Crust No One

by Winnie Archer

  “Then by all means, tell us the big secret,” Janice said impatiently.

  Alice’s normally silky hair suddenly looked a little lackluster. She brushed it back behind her ears. “Hank has always had a soft heart,” she said. “He trusts people. He believes them.” She gave a harsh laugh. “He believes in them. In high school, he’d give his last dime to some poor classmate who didn’t have enough money for lunch, even if it meant he’d go hungry that day.”

  She looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers on her lap. “He got himself into a big hole,” she continued. “He trusts people, giving them the benefit of the doubt, and they repay him by . . . by forcing him into debt.”

  Janice rolled her hand again, prompting her to continue. “We know all this, Alice. Get to the point.”

  “We were not having an affair,” she said again. “People don’t pay him, so he can’t pay his creditors. He was struggling, so I . . . so I . . . I loaned him some money.”

  We all stared at her, but it was Mabel who spoke first. “Come again?”

  “I loaned him money. A lot of money,” she said, her voice quivering slightly.

  Janice went next. “Alice, he’s not a good businessman, for God’s sake. You know that. Why would you loan him money?”

  Alice threw up her hands. “I know, I know, I know. Oh my God, what if he never comes back? What if he doesn’t repay it?”

  “Honey,” Mrs. Branford said. She leaned forward and patted Alice’s hand. “Why wouldn’t he? People might owe Hank, but he pays his debts, doesn’t he? Surely he intends to settle up with you?”

  “He’s missing, Penny!” And then she broke down. Her tears came fast and furious, welling in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks. This was a side of Alice I wouldn’t have thought even existed. The tears stopped at her jawline, hovering there like spheres of dew hanging onto a vibrant green leaf. “I’m worried about him.”

  Mrs. Branford’s chest rose with the deep breath she drew. Her nostrils flared, just slightly, but enough that I knew she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. “I’m worried, too, Alice,” she said.

  I looked at Janice and Mabel and saw the same reaction. Alice had opened the levy and now the Blackbird Ladies had let their worries for Hank flood out. The four friends needed a moment, so I stepped away from the table and moved to the bread-shop counter. The last customer had been served, a school-aged girl held one of Olaya’s sugar-skull cookies, and Olaya stood at the cash register, taking in the four women at the table. “Finally it has hit them,” she said.

  I nodded. She was right. The Blackbird Ladies had been burying their emotions about Hank’s disappearance, but the reality that he was, in fact, missing and that he might never come back was sinking in.

  Olaya wiped her hands on the blue-and-white French dish towel she had on the back counter. She had a million of that very same towel. “I love it, and it’s perfect,” she’d told me once when I asked her why she had so many of the same towel. “I never run out of these, even if I get behind on the bread shop’s laundry.

  She tossed the towel under the counter below the register, and then looked back at me. “It has finally hit them that perhaps Hank is not coming back. Or worse yet, that perhaps Hank is already dead.”

  I stood stock-still. This was the very word I’d avoided saying. “Dead? As in . . . dead? Nothing is pointing at that.”

  “Yet. I have a feeling, Ivy. I cannot explain it anymore than I can explain the results of one eating my breads. The bruja legend in my family is strong, and I believe it is true. I have a feeling,” she repeated.

  When I’d first met Olaya Solis, she’d known I would show up for her baking class. She’d understood so much of what was in my heart. She’d credited it then to the long line of brujas in her family; I’d just chalked it up to a lucky guess. But now she’d said what I’d been afraid to even contemplate. Whatever had made Hank run off and leave his ex-wife, his son, his business, and his life behind was one issue, but I had to concede that it was possible something sinister had happened to him since.

  Would Hank Rivera ever come home to Santa Sofia?

  Was Olaya right? Was Hank already dead?

  Chapter 17

  “Everyone just calm down!” Penelope Branford stomped her cane against the floor, interrupting the tear-fest that had been going on for the last ten minutes. She’d wiped away her own tears and sat up straight, as if to get back in control of her emotions.

  I’d let the Blackbird Ladies process the possibility of Hank being gone for good, staying with Olaya in the kitchen instead. But that just made me wonder more about Olaya’s feeling. Could Hank have come to some tragic end? Could he have orchestrated it himself in an effort to wipe his debt clean? He might have thought killing himself would free him from whatever he owed others. As Mrs. Branford had said, anything was possible.

  Janice, Mabel, and Alice each gathered up their emotions, letting composure slide over them again. Janice exuded poise. Even under duress, like now, she managed to pull herself together and didn’t look any worse for wear. Alice’s hair had already been lifeless, but now, after she’d run her splayed fingers through it in her distress, she looked wholly disheveled. No amount of lipstick could distract from the dark circles under her eyes or her slouched shoulders. Only Mabel, with her sparse makeup and naturally vibrantly dyed hair, looked the same as she had.

  Janice cocked her head and looked at Alice, frowning sympathetically. “I don’t imagine you’ll see that money again.”

  Alice’s eyes grew glassy. She nodded. “I know. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  Mabel looked from Janice to Alice. “Ladies, surely you aren’t giving up on Hank so easily. He’s resourceful.”

  “But what if he doesn’t want to be found?” Alice said. “Maybe he saw an opportunity and decided to take it.” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh God. Michael is going to kill me.”

  “Oh no,” Janice said. She laughed, but it wasn’t from humor. It was an ironic staccato sound that somehow demonstrated understanding and sympathy for what Alice was feeling. “Michael doesn’t know you lent Hank money,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Alice nodded, misery etched on her face. “I can’t believe he did this.”

  Mrs. Branford patted Alice’s hand encouragingly. “We don’t know that he did anything,” she said. “Remember the catfishing theory.”

  But Alice shook her head. “Do you really think someone duped him? Why would they? To what purpose?”

  To these questions, Mrs. Branford shrugged. I jumped in. “I’m not an expert, but it seems to me that there isn’t one reason why catfishers . . . um, catfish. It could be a dating scheme. Or maybe someone knew about the money you lent him.”

  Janice didn’t look convinced. “Did the man even have a computer?”

  “Does,” Mabel said, “not did.”

  Janice’s hands trembled, her emotions getting to her. I got the feeling she was already preparing herself for the worst. “Does. He does not use a computer, does he? And he is no Sean Connery,” she said. “I doubt very much that women are—were—are knocking down his door.”

  I stifled a wry smile. Janice and the Blackbird Ladies were of a different generation. Sean Connery was my favorite James Bond, but he wasn’t the Hollywood hunk I’d have referenced. George Clooney? Yes. Ryan Gosling? Most definitely. But Paul Newman? Robert Redford? Sean Connery? These men had been incredible in their heyday, but they weren’t the epitome of gorgeous men for my generation. Cultural references could certainly date a person.

  “No, maybe not,” I said, getting back to Hank. “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been the target of a catfishing scheme.”

  Alice looked skeptical. “Don’t you think it’s more likely that Hank ran off with my money?”

  This surprised me. Hank was her friend and she’d given him a loan, but she was ready to believe that he’d absconded with the money rather than consider other alternatives.

&nbs
p; “Alice, think about what you’re saying,” Mrs. Branford said. “You’ve known Hank since we were all kids. He couldn’t possibly have fled with your money.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Janice asked, her eyes narrowing with concern.

  Alice took a napkin from the table and dabbed at her tear-filled eyes. “Fifty thousand dollars,” she said, the words catching in her throat.

  Next to me, Olaya drew in a stunned breath. Mabel put into words what I imagined all of us were thinking. “Fi—fity—thousand dollars? Alice, are you out of your ever-loving mind ?”

  Alice hung her head. “I know, I know.”

  I leaned down and whispered in Olaya’s ear. “How could she hide that much money from her husband?”

  As if reading our minds, Alice continued: “I cashed out some of my retirement.”

  The three other Blackbird Ladies stared at Alice with varying degrees of disbelief on their faces. This time Janice put to words what we were all wondering. “Alice, why in the world would you do that?”

  Alice’s hard edges had completely softened—despair had a way of doing that. The haggardness had taken over. The weight of losing tens of thousands of dollars had taken its toll, as had the burden of keeping the loan from her husband in the first place. “He was so desperate,” she said, shaking her head. “I tried to talk myself out of it.” Her eyes widened, but were glazed with distress. “He had such a hard time asking in the first place, and then I said no. I didn’t even have that kind of money. But then, a month later, he came back again. He was fraught with anxiety. Worried about how he was going to keep going. I think he hated to do it, but he suggested my retirement. Could I take a loan against it? Or cash it out?”

  “It was his idea?” Mabel asked.

  Alice nodded. She flicked away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “He never had any intention of paying me back,” she said suddenly, her voice shaky. “I see that, now.”

  But Mrs. Branford shook her head. “Hank is not a swindler,” she said. “He is as honest as the day is long. You know that.” Alice, Mabel, and Janice each looked uncertain, but Mrs. Branford turned and considered each one of them. It was as if she were doing some sort of Jedi mind trick so they’d believe what she was saying. “Hank is a cultural icon in this town. Tell me what you think of when I say his name. Hank Rivera.” It was a rhetorical question, so she went on without waiting for an answer. “His handlebar mustache, right?”

  We all nodded. “It is one of a kind,” Olaya said.

  Mabel agreed. “Only Hercule Poirot does it better, and he’s fictional.”

  Mrs. Branford continued: “What else do you think of ?”

  She waited, like any good teacher, giving us the chance to think before we tried to answer her question. “He gives good veggies,” Mabel said. “The best around.”

  Again, they all nodded, murmuring in agreement. “A vegetable hero,” Alice added.

  “He’s got a good heart,” Janice said. The comment seemed a little on the sentimental side for her, but the dual crisis of Hank’s disappearance and Alice’s missing money seemed to have impacted her. She wanted to believe the best about him. “There has to be a good explanation about the money.”

  Mrs. Branford spoke up. “Hank is a straight shooter. A man like him doesn’t simply change his stripes overnight. Janice is right. He couldn’t have borrowed the money with the intention of running off with it. He’s a produce man, not a swindler,” she repeated. She’d summoned up metaphors and imagery as only an English teacher could. But despite—or maybe because of—her vivid description of Hank, I believed her. There had to be more to the story.

  “What was your arrangement with the money?” Olaya asked Alice.

  Alice looked at her, puzzled. “Arrangement?”

  “Si. Why did he need it? How did he say he planned to pay it back? Did you make an arrangement about that?”

  Clarity crossed Alice’s face. “He needed to pay his creditors.”

  “Por supuesta,” Olaya said. “Of course, pero how does he intend to pay you back? If he is in debt now, what is his plan? He certainly cannot earn that amount of money from his produce business to keep going and to pay you back.”

  “I guess I just trust—trust—trusted him.”

  Janice threw up both her hands in frustration. “Michael has every right to be furious with you. How could you be so naive. Alice?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Because it’s Hank!”

  The mutterings of the women grew, both chastising Janice for her bluntness and Alice for her naïveté. Mrs. Branford let it go for a minute before knocking her cane against the floor again. “Enough!” she said. “All we can do is speculate, and that isn’t going to get us anywhere. We need to get back to the issue at hand. We need to—”

  Mrs. Branford and Olaya caught each other’s eyes. “Find Hank,” they said in unison.

  A series of customers came into Yeast of Eden just then and Olaya summoned me back behind the counter to help her. The baking for the day was just about done, but there were still loaves of bread to pull from the oven, trays to be cleaned, counters in need of wiping, and baked goods to bring to the front. The Blackbird Ladies spent the next hour going round and round about Hank and how to find him—and recover Alice’s $50,000—while Olaya and I took care of the bread shop.

  Three hours later, the Blackbird Ladies had gone their separate ways, and Olaya and I had exhausted every angle we could think of in regards to Hank’s disappearance. All we had were theories, not a shred of proof supporting any of them, and still not a clue where Hank actually was. We were back where we’d started. Which was basically nowhere.

  A short while later, I stood at the enormous stainless-steel sink, pulling down on the retractable faucet and spraying the aluminum baking trays until they sparkled. One by one, I slid them back into the baking rack. As I worked, I got lost in my thoughts, circling through what I knew once again. Brenda cheated on Hank with Phil, Hank’s brother. Hank and Brenda divorced. Hank borrowed $50,000 from Alice Ryder, stayed with Daniel Sanchez, his right-hand man in the produce business, for a little while, and then moved into the boarding house run by Richie Thompson. At some point, he made an arrangement to meet someone, left his truck at the gas station on the edge of town, and vanished. Had he been catfished? Or had he decided to disappear on his own for some reason?

  “Hank,” I muttered, “where are you?”

  Chapter 18

  It was still early by the time I finished up for the day at Yeast of Eden. I still had things to do. I’d uploaded the photos from the Winter Wonderland Festival and put one on Instagram, but I hadn’t taken the time to look critically at them. Once I did, I’d be able to update the Yeast of Eden website.

  But I couldn’t focus on photographs at the moment, not with Hank circling around in my head. I’d heard so much about him from so many people that I felt as if I knew him.

  Which meant I couldn’t let well enough alone. I’d given it a lot of thought and I’d finally decided on two courses of action in my search for Hank Rivera. First, I wanted to understand how Hank ran his business and finances to get some insight into the why and the how of the $50,000 loan from Alice Ryder. In order to do that, I wanted to talk to one of his clients, as well as Daniel Sanchez, his right-hand man. I had to track down Daniel and find a time when he could talk. As for the client, it made the most sense to go with the easiest access I had. As longtime clients of Hank’s, that meant the Baptista family.

  I could try to come up with another option, but that would take more time—and Hank needed to be found now. So, should I heed Laura Baptista’s wishes and stay away? It seemed as if it was Miguel’s wish, too. But I wanted to be expeditious, so maybe I wasn’t in the conundrum I thought I’d been in.

  I also wanted to pay a second visit to Richie Thompson’s boarding house. I wanted to see if there was a communal computer the tenants were able to use. I hadn’t seen one the first time I’d been there, but maybe I’d m
issed it. If there was a house computer—and if Hank had used it—maybe it would hold a clue as to where he had gone.

  With cell phone in hand, I started to call up Mrs. Branford, my partner in sleuthing. But before I could press call, the phone vibrated in my hand. I jumped, startled. I didn’t know the number, but as soon as I answered, I recognized Janice Thompson’s cultured voice. “Ivy, darling, I’m so glad I caught you.”

  I didn’t say that the majority of people didn’t have landlines anymore and that everyone was reachable 24-7. I said hello, and Janice carried on. “You mentioned a few days ago that you are a photographer.”

  She left the sentence there for me to respond to. “I am.”

  “Tell me more,” she prompted.

  What did she want to know? “Well, I had a studio in Austin, but—”

  She drew in a sharp breath, stopping me in my tracks. “Are you going to open a studio here? You can’t leave Olaya.”

  “I’m not leaving Olaya!” I held the phone away from my ear, stunned at the force of my reaction.

  “I believe you,” Janice said as if she were trying to calm me down.

  “I mean, I love the bread shop. And Olaya. I’m doing okay with my freelance work, and I don’t think I want to open a place of my own again.” I’d started selling the occasional photo to an online stock-image site, as well, but I didn’t elaborate on that endeavor. “I’m happy doing what I’m doing,” I said, and after I’d said the words, I knew it was true. I was happy.

  “Olaya mentioned that you do a lot for her. Website, brochures, and things of that nature.”

  “She’s my most steady client at the moment,” I said, “but really, once you have a photo of a baguette, you’re good.”

  “I guess that’s true. A baguette is a baguette is a baguette.”

  I laughed at her adaptation of Gertrude Stein’s “rose is a rose is a rose”. One piece of bread, once photographed, was the same as any other. Of course, that wasn’t actually true if you were talking baguettes compared to croissants compared to pan dulce compared to a rustic loaf. But the idea was clear. “There is only so much bread I can photograph,” I said. “Once I have a good shot, there really isn’t a need to do it again.”