Crust No One

by Winnie Archer

  Alice nodded, looking less optimistic than Janice did. And less interested, which I found curious, given the fact that she had a different—and more familiar—relationship with Hank than the other Blackbird Ladies did. Of course, I remembered, she still believed he’d just skipped off somewhere to have some alone time and process through his life, such as it was.

  I wanted to believe that she was right, but that coil of doubt in my gut told me otherwise.

  Janice and Alice waved good-bye and I turned to head back to the Yeast of Eden booth. I snapped a few more pictures along the way, rounded a corner, and there was Baptista’s restaurant setup. I thought about passing it up altogether—Miguel and I were on shaky ground, still avoiding our past—but I changed my mind at the last second and veered to the counter.

  There was no sign of Miguel, though. I was about to ask after him when the woman working the front turned around. I recognized her immediately—Laura Baptista, Miguel’s younger sister.

  “Laura!” I said, smiling. So many years had passed since I’d seen her.

  Her brown eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. “Ivy.”

  It was not the enthusiastic greeting I’d expected. I toned down my smile and my voice. “Hey. It’s been a long time. How have you been?”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” she said dismissively.

  Her comment didn’t invite a response. Either she was distracted with something, or she was not too happy to see me. My gut reacted again. I was pretty certain it was the latter. As I searched for something to say, I noticed a wedding ring on her finger. “You’re married? That’s great. Kids?”

  “A boy and a girl.”

  I peered over the counter, thinking they might be here. A few people plated up food to the guests in line, but there was no sign of any kids. Laura didn’t ask me about coming back to Santa Sofia, my mom, or anything. The conversation was clearly over. “Okay, well . . . I think I’ll head back to the bread-shop booth. It’s been pretty busy. Tell Miguel I said hello.”

  At the mention of Miguel, her face changed. Her expression grew darker and her eyes became slits. “Leave him alone, Ivy.”

  Her voice was venomous. Coupled with the look she gave me, I felt like I’d been slapped. I stared at her. “What?”

  She crossed her arms over her aproned chest, glaring. “You heard me. Leave him alone.”

  I had no idea how to respond. “Um, okay?” I said without thinking.

  Her expression turned to disdain. “Um, okay?” she mimicked.

  My heart raced, in part with fury at her attitude toward me, in part with hurt. I’d never been anything but nice to her back in high school. Where was this coming from? I batted down the anger creeping up over her menace. “Laura, what’s going on?”

  She stared at me, openmouthed. “Seriously? You have the nerve to ask me that?”

  I stared right back. “Yes, I have the nerve, because I haven’t seen you in probably ten years. I have no idea why you’re acting like this.”

  She scoffed. “Is that so?”

  I stood up straighter, throwing my shoulders back as if this were a standoff. “Yes, that’s so. Why don’t you just tell me so I don’t have to guess?”

  “Why don’t you ask Miguel?”

  “You just told me to stay away from him, and now you want me to ask him, what—why his sister is being a bitch?”

  Her expression darkened some more, if that was even possible. “Priceless,” she said. “Look, he’s conflicted about you being back, but I don’t want to see him hurt again. You drove him away once. I don’t want to lose him again.”

  I pressed my open palm against my chest. “I drove him away?”

  “Yes, and a zebra can’t change his stripes, so stay away from him.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Laura, what are you talking about?”

  She looked at me as if I were straight from the loony bin. “What am I talking about?”

  “Yes,” I said, “what are you talking about, Laura?” But apparently she was done. She clamped her mouth shut, threw up one hand, palm out, and then she turned and walked away from the counter, leaving me dumbstruck.

  * * *

  I wanted to leap across the counter, grab Laura by the arm, and demand she tell me what the hell she was talking about, but I thought better of it. Instead, I turned my back on the makeshift restaurant and headed back toward the Yeast of Eden booth. I made it as far as the coffee shop next to our booth when I heard another familiar voice calling my name. “There you are, Ivy. I’ve been searching all over for you.”

  Mrs. Branford sauntered up to me, her cane in hand. She was calm and together like always. She’d dressed for the festival, wearing a white velour lounge suit that had a sparkling stripe down the outer pant legs, and a matching stripe on each arm. She had her own brand of hip senior style.

  “You look like you’ve been out for a nice walk.”

  “I have. All over tarnation and back. This barn is bigger than it looks.”

  I had to agree. The place was enormous. Hiking around it and fighting the crowds would be harrowing for anyone, let alone an eighty-six-year-old woman. “You have your cane, though. That’s good.”

  She waved her hand, brushing away my words. “It’s for show, Ivy. Surely you know that by now.”

  “I’ve had my suspicions,” I said with a wink. Still, I was glad she had it, just in case.

  She winked back, but hers was dramatic, with a cocked head and a crookedly open mouth. “I’m much younger than my years would have you believe, Ivy. Remember that.”

  “I don’t think I could forget if I wanted to, Mrs. Branford.”

  “Penny.”

  I pushed my encounter with Laura out of my mind for now and smiled. “Mrs. Branford.”

  She let the name thing go, moving on to her other obsession. “So dear, tell me what you’ve found out. Don’t leave anything out.”

  That wouldn’t take long. “Do you remember Jolie Flemming?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “From baking class at the bread shop.”

  “Right. She’s here. She works at Vintage Bleu now.”

  “I have always loved that shop,” she said.

  “Me, too. Pretty great stuff in there.”

  She adjusted her weight, switching her cane to her other hand, “So, what does Jolie have to do with Hank?”

  I got into the spirit of investigating right alongside Penelope Branford. “Well, let me tell you.”

  “Please, but let’s sit down, shall we?” She was quite a bit shorter than my five-foot-eight inches and had to lean around me to look at the options. “Right there,” she said, sidestepping me and moving toward the coffee shop’s tables and chairs. She looked at one, disregarded it, and moved on to the next one. Which she passed on as well. Finally, she stopped at a table, examined it, and lowered herself onto the chair.

  I had no idea what was wrong with the first two, but I didn’t ask. I sat across from her and we both leaned in. “Tell me,” she said.

  “There isn’t much,” I said and told her what Jolie had overheard about Hank owing people money.

  She frowned. “Well, isn’t that disappointing? We’d already speculated about that.”

  It was disappointing. Very. “I had an idea, though.” While I’d been serving scones and brioches earlier, I’d gone over the conversation Miguel and I had had with Mrs. Rivera in the home she’d shared with Hank. She’d said that Hank had given up drinking, but what if he’d picked it back up again? “I’m done at five thirty,” I said, “and I think I may need a drink after a long day. Something a little stronger than hot tea.”

  She arched a brow at me, but her eyes twinkled. “I’m not quite following, but who cares? I’m in. Now, what exactly did you have in mind?”

  Chapter 8

  What I had in mind was a visit to the Broken Horse. The former Mrs. Rivera had mentioned the bar in passing, and at the moment that wa
s the only place I could think of to look for Hank. It almost felt personal at this point. No, I didn’t know the man beyond having said hello to him that morning at the bread shop, but I was determined to find him.

  By 4:45 that evening, the Yeast of Eden booth was down to the last of our baked offerings. There were two French loaves left, a single pumpernickel round, a broken baguette, three olive loaves, a handful of cookies, and the crumbs of everything else. Olaya had calculated almost perfectly. “Impressive,” I said as we stacked up the trays and began tearing down the booth. It was a lot of work for a single day and we were exhausted, but Olaya had spread her magic through her bread all day long. People were whistling, they were jaunty, and hardly a child cried all day long. It was as if the breads Olaya had made infused everyone with a warm winter glow that bloomed from the inside out.

  “Comes from experience,” she said.

  As with everything else, experience, more than anything else, impacted how and what one did and the effect it had on others. Olaya claimed to come from a long line of curanderas, or medicine women. She baked magic into her breads. Whether you were sick, lovelorn, anxious, or anything else, something in the bread shop would fix what ailed you. Her magic seemed to have worked during the festival.

  It took an hour for Olaya, her other workers, and me to close up shop for the evening. We busied ourselves putting the baking trays into the racks and stowing them in the back of the minivan, breaking down the booth—from tables to awning. Mrs. Branford waited at a nearby bench while I finished.

  Olaya looked around her, scanning the area for anything she might have left behind. When she was certain we’d gotten everything, she started walking toward the exit. “Penny,” Olaya said, coming up to Mrs. Branford.

  Mrs. Branford used her cane to stand and pursed her lips slightly, but there was a trace of a grin. The two women had only recently mended fences after practically a lifetime of bitterness, but their friendship was still a touch tenuous. “Olaya.”

  “What are you two up to?” Olaya asked as we all continued toward the barn doors.

  “Oh, you know, out to do a little detectiving,” Mrs. Branford said, a twinkle in her eyes.

  Olaya shook her head. “You two. You keep sticking your nose in where it does not belong,” she said, but the scolding fell short. She patted me on the shoulder. “You let me know what you find.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I gave her a peck on the cheek and we went our separate ways at the exit, Olaya heading to the bread-shop van, and Mrs. Branford and me walking to the main parking lot.

  “How did you get here?” I asked.

  “Uber.”

  I had to laugh. I knew she usually relied on volunteers at the senior center to take her to appointments and shopping, but Uber was a new choice for her. Mrs. Branford never ceased to amaze me. I helped her into the passenger seat of my car and drove off. I had just turned onto the main street when she said, “Go on back to Maple Street, Ivy.”

  Surprise flitted across my face. “You don’t want to come with me?”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course I’m coming. But I know you need to take Agatha out, and I want you to drive my car. It needs a spin.”

  I should have known she wasn’t backing out. And she was right about Agatha. I’d asked Billy to take her out midday, but I hated to leave her alone for another couple of hours without at least a quick trip to the backyard and little scratch on the head.

  I dropped Mrs. Branford at her house, and then went home, changed into a fresh blouse and jeans, took care of Agatha, and fifteen minutes later I walked across and up the street to Mrs. Branford’s house.

  She had an old Volvo coupe 112S. The pale, sage-green color had been resprayed at some point, but Mrs. Branford and her late husband were the original owners and had taken great care of it. The car was immaculate. But since she didn’t drive much anymore, it sat in the garage more than it ever saw the light of day. “I’ll never sell it,” she had said to one of the Blackbird Ladies the evening we’d spent at her house. “And I’m bequeathing it to Ivy.”

  I’d balked, staring at her openmouthed. I hadn’t known her for very long and I certainly didn’t deserve to inherit her precious car. I told her as much.

  “Ivy, you do not understand. You’ve given me such joy in the short time I’ve known you. I already treasure you.”

  I’d teared up. With my own mother gone, Mrs. Branford and Olaya Solis had become the most present female figures in my life. Emmaline Davis, my longtime friend, would always be there, but ours was a friendship based on history and age, whereas my relationships with the other two older women were different. They were nurturing, without being fussy or trite; wise, without being arrogant; loving, without smothering. I’d come to adore them both, and they’d brought an ease and comfort and peace into my life that had been missing since my mother’s death.

  “But your sons—?” I said. “I can’t take something that should go to them.”

  She fluttered one hand in front of her. “Don’t worry about them. They’ll inherit plenty.”

  I still hadn’t gotten used to the idea that she was leaving her car to me, so I just didn’t bring it up. As I climbed the uneven steps of her porch, Mrs. Branford opened the door. “I saw you coming,” she said, that ever-present twinkle in her eyes. Before I could say anything or even bend to give her a kiss on her cheeks, she turned and marched toward the kitchen. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. She kept talking as she walked, her voice trailing away as I quickly locked the front door and followed her out to the garage. “—because you’ve never driven it.”

  She looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for me to respond to something she’d said.

  I nodded and said, “Right.”

  “Okay, then.”

  We stood there, her wrinkled and age-spotted hand on the hood of the car. Meanwhile, her eyes were on me, still awaiting some response. “Well?” she finally said.

  Old cars had quirks. It made sense, then, that she might want to give me the rundown on the Volvo’s peculiarities. She and her husband had loved this car. They’d taken care of it. It was a classic, and she was entrusting it to me. “What should I know?” I asked, thinking that this was probably what she wanted to talk about.

  “I presume you can drive a stick shift,” she said. My dad had taught both my brother and me to drive using an old Ford truck he’d had. “No frills,” he’d said. “Learn the basics, then add the bells and whistles.” “Yes,” I told her.

  With that, she launched into her car spiel, something she seemed to have rehearsed. “The clutch sticks sometimes. The brakes are relatively new. I had them replaced a few years ago, but given that the car is rarely driven, they are in excellent shape. At least, I hope so. I guess we’ll find out.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but she kept on before I had the chance. “There is one dent on the back fender. I must have backed into something at some point, but I cannot recall what or when.” She tapped one finger against her temple. “The trials of aging. Now, about the inside: The upholstery is tacky if you’re wearing shorts. Thank heavens it is January, so no worries there.”

  I glanced down at my legs. Boots on my feet, jeans on my legs, and no exposed skin to stick to the sage-green seats. “No worries,” I agreed.

  She dug one hand into her pocket, retrieving a set of keys. She tossed them to me, catching me off guard. But I was quick on my feet. My hand flew up and clasped around the keys.

  Mrs. Branford nodded with approval. “I’m thirsty. Shall we go?”

  We climbed into the old Volvo, I backed out of the garage, and we were off. The Broken Horse was less than fifteen minutes away on the outskirts of Santa Sofia. The vintage car sat low to the ground. It took some getting used to, but it didn’t take long before I got the hang of it. I wove through town and before long we pulled up to the bar. The outside was nondescript. It was a stand-alone building surrounded by wide-open space, a dirt parking lot, and a handful of cars.


  I slowed the car, regarding the building. It looked like it belonged in some pioneer town in the old West rather than the beach town of Santa Sofia. The light-brown paint on the facade needed to be refreshed and the four-by-fours holding up the overhang above the porch looked rickety.

  Mrs. Branford patted my leg, as if reading my mind. “It’s fine, Ivy. It’s just a bar.”

  The car bounced as I pulled onto the dirt expanse. I threw the car into park and glanced at her. She was grinning, her eyes wide. The Broken Horse was just a bar, but she looked like a kid in Disneyland. She didn’t get out much. It seemed that I was her social director, and looking into the whereabouts of Hank Rivera gave her something to do outside her ordinary life.

  The inside of the Broken Horse fit the outside. A massive display of a Texas longhorn hung behind the bar, a string of lights with big, round bulbs above it. An eclectic collection of bottles cluttered the back bar, as well as a draft-beer dispenser. Through an opening at the back I glimpsed the corner of a pool table and heard the crack of billiard balls against each other, followed by a cheer.

  A performance stage was situated in the back corner of the main room. Enormous amplifiers angled out toward the parquet dance floor and although country music played on the speakers, the stage was empty. If there was going to be a band playing tonight, they weren’t here yet.

  There weren’t many people inside, but from the sampling, it was instantly obvious that Mrs. Branford and I were not the typical customers for the Broken Horse. The standard dress looked to be jeans, with a heavy preference toward Wranglers and plain white T-shirts for the guys, some topped with a plaid button-down. The women also favored jeans—of the skintight variety—and tops that showed a little—or a lot, as the case may be—cleavage. Mrs. Branford, in her velour lounge suit and quilted down jacket, and me in my floral blouse, non-Wrangler jeans tucked into my boots, and a wool peacoat, looked as if we belonged at a restaurant or at—I don’t know, a painting class rather than at this local dive bar.

  If Mrs. Branford felt out of place, she certainly didn’t show it. She looked around slowly, as if she were taking in every little detail of the place, then she patted the silver curls on her head, turned, and smiled up at me. And then, feisty elderly woman that she was, she marched right up to the bar. With an open palm, she slapped the counter twice, in rapid succession, and called, “Barkeep! Over here, please.”