But there was a big problem with that advice. The issue wasn’t that there was no clear path leading to Nessa Renchrik’s killer. The problem was that there were too many paths. And so far, I had not been able to shut down any trail leading to Miguel. Candace had been right when she’d said there was a line of potential suspects. She was now one of them . . . and I hadn’t even gotten to the hairdresser yet. The suspects were coming out of the woodwork. I wondered about the strife between Nessa and Cliff. Candace had all but said that Tate might not be Cliff’s son. Had that fact come to light? Could Cliff have killed his wife over her infidelities and the betrayal of bearing another man’s child?
I just didn’t know.
The ocean breeze kicked up a notch and the sunset did not bring me any clarity, so I headed home. Miguel was working at Baptista’s tonight, so I was on my own with my thoughts. With Agatha laid out at my feet, I perched on the stool at the bar in my kitchen. When I’d first seen the old Tudor house, I’d fallen in love with the kitchen. A brick arch over the stove highlighted the professional range and the window there overlooked the front yard. The island, where I now perched on a barstool, had a reclaimed oak countertop. It was hard to pick my favorite thing about the space, but the wood counter might just be it. Pale yellow cupboards were distressed by time, but they were functional and complemented the rustic wood floors.
This was my comfort room where I baked, cooked, worked, and lived. At the moment, I had the back end of the Yeast of Eden website open. Sometimes, I’d found, distraction was the best solution. If I let my mind process on its own, a solution might just surface. I was hoping my brain would solve the problem of who killed Nessa Renchrik while I thought about bread.
The first thing I did after coming in from my walk was call the Renchrik house again. I didn’t care if Rachel or Tate answered. I just hoped it wasn’t Cliff who picked up the phone. I was in luck. After three rings, a voice I now recognized as that of Nessa’s daughter said, “Hello?”
“Hey, Rachel. It’s Ivy Culpepper. From Yeast of Eden? I just wanted to remind you about the Spring Fling tomorrow and the memorial.”
“Oh. Yeah. Hi.” Rachel didn’t sound pleasant exactly, but also not unpleasant. “One o’clock, right?”
“Right.”
She gave a tired sigh, like she was exhausted by life right now, but she said, “Okay.”
“Rachel, before I go, I was wondering about your nanny.”
“What about her?”
“It’s just, your dad called to someone named Carmen the other day when I stopped by. But I only saw Fernanda.. . .”
I trailed off, hoping she’d pick up the story. After another pause, she did. “Carmen was our nanny. For a long time.”
“Oh. That makes sense, then. He was just used to saying ‘Carmen’ and it slipped out.”
“Probably.”
“When did she leave?” I asked, raising my mug to take a sip of the hot tea I’d made.
She heaved another sigh, but this one was a little shaky. Emotions seeping in, I thought. “February.”
I spat out the tea from my mouth, sputtering.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked.
I recovered, setting my mug down and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yeah. Fine. My tea was too hot. You said February?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did she go?” I asked.
Rachel was difficult to talk with. Heavy pauses dotted the entire conversation. There was no easy back-and-forth. Whatever rapport I thought I might have developed during our last conversation had dissipated. Finally, she said, “I don’t know.” Pause. “And then Fernanda came. She heats up the casseroles.”
I laughed. “Yeah, that’s handy.”
There was another awkward pause. “You’ve been through so much, Rachel. I’m so sorry.”
She sniffed and drew in a ragged breath. “Yeah.”
“I’ll see you Saturday, okay?”
“Yeah,” she said again; then the line went dead.
Alone with my thoughts, I wondered about Carmen. February 23 was the date Guillermo had said his wife had been picked up for deportation. Was it a coincidence that both Carmen and Sylvia had gone away in February? They were both connected to the Renchriks. Could they both have been picked up in the same sweep? I had a hard time believing it was happenstance. It pointed a solid finger at Nessa’s being part of it.
As I pondered this, I added a new blog post to the Yeast of Eden site, inviting families with schoolchildren in Santa Sofia Unified to come to the Spring Fling on Saturday and Sunday, where we’d be showcasing a brand-new focaccia Olaya had created. Next, I went to the bread shop’s Instagram feed and uploaded the artistic photos I’d recently taken of slices of layered babka and one of a bread case, the camera focused on the corner of a skull cookie peeking out from amid a blurred pile of dinner rolls. I pressed Share just as my doorbell rang. Agatha’s head instantly popped up.
“It’s okay,” I said, bending to scratch her behind the ears before heading to the entryway, my cell phone in hand. My front door was wood and iron with a window cutout at the top. I rose to my tiptoes and my stomach dropped as I caught a glimpse of Captain York’s feathery hair practically glowing under the porch light. Oh boy. A visit at home could not be good. Before I answered, I quickly texted Mrs. Branford: Call me in five minutes.
I cracked the door open. “Captain.”
“Ivy.”
Again with the informality. It irked me.
He glanced over my shoulder. “Mind if I come in?”
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“I have a few questions for you.”
My heart beat heavily in my chest. I didn’t know this man from Adam. Wasn’t it irregular for the police to pay an unexpected visit to someone at night? I wondered if my text to Mrs. Branford was enough. If something went wrong, an eighty-six-year-old woman was not going to be able to save me.
But, I reasoned, Emmaline had hired Craig York and put him in charge of criminal investigations. She must have seen something in him that had earned her trust and confidence, despite her concerns when she left for her honeymoon.
“Ivy?”
Making up my mind, I stepped back and held open the door, closing it again after he came in. He wore the same cowboy boots he’d had on at the wedding and when he’d popped in unexpectedly at Miguel’s house. Same khaki pants with crisply pressed lines down the centers of the legs. Same button-down shirt. Same navy windbreaker with “Santa Sofia Sheriff’s Department” printed on the back. “What can I do for you?” I asked, sneaking a quick glance at my phone. No response from Mrs. Branford.
The smile he’d had for me when standing on my porch faded to a thin line. “I’ll cut to the chase,” he said. The exact words he’d used when he’d dropped by to talk to Miguel Monday night. “I hear through the grapevine that you’ve been asking around about Nessa Renchrik.”
From the kitchen, Agatha barked. Any male voice alerted her to trouble. Evidence of the abuse she’d suffered in her early years.
“What grapevine is that?” I asked, standing across from him in the entryway. I folded my arms over my chest like a barrier to his bad juju.
“You mean besides seeing you at the district office the other day?”
“I have a friend on the school board.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What grapevine?” I repeated.
He seemed disinclined to answer any of my questions. Instead, he posed one of his own. “What are you doing?”
I looked through the archway that led to the kitchen. “Right now. Besides talking to you? I was working on the bread shop’s website and social media.” I knew perfectly well that was not what he’d been referring to, but I wasn’t going to make this easy for him.
He grimaced. “Your boyfriend is a person of interest in this murder. You need to butt out of this investigation.”
My breath caught in my throat. This was the first time I’d heard him say it a
loud. If York thought that would get me to stop looking into what happened to Nessa Renchrik, he was absolutely insane. If anything, hearing that Miguel was in his crosshairs made me want to dig deeper. Faster. Harder.
“Is that what you came to tell me? Because I can think of a lot of other people who should be of more interest to you than Miguel—”
“I’m not interested in your thoughts,” he interrupted.
My chest rose as I inhaled. “They’re solid, though. I’m following the clues, not trying to find clues to fit a stupid theory.”
A purple vein suddenly popped in his temple, pulsing with his anger. “Butt. Out.”
I feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He ignored the fact that I’d just said I was following clues. “The hell you don’t. You’ve been making the rounds. Stopping in to grill Mr. Renchrik is not acceptable, nor is showing up uninvited to a funeral.”
“Both times I was paying my respects,” I said, but my heart was suddenly pounding and climbing from my chest to my throat. I couldn’t tell him Emmaline asked me to butt in. And how did he know all my comings and goings?
“Butt. Out,” York repeated.
Agatha heard the terseness in his voice. She started barking again. I could see that she’d stood up. She lifted her head as she barked, sounding hoarse and agitated at the same time. “It’s okay, Agatha,” I said. I looked up at York. “I think you should hear what I have to say.”
“I am not interested. You are a civilian.”
“But the sheriff—”
“The sheriff is not here at the moment. I am in charge of this investigation. Just because you don’t want your boyfriend to be involved doesn’t mean he’s not. You’d be wise to be cautious.”
My hackles rose. “Miguel doesn’t have anything to do with Nessa’s death! Look at the husband! They were not on good ter—”
He held up his palm to me. “Stop.” The single word shot out like a bullet before I could suggest Candy or Joseph Patrick or any of the hundred other people who seemed to hate Nessa Renchrik.
The front door opened behind York, and Mrs. Branford’s snowy head appeared, along with her cane. So, she had gotten my text. “Ivy?” Her voice was strong, with nary a flutter about. “Are you all ri—”
York spun around, cutting her off. “Who are you?”
Mrs. Branford had to tilt her head back to look up at him with a steely gaze. “Who I am is not important. What is important is that I am invited here. I think a better question is why are you here?”
York narrowed his eyes. “Wait a second. I remember you. From the wedding.”
“Indeed. And I remember you. The sheriff’s new hire.”
A sound came from his throat. This guy was not happy being second fiddle to Emmaline. That message was coming through loud and clear.
“Captain York, if I’m not mistaken,” she said. Mrs. Branford stepped all the way into the house but kept the door open. “And I see you’re leaving.”
York looked from me to Mrs. Branford, a scowl on his face. “I am, actually,” he said to her; then to me he said, “This is not a request.”
I got his meaning. It was an order.
An order I would not be listening to.
Chapter 16
I tossed and turned all night. Ten or eleven years. That’s how long ago Miguel had dated Nessa Renchrik. I would have been twenty-six or so and living in Austin, married to Luke Holden. I had my own past, so why was Miguel’s past bothering me so much?
And more than that, why would York think he was involved in her death after so many years? It didn’t make any sense to me. I rolled over, sleep still eluding me, wishing Em and Billy were back from their honeymoon.
I was not single-minded like Captain York. Or at least my single-mindedness was only in proving Miguel’s innocence. I was still convinced of it. We’d only reunited recently, but still, it was like no time had passed. We were connected from our past, and had forged a new path together into our future. I trusted him, so yes, I knew he was not involved with Nessa Renchrik’s death in any way.
The only way to prove it was to find the actual guilty party. The next day and a half would be spent on the Spring Fling. That left just the morning to visit Nessa Renchrik’s hairdresser. I texted Candy to get the woman’s full name, but all she could provide was the place she worked. Soho Salon. I debated making a phone call to see if I could finagle who had styled Nessa’s hair from the receptionist, but in the end, I decided it was smarter to go in and ask in person. Nobody could hang up the phone on me that way.
Soho Salon was located just outside the historic district, so not too far from my house. Close enough to walk. I harnessed Agatha, locked the house, and headed off. Ten minutes later, I walked up the wooden ramp of the converted house and stood just inside the doorway. The reception area was the former living room of the home and was now a large open area. The reception station sat toward the latter half of the room. A table with a printer, lamp, and filing trays was against the back wall, turning the L-shaped desk into a U. Three ladder bookcases created a wall of shelving, which housed collections of hair products. The left side of the room had armchairs, a rack of handmade clothing made by a local designer, and a table adorned with handmade cards and jewelry.
The woman at the reception desk had long gray hair pulled into a side ponytail. She looked like she’d been beamed right out of the 1960s. “Can I help you, honey?”
“I hope so,” I said. I’d spent the short walk over planning my approach. “Nessa Renchrik is a client here—you might have heard what happened?”
The woman nodded solemnly. “Yes. Quite a surprise.”
Again with the odd response. “It is.” I moved in, Agatha trotting right along with me.
“Oh, would you look at him!”
“She’s a her, actually. Agatha.”
“As in Christie?”
I nodded.
“Oh, what a sweet face.”
I bent down and scratched Agatha’s head and said, “You are a sweet girl, aren’t you?” I looked back at the receptionist. “Is it okay . . . ?”
She stood and circled around the desk, coming over to me. “Absolutely. She’s precious.” She crouched down in front of Agatha but looked up at me. “May I?”
“Oh yeah, she’s friendly.” Except to the odd captain from the sheriff’s department.
A woman in a black apron came into the front area from the hallway to the right. “I’m going to grab some coffee, Sunny. If my nine o’clock arrives, tell her I’ll be right back.”
The receptionist nodded to the woman. “Will do, honey.” She cradled Agatha’s head, rubbing the sides of it with her thumbs. To me she said, “Now, what were you saying?”
“I’ve always loved Nessa’s hair. I need a cut, so I thought now would be a great time to finally use her hairdresser,” I said to Sunny.
She gave Agatha a final pet and stood back up. “Sure thing,” she said as she circled back around the big desk that served as reception and pulled up a calendar on the computer. “Oh. She came in early today for an appointment, but it was canceled,” Sunny said. “Depending on what you need done, she can probably fit you in.”
My brain whirled. A hair appointment was personal. I patted my mop of ginger curls. Did I need it styled? Highlighted? Chopped off? It was kind of a mess. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to a real hairdresser. Since I’d left Austin, I hadn’t taken the time to find one. I kept it pulled back in ponytail or up in a topknot if it got too unruly. Which, I admit, was a lot lately.
“I think I need a consult.”
“Sure thing, honey. Lemme go talk to her.” Sunny disappeared down the hallway the other stylist had come from. Agatha lay down by the front desk as if she were the salon mascot. I left her to her slumber and went to look at the cards featuring photographs of places in Santa Sofia created by a local artist, then moved on to the handmade candles. Patchouli was one of the most heavily used s
cents, but there was also lavender, papyrus, and evergreen.
“Hi,” someone said behind me. “Sunny said you need a consult?”
I spun around. The woman before me had short blond hair and a headband with a little bow. She looked like a pixie. My gaze traveled down. A very pregnant pixie. She wore overalls embroidered with flowers that stretched over her round belly. Goodness, she was adorable.
And young. I placed her in her early twenties.
Once again, I patted my hair. “I think I do?”
“I had a cancellation, so if you want, we can talk about it.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “I’m Ivy.”
“Oh my God, I love your name! I’m Gretchen.” She clapped her hands together. “So nice to meet you.”
I immediately recognized that Gretchen was the type of person to speak in exclamation points. I’d never met Nessa Renchrik in person, but I suspected she was not an exclamation point kind of woman. The two women seemed like they’d be complete opposites. It made me wonder why Nessa wouldn’t have just found someone else. “Nice to meet you, too. Can I bring my dog back?” I nodded to Agatha, still asleep.
“Leave her with me,” Sunny said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
I hesitated, but Agatha was completely comfortable, and I hated to rouse her. “If you’re sure . . . ?”
Sunny fluttered her hand in front of her. “You go on. Me and Agatha, we’ll be just fine.”
Gretchen waddled as she led me down the hallway, past a washing station on the right, a bathroom and cutting stations of the left, and through an open area with chairs fixed with helmet hair dryers. Her station was in the very back of the salon. A window overlooked a grassy area, the sidewalk, and the street beyond. Sheer panels fluttered from the fresh air. I removed the hairband that kept my hair in a topknot as I sat in the salon chair. Gretchen stood behind me and ran her hands through my hair, tugging gently on the knots my curls tended to form. She looked at my reflection in the mirror in front of us, which served as a divider separating her space from the hairdresser behind it, her smile stretching across her face. Her hands were clasped and resting on her bulging stomach. “You have beautiful hair. Absolutely gorgeous!”
Death Gone A-Rye Page 14