She harrumphed, a sound I had grown quite accustomed to. “Actually, Ivy, it’s not.”
I pressed my fingers to my eyes, clearing away the fog so I could focus on the clock. Nine o’clock! I rolled over, scanning the bed in search of Agatha, hoping she hadn’t hopped down to take care of business inside without me realizing she’d left the bed.
She hadn’t. Her little body was stretched out beside me. She lay on her back, her stomach exposed, front legs curled in the air. I laid my hand on her belly, closing my eyes again.
“Well?” Mrs. Branford said again, and suddenly I knew what she was talking about. She knew everything that happened on Maple Street. I’d grown up watching old reruns of Bewitched; Mrs. Branford was like Gladys Kravitz, the nosy neighbor who was always watching—minus the annoyance.
“Miguel was here,” I said.
“Ha! I knew it. He was there a long time, wasn’t he.” She phrased it as a statement, not a question.
“No, not really. Just long enough.” Just talking about Miguel made every word he’d said the night before come rushing back. My stomach roiled all over again, my confusion front and center.
“And . . . ?”
“And nothing.”
“Aha!” she said, and then she stopped. “Wait, nothing? No kissing? No declaration of love?”
“No nothing,” I repeated. And maybe that was a good thing. My high-school relationship with Miguel had crushed me and I’d rebounded straight into marriage. Luke Holden was a swashbuckling cowboy from Texas. We’d met at UT in Austin and he’d swept me off my feet. I’d been vulnerable, still aching for Miguel, and had succumbed to Luke’s charm. He’d wined and dined me, taking me home to meet his family in Louisiana, spending long weekends together in Hill Country outside of Austin, filling my empty spaces with attention. We’d spent the first year together in romantic bliss. No responsibility. Living the college life. And truly, he had helped me get over Miguel.
After a year and a half, we’d gone on a weekend getaway to Nashville and ended up married in a quickie wedding at the Rhinestone Chapel. We’d gotten a marriage license in one easy step, and with no waiting necessary in Tennessee, we chose the first chapel we’d found. An Elvis officiate had been our only choice. That should have been a red flag. Like most girls, I’d dreamed of a white wedding, a princess gown, a dashing groom, a tiered cake, my dad walking me down the aisle, my mom, teary but happy.
I’d had none of those things.
But that had been my own choice, however misguided, and it was a misstep that I’d lived with for nearly eight years.
Ultimately, Luke Holden had been my biggest mistake.
I’d finally left him for good when I couldn’t ignore the obvious. On a random Sunday afternoon when my car had been low on gas, I’d taken his to an anniversary party I’d been contracted to photograph. When I’d taken one of my camera bags from the front passenger floor, I’d discovered a wayward oil-blotting makeup wipe under the seat, a product that I didn’t use. That had been the catalyst for what had become my first sleuthing experience. I didn’t ask Luke about it; I didn’t want to hear a lie and have him try to turn things around on me. I could just hear him saying how hurt he was that I didn’t trust him, how indignant he was that I’d question his morality, and how disappointing that I could even think he’d be so low as to cheat on me. I wasn’t going to face him blindly with only a flimsy piece of blotting paper as my proof of his infidelity, so I dug around. I looked at his cell phone, his computer history, and finally I hit pay dirt. I found a contact for someone named Mike. I’d never heard of Mike. When I clicked on the text history, it was crystal clear that Mike was, in fact, Heather, and that Luke had been carrying on with her for months.
At that point, I didn’t bother to confront him and give him the opportunity to deny it. I just showed him the screen shot I’d taken of the incriminating texts and told him I was divorcing him. End of story.
It had been a lot of years since my marriage to Luke dissolved, but there hadn’t been anyone significant since. I often wondered if I’d ever find a partner. A soul mate. I’d just started taking to heart what Mrs. Branford and Olaya believed, thinking that maybe Miguel and I would end up together again. But now it was clear we wouldn’t. I had been foolish to believe that we could rekindle those old feelings. We might be older, more mature, more cautious, but that didn’t mean we belonged together. Mrs. Branford had that all wrong.
I changed the subject to something I knew would get her off the current topic: Namely, the hunt for Hank Rivera. “I’m going to see Brenda today.”
“Rivera? As in Hank’s former wife? Again?”
“Yes, yes, and yes. I have some new information,” I said, and proceeded to tell her about Phil Rivera and his big reveal about Brenda’s unfaithfulness.
“I’ll be ready in a jiffy,” she said.
I smashed the pillow over my head, wishing I could fall back into an oblivious sleep where Hank wasn’t missing and Miguel hadn’t just crushed my heart. Instead, I got up and took Agatha out to run in the yard while I got ready. In the bathroom, I looked in the mirror, wondering how bad my curly hair looked and how much I’d have to contain it before I left. It was more unruly than usual. Disheveled was my hair’s normal state, exacerbated by the ginger tint and long, loose Shirley Temple–like curls. People tended to notice me because of the curls, my bright green eyes, and the arresting color of my hair. Things I got a lot: You’re a curly-headed version of Emma Stone. Is that your real hair color? Perm or natural? My answers: I know, and thanks. One-hundred-percent real. One-hundred-percent natural.
Now, looking in the mirror, I tamed it as much as possible, pulling it back into a haphazard ponytail. I put on my minimal makeup, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve T-shirt, and a lightweight vest, crated Agatha, and steeled myself to face the day.
Chapter 14
Miguel seemed to have a sixth sense. He drove to Brenda Rivera’s house separately from Mrs. Branford and me and arrived about thirty seconds after we did, although we hadn’t prearranged a time.
We greeted each other with a strained hello, but otherwise didn’t talk. Mrs. Branford looked at me, a question mark on her face, but I kept my expression blank. I didn’t want to think about Miguel anymore. Much as I tried to ignore it, though, what had happened the evening before with Miguel and me was like a elephant in the room between us.
Mrs. Branford, however, he greeted warmly. He bent and kissed her cheek. “Good to see you,” he said.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she said with a wink, “but you know I’m a little too old for you.”
He cocked one eyebrow conspiratorially before leaning down again and whispering something in her ear. She blushed, the pink tinge spreading from her neck to her cheeks. “Mr. Baptista, you are a scoundrel,” she said with a happy grin. If she’d had an old-fashioned handheld fan, I imagined her playfully swatting his arm with it before flicking her wrist, popping it open, and holding it in front of her face.
With me leading the way, we headed up the walkway. Miguel and Mrs. Branford walked side by side. At the door, I turned to look over my shoulder. “Ready?” I asked.
They both nodded, so I raised my hand, and rapped my knuckles against the door. We waited. No answer.
I sighed, disappointed. Mrs. Branford put into words exactly what I was thinking. “I know we couldn’t have called ahead to make sure she was here, but damn.”
But then the door was suddenly thrown open and Brenda stood there. She was already tall, but she gained a good four or five inches on the step into the house and she towered over Mrs. Branford and me. She met Miguel’s gaze at equal height. I looked up at her. “Mrs. Rivera, sorry to barge in on you—”
She rolled her eyes, her mouth twisting in annoyance. “Yet here you are, just as expected.”
As expected? So Philip had called Emmaline and Brenda the day before. “Is now a bad time?” I asked, hoping to smooth out her irritation.
“It’s as good a
time as any,” she answered, but she didn’t invite us in this time. No offer of a couch to sit on, or iced tea to drink.
Miguel put his hands in his jeans pockets, his brown nubuck shoes rooted to the ground. “Brenda, we’re still trying to find Hank.”
“I already told you everything I can. We aren’t married anymore. He’s not in my life.”
“He’s not, but does he still want to be?” I asked. “We’re wondering if maybe he was depressed. If anything might have happened between you to make him—”
I didn’t know how to ask if he was suicidal over the affair she’d had.
In a split second, the anger on her face dissipated and the veneer she’d been wearing cracked. She pressed her lips tightly together, breathing heavily through her nose, as if she were trying to regain the control she’d momentarily lost. She was indignant, but with herself, not with us. “I cheated on him, okay? Is that what you want to hear?” she blurted. “He was destroyed. I betrayed him in the worst possible way. I wasn’t just unfaithful, it was with his—”
She stopped herself from finishing the sentence, but my jaw dropped as I filled in the blank. With his brother? With Phil? Was he seriously the one she’d slept with? A cheating spouse was horrible. I knew that from experience. Brenda cheating with Hank’s brother? That really was a betrayal in the worst possible way.
“Phil told us everything,” I said, implying—or rather stating explicitly—that he’d revealed the truth about their affair. I was fishing for more information, but I had no idea if she’d bite.
Mrs. Branford looked at me, a puzzled expression on her face. Miguel said nothing. But Brenda Rivera stared at me wide-eyed, her anger crumbling right in front of me. “He told you about us?”
Mrs. Branford’s mouth formed an O as she realized what Brenda and Phil had done to poor Hank. It seemed reasonable to assume that this was what had caused him to run away, if that’s what he’d done.
She dipped her head, one hand cupped at her forehead. Her body trembled. “I pushed him away,” she sobbed. Her voice broke as she continued. “If anything happens to Hank, it’s my fault.”
Miguel reached out and gently touched her arm. “Do you want to sit down?”
She stood motionless, as if she were unable to move.
“Brenda,” Miguel prompted. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
Nodding, she let him guide her into the house, turning and practically stumbling into the kitchen. Whatever grief she’d been holding inside the last time we were here had unfurled in a torrent of emotion. She was torn up inside, that much was clear.
Brenda had already collapsed at the kitchen table by the time Mrs. Branford and I came into the room. She looked up at us, her eyes red-rimmed. “Did I do this to him? Where is he?” She moaned. “Oh my God, where is he?”
There were four chairs at the table. Mrs. Branford, Miguel, and I took the remaining three. “Can you think of anything new, Brenda? Any place he might have gone?” I asked.
Miguel cupped his hand over hers. “You thought of the bar he sometimes goes to. Are there other places? Somewhere else he might have gone off to?”
Brenda rubbed her eyes. “Maybe to Daniel’s?” she suggested.
His right-hand man, from what Phil had said. “You think Hank might be staying with him?” I asked, wondering why she didn’t mention Daniel before and if Jason had thought to look there.
From the imploring look she gave Miguel, I suspected the answer to my second question was no. “Will you check?” she asked him. “I—I hurt him. I know I did. I don’t have a right to ask anything, but—but I am worried. And Jason . . .”
Before anything else, she was a mother. Whatever pain she’d caused Hank, whatever her actions had done to her marriage, she also recognized that she’d destroyed the only family her son had known. Jason was a grown man, but I knew from personal experience that it didn’t matter how old you were. A family torn apart, whether by accident or design, took its toll on everyone.
“We’ll check,” Miguel said, gently squeezing her hand.
With her other hand, she wiped the tears pooling in her eyes. “You’ll let me know?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Of course, my dear,” Mrs. Branford said at the same time.
And Miguel nodded.
“One more thing,” I said. She waited and I continued. “Do you know if Hank is seeing someone?”
She wiped away a final tear. “What, like dating?” I nodded. Exactly like dating. “Do you think he might have gone off with someone?” A thought just occurred to me. “Maybe he did the online-dating thing, or something?”
“Hank?” She laughed at the absurdity of the idea.
“He’s in the dark ages. No computer. Order forms in triplicate. I had to force him to have a cell phone, which he eventually gave back to me. He prefers to do things like when he was younger. Before all the technology. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Her eyes teared up again. “That’s . . . that’s what he always used to say to me.”
After a few more minutes, and with Daniel Sanchez’s address in hand, it seemed we’d gotten all the information we were going to. We left her to her grief and got back in our cars, Mrs. Branford with me, and Miguel on his own in his truck. We were an unlikely trio, but we were all determined to find Hank for our own reasons. And one way or another, I felt sure we’d succeed.
Turns out we didn’t have to go very far to look for Daniel Sanchez. He lived in a modest house about a mile away from Brenda Rivera. But finding his house didn’t mean we found him. His fifteen-year-old daughter opened the door for us. The door opened right into the main living area where another kid, younger than the girl standing in front of us now, slouched on the sofa, staring at a flickering TV.
The girl looked at us blankly, waiting for us to give her some clue as to what we wanted. Miguel made the first move. “Hey. We’re looking for your dad, Daniel. He around?”
She looked at us like we were crazy. “He’s at work.”
I stepped forward, shouldering past Miguel to stand in front of him. “When does he get back?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Like, around six, I guess.”
I glanced at my watch. It was barely eleven in the morning. That was too long to wait to talk to who, so far, was amounting to Hank’s only friend. “Do you think he’d mind if we stopped by his work to see him?” I asked.
She dipped her chin toward her chest and peered at me through her eyelashes. “Who’d you say you are?”
Miguel spoke again. “We’re actually looking for Hank Rivera. We were under the impression that Hank and your dad work together.”
Her expression changed, becoming less hostile at the mention of Hank. “Well, they did work together, but then Mr. Rivera had to let my dad go. Business was bad, I guess. Which is okay, in my opinion. Not that business is bad for Mr. Rivera, but that my dad didn’t work for him anymore. He found a really good job at Crenshaw. Rubber products, or something. He runs one of the lines, I think? He likes it. It pays way better.” She stuck her leg toward us, pointing to her foot. “See? I got new shoes.” She practically glowed with pride and my heart swelled. Like most kids, the world revolved around her, but still, she was happy for her dad.
“He works at Crenshaw Company?” Miguel asked.
The girl smiled big and pointed her finger at him. “That’s it, yeah. He works the day shift, so he, like, gets home around dinnertime.”
Mrs. Branford had been standing by, silently taking in the conversation. Now she edged her way forward. “Have you seen Mr. Rivera lately?” she asked.
I looked at her, impressed. It was an obvious, yet good, question. I wished I’d asked it.
“Like, last week sometime? He was here all the time for a while. Now he comes around maybe once a week?”
I heard a loud screeching sound in my head. “Wait, what?”
“He was here all the time?” Miguel asked, piggybacking on my question.
Mrs. Branfor
d finished off our thoughts. “As in he lived here?”
Being interrogated, which is what it felt like we were doing, wouldn’t be fun at any age, but Daniel Sanchez’s daughter was only a teenager. She could spook and we’d be done.
But she didn’t spook. Instead, she rolled her eyes as if we were dense. “Jeez, no. He didn’t, like live here live here. God, my mom would have freaked. He just stayed for a while. Like when he was in between places or something.”
Mrs. Branford seemed unfazed by this revelation and by the girl’s derision of us. “When was this, dear?” she asked calmly.
The girl’s lips moved in and out as she thought. “A few weeks ago, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really remember.”
“How long was he here?” I asked, hoping we could get something from her.
She shrugged. “Like, a week? Maybe a little more. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Mrs. Branford reached out and patted the girl’s hand. “You’ve been a big help, dear.”
She looked at each of us in turn, but didn’t seem to know what to say. So she kind of shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and retreated back into her house, shutting the door. Mrs. Branford, Miguel, and I looked at each other. “That was interesting,” I said.
“Where to next?” Mrs. Branford asked, pointing her cane in front of her as if it was a sword and she was leading the charge.
“I have to get to the bread shop,” I said. I’d been able to get the morning off, but Olaya needed me. The Winter Wonderland Festival was over, but there were still restaurants to bake for, preparation for the new class Olaya was going to offer on yeast doughs, and a few private-catering contracts we needed to supply bread for. I was a novice, but she still needed my help in the kitchen.
“I have to get back to the restaurant,” Miguel said. He led the way back down the walkway. “See you later,” he said, but it was more of an innocuously broad see you later, not a specific-to-me parting.
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