Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  “You feel guilty, don’t you?”

  “Of course I feel guilty. If I hadn’t sent them to Rolo, they never would have gotten into this mess.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” she snorted. “From what Joshua told me, it was just a matter of time before that whole mess imploded.”

  I placed the knives in the drying rack and wiped my hands on the towel hanging over my shoulder. “What mess?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows about this,” Emma said, sneaking into the kitchen with wide eyes. “And Joshua made me promise not to tell anyone—”

  “Wait. When did you talk to him?” I crossed my arms over my chest. Emma seemed to have this moth-to-flame thing with her deadbeat jerk of a cheating husband, no matter what he did.

  The most recent what was to run off in the middle of the night to some casino in Northwest Montana with about ten thousand dollars Emma had saved up for a new car, promising he could triple their money.

  While the jury was out on whether he’d had any luck, his type never returned with good news in the long run.

  “He called about an hour ago.” Emma looked at the floor, nervous. Normally, she told me everything, but it was obvious she didn’t want to talk about the purpose of his call. But I didn’t need her to share in order to know what he was doing. He always did the same thing.

  “Don’t give him any more money, Em.” I shook my head. “It was a big enough mistake leaving your savings book out.”

  “Will you listen for a second?” she said, an edge of anger in her voice. “I think there’s something you need to know.”

  “What’s that?” I didn’t uncross my arms. I was still looking for a way to talk out the situation with her husband. But she got prickly around that topic.

  “Claire Barnett is the reason Henry Savage left Saint Agnes.” She widened her eyes, looking at me with conspiratorial interest. “Joshua doesn’t know much, but he was in the same year as Henry, and they graduated right before the high school co-op. So they didn’t know each other well, and he doesn’t know exactly what happened. But he knows Claire and Henry were getting hot and heavy—which he thought was weird for a senior dating a freshman—and then, all of the sudden, Claire went nuts on him. Like, seriously crazy. We’re talking showing-up-where-he-worked-and-peeing-on-his-car crazy. He was supposed to stay through the summer, but he ended up leaving for Los Angeles early.”

  I swallowed against this new information. Somehow, I’d known there was much, much more to the story. The thought of Henry and Claire having this old relationship, in addition to the stalking, was throwing me for a loop.

  I needed more information, but I sure didn’t want to track down Josh Brent. I had to find a way to talk to Claire Barnett’s mother. Before someone else realized this connection and clammed up for good.

  Chapter 15

  Austin didn’t show up with Leo after school, but I still had to leave him to run the bakery alone. Dressed in my clergy shirt and collar, with my hair brushed into what I assumed was a trendy comb-over and a little makeup on my face, I made a presentable pastor.

  The Barnett house was a short-pitched, ranch-style brick home, nearly across the street from the high school. It also happened to be just up the street from Henry and Scarlet’s bed and breakfast. The black sports car, I noticed, was still in the driveway.

  I still wondered about that little meeting between Scarlet and Derek, and I wanted to stop in and ask questions. Perhaps the collar would work on Scarlet.

  Hmm. Doubtful.

  The door opened and a bleary-faced Austin Krantz answered. I was a little taken aback. When he didn’t accompany Leo to the bakery, it was usually because he was lifting weights in the gym with the rest of the football team as part of their off-season workout.

  “Miss Vee?” he asked, quirking up an eyebrow. His eyes went immediately to my collar. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came by to see your grandmother.” I clutched at the plate of macarons I carried—my peace offering. At least it wasn’t in one of the white Matchbakery boxes.

  “She’s in the kitchen.” He backed up, opening the door all the way. “Come on in.”

  I followed him through the house, holding back the awkward questions that wanted to spill out of my mouth to fill time. Austin’s grandmother stood in front of the stove—a slight, dark-haired woman in a red, polka-dotted apron over grey slacks and a white shirt. She looked up through her glasses, her gaze first landing on my collar and then on Austin.

  “Gran, this is Miss Vee. She’s here to see you.” He took the cookie plate I offered and set it on the counter. He slipped back into a chair at the kitchen table, books split open and papers spread, just like they would have been at the bakery.

  “Frances Barnett,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and then extending one. “I’ve heard a lot about you lately, Reverend Vale.”

  That was a loaded statement. I had a notion it wasn’t all good. I took Mrs. Barnett’s hand. “Please, call me Vangie.”

  Frances turned back to the stove, plunking a few potatoes into the water off a white cutting board. She gave the pot a quick stir and set the spoon on the counter, turning to Austin. “You keep an eye on that stew, honey. I’m going to go speak with Reverend Vale in the living room.”

  “Okay, Gran.” Austin moved his chair just enough that he could see the big stock pot.

  Frances pulled off her red apron and settled it on the back of the other chair at the table, then kissed Austin’s head. She led me through the house to two big wing-back chairs near a window, and gestured for me to sit in one of them.

  Her living room had a preserved feeling. Plastic on all the furniture, pristine carpets, wood grain visible on tables and bookshelves without a speck of dust. Impressive.

  On one side, opposite the short, wooden box that housed a television, was what could only be described as a shrine. Set into the middle of the bookshelves that lined the space, it was about three feet wide, and extended from the floor to the ceiling. A flag draped over the counter, coming about halfway to the floor. Framed pictures of military men sat on the flag. Above them, on another star-spangled shelf, sat two glass boxes displaying medals I couldn’t see. A framed set of knives that looked like they might have been from another century adorned the shelf above that.

  “Are you from a military family?” Frances asked, her eyes also on the display. She had a wistful, proud countenance. I couldn’t quite tell where she was looking, but there were three very large framed pictures on display, each obviously from a different era.

  The newest of the three sat in the middle, a picture of a young man in a pea coat with gold buttons down both sides of his chest, set against a blue background. To his right and left, similar formal pictures, only the men were in fatigues, sitting in front of flags. One was obviously older, practically in sepia tones.

  “My uncle was in the Army,” I said. “He went to West Point.”

  Frances seemed to take in the entirety of the shrine and then let out a long breath. “I’d hoped that Austin would choose to apply there, instead of going to Annapolis,” she said, giving me a little smile. “But he’s got his heart set on playing football for the Naval Academy, just like his Daddy. That boy has such a need for family connections. I should have known he’d pick the Navy.”

  I took my life into my hands, shifting subjects when she gave me the opening. “That’s probably why he was so devastated about Claire.”

  Every muscle in her body tightened, and the smile faded. “How do you know about Claire?”

  “Just what I’ve heard from Nikki and Austin.”

  “Nothing, then.” She sighed and sat back in the tall, soft chair. In a different century, a different country, she could have been a queen. The way she held herself so straight, her look so pensive. She and Nikki both shared a fine-boned, almost bird-like gentility.

  “I wanted to check in on you. Often, when these tragedies take place, those who survive can be left with confusing, diff
icult emotions. Given how often I see Austin and the fact that I’m a pastor, I would like to help if I can.”

  “This wasn’t a tragedy, Reverend Vale,” she said with a bite to her tone. “It was the inevitable consequence of Claire’s life choices.”

  I tried to keep the shock off my face, but I couldn’t avoid feeling some amazement. She seemed more torn up about the pictures on the mantel, the loss of those men who had volunteered their lives in service, than she did by the murder of her own daughter.

  “What life choices?” I asked, tentatively.

  She crossed her hands in her lap. “Ever since she took up with that Savage boy, she’s been on a bad path. For almost twenty years, I’ve been unmaking her bad choices for her, and now she’s gone.”

  The way she said the words, putting such little emotion behind them, caught me off-guard. I was used to people being numb in the wake of death. Or stricken. Or angry. But resigned? That was one I hadn’t experienced before.

  “What happened with Henry Savage?” I asked.

  She glared at me. “That boy ruined her life, that’s what.” Frances Barnett caught herself, like she thought she’d shown too much emotion, and went back to looking at the shrine. “If my Daniel had been alive, he would have exercised better discipline. But after that boy…after they…broke up, she was different. I didn’t know what to do with her.”

  “Different, how?”

  “Sullen. Disobedient. Angry.” She shook her head, a long sigh escaping her lips. “I had to send her to a special school, off in Minnesota, where my sister could look after her.”

  Something shifted in her features. There was a tightness just under her slightly wrinkled skin, like she was holding something back. I sat very still, hoping she would keep talking without any prompting.

  Her eyes seemed to glaze over, and she moved her hands up, crossing them over her abdomen. “Auggie died not long after that, and Nikki had to come home from overseas. She wasn’t even here when all that happened.”

  “Yes,” I noted, remembering my conversations with Austin. “I’ve heard Nikki’s husband was a great man.”

  “Of course he was,” she said, with a little snap, pulling her hands up even more, until they practically cupped her abdomen. “They were married in Africa, you know. None of the family was there, but it was a beautiful ceremony.”

  “Why Africa?”

  “That’s where August was stationed. Nairobi.”

  Something tickled the back of my mind, like a familiar itch I wanted to scratch. But before I could ask any more questions, she’d risen from the chair and crossed to the shrine.

  “They gave him the Purple Heart for being killed in action.” Frances picked up one of the boxes of medals. “My Daniel received one, as well, and so did my father.”

  I came to stand beside her, and she handed it to me. With a glass front and a velvet inset, I could clearly see the black leather case inside that read Purple Heart in gold filigree letters. Beside the case was a gold medal in the shape of a heart with a bust inside, hanging from a V-shaped purple ribbon. Above it was a pin and a purple rectangle.

  Frances picked up another box, containing rectangles of ribbon with different stripe patterns and a couple of medals I didn’t recognize. “Auggie’s parents have his Purple Heart, but I have Daniel’s.”

  “These are beautiful,” I said, trying to think of a way to steer the conversation back to Claire and Henry, but any pivot would seem like prying, at this point. The natural flow of the conversation had moved directly into military service awards, which neither Claire nor Henry possessed.

  “Nikki lets me keep Auggie’s picture here, and Austin has a little one at home.” She replaced the boxes, reverently. “I like to keep all our military men together.”

  The way she said the word our gave me a little chill, like anyone else’s claim was superfluous, and she owned them. I handed her the Purple Heart like it was a bomb. If I could have wiped my fingerprints from the case, I would have.

  I pointed to the knife collection. “Those are beautiful, too.”

  “My Daniel hated guns. Unfair in a fight.” Her lips settled into a strange smile. “He made his own knives, you know.” She turned to the kitchen, leaning back just a touch. “Aussie, can you come in here for a moment?”

  The young man bounded through the doors, eyes wide like something was wrong. When he saw us standing in front of the shrine, he paused, his face going dark. “Yes, Gran?”

  “Do you still have Papa’s knife? I wanted to show it to Reverend Vale.”

  “Why?” His voice took a rough turn. “You gave it to me.”

  “Aussie,” she scolded. “Don’t be rude in front of guests.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Barnett. Really,” I said.

  “No. You simply must see it. Daniel was an expert craftsman and Austin carries it with him everywhere, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  “I don’t have it on me now.” He shoved his hands in his back pockets. “I’ll show her sometime at the bakery.”

  Frances looked decidedly nonplussed. She fussed us both away and into the kitchen, where the soup pot sat unattended. From her jerky motions, it was obvious that she was unhappy with her grandson, but I thought it best to let the subject drop.

  “I really just stopped by to make sure you were all right,” I said, putting a hand on Austin’s shoulder.

  Frances moved to the stove, pulling the apron back over her head. “We’re fine, Reverend, but I appreciate the visit.”

  “Have you decided where to do the funeral, yet?” I ventured, cautiously.

  “Oh, we’re not in charge of that.” Frances stirred the soup, acting as though I’d been asking about the parade arrangements for Homecoming, or some other silly thing. Not her daughter’s funeral.

  “But I assumed—”

  “Really, Reverend, we haven’t known Claire for nearly twenty years now. She’s been part of someone else’s family for much longer than she was part of mine. Nikki and I don’t speak of her anymore. I’m not even sure we’ll go to the funeral. Derek will be handling all that, I’m sure.”

  Her back was turned, so she didn’t see the look on Austin’s face—or the muscle spasming furiously in his jaw. I tapped his shoulder and he released the tension, looking up at me.

  I was about to ask if he was okay, but the strange difference in his appearance made me keep my mouth closed. I didn’t want to alert his Gran if he didn’t. I couldn’t help being on Austin’s side. He was the one getting hurt by all this silence Nikki and Frances had been keeping for years. Missing out on knowing his aunt and uncle.

  And the idolizing of Auggie Krantz bothered me in a way I couldn’t quite verbalize. I needed time to think. To sort this all through.

  Frances insisted on having Austin show me to the door. Her words were sweet-tipped and quick, but it was obvious I’d tripped a nerve by bringing Claire up again. Something was off about this entire family.

  Austin walked me through the dark hall and held the door open. When we were almost out onto the stoop, I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m here if you ever need to talk. You can always find me at the bakery.”

  “Thanks, Miss Vee.”

  I stepped off the stoop and toward the Tank, but something made me turn back. Austin was still standing in the open door, staring at me. It was an odd, calm stare, like he had something to hide from me, too.

  But I’d seen signs of anger and hurt in him. I paused and asked, “Will you be going to the funeral?”

  The response was immediate. But it wasn’t the flash of anger; a slide of sadness washed over his features like a slow stream.

  “My mom won’t go. Gran just said she’s probably not going. I guess that means I shouldn’t go either. Mom will kill me if I bring it up again.”

  “Then I’ll take you. Or Leo can. But you’re eighteen, aren’t you?”

  Austin shook his head, finally looking up to meet my eyes. “Not until the end of May.”

>   “Well, you’re almost eighteen. I think that constitutes adulthood.”

  He nodded, still hesitant, and swung the door like he might close it, but when he looked up and saw me still waiting on the stoop, he paused. “Miss Vee, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “You said last night that all lying was wrong, even if it’s for someone’s own good, because all lies have consequences.”

  “I’m not sure that’s exactly what I said, but that’s about the gist of it, yeah. Why?”

  He pushed at the door, all nerves. “If you lie to someone, and then they never find out, who pays those consequences?”

  The question stopped me short. It was such a poignant, deep, honest inquiry, and the answer was so complicated—emotionally, not to mention theologically—that I wasn’t sure exactly what to say.

  “That depends. Am I sorry that I lied?” I asked, taking his you seriously.

  He thought about that for a long minute, staring up at the place where the door met the jamb in a way that made me wonder if he would tear up…and if I would move to comfort him. “What if you’re not sorry?”

  “Then I’ll bear that burden. Or my conscience will.”

  Austin nodded, as though that was what he’d expected, and turned back into the house. I wanted to tell him to unburden himself. To tell me what the lies were. But I had a feeling they had been buried under the weight of yet another death.

  By the time I drove past the B&B, the black sports car was gone. I made a stop at the hospital, where I visited the members of our parish who were in the nursing home and in hospital rooms. I had plates of cookies for everyone, and they were very well received.

  When I finally returned to the Matchbakery, there were only two vehicles in the parking lot. One was Leo’s old Datsun. The other was a truck I didn’t recognize. Through the bell-laden door, I could see Leo at the corner table with his mother and father huddled around him. The Van Andels were in the middle of an important conversation, everyone leaning in, frustrated creases on their brows.