The Walking Bread

by Winnie Archer

  7. Max had committee members in his pocket, but some had recently left. Of course this was motive for Max to go after Billy, not the other way around. And Billy had no knowledge of the bribery.

  8. According to Dixie, Max had lots of women. But my feeling was that Max had given up his revolving door for Vanessa Rose.

  9. Vanessa, the spiritual advisor, believed Max had changed his ways and was making amends for all the wrongs he’d committed.

  10. Mrs. Wellborn did not.

  11. Max had swindled ten people out of one hundred twenty thousand dollars—each—in a condo deal that never happened.

  12. Of those ten people, I only knew of Johnny Wellborn and Vicente Villanueva.

  13. Emmaline was off the investigation because of her engagement to Billy.

  14. The sheriff was convinced Billy was guilty and didn’t want to hear anything else.

  I thought for a second before adding one more thing to the list.

  15. Mr. Zavila. Max owed him, and revenge was a powerful motivator. Had Max tried to make amends with him?

  I finished talking, immediately realizing that what I had was a lot of suppositions, which was another way of saying that it all amounted to nothing more than a bunch of loose pieces to a jigsaw puzzle of a Jackson Pollock painting.

  Mabel Peabody leaned forward, scratching her cheek. “He was really trying to make things right?”

  Alice scoffed. “How could he possibly make things right? That man was a terror.”

  “Do you have a story with Max Litman?” Mrs. Branford asked her.

  She exhaled, giving herself a moment of reprieve, and then nodded her head. “It seems as if everyone does.”

  We waited for her to explain what she meant, but Alice was done sharing. Instead of telling just how Max had financially screwed her, she offered another condemnation. “He may have wanted to cleanse his soul, but you can’t hide from your sins. And you can’t take back what you’ve already done.”

  “So you don’t believe Vanessa’s story?” I asked, glad for someone to play devil’s advocate.

  She adjusted her hat, closing her eyes in a long blink. “Vanessa Rose, the spiritual advisor?” Alice said, mocking. “Not even a little bit.”

  Mabel eyed her friend, brushing back her newly dyed strands of red hair. “You’re judging her on her job title rather than her merits. She may be a perfectly wonderful spiritual advisor.”

  “What does that even mean? She helped Max find God?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I highly doubt it. Remember who we’re talking about. That man never thought about anybody but himself.”

  I jumped in, wanting to diffuse her skepticism. I’d asked the same question, after all. “People can change, though, can’t they?”

  They all had a different reaction to that rhetorical question. While Mabel’s optimism shone brightly—and in stark contrast to Alice’s cynicism, Mrs. Branford and Olaya’s expressions mirrored each other’s. They met one another’s gazes, nodding. They knew firsthand how radically people could change. It sounded overly dramatic, but they’d gone from sworn enemies to reluctant friends. If they could change, anybody could.

  “They can,” Olaya said. “And they do.”

  The thoughts circling in my head were so polar opposite to what I’d felt not so long ago. I couldn’t know for certain if Max had truly been trying to make past wrongs right, but at this moment, I was choosing to believe that he was. “Max might not have been able to change the things he did in his past, but Vanessa was trying to help him be better. He was walking a spiritual path,” I said, repeating the words she’d used.

  “Hallelujah,” Mabel said. She pointed her index finger upward, speaking with utter conviction. “He walked that spiritual path right out of this world, but he was a better person for it.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Mabel,” Alice scoffed, clearly unwilling to forgive Max. “I thought you were over that ooey gooey hooey stuff.”

  “Why would you ever think that? How can I be over something that is in my blood and my bones?” Mabel spoke with completely seriousness, but she turned her head slightly, winking at us.

  I laughed fondly. I adored Mabel, from the strands of her dyed red hair to the Birkenstocks on her narrow feet. Alice fluttered her hand as if Mabel were off her rocker, but I could also see the affection in her eyes. Theirs was an unlikely friendship, but it was as strong as two pieces of welded metal.

  “I trust Ivy’s judgment,” Mrs. Branford said. With me, she wanted to be in the thick of every adventure. She was quick to jump into the fray, but with her friends, she was the rock. “I never was a fan of Max’s, but I’m a firm believer that everyone deserves a second chance.”

  We all absorbed that simple sentiment. And we all nodded. Max Litman had been a thorn in Billy’s side for so long, but if he had recognized the error of his ways, who was I to doubt him? I chose to believe that Vanessa had been his guide on whatever spiritual path he’d been traveling. In the end, I chose to believe that he had tried to change.

  Chapter 23

  I spent what was left of the afternoon at Santa Sofia Community Park. I tested my camera shots whenever possible, getting in as many angles as I could before the light became too harsh. By dusk, I was as prepared as I could be for the big event.

  Emmaline and I had spoken just a few hours ago. Now her voice echoed in my head. “Keep your eyes and ears open at the events, Ivy. I’ll be there, but Lane has me on a leash.”

  I wanted her off the leash, just as much as she wanted to be free of it, but if I was being honest, I could understand Sheriff Lane’s perspective. He wanted to charge Billy with murder and Em had the exact opposite goal. Lane’s restrictions limited what Emmaline could do and how far she could push without jeopardizing her job and the relationships she had in the department. She was trying to figure out how to help Billy while still keeping her job and her boss off her back. It was not an easy tight rope to walk.

  “What about the investors?” I asked her.

  “Dead end, unfortunately. The team found the books when they searched the Litman Homes office. Jenkins said Lane checked them himself. Nothing surfaced.”

  Somehow I managed not to smirk. I didn’t trust Lane and his investigation one iota.

  “I don’t suppose they’ll give you the names to double-check?”

  “Um, yeah, no. I can’t get so much as a paper clip in the same vicinity as the case file.”

  Emmaline’s leash was on good and tight.

  The cars, with the exception of Max’s, had been moved from the hangar to Santa Sofia Community Park. They were lined up, like soldiers in formation, along the perimeter of the square. The parade would be the following morning, followed by the ball and awards event. Santa Sofia had been through a lot. In order to end the event on a positive note, rather than have the pallor of Max’s murder hang like low-lying dark clouds, the city had gone so far as to hire a security detail to patrol the park through the night. No one was going to tamper with another car, and no one else was going to be hurt. Or worse.

  By the end of the day, I was exhausted. With nothing else to do, I headed home. Just being on Maple Street did something to my brain. All day—all week, actually—I’d felt as if my heart was compressed, a rope wound so tightly around it that I could hardly breathe. But as I drove under the canopy of leafy trees, past the remodeled historic homes, and past the old-fashioned light posts, the bindings loosened. The weight on my shoulders didn’t abate entirely, but I was definitely breathing easier. The release of anxiety would, with any luck, help me think.

  My house was just as calming as my street. It had a steep gable, a high-pitched roofline, and the Tudor’s traditional half-timber exterior. The wavy-edge siding at the gable peaks was a deep red, which filled me with a sense of warmth and calm. Driving up to the house was akin to wrapping myself up in a warm blanket. It could have been a gingerbread house straight out of a fairytale, the leafy trees and the cobbled walkway up to the arched fr
ont door softening the harder edges of the house. The flower beds, bursting with color, were the final touch. They’d been here when I bought the house, but Penelope Branford and I had spent many a lovely afternoon playing with the color palette, the arrangement, and the flower variety. There were still things to tweak, but I planned to live in this house for a long, long time, so there was no rush.

  I was the newest resident on the historic block—and I was also about thirty years younger than most of the street’s other inhabitants. I’d been taken under Maple Street’s proverbial wing, with the exception of one or two fringe residents who wished I’d move far, far away and never come back. But they had their reasons. I’d suspected them of foul play recently, and while they hadn’t been guilty of murder, they had plenty of other misdeeds under their belts.

  At the moment, I had no time for anyone or anything but Max Litman, so I shoved my neighbors, both difficult and delightful, out of my thoughts. After the parade tomorrow in the morning, a good part of my day would be spent at Yeast of Eden helping Olaya get ready for the Art Car Ball. The rest of the evening I’d be at the ball itself, both photographing the festivities and keeping my eyes and ears open. I didn’t have any specific expectations; I’d be keeping a wide-open mind.

  I’d parked in the garage, but walked around to the front yard rather than going through the interior garage door to the house. Agatha would be itching to get outside, but I strayed off the cobbled walkway to pull a few stray weeds that had popped up. I straightened up, clutching the limp weeds in one hand, my camera bag and purse over my shoulder, and my keys in my other hand. I got back on track, stepping onto the walkway again, but instantly stopped in my tracks. This time it wasn’t a wayward dandelion or bunch of ragweed, but the shadowy form of a body on my front porch. Man? Woman? Sitting? Standing? I couldn’t be sure. Given the fact that there was a murderer on the loose, I slowed. “Hello?” I said, my voice tentative.

  The scraping of a chair’s legs made the hairs on the back of my neck raise, followed by the one-two thump of something hitting the ground. The form moved into the light and my heart dropped from my throat back to my chest cavity. Mrs. Branford . . . and her cane. “My dear, it’s about time. You do not have time to gallivant around. We still have a murder to solve.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief, my knees nearly buckling. “You scared me half to death. And I am not gallivanting around. I’ve been getting ready for tomorrow and trying my best to solve a murder.”

  “As long as the other half of you is alive and kicking, we’re looking good.” She emerged from the shadows to stand squarely in front of the dark wood of my arched door. It framed her, setting off the snowy white of her hair and the bright pink of today’s velour leisure suit. She’d hung up her Blackbird Ladies’ hat, but otherwise looked the same as she had when I’d seen her earlier in the day.

  She stepped aside as I held my key out to unlock the door. “How long have you been waiting?”

  Instead of looking at a watch or cell phone, Mrs. Branford took three steps off the porch and peered up into the sky. “About twenty-five minutes, I should say. Give or take. I might have dozed for a few of them.”

  The groggy state of her eyes told the tale. “I think you mean definitely.”

  She knocked the rubber-footed cane she held against the ground as if she were miffed at my snarky remark, but I knew better. Mrs. Branford loved her power naps, and she wasn’t afraid to admit it. “I needed to talk to you.”

  My senses went on alert. Had something happened in the hours since I’d seen her? Or, I reasoned, she could need me to get something from a cupboard in her kitchen that she couldn’t reach, she could need a ride somewhere, or she could be hungry for something she didn’t happen to have at the ready. I stepped aside so she could cross the threshold. With the door closed behind me, I placed my keys in a small ceramic bowl on the table I’d picked up at a shop in town. It featured ceramics and other handcrafted goods made by disabled adults in the community. I’d purchased several small bowls, each unique, and had them scattered around the house. This one was the biggest, about six inches in diameter, and sat next to another piece made by a local artist. The Galileo thermometer had been hand blown at a glass shop on the pier by Baptista’s and had been a housewarming gift from Miguel. My fingers skimmed the tall glass cylinder.

  “Hello.” Fingers snapped in front of my face. “Earth to Ivy.”

  I focused on Mrs. Branford and blinked, drawing back slightly. “What?”

  A twinkle sparkled her eyes and the corners of her mouth lifted mischievously. “I’ve been thinking about everything you said earlier,” she said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  An image of The Grinch as he was figuring out what to do about the Whos and their Christmas cheer came to me. Mrs. Branford was quite clever—as clever as Dr. Seuss with his crafty rhymes and devilishly wily Mr. Grinch—and from the look of her smile, she’d come up with her own wonderful, hopefully not awful, idea. If she had come here, sitting patiently and waiting for me to return home, her idea must be a very good one indeed. I peered at her as if I could see straight through her eyes, imagining her thoughts running like a ticker tape on Wall Street.

  She leaned heavily on her cane, her arthritic knuckles turning white with her grip on the handle. What was I thinking making her stand in my entryway? I took her arm and guided her out of the entryway and to the right, straight through one of the wood-framed archways that led to the parlor. “Come on and sit down, Mrs. Branford.”

  She let me lead her, but that didn’t mean she was giving up one speck of her feistiness. “I’m going to wear you down, you know, so you might as well go ahead and bend to my will.”

  I couldn’t hide my grin. “Are you going to cast a spell on me?” I asked as I settled her into a comfortable straight-backed chair. Agatha’s crate sat in the corner of the room. I quickly set her free, opening the French doors leading from the parlor to the backyard. Agatha spun around and around in three solid circles before her little paws took purchase and she raced outside.

  “As a matter of fact . . .” She tapped her index finger on the handle of her cane. “I might have to have a tête-à-tête with Olaya. Have her bake some special herb or flower into one of her breads so that you will, indeed, do as I ask.”

  “I don’t think Olaya has any special ingredient that will make me start to call you Penelope.”

  She thrust her finger toward me. “Aha!”

  “Oh my God!” I shook my head, cupping one hand over my forehead in a head slap She’d done it to me again, the trickster. Mrs. Branford got some sort of satisfaction from coercing me into saying her name. The thing was, I was my mother’s daughter, raised with an inherent respect for my elders. I was finding it impossible to overcome that bit of my upbringing, even if I enjoyed spending time with Mrs. Branford more than anyone else. My mother, my father, and my brother—they were the family I was born with, but just as warm water and yeast and flour combined together to form the basis for myriad types of bread, the three of us combined to form an essential female bond. The two women weren’t my blood, but they were the family I had chosen.

  “You can trick me into saying Penelope—” She waved her hand, her mouth forming the Aha! she’d thrown at me a moment ago, but I beat her to it. “Aha!” I said, pointing one finger to the sky. “I can say your name in that context, but that doesn’t mean I will address you by it. Mrs. Branford,” I added for good measure.

  “One of these days, Ivy,” she said, her lips pressed together in determination like Ralph from the old Honeymooners show. “One of these days.”

  From where I sat, perched on the couch across from Mrs. Branford, I had a clear view of the yard. Agatha’s nose was buried in a bush, her thin tail wound up like a curlicue. She was happy. “What’s your idea”—I winked—“Mrs. Branford?”

  Her eyebrows lifted slightly in acknowledgment of my snark, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “Do you know the Picaloos?” she asked.

  Did
I? I mulled the name over, but it wasn’t ringing a bell. “I don’t think so.”

  Her silver curls bobbed as she nodded. “Of course you do.”

  Maybe she was right, maybe she wasn’t, but it really didn’t matter. “Okay, but remind me, then. Who are they?”

  “White Queen Anne on the corner of Walnut and Liverpool.”

  Recognition dawned. “Cottage garden flowers along the street and the porch swing?”

  She tapped the tip of her nose with the pad of her index finger. “As I said, you know them.”

  “Knowing their house isn’t the same as knowing them,” I corrected, inwardly chuckling inside at the fact that people in the historic district of town identified people not by their names, but by their homes. I was the redbrick Tudor. My neighbor had a lovely English Cottage. Across the street from me was an Arts & Craft, and next to that was a Dutch Revival. The variety made the street, and the entire historic area, unique and charming. One house might have been built in the same style as another, but beyond that similarity, no two were alike.

  Mrs. Branford’s house was a pretty Craftsman. It was just like her: old, but well cared for. The warm taupe exterior blended beautifully with the creamy white of the window frames. Maintaining the integrity of one’s home was of paramount importance to most people who bought a historic home. The historic committee also wanted all things original kept intact. The Mastersons, across the street from Mrs. Branford, had probably had conniption fits when Mrs. Branford replaced her ancient window with modern double-paned numbers that kept the temperature inside constant. Good for Mrs. Branford’s gas and electric bills, and for her arthritis. Bad for the historic purists.

  I’d learned a lot about houses in the short time I’d lived in the area. I’d learned just as much about the people in them. Studying houses was a lot like studying psychology. The biggest takeaway was that a house tells an awful lot about its occupants. A certain type of person prefers a Victorian over a Colonial Revival. The person who falls in love with a clean-lined, symmetrical, rectangular Cape Cod is probably not going to buy a Queen Anne, replete with towers, turrets, and spindle work. If you like bungalows, chances are you’d like a Craftsman style house. Simple or ornate, however, we could all bond over the milestones each of us had shared.