Death Gone A-Rye

by Winnie Archer

  “Nessa had big political aspirations,” I began, glancing at Joseph Patrick. His expression revealed nothing. Whatever he’d felt about Nessa and the fact that he’d withdrawn his support of her was not revealed on his face.

  As I continued speaking, I let my gaze linger on Tate. His hair was dark, while the rest of the family was blond. Rachel had green eyes, as did Cliff. Nessa’s had been hazel, but Tate’s were brown. He was slightly darker complected than the others. I looked at his face. Did he look anything like Miguel? Was it possible?

  Once again, I found Cliff Renchrik in the crowd. Did he know Tate might not be his son?

  I swallowed and set my mind to the task at hand. “Nessa Renchrik served Santa Sofia Unified School District with great commitment. She supported our other school board members, fighting for reading programs for the schools, providing nutritious lunches to the kids in the district, and starting a surf club to keep kids entertained and off the streets. According to some of the people who knew her best, this was one of her biggest passions.”

  I glanced at Jerry Zenmark. His eyes burned with anger. Would he ever get over the fact that Nessa had died and so they’d lost the surf club funding to technology for the poorest school in the district?

  “Nessa leaves behind a legacy of service, and her loving family.” I looked at Rachel and Tate. “Rachel, would you like to say anything?”

  I knew I’d put her on the spot, but the offer had come from my heart. She and Tate both looked broken. Red-rimmed eyes. Sallow skinned. She looked over her shoulder, catching her father’s eye. He gave a slight nod. Rachel turned and whispered something to Tate, dropped her arm from his shoulder, and made her way to where I stood. She looked at me with a sad smile and a nod before clearing her throat. “I-I miss my mom,” she began, her voice cracking with emotion. “I-I guess it’s weird to think that she won’t be at my graduation, or my wedding one day.” She looked at her brother. “She won’t see Tate grow up.”

  I scanned the crowd. So many of the people here had seen Nessa Renchrik within twenty-four hours of her death. Nessa had gotten her hair done at Soho Salon by Gretchen on Friday, hours before the charity event she attended. Lulu Sanchez-Patrick had seen her there. Both Lulu and Joseph Patrick had been at the charity event, as well, and Joseph had met with Nessa the next morning to withdraw his support for her senate bid. Dr. Sharma and Principal Davies had been at the event. Misty Jackson had seen her at the elementary school. All four school board members had been at the Friday evening dinner, along with Nessa. And Nessa’s husband, according to Rachel, had seen his wife the morning of her death.

  A new group of people approached the Yeast of Eden booth, standing at the edge of the gathered crowd. It was Guillermo Cabrera and his daughter. Of course they’d be at the Spring Fling. Their residence was just a mile or so from the school. The little girl was probably in third or fourth grade here.

  I swallowed, scanning the people again. This felt like a planned gathering of all the people who’d had an ax to grind against Nessa Renchrik. Only Miguel, who had met with Nessa about her daughter’s graduation dinner on Friday, wasn’t here—the one person I was desperately trying to prove was innocent.

  Joseph Patrick’s gaze shifted from Rachel to me. He gave a slight nod, acknowledging me.

  His wife, Lulu, looked at me, then quickly looked away.

  Gretchen’s mouth lifted on one side and she gave me a quick wave.

  One after the other, the four school board members looked at one another. Candy then met my eyes. Even from where I stood, I could see her jaw tense.

  The principal and the superintendent glanced at each other, as if they shared a secret; then Mr. Davies carried on the secret by looking pointedly at Misty Jackson.

  A chill slithered through me. One of the people in this impromptu memorial crowd was a murderer.

  My gaze sought out Guillermo Cabrera again. He had one arm on his daughter’s shoulder as he nodded to me.

  Cliff’s attention was completely focused on his daughter. At one point, he found Tate in the crowd but quickly shifted back to looking at Rachel. He must have felt me watching him because he briefly averted his attention from Rachel to me, then back again. No acknowledgment. No emotion. No response whatsoever.

  I looked at Tate with his big eyes. Tears streamed down his face as he listened to his sister speak about their mother. Rachel cleared her throat again. She looked at her brother and nodded to him. “I’m here for you, Tate. No matter what happens, I’m here for you.”

  I blinked, replaying her words in my head. No matter what happens. What did she mean?

  * * *

  Later, as I lay in bed going over the events of the day, I envisioned each of the people who’d shown up at the memorial for Nessa Renchrik. My brain was doing its own version of Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” video, one face quickly morphing into another. Nessa, who I knew only through photographs, turned into Rachel, who turned into Guillermo, who turned into Cliff, who turned into Lulu, who turned into Joseph. On and on it went, ending with the remaining school board members, Gretchen, Carol and her sister, Debbie, and finally Guillermo’s daughter.

  It wasn’t until I fell asleep that I realized it wasn’t Guillermo’s daughter at the end of my own little mind video. It was Tate.

  They looked so similar.

  I bolted upright. Oh. My. God. Tate and Guillermo’s daughter. They had the same eyes. The same hair. The girl’s complexion was a little more olive than Tate’s, but otherwise, they were almost identical.

  My brain processed the information. It flew in and out of my head like one of those screensavers where the words appear, then fade before another one appears.

  Nessa had told Miguel she’d been through a rough breakup.

  She’d had a heated debate with someone in the bookstore. A work acquaintance.

  Sylvia’s deportation.

  Tate . . . and his look-alike.

  There was a common denominator.

  Guillermo.

  Chapter 20

  I’d called Olaya and Mrs. Branford as soon as I woke up the next morning. “Meet me at the bread shop.”

  “I am already here, Ivy,” Olaya said.

  I smacked my forehead with the heal of my palm. Of course she was. This was day two of the Spring Fling and she and Felix were probably elbow deep in more hot cross buns and van Dough focaccias. I told Mrs. Branford that I’d pick her up, and thirty minutes later the three of us were sitting around one of the cute bistro tables in the dining area of Yeast of Eden, Felix still working in the kitchen.

  Every morning, the bread shop dining room was filled with people sipping coffee and eating a ham and Gruyère or a chocolate croissant. Every afternoon it was iced tea and some savory roll or hunk of bread. The bread shop had something for everyone. The bistro tables and chairs were put to good use.

  Mrs. Branford wore a black velour lounge suit. She was bright-eyed and bushy tailed. I wondered how many hours of sleep she needed, because day or night, rain or shine, whenever I called her, she was awake and raring to go.

  Olaya, on the other hand, had on a subdued black-and-cream caftan and Birkenstocks, and her iron-gray hair was mussed. Her eyes looked sleepy, as if she hadn’t gotten a full night’s rest. A pang of regret passed through me. “Were you up late prepping more dough?” I asked her, guilt flooding me. I should have stayed later the night before to make sure everything was ready for today.

  “No. Felix prepared everything while we were at the school yesterday.”

  “But you look so tired,” I said.

  A coy smile lifted one side of her mouth. I stared at her, my mouth falling into a surprised O. “Olaya Solis!” I said, while Mrs. Branford sniggered and said, “About time, if you ask me.”

  Olaya chuckled, pressing her fingertips to her lips. Her cheeks bloomed pink.

  “H-how? W-who?” I asked. The woman worked nonstop and had ungodly hours. How did she have time to be dating someone without us knowing ab
out it?

  Mrs. Branford gave me a stern look. “We are old, Ivy, not dead.”

  I laughed, letting my surprise fade away. Mrs. Branford had recently rekindled a relationship with a teacher she’d worked with at the high school. Mr. Caldwell, room 315, had taught chemistry at Santa Sofia High School when Mrs. Branford had taught English. Now, every now and then, they, ahem, studied together.

  Olaya held up a hand to quiet us down. “I have a friend, yes, but that is all I will say about it.”

  It was hard not to pry, but more pressing things were on my mind, so I was able to push Olaya’s newly revealed love life to the back of my mind. That was a topic for another day. A plate of golden-brown pumpernickel rye rolls, each square artfully slashed, half topped with everything bagel seasoning, the other half with poppy-seeds, sat in the center of the table. I’d taken one with the bagel topping, split it open, and slathered the insides with butter. Mrs. Branford tore pieces off the poppyseed roll she held. “You made these this morning?” she asked Olaya.

  “I made the dough last night and baked them this morning.”

  I eyed her suspiciously. It was as if she knew I’d be calling and we’d need some comforting bread to eat.

  She smiled at me and rolled her hand in the air in front of her, telling me to get on with whatever I had to say. “Coincidence. Now, why did you call us here this morning?”

  I cleared my throat. “I think Guillermo Cabrera is Tate Renchrik’s father.”

  Mrs. Branford stopped chewing.

  Olaya’s lips parted.

  “That woman Sylvia’s husband?”

  “His little girl looks just like Tate. If he fathered them both . . .” I trailed off, letting the idea simmer. “Plus, it makes sense. She told Miguel she’d been through a breakup, but she was married. He saw her arguing with someone. This was ten or eleven years ago. The timing is perfect. What if she met him through their business and started an affair? She gets pregnant, but meanwhile, he falls in love with Sylvia, so Nessa keeps their child a secret and raises him as Cliff’s.”

  Mrs. Branford resumed her chewing, swallowed, and said, “If her husband only just found out, that gives him a very strong motive.”

  Olaya looked skeptical. “Would he only have just found out?”

  I’d thought about this. “Why not? If he didn’t suspect the affair, why suspect the child wasn’t his? Guillermo still worked for him. If Cliff knew he’d had a relationship with his wife, would he still keep him employed?”

  “How would he have suddenly found out?” Mrs. Branford asked.

  “The truck,” I said.

  They both stared at me, waiting for me to continue. “There was a truck parked at Sylvia’s—Guillermo’s—house. It’s the same blue as one I saw pulling into one of Seaside Property’s rentals.”

  Mrs. Branford cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Miguel and I followed Cliff one day. He went to a mansion overlooking the Pacific. An old truck pulled in after him. Someone was with him. What if—”

  Olaya broke in. “What if it was his daughter.”

  I snapped and pointed at her. “Exactly! Maybe it wasn’t the first time Guillermo had brought his daughter to work. What if Cliff saw the girl and realized the truth?” I snapped again and told them what Rachel had said about her parents arguing about Tate. Maybe he really had found out.

  The three of us fell silent and munched on our pumpernickel rye rolls. Mrs. Branford spoke again first. “That is a lot of maybes.”

  My head was filled with what-ifs. It felt like it was a balloon ready to pop.

  What if Cliff realized Guillermo was Tate’s father?

  What if Nessa had kept Tate a secret from Guillermo, but he realized he had another child?

  What if Nessa blamed Sylvia for her breakup with Guillermo? So many years later, could that be the reason she’d worked to get Sylvia deported? Payback? Revenge?

  Or . . . had Sylvia realized that Tate was Guillermo’s son? She worked at the house. She would have seen the resemblance. That would be motive for Nessa to get rid of her. Nessa was in politics, after all. It was not beyond reason to think she knew people in high places. And if Sylvia had confided in Carmen, that would explain the removal of the longtime nanny.

  Any or all of these things could be true. Cliff and Guillermo both had potential motives to kill Nessa, but had one of them met her at the district office boardroom on a Saturday afternoon and clobbered her with a chair?

  I could picture Cliff showing up there, but Guillermo? He’d never been in that part of Nessa’s life. If he were to kill her, would he do it somewhere else? Somewhere he had access to?

  I buried my head in my hands. What if I was completely off track? “Too many maybes,” I said.

  Mrs. Branford finished her roll and reached for another, tearing off a piece and popping it in her mouth. “Let’s recap the woman’s actions on the day she died,” she said after she swallowed.

  I’d gone over Nessa’s day in a play-by-play in my head. Talking it through aloud could help me clarify things. “Not just the day she died, but the day before. Nessa stopped by Baptista’s that Friday and talked to Miguel. Plus, she left him a message. For whatever reason, that’s the only thing Captain York is focusing on.”

  “If only this Captain York had been one of my students,” Mrs. Branford said.

  If only, indeed. She’d have paid him a visit and given him a good what for.

  “He doesn’t seem to be very logical, nor very thorough. Why is he so intent on Miguel being the guilty party?”

  “That’s a great question.” I told Olaya and Mrs. Branford about someone parking outside Miguel’s house and following him. “It’s like York isn’t even looking at anyone else. I believe he thinks Miguel is Tate’s father.”

  Mrs. Branford pinched another bit of her pumpernickel rye roll but held it between her gnarled thumb and forefinger. “In my experience, people often take the easy way out. It sounds to me as if this Captain York zeroed in on Miguel early on, decided he was the guilty party, and now is doing what he can to make the facts fit his theory.”

  I dropped my hands, resting my forearms on the table, my roll abandoned. My appetite was gone, and not even Olaya’s miracle bread could fix it.

  “You will get to the bottom of this,” Olaya said. She laid her hand on mine and squeezed. “Now. Let us go through the timeline.”

  I drew in a deep breath, gathered my thoughts, and began. “Friday. There was a charity dinner for an organization called Communities in Schools. Nessa got her hair done at the salon. Although Gretchen didn’t mention that when we talked about Nessa.”

  Mrs. Branford had finished her second roll and looked like she was contemplating a third. Instead of reaching for one, she picked up her cane from the chair next to her where she’d laid it down and stood. “An intentional omission or an oversight?”

  “Good question.” I couldn’t answer it, so I moved on. “Nessa placed an order at Baptista’s and went to pick it up. That’s when she saw Miguel.”

  “Did they have an argument?” Olaya asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  Mrs. Branford ambled around the dining area of the bread shop, gently swinging her cane. Her shoes squeaked against the black-and-white-checkered floor. “Miguel Baptista is as honest as the day is long. If he said there was no argument, I’d bet my house that there wasn’t.”

  Olaya nodded in agreement. “Your man, he has no reason to hurt Nessa.”

  “She wasn’t hurt,” I said. “She was killed.”

  Mrs. Branford pshawed. “He has even less reason to have killed her.”

  “I know that, and you know that, but Captain York doesn’t seem to care.” My voice rose. This was what it felt like to be on the brink of hysteria.

  Mrs. Branford came back to the table and stood behind her chair. “Who was at the dinner Friday night?”

  I ticked the people off on my fingers. “All the board members. The superintendent and one of Nessa�
�s campaign donors. His wife. Maybe the principal of Chavez,” I said, but I wasn’t sure about that. “Her husband.”

  “Apparently some of the board members were at odds with each other. Nessa was in the thick of it. She wanted funding to go to a surf club. Others wanted it for technology funding for Chavez.”

  “That means the board members who didn’t want the club had a motive to stop her from voting,” Mrs. Branford said.

  “And the principal of the school so he could get his funding,” I finished.

  We contemplated this for a moment before I continued. “On to Saturday morning. Nessa had coffee with Katherine Candelli—” They both raised their eyebrows at me. “School board member,” I said.

  “About the same funding?” Mrs. Branford asked.

  I nodded. “And she met with Joseph Patrick, the donor, who pulled his endorsement and funding from her campaign.”

  “Why?” Olaya asked.

  “Apparently she had skeletons in her closet,” I answered, using the very word he and Lulu had used.

  Again, their expressions asked their unspoken question.

  “She and her husband employed undocumented workers. Mr. Patrick couldn’t support her because she wouldn’t make it through the vetting process without it coming out. He’s pro–immigration reform, but he said he wants it done aboveboard. Nessa couldn’t fight for real immigration reform while she subverted the law.”

  “That is not a motive for him to kill her. Maybe for her to kill him,” Olaya said.

  Exactly.

  Mrs. Branford tapped the rubber-tipped base of her cane on the ground. “It sounds to me like she had more enemies than friends.”

  “If she met with this man—the donor—the day she died, he could have done it.” Olaya pulled off a piece of bread and pressed it between her fingers.

  “She could have arranged to meet anyone without telling a soul,” Mrs. Branford said. “The donor admitted to meeting her that day. Why would he do that if he was guilty of killing her?”