Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  “Macarons,” I said, speaking through a little tremor. “They’re called macarons.”

  “Well, they’re great.” He stuck his thumbs into his thick belt and leaned back on his heels. “All tens. I filled out one of those little cards Irma makes.”

  The secretary, as if on cue, gathered them together and handed them to me. “Thanks so much for stopping by, Reverend. The cookies were a big hit this week. They devoured both boxes.”

  She smiled at me as I left the three of them standing at the counter. Nikki’s words rang in my ear: Malcolm said you needed me. To make the case against Henry, I assumed.

  The whole ride back to my house, I was forced to contemplate which I needed more: a talented staff person, or an answer to what had really happened to Claire Barnett Hobson.

  I decided to take my life into my hands and visit the sheriff at home. I hadn’t actually been to his house, which was something of a no-no for a clergyperson. It sort of defied the “love your neighbor” rule. But for me, it was a necessity. Malcolm had always made it clear he was no fan of mine. I tried not to annoy people who hated me.

  Malcolm’s house was a little yellow box, with dormers sticking out on either side. The living room was in the front of the house, facing the street. When I reached the stoop, I could see the blue glow of a TV in the low light of the early evening.

  Either no one was in front of the TV, or they were on the opposite side of the room, because I couldn’t see anyone sitting on the couch. I took my chances and reached for the doorbell, but there was a little black hole in the siding where the doorbell should have been. Instead, I knocked on the screen door.

  Quick steps followed the knock, and I saw a head walk past the curtained window. Then I saw the rest of him—Malcolm was coming down the hallway, a T-shirt in his hands. Naked shoulders. He pulled the shirt over his head before opening the door. There was a hard set to his face as he pushed the screen door open. I backed down the cement steps so he could come out onto the stoop.

  He had on a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt that looked vaguely familiar. He smelled like sweat, and I imagined I had either interrupted bedroom time or workout time. I did not want to know which one.

  “What do you want, Evangeline?” He crossed his arms and came down the steps.

  “Okay, hear me out.” I put my hands out, like I needed to placate him, and I suppose I did. I’d been warned off his property on more than one occasion. “Since you found a box from my bakery at that crime scene, and you initially suspected—”

  “Still suspect your involvement,” he said, his tone dark. “Let’s get that straight.”

  “How could you suspect me? I was at work all day.”

  “You’re bending over backward to help Henry Savage.”

  “Because he’s innocent.” I took a breath, trying to keep calm.

  Malcolm narrowed his dark eyes. “He’s not innocent. This is why you leave the police investigation to the police, Evangeline.”

  “I was with him when he found out Claire was dead. He was completely shocked, from the first moment. I know you’re going to say, ‘He’s an actor,’ but you have to understand how micro-expressions work. I know—”

  “Don’t give me that,” he spat out, taking a step toward me. “I’m not going to just take your word that he’s innocent because you watched an episode of Lie to Me.”

  “That’s not fair.” Frustration was bubbling up inside. I tried my best to diffuse it, but I just couldn’t. It was so hard to explain my ability to read people, let alone justify it. I could try to talk about how Henry’s face had looked at that moment: the ridge of his brow, the lines around his eyes, and the immediate edge of fear, but I doubted he’d listen to me if I told him none of those things pointed to guilt. I’d seen guilt often enough to pick up on it anywhere. But that sounded woo-woo, and I knew he wouldn’t set any stock in it.

  “I was elected to this job, and I take it very seriously. The men and women who have served as my deputies all take it very seriously. We’re not just going to arrest someone because we don’t like them. I’ll arrest him because the evidence points to him.”

  “What evidence?” I asked, putting my hands out between us, almost like I expected him to place the evidence there.

  Maybe I did. Maybe I needed to see it for myself, because I just couldn’t shake my impression that there was a lot more to this than just Henry.

  “When we close the case, you can request the file and I’ll be happy to let you read it. Until then, you need to stop interfering, or I’ll arrest you for obstructing the course of justice.”

  I sighed, turning to one side and crossing my arms. “You clearly have a problem with me, Sheriff. I don’t understand it, but don’t discount what I’m saying because of how you feel about me. Don’t let that get in the way of justice.” I couldn’t look back up at him—I knew my eyes would have anger in them. He had all the answers to my questions, but he wouldn’t even give me a breadcrumb.

  “I have a problem with you, because you continue to act like the law doesn’t apply to you, which doesn’t surprise me. You’re just like the rest of them.” His vehemence was shocking and I could feel his anger reverberating through me.

  Wow, he had a problem with women. And probably women in positions of power, too. Double whammy. I wasn’t sure how to get around this issue between us, but I needed answers.

  The only way, with guys like this, was to give in. Or appear to give in.

  “Okay,” I said, turning back to him and dropping my hands to my sides. “Let’s say you’re right, and Henry is guilty. I’m not on anyone’s side, here. I just want to see justice done. So maybe I can help you put him away.”

  “How’s that?” He looked a tiny, tiny, tiny bit interested. Or at least, not angry anymore.

  “You still haven’t officially charged him. So there must be something keeping you from doing that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s still in his suit. He hasn’t been fingerprinted yet. That’s why there’s no paparazzi, isn’t it? Because you haven’t filed official charges yet, so no one knows you even have him. And for now, Scarlett can keep it out of the papers, because he hasn’t been officially processed. You have forty-eight hours to charge him, and it’s been barely twenty-four. You could keep holding him without charging him, pretty much until tomorrow night. But you’re waiting on something. What is it?”

  A muscle ticked in Malcolm’s jaw and he stared down at me. “Let’s say I am waiting on something. How are you going to help?”

  “People have pretty much been answering all of my questions, which, I’m willing to bet, isn’t happening with you.”

  His head cocked to one side, like he was about to tell me to get off his property again, but then something released, just enough that his whole body seemed to unlock from whatever had been keeping it tight. “Okay, then. If you’re so interested in helping me out, tell me what Henry told you when you were in the office yesterday.”

  I instinctively backed away. “You won’t be able to use it in court. It’s heresay.”

  “Do you want justice? Or do you want to protect your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Malcolm scoffed, digging a toe into the grass next to the sidewalk. “That’s not the way he tells it.”

  “I literally met him yesterday. He’s not my boyfriend. I promise you. I’m just trying to get justice for someone I think is innocent.”

  “Let’s say, in a hypothetical situation here, that I have both motive and opportunity, but I’m still trying to prove the means of the crime. I’m pretty sure he told you something that will help me find the murder weapon.”

  My mouth dropped open and my jaw flapped for a second as I tried to remember my conversation with Henry. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I think he told you where he was talking to Claire.”

  “I thought you were listening in on that conversation.”

  “We don�
�t have that capability. Our precinct is too small.”

  “But you told me you couldn’t guarantee it would be private, and then you came in and got him.”

  “Your five minutes were up.”

  I threw my hands in the air and turned around, pacing a little ways across the sidewalk. Did I know anything useful? What, exactly, had Henry said?

  Malcolm’s hand seemed to come out of nowhere, grabbing me hard. “You said you wanted justice, Evangeline,” he said, but there was genuine fear on his features.

  I had been walking toward my house. Did he think I was going to go without telling him what he needed to know? Crap on a cracker, he needed to settle down.

  “I was just thinking, Malcolm,” I said, shaking his hand off. “You don’t have to manhandle me. I’m on your side.”

  “You’re on Henry’s side,” he corrected, pointing his finger at me. “That’s not my side.”

  “I told you, I’m on the side of justice.” I let out a long sigh, feathering the bangs of my pixie cut.

  “Then tell me where the murder weapon is.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “You know where he was standing when he talked to Claire. Evidence on the scene suggests she wasn’t killed where we found her, but we haven’t been able to find the original scene of the crime and I think somebody cleaned it up. I’ve had guys combing that parking lot, and they’re not finding anything.”

  My memory flashed back to the pictures of the crime scene. Despite all those nasty wounds, there was no blood on the ground. Why hadn’t I noticed that at the time?

  “Tell me something, first.” I took in a breath, trying not to think about how much this was a betrayal of Henry. When it came down to it, Malcolm was right, I had to be on his side. On the side of justice. I just wanted the right people to be punished for this. “I know he had opportunity—I’m assuming that’s what Scarlet told you in her interrogation that made you come out and arrest Henry. But I still don’t understand why you think he would kill her. They were getting a restraining order against her. The problem was going to go away.”

  Malcolm gave a short, mirthless laugh and shook his head. “Evangeline, you have no idea, do you?”

  “Apparently not. But you’re going to tell me, or I won’t tell you what Henry told me in the interrogation room.”

  He bent his head down, all seriousness. A flash of concern darkened his features and he grabbed my shoulders. “Claire was claiming assault. In fact, she was going to tell the world about it. Scarlet said he was livid when he found out.”

  The world went sideways for half a second, and stopped breath burned in my throat. Malcolm kept me upright, but my knees eventually recovered. Everything else still felt like jelly.

  Like a robot, I repeated word for word what Henry had told me. Then I pulled my arms around my body and started walking down the sidewalk toward the street. Malcolm was calling after me, but I couldn’t register anything.

  I felt numb and vacant when I climbed into the Tank, like I was outside my own body. Malcolm kept coming down the sidewalk, but I started the car, put on my seatbelt, and pulled away from his house. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed to get away from him.

  He’d proven me wrong. This was the piece I had been missing—the why. The real why. Now that I knew the why, I knew Malcolm was right. Henry had been about to tell me earlier, in the jail. After all, his lies were about to come out into the open, and Malcolm would be able to prove he had killed Claire.

  I had picked the wrong man. Again.

  Chapter 17

  I kept driving, steering down the winding roads to Madison Falls. It was fully dark by the time I got there. I wasn’t sure what would be open, but I needed to get somewhere in public so I would stop going crazy. And I needed to not be in Saint Agnes.

  There was a little coffee shop in a strip mall just as I got into town, and I went inside, dragging the messenger bag full of sermons with me. I only had a few of Norman’s to finish before I was done with this batch.

  The place was nearly deserted, all red-brown wood and trendy carpeting. The cashier was a little too bubbly for me, but I realized I was still wearing my clergy collar. It typically ensured friendly treatment.

  I sat down with my Glacier Chai Latte—which was probably dangerously caffeinated given the hour but I still needed to drive back to Saint Agnes that night, so maybe the caffeine wasn’t such a bad thing. My computer was in the messenger bag, and this place had free wi-fi, according to the little tented placard on the table, so I hooked in and opened an email to my sister.

  Priscilla wasn’t much of an email person, but it was way too late to call her. I started off by thanking her for going to the denominational offices and then proceeded to tell her as much of the story as I could. It felt good to tell her everything about Henry, and some of the tension released from my body.

  But, boy, I sure knew how to pick ‘em. Or they knew how to pick me, one of the two. I knew that’s what Priscilla would say, as a joke, but it would still sting. I had misjudged Henry so completely, I should be forced to lay down my Matchbaker apron.

  My sister would have reminded me that, when I first met Edward, I had also misjudged him. He had so much in common with Henry, it was uncanny. Minus the murder.

  A kind-faced older man sat down beside me and I looked up to see that the place had gotten a little busier. It was nearing eight o’clock. My latte had barely been touched in my haste to get an email off to Priscilla, so I sipped at it.

  I probably should have gone to Emma, or to Peter, or someone in Saint Agnes. I had a few friends, but no one like Cilla. There were plenty of people I could call, friends from home who would love to hear from me, but there was something different about unburdening myself to my sister.

  Tomorrow morning, we could talk for real while I was making pastries. Then, I might feel all the way better.

  I reached for the sermons, ready to immerse myself in Norman’s musings on The Cost of Discipleship again. In front of the folders lay the rubber-banded set of feedback cards from the police station’s stash of macarons.

  Why not. It would be a distraction.

  I opened the document I kept on my Mac with all the recorded feedback from the surveys and placed the cards on the small table beside my computer. The first one was, ironically, Malcolm’s. I was impressed that Irma had gotten him to fill one out. His comments were brief but complimentary.

  It would be a long time before I stopped seeing the look on his face as he prepared to tell me that Henry had killed Claire to cover up having assaulted her. Protective. Strange.

  The next card was from Irma, and her scripty writing made me laugh. I’d rather be eating your cookies than sitting on a beach drinking my weight in Mai Tais. She was a bright spot in my day, and her friendly comments were a buoy to my sad little heart.

  Stefan Van Andel was the name on the next card. That had to be the deputy from earlier this evening. Stefan. Despite what I’d learned, I was still curious to know how he was related to Mike.

  I pulled up a new browsing window and searched for the name Stefan Van Andel. One of the first things that came up was his Facebook page, so I clicked it open. Most of his page was public, which I found extremely helpful. I loved public Facebook pages. So much easier to be nosy.

  The pictures he’d posted were mostly of him and his friends doing various outdoor activities. Hunting, fishing, boating, and the like. Mike and Leo were in a couple of the pictures. Lord’s barnacles, Malcolm was even in one. I clicked on the pictures individually, so the captions came up on the sidebar.

  I paused when I reached a wedding photo. Mike and Stefan and two other men, dressed in matching ties and vests, standing alongside the groom, whose vest was a different color. All had slight variations in hair color, but their facial features were uncannily similar. They were staring off into the middle distance in a field of golden grass, with a green mountain vista in the background. It was John Van Andel’s picture; he�
�d tagged all of them and captioned it: my four brothers stood up with me at my wedding.

  Wow. Five Van Andel boys.

  Stefan was at the end of the line, and they were obviously arrayed in order of ascending age, except for the groom. Mike was the oldest, it appeared, and they stair-stepped down, probably a year or two at a time. It was possible that Stefan was somewhere in his early thirties, with Mike, the oldest, probably around forty. Or over forty.

  I saw that Mike’s name was lit up, indicating he had a Facebook profile as well, and I clicked on it. He had the smarts to have everything locked down, but that gave me a thought. I opened up another browser page and searched for Mike Van Andel and Saint Agnes.

  There was a page from the high school about Mike’s twentieth class reunion—apparently, he was the chair of the reunion committee. The reunion had been three years ago. Several sets of new-and-old pictures lined the page. A group of men in letter jackets on the left side, and a group of older men in plaid or polo shirts on the right. A big class picture on the left side, and a smaller, more sedate group photo in the Saint Agnes gymnasium on the right.

  I did a quick search on the page for Mike’s name and three results popped up. The first was from the caption under the letter-jacket lineup. The second was a picture of a high-school-age Michael Van Andel, his arm around the shoulders of a young Jenna. It was uncanny how much Leo looked like her.

  But the third picture almost took my breath away. It seemed innocuous enough at first. A picture of several men with hammers in their hands. They looked to be building something, though whatever they were hammering was out of the shot. One of the men was obviously Michael Van Andel, and standing next to him was a man in profile, looking at something away from the camera. My breath caught when I realized why this other guy was so familiar. His profile was almost identical to the one I saw every day in the bakery. Austin Krantz.

  Was that Auggie, then? I searched my memory for the picture from Austin’s room, but couldn’t bring it up.