Vangie Vale and the Murdered Macaron (The Matchbaker Mysteries Book 1)

by R. L. Syme

  As the words came out of my mouth, I had a flash of Edward. Anytime lying came up, his face surfaced in my mind. It was like a Pavlovian response, thinking of my old love.

  Love. That wasn’t the right word.

  Austin took a seat at his desk, like he’d decided to forget the whole situation and hunker down with his homework, and I turned around, heading back toward the kitchen. As I approached, I could hear the adults’ voices rising and falling like waves on a beach.

  I couldn’t hear any complete thoughts, and as much as I wanted to know what they were saying, I also didn’t want to be caught lurking or eavesdropping. I made a compromise: I slowed my steps a bit at the end of the hall, trying not to make enough noise to tip them off to my approach too soon.

  “Someone needs to find Derek,” Mike’s voice rang out a little louder. “By not telling Malcolm…”

  Derek? They’d mentioned that name once before. Nikki had said she’d told Malcolm to bring him, Derek, to the morgue. Was he one of the morgue attendants? I had only ever dealt with the funeral home in town, not the hospital morgue.

  “It’s not my job to find Derek,” Nikki hissed out. I turned the corner and could see straight into the back of the kitchen. Mike was still sitting in the same chair, but his back was hunched and he was leaning forward. Nikki wasn’t beside him anymore, and I couldn’t see Jenna at all.

  “I’m telling you, we have to tell Malcolm he was looking for money.”

  “We’re not throwing Derek under the bus.” Jenna’s voice was resolute, and came from the far side of the kitchen, the one I couldn’t see. I kept walking, but just barely, hoping they wouldn’t realize I was there.

  “They were always looking for money. That’s nothing new.”

  Mike leaned back, sighing, and seemed to catch sight of me from the corner of his eye. His gaze shot back to something in front of him, he gave a brief nod, and Jenna came around the corner.

  “How’s Austin?” she asked, a heavy drop of sadness in her voice.

  “He seems to be taking it well,” I said, walking all the way into the bright kitchen. Nikki was in the corner by the lazy Susan, caught between the two countertops like someone had fenced her in. She looked haggard, and part of me wanted to tell the Van Andels to leave so Nikki could get some rest.

  I’d been through murder investigations before, when I was working in Raleigh. Working with at-risk populations often put me in contact with the police, and being a pastor, I was often grandfathered in by the families. They trusted me—often, more than they trusted the police. These investigations were long, exhausting ordeals, and they weren’t easy on the victims’ families.

  “Thank you for doing that,” Nikki said with a tired smile. “I just couldn’t handle the questions right now. Not with all this.”

  “He’s a good kid,” I said. “I think he’ll be fine.”

  The room went quiet, like everyone present was collectively mourning for all the things that had happened to Austin. I hoped that the promise of Annapolis would help. Maybe he could meet a nice girl, get married, and have ten kids. Finally get the big family he wanted. There was always hope.

  I said my goodbyes to Nikki and the Van Andels, trying not to overstep by telling Nikki how to handle her grief. It wasn’t easy to cut siblings out of your life, and whatever had made her disown Claire must have been a pretty big deal. If there had been some wrongdoing on Claire’s part, and she’d died before Nikki could hear the apology she’d always wanted, that opportunity was gone now. That would need as much grieving as the loss of life.

  I drove The Tank right over to the police station, passing dark businesses and a couple of lively bars on my way. The Madison Steak House was still open, but it wouldn’t be for long. Not on a Tuesday night. Soon, only the bars would be open. And the jail.

  The sheriff’s Bronco was still parked along one side of the building. The station was attached to the county courthouse—a big, white building in the middle of town, surrounded by green on all sides. It had a very official feel to it.

  Armed with news that would surely exonerate Henry, I pushed my way through the glass doors and into the little waiting room. Irma looked up from her desk, eyes tired, and buzzed me inside.

  “Reverend Vale,” she said, stifling half a yawn. Only the Lutherans called me Reverend, which was a dead giveaway. A Catholic had called me Father Vale once on accident. I’ve learned to take these things in stride. No one quite knows what to do with a female preacher in Montana.

  “Is Malcolm still here? I saw his car.”

  “He is. He’s back with your British man,” she sighed, flipping her gaze up toward the ceiling. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, honey, but that man is positively beautiful to look at. I just can’t believe he did this.”

  “I don’t think he did.” I pointed to the back of the big, open office, indicating the hallway Malcolm had taken Henry down. “Can you buzz him for me? Or go get him?”

  “Oh, the sheriff doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s in interrogation.”

  “Not even with some new information?”

  Irma’s eyes bugged out, and her mouth formed a small O. She sat there like that for what felt like a full minute, just staring at me. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t know what to do. We’ve never had anyone walk in with information in the middle of an interrogation before. Usually, they just tell Malcolm what he needs to know during questioning.”

  I could imagine. If Malcolm Dean chained me to a table and fired questions at me, I’d probably confess to killing JFK—even though it happened more than twenty years before I was born.

  “Is there a way to get in touch with him in there?”

  She picked up the phone gingerly, like it might bite her. “He really doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

  “Trust me, he’s going to want to know this.”

  With a hesitant sigh, Irma pressed a couple of buttons. Malcolm answered, and I could practically hear his shout reverberating from the back of the office.

  He really didn’t like to be disturbed.

  After Irma explained the situation, the sheriff came bursting out of the door. He barreled toward me, coming through the aisle like a bull seeing red.

  “What could you possibly have to say that couldn’t wait, Evangeline?”

  I was momentarily speechless. I couldn’t quite form the words with him heaving angry breaths and hulking over me. Even pastors get intimidated.

  But I cleared my throat and met his blazing eyes. “She got the cookie box herself. She came to the bakery after I left this afternoon.” A long sigh followed the words, and I couldn’t believe I’d gotten them all out in one breath. I was still a little thrown off by the memory of Malcolm charging toward me from the back of the station.

  We had definitely elected the right Sheriff. He was a terror.

  “What?” he said, narrowing his gaze on me. “What are you talking about?”

  “You came to the bakery earlier, asking me about whether we’d served her or not. It turns out she was there this afternoon, so it couldn’t have been Henry’s box you found at the crime scene.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “You’re not talking sense, Evangeline. Just. Stop.”

  “No, I talked to Austin Krantz, and he said his aunt came to the bakery this afternoon while I was gone.”

  “That’s not possible.” Malcolm put his hands on his hips. “She was already dead this afternoon.”

  The words hit me like a fist. I moved my lips wordlessly, thinking back over my conversation with Austin. He’d said that his aunt had come to the bakery, hadn’t he?

  “Plus, Scarlet was already in the system, and we found her fingerprints all over the box that was on Claire’s body. I have no doubt your boyfriend’s prints will be on there as well. As soon as we process him, we’ll know.”

  I stared up at him, trying to come up with some witty retort. Henry wasn’t my boyfriend…but that hardly seemed the thing to argue at the moment.
Austin had definitely said he planned to meet his aunt at my bakery.

  The way he talked, I thought she’d been there when I was out. Was he lying to me?

  Behind me, there was a knock on the glass door, and a buzz sounded in my ears. I turned to get out of the way and backed up to the chairs in front of Irma’s tall, Formica-topped intake desk.

  “Can I help you?” the old receptionist said in a voice that told me she was tired and wanted to go home for the day. I didn’t blame her. I would do just about anything to curl up in my bed and forget this day had ever happened.

  “Yes, I got a call from the sheriff’s office. I was told to come down here.” The man’s voice was rough and edgy, and he looked like a biker. Leather coat, worn jeans, thick-soled boots, and tangled blond hair that hung across his face like a curtain. “I’m Derek Hobson,” he said, moving the hair back behind his shoulders. “I think you have my wife.”

  Chapter Nine

  Malcolm led Claire’s husband into the back of the office, giving me a dark look that I’d seen before—mostly when he was trying to get me off his property. It said, Go home, Evangeline, and I was prepared to ignore it.

  I needed to talk to Henry.

  On the back corner of Irma’s desk, I spotted the white Matchbakery box, unhinged and half-open. With a casual nod, I said, “How were the cookies, Irma?”

  “Oh, honey, they were just a delight.” She swiveled her desk chair to pick up the box and set it on the higher counter in front of me. “I didn’t care much for the green one—it tasted like dirt to me—but the rest were just a treat.”

  “If I promise to bring another box tomorrow, do you think I could have just a quick word with Henry, while Malcolm is in with Mr. Hobson?”

  Her little eyes rounded, and she looked from one hallway to the other, her mouth forming a little o. I could tell she wasn’t convinced, so I tried another tactic.

  “Henry is innocent, Irma, I know he is. I think Malcolm is barking up the wrong tree. I want to ask him a question, but I can’t do that unless I can get five minutes—just five, I promise—with Henry.”

  The gray-haired receptionist glanced back at the door through which Malcolm had disappeared. It was big and framed in dark wood, and his name was spelled across the front in gold letters. The frosted door was angled just right that he wouldn’t be able to see us if we went around the sides of the desks and back toward the interrogation rooms.

  “Well, I’m going to run to the restroom, and if you happen to make your way back there, he’s in room two.” She laid a finger on the side of her generous nose and winked at me, setting her keys on the desk with one sticking out, cleared away from the rest.

  I took the keyring and slipped around the sides of the deputies’ desks, hurrying toward the little hallway that led back to the interrogation rooms and, presumably, the holding cells. I hadn’t been back in this area before, but Irma’s directions had been pretty straight forward. There was a line of three rooms, so I picked the middle one and used the key. It worked.

  Henry sat at a small gray table, his head bowed over, his hands sunk into his fair hair. He glanced up when he heard the door close, and his eyes were red-rimmed and tired.

  “Vic,” he said, his tone laced with wonder. “How did you get in here?”

  “I only have a few minutes.” I slid into the chair that Malcolm had no-doubt occupied moments before, grabbing Henry’s hands and squeezing them in a comforting gesture.

  “Have you seen Scarlet?”

  The question caught me off-guard, and I shook my head. “Um…no, I’ve just come from Nikki’s house. Do you know Nikki? Claire’s sister?”

  “Not really, no, but I knew her late husband. He played football for Saint Agnes back in the day, before the co-op.” His accent had faded to an almost unnoticeable level. I wondered if his commitment to method acting had extended into the interrogation room. Malcolm would almost certainly have judged him if he’d asked answered his questions with a phony accent.

  “You knew Claire.” It was a statement, not a question. There was no other interpretation of the way he’d reacted to the news of her death.

  His eyes went dark. “This town is small, Vic.”

  “Listen,” I said, squeezing his hands again. “I know you didn’t do this, but Scarlet told Malcolm something that made him suspect you. Do you know what that something was?”

  “Probably that we were at the crime scene.” He glanced up at the ceiling, revealing the undersides of some very bloodshot eyes. “We stopped at the gas station…”

  “Was that where you threw away the box?”

  “That must have been Scarlet. I can’t even remember for sure. If you’d asked me an hour ago, I would have said the box was still in my car. Come to think of it, I don’t know it’s not still in my car.”

  I shook my head. “He said he found Scarlet’s fingerprints on the box at the crime scene. They’ll take yours, as well, so if it is yours, they’re gonna find your prints.”

  “But if it is my box, then of course my prints will be on it. That doesn’t matter.” He pulled his hands out of mine and ran them through his hair again. “It’s not like she was killed by the box.”

  “No.” I pulled my lips to one side. “She couldn’t have been. I’ve seen pictures of the crime scene. It looked like she was stabbed with a pretty awful knife. The wounds were jagged.”

  The clock ticked overhead and I turned to see the time. There wasn’t much left. I wanted to keep my promise to Irma, and I also absolutely did not want Malcolm to find me here. If he did, I’d probably find myself in an interrogation room of my own.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened the voice recorder I used to take notes for sermons. “Okay, I don’t have any paper, so I’m going to record this. I believe that you’re innocent, Henry, but I don’t think Malcolm does. If I’m going to help you, you’re gonna have to promise to tell the truth.”

  He glanced down at the phone, then met my eyes with a twinge of sadness. “I’m only married on paper, Vic. That’s why I didn’t tell you. My wife and I have been separated for more than a year.”

  “You’re still married.” The clipped edge of my voice surprised me. “But regardless, I feel responsible for you being in this mess, since I’m the one who sent the two of you to Rolo—”

  “Vangie,” he cut in, sliding one of his hands over mine. “This is not your fault.”

  While a part of me warmed at his concern, another part was very aware of the ticking clock. I needed to get out of that room. I pressed the record button and pushed the phone toward him.

  “Walk me through what happened at the gas station.”

  He let out a long breath. “I sort of remembered the place when we circled back to it. I knew I’d been there before.” There was a far-off look in his eyes, and his voice took on a strange, far-away quality. “I only realized why later. When I went to school in Bedford, we used to stop there on our way to games in Saint Agnes. We’d get these licorice ropes that were longer that I was tall, and Cokes and sunflower seeds. We’d spit them out the windows of the bus when our coach wasn’t looking.”

  Henry shook his head. “Scarlet pulled over at the station and I…I got out to ask directions. At the time, I only knew we were somewhere I recognized. I hadn’t been to Rolo since…since high school. So it was…” He paused and gave a tight chuckle. “Not quite a trip down memory lane, but something like that.”

  “Did you leave Scarlet alone in the car?”

  He leaned back in his chair and his eyes refocused over my head again. “Yes, while I went inside to ask for directions. When I realized where I was, I thought about buying a licorice whip for old times’ sake”

  “How long did that take you?”

  “Like I said, maybe a minute or two. Not long.”

  “Did you end up buying the licorice whip?” I asked, hopeful that there would be a transaction time I could nail down at the convenience store.

  “I didn’t, no.” He
folded his hands in front of him, staring at them. “Scarlet had just yelled at me about eating carbs. She would’ve lost it if I bought candy, let me tell you.”

  “And what happened when you got back to the car?”

  He swallowed. “We drove back to Saint Agnes. Scarlet was a pill the whole ride, and I had to turn on the radio to drown out her complaining.”

  “What station?”

  Henry’s face scrunched up, like a little kid doing a math problem. “I can’t remember. Some talk radio thing. NPR, maybe?”

  He seemed so tired, and I hated putting him through these paces when I knew Malcolm would probably continue to interrogate him in a few minutes. I really needed to get out of that room. I had a lot to go on so far, and if I could nail down the timeline of Henry’s unintentional visit to Rolo, I might be able to prove his innocence.

  “Oh, and one more question,” I said, offhandedly. It was the one thing I hadn’t asked him yet. “What was the bank appointment for?”

  The sigh that escaped Henry’s lips was both tired and frustrated. “My mom’s estate. It’s been a bit of a runaround, trying to get everything transferred to my name and getting her loans paid off. I came up here to settle the last of it.”

  I raised a brow. It seemed strange that he’d need to do it in person. I wasn’t sure how much more to push him, though. I wanted him to know I was on his side.

  Still, I couldn’t deny that something felt off about the conversation.

  It could have been the fake accent, even if it was fading. It could have been the fact that I knew he was an actor. Or the fact that he’d lied to me before, even if it was just by omission. Like I’d told Austin, lies always had consequences.

  I reached for his hands again. “You were looking for spiritual guidance from me, Henry. I don’t blame you for not telling me about your wife.”

  His relief was almost palpable. That undercurrent of sadness was back, even as he smiled at me. It was the strangest, most familiar thing about him. Like looking in a mirror.