Dough or Die

by Winnie Archer

  “I made you breakfast,” he said.

  I laughed. “So I see.”

  Food was his love language, I thought. He’d taken care of me last night, but his care went beyond simply being present. Neither one of us had been in control of the situation with the break-in, but he was in control when he cooked. Maybe I was reading more into it than was actually true, but I felt that Miguel making me breakfast was his way of starting the day off with him in driver’s seat, and was a way for him to usher me right alongside him. He didn’t want me spooked. He wanted me empowered to take the bull by the horns and face the day.

  We ate and cleaned up together. After getting dressed,we drove the short distance to the shoreline walking path for a little jaunt with Agatha. He brought me back home before heading off to the restaurant for the day. I triple checked to make sure every window and door was locked before showering. Cleaned up and ready for the day, I spent the next hour mixing dough for a loaf of rosemary bread, then cleaning up the kitchen again. While it went through its first rise, I worked on the bread shop website and blog in my little office, and did some photo editing I’d been putting off.

  After the bread had baked and I’d had an end piece—my favorite—slathered with butter from a local farm, it was time to head to Crosby House for the orientation meeting with Vivian Cantrell. The email confirmation gave the address of the women’s shelter, which had been bothering me. I guess the phone call was the first line of vetting, but it was concerning that I knew the location of the shelter after only filling out an online application and having a brief phone call with the director. How did they keep the women safe from their abusers if the place wasn’t as top secret as I’d initially thought? Unless I was missing something, that sounded like a pretty big flaw in security to me.

  The address led me to a nondescript building located in Santa Sofia’s business district. The fact that Crosby House wasn’t emblazoned on a sign gave me a little bit of comfort. There were no windows. The door was closed and locked. A doorbell with an intercom was to the right of the door. I knew enough about such systems to know there was wireless video monitoring going on, probably streaming live video of whatever happened out here on the stoop to whoever monitored such activity, ultimately storing it on the cloud. A security system sticker was adhered to the top right corner of the door. I let out a relieved sigh. Okay. So no one was getting into Crosby House without permission.

  My ringing of the bell was quickly followed by a staticky click and a voice saying, “Crosby House. Can I help you?”

  I bent down and spoke right into the speaker. “I have an appointment with Ms. Cantrell. I’m Ivy Culpepper.”

  The voice came back at me with a clipped, “Just a minute.”

  Less than a minute later, I heard the click of a lock on the other side of the door and it swung open. The woman standing before me was rail thin, had fine blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, and looked to be in her late fifties. Her phone voice, with its deep tenor and slight accent, had left me with he impression that she was much taller than she actually was. It felt a little strange to be looking down at her. She held her arm out to me. “Vivian Cantrell.”

  “Ivy Culpepper,” I said, shaking her hand. In my experience, you could tell a lot about a person by the grip of their handshake. Vivian Cantrell was no exception. Her natural strength came through, but she had control at the same time. She didn’t hold on for too long, so it wasn’t about exerting her power over me, but rather just long enough to show she was a force to be reckoned with if it came right down to it.

  As she ushered me inside, I caught her scanning the parking lot, her gaze narrowing and holding for a split second on something. I turned in time to see the taillights of a dark SUV drive away. My blood ran cold as my mind flashed back to the incident with the car ramming into my bumper. Surely it wasn’t the same vehicle.

  Vivian closed the door, sliding the dead bolt into place. “We must always be vigilant,” she said.

  I nodded, swallowing hard. “Absolutely.”

  She led me through the center hallway, turning right into a small office where she waved me into a chair before taking a seat behind the office desk. “Thank you for coming, Ivy, and again, thank you for your interest in volunteering at Crosby House.”

  “I’m ready to help,” I said, surprised at how true that statement was. I’d come because of Ben Nader, not realizing how much I also wanted to be an anchor for the women and children here.

  “Let me tell you a little more about what we do, then I’ll show you around. There’s no one else here for orientation today, so it’s just you and me.”

  I smiled and nodded, wondering how many times she’d given this same spiel. “Sounds great.”

  She launched right into it, starting with the background of Crosby House, which had been in existence for going on thirteen years, and ending with a large donation they’d just received from the CEO of a Silicon Valley tech company, a Santa Sofia native whose sister had died as a result of domestic violence and who was trying to make a little bit of difference, one donation at a time.

  After a moment, I chastised myself for thinking Vivian Cantrell’s words might sound hollow or rehearsed. Every single sentence she spoke rang with truth and passion.

  She leaned forward, laying one forearm over the other and looking intently into my eyes. “I lost my mother at the hands of my father. They say history repeats itself. My daughter and I escaped a similar situation. The women here, they’ve lost so much. We take our safety, a roof over our heads, food in our children’s bellies, for granted. One woman here lost her boyfriend and her son at the same time. She’s still fighting her demons. Too many women don’t have a voice, or a safe place to run to. Crosby House is that place. We depend on volunteers like you to help us, so again, Ivy, thank you for being here.”

  My eyes had turned glassy at her story, but I quickly blinked them clear. “I’m honored to be part of this.”

  She tilted her head to one side, considering me. “Is your interest in helping personal?”

  I recalled the question and statements on the volunteer application about victims of abuse volunteering and the need to complete counseling first, so I knew what she was asking. “No,” I said. “I’m fortunate not to have been a victim. No one I know personally has been, either. I think that’s part of the reason why this opportunity resonates so much with me.”

  She raised her eyebrows slightly and nodded in a way that encouraged me to continue.

  “I want to be able to offer my support to other women who have not had the same good fortune I’ve had. In a way, I guess I want to give back.”

  As she pushed back in her chair and stood, I felt her strength, almost as if it shone from inside her like the rays of the sun. “We’re lucky to have you, then,” she said, picking up her cell phone and coming around to the front of her desk. “Let me show you around.”

  I followed her out of the office and back down the hallway the way we’d come. She turned right at the entrance, which led to a community room with several couches and overstuffed chairs forming seating areas; three square game tables, each with four rail-back chairs; bookshelves scattered with adult and children’s books; and a pile of board games neatly stacked on a table in one corner. The back wall had two windows looking out to a grassy backyard dotted with a few small trees that looked to have been planted fairly recently. Two stakes anchored each tree to the ground, tape loosely connecting the stakes to the skinny trunks. From my view at the window, there was no garden to be seen—presumably the reason Vivian Cantrell had asked me if I gardened. If this was my volunteer assignment, I’d be starting from scratch.

  Several women and a few young children, no more than five or six years old, sat in different areas of the room. Every single eye turned to the shelter’s director and me when we entered. “Ladies,” Vivian said, “this is one of our newest volunteers, Ivy Culpepper. You’ll be seeing her around.”

  I smiled warmly and waved. The respon
se was a low murmur from one or two of the women, but none of them made eye contact, and most directed their gaze downward or at the TV hanging from an arm on the wall. A noon news show played. The volume was low, but subtitles were on.

  Vivian turned to me, speaking softly. “It’ll take time.”

  I understood. They’d been hurt. Betrayed. They certainly didn’t want to be gawked at, and they certainly wouldn’t be blindly putting their trust in some stranger who’d just walked into their safe world.

  Vivian led me through a door tucked into the back left corner of the room, which led to the backyard. She folded her arms over her chest as she directed her attention to the overgrown raised planter beds. “That is where we currently need the most help. The beds haven’t been tended to in more than a year. We had a volunteer who loved to garden, but she moved to the Central Valley. No one else has been inclined to take on the project.”

  She let the last sentence hang there between us like an invitation. I hesitated, realizing the scope of the task. Tall grass and weeds sprouted thickly from each of the raised beds. They’d need to be removed. I’d done some reading about gardening in preparation for meeting Vivian, so I knew we’d need to amend the soil before anything could be planted. Unless I had an entire crew of women helping me, and if I only planned on volunteering once a week, we’d never get the job done.

  “How does it work?” I asked. “I come two or three times a week and some of the women will help me in the garden?”

  Vivian nodded. “Basically. We ask that everyone here help out around the house if they are able. We ask that the women take care of their own laundry, and that of their children, if they have any. They take care of their personal spaces, of course. And then there are communal tasks like cooking and cleaning. We’ve wanted to get the garden going again. There is something so rewarding and empowering about cooking with produce you’ve grown. It’s important that we incorporate it back into Crosby House. If you’re willing to take it on.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, not hesitating for a second. I wasn’t sure how I’d find chunks of time, and it would take some research to figure out exactly what it meant to amend the soil and how to do it, as well as what to plant and how, but I was up for the challenge, and I was especially up for contributing to Crosby House in whatever capacity they needed.

  I’d have to build some trust to get anyone to talk about Ben Nader, but I was patient. There was nothing, however, stopping me from asking Vivian Cantrell about her other volunteers. “I work at Yeast of Eden,” I said, staying focused on the yard so I sounded nonchalant. “I met a man there who volunteers here. Ben Nader?”

  “He does,” she said. Had she tensed when I’d said Ben’s name, or had I imagined it? “He’s very handy, although I don’t believe we’ll see him for a while.”

  “Right. The accident.”

  She walked toward a free-standing shed. “Some of the girls were talking about it. And about the woman from TV. A double tragedy.”

  “It’s been a shock,” I said truthfully. “We’re all hoping Ben pulls through.”

  She opened the door to the shed, revealing garden tools, bags of soil, chicken wire, stacks of old newspapers and magazines, and who knew what else. “Do the doctors think he will?”

  “They are optimistic,” I said. “Was he, mmm, close to any of the women here? Maybe someone would like to visit him?”

  “There are one or two,” she said, “but I don’t know how they will handle seeing a man they know in a coma. They’re all so fragile.”

  That was a good point. “I was there,” I said, “so I’d be happy to talk to them about what happened.”

  Vivian fell silent, considering. “We can arrange that,” she said after a moment. “I’d like to be there to support them, but Ben has been a constant presence here. Some of the women would like to see him, I think.”

  Vivian gestured to the contents of the shed. “Use whatever you like. When you’re ready to buy seeds or plants, just let me know.”

  Vivian’s cell phone rang. She checked the screen, held up one finger to me, turning her back and walking a few steps away. A few seconds later, she was back, her hand clutching her phone. “If you’ll excuse me, Ivy. There’s a . . . situation that requires my attention. Feel free to look around. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

  “Of course,” I said, but she’d already turned on her heels and was walking across the patchy grass to the door.

  Well, well. The director of Crosby House had given me leave to explore. It probably wasn’t a typical situation for a new volunteer, but I’d take it. I slowly turned in a circle. Where to start?

  Ben may very well have worked outside in the yard, but I didn’t think that would help me any. It wasn’t as if he’d known he’d be attacked and left a clue in the shed, convenient as that would be. No, if there was any connection between his accident and this place, I’d find it courtesy of one of the women inside.

  I followed in Vivian Cantrell’s footsteps, back across the grass and through the door. The same women and children I’d seen were still sitting in the room. I let my gaze travel over them. Just like before, most of them avoided looking at me. Only one looked up and met my gaze. She had shoulder-length wavy dark hair, her skin was as pale as Snow White’s, and her full cheeks just as rosy. I couldn’t tell how tall she was while she was seated, but her feet barely touched the ground, which told me she was definitely on the short side. I turned and strode over to her like an arrow heading straight for a bull’s-eye. “Mind if I sit down?” I asked.

  She scooted over, taking the pillow that had been by her side with her, making room for me. “I’m Ivy,” I said.

  “Yeah, I saw you earlier,” she said, her voice quiet. She didn’t offer her name. We sat in silence for a minute before she spoke again. “What are you going to do here?”

  “Ms. Cantrell asked if I’d work on the garden.”

  She looked surprised. “I didn’t know we had a garden.”

  “I guess there used to be one? I’m going to get it started again.”

  She gave a little nod, but didn’t say anything else. I guess gardening wasn’t a big priority for someone who was escaping domestic violence of some sort. This woman probably had bigger things to worry about.

  Another woman in the room suddenly sat forward and pointed at the TV. “Hey. Turn that up.”

  Someone directed a remote control at the television.

  The volume suddenly increased. A local noon newscaster sat behind a desk, only her red top and black blazer visible. She was mid-sentence and talking about the death of local celebrity Sandra Mays on the heels of another tragic accident that nearly killed local cameraman Ben Nader.

  A low chatter started on the opposite side of the room as the women listened to the television host give the details about Sandra’s body being discovered on the roof of a local business.

  “Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks that’s way too much of a coincidence,” the woman who’d asked to turn up the volume said. She sat on the edge of her seat. Thanks to the light shining through the windows, I could see freckles dotting the dark skin of the bridge of her nose.

  “What do you mean, D’anna?” It was the woman holding the remote control who spoke this time. She had a pixie haircut and her narrowed eyes held suspicion.

  “That they’re connected, girl. No way a reality TV star is murdered and her cameraman is run down and those are two different events. No way,” she said again, emphasizing the words.

  My thoughts exactly, D’anna. I thought about agreeing out loud, but although the women in the room were talking with me around, I was still a stranger and this was still a safe house. It was better for me to listen and observe.

  “You think there’s a killer in Santa Sofia?” A third woman spoke this time, her voice shrill and nervous. “Like the Golden State Killer? Or Son of Sam?”

  D’anna put her straight right away. “No, Jasmine, not a serial killer. Relax.”

&nbs
p; But Jasmine, poor thing, couldn’t relax. “My ex, he could have done that kind of thing. I could be dead right now. I could totally be dead right now.”

  D’anna moved from her chair, taking the spot next to Jasmine. “But you’re not. You’re fine, and that crazy man doesn’t have a clue where you are. Remember that. You escaped.”

  Jasmine’s nose flared. She blinked her eyes, holding back her tears. “But Ben—”

  “We don’t know what he was involved with, Jasmine, but it has nothing to do with you.” D’anna, it seemed, was the glue holding poor Jasmine together.

  The other young woman who manned the remote joined D’anna on Jasmine’s other side. She put her hand on Jasmine’s shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “Let me take you to your room.”

  Jasmine allowed herself to be guided out and once again a haunting silence took over the room. “It sounds like she knows this guy Ben Nader,” I said to the nameless woman I sat next to.

  She just shrugged. It seemed these women, probably with very good reason, kept things close to the vest. Vivian Cantrell returned just then, gesturing for me to join her. “I’m afraid I must tend to some things, Ivy, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  I agreed. I left Crosby House excited and ready to dig in, both with the gardening, which I’d research tonight at home, and with Ben Nader’s connection to the place. Something, I was sure, would eventually bloom.

  Chapter 17

  My alarm went off before dawn the next morning. I planned to keep helping Olaya with her early morning cooking to take the pressure off. The last thing she needed was a relapse. I’d texted her that I’d be in soon. My cell phone rang almost immediately.