Death Gone A-Rye

by Winnie Archer

  “And I’m Ivy,” I said as I followed her back and into a small conference room with a rectangular table and chairs all around. A small table along one of the side walls held a telephone set up with more buttons than an airplane cockpit, two rows of unopened plastic water bottles, and a basket with snack goodies like granola bars, boxes of raisins, and fruit snack packs.

  “Help yourself,” Lulu said as she sat down and folded her hands over the yellow legal pad on the table in front of her.

  I kind of wanted a pack of gummies, but I resisted and sat across from her empty-handed.

  Lulu cleared her throat. “I have just fifteen minutes for a free consultation. From there, we can make an appointment with one of the firm’s lawyers. Sound good?”

  Fifteen minutes. I didn’t have a minute to waste. I also didn’t have a story concocted that would fool this woman. What I did have was the element of surprise. I would ask whatever I could before she figured out that I was on a fishing expedition. “Nessa Renchrik,” I said. “She was a client here.”

  Lulu raised her chin. I’d been hoping for nonplussed, but she was cool as a cucumber. Her only tell was that her hands clasped tighter. “I am not at liberty to discuss our clients’ cases.”

  “Oh, of course not,” I said, but I took her non-answer as an answer confirming my suspicion. “It’s just that I’m wondering why you’d be happy she’s dead.”

  Again, I’d expected a reaction of some sort, but Lulu Sanchez-Patrick was married to a politician and she worked for a law office. She was a pro. When she spoke, it was slowly and clearly, each word enunciated, every consonant pronounced, an emphasis on each and every word. “I am certainly not happy that Mrs. Renchrik is dead.”

  I smiled sweetly and cocked my head to one side. “But you are @MarisasMama on Twitter?”

  Her lips parted and her eyes opened wider. I’d shocked her, but her physical reaction was a blip that she corrected almost instantly. Eyes back to normal. Mouth drawn into a tight line. She pressed her hands against the table and stood, the movement shoving her chair backward. “I think you should leave, Ms. Culpepper.”

  I kept my gaze steady on her and said, “Ding dong, the witch is dead.”

  She stared at me, and this time her composure did break. Her breathing grew audible and her nostrils flared. She was rattled. “What?”

  “A few nights ago, you tweeted: ‘Ding dong, the witch is dead’—”

  “I would never—”

  I channeled Mrs. Branford and tsked, wagging my finger at the same time. “Ah, Lulu, but you did. You told me she was just another politician and that she didn’t really care about the kids in Santa Sofia. You said she had people in her pocket.”

  She pulled her chair under her and sat back down. Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Who are you?”

  I answered her question with one of my own. “Do you know who killed Nessa Renchrik?”

  Her beautiful olive skin paled, making her brick-red lips look stark and unnatural. “Are you with the police?”

  “No,” I said.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

  The first thing that came to mind was that she had something to hide. And didn’t police officers have to answer honestly when asked directly? Otherwise it would be coercion. “I’m not a police officer.” I didn’t add that Captain York would be beyond furious if he found out I was still digging around. “Do you know who killed Nessa Renchrik?” I asked again.

  “Of course not.”

  I rested my forearms on the table, clasping my hands together. “Did you kill her?”

  She leaned in, mirroring my posture. “Of course not.”

  “Okay then.”

  Realization hit her. “You’re Ivy Baker.”

  It took her longer than it should have to figure that out. I nodded. “I am.”

  She looked me up and down, as much as she could given I was sitting. “You don’t look like you bake.”

  “I do. I swear. At Yeast of Eden.”

  Her eyes opened wide again, but this time it was because I’d said the magic words. Yeast of Eden had that effect on everyone. “The sourdough loaves there are dangerous.”

  I smiled. “I hear that a lot.”

  “You must not eat what you bake.”

  “I do. How could I not? Olaya is amazing.”

  “I’ve heard about her.”

  “She’s taught me everything I know.”

  Lulu leaned back and folded her arms over her blouse and blazer. “What do you want?”

  “Someone killed Nessa. I want to find out who.”

  “You’re not the police, and you’re not related to her?”

  “No, and no.”

  She still looked skeptical. “So why do you care?”

  I had no idea if she or her husband was involved, but at this point, I needed her to trust me. To know that I was telling the truth. “Because the police think someone I know is involved.”

  This time she cocked her head at me, and her smile turned into a small smirk. “They think someone you know killed Nessa Renchrik? Friends with murderers?”

  “My friend is not a murderer and I’d rather not get into it,” I said, “but I am trying to figure out what happened to her.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about her death,” she said. “When I saw her at the Communities in Schools dinner, she was perfectly fine.”

  I inhaled and braced myself before asking the next question. “But your husband met with her the morning she died?”

  The words hit her like a sucker punch to the gut. Her voice dropped to an accusatory whisper—as if I’d been the one to meet with the woman hours before she died. “How do you know that?”

  Of course, I answered her question with my own. “Has he been questioned?”

  “Joseph had nothing to do with that woman’s death. She was vile. It’s true, neither one of us are grieving a loss here, but he was not involved.”

  “And you?”

  She met my gaze head-on and scoffed. “I was not involved, either.”

  “What was their meeting about that morning, Nessa and your husband?”

  She was silent for a moment, debating how to answer that question. She sighed and lowered her arms, her hands in her lap. A breaking down of the barrier she’d erected. Was she going to tell me the truth? “He had planned to back her senate bid. He was going to endorse her and be a campaign donor.”

  So far this was nothing I didn’t already know. “And?”

  “And then he found out that she and her husband were operating some part of their business, mmm, outside the law. Nessa would not have passed the vetting process. She had skeletons.”

  “Meaning what?” I asked, but I thought I knew the answer. Joseph had used the same word and had implied that the old bones in Nessa’s closet had done her in.

  “Like I said, she would have been called out during vetting. A state senator should be above reproach.” I opened my mouth to offer myriad examples of elected officials who were the exact opposite of above reproach, but she held up a hand to stop me. “Don’t bother. I know the scum exists. But Joseph won’t put his name behind someone he doesn’t respect and who doesn’t have integrity.”

  “And because Seaside Properties uses undocumented—”

  “Look. He believes in immigration reform. And he believes in human rights. What he doesn’t believe in is someone in a position of authority, especially in politics, subverting the law for their own benefit. Joseph wants to back someone who will tackle immigration reform with compassion and fairness, not someone who speaks out of both sides of her mouth.”

  “Okay, so your husband withdrew his support for Nessa. Did he tell her that morning? The morning she died?”

  Lulu shook her head. Emphatically. “No! He’d already told her. Then she called and said she wanted to see him. When I told him, he said he had nothing more to say to her, but he changed his mind. He agreed to meet with her out of courtesy.”

  Once again,
the situation seemed to warrant the victim having a motive to kill the suspect rather than the other way around. If Joseph withdrew his support because of some failing on Nessa’s part, that would give Nessa a motive to retaliate against Joseph. Joseph, on the other hand, would have no reason for killing Nessa. He was the one in the power position.

  Unless, I thought, she’d reacted badly and launched herself at him, forcing him to react—killing her to stop her attack.

  I drummed my fingers against the table. It was possible.

  Lulu Sanchez-Patrick sat with her spine straight and her neck tight, veins popping along either side. Where was this tenseness coming from? Something she’d said a moment ago slid to the front of my brain. “You said you talked to Nessa?”

  Her shoulders rose like a defensive move. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes. You did. Just a minute ago you said Nessa called and wanted to meet with your husband again. You said you told him, but he said no.”

  She swallowed. “He was in the shower. I answered his cell phone.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Saturday morning. We were getting ready for a brunch event. Joseph ended up missing it to go see her.”

  “How did she sound when you talked to her?” I asked.

  Her eyes flicked up to me. “What, do you mean did she sound like she was going to be murdered that afternoon? She sounded fine. As snippy as ever. When Nessa wasn’t on, you know, playing the part of the caring politician, she was horrible.”

  “But she was trying to get your husband to back her. She wasn’t polite to you?”

  She gave a scornful laugh. “No. It’s like she had a certain amount of niceness. She wasn’t about to waste any of it on me when I wasn’t the one she was trying to woo.”

  That seemed odd to me. As Joseph’s wife, it seemed to me, Lulu wielded a lot of power that Nessa would have wanted to harness rather than alienate.

  “Don’t think too hard on it. Nessa Renchrik was a model of contradictions,” Lulu said, seeming to read my mind. “School board member who supposedly cared for the kids in the district but didn’t lift a finger to help out the kids in her own sphere—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look. Her daughter and my daughter were in the same grade. They were friends, but Nessa put a stop to that back when they were in third grade. At that point, Joseph wasn’t in a position to help her. He was a public defender with no donor capacity or political presence. She dismissed us, and so she dismissed our daughter.”

  A vibe was coming off of Lulu—that of a woman scorned. A chill swept up my spine. Another player in the Whac-A-Mole game. Was I sitting across the table from a killer?

  Chapter 18

  Back at Yeast of Eden, Felix Macron and his crew were still buzzing around the kitchen. As always, he wore a white chef’s shirt. It had three-quarter sleeves and buttons running up the right side of it. His belly was looking even rounder then it had been a week ago. Felix was an amazing baker and he liked to partake of all he baked. I couldn’t blame him. It was all so good.

  His hair was shorn close to the scalp and his light eyes were a glorious contrast to his black skin. A dimple etched into his cheek as his face lit up with a smile when he saw me. “Ivy!”

  We did an elbow bump in greeting. “You’re here late, Felix,” I said. Normally he was gone by late morning. It was almost one thirty.

  “The Spring Fling waits for no one.”

  “Indeed, it does not,” I said. I looked around the busy kitchen. Olaya had extra bakers working to get the regular Friday restaurant orders complete while we also worked on the Spring Fling offerings.

  “How are we doing?” Olaya called from her office off the side of the kitchen.

  Felix and I moved to the doorway. She sat at her desk, pen in hand, making notes on a pad of paper. She had her apron on, legs crossed. A wide black-and-white scarf was wound around her head, the ends tied into a knot under one ear. She wore wide-legged black pants and a gray short-sleeved T-shirt. How she managed to wear black and not have it covered with flour dust was a mystery to me. She always looked fresh and clean and as if she’d just arrived for the day, but I knew she’d already spent hours in her commercial kitchen working alongside Felix before I’d arrived.

  “I’ve got the steak rolls for Sofia’s Steakhouse rising,” Felix said. “Working on the star bread next. Five full stars, and twenty-five star points to wrap and sell separately.”

  Olaya nodded her approval. “Fillings?”

  “Keeping it simple. Strawberry jam.”

  “Perfect,” she said with an approving nod.

  “And we’re doing the van Dough focaccia, right?” I asked.

  “And the hot cross buns,” she said. “We will need an early start tomorrow to finish the baking first thing and set up at the festival.”

  As if we’d synchronized our next movements, the three of us scattered to our prep stations. I started rolling out the focaccia rounds from the already-prepared dough.

  Three hours later, the rest of the crew was gone, but the three of us were still hard at work. Usually the bread shop was prepped for the next day and locked up by four o’clock. Not today. The van Dough focaccias took time. I printed out several pictures to use as models for the vegetable placement. Piece by piece, the focaccias became stunning representations of the Dutch postimpressionist painter’s work. Olaya and I even got creative enough to make a rendition of his field of irises.

  While Felix worked to finish up the star bread, we covered each and every tray of focaccias—and there were many—with plastic wrap, moving them all onto racks in the walk-in refrigerator. I stopped to stare at the baking that lay ahead of us in the morning. It didn’t even include the overnight hot cross buns. “Will we be able to get it all done in time?” I asked.

  “I’m coming in at three thirty,” Felix said, a grin on his face.

  He might be the only person on the face of the earth who’d feel excited about starting work at that ungodly hour. I couldn’t deny it, though. He was definitely happy. Or even giddy.

  Olaya patted his back. “He is a good boy.” She looked up at him. “You are a good boy.”

  I laughed. Felix was a twenty-six-year-old man and I was beginning to realize that Olaya loved him as a son.

  “We’ll get it done,” Felix said, answering my question more directly.

  Looking at him, I knew we would. I only wish I felt as confident about exonerating Miguel and finding Nessa Renchrik’s killer. I wondered if her death would cast a pall over the Spring Fling. We’d see tomorrow.

  “We will make the dough for the hot cross buns. It will rise overnight; then we will bake on in the morning before the event,” Olaya said to me. She looked at Felix. “Go home. Get some rest.”

  He covered the star bread trays, slid them onto the rack in the refrigerator, and checked to make sure he’d cleaned up his station before heading out.

  Alone in the kitchen, Olaya and I set to work on the hot cross buns. Just hearing the words sent me back to my childhood. I hadn’t had one since my mother had made them when I was probably thirteen or fourteen years old. There were a lot of stories regarding the history of the buns and the marking of the cross on top. From spring festivals in pagan Britain where the cross was said to represent the four seasons, to a twelfth-century Anglican monk who marked the buns with crosses to represent Good Friday, to the story of a widow in England who hung a marked bun on her door every Good Friday until her son returned home from a sea journey, the spiced sweet rolls had become a symbol of spring and were said to bring good luck to any baker who made them, and to everyone who ate the buns that baker prepared.

  Olaya believed in the long-rise method of bread making. Apparently, the same method was used with her hot cross buns. The dough would slowly rise in the refrigerator overnight and they’d be ready to bake first thing in the morning.

  “I haven’t photographed either the hot cross buns or the star bread. I’ll do that to
morrow and add the pictures to the website.”

  “Bueno,” she said. She retreated to her office and returned, handing me an envelope.

  My paycheck. I smiled, grateful for it. My hours at Yeast of Eden helped fulfill my desire to bake bread, but they also helped me make ends meet while I built up my photography clientele. “Thank you.”

  She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she silently communicated what we both felt. We were the family we’d chosen for each other.

  I folded the envelope and tucked it into my back pocket. Leaning against the stainless-steel workstation, I gathered up the front of my apron in my hands. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Sylvia Cabrera.”

  “Pobrecita. And her daughter, left here without her mother. It is a shame.”

  I knew firsthand what it meant to lose a parent. Guillermo and Sylvia’s child, as well as Rachel and Tate, would feel the effects of their loss for the rest of their lives. I tried to swallow down the lump that rose from my gut to my throat, but it remained firmly in place. I didn’t know if I could trust it, and I didn’t know how, but my gut was telling me that Sylvia Cabrera’s story was intertwined with Nessa’s in a way I didn’t yet understand.

  I put my thoughts to the side and set to work, following Olaya’s lead. She was all about small-batch preparation whenever possible. We worked at our respective stations, starting by making the sponge by warming milk in the microwave, then adding sugar, yeast, and whole wheat flour. We let our sponges sit until they became bubbly, meanwhile whisking the butter until it was fluffy, then adding the rest of the milk, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and eggs. After mixing the sponge into our respective bowls, we added the rest of the flour, stirring until we each had a stiff ball of dough.

  Next came my favorite part—the kneading. Something about curling my fingers into the soft dough, folding and turning, folding and turning, was meditative. As I worked, I realized the logical next step in my secret investigation.

  We let our doughs rise as we started the next batch. Finally, we rolled the dough into twelve-inch logs, divided each log into eight equal portions, and shaped each portion into a ball. We finished placing them in greased round pans, covering them, and sliding them into the refrigerator to rise overnight.