Crust No One

by Winnie Archer

  “Jesus Christ,” Richie ranted, surging toward Bernard. “No, he does not understand the rights as they’ve been read to him!”

  The officer at the edge of the hole lunged toward Richie, holding him back, but Richie fought him. “Don’t say anything, Bernard. I’ll get a lawyer. I’m going to help you!”

  And with that, Bernard was hauled away, sobbing and muttering, “Hank’s flowers. No, no. I’m taking care of Hank’s flowers.”

  Chapter 25

  Emmaline had gone into full deputy-sheriff mode, speaking on her cell phone after Bernard was safely ensconced in the back of one of the police SUVs. “John Doe. Deceased. Age unknown. Dead about three days.” She’d waited as whoever she spoke with said something. “Right.”

  Again, there was a pause, and then she nodded her head and said, “We have a suspect in custody.”

  After the call, she turned back to Miguel and me. “We’re getting a warrant so the county’s forensic team can excavate the yard.”

  My blood ran cold. “You think there are others?”

  Em looked shaken, too. “I don’t know, but we have to look.”

  I looked at the house and saw Dixie standing at one of the windows, gazing out at us. Was I imagining it, or did she look sad?

  Something she said came back to me. “Georgie,” I whispered.

  Em looked at me. “What?”

  “There was a tenant here not too long ago. George. He wandered off.” I turned to Richie. “Right?”

  The strain of the last hour was taking its toll on Richie. He was pale and looked like he might collapse. He gave half a nod.

  “You searched for him, but he was never found.”

  Em stared at me. “Hank’s the only missing person we’ve had,” she said.

  “No, his name is George.” I pointed to the window where Dixie still stood. “They were friends. He just wandered off.”

  Em’s gaze swept over Dixie, then refocused on me. “Ivy, there’s no missing person named George.”

  “But . . .” I looked back at Richie, but he wasn’t where he’d been standing a moment ago. He was walking quickly toward the side gate Emmaline and her officers had come in through.

  “Richie!” I called, worried about his state of mind, but then another barrage of buried information came crashing into my consciousness. The empty mail slots at the desk area, the empty rooms. Tenants who’d left suddenly, or, as Richie had said, passed on. Hank so determined to get Mason Caldwell out of here and the money he’d borrowed. George, who apparently was nowhere.

  A complete idea hadn’t formed in my mind, but I turned to Em. “Stop him,” I said. My voice was forceful. Urgent. I grabbed her arm. “Stop Richie.”

  Emmaline didn’t hesitate. She ordered an officer to go after Richie, but Miguel was quicker. The second I’d spoken, he’d taken off after Richie. Richie had started to run, but Miguel caught up, grabbing him by the arm. Richie tried to pull free, but by then the other officer was there. It took some doing, but together, he and Miguel restrained Richie and dragged him back. Richie bucked, the color back in his face, his cheeks blotchy and red.

  “What, Ivy?” Em said, searching my face. “Tell me.”

  I didn’t think before speaking, my words tumbling out, so many little facts circling in my mind, straining to come out. “The wood.” I pointed to the chunks of wood on the ground, to the box in the grave. “It’s the same wood you found on Hank. He was wrapped in plastic. He was here. He was buried here.”

  “Right,” Emmaline said. “We figured that. But Bernard—”

  “No, not Bernard,” I said, suddenly sure. He was a victim as much as whoever was in that box. Was it Leonard? Chase? George? I pointed to the hole. “That box. There are more like it in the shed,” I said, gesturing to the outbuilding in the corner of the yard. It seemed clear that Richie had taken a few from the house to the shed for his own use.

  This time, no one said anything. “Richie gave me a tour. There’s a room with a million books and boxes. Crates made out of this same wood—” The mail cubbies came back to me then. The letters in each slot. If the tenants were gone—if they were reported as deceased—they wouldn’t have mail. Yet, each of the boxes had held something.

  The bank statements. The Social Security checks. I let out the breath I’d been holding, trying to calm my racing heart. I didn’t know how he did it, but I knew with a certainty that he had. I stared at Richie, horrified. “It was fraud, wasn’t it? You killed all of them for the money.”

  Richie didn’t speak. But he bent his head, his knees buckling. And he broke down sobbing.

  Chapter 26

  “I’ll call you in later for a statement,” Emmaline said to Miguel and me, and then she offered a wan smile. The fact that we’d discovered another body and had identified Richie Thompson as the man who’d killed Hank diffused any residual anger she might have had that I’d ignored her directive to stay out of it.

  I thought about Bernard and his part in this, coming to the only logical conclusion: He’d been the unwitting gravedigger. A victim of a serial killer. But then I thought of his warnings to go, the way he’d cared for the flowers Hank grew, and changed my mind. Maybe he did know the truth; he just didn’t know how to stop it.

  My heart broke for Bernard, but I knew that Emmaline would do everything she could to take care of him.

  With nothing left to do at the boarding house, I headed to my car.

  Miguel stopped me at the curb. “Are you okay?”

  I was spent. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure. I’d thought Richie was such a good guy, taking care of such sad souls like Bernard and Dixie. How could I have been so wrong?

  But we’d found Hank’s killer. And we’d stopped a madman. “I will be,” I said.

  “Where are you going?”

  It seemed that we were brushing everything from our earlier conversation under the rug, at least for now, which was fine with me. I didn’t have the energy to revisit more of the past, but his forced concern irked me. “The bread shop.”

  His expression was a cross between fresh concern and long-buried anger. The concern seemed to win out. “I can come with you. Make sure you get there safely.”

  Emmaline had the bad guy in custody. There was nothing to fear. I didn’t need him to be my guard, but was too tired to argue, so I just sighed. “I can’t stop you,” I said.

  A minute later, we were a little caravan of two, driving through Santa Sofia to Beach Road and the quaint street where Yeast of Eden resided. I parked, waving Miguel on, and climbed out of the car. The lights inside were on, which wasn’t unusual. Olaya typically left a low light on behind the display cases, but it looked like the overhead bakery lights were blazing.

  I tensed. Olaya had given me a key, but I still hesitated before inserting it into the lock. Then I kicked myself. Richie had been arrested. There was nothing to be concerned about. I unlocked the door and walked in.

  I stopped short. Olaya was bent over the table, placing a plate of sliced loaf of cranberry-orange bread in the middle of the table. All four of the Blackbird Ladies were gathered around one of the tables, each with a cup of coffee and tears in their eyes. They would be mourning Hank for a long time to come. And when they learned the truth about what had happened to him, their grief would be compounded.

  I forced a smile, my mind racing, my gaze settling on Janice. I’d completely forgotten about her. It wasn’t my job to tell her that her son had been arrested for multiple murders, and worse, that one of the victims had been their friend.

  Footsteps sounded behind me and Miguel spoke. “Ladies,” he said with a wave and a charming smile. To me he said, “I’m going to call the restaurant to check in with Em.”

  I nodded, suddenly glad he was here to help navigate the grief that was sure to come. He’d call Emmaline and she’d be able to break the news to Janice. I imagined that she’d need to interview Janice, too, to see if she’d had any inkling of what her son was up to.

  Olaya poured me
a cup of coffee. I wanted to ask her how and why the women were all here. I’d thought she and Mrs. Branford went to sleep early, yet here they were. Mrs. Branford answered my unspoken question before I could think of away to ask it. “We are forgoing our weekly gin and tonics at my house for decaf coffee and pastries.” She laughed, trying to make light, but I could tell it was forced. There was no levity in the room.

  The door dinged as Miguel came back in. “All’s good,” he said, meeting my eyes, and I knew Emmaline was on her way.

  My stomach grumbled, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Any bread left?” I asked, sniffing to see if I could detect the scent of any residual baking, but my voice betrayed my stress.

  Mrs. Branford pushed the plate of cranberry-orange bread toward the edge of the table, but her gaze stayed glued to me. We were so connected that she knew something heavy was on my mind. She also seemed to know that asking me what was wrong was not a good idea.

  Janice wasn’t so intuitive. “You look pale as a ghost, Ivy,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. Maybe too quickly, because all five women turned their concerned, but curious, eyes to me.

  Alice didn’t buy it, either. “Something is definitely amiss.”

  I tried to keep my expression even, to wait for Emmaline, but I second-guessed myself. How could I withhold the truth from them? From Janice?

  Mabel was the most perceptive of the bunch. She brushed her bright hair out of her face as she considered me. She stood, pulling her chair out. “Sit down before you collapse, Ivy.”

  I didn’t move, wishing I could turn on my heel and walk back out. But Miguel put his hand on the small of my back and gently guided me to the chair. I sat, swallowing, trying to think of some small talk I could make. Some excuse for my distraction until Emmaline arrived.

  But my effort was short-lived. The color had drained from Alice’s face. “It’s about Hank, isn’t it? Did they find who killed him?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to say it, but my body reacted. My head inclined, maybe by only a fraction of an inch, but it was enough.

  Alice sobbed quietly, pressing her hand against her mouth. I could see it in her eyes. She was experiencing the loss of her friend over again.

  Mabel was the one who asked the obvious question. “Who?”

  I hesitated. Part of me wanted to spill everything, but I stopped myself. Where was Emmaline?

  Mrs. Branford came to stand behind me, a show of support. Janice stood, too, going to stand next to Miguel. She whispered something to him, completely calm. I watched them. Miguel responded to whatever she had said. She was so calm. She walked to the door. It seemed odd. She was calm. Too calm, I thought. And then suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck pricked. I studied her back as she pulled the door handle.

  So much had happened in the last several hours. Something jogged in my memory. I thought about Dixie’s reaction when Richie had told her she’d be famous from my photographs. Her eyes had lit up and she’d said something I’d taken to be innocuous. “Maybe she’ll set me free,” she’d said. I thought it was just part of her delusion, but looking back, maybe it hadn’t been so innocent. Maybe she wasn’t actually allowed to leave the house.

  My mind shifted to the desk area in the room next to Dixie’s, and the mail slots. I’d come to the conclusion that Richie had been killing his tenants to steal their Social Security. There had been investment and bank-statement envelopes, too. The bottom row of the cubbies materialized in my mind. All the labels marking the slots. I visualized the last one. Jan. I’d assumed it mean January. The month we were in. But I’d seen it wrong. It was Janice. Richie said he wasn’t a numbers person and that his mother did the banking.

  Fifty-thousand dollars had been transferred into Bernard’s bank account. But what about the other tenants? Richie must have been cashing Bernard’s disability checks. Social Security, too. Which meant it was very possible he had access to the tenants’ bank accounts?

  But Janice did the banking.

  And then there were the boxes. The boxes that Richie had connected to his mother. The boxes supposedly filled with books. The boxes that were exactly like the box Miguel and I had found the body in.

  My eyes had blurred, but now they refocused on Janice. She stood, watching me, her eyes revealing what was going on beneath the surface. She looked like a caged animal.

  I didn’t need to wait for Emmaline anymore. She had helped Richie. She’d known. My throat tightened, my stomach roiling, but I swallowed and stared her down. I was not going to let her leave.

  Janice turned her back on me and reached for the door handle.

  “Richie was arrested,” I said, my voice even.

  She froze.

  Behind me, Olaya and the Blackbird Ladies drew in audible breaths. I knew it would be hard for them to hear the awful details, but I had no choice. “The police found a dead body in the backyard,” I continued. “They think Richie did it.”

  As I spoke, Miguel seemed to understand what I was saying. What I’d realized. He moved as stealthy as a cat on the prowl, stalking its prey. Janice didn’t seem to register his movement or presence. She stared at me, drawing her lips in until they disappeared, panic on her face, but she tried to pull off indignation. “My Richie? That is a mistake. He couldn’t have done that!”

  “Oh, but he did,” I said. “And they think he killed Hank.”

  This time the Blackbird Ladies gasped in unison, each with their own expression of shock. I kept going, wanting to keep Janice off-balance. I recounted all that had happened since Miguel and I had arrived at what I now thought of as the Victorian murder house, holding nothing back.

  “I need to go see him,” she said, reaching again for the door handle. But Miguel was there, blocking the way. “Would you please move?” she asked, her voice terse. She said it more as a command than a request.

  Miguel narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t think so,” he said.

  She tried to push past him, but he sidestepped, again blocking her.

  “You,” I said, blatant accusation in my voice. “You did this with him. You killed Hank. You killed the others. George. David. Collin—”

  I broke off, suddenly remembering where I’d heard that name before. He’d been the handyman she said she’d wanted to refer to Alice. He’d moved away, she’d said. “You’re a liar.” My voice cracked with the realization that Richie hadn’t worked alone. She’d known about all of it. She’d been part of it. “You’re a killer.”

  Suddenly, as if they’d choreographed it, the Blackbird Ladies were on their feet. They rushed toward Janice, circling around her. Through the window, an SUV pulled up to the curb. Emmaline stepped out from the driver’s side and came around the front of the car. Richie was in custody. She had no reason to suspect anyone else, just like I hadn’t. But she saw us through the window. In a matter of seconds, there was a shift in her posture, and I knew she was evaluating what she was seeing and making a determination on how to react.

  She withdrew her gun from its holster, moved to the door, pulling it open. For the first time, I was glad the bell was broken. She edged in, her gun now clasped in both hands, held steady in front of her. “Janice Thompson,” she said.

  Janice whirled around to face Emmaline’s gun. She balked, stumbling back, but the Blackbird Ladies were there, blocking her retreat. She tried to move around them, but Miguel was in her way. She headed in the other direction, but I moved to fill in the open space. She was closed in with no place to go.

  “Why’d you do it, Janice?” I asked, confronting her. More than anything, I wanted her to confess. To admit to her friends what she had done to Mustache Hank and the other dead tenants. I suspected, and was fairly confident now, that the backyard of the Victorian was littered with the bodies of people she and her son had killed.

  But where Richie had broken down, Janice was stony-faced and suddenly it hit me: Richie wasn’t the mastermind behind their deeds. Jan
ice hadn’t been helping him. It was the other way around. Richie had been helping her.

  Mrs. Branford confronted the woman she’d thought was her friend. “Why Hank?” Her voice trembled with a combination of rage and sorrow. “Why Hank, Janice?” she repeated.

  It took Janice a moment, and her expression never melted into remorse, but she answered. “The damn garden. He and Bernard found—” She stopped, surely realizing that she had to measure her words. “They figured out—” she started, but then she stopped again and clamped her mouth shut, refusing to say any more.

  She didn’t need to. The blanks were easy to fill in. Hank had discovered something in the backyard. A body. A box. Something that revealed what Janice and Richie were doing. That explained why he wanted to get Mason out of there. The most likely reason he’d borrowed the money from Alice. He’d had no choice. He wanted to help his friend.

  I wondered why Hank hadn’t gone to the authorities, but then I remembered something Bernard had said. Hank had watched out for him. If Richie or Janice had threatened to hurt Bernard, Hank would have done anything to protect him. I’d learned enough about him to know he was that kind of man.

  Another memory forced itself to the forefront of my mind. The first time I’d met Hank, he’d sat with the Blackbird Ladies at the bread shop. Janice had said something to him, and he’d looked away uncomfortably. I’d chalked it up to him not liking attention, but what if it was more than that? He had to already have known what the boarding house’s backyard held, and if Janice was holding Bernard’s safety over him until she could get ahold of the $50,000, which she surely knew about by then, then his reaction made sense. He was worried for Bernard and for himself.