Vangie Vale Mysteries Volume Two: The Vangie Vale Mysteries

By R.L. Syme

If the Vicar of Dibley and Cupcake Wars had a baby, it would be Vangie Vale.

St. Agnes, MT is back and Vangie is at it again! Just when she'd promised to turn over a new leaf of keeping her nose out of people's business… it's the same leaf. Here we are all over again.

If you enjoy complex cozy mysteries, more in the vein of a Murder, She Wrote episode, then you'll probably enjoy Vangie. Or at least… what could it hurt to take a look at the first page and see?

This volume contains Books 4-5 of the Vangie Vale Mysteries series by RL Syme, plus book 6 which was formerly only released in the Passport to Murder anthology, where Vangie goes to Canada!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hummingbird Books
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215929858

R.L. Syme

R.L. Syme writes hot Highlanders and sexy Chefs, and not always in that order. She lives in Montana with her cat who drinks wine and does not answer back when she talks to him.

Book preview

Vangie Vale Mysteries Volume Two

VANGIE VALE MYSTERIES VOLUME TWO

VANGIE VALE MYSTERIES, BOOKS 4-6

R.L. SYME

Edited by

ANGELA POLIDORO

Cover Artist

MARIAH SINCLAIR

Hummingbird Books

CONTENTS

Victim in the Valley

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

The Larcenous Lava Cake Recipe

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Body on the Beach

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

The Dismembered Donut Recipe

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Fugitive in the Forest

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The Full Metal Frangipane Recipe

Acknowledgments

Next up for Vangie…

Also by R.L. Syme

Victim in the Valley

For Mark.

We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

- TS Eliot

CHAPTER ONE

Saint Agnes, Montana

Tourist season had barely died off before our little mountain town felt abandoned. By day, Saint Agnes was still stunning, with its frosted peaks, its carpet of evergreens, its quaint alpine architecture. But by night, it was shadows and ghosts and a dark so black, it had its own zip code.

That dark had been my constant friend, for the three years I’d been in Saint Agnes. Nearly every morning, I’d pull my giant tank of a green Hummer off the narrow two-lane highway at the edge of town, into the Matchbakery parking lot. My headlights would cut across the building, illuminating the same swath I saw every morning.

Until one morning in early December, when they landed on something unfamiliar.

A figure. Standing near the mural. By my door.

I couldn’t tell immediately if it was a man or a woman. Not tall, not short. A little stocky. A frizzy dusting of shoulder-length hair peeking out of a poncho.

My headlights stayed fixed on the person as I parked. A little wormy dread crawling up the back of my throat. Usually, around Saint Agnes, surprises were bad.

Very bad.

Can I help you? I asked, hanging out the window into the cold mountain air.

Are you Vangie Vale? A deep, throaty voice came from the colorful poncho like a campy Darth Vader.

Uh… Objectively, the man seemed harmless, but I hadn’t shifted to park yet. I ventured a quavery, Y-yeees.

And you’re the pastor at Saint Agnes Community Church?

Yeah.

He nodded, letting the hood down. His face was familiar, though I couldn’t place a name. Thick-fingered hands drew two envelopes out of his front poncho pocket.

That’s what I thought. I have a letter for you. He kept one and shoved the other back into the jacket. As he stepped away from the building with the envelope outstretched, I tried to keep my serial killer radar on hold. If he wanted to hurt me, he wouldn’t be trying to pass off my mail.

And you are? I asked, like his name would make him less dangerous.

Kenneth. He waved the envelope at me. You would have met my wife when you rented from us.

Riiiiiiight… I shifted the Tank into park, turned it off, and climbed out. How can I help you?

Y’know, there are eighteen rectrices on a turkey’s underlayer. Kenneth pointed at the mural on my big plate-glass window. Yours only has three.

I had to stifle a laugh as I pulled my purse onto my shoulder and looked at the mural to decipher what he meant. Rectrices must mean feathers on some planet, since there were three of those, and this guy seemed the type to take turkey’s backsides pretty seriously.

I don’t paint the murals, I said with a forced smile, pointing at the door to the attached agate store. That’s Emma’s territory. She’s got some theory about matching pictures being a magnet for passing cars.

Emma Brent?

Yup. Emma and Josh. I finally got close enough to take the envelope out of his hand.

Well, I’ll tell her about the rectrices, then, he said, absently.

You do that. I opened the enclosed paper to find the blocky logo of my landlord’s management company. The letter was short and hand-signed, and said I had thirty days to make an offer on the building, or it would be sold.

Sold.

That word had me counting to ten in every language I’d ever learned. Including Hebrew. Hebrew, y’all.

I’ve still got to find Mr. & Mrs. Brent, he said like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on my life.

They won’t be in for about five more hours. I almost offered to take the letter, but I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news for my best friend. Poor Emma. This would wreck her.

Neither of us had the money to buy our building.

Five hours? he asked, screwing up his face like doing math was hard today.

They open somewhere around nine or ten.

Great. He spun around and waddled toward his car like an Oompa Loompa on his way to rescue a child from the chocolate milk lake.

Done and done? Was it just that easy for him?

I leaned on the Tank for support. What would I do?

Kenneth had parked around the corner, along the side of Emma’s agate store, and as he pulled out, his headlights swung across me and the mural and the Tank and everything I would be leaving behind to go back home.

I still wasn’t ready. In the back of my mind, the list of morning baking was pressing on me. I was already late, justifying it by the fact that we rarely had a packed house anymore. But I still needed to get to work.

Couldn’t stand in the parking lot all day wishing I hadn’t just been handed the equivalent of an eviction notice. I couldn’t even process the moment. If I couldn’t rent from the new buyer at the same price, I couldn’t stay open.

Tears prickled at the insides of my nose. I loved Saint Agnes. I was nearly finished with my probation—or, as we were now calling it, my interim at the church—but it wasn’t enough money to keep me here. I didn’t want to leave.

I threw the letter on the desk in the back office and started gathering ingredients for baking. I put Bonhoeffer on my iPhone and pushed through my morning routine, keeping my head down and my thoughts away from the bombshell remnants.

With a strange desire for comfort food, I put together the ingredients for a batch of lava cakes. Somehow, when I needed to feel like the world was right, I always made them.

Maybe I could sell these as a winter treat. Or a trial for Christmas. I’d have a bunch of taste testers ready for new menu items, pretty much any time of year.

Christmas Lava Cakes could be just the thing.

I finished the rest of the morning prep before I gathered the ingredients to make the lava cakes and buttered the ramekins. I stuck them in the refrigerator to chill while I made the batter. I’d forgotten how easy it was.

Half an hour later, I pulled the fragrant chocolate cakes from the oven, after making good notes on Sunday’s sermon. I’d almost forgotten about Turkey Guy when the coffee ladies showed up. They weren’t in a lava cake mood, but they almost cleaned me out of the fresh donuts.

When the breakfast rush passed and I had finished cleaning off the tables, I finally pulled out my phone to check messages for the first time. In case Derek had called, I wanted an ETA so I could adequately prepare myself.

I’d have to tell him about the letter.

I touched the power button and saw a notification for a 919 missed call. Raleigh. More than an hour ago. I hadn’t gotten 919 calls since the trial.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

I swiped the screen and called Derek. When he didn’t answer, I left him a message to text when he would be coming over.

In case he didn’t catch the voicemail, I texted him the same thing. I typed no rush, at the end, because if I called and texted, sometimes he dropped everything and ran over, only to find me elbows-deep in cookie dough and not needing to break-or-enter anything.

He was a good guy, but sometimes too quick on the trigger finger.

No customers today? said a familiar voice that wasn’t as perky as usual. Emma Brent had stuck her head through the push-glass door between her gift shop and my bakery. Her blonde curls bounced when she looked around the empty room, as though underlining her point.

I tried to gauge her mood, from her not-as-upbeat-but-not-devastated tone. Had Turkey Guy been over there already?

I had a few earlier, I said, testing the waters. What are you up to?

Is Derek here?

He’s at work, but guess whaaaat? I walked out from behind the bake case like a very messy Vanna White. I made lava cakes. You want one?

Emma pulled her head back—like she’d multiple-choiced internally—then plastered on a load-bearing smile. Actually, can you help me for just a sec?

Sure. I scooted through the little round tables and into her dark gift shop. Didn’t open yet?

No.

I wondered if you would be closed all day. You’re usually open before ten.

Just… She went behind the cash register, gaze fixed on the ground. Can you help me with this?

I rounded the edge of the sales counter and was hit with stale alcohol and sweat and Joshua Brent curled up with one of their mountain-scene body pillows.

Crikey Moses, Em.

I know, I know, she said. Not quite a cold shoulder, but maybe a frosty elbow.

Em—

If I’m gonna open, I’ve got to get him into the office and air this place out.

Did you try waking him up?

If I had, do you think I would have come to find your boyfriend?

At ten in the⁠—

Don’t, Vangie. Her tone was so soft and so pliant, it melted my resolve. I didn’t want to upset Emma, but her husband was a lazy mooch, and if I could have snapped my fingers and sent him to Timbuktu, I would have.

I bent down and grabbed one of his arms. Emma caught the other, and we half-dragged-half-carried him through the back of the store and into the office. He didn’t even wake up.

He was at a bachelor party last night. Emma threw out the words like a bag of beer bottles she hoped the truck would pick up before I did.

I released his arm and he fell onto the couch in the narrow office, but the pause wasn’t enough to stop the proverbial blurt. Blackout drunk on a Tuesday night?

Don’t do that, Vangie.

What?

Judge him.

I held up innocent hands. I’m not judging. Just asking.

I was such a liar. Totally judging. Someone had to.

Emma pushed past me, heading back into the store. Usually, she was chipper and bright, even when her husband was douchey and dumb. Today, she seemed… defeated.

Like something had changed.

Like she’d read the letter, maybe, and didn’t want to talk about it.

Crap on a cracker.

She called out, asking me to open the back door—circulate some air. I stepped over the deadbeat husband and unlocked the deadbolt, pushing open the exterior door. The cold autumn air gave me a shiver and, to escape the chill, I went back onto the shop floor.

That’s better. Emma came out from behind a big rack of coffee mugs.

We faced each other for the first time all morning, and she had that same slump to her shoulders she’d always had after dealing with Joshua. I couldn’t shoot the elephant in the room, but I wanted her to talk.

Girl, you look beat. You’re not getting that bird-flu-thing that’s going around, are you?

No.

A pause while I searched for a new topic. You’re gonna change the Thanksgiving mural to Christmas soon?

One of these days.

One more chance. I made lava cakes. Want to be my taste tester?

Maybe.

Great. Come over anytime. My secret hope was, if I kept her hopped up on a sugar high, she’d forget about the letter she must have gotten from Turkey Guy. Lava cakes would cheer anyone up.

Unless I have too many customers… She tried to land a goodbye smile, and as her friend, I gave her a ten, but it would have gotten a five from the German judge.

That was the shortest conversation we’d had in months. Giving her the space she obviously needed, I pushed through the swing door and headed for the lava cakes.

Now who needed cheering up?

I re-warmed and un-plated one of the little domes, cutting it open and watching the gooey center stream out onto the white porcelain. A memory tugged at my subconscious, so visceral, I had to catch my breath. White plate, thick dark river of deliciousness. A hazy face hovering in front of me with a fork full of chocolate.

So many years ago, I’d forgotten.

Lava cakes had been Edward’s favorite. It hadn’t even crossed my mind when I had the craving, but now… memories were swimming back.

No. I was past all that. The trial had been over for almost two years. Edward was in prison. It was just a Christmas treat. Lava cakes were a normal Christmas treat, and it was almost Christmas…

Shaking off the memory, I forked a bit of the tender cake into my mouth. It was exactly what I remembered making for Edward when he’d first given me his mother’s recipe. With the swirl of earthy chocolate and the sweet spike of cinnamon, the past surged through me like a backdraft.

The bakery bell dinged and I turned around, mouth full of lava cake, expecting to see my big, broad-shouldered biker of a boyfriend, greased up and dirty from the mechanic’s shop.

Instead, my gaze slow-panned up the dark-washed skinny jeans, the thick-rimmed throwback glasses, and the long sweep of hipster hair I’d been trying to forget since that first bite of cake.

Evangeline Vale. He dripped out each syllable like they belonged to him and only he could decide who used them.

Edward.

I didn’t say his name, the last shudder of resistance before the gravity of Edward Archer sucked me out of orbit and into the pitch black past.

CHAPTER TWO

The lava cake formed a lump in my throat when I tried to swallow. I coughed and the plate clattered out of my hands, landing on the counter and barely saving a crash to the ground. I ran for the relief of the sink.

Once I’d gotten the cake to go down, I finally looked back at Edward. I managed to choke out a hurried, What are you doing here?

You haven’t been answering my phone calls.

I swallowed. The 919 calls. Two years ago, they’d been coming with a vengeance. Then Edward had gone to prison and they had stopped.

He went to prison, I reminded myself.

Why wasn’t he in prison now?

Trying to regain my composure, I turned on the sink and splashed water on my face. I reached for a paper towel to dry off, and I felt him come closer.

Evangeline. You couldn’t just pick up the phone?

I didn’t recognize the number.

You have a lot of people calling you from the Research Triangle these days? Edward crooked up one brow—though it wasn’t carefully manicured, the way it had been when I’d known him… they say prison changes people.

I clenched my fists. What are you doing here?

He took a step toward me. I needed to see you.

As he edged closer, my whole body tightened. My tongue felt leaden and coated in metal. I couldn’t move. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t catch my breath.

Settle down, he said. I’m not here to hurt you.

It bothered me so much that he could tell how flustered I was. I didn’t want him in my bakery. I didn’t want to look at his face. At the same time, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

I hadn’t seen him since a glimpse on the courthouse steps, two years ago. I’d gone all the way to Raleigh to testify at the trial, and it had been settled just as I arrived to take the stand. For one brief moment, I had seen him walking into the courthouse with his lawyer, and then my own lawyer had pulled me aside to say I wouldn’t have to take the stand.

He pled guilty. They sentenced him. He went to prison.

Why. Are. You. Here? I forced the words out, still tight like a clenched fist. My body just wouldn’t relax. I started to pray, and I could feel a little bit of peace wash over me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Edward. Something about him was different. A self-consciousness. Like he was looking over his shoulder, proverbially. Instead, though, he was staring at me.

I had to see you.

You shouldn’t be here.

Come on. He reached a hand toward me and, in slow motion, I watched it extend, almost like it was disembodied from him, and just… coming for me… I’m trying to make amends, Evangeline.

Stop. I kept staring at the hand. Finally, I caught my wits and backed up. The counter pressed into my back. You’re supposed to be in prison.

They paroled me.

I swallowed. Parole? It had only been two years. That wasn’t possible. I tried to say as much, but before I could get words out, the bell over my door dinged and I heard a familiar voice call my name.

Vangie? came the deep timbre of Malcolm Dean, Twin Valley County Sheriff. What’s going on here?

Edward’s head turned and he stiffened.

Vangie? Malcolm repeated.

I found my breath. Nothing. It’s okay.

You don’t look okay. He walked to the sales counter, like a customer. I mean, I suppose he was a customer. But beyond that, he was my friend.

This is… a friend… from back home.

Edward Archer. Edward extended his hand toward Malcolm, who wore his Sheriff’s uniform. There was no hesitation now. So either he was telling the truth, and he really was on parole, or he was lying and really good at it.

Either option was viable, knowing him.

Malcolm rounded a brow as he accepted the handshake. He looked at me and I gave a tiny nod. Yes, this was him. The reason I was in Saint Agnes.

Why aren’t you in jail? Malcolm asked, his voice hard.

Parole, Edward said.

Your PO knows you’re here?

He does.

I’ll make a call on that one. Malcolm looked at me again. He’d become much closer of a friend over the last two years, as I’d watched his little boy grow up from next door, and he did still look out for me. He cocked his head to one side, like he was checking on me.

I’m fine, Malcolm, I said as convincingly as I could. I didn’t want him to worry about me. What can I get you this morning? Coffee?

I actually came in to get a dozen of the lava cakes you texted me about. Irma sent me for the whole office.

Lava cakes? Edward asked. Those are my favorite.

Malcolm’s brows pulled together and I felt the disapproval in my bones. I half expected him to rescind his order, but he just pressed his hands into the white counter.

Let me get those for you, I said, turning my back so I could take a breath. This was all too close for comfort. I grabbed one of the white to-go boxes from under the counter and folded it up. Pushing past Edward, I went all the way into the kitchen to get some of the cakes off the counter.

For just a second, I didn’t want to look at Malcolm.

It didn’t cross my mind that I’d left the two of them alone until I got back out front and heard the Sheriff’s gruff tone return.

You’d better leave her alone, Archer, he said. I’ll keep my eye on you.

Malcolm pretended I hadn’t been listening and put a fifty dollar bill on the counter. He took the box from my outstretched hands without a word and turned his back.

Edward let out a long whistle. That guy’s intense, huh?

His accent threw me all the way back to the days when we were working together. That echo of Brooklyn.

For half a second, I was back, five years ago, in our office in Durham. Books all around me, stacks of letters being sorted, organ music playing over a speaker somewhere. The memory was so visceral, it was like I could still smell the old building, with the memory of a thousand people in its brick walls.

You need to leave, I finally managed, pushing the memory away.

I never should have made those lava cakes.

I just needed to see you, he said. I flew into Madison Falls last night and I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m only here to make amends. I promise.

There was enough sincerity in his tone, I almost believed him. But I knew Edward Archer too well. I’d watched him fundraise in some of the wealthiest homes in North Carolina. I’d seen him tell one truth to one rich guy, and another truth to another rich lady. Even though I hadn’t seen his betrayal coming, I had definitely seen him in his lying element.

Massaging the truth, he’d called it.

But he’d lied. To them. To me. To everyone.

I don’t need your amends, I said, turning back to the kitchen.

He grabbed my arm and my whole body locked up. He hadn’t touched me in more than four years. Before I could wrench away, he let me go.

That made me pause. It was strange for him to be so… self-aware. Or maybe, so Vangie-aware.

He’d changed. Or he was more afraid than he’d been.

I turned around and saw the look on his frozen face. The crinkled brow. The half-open mouth. Sadness.

Why was Edward Archer sad?

Crossing my arms and hugging myself a bit, I stepped back. I don’t want you touching me.

I know. He stepped back, toward the tables in the dining area of the restaurant. I know I have no right to ask. I just need to talk.

Fine. I took a breath. Talk.

Edward swallowed and I was a little stunned at how sincere he seemed. He was genuinely affected by this. That was an odd thing to consider.

After years of larceny, had Edward Archer grown a conscience? Was it prison?

Was it…? No. Can’t go there, Vangie. This is not about you.

You know I stole the money, he said abruptly, and he had my full attention. You know I asked you to lie for me.

"You and your wife."

He shook his head, and the swath of hipster hair fell over his eyes. But before it did, I thought I had glimpsed a moment of pain there.

It was wrong, Evangeline. And I know it was wrong.

Why did you do it?

You didn’t read the papers? His brows shot up quickly and I noticed both the few stray hairs between them, and also the shadow of whiskers popping up on his jaw. Had prison somehow made him less vain?

I read enough. But I’d like to hear it from you.

I’d rather not talk about Melissa. His gaze dropped fast, and he looked around at the other people in the dining room. Not here, anyway.

You couldn’t have warned me you were coming? I could have had someone here to cover the register.

I tried to call you.

And left no messages?

What did you want me to say on the message? He put his hand up next to his ear with his thumb and pinky out like he was talking on a phone. "Hi, Vange… I’m gonna stop by and make amends later. Don’t lock your doors?"

Yeah, come to think of it. I couldn’t help smiling just a bit as the words hit. That would have been great.

He laughed as well. For a moment, we were back in that office again, laughing and being ourselves like no time had passed.

I hated that I still kinda wanted him not to leave, because a part of me missed him. Ugh. Not fair, bad part.

But a bigger part of me knew he should get right the heck out of there. Post hasty.

The bell over the door dinged and a family strolled in, the parents giving loud directions to the children about using the bathroom. Edward looked from the family to me and sighed.

When can I see you alone? he asked, quietly.

I shook my head. I needed to get him out of there before Derek showed up. Him and Malcolm was one thing. Him and Derek would be a whole other thing. I’m here on my own until my help gets here, and then not until close.

Edward scratched his stubble, which was uneven. And it looked like he was wearing makeup. Maybe he was more vain than I thought.

Can we have dinner after work, then? Somewhere more private than this?

Everything in my body told me not to. It actually felt like an internal rebellion. But no matter what my brain thought, I couldn't will my heart to say no. I needed to see if he had changed. He wanted to make amends. Who was I to say no?

CHAPTER THREE

When Derek finally arrived at the bakery, later that morning, I’d firmly decided not to tell him Edward was in town. It was Wednesday and Derek had a weekly poker game with his buddies from work. I could slip out after work, meet my ex-whatever-he-was, and no one would be any wiser.

We sold out of lava cakes just as he arrived, and he headed into the office, looking for the recipe to make more, before I realized what else was in the office.

He walked into the kitchen with the letter in his hands, sweeping his long, blond ponytail over his shoulder, and giving me the what for look.

When were you going to tell me about this? he asked.

I stood in the door of the kitchen, wishing the morning had gone differently. Wishing I hadn’t seen Edward and gotten flustered and forgotten all of my relationship etiquette.

Not now, obviously, I said, dragging my toe across the barrier between the carpet of the dining area and the rubber tiled kitchen. It’s not like I was hiding it… I just… forgot.

Which was the truth, to be fair.

It had been a busy morning.

Vange. He shifted his weight. This is a big deal.

I know.

Did Emma get this, too?

Yeah.

What are we going to do about it? Should we call that parishioner of yours who’s a realtor? What’s her name?

The use of the word we stopped me cold. I hadn’t considered that it was a we thing to fix. It was my business. Derek and I weren’t married. We’d been together for two and a half years, sure. But this was my problem.

I hadn’t really thought about it yet. I just got it this morning and I haven’t even talked to Emma.

You haven’t?

I shook my head.

How do you know she got one, then?

Because I met the guy handing them out and he was going to come back and deliver it to her in person.

This was a big blow. If I couldn’t find the money to make this happen, I would lose the bakery, and that would mean having to leave Saint Agnes. I couldn’t survive on what the church paid me. The bakery was my lifeline.

Acknowledging all that out loud to Derek felt dangerous, like I would be asking him to fix it for me or take care of me. He didn’t have the means to do either of those things. This was not an easy-fix-solution.

I have to go back to work, Derek finally said, putting the letter down on the prep counter and walking toward me. Can we talk about this tonight?

Don’t you have poker?

I’ll come by after. He dropped a kiss on my forehead, like he couldn’t even bear to kiss my lips like a normal couple. This hurt him more than I realized, and it made me feel awful as I watched him walk out of the bakery, wordlessly.

I’d hidden many things from Derek over the years. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because there were some things a girl just has to handle on her own. Most of the time, I couldn’t handle too much input into my brain or it would shut down, and boyo, did Derek like to talk about things. Marathon talking, as they say.

The lunch rush was over and I finally checked my cell phone again. Two more 919 calls, and this time, one voicemail popped up. I read the transcription and saw that Edward wanted to meet me at the Madison Steak House.

Of course he did.

Somewhere public so you will feel safe, read the transcription. I didn’t even want to listen to his words.

I’ll meet you at six and I’ll stay until close. Please meet me.

Clicking the phone closed, I went back to move the letter off my prep table so I could re-sanitize, and my eyes scanned across the bad news again.

Sold.

They were going to sell my building, and that would mean either new leases or maybe higher rent—given the fast growth in the area lately—and at the very least, a completely new rental agreement.

When the building down the street had been sold, the rent had gone up twofold and the nice preschool that had sat on the edge of town for almost two decades had been displaced. It was now a trendy restaurant.

For the tourists, they’d said.

I hadn’t eaten there yet. Gastropub something or other. Hipster nonsense. I would eat at the Blue Moon and Teddy’s Diner until I couldn’t eat anymore.

Saint Agnes was changing.

I couldn’t let the changes displace Emma and me. Screwing my courage up, I walked to the glass door and pushed through, propping it open so I could hear the bakery bell if it dinged.

Emma’s store was also empty and I called out her name just in case she wasn’t hiding somewhere in plain sight.

When Joshua’s head popped out of the office door, my stomach sank. He was the last person I wanted to talk to.

I’d maybe enjoy talking to Edward more than him.

She ran to grab lunch, he said, coming out onto the sales floor. Anything I can help you with?

Joshua Brent was too smooth. He seemed like he would have made a good car salesman, and it skeeved me out just to talk to him.

No. I was just looking for Emma.

You’re not here about the letter? He held up an open envelope with jagged edges where he’d ripped it open.

I held mine up. I guess I am.

Josh put the envelope on the glass sales counter and leaned forward. You gonna try to buy this place?

I stood back on my heels. I didn’t like the casual way he just asked about my finances, and if I wasn’t going to talk to my boyfriend about this, I certainly wasn’t going to talk to a rounder like Josh Brent.

He kept talking, barely fazed at my lack of participation. We’re going to go to the bank this afternoon.

You are?

Emma’s got some land in Eastern Montana her grandpa left her, and we’ve got the house. I think we’ll try to get a loan with the collateral and buy the place.

Did you see the price? I asked, a little dumbfounded. I wasn’t sure how Josh Brent was going to get his hands on a million dollars. Or, almost a million.

He waved a hand. It’s a business loan, Vangie. It’s an investment in our community. I think Greg will go for it.

Greg Johnson, a banker with a long history in Saint Agnes and likely not a fan of guys like Josh Brent. Greg happened to be a member of Saint Agnes Community Church, where I was the part-time pastor, and I had little doubt he would see Josh’s con coming a mile away.

But the two of them had probably gone to high school together or something, so maybe Josh really did have an in.

Emma wanted to ask if you’d like to go half-and-half with us, but I think we can get enough, with her land as collateral, to buy the whole place ourselves. Josh flicked his eyes from the letter in front of him, up to meet my gaze. Then I’d be your landlord.

Oh, ick. My whole body shuddered at that thought.

This day just kept getting worse and worse.

I asked Joshua to send Emma over when she got back, but I doubted he would pass along the message. He had stopped being secret about his dismissal of my existence the last time I had encouraged Emma to leave him. Their money stuff had only gotten worse over the years and I wasn’t convinced he had her best interests at heart. Or that he ever had.

My high school help came in just minutes after seventh period ended. Once my first teen staff, Leo Van Andel, had left Saint Agnes for the Escoffier pastry school, word had gotten out that any up and coming pastry chefs could work at the Matchbakery and experiment to their hearts’ content. I hadn’t lacked for seniors who wanted to bake their afternoons away.

This year, it was Michelle Wall, local track star, who wanted to try her hand at the Culinary Institute of America and I taught her everything I could think to teach, while using her enthusiasm to bolster my flagging enthusiasm that my business would survive.

I left Michelle in charge of the bakery, with instructions not to try any new recipes until I got back, and headed over to Derek’s shop.

The shop belonged to Derek’s friend Kyle, who had been his neighbor when he first came to Saint Agnes. They’d bonded over motorcycles, and every time we got together with Kyle and his wife, I ended up in the kitchen with her while the guys went out to work on this collection of restored bikes they had been building together. Kyle’s wife was not a delight to be around. I dreaded going to their house almost as much as I dreaded going to the shop at that moment.

I had the letter in my jeans pocket, and when I pulled in to the parking lot at Kyle’s shop, I fished the letter out and looked at it one more time.

Sometimes it felt like this was all a bad dream. Like I’d hallucinated the guy in the poncho, and hallucinated the letter. But there was one thing I hadn’t hallucinated.

Edward.

And he was standing on the middle of the grease shop in his very best hipster ensemble, swiping hair out of his eyes and arguing with my boyfriend.

Shut the front door.

CHAPTER FOUR

Iblinked several times in quick succession, wondering if the illusion would disappear. But nope, it was Edward and Derek, arms crossed in a mirror stance, arguing.

Behind them was a boxy car with a New York license plate, and Edward kept gesturing to it. Must have been his rental?

I stepped out of the Tank and slipped closer to the building so neither of them could see me. A woman pushed her way through the door and I nodded at her, considering whether I should go inside and try to approach from that direction, or keep going around the front and see what I could catch of their conversation. Inside, Kyle and his wife would likely see me and call out to Derek. At least outside, I could maintain a semblance of privacy.

I waited for the woman to pass me, and then walked past the door, toward the corner of the brick building, where I stopped. Listened.

You’re gonna charge me four grand for that? came Edward’s deep voice with his hint of a Brooklyn accent.

I told you, I don’t set the prices. Your suspension is shot and there’s nothing I can do about it, Derek answered, his voice calm, but tight.

I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need my car back.

I’m sorry, Mr. Archer, but I can’t promise we’ll get to this today. We’ve already got cars up and there’s only four hours of the work day left.

I’ll pay you extra.

There was a tiny pause before Derek’s response, and it sounded almost reluctant. That’s not my call.

Then who can I talk to?

Footsteps shuffled, and I took a chance, peeking around the corner. Derek was leading Edward away, no doubt to Kyle’s office. To check on whether or not they would take a bribe to move up the suspension work.

This wasn’t something I would have considered Derek to be interested in doing. For someone who was semi-obsessed with fairness, I was surprised he hadn’t just argued outright.

Maybe the customer was always right?

But it left me with a big question… did Derek know that was the Edward Archer? I couldn’t tell by his voice or his body language. Although it proved to me, unequivocally, that I couldn’t talk to him about the restaurant right now. Not until I knew what he knew.

I jumped back into the Tank and headed to the bank to drop off our deposit. Before heading back to the bakery, I texted Derek to see if he would stop by before he went out to Kyle’s for the poker game. Michelle and I made the rest of the lava cakes, since it was something she had wanted to try out, and each time we took a new batch out of the oven, I would look at the bakery door, just to see if Edward would walk through.

He didn’t.

We closed at five, after the high school rush, and even as Michelle and I cleaned the kitchen and front counter, I kept waiting for Derek to text me back. He didn’t.

By the time I’d gotten everything ready for Beth to come in the next morning to make bread and pastries, I expected Derek at any moment. Still no text.

When Michelle left, I sent another message to my boyfriend, telling him I was headed out to grab a bite, without telling him where, and said I’d see him when the poker game was over. No acknowledgment text.

Surely, he’d known it was Edward.

Derek wasn’t much of a grudge-holder, but he absolutely had a silent treatment that would have put a corpse to shame.

Typically, it didn’t last, and I hoped that blowing off some steam with his friends would help him be talkative when he got home, because more than ever, I was determined to tell him everything.

I ran home and changed clothes. I intentionally did not shower or dress up, reminding myself that it didn’t matter what Edward thought of me, the entire time. It was a trial. I’d been dressing up for this man for years.

Breaking that pattern felt good.

Still, when I saw him sitting at one of the dark corner tables at the Madison Steak House, and I approached the table, and I looked down at the fourth finger on his left hand… I knew nothing had really changed.

There was still something about him that drew me in like a deep space magnet that had been turned on and pulled every molecule of my body toward him. And toward the bad that lay in his eyes. Evil, maybe. I’d never known what to call it before. Darkness. But it was there.

He wanted something from me… I could tell… and it wasn’t forgiveness, no matter what he said. Edward Archer was a user, and I had to figure out what he wanted so I could devise a plan not to give it to him.

Thankfully, he was reading his menu when I walked up, and I slipped into the chair before he could get up or touch me. I intentionally sat opposite him, even though the staff had set a place for me beside him. I had no intention of being that close to him.

Evangeline, he said, sweeping his eyes up and down my body. I thought you’d dress up for this place.

I laughed and picked up my menu. "You mean, you thought I’d dress up for you, don’t you?"

Now, now. A downturn of disappointment that sounded almost parental. That’s not what I meant at all.

Sure it is. I held the hard-board-back menu between us, but his fingers appeared over the top, pulling it down so he could look at my face.

I promise, I’m not the villain you think I am.

I snorted. You don’t know what I think.

If you knew… He stopped short like a noose had pulled him and looked around the room.

All I want to know is, how did you get out of prison early?

All movement in his body stopped and his eyes held mine for a long time. It wasn’t early.

I thought your sentence was for ten years.

Parole, he said. And good behavior.

Another snort from ole’ Vangie. I wasn’t buying any of his banana oil.

And your parole officer just let you come up here? I took a sip of water and studied him for signs of lying.

His gaze flickered down for a long second and when he met my eyes again, their glaze suggested emotion. My wife is pregnant.

Pain bloomed in my chest like he’d stabbed me. I couldn’t help being frustrated by that response… I am not in love with you anymore, I said to myself. Stop reacting this way.

It didn’t matter that when we’d been working together, he’d pretended not to be married. Or that I hadn’t known about Melissa Archer until after the police had carted off the man I thought I’d been in love with… that I assumed I would marry someday.

He had played me like a trick deck of cards.

Steeling myself, I finally opened my mouth. I suppose that might make you go back home.

Ouch. He looked up as the waiter approached and shook his head, muttering, You’re wrong about me, y’know.

The waiter took our order and our conversation stopped dead in its tracks. I doubted I was, though. Wrong.

Prison was hard on me, he finally said, after the waiter walked away. I’ve changed, I really have.

I took a sip of water, trying to make the dry feeling in my throat go away

He reached for my hand when I put the glass down. You haven’t changed a bit.

I yanked it away before he could touch me. This was an old trick of his. The nostalgic utterance, the sad eyes, the physical contact. Grounding.

It was Manipulation 101.

Crossing my arms, I said, What do you want here, Edward?

What? He tried looking innocent, but I was onto him.

"This whole schmaltz. Oh, Vangie, prison was so hard. Feel sorry for me. Forget that I stole five million dollars. Forget that I lied to you for five years. Anger finally welled up inside like Jed Clampett striking his Texas Tea. I pointed my finger at my ex-whatever-person, stabbing the air. You are not going to do this to me again."

Do what, Evangeline? He held out his hands like he was Pilate pretending to have washed the blood away.

Tears bit the insides of my nose and I willed them not to come out of my eyes. You know what you did. This isn’t apology time—you don’t mean it anyway. I can tell. You clearly want something. So just tell me what it is so I can go home to my boyfriend.

The waiter materialized with our salads and I swiped at my eyes, trying not to let Edward see how much he had rattled me. I didn’t like this feeling. But I needed the closure.

I focused on eating my salad, trying to regain my composure, and I didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t want to risk crying again. This was fresher than I expected, the pain.

Finally, when I felt like I was back in control of my emotions again, I put my fork down and took a deep breath. If you don’t tell me why you’re really here, I’m going to leave right now.

He mirrored my gesture again, and even that unnerved me. Like he was validating everything I did. I hated when he did that. It made me feel out of control.

Looking around, he leaned forward, over his plate, as close to me as he could manage. I do have something for you. And you can’t tell anyone I gave it to you.

Whatever it is, I don’t want it.

Melissa and I sold our house in Cary, he said, reaching for something under the table. We’re moving in with my mother while we figure things out. And I’m trying to make amends.

Oh yikes. I didn’t like the place this was headed.

I felt something push against my upper calf and when I looked down, I saw a dark standup roller-bag suitcase pushing on my leg. It kept moving, and soon, it was right alongside my chair.

I’d already paid my fines, and the police took all that money, he said, his dark eyes full of sorrow. Like he really felt bad for what he’d done. But I still feel bad about dragging you into all this. So I’m giving you half the proceeds of our house sale. To make amends.

My jaw could not have dropped any farther than it did. I could feel the weight of the suitcase against my leg still.

You can’t do that, I said. That’s extortion.

No, it’s not.

Or bribery.

Not that either. Vangie, my prison sentence is done. I’m about to have a baby. I just felt like my last act to put the period on this sentence needed to be to pay you back for the loss of your job and having to relocate. I never meant for any of this to happen.

There’s a crime happening here, somewhere… I know it. I held up my hand, trying to stop this moment from continuing before I could really get my head around it.

It wasn’t possible for him to be this good guy in the end. Not after all I’d been through with him. All the lying.

Prison had not changed that.

Had it?

CHAPTER FIVE

When I pulled into my driveway and turned off the Tank, I sat in silence for a long minute, recounting the entirety of my conversation with Edward.

This was too surreal for words.

The suitcase sat in the passenger seat. It had been heavy to drag that thing out of the restaurant. It was one of those hard-case wheelie bags, and even then, it had been a bear to wrestle into the Tank.

Edward had parted ways with me at the door, which made me wonder if his car had gotten fixed or not… which made me wonder if I was going to ask Derek about his encounter at the shop.

Probably not.

I already had too many things to discuss with him.

The eviction notice.

The suitcase of money.

The fact that I’d had dinner with my ex and hadn’t told him about it.

This was not going to be a good night.

Get out the champagne, Vangie Vale, came Derek’s shout as I opened the door, lugging the suitcase behind me. I left it near the washing machine in the back room and poked my head into the kitchen.

Derek was grinning from ear to ear, standing at my kitchen table, twisting off the cork on an actual bottle of champagne.

Um…. What are we celebrating?

I won the big pot, Vee! He strode over and picked me up in his arms, twirling me around the kitchen. I couldn’t not laugh, just from the sheer glee in his actions.

Putting me down, he popped the cork and champagne started to spill out the bottle. He stuck it in his mouth and guzzled down some of the celebratory drink.

I kept laughing. It was great to see him so happy.

Wow, babe! I kissed his cheek as he swallowed more champagne, but he grabbed me quick and kissed me. I could taste the sweet alcohol on his lips.

It made me want to bake some strawberry champagne cupcakes. All thoughts of the lava cakes forgotten.

Ten thousand dollars, Vangie. He beamed down at me and I couldn’t help smiling back. He hadn’t been this happy in months.

That’s a huge pot, Derek!

It’s the annual. He grabbed a glass and poured champagne into it, handing it to me. Every week, we put a percentage of the total weekly pot into the big pot, and everybody antes into the annual every week. It’s usually around nine or ten thousand.

He poured a glass for himself and held it up for my toast.

That’s amazing, I said, sipping and smiling.

Kyle won it last year. That’s why they bought that new snowmobile. He said the words like I followed along with every purchase that Kyle made.

I’m so proud of you. I slipped my arms around him and laid my head on his chest.

It was just luck, Vee. He stroked my hair, chuckling, but I could hear the gratitude in his voice. This was a big deal for him. Most of the time, he was just interested in hanging out with his friends, and he rarely won anything at poker night. But this was a big deal. It would mean a reputation bump for him with that group of guys, and they mattered to him.

What will you do with it? I asked.

There was a long pause in the room before he moved. He’d clearly made the decision already, but didn’t want to say it out loud, and this typically meant that he was worried about what I would think of his decision.

He continued to hold me, standing in the middle of my kitchen, swaying just a bit like there was music playing somewhere. I didn’t want to break the spell because, of course, I had some pretty big news to deliver on a couple of fronts, and it was going to shatter the glass around a very fragile happiness we’d secured in the moment.

Derek cleared his throat. You’re not gonna like this.

I nodded. I could tell by how long it took you to answer.

Finally, he pulled me back to arm’s length and held my shoulders. Josh told me his plans about the letter you got this morning.

The smack of that sentence was almost visceral. First of all, Joshua Brent wasn’t exactly bosom buddies with my boyfriend. Derek hated him probably more than I did.

Second…

When did he tell you?

At the poker game.

My stomach dropped. Somehow, it hurt worse that Derek hadn’t told me Joshua was at the poker games than it had hurt that he had caught me hiding something from him.

How long has he been coming to that?

Derek looked at the ground, then back to my eyes. He’s always been there.

There was the