I held up my camera. “Just taking some pictures.”
“Oh my gosh. I follow your Instagram. Amazing pictures!”
“I have a Pinterest board, too. And I’m in charge of the Yeast of Eden website now,” I said with a sheepish grin.
A smile leavened her features. “I heard you were sort of an apprentice to Olaya now.”
News traveled fast in a small town. “That’s what she says, although I’m really just more of a helper.” I explained the arrangement to Jolie: “She teaches me what it has taken her a lifetime to learn, and I try to retain a fraction of it,” I said with a laugh. “What are you doing here? You work at Vintage Bleu?”
She shrugged. “After everything that happened,” she said, referring to her mother’s death a few months back, “I needed something to get my mind off things. I know the owner and she offered me a job, so here I am.”
“Are you doing okay?” I asked. Losing our mothers had created a bond between Jolie and me, although it wasn’t a subject we brought up very often. Neither of us wanted to open the wounds we’d been so carefully tending to.
Her smile was genuine but laced with sadness. “Yeah. Doing okay.”
We chatted for a few more minutes while I perused the charming vintage goods in the booth. I checked my watch, balking at the time. “Oh, wow. I have to get back to the bread-shop booth.” My eyes shifted back to the conveyor thingamajig. It wasn’t the end of the day yet, but I didn’t have to wait that long to know that I wanted it. It had won me over. “Can you hold that for me?” I asked.
She reached in the pocket of her frilly half apron and withdrew a SOLD tag. “Oh yeah, sure. It’s cool, isn’t it?”
“Very. I can come get it at the end of the day.”
“I can bring it by your booth when I go to lunch. It’ll give me an excuse to have something from the bread shop. Mmm, do you have any croissants? Ham and cheese, maybe?”
I grinned. “We do. I’ll put one aside for you.”
She had already turned to my purchase and was tying a SOLD tag on it. “It’s so good to see you, Ivy.”
I thought about Mrs. Branford and her plan to look into Hank Rivera. I doubted Jolie would know anything, but I figured I needed to go ahead and ask. “Do you know Mustache Hank? Hank Rivera,” I clarified.
“Doesn’t everyone?” She laughed. “Hard to miss that handlebar mustache.”
I laughed. “That’s for sure.”
She straightened an antique kitchen scale with a white base and a red platform. “I know who he is, but I don’t actually know him,” she said. “Why?”
I embellished my response. “I have a friend who’s looking for him. He’s sort of gone AWOL.”
She raised her eyebrows. “AWOL?”
I shrugged, trying to make light of it. “Yeah, for a few days now. His son is a little worried.”
“And you’re trying to find him?” I nodded, and she continued. “It’s just like you did with my mom.” She took one of my hands in hers and gave it a little squeeze. “If anyone can get to the bottom of it, Ivy, it’s you. I’ve seen that firsthand.”
I felt heat in my cheeks as a blush crept up. “I hope so. I want to try, anyway. You haven’t seen him?”
She thought for a second, but then shook her head. “I haven’t seen him around in a while,” she said, “but I pretty much go from my apartment to the shop and back again, so I don’t think I would.”
“Makes sense. Let me know if you hear anything?”
“Absolutely,” she said as she straightened a stack of old suitcases that were teetering precariously.
I waved as I left the booth and wove my way through the maze of winter-decorated tables and stalls, taking more photos along the way. The entire place was a wonderland of white and sparkly snowflakes, rustic sticks, and old-fashioned decor. I loved every bit of it.
The festival had officially begun and people were beginning to file in from the cold. They were bundled up in jackets and scarves and I had to laugh; cold in Santa Sofia meant a brisk sixty-five degrees. We were nowhere near artic temperatures, but you’d never know it from the look of the people. Seeing them wrapped up in their coats sent a blast of goose bumps over my flesh.
As I came up to our booth, I rubbed my hands against my folded arms. Olaya was arranging yet another tray of baked goods, this time scones, onto a tiered display, but I was lost in thought. I couldn’t get Hank Rivera off my mind. “Cold, mi’ja?”
I only half-heard her.
“Ivy?”
“Hmm?”
She peered up at me. “What is going on?”
I focused on her. “What do you mean?”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “I mean, what is going on?”
“Nothing,” I said, but even I could hear the overcharged enthusiasm in my voice.
“Nada?” She scoffed. “Mentirosa. You lie. You are distracted, and if I had to venture a guess, I would say that you and Penelope are getting yourselves involved in something you should not.”
My eyes opened wide. How could she have known anything about what Mrs. Branford and I had cooked up?
I didn’t have to ask her because she answered without prompting. “I know Penelope. And I also know that Hank Rivera is not your concern. I thought you were going to leave it to your sheriff friend.”
I couldn’t help but stare. It was like she was psychic. “The man is nowhere to be found. What if he needs to be?”
“Que? What if he needs to be, what—found?”
“Yes! If someone vanishes, it’s for a reason. There would be a clue, wouldn’t there? A trail. Something.”
She seemed to consider this as she moved the last scone to the display table. “Are you certain that there is not a clue . . . or a trail of some sort?” she finally asked.
The question surprised me. I had to answer honestly. “Well, no.”
She’d finished plating the scones and slid the tray onto the portable rack she’d brought along. “I worry about you, Ivy. You are still searching.”
I turned away, swallowing the lump that appeared in my throat. Was I floundering? Losing my mother had been the hardest thing I’d ever had to deal with. My dad and my brother had been my rocks, but finding Olaya and Yeast of Eden, and then Mrs. Branford, had saved me. I still grieved, but I was finally moving forward.
I distracted myself by rearranging the burlap runner and repositioning the sparkling sprigs of holly. My commitment to Mrs. Branford the night before had solidified my concern. “I’m worried about Hank,” I said. My hand instinctively went to rest on my stomach. “I have a gut feeling. Something is not right.”
“And Penelope, she has this same . . . er . . . gut feeling?”
I nodded. “She does. She wants to do a full-court press and investigate. I reined her in and said I’d dig around with her.”
Olaya finished unloading the next tray she’d picked up, and now she looked at me. “And? Have you found out anything?”
I shook my head. “I’m hoping something interesting or helpful may pop up today.”
She glanced around the hall. “Here?”
Now that I thought about it, it didn’t seem likely, given the fact that I’d be busy serving bread from our booth, but you never knew. Sometimes when you least expected something, you were pleasantly surprised. “It’s possible.”
Hank Rivera had occupied my thoughts for a long time before I was finally able to sleep the night before. Mrs. Branford had planted a bug in my mind and now I couldn’t seem to let it go. But for the next hour, that’s exactly what I had to do. The clock had struck 10:00, the doors to the barn had opened, and the people had come in droves, some arm in arm, others holding hands, even more pushing strollers or with small children in tow. Upon entering, there were three possible paths: Straight down the center aisle of the barn and right into the heart of the booths; to the left, which led to a pop-up coffee shop, complete with tables and chairs for people to sit and rest; or to the right, which led to even more b
ooths, displays, and local goods.
Yeast of Eden’s booth was right next to Brewer’s Coffee. It was the perfect location; everyone needed their coffee, and baked delicacies went right along with that. Once the people came in, a good many headed straight for their caffeine fix, coming right to us next. The line was fifteen deep, with others leaning into every possible space around the tables. Olaya and I fielded the orders while Maggie, a high-school girl Olaya employed part-time, manned the cash register.
The time passed lightning fast and before I knew it, it was 1:00. Just as I realized that Jolie Flemming hadn’t come by for her croissant, I heard my name called. Speak of the devil. I looked up to see her waving at me with one hand, the antique conveyor contraption I’d purchased in her other. She turned sideways to edge between a woman and another man with his family, then lifted my purchase over the table to me. I tucked it aside in the back of the booth, next to the bread racks, grabbing the ham-and-cheese croissant I’d set aside for her and handing it over as if we’d done a trade.
“I thought you forgot,” I said, looking at my purchase. I didn’t have an ounce of buyer’s remorse. I loved the antique, whatever it had been used for back in its heyday.
“Never.” She put the croissant under her nose and breathed in. “Mmm. So good.”
“Been busy?” I asked as I put a small brioche in a bag for the woman next to Jolie.
She nodded, her mouth too full to respond. She touched two fingers to her mouth as she finished chewing, and then swallowed. “Swamped,” she said a moment later.
I looked around at the mass of people milling about. I hadn’t been to a Winter Wonderland Festival in years, but from what I recalled, the turnout here far exceeded what I remembered. “We haven’t had a chance to even breathe,” I said as I directed Maggie to another customer.
She nodded, understanding that I didn’t have time to talk. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, but then she hesitated.
“Do you want another one?” I asked her, then nodded to the man and his family next to her. “I’ll be with you in just a sec,” I told him.
“No. I mean, yes! I do. Thanks. But that wasn’t what I—”
I put another ham-and-cheese croissant in a little white bag for her. Maggie hovered nearby. Jolie handed her a five-dollar bill. While Maggie counted back the change, Jolie leaned forward conspiratorially. “I heard something this morning.”
My head snapped up. “About—?”
She nodded, widening her eyes, a tiny smile on her lips. “Yes,” she whispered.
I turned to Maggie, asking her to cover for me for a minute, and then I stepped away from the booth. She followed me and we hovered in the corner by the coffee shop. “Tell me!”
She looked over her shoulder, left and right, and then back at me. “Some people were talking about Mustache Hank a little while ago. I got as close as I could. I didn’t hear very much, but I did get the gist.”
She paused and I felt my heartbeat climb. “What was the gist?”
“He owes some people some money.”
So financial trouble, just like Alice Ryder had suggested. “Who? How much?”
Jolie held her arms out and shrugged. “I heard a snippet of a conversation, not his whole life story, Ivy.”
Of course. I was already way too invested in Hank Rivera, but if he really was in financial trouble, that could explain him checking out of town for a few days. Maybe Alice really was right and he just needed time to figure things out. A little time to get away and consider his options. “Do you know who he owes?”
Her eyes looked up toward the ceiling. “Maybe I got it wrong. I was so excited when I heard his name.”
“What do you mean, Maybe you got it wrong?”
“I’m trying to remember. Was it that he owes someone money, or does someone owe him money?”
“You’re not sure what you heard?”
She closed her eyes for a beat, thinking. When they opened again, she dipped her head in a single, assured nod. “He owes someone money. Yes, that was it.”
“You’re sure?”
She gathered her hair into a ponytail with one hand, looping her fingers around the thickness. “Positive.”
“Did you see who was talking?”
She shook her head. “No, sorry. They were around the corner from Vintage Bleu’s booth. I just heard Hank’s name and did my best to eavesdrop without being obvious. When they stopped speaking, I peeked around the corner, but there were too many people to know who had been speaking.”
“Man or woman?” I asked. If Hank had disappeared for a few days to get a handle on his debt, I could understand that, but I wanted to know what we were talking about here. How much did he owe, and to whom?
“It was a man.”
“But you don’t know who it was?”
She shrugged helplessly. “A woman? Yes. A woman. He said ‘Tracy’.”
But Tracy could be a man’s name, too, so I didn’t put 100-percent stock in what Jolie had heard. “Does Hank owe the money to this man?”
She didn’t have to think about it. “It didn’t sound like that to me. They were just gossiping, I think. Sorry,” she said. “That’s all I got.”
“No need to apologize! Thank you for telling me.”
“I need to get back,” she said, and with a quick wave, she melted into the crowd.
“Olaya,” I said when I slipped back into the booth. “I’m going to make the rounds. Take a few pictures.”
She waved me away. “We are fine, Maggie and me. Go on.”
I took my camera from my bag and headed into the throng of people. The happy buzz swirled around like snowflake flurries. Everyone at the festival was happy. Outside, horse-drawn carriages took folks on a ride around the converted barn. Winter flowers had been planted in every available space, twinkling white lights sparkled in the trees, and delicate faux snowflakes hung from a nearly invisible fishing line.
I took pictures of the different activities, including the second outbuilding that had been turned into an ice rink. I had no idea how they kept it cold enough, but the rink was solid ice and bundled-up guests, many of them squealing children, made their way around and around and around.
I spent an hour taking different shots, capturing the joyful faces—kids and adults alike. I smiled and laughed right along with the festivalgoers, but the weight of Hank Rivera’s disappearance put a damper on my mood.
Back inside the main barn, I wended through the maze of booths. A children’s play area had been created in one corner with an arts-and-crafts section, complete with a volunteer to help the kids make handmade snowflakes and hands-on activities put together by a local children’s museum. Benches lined the perimeter. They were filled with weary parents already looking for a place to rest before they continued their Winter Wonderland Festival.
I couldn’t help but smile at the energy of the kids, snapping a few pictures of them as they engaged in their snowflake making. I continued along the perimeter of the barn, looking at each booth and area, my eyes scanning every corner as I looked for the next photographical scene. I looked through the viewfinder, focusing on a young couple holding hands as they wandered. They were the perfect subjects with their fresh wintry clothes and happy countenance. I knew the shots would end up being some of my favorites.
The girl’s blond hair cascaded down her back like spun gold floating over her pale blue jacket. A navy skirt flared from beneath the coat, and she wore dark tights and boots. The young man she held hands with had brown curls, a plaid button-up shirt, and jeans. I depressed the shutter button, refocusing and shooting again as the young woman turned to the man, her head thrown back, her lips parted in a laugh. The booths and the floating snowflakes blurred in the background, bringing the couple, by contrast, into sharp focus. I took a quick look at the digital display and smiled. The picture was everything I had hoped it would be. Better, even.
I looked through the viewfinder, ready to take another picture, when something blu
rry blocked my lens. I jumped back, lowering my camera. Alice Ryder and Janice Thompson stood in front of me. They were without their blackbird hats, but that didn’t matter. They’d forever be Blackbird Ladies to me.
“Hello, Ivy,” Alice said, her voice not quite icy, but definitely not warm, either. I got the feeling she was trying to stay mad at me for intruding on her at her home and bringing up whatever it was she had with Mustache Hank, but deep inside she knew she didn’t have any reason to hold it against me. I was convinced that she’d get over it.
Janice, on the other hand, was more animated in her greeting. “Ivy, so good to see you!” She looked at the camera in my hand. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I want to schedule a time for you to come take a look at my son’s house. It’s a beauty. Still a work in progress, you know, but we want to get pictures of it now, and then more when it’s all finished.”
“I’d love to,” I said. I felt in my back jeans pocket for my phone. Empty. “I need to look at my calendar, but I think I left my phone at the booth. Can I get back to you?”
“Of course, dear. You just give me a call when you can. Richie mentioned that he needs a few weeks to finish some tasks in the backyard, so we have some time. I haven’t been over there in ages. I can’t wait to see what he’s done since I saw it last!” She changed subjects, her head jutting forward slightly and her voice dropping as if she were imparting a secret. “Anything new on Hank?”
I shook my head. “No, not since last night. I’ve been looking around—”
“You think he might show up here?” she asked.
“You never know. Anything’s possible.” I hadn’t really believed it would be that easy. My gut still told me, quite firmly, that something bad had happened, but I didn’t elaborate on that with Janice and Alice. They’d heard it all the night before.
Janice tapped two fingers against her lips, peering at the people around her with discerning eyes. “We will let you know if we see Hank,” she said, “won’t we, Alice?”
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