contents. “British, redhead, just impeccable breeding, and her daddy wants to finance one of Henry’s movies.”

  “But they’re not going to stay married?”

  “Oh, no.” She waved off the question, like it was a ridiculous notion. “You don’t know Henry. He’s just…he’s not built for that stuff.”

  Those words settled into my chest. Maybe that’s what I’d sensed about him yesterday morning at the shop—less of the I’m-married vibe, and more the emotionally-unavailable one. Being able to read people well,
sometimes I didn’t always know what it was I was reading. I just knew whether it made me uneasy, or scared, or happy, or safe. Generally, the pieces would click into place over time, and I would know what it was I had initially sensed. But I wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or anything. I couldn’t always figure it out.

  “Not everyone is built for marriage, I guess.”

  “Oh, he loves getting married.” Her smile was eerie, her enjoyment of that fact almost too keen. “That’s probably his problem. He likes the beginnings…the bloom, my grannie used to call it. But he is the worst at finishing.”

  I turned the last corner in silence, driving down the long street toward the school. The black sports car was still in the drive at the B&B. It was strange how familiar this all was, even though I’d only known the two of them—Scarlet and Henry—for just over a day.

  “This doesn’t mean we’re square,” Scarlet said, putting her hand on the door handle as I pulled up behind the rental car. “Just so you know, I still hold you responsible for this.”

  “I hold myself responsible, Scarlet.” I shifted into park. “I can’t apologize enough. You just…you made that comment about Henry liking fat girls, and I lashed out.”

  She didn’t balk at the reminder, but I could tell it hadn’t dawned on her there was a reason for my misdirection. Every woman has some kind of awareness of her body, and given everything her husband had put her through over the years, Emma was acutely aware of what she considered her shortcomings. To Scarlet, who had the unrealistic proportions of a Barbie, everyone who wasn’t a size zero was probably fat on some level, but words like that would be damaging for Emma.

  They hadn’t made me happy, either.

  But this was a steep price to pay for cruel words, and I had to have compassion for her. I knew all about paying steep prices.

  “You don’t know what you’ve done,” she finally said, a hollow quality to her voice. “We missed the meeting at the bank yesterday, which meant we couldn’t leave town for the meeting we had scheduled with a major producer last night. Now that Henry can’t get out of jail, we’ll miss the bank meeting again, and that’s one thing I can’t handle for him.”

  “Henry acted like it wasn’t a big deal.” I rested my hand on top of the steering wheel and turned to face Scarlet, like we were friends having a chat. “He said they’d keep rescheduling.”

  She laughed, sharply. “Of course he would think that. He thinks everything can just be rescheduled. That’s why I’m the one who runs his life.”

  “What’s going on at the bank, anyway?” I asked, trying to seem casual. I didn’t want to push her—she didn’t seem to like me much—but I did feel like I needed to keep helping them.

  “None of your business,” she snapped.

  “Scarlet, I’m just trying to help.” I reached for her arm, but the movement felt forced. I didn’t care for her any more than she cared for me, but I did feel a lot of compassion for her predicament. “I’ve been trying to get answers to the questions I don’t think are being asked, and people have been willing to talk to me, so far.”

  “You need to stay out of our lives. You’ve done enough.” She pushed the door open and climbed out without another word.

  I left the Tank running and went after her, walking up the steps to the B&B, trying to call out to her, but she was having none of it. She stalked across the long side porch and then in through the door, slamming it behind her. The old glass seemed to warp for a split second, and I thought it might actually shatter, but it stayed in one piece.

  Staring after her, I debated going inside. I really did want to help, but more than that, I wanted to get a better sense for whether she was telling the truth. The most accomplished liars often couldn’t keep their stories up when their emotions ran high.

  But she ran up the stairs in front of the door, and I didn’t want to follow her up to her room. That would just be creepy.

  A gray-haired head popped around the wall, to the edge of the glass, like a busybody cuckoo clock. I recognized the woman from around town, but couldn’t quite place her name. She didn’t attend Saint Agnes Community. She opened the door and came out onto the porch.

  “Reverend Vale,” she said. With a pointed glance at a sign next to the door, she raised her brows at me. It read: Please do not slam this door.

  I shrugged. “I’m so sorry. I just dropped Scarlet off, and I’m afraid she was in a bit of a rush.”

  “Well, I’ll have to slip a note under her door.” The woman ran her hand along the green door frame. “All the wood in this house is original, and I’d hate to have someone do damage we can’t repair.”

  “She’s been through a rough night. I’m sure it won’t happen again.” I reached out my hand. “I’m very sorry, Mrs.…?”

  “Oh, yes. We won’t have met before.” She took the offered handshake, if a bit limply. “Marvella Nelson. And it’s Miss. I go to the Lutheran church, just up the road.”

  “That’s good to hear.” I nodded, offering her a big smile. Most people started in on their religious histories directly upon meeting me, like they thought they needed to make excuses for why they hadn’t darkened the church doorstep. I was always happy to listen, but I was rarely asking the questions they assumed I was.

  “How do you know the Hollywood couple?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her little rounded belly. She had on a mid-calf-length gray dress with round red flowers dotted in regular intervals, and black loafers. Like Hyacinth Bucket.

  “I just met them yesterday.”

  “All this business with the sheriff is just ugly.” Marvella wrinkled her nose in distaste. “And that man on the Harley! No wonder they’re in trouble with Sheriff Dean.”

  I paused, a mini alarm going off in my head. “Man on the Harley?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded, stepping away from the door and leaning in. “He was here just after the handsome man went out yesterday afternoon.”

  “Here? You mean, here at the bed and breakfast? Was he looking for a room?”

  “No, no, no, no,” Marvella said, her head shaking in quick punctuation. “He was here to see her. Went up to her room and everything.”

  Her tone left no doubt—she considered it quite the scandal for Scarlet to have entertained a biker in her bedroom.

  “How long was he there?”

  “Probably an hour. He arrived just after the blond one left on his walkabout, and came right in. I only saw him for a minute. He had one of those…oh, what do they call them now?” She put her hands on top of her head, like a halo. Or a crown.

  Or a manbun.

  “Did you happen to catch his name?” I asked, trying not to let the frog in my throat make me croak. I didn’t want her to think I was prying.

  “I didn’t speak to him at all.” Marvella nodded back at the door. “I usually don’t sit at the desk in the afternoons once all of our rooms are full. They know to ring me if they need anything.”

  “Then how did you see him?”

  “I was on the other side of that alley,” she said, pointing, “salting the ice on the back sidewalk. There’s a dip in the sidewalk, and when the snow melts during the day and freezes at night, we can get a little sheet like an ice rink back there. That’s where most of the guests park, so I need to keep it safe for them to walk.”

  She seemed so pleased with herself for this little detail, she practically beamed and I nodded my thanks. I apologized again for the door issue and made my excuses. It was time to get back to the bakery.

  But something nagged at me, the whole way back.

  If Derek Hobson was the manbun-wearing biker who had visited Scarlet’s room, it hadn’t been long after Claire’s murder. He’d either known to come here because he’d been following them, or because they’d agreed to meet—the B&B was too far off the beaten path to be a drop-by stop. And if Scarlet had arranged to meet Derek without Henry…something didn’t sit right about that.

  When I got back to the Matchbakery, Emma’s lights were on
in her shop. The lot was empty. I usually had a bigger lunch rush on Wednesdays, so I needed to get to prepping.

  I hadn’t gotten far into my soup making before Emma came over to partake of the coffee pot. Her visits were practically like clockwork.

  “I saw you were gone when I got here,” she said, sipping from the cup and standing in the doorway, not really inside the kitchen. “What happened?”

  “Can you make a new pot for the lunch crowd?” I asked, putting the last of the vegetables into the soup pot. I was making my mother’s Ribollita, which was a bean, tomato, and cabbage winter soup with leftover bread that she’d often made when I was growing up. I hadn’t realized just how much I needed comfort until that moment. I was making my mother’s comfort food.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” Emma asked, her words gentle.

  “It’s not that.” I began cleaning the prep station, careful of the knives. Knives were my kryptonite. “I just wasn’t anticipating being gone this long, and I forgot to pick up the little notes Irma promised to give me about the macarons.”

  “You forgot them?”

  “I got distracted.”

  She filled the pot with water at the big silver sink. “By…Henry?”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. Emma had too much of an interest in doing my hair and fixing me up on dates. There was a murder to solve here, people.

  “By his agent.” I stood next to her, placing the knives into the appropriate sink and beginning the cleanup process. I had to concentrate a little more on food safety regulations, since my natural inclination was to cook with abandon.

  “What did she want?” Emma walked out of the kitchen, disdain in her voice.

  Mostly to belittle me. But I couldn’t tell my friend that. She’d get defensive on my behalf, and that move had already gotten us into trouble.

  “I gave her a ride home from the sheriff’s office.” My shoulders went up in anticipation of a tongue-lashing, but it never came. I wasn’t sure she’d heard me, until she stuck her head around the corner, her brows drawn together.