Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  I hadn’t seen Leo much since Friday, which was probably when he’d found out what I’d just learned from his father. Once that kind of secret out, there was just no keeping it quiet. I felt sorry for him.

  “Still no sign of Stefan Van Andel?” I asked, figuring I might as well take advantage of my captive audience.

  Malcolm moved my curtains aside, glancing back over at his house. “Still no sign. Mike swears that he saw Stefan on Friday morning, at the same time you and Nikki and Frances were at the bakery, but I think he was gone by then.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep from telling him that I was pretty sure it was Stefan whom Malcolm had chased through my yard on Friday morning. The less I had to explain about my interactions with Scarlet and Derek, the better for all of us.

  If I’d thought it would help him find Stefan, well, that would be another story.

  “Do you need anything else?” Malcolm said, putting his hands on his hips like Superman. I’d never seen him be so nice before. I wasn’t about to get used to it.

  “You’ve done too much already,” I said, holding up the water glass and taking a sip. “I appreciate it.”

  “Evangeline, I need you to know—”

  “You really don’t have to apologize to me,” I said, setting the water down and staring into his eyes. I tried to convince him by sheer willpower, but I’m sure that every time he looked at my shoulder, he remembered just how sorry he was. This wasn’t his fault, though. There was no knowing what might have happened if he’d dropped his investigation of Henry sooner. Nikki might have gone postal and hurt more people. But I could take this, if it meant saving other people from paying consequences of my actions.

  “I really do.”

  “You really don’t,” I repeated. “You are forgiven. And because I’m a pastor, it means more when I say it.”

  He almost cracked a smile. Almost. We apparently weren’t going to address the fact that, days ago, he had practically hated me, and now he was fighting men for me. Strong, silent type. Typical.

  But he made sure to lock the door on his way out, without my asking. No matter what I assured him of, Malcolm Dean might feel like paying for his mistake for a long time. Everyone had to go at their own pace with reconciliation. He would believe me, eventually.

  He really was forgiven.

  Chapter 32

  The Matchbakery window was fully repaired the following week, but my shoulder made work difficult. I was able to hire a local young woman, Beth Jansen, to work part-time, which was a good thing, because the crowds showed up in full force on the day we had our grand re-opening. Leo had taken some time off, understandably, and would put off his entry into Escoffier until he could sort things out with his family. I still felt guilty about that.

  But when tragedy struck in small towns, people banded together. Normally, the casserole brigade would have kicked into action, but I had given specific instructions to my parish council that I didn’t want people stopping by the house. So, in order to feel like they were contributing, everyone who wanted to share their well wishes came to buy food at the bakery.

  I was good with the trade-off.

  In my sometimes absence, I asked Beth to make whatever was comfortable for her. When I came into the bakery the Friday following the attack, the bake case was full of cinnamon and caramel rolls, and fresh sourdough bread was listed on the chalkboard. I sampled the goods for myself, and there was no denying, the girl could bake.

  If business kept up like it had been, I could afford to keep her.

  The doctor and physical therapist had assured me that full range-of-motion would return to my arm within a few weeks, but it already felt a little better. While Beth helped customers, I headed into the kitchen and made the batch of macarons I’d been planning to make with Leo. It felt like the right thing to do.

  It felt like closure.

  When the first customers of the lunch rush started to file in, I was arranging the last of the delicate cookie sandwiches in the bake case. A little boy ran up to the counter, cooing about the pretty colors, and his mother came up behind him.

  I told her about the flavors, and when I pointed out the Scarlett O’Hara, which was a Georgia peach macaron with a caramel buttercream, he clapped his hands. His mother asked for a few of the German chocolate macarons, and I boxed them up with a plastic-gloved hand, just like I had for Henry.

  It was a strange feeling, being back behind the bake case. I had been shot while standing in this very spot. I could still feel the pain of the wound—each movement awoke a dull ache, even with the drugs to dull the pain.

  Beth took the box from my hands and rang the family up. No one asked for the Matchbaker treatment. Not even the strangers and the tourists.

  I looked out over the mostly full tables at the end of the lunch rush and wondered how many of them were reporters. That had been the downside of the previous week—an influx of people wanting to interview me, or speak to me. I had turned down everyone so far, and I’d stopped answering unknown numbers on my phone. But I was going to have to talk to someone, sometime. I wanted to. I wanted them to know a side of Henry that wasn’t all scandal. Because the news media had a tendency to want to label everyone.

  Victim. Criminal. Horror. Mess. Evil. Pristine.

  But people were more complex than that. There were elements of evil in Henry, but he was also a man who’d suffered, badly, for what he’d done. It had broken him. And, ultimately, it had killed him. He deserved compassion.

  My job was to always—always—extend forgiveness and love. That was the great thing, and the hard thing, about believing in something bigger than myself. Justice wasn’t really in my hands. Only grace.

  Someday, I would even have to forgive Mike Van Andel.

  Peter Mayhew came in that afternoon, just as Beth was leaving for the day. He had been the one to suggest her, and they spoke for a few minutes on her way out the door. I was busying myself with wiping down the counters.

  I had been avoiding Peter pretty hardcore since my release from the hospital. I knew he had initially called my denominational headquarters in Raleigh, but he promised me he hadn’t reported any scandal. When it came down to it, Peter had protected me. Like a local would.

  The bell dinged as Beth left and Peter took off his glasses, wiping them on a handkerchief he’d pulled out of his pocket.

  “If you have a few minutes, Pastor Vangie,” he said, placing the glasses low on his nose like a disapproving principal.

  Time to face the music.

  I led Peter back to the kitchen, where we wouldn’t be seen if someone walked in. He stood in front of me, his back to the dining room, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Part of your commission here was supposed to be reconciliation for what happened in Raleigh,” he said, not meeting my eyes on that last part. “And I thought I should tell you that, last week, when we thought you were involved in criminal behavior, I called the bishop in North Carolina.”

  With a long breath, I nodded. “I thought you might.” He certainly didn’t need to know about my sister’s recon mission.

  “But last Friday, when I spoke to him again, I learned a little more about the terms of your probation.”

  “They didn’t tell you when I arrived?” I was surprised. They’d told me that at least one person on the council would know, and I’d assumed that someone was Peter.

  “They just said you were involved in an incident in the church, and that you opted for reconciliation with the denomination rather than termination, in exchange for admitting your involvement.”

  My eyes went wide. That was the official story we’d issued when I left my church in Durham, but it was a vast oversimplification. There had been a lot of moving parts, a lot of people involved, and when the denomination had stepped in, the reconciliation had been required in order for me to remain in the clergy.

  “And what did he tell you on Friday?” I asked, leaning against the prep counter, fidgeting with one of the utensils
.

  “He told me about Edward Archer.”

  My stomach tightened. Emotion gripped at my throat. I hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in months. Not even my sister said it anymore.

  “About the money and your old parish,” he continued. “That you had some kind of inappropriate relationship with him, although the bishop insisted it wasn’t physical in nature. And Mr. Archer used you to gain access to finances in the parish.”

  “And you didn’t know that before?”

  “I didn’t.”

  I nodded, shifting my weight from side to side. “I prefer not to discuss it—not only for personal reasons, but because there could be legal ramifications, of course. And I guess you know why I have such a problem with Mark Findlay, then.”

  “I can see that, indeed. I find it strange that your bishop would request a posting in a church that’s recovering from an infidelity scandal.” He removed his glasses and set them on the silver counter with a clink. “But this is also the perfect place for you.”

  “It is?” It was the last thing I’d expected him to say.

  “Yes. God makes all things new, does He not?” His smile was fatherly, or maybe grandfatherly. He pulled a piece of paper out of the front inside pocket of his suit coat. “The Board has decided to offer you a new contract, Pastor Vangie. We’ve taken out all of the behavior clauses, in favor of a six-month review.”

  “Won’t that be coming up next month?” I asked as he handed me the paper.

  “Roughly mid-April, so we have a bit of time.”

  I read the first page of the contract, which contained most of the changes, outlined in red font. The first contract I had signed with Saint Agnes Community Church had been full of Big Brother clauses requiring that I agree to consistent behavior reviews by the Board, the local bishop, and my bishop in North Carolina. A highly irregular contract, in my experience.

  Tears settled in the corners of my eyes. I sniffed them back as I folded the contract back up and set it on the counter in front of me.

  “What brought this on?” I asked. “If you know what Edward Archer did, then you know I wasn’t without fault, even if I was never charged. I would think you’d go in the opposite direction. Make me report more often, have more behavior restrictions.”

  “Your bishop agreed the fault wasn’t entirely yours, and even that the denomination bore some responsibility for not better equipping you for success. Given how small Saint Agnes is, we felt there would be more accountability built into the framework of the church. Not less.”

  I blinked at him, finally able to do so without tears falling. “Thank you, Peter. And thank the Board for me.”

  “Certainly. We’ll all convene at the next council meeting. They won’t know any more about the situation than they currently know, both to protect you and to protect the reputation of the church. But we will be dropping the provisions on your contract, effective immediately.” He replaced his glasses. “Provided there are no more shootings in your bakery.”

  I couldn’t help a little smile at that comment. “I didn’t plan on that.”

  “No, you didn’t, and it’s brought a little more attention to our town than we would like, but you’ve been wise to stay away from all these reporters.” He pointed to the contract. “You get that back to me as soon as you can.”

  I put the papers in my purse and Peter showed himself out. When the bell dinged again, I looked up, but he’d gone. Emma Brent was standing in front of my beautiful, new window, with her paints spread out on a little table in front of her.

  The urge to roll my eyes was real.

  Instead, I grabbed my coat and walked outside. Peter’s car made a little burbling noise as it pulled out of the parking lot, and I stood beside Emma, looking at the pristine glass.

  “You’re going to ruin my brand new window with another tourist mural?”

  “The last one was a hit.” She bent down to pick up a brush from a piece of canvas she’d spread on the ground. “Get it? Hit? Cuz it got h—”

  “I got it. I got it.” I allowed myself the eyeroll. “Is this going to be a regular thing?”

  “Come on, Vangie.” Emma dipped her square, foam brush into one of the paint cans and came away with a vibrant blue. “You’ve got to be willing to do a little kitsch to pull in the tourists around here. They need a reason to stop.”

  “That’s what my sister said when she talked me into the Matchbakery thing, you know.” I thrust my hands into my pockets as protection from the cold air. “The two of you are peas in a pod.”

  “I’d like to meet her sometime,” Emma said, a somewhat somber note in her voice. “Priscilla.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will. She’s probably going to catch a plane up to Madison Falls over her spring break. It was all I could do to keep her away after the shooting.”

  “It’s nice, y’know.” Emma stopped painting and a little glob of blue collected in her paused stroke. “That your family cares about you so much. Not everyone has that.”

  I bit my bottom lip. I knew it was true, but I hated to acknowledge it. There had been little joy, since the shooting. Emma’s husband had gone off somewhere again, and they still hadn’t caught Stefan Van Andel. Or found his body. Whichever would come first. Austin still didn’t know who his real father was, and I wasn’t sure he would ever want to know. None of the choices would give him what he was looking for. A real family.

  There would be a long trial, and I would be expected to testify, which meant I’d have to see Nikki and Frances again, in the flesh. I wasn’t wild about that. Derek was still grappling with the details of Claire’s estate—they were working on the whole mess of where the money had been kept and who would get it. And Austin would be with his aunt until he graduated. Leo had texted me on Wednesday to ask for another week off. I’d given it to him, of course, promising his job would always be waiting for him. But deep inside, I knew I’d have to find other help if I couldn’t get Leo back.

  I didn’t want that.

  I wanted what everyone wanted, in the wake of a tragedy. I wanted my normal life back. But normal didn’t exist in the same way anymore. Not for any of us. I’d never be able to look at my window without seeing it broken and covered in trash bags. I’d never be able to look at Leo or Austin without flashing back, at least briefly, to the memory of laying on my bakery floor, bleeding and passing out from shock.

  “I’m sure you’ll get along with Priscilla,” I said, forcing a smile and a happy thought. Emma and my sister were a lot alike, and it would be fun to see them meet for the first time. “She would certainly approve of what you’re doing with my hair these days.” I touched the longer sides of my pixie cut, looking in the window for our reflection.

  A truck horn honked, and I turned around to see someone waving. Someone I wasn’t totally sure I knew. It made me smile. That was Saint Agnes, for you. It reminded me of the old adage about never meeting a stranger. There were no strangers in this town, even when there were. I liked that.

  I watched Emma paint, until it got too cold for me and I had to go back inside. But the mural continued to take shape on the window. Blue skies, white-dotted clouds, green trees on a mountain with snow caps. It was the best of Saint Agnes.

  It was starting to feel like home.

  THE END

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  The Murdered Macaron Recipe

  For the cookies:

  142 grams confectioner's sugar

  115 grams fine almond flour

  89 grams room temperature egg whites

  71 grams granulated sugar

  1 T. matcha green tea powder

  pinch cream of ta
rtar

  For the filling:

  1 1/2 sticks softened butter

  4 ounces sour cream

  1 cup powdered sugar

  3 teaspoons grated ginger

  1 teaspoon ground cardamom

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1 cup chopped crystallized ginger

  Make sure you weigh all of the ingredients (even the egg whites), instead of using cups and teaspoons as measurement. Those are less precise than the weight measurements, and precision is super important with these cookies. (Additionally, if you’re baking at a height of higher than 5000 feet, make sure you use a convection oven to prevent your macarons from becoming hollow when baked. Bake at a lower temperature for a longer time, rather than a higher temperature for a shorter time.)

  In a food processor, combine the almond flour, confectioner's sugar, and matcha powder. Grind together until it's a fine, incorporated powder. Sift into a large bowl (if there's a lot of large material left, then grind again, and keep sifting).

  In a silver mixing bowl, begin whipping the egg whites and cream of tartar, starting on a low speed, and gradually increasing. Slowly pour in the granulated sugar, allowing them to incorporate together. If you'd like your macarons to be more green than they will be with the matcha, put a couple drops of green gel food coloring in the mix (not liquid--gel only), but I like the light green color, so it's up to you. Once the egg whites form stiff peaks, put the dry ingredients in and fold them. until they are just incorporated, and there are no streaks left. But don't over-fold. It's a delicate balance.

  Transfer to a piping bag and pipe out little 1/2" circles (with about an inch between them) either on parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Once they're all piped out, smack the cookie sheet onto your counter a few times to get rid of any air bubbles in the cookies, then leave the cookies out on the counter for about twenty minutes, until the cookies have a bit of a crust.