She glanced up at the mirror above her station, smiled, and started to say, “You are just in time,” but her smile faded and the words froze on her lips. She dropped her knife and turned to face me. “What is it?”
I hadn’t realized I wore every single emotion I was currently experiencing on my face to be read by her. “It’s Miguel.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, then swept her arm wide, gesturing to a stool. “Sit. Tell me. Miguel, is he all right?”
I perched on the stool, trying to school my expression. “For now,” I said. I filled her in on the tail Captain York had on him, ending with, “I’m worried. What if York doesn’t consider anyone else for the murder? What if he’s got Miguel in his sights and that’s that?”
“Then you will find the truth. There is nothing else to be done. You will find the truth.”
I drew in a deep inhalation. “I’ll find the truth,” I said, as if saying it aloud would make it so.
“Help me, Ivy,” she said, pointing to the stack of aprons.
Baking had become a soothing activity for me. I washed my hands and donned an apron with the Yeast of Eden logo. The logo was a simple oval. “Yeast of Eden” was written in a typed font with “Artisan Bread Shop” just below in an easy cursive. Clean and classic.
At the baking station next to Olaya, I shaped two focaccias while Olaya finished preparing the vegetables for the van Dough art. We each worked on one. Piece by piece, we pressed the greens from scallions into the dough to create flower stems. Basil leaves and thin bell pepper rounds with slices of olives in the center created the rest of the flowers. Slices of cherry tomatoes looked like bunches of berries. We used thin strands of red onion, slices of garlic cloves, and Kalamata olives to round out the design. For a while there, while I was designing, my mind stilled. The dilemma was still present, but things didn’t look quite so dire.
“Perfecto,” Olaya proclaimed. Before she slid the trays of focaccias into one of the preheated ovens, she spritzed them each with clean water from a spray bottle she kept in the kitchen.
Just as the oven door closed, a knock came on the back door. It opened and Miguel poked his head in before stepping inside. Olaya made a beeline for him. Miguel was six feet tall. Next to him, she looked tiny. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he bent to accept her embrace. Finally, she patted his back and let him go. “M’ijo. It will all be okay.”
I smiled at her use of the word m’ijo, the endearment meaning “my son.” She hadn’t known Miguel well before I returned to Santa Sofia. Now, though, she thought of him as family.
I untied my apron and lifted it over my head, then washed my hands. “Go,” Olaya said, shooing us out of the bread shop’s kitchen and back into the parking lot. “Go find the truth.”
Chapter 9
Living in a coastal town had its perks—incredible sunrises and sunsets, walks on the beach, the ocean breeze. It also had drawbacks, though. Tourists topped the list. They were good for the local economy, pumping money into lodging, restaurants, and other businesses—like Yeast of Eden. The bread shop was a tourist destination in and of itself. But if it was peak season and if you needed to find quick and easy parking, had visiting friends who needed an Airbnb, or just wanted to go out to dinner without waiting an hour for your table, you were out of luck.
It seemed that Cliff and Nessa Renchrik made their living off of the tourists who came to Santa Sofia. Miguel had found out that the power couple owned and operated a high-end property management company for people who visited our little seaside oasis. Seaside Property Management offered both condo and private home rentals, most on the shuttle route to the public beaches in Santa Sofia. “They have a full-service business model,” Miguel said.
He drove and I sat in the passenger side of his truck, Seaside Property Management’s address in the GPS. “What does ‘full-service’ mean?”
“They meet you to let you in or have keyless entry pads, there’s a cleaning service, but get this. You can also elect to have someone cook for you or do your grocery shopping.”
“That’s full service, all right.” I guess if you were on vacation, you might want and be willing to pay for those perks. How could they afford to keep staff on to take care of all that? Surely it was hit or miss for people who would want those premium benefits.
I looked up Seaside Property Management on my phone. “Should we call? Make sure he’s there?”
Miguel shrugged, which I took to be agreement. I pressed the Call button. It rang three times before a woman answered with a peppy, “Seaside Property Management. How can I help you find the perfect Santa Sofia lodging today?”
I improvised. “Hi. Hello. I’ve been working with Cliff. I’m wondering, is he available?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Cliff had a family emergency. He’s working from home for a few days. I’d be happy to help you, or I can connect you to his voicemail.”
“Oh, right, of course. Voicemail would be great,” I said. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Have a great day.” The line clicked and a recorded voice came on telling me I’d reached the voice mailbox of Cliff Renchrik and directing me to leave a message.
I hung up instead. “He’s working from home,” I told Miguel.
He hit his palm against the steering wheel. “Of course he is.” He pulled the truck over to the side of the road while I searched up the Renchriks’s address. I’d been afraid it would be private, but it came up on the White Pages. There weren’t many Renchriks in Santa Sofia. Only one address, actually. Miguel entered it into his phone’s GPS and stuck the phone back in its holder.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at an understated home in Laguna Heights. The area was upscale. A cool million and a half was the low-end price for a starter home. The Renchriks were not in a starter home. Their house was also not the fanciest on the block. Real estate agents would be quick to say you never want to be the white elephant in a neighborhood. The highest price point did not allow good negotiating leverage. Being on the low end gave you room to grow. Being somewhere in between was the sweet spot. The Renchriks’ house was solidly in the middle.
Miguel parked right in front of the house with its white stucco walls, red Spanish tiled roof, and the courtyard walls topped with smooth red brick. The landscaping was immaculate. Not a tree limb was out of place, not a weed to be seen. Whoever did their yard maintenance was a keeper.
The house was symmetrical, with a short flight of brick steps bisecting it. Miguel and I walked up them side by side. As we stood in front of the arched dark wood door with iron grating over a beveled window, I had a moment of guilt. We were about to barge in on a grieving husband.
Miguel leaned over and bumped my arm with his. “Remember what Olaya said. We’re finding the truth.”
And exonerating him, I wanted to add, but I kept that part to myself.
I raised my hand to knock . . .
. . . and as if someone had been just on the other side of the door waiting, it flew open.
A teenage girl with muddy-blond hair, a lightweight turtleneck, and a pallor that was not conducive to beach life scurried backward with a yelp.
“Oh!” I jumped back, just as startled as the girl was. My feet twisted under me, but Miguel grabbed my arm, righting me before I could fall.
The girl came forward again, eyeing us. “Please tell me you don’t have another casserole or mixed green salad. If you do, I’m gonna puke.”
The words were forceful, but her voice was not. She sounded tired. Exhausted, really. Her eyes were red rimmed, her cheeks hollow. With that, combined with her sallow skin, she looked more like a zombie than a thriving teenager. I assumed this was Nessa Renchrik’s daughter, Rachel.
I held up my empty hands. “No casseroles or salads.”
She waited, one hand on the door, the other on the doorframe. Her body blocked the entrance to the house, but the little bit I could see was beautiful. I caught a glimpse of a framed oil painting of a woman, her
skirt billowing in the breeze, her back to the viewer as she looked out over a meadow. A movement behind her caught my eye. Just over her shoulder, a woman came into view.
The girl followed my gaze, turning around. “I’m fine, Fernanda.” Under her breath she added, “Jesus, just leave me alone.”
The woman nodded but let her dark-eyed gaze linger on the girl’s back for a moment before melting away.
I lifted my eyebrows in a question.
“Nanny,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Like we needed another one.”
“You’re Rachel?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I’m an old friend of Candy’s. Candace Coffey? I saw her yesterday. She’s worried about you.”
Like a faucet had been turned on, tears pooled in Rachel’s eyes. Her lips parted as if she was going to say something, but then she changed her mind and they closed again.
Her grief seemed to exude from her pores. I wanted to reach out and touch her hand. To comfort her. I settled for saying, “Are you okay?”
She gave a slow blink, squeezing her eyes for a beat before asking, “Do you want to see my dad?”
Miguel answered. “Is he home?”
She responded by swinging her body so she faced the inside of the house and hollering, “Dad! Someone’s at the door for you.”
She didn’t wait for a reply—or even acknowledgment—but skirted by Miguel and me. “See ya,” she said as she hurried down the stairs, turned left at the sidewalk, and disappeared.
At the same time, a man appeared. He had an oval face. The bridge of his nose was wide. I blinked. Rachel was the spitting image of him, from her pale complexion, made sallow through grief, to her green eyes, to her light hair, face shape, and nose. I’d only seen photos of Nessa, but even so, Rachel clearly favored her father.
“Mr. Renchrik?” I put my open palm against my chest. “I’m Ivy Culpepper.” I looked at Miguel. “And this is Miguel Baptista.”
“I’m not talking to reporters,” he said. He had a cell phone clutched in one hand and started to close the door with his other.
I stepped halfway in, placing my foot to block the door. “We’re not reporters,” I said, wondering if McLaine had been here.
He looked down at my foot, then slowly lifted his gaze. “Then who are you?” he demanded, his voice gruff.
Miguel and I both hesitated. I realized that we hadn’t thought this through well enough. It wasn’t like Miguel could say, I went out with your wife when she was married to you and now I’m a suspect in her murder. Can we come in?
Cliff Renchrik narrowed his eyes and peered at Miguel. For a second, I thought maybe he knew who Miguel was. Had he been the one in the bookstore Nessa had had a run-in with that night? Had he seen Miguel?
But then his lids lowered to half-mast and he sighed. “What do you want?”
“We just want to offer our condolences,” I said. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
“You knew Nessa?”
Miguel remained motionless, but I said, “I’m old friends with Candace Coffey. . . .” I trailed off, hoping he’d fill in the blank. If I knew Candy, I must therefore have known his wife.
He exhaled a shaky breath. “Candy’s been helpful. She organized a food tree. We have casseroles coming out of our ears.” He swallowed. Ran his palm down over his face. “But we appreciate it. Candy’s been real helpful.”
“Do you mind if we come in?”
He stepped back and held the door open for us, his concern over us being reporters gone. Still, he didn’t look happy about the intrusion. We’d have to make it quick.
We went from standing outside on the porch to standing inside in the foyer. The painting I’d glimpsed on the wall was accompanied by several other pieces, as well as a curio cabinet filled with collectibles. The marble floor was polished to a gleam. If it had been me, I’d have an area rug to soften the stark feel of the entry room. As it was, it felt cold and unwelcoming. From the corner of my eye, I saw Fernanda wiping a frame in the hallway that led to the kitchen. From where I stood, I could see the refrigerator and a corner of a dining table.
Cliff did not lead us deeper into the house. We stood awkwardly and I tried to figure out how to approach this man.
Miguel beat me to it. “Vanessa did a lot of good in the community. She’ll be missed.”
Those two little sentences woke Cliff Renchrik up. “No one called her Vanessa.”
Miguel didn’t miss a beat. “When I first met her, that’s how she introduced herself. That was years ago—”
His eyes narrowed. “When—”
Cliff’s cell phone rang, cutting off the question he’d been about to ask. He kept fierce attention on Miguel as he answered with a clipped, “This is Cliff.”
Whoever was on the other end spoke. Slowly, Cliff’s eyes narrowed even more. “They’re here now. Thanks.” He hung up and closed his eyes for the briefest moment, as if he was gathering strength. “You’re interested in a rental so you came to my house? But you knew Nessa?” He shook his head, his expression a mix of anger, frustration, and bafflement. “Who the hell are you?”
“We called your office first,” I said, “but we’re not looking for a rental. We live in Santa Sofia.”
“You’re clearly not here to offer condolences, so what do you want?” he asked again.
“We’re just as stunned by Nessa’s murder as you are—”
“Who said I’m stunned?”
This was not the response I’d expected. “You’re not?”
“Look. Nessa was a strong woman with strong opinions. Not everyone liked those opinions. That’s politics.”
“But people don’t usually kill someone because they don’t agree with their politics or opinions,” Miguel said.
Cliff’s expression hadn’t softened, nor had his voice, but he answered all the same. “All I’m saying is that she pissed plenty of people off. One of them took their anger too far.”
I had no idea if he’d keep talking, but I wanted to try. “What did she do that made people so upset?” I asked.
“She made me upset every damn day!” he snapped. The second the words were spoken, his eyes opened wide and he sucked in a breath, as if he were trying to suck the words right back in.
I had no expectation that he’d elaborate, but I said, “Oh?”
His phone rang again. Damn. He held up one finger to us and pressed the device to his ear. “This is Cliff.”
He listened for a few seconds, then replied to the caller in halting Spanish. My high school Spanish was rudimentary at best. I glanced at Miguel, who was listening intently.
Abruptly, Cliff hung up. He turned and bellowed, “Carmen! I’m going out. Make sure Tate gets dinner.”
The woman in the hallway nodded solemnly. I peered at her. Why did Rachel call her Fernanda, but Cliff called her Carmen?
It was a question for another time, because Cliff moved to the front door. “I have to go.” He looked back over his shoulder and hollered, “Tate! I’m going out for a while.”
Just like Rachel had earlier, Cliff didn’t wait for a response. He picked up his wallet from the glass-topped table next to the door, waited for Miguel and me to leave, then followed us out.
The front door opened behind us and a little boy stood there. He was skinny, dark haired, and had a heart-shaped face that ended with a pointy chin. Like his mother, I thought. “Where are you going, Dad?”
“To one of the rentals. I’ll be back soon.” Cliff’s voice was gruff.
The boy closed the door. Cliff didn’t say anything else to Miguel or me. He gave us a final look before heading to the black BMW sitting in the driveway.
“That was really strange,” I said, getting back into the passenger side of the truck. “What was the phone call about?”
“One of the landscapers at a rental property didn’t show up today,” he said, translating what he’d heard.
I tapped my finger against my chin. “So he’s going to go pul
l weeds himself?”
Miguel had started the truck but hadn’t moved. Cliff backed out of the driveway, and drove off. When we could barely see the taillights of the Beamer, Miguel finally pulled away from the curb. I turned to look at him. “Are you going to follow him?”
“Something’s off about him.”
“What do you mean?”
He slowed, keeping a good distance from Cliff’s car. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t like him.”
“Is he the man Nessa argued with in the bookstore?”
He made a face as if he was searching his memory banks, trying to remember. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. It was a long time ago, and I didn’t see him well.”
I went back to Miguel’s belief that something was off about Cliff Renchrik. “You think he could have killed Nessa?” If Tate wasn’t Cliff’s son and he’d recently figured that fact out, could it have pushed him over the edge?
Miguel glanced at me. “Don’t they say it’s usually the spouse? York should be looking into this guy. If we can give him a reason to—”
He broke off, but the rest of the sentence hung in the air between us—it would take the heat off Miguel as a suspect.
Cliff drove through town with Miguel keeping a good distance behind him. Cliff ended up at a cliffside house overlooking the Pacific. Miguel pulled off the road as Cliff pressed a code into the keypad. A gate opened and the BMW rolled through. After a solid minute—enough time to make sure Cliff was well out of sight—Miguel put the truck in drive and drove at a snail’s pace past the house.
I stared down the long drive, catching only a glimpse of the house itself. Or rather, the mansion. “That is a rental?”
“Looks like their management company is for the rich and famous.”
“Maybe the rich and not famous,” I said. Celebrities tended to vacation in Malibu, Santa Barbara, or Laguna Beach rather than Santa Sofia, but the wealthy went wherever they wanted.
There was no chance of us getting out and surveilling the house. The gate kept the property secure, and if Cliff left while we were out prowling he might very well spot us.
Death Gone A-Rye Page 9