She rolled her eyes. “The point is, which I know you know, but to underscore it . . . Wait. For. Me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
And then I froze. Thought. Ma’am. Or was it Mam? “I’m so right, by the way.”
One of the deputies handed Miguel and me each a Kevlar vest. “You want to come along to capture a murderer, you wear the gear,” Em said.
Miguel was already putting his bulletproof vest on over his button-down shirt. “You won’t get any arguments from me.”
She waited while I put mine on. “No arguments from me, either.”
“She does not have a gun,” Meg said through her sobs, but I wondered if she could know that for certain. She fumbled as she put on her vest, barely holding it together.
Emmaline ordered Miguel and me to stand back as we all approached the building. Her team was at the front entrance to the shelter, guns drawn. She stood slightly off to the side with Meg next to her.
One of the deputies knocked on the door and called, “Vivian Cantrell!”
Miguel inched closer to me, edging his elbow slightly in front of mine. He was in protection mode. If either of our shoulders got shot, his would be first. “How’d you figure it out?” he asked, his voice low.
Finally, I got to explain. “It was all there from the beginning, but I wasn’t connecting the dots. Vivian gave Meg a set of keys the first time I was here. I realized later that they had to be the keys to Meg’s car.”
“So she’d planned it?” Miguel mused, more to himself than as a question to me. “She made sure Meg took it to the shop, then Vivian went to get it, hoping the rest of the damage would pass as part of the first.”
“Right. That’s basically what the mechanic thought,” I said, remembering what he’d said about it looking like someone had taken the car for a joyride.
“So it was revenge?”
“It makes sense. The Naders took her daughter’s child.”
“But how did you figure out Meg is her daughter? Since they have different last names?”
“It was one thing, actually. I remembered the first time I saw Meg and Vivian together. I couldn’t hear their whole conversation, but I did hear Meg say, “Thank you, ma’am. I’d thought she was so polite, but that wasn’t it. She called her mam, like mom. Her Irish accent came out more then. Vivian’s got a little accent, too, but I couldn’t place it. She worked hard to disguise it. Meg’s ebbed and flowed.”
Shouting came at us from the entrance of Crosby House. Vivian Cantrell stood there with her arms up.
Miguel and I strode toward them. The standoff had started and ended peacefully with Vivian standing stoically as Emmaline read Vivian her Miranda rights. She let Em take one arm down behind her back, then the other, cuffing them together.
Meg sobbed. “Why, Mam? Why?”
“Why? Margaret, I went to them on your behalf. That woman, she threatened to kill me if I didn’t take you and leave here. When I went to Ben and told him what his wife had said he said he couldn’t do anything. There was nothing they could do. She would never give Kevin up.”
“Why Ben?” she asked. “He might have come around.”
“They took your son from you. They took my grandson.”
Vivian had gone from calling her daughter Meg to calling her by her given name. That simple act seemed to underscore the woman Meg used to be. The woman who’d lost everything thanks to the Naders.
“And Sandra Mays?” I asked, suddenly believing Tammy’s declaration that she hadn’t killed Sandra.
Vivian’s face had collapsed, ten years of grief suddenly imprinted on her. “That woman was vile.”
I thought about all Sandra’s attitude and how difficult she’d been. I couldn’t argue with Vivian’s assessment, but being an awful person shouldn’t lead to murder.
“She knew what the Naders did and she let it happen. She should have gone to the police,” Vivian continued.
The reason for Tammy and Sandra’s falling-out so many years ago.
Meg stared at her mother. “She knew they took Kevin?”
She was calm. Cool. Collected. She’d been on a mission. Only Tammy had been left.
“She knew everything.”
“Did you try to blackmail Tammy and Ben?” I asked, suddenly putting another piece of the puzzle together.
“Me, blackmail? Pah! No. I confronted Ben one day outside the bread shop. Esmé—she was very helpful, letting me know the filming schedule,” Vivian said. “I told him that I would take Kevin back. I was done waiting. He cried. He said he was trying to fix things, but his wife wouldn’t agree. When I left, that woman . . . that Sandra Mays . . . she’d been there. She heard the whole thing. After the car . . . accident . . . she sent me a message telling me to meet her. To climb a ladder and meet her on the roof. Ridiculous, but what could I do? It was poetic, she said, because Ben had told her about the ladder and the roof. She was going to vindicate him there.”
So Ben had told Sandra. I knew he had.
“Mam,” Meg said through a sob. “You didn’t . . .”
“She said she knew what I’d done to Ben. That she saw me in the car.”
“You took the car from the shop?” Meg asked, sniffling. Trying to control the emotions crashing through her. On one level, she had to be destroyed by what her mother had done for her, but on another level, she knew she’d be getting her son back, and that was thanks to her mother. I didn’t envy the poor woman . . . or Kevin.
“I picked it up from the shop. Ethan Bishop, he never saw me. I did that for several days, following Ben. Waiting for the right moment. And then there it was. He came out of the shop and crossed the street. There were no other cars in the way. I didn’t even know for sure that I was going to do it, but my foot hit the pedal. I was outside of myself. I ran him over and drove the car straight back to the auto shop.”
I wondered how this petite woman, who was slight and willowy, could have overpowered Sandra on top of the roof. As if she’d read my mind, Emmaline asked the question for me, but Vivian shrugged as if she didn’t know the answer. Couldn’t possibly explain it. “It just happened. I did not plan it. She threatened me and I pushed her. She fell and hit her head and was . . . was . . . gone. I didn’t mean for her to die.”
And there it was. The attempted murder of Ben and Sandra’s accident were connected after all.
Chapter 31
“Yeast of Eden’s Bread for Life program has been a resounding success. The inaugural cohort of women—one from Eritrea, one from Canada, one from Mexico, and one from Germany, have learned the basics of baking bread from the bread shop’s founder and head baker, Olaya Solis. Born of tradition, the bread baked at Yeast of Eden follows the long rise, farm-to-table, every-loaf-by-hand philosophy, and those are exactly the principles Ms. Solis has taught to her first set of Bread for Life students.
“As part of our new show, entitled America’s Best Bakeries, I had the pleasure of meeting the Bread for Life cohorts and seeing firsthand the impact this program and this establishment has and will continue to have on their lives.”
Mack Hebron paused before saying, “Cut.”
As Tae stopped filming, the women in the bread shop’s kitchen applauded. Mack had asked to come back to film. He wanted to feature additional footage on the cable station’s online platform. “Additional content for our viewers,” he said.
Claire was up. She was the quietest of the four women, and it showed. She looked down at her countertop rather than up at her audience—us—but once she got going, she seemed to forget that Tae was filming at all.
“Bannock,” she said in her soft voice, “was called the bread of First Nations. Meaning the Squamish and Lil’wat Nations. There is no yeast in it. Only baking powder.”
“So it is a simple leavened bread,” Olaya interjected.
“It was originally made with cornmeal and flour that was made from ground-up turnip bulbs, then cooked like Esmé’s Mexican bread over an open fire or in a pit.”
>
“Heavy and flat, yes?” Olaya asked.
Claire nodded. “The Scottish made it, but with oats, and it was more like scones. When the Europeans introduced flour to our continent, bannock got better, but not by much. Nobody actually wanted it. But now? It has become . . . erm . . . glamorized,” Claire said, warming up to her topic. “In Canada now, you can find it in farm-to-table bistros and bakeries. It’s gotten fancy.”
She took us through the making of the bread, warning us not to overwork the dough. “It must be light. Airy. It is different than the yeast breads we’ve made.” We formed our lumpy rounds of dough and pushed our trays into Olaya’s commercial ovens.
“You have all done it,” Olaya said. Tae was still filming as Maggie came into the kitchen. She ushered in Meg, Kevin in tow. I waved at them all. Maggie grinned . . . at Tae.
Meg’s smile was tempered by the reality of what her mother had done, but she had her son back, and that was amazing. I felt for her, but at the same time, I was thrilled that she’d been reunited with Kevin.
“You are incredible women,” Olaya continued, her gaze taking in Meg. She gave her a nod, including her in the collective group. “Whatever you do from here on out, share your love of baking, of bread, and give of yourself to empower others.”
Chapter 32
I was exhausted by the time it was all over, but I went home to freshen up, took Agatha to Mrs. Branford’s, and headed back to Baptista’s to meet Emmaline for dinner. She’d beaten me there and stood waiting under the awning at the entrance.
“Who hit your car?” she asked me.
So much had happened between the night I’d been followed and now that it seemed like a vague memory.
“Heather.”
She gaped. “As in Luke’s Heather?”
I nodded. “She went off the rails, but it’s okay now.” I didn’t tell her about the breaking and entering, the theft of my electric toothbrush, or the phone calls. I was putting it behind me. Luke and Heather could have each other. I was done with both of them.
I hoped.
I looped my arm through Em’s and we went in to be seated for dinner. I stopped at the hostess station to say hello to Miguel’s mother. She stood up from the stool she’d been perching on, came around the counter, and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. “Mija, you are well?”
“I am, thank you. You?”
She gave a slow, sage-looking nod. “Bien, bien. I cannot complain.”
“We’re celebrating Emmaline’s upcoming wedding to my brother,” I said, squeezing Em’s arm tighter.
“And justice being served,” Em said.
Señora Baptista clapped her hands to her cheeks. Her smile seemed to say that this was the best news she’d had in forever. “Felicidades,” she said. “Many, many congratulations.”
As Emmaline thanked her, Miguel’s mother summoned a host to seat us at a table on the back deck. She whispered something to him as he picked up menus. He nodded, then led us through the dining room. Miguel, with the help of Billy as his contractor, had replaced the restaurant’s old Naugahyde booths and tread-worn floor with Aztec-patterned tiles, wood planks on the walls, enormous windows overlooking the pier and ocean, and a statement piece of a fireplace with cool graphic tiles stretching all the way up to the ceiling. He’d worked with a local glassblower to have custom fixtures created that looked like misshapen bubbles, one hanging above each dining table. The place was nothing short of spectacular.
The host led us through the dining room and past the long, sleek bar that housed hundreds of bottles of tequila and mezcal. It was Jorge’s, the mezcal concierge’s, domain. He’d taken Miguel, Billy, Emmaline, and me through a tasting just before their grand reopening. As a result, I had a new appreciation for the spirits. I waved at Jorge as we passed.
As the host seated us at a table overlooking the pier, the glow of lights from distant cliff houses were like romantic beacons reflecting off the water. The soft glow of patio lights outside created a sense of peace. The table was set with beautiful glass water goblets and heavy silverware. It was the perfect place to hear every last detail of Billy and Emmaline’s wedding plans. The host handed each of us a distressed leather menu, the cover embossed with BAPTISTA’S CANTINA & GRILL. Beneath that, in smaller lettering, it read FINE MEXICAN DINING; and below that, Santa Sofia, California.
My stomach growled. Em arched an eyebrow at me. “A little excited for the queso?”
I flicked my own brows up in response, stifling my smile and staying focused on the menu. Inside were custom pages with a few select photographs from the collection I’d taken after the renovation, a list of wines, spirits, and specialty cocktails; appetizers, ensaladas, and sopas, and the entrée sections broken into beef, pork, chicken, seafood, and vegetarian. Desserts, I knew, were featured on a separate dessert menu card our server would bring us later.
When redoing the menu, Miguel had stayed true to the classic Mexican dishes we’d all grown up with, but he’d elevated them. There were so many new things to try. It would take a year to work my way through it all. Tonight was just one night. Did I want vegetarian or meat? Or . . . I narrowed one eye . . . did I really want seafood?
It ended being an easy choice. The prawn and lobster cast-iron skillet with avocado crema was calling my name. My stomach rumbled again.
A server I hadn’t seen before approached the table with a chilled bottle of white wine. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that hung like a mass of silk down her back. She wore the standard black slacks and sleek white blouse all Miguel’s servers wore. “My name’s Andrea. I’ll be serving you tonight. I hear you’re celebrating,” she said as she placed a stemless glass in front of each of us. She turned to Em. “Congratulations!”
Em gave a little laugh and said thanks, but held up her hand. “Sorry, we didn’t order—”
“Courtesy of Baptista’s,” Andrea said as she showed us the bottle of Monte Xanic sauvignon blanc.
Who were we to refuse a complimentary bottle of wine? “Thanks so much,” I said, flicking my brows up at Em.
Andrea skillfully withdrew the cork and poured a splash in my glass. I was not a wine expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I swirled and smelled and tasted like I was a pro, giving a satisfied nod when I’d finished.
She poured Em’s glass, filled mine, set the bottle down, and proceeded to tell us about the house specials for the evening. I was tempted by the sea bass and the scallops, but I couldn’t do it. I stuck with the lobster and prawns. And, of course, the brisket queso. It was the one thing at Baptista’s that I could not do without. The stuff was no ordinary queso. Layers of melt-in-your-mouth brisket topped with a savory barbecue sauce, three-cheese queso blanco, and a heavy dollop of perfectly pickled relish were served in a stone molcajete, which was a mortar—minus the pestle—and carried on a rustic wood slab piled high with the restaurant’s thick homemade corn tortilla chips.
We placed our order with Andrea and sipped our wine. “We haven’t done this in a while,” I said. Being alone with Emmaline on a girls’ night was a treat.
“Too long,” she agreed.
We chitchatted for a little while before I finally leaned forward and begged her for the details of her wedding.
“Saturday, May twenty-third,” she said. “Save the date.”
“Like anything could keep me away.”
I rapid-fired questions at her. “Where will it be held?”
“At Mission Santa Sofia in the rose pavilion.”
“Time?”
“Ceremony at four, dinner to follow at a really cool venue we found. You’ll love it. It’s kind of rustic and earthy. Billy fell in love the second we stepped inside.”
Even based on what little she’d just said, I could see why. Billy was a no-frills kind of guy, much like Miguel was. They both liked things simple, but at the same time, demanded character and charm. They liked the story that a place had to tell. As a contractor, Billy had gotten to the point where he
worked mostly by referral. Part of his appeal was the keen sense of design and style he brought into his plans.
“Your parents must be so excited,” I said. I’d known the Davis family since Emmaline and I were in elementary school together. Elijah and Elaine Davis were avid ballroom dancers who, if they went on Dancing with the Stars, would take home the whole shebang. They were down-to-earth people who had poise to spare and adored their only daughter with a fierce passion. Her being in law enforcement was not their first choice of career for her, but they accepted it. “Are they going to make you and Billy take dance lessons?”
She laughed. “You know it. Elaine already booked us an orientation appointment at the studio.”
Em and I had always called our parents by their first names, to each other. It had given us a sense of power when we’d been kids. Now it was just a quirk based on the fact that they were our friends as much as they were our parents. “I cannot wait to see Billy do the tango!”
“Ha! Me too.”
The brisket queso arrived and we dug in, but not before holding our wineglasses up in a toast. “To you and Billy,” I said, my giddy excitement spilling into my voice. “You’re so great together.”
“Ivy,” Em said after we’d devoured half the appetizer before us. “You’re like my sister, you know that.”
I did know. I was ginger-haired, lightly freckled, fair, and on the curvy side. Em had gorgeous black skin, had recently taken up having her hair braided, was petite, and had a body that was hard as a rock. We looked nothing alike, but we’d claimed each other as family long ago. I reached over and squeezed her hand, my way of saying that I felt the exact same way.
She looked sheepishly at me, not an expression she usually wore, and said, “Will you be my maid of honor?”
I’d been 98 percent sure she’d ask me, but still, my eyes welled and my lower lip trembled with the love I had for her. I put my hand on my heart, willing myself not to actually cry. “Emmaline Lorraine Davis, if you’d asked anyone else, I never would have forgiven you. Well, I would have forgiven you, but I would have been crushed. I will be the best maid of honor a bride has ever had.”
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