Dough or Die

by Winnie Archer

  Chapter 10

  My visit with Miguel was quick. A sous-chef had up and quit, which meant he was filling in and looking to hire a replacement. I’d passed on his offer for a bite to eat, telling him that I’d be back later for a dinner date with Em. I left for home to take a nap, cuddling with Agatha as I snoozed. I awoke with a jolt two hours later. Waking up at four in the morning had crashed down on me like a piano falling on me from the sky. If my plan was to help Olaya more at the bread shop, which it was, I’d have to completely recalibrate my internal clock. Early to bed, early to rise.

  I had time before I was to meet Em and I couldn’t sleep the day away, so I piled Agatha in my car and drove to Cambria Street. I parked by the Lutheran church, strapped Agatha into her harness, and started walking. Past a local brewery, past a new Thai restaurant, past a kitchen store filled with knickknacks I couldn’t afford and didn’t really need—but sorely wanted. The antique mini-mall was across the street. A new boutique had opened up right next to it, the juxtaposition of the old and the new a perfect example of Santa Sofia’s quirky character.

  Agatha trotted along beside me, her ears back and her tail curled, two signs she was utterly content. The breeze off the ocean had kicked up, pulling strands of my hair free from my hairband. I did my best to contain them, tucking them behind my ears, as I kept walking. I approached Yeast of Eden, looking inside as I got to the awnings. I hadn’t planned on going in, but that was before I spotted Sandra Mays going into the kitchen. What was she doing here?

  I stepped up to the window, cupped my hands, and peered in to get a better look. No Olaya. No Mack. Just Maggie cleaning up after what looked like a great day for the bread shop. Not a loaf or scone or baguette remained.

  Maggie spotted me. Her face lit up with a smile. She threw jazz hands up, waving at me, then beckoned me in. I picked up Agatha. I couldn’t have her in the bread shop roaming around, but if I carried her in . . .

  “Oh, she’s so cute!” Maggie rushed around the counter and held her hand out for Agatha to sniff. Agatha didn’t have an aggressive bone in her body. She crinkled her flat nose and licked.

  “Why is Sandra here?” I asked, my voice low as if it was a whisper.

  Maggie shrugged, matching my cadence. “She wanted to talk to Olaya, but she’s out sick. Crazy, right? Olaya’s never sick!”

  “So why did she go into the kitchen? Is Mack here, too?”

  Maggie waggled her eyebrows at me. “Look at you, calling them Sandra and Mack.”

  I leaned closer, whispering like we were sharing confidences. “They’re just people, Mags.”

  “But they’re celebrities! They’re on TV!”

  “You’re going to be on TV, too.” I scooted behind the counter and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, not waiting for her to answer either of my questions.

  “I heard her say she wants to film today,” Maggie called after me.

  “Then Mack must be here,” I said, remembering the scene between the two of them and Mack’s stern reminder that he was the showrunner and she needed to remember her place.

  “Not that I’ve seen,” Maggie said.

  Oh boy. So maybe Sandra hadn’t learned her lesson. I knew show business was cutthroat, but Sandra seemed to be pushing the boundaries far and wide. The kitchen was empty. Where had she gone?

  At that moment, Sandra Mays strode out of Olaya’s office. “Oh good, you’re here!” Her voice seemed to echo off the stainless steel counters.

  “I am,” I said. “But why are you here? What were you doing in there?”

  Sandra threw her head back and laughed. “I like you, Ivy. You say what you think. Just looking for Olaya.” Her smile dropped and she became instantly serious. “I imagine you think it’s in bad taste to be here, what with Ben’s, uh, situation, but the show, as they say, must go on. We have some excellent footage so far. We still have a lot to do, though.”

  “But we don’t have the Bread for Life class tonight. And what about Mack?”

  She had her cell phone in hand and quickly tapped her thumbs on the screen, composing a text. “Taehyun will be taking Ben’s place.”

  “Who is Taehyun?” I asked.

  As if on command, there was a quick knock on the back door. It opened and a young Korean man stepped in carrying what looked to be the same camera equipment Ben Nader lugged with him. Sandra swung her arm toward him. “Right on time. Taehyun Chu.”

  The man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. His dark hair was parted and neatly swept to one side and his long sideburns gave him a slightly edgy look. With his black coat, an open-at-the-collar white button-down, and black twill pants, he could have been ready for a night out with friends, but he was here with Sandra Mays instead, seizing the opportunity that fate had presented him with—an opening as a cameraman. I guess I didn’t blame him.

  “Hey,” he said a little sheepishly and with a quick wave. “Call me Tae.”

  Sandra waved her arm wide. “Taehyun has seen Ben’s footage so he’s familiar with what we’ve been doing,” she said, ignoring Tae’s request. Sandra, it seemed, wasn’t willing to give up any of her power, not even with a green cameraman. Ironic, since she insisted on being called Sandra, and not Sandy as Mack had done several times.

  “But is this okay?” I asked. “What about Mack—”

  Sandra spun around, eyes blazing. “We. Do not. Need. Mack.”

  I grimaced from her tone, not liking the way it had turned on a dime. Sandra ran hot and cold. “Get some test shots of the kitchen,” she told Tae. An order, not a request.

  Tae set up his equipment and did as he was told. His sheepishness had morphed into something else. Anxiety? Hesitation? Out-and-out fear?

  Maggie came into the kitchen from the front. “Closing’s done,” she said, stopping short when she saw Tae swing so his camera was directed at her. She took a step back. “Oh, uh, sorry—”

  Sandra strode to her, taking her arm before she could disappear to the front of the bread shop again. “We don’t have any tape of you,” she said. She clasped Maggie’s chin, moving it this way, then that, as if she were evaluating Maggie’s bone structure. Maybe that was exactly what she was doing. “The camera will love you,” she said.

  Maggie stammered. “Oh, I, uh—”

  “She’s right,” Tae said, lowering the camera and raising his eyebrows.

  Maggie blushed and Tae gave her a shy smile. Ooo, a little love connection was happening right here in the kitchen of Yeast of Eden.

  Sandra clapped her hands, drawing the attention back to her. “This afternoon, Tae and I are going to work on an intro and some transitions. We really don’t need you.”

  It wasn’t her bread shop, so that seemed pretty ungracious.

  “Your bread is amazing,” Tae said. “I came in for the first time yesterday. I’m already addicted. This is going to be a great show.”

  The moment he started to speak, Sandra’s jaw tightened. “Ben did his job, Taehyun. They already know it’s going to be great,” she sniped.

  Tae glanced down to avoid Sandra’s glare and Maggie’s wide eyes, but I thought I detected a faint smile on his lips. Maybe he wasn’t quite as green as I initially thought.

  I hung back and watched Sandra run through an opening just like she’d done, then she and Mack had done. Take after take, she changed her words around, changed the cadence of her voice, changed where she stood.

  “I think we have it,” Tae said.

  I could see the blood boiling just under the surface, but before Sandra could put Tae in his place, her phone rang. She took the call, immediately putting on a “phone” voice. “Tammy! Any news?”

  As she listened, her expression shifted and her tone grew serious. Real. “So I heard.”

  Tammy, on the other end of the line, said something, and Sandra replied. “Ben has always said, choices have consequences—”

  She stopped abruptly. Listened. Turned her back on us. “You’ll let me know how he’s doing,
won’t you?” she said, then followed up with a curt, “Great. Talk to you later.”

  “Is everything okay?” I asked as I adjusted Agatha in my arms. I couldn’t put her down in the kitchen. Pugs had two layers of hair and shed a lot. A. Lot. I was not going to risk dog hair in a single bit of Olaya’s bread.

  “That was Ben’s wife. There’s no change.”

  “Do you know her well?” I asked. “Is there anything we can do for her?”

  “Ben will be fine, and Tammy needs to be strong. She’s scared, that’s all.”

  So Sandra was a tough love kind of woman. I wondered what she’d meant when she’d said that choices have consequences. Definitely not sympathetic words to lift up the spirits of a scared wife whose husband was in the hospital in a coma.

  Chapter 11

  Later that night, as I was still digesting the overabundance of food Em and I had eaten, I sat on my back patio and opened my laptop. Emmaline had mentioned to me in passing that Ben Nader volunteered at the women’s shelter in town. I’d become fixated on that detail of his life. The shelter, dedicated to women and children, was apparently one of Santa Sofia’s best-kept secrets. I’d never even heard of the place, which was shocking since I’d grown up here and the sheriff was my best friend. Its existence was a well-kept secret and I had no clue where it was located. Olaya had never mentioned it, either, which meant she probably didn’t know it existed. If she did, I felt sure she’d be donating bread to the people who took solace there.

  It stood to reason that the secrecy was connected to the reason women would need a shelter for themselves and their children. Most, I assumed, were escaping abusive situations. The way I saw it, I could a) ask Emmaline for details—the place was secret for a reason, though, so I didn’t think she’d offer up much; or b) use my detecting skills to ferret out the information on my own.

  I went for option b.

  I was no expert and didn’t have the resources of a police detective—or any other kind of detective for that matter. So I started at the logical place. I opened a browser and typed in Santa Sofia Women’s Shelter. The first listing that popped up was: Crosby House—Investing in Safety, Hope, Healing, Justice, and Prevention for Victims of Sexual and Domestic Violence.

  Huh. Not so secret after all.

  I clicked on the link and scanned the website, zeroing in on their motto: Partnering with our community to provide compassion and comprehensive services, and promoting safety, hope, healing, justice, and prevention to women and their children in need.

  I kept reading. The statistics were startling: One out of four women is a victim of domestic violence. Nearly twenty people are abused by a domestic partner every single minute. One in seventeen women is stalked by an intimate partner to the point that they feel fearful or believe they would be hurt or killed.

  A shiver wound through me. It was hard to fathom that so many women suffered in this way. I was suddenly so thankful places like Crosby House existed and were a haven for women and children who needed a safe place.

  Clicking on the volunteer link took me to an application. I scanned it, homing in on the volunteer opportunities. The pulldown list ranged from adopting a family to working at the food closet or the children’s program to helping with the Thanksgiving drive—and everything in between. Anyone with a special project idea was encouraged to submit a proposal for consideration.

  I experienced two things at once: a pull in my gut and an unexpected need to be part of this organization, as well as the strong desire to find out why Ben Nader volunteered with the organization. Could it lead to some answers? Had he tried to help a woman at the facility, pissing off a violent partner? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Or maybe he knew someone who had been a victim of domestic violence or rape. Knowing why he spent time there might help me understand the man I was hoping and praying would come out of the coma he was in. I wanted to walk in his footsteps, and to do that, I had to do what he did. Crosby House was a place to start.

  It was an online application, which was easy to fill out. A background check would need to be completed and I had to schedule an orientation date and time. I selected one three days from now. The last section of the application was a disclaimer for those seeking to work directly with Crosby House clients. It warned of the sometimes tragic circumstances, distress, and chaotic lives of the shelter’s women, and something called “vicarious traumatization,” a phenomenon where a volunteer may begin to feel victimization similar to the client’s after hearing their story. It also warned of triggering unresolved issues and pain from past abuse or trauma. I thought of Luke, my ex-husband, and how fortunate I was that our split had been relatively amicable, despite his infidelity. A person really did have to count their blessings.

  A bundle of nerves opened up inside me as my finger hovered over the SUBMIT button. Was I going in under false pretenses? I wanted to dig around about Ben, but not at the expense of the women who took shelter at Crosby House. Would I make a good volunteer? Would I take on the trauma of the victims? I answered the questions in my head. Yes, I was compassionate and caring, so I’d make a good volunteer. At least, I thought I would. And yes, I probably would internalize some of the stories I heard, but I’d try hard not to let them get me down. The purpose of volunteering at Crosby House, as I saw it, was to be a positive force in the lives of people who needed someone to listen, lean on, or just to be present for them.

  I could do that—while I hunted for clues about Ben and who might have had it out for him.

  I pressed ENTER and instantly received a message saying that my application had been successfully submitted. I sat back and breathed out, any trace of anxiety drifting away as the form traveled to someone else’s computer.

  Now I just had to wait.

  Chapter 12

  The next three days passed in a blur. Felix and I did the early morning baking at Yeast of Eden while Olaya continued to recover; I worked on the bread shop’s website and blog, posting up-to-date photographs from the last Bread for Life session; and at home, I baked far too many macarons, a delicate cookie I was determined to master. Add to that a little personal time with Miguel, walks at the beach with Agatha, and visiting with my father. I’d had little to no time to think about what had happened to Ben Nader.

  Or, I guess to be more accurate, I had nothing to investigate. I had no natural way to dig into his life, and so I’d waited. Let me tell you, waiting is not all it’s cracked up to be. I felt anxious and restless and useless, all at the same time.

  After another early morning at the bread shop, I’d spent the afternoon in my kitchen, which was one of the things I’d loved most about the old Tudor house I’d recently bought. With its pale yellow cabinets, warm honey-colored wood floors, perfect work island, and a stovetop framed by a red brick arch, it had quickly become my happy place. I’d finished making yet another batch of macarons when my cell phone rang. It was an unknown number and for a second, my heart skittered. I hadn’t had any more road rage encounters, but I was still on edge.

  The woman on the other end of the line introduced herself as Vivian Cantrell, Crosby House’s volunteer coordinator. “Oh! I figured I’d speak with someone tomorrow after orientation,” I said to her. Finally, maybe I’d have something to do in regards to Ben Nader.

  “Before a prospective volunteer spends his or her time at orientation, I like to have a conversation,” she replied. She had the hint of an accent, which I couldn’t place.

  “Makes sense,” I said. I imagined that she could suss out quite a bit about a person through a simple phone call. I know I could. For example, Vivian Cantrell came across as incredibly professional and no-nonsense. I supposed those qualities were important when you worked in an emotionally charged environment.

  “Is now a good time?”

  I’d just finished piping small rounds of the macaron meringue onto parchment-covered baking sheets. I’d lifted and dropped the trays several times, eliminating the air bubbles.

  Now,
I set the trays of macarons aside on the counter and turned to look out the window behind the cooktop. It overlooked the front yard, the leaves of the old tree in the center rustling from the light coastal breeze. “It’s the perfect time,” I said.

  “Ivy Culpepper. That’s an unusual name. I feel like I’ve seen it before.” The woman’s voice held an almost accusatory note, but that, of course, didn’t make sense. I didn’t know her, so it stood to reason that she didn’t know me.

  “My mother was a school teacher at Santa Sofia high school,” I said, “and my dad is the city manager?” My voice lifted at the end of the sentence, posing it as a question in case it triggered a recollection for her.

  “Mmm. Maybe.” She paused. “It’ll come to me. Anyway . . . is it Miss Culpepper? Ms.? Or Mrs.?”

  “I’m not married,” I said, adding a silent anymore at the end. “And please call me Ivy.”

  “Okay then, Ivy. Thank you. Tell me, what made you complete the volunteer application for Crosby House?”

  I turned away from the window and moved to one of the stools on the other side of the island. I’d given a lot of thought to how I’d answer this question. I wanted to be straightforward, but I’d decided to leave Ben Nader’s name out of it until I’d seen the place for myself. “To be honest, I just learned about the shelter recently. I did a little research and, I don’t know, I guess I felt the need to help. I’m fortunate enough to have some wonderful people in my life. Not everyone has that, I realize, but if I can be that for someone in . . . need, well, I’d . . . like that.”

  My back straightened at the sound of a pen or pencil scratching against a sheet of paper. Vivian Cantrell was taking notes. “In what capacity do you see yourself volunteering?” she asked.

  I knew Olaya would want to help through the bread shop, but I didn’t want to broach that subject yet. Not until I’d mentioned it to her. Instead, I focused on my strengths and what I thought I had to offer. “I’d love to read with some of the children. I can help with anything that needs doing. Laundry, cooking, cleaning. I can bring supplies, shop, or work on any special projects you have.”