“I take it you don’t want to come along and help?” I said with a laugh, already knowing she’d decline.
“Come along where?” This time it was Becky who’d come over.
“Cleaning house,” Sally said. “Not something I like to do in my own place, let alone in someone else’s.”
“You leave your kitchen how you like it, but you have to clean up here,” Olaya announced, a glint in her eyes. She’d been busy with Jolie, but she was aware of absolutely everything in her kitchen. Eyes in the back of her head and all that.
A blush of pink spread from Sally’s neck to her cheeks. “Oh, of course!”
Olaya winked at her, and then she turned her attention to Mrs. Branford and her expression hardened. “Penelope, it’s just like you to put this poor girl to work.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Branford said. “Ivy is not a poor girl. She’s tough, just like her mother was.”
“I can hear you, you know,” I said, “and I wouldn’t say I’m a ‘girl.’”
“I’m knocking on eighty-seven’s door, my dear. You can’t be more than what? Thirty-five—”
“Thirty-six,” I said, correcting her. Exactly fifty years her junior, which was crazy to think about. She had instantly become my role model. I wanted to be her in fifty years.
“A spring chicken,” Penny Branford said, a twinkle in her eye that made her seem more like the spritely young thing she was describing me as.
“I’m happy to help sort the kitchen. I’ll bring my camera, too,” I said. The words came unexpectedly, but the second I spoke them, I knew I wanted nothing more than to photograph the street I’d instantly fallen in love with the moment I walked the sidewalks there. Maybe my creative voice wasn’t entirely gone. “I want to take some pictures of the houses on Maple.”
Mrs. Branford nodded sagely. “There is never a dull moment on Maple Street.”
I suspected there was never a dull moment with Penelope Branford. “Tell me more.”
This time, instead of twinkling, Mrs. Branford’s eyes became hooded. “That Buck Masterson, you know, the one who lives across the street from me? He thinks he’s a one-man neighborhood watch.”
Ah, the intrusive Buck Masterson. I wondered if he was the only thing “going on” on Maple Street. He rubbed Mrs. Branford the wrong way—there was no doubt about that—but was her perspective entirely reliable? “Right. You said he keeps an eye on the whole street.”
“A self-appointed eye, and that does not give him a green light to go into people’s houses. He calls it entitlement. I call it breaking and entering.”
I stared. “Wait. He went into someone’s house?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Branford said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s a sneaky one. Or at least he thinks he is. I’m sure he thought no one was watching. But me? I. Am. Always. Watching. What else do I have to do, after all?”
Before I could ask whose house Mr. Masterson had snuck into, Olaya clapped her hands and brought us all back to attention. “We are nearly ready to bake bread,” she announced.
We spent the next few minutes dividing our dough into two equal pieces; rounding each piece by pushing against the bottom with the sides of our hands, our palms facing up; working and shaping our fermented dough into spheres; covering the spheres and allowing them to rest, rise, and proof until they were 50 percent larger than when we’d started.
“The last step,” Olaya said, “is to take your serrated knife and draw it across the center. Then make a second perpendicular slice. Not too deep, mind you. Just enough to mark it as the bread bakes.”
We all followed her directions, brushed our loaves with water, and baked them for thirty minutes. By the time the loaves were lightly browned and cooked through, the kitchen and all our workstations, except for that of Jolie, who was behind in her process, were spotless and the kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread.
While Olaya and Jolie waited for her loaf to finish up, the rest of us brushed our baked loaves with melted butter and took our masterpieces home. I felt a throb of sorrow in the pit of my stomach. Though she was trying to hide it, I could feel Olaya’s sadness, and Jackie Makers’s absence in the baking class was palpable, her empty station like a beacon re-announcing her death.
Chapter Seven
Bright and early the next morning, Agatha and I drove from my parents’ house to Maple Street, purposely parking at the east end of the block so I could walk down the sidewalk and take pictures. I stopped at each house, Agatha on her harness and leash beside me, getting the full effect and studying the rooflines, the dormers, the porches, and the other details that made each one unique. The houses were each beautiful in their own way and gave the street its historic and distinct personality. Once again the longing to live on Maple Street hit me square between the eyes. I saw myself here, felt the pull of the history, wanting so much to be part of it.
I found myself following the light, the shadows, and focusing on pieces of each house: a window here, a cornice there. When I got back to my computer, I’d upload my shots and try to see them from an objective perspective. I was hoping I’d be able to recapture some of my creative voice right here in the historic district of Santa Sofia.
One house in particular struck me. It was a red Tudor-style home that drew me closer. It was crafted of old brick, had the traditional half-timber exterior, a steep gable, and a high-pitched roofline. The wavy-edge siding at the gable peaks was a deep red, a warm and welcoming color in my world. Pulling Agatha along beside me, I crossed the street to get a closer look, loving how the tall trees softened the fairy-tale gingerbread look of the house, noting the cobbled walkway up to the arched front door, and admiring the blush of color the flower beds brought to the home.
I sighed, and after another minute I made my way up the street toward Penelope Branford’s Victorian. But as I walked, I kept looking over my shoulder at the Tudor. I tossed up a wish that one day I’d live in a place just as beautiful and filled with as much character as that house.
Fifteen minutes later I was ensconced in Mrs. Branford’s kitchen, a cup of tea on the table in front of me. Agatha was lying by the side of my chair, a rawhide bone I’d brought along stabilized under her front paws. She licked and chewed loudly, but happily. Mrs. Branford’s house looked like it had gone through a few careful renovations over the years; the interior was compartmentalized, with a wide center hallway in the entry, which had doors leading to a library, a den, the parlor, and the dining room. French doors separated the dining room and parlor, and another pass-through was situated between the dining room and the kitchen.
“This is a beautiful house,” I commented, absorbing every detail of the kitchen. Parts of the room seemed to be original, while some, like the floors and countertops, had been remodeled. On the floor were black-and-white checkerboard tiles. Instead of a traditional tile backsplash, worn, nicked beadboard lined the walls, accenting the off-white, green-specked granite countertops. Rustic green ceramic tiles added a splash of vintage color behind the old off-white ceramic stove. The avocado-green refrigerator looked like it was from another era, but it was comforting, and when taken together, the entire room was as welcoming as pot roast on a cold, blustery day. “How long have you lived here?”
Mrs. Branford glanced up to the ceiling, her lips moving as she counted. “Let’s see. My grandparents built this house back in eighteen ninety-nine. My mother grew up here. My parents left it to me. Jimmy—that’s my husband—we moved in here forty-two years ago.”
“And Jimmy . . .” I felt a memory or a thought tug at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t pull it out. I let the sentence hanging there.
Her voice became tinged with sadness. “I lost my Jimmy.”
“I’m sorry.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “It’s been, oh, ten years now. It’s true what they say. I miss him every day, but time heals. You’ll heal, too, Ivy.”
I knew she was right. My sorrow would lessen, and I’d be left with me
mories that would fill me with a melancholy joy. “I think you brought me here under false pretenses,” I said. Not a dish seemed out of place, not a speck of food littered the counter, and Mrs. Branford didn’t appear to need a bit of help with anything. I’d bet my life that she was the most self-sufficient, organized, and capable eighty-six-year-old woman on the planet. In fact, if she were pitted against any woman of any age, I’d lay odds on Penelope Branford.
She grinned sheepishly. “I wanted the chance to talk to you. This seemed as good a ruse as any.”
Other than meeting Mrs. Branford with my dad, I didn’t remember ever laying eyes on her. I couldn’t imagine what she’d want to talk with me about. Still, I felt nervous for some reason. “Oh?”
She patted the air. “Now, now. Don’t panic.”
“Is it about my mother?” That was the only thing we had in common . . . that I knew of, anyway. Any progress I’d made—or thought I’d made—in dealing with my grief was fleeting. Talking about my mom might be therapeutic at times, but it was also torture. At this moment, I was pretty sure the agony would outweigh any healing that might happen.
“No, dear. Your mother was a beautiful soul, but you knew her far better than I did. No, I have a . . . proposition for you.”
The nerves gave way to relief. “What kind of proposition?”
“Pictures.”
“Pictures,” I repeated, not following.
“Photographs,” she said, clarifying the matter.
She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the table. I tried not to focus on the tight curls of her snowy hair, but they were so perfect that they drew my eye. Not only was she spry, but she was stylish, too. Just looking at her made me smile.
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” she began, as if I wouldn’t have discerned that tidbit on my own. I covered my smile as she continued. “I can see you agree. It’s well established, in fact. An eighty-six-year-old woman is no longer in her salad days, even if she still feels like she’s forty inside. You know, I used to say that I felt as if I were still twenty years old. Now I see what shenanigans so many twenty-year-olds are up to that I’m grateful I’m well beyond that. My forties, yes. Now, those were good years.”
I couldn’t help but take her perspective to heart. I was fast approaching my forties, so to hear that I was heading toward a great decade made me feel rather happy.
She continued. “Because I’m not in my forties anymore, however, I can’t always do the things I’d like to do. Like take pictures. My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be. Arthritis, you know. They ache and don’t bend like they should.” She held her hands out for me to see the trembling.
“That would make it hard to hold a camera,” I agreed, “but what do you want to take pictures of?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if someone might hear us. “The neighborhood,” she said.
“I’m already doing that. Such beautiful houses here,” I said.
“No! That’s not what I mean.” She practically jumped up from her chair, went to a drawer next to the refrigerator, and returned, holding a spiral-bound journal. The cover was pale green and adorned with butterflies. As she flipped through the book, I caught a glimpse of page after page after page of lists. Finally, she found the one she was looking for and turned the notebook for me to see.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Buck Masterson’s comings and goings.”
She stopped talking, letting the statement hang there between us.
I tamped down my surprise—and concern—that Mrs. Branford clearly spent too much time documenting her neighbor. Was she just a busybody with excess time on her hands, or had she observed something about Buck Masterson that had given rise to a legitimate concern? As I contemplated these possibilities, I skimmed the list, noting random events dating back six months.
12:03 p.m. Left house. Returned at 2:30 p.m. Historic district committee meeting. Buck led the attack against the Rabels’ construction. Inciting.
8:21 a.m. Snuck into Jackie’s backyard. Exited five minutes later.
3:55 p.m. Buck and Nanette sat on porch and stared at my house until 5:03 p.m. Stared. And never looked away.
The list went on and on. “You could be a private investigator,” I said.
She patted the curls of her hair. “I have often thought the same thing, my dear. I might say that I missed my calling, but I loved teaching.”
I looked back at the list. “They just sat and stared at your house?”
“For more than an hour. I don’t think they even blinked.”
“But why would they do that?”
She slapped the table with an open hand. “Exactly my question. I want you to help me figure it out. That man has no right snooping around other people’s homes, causing trouble with the historic district, and trying to intimidate people. Luckily, I’m not so easily bullied.”
“No, you’re not, are you?”
“He’s trouble, that Buck Masterson. I just need to prove it. And I need your help.”
I sighed. “I’m not a private investigator, Mrs. Branford.”
Her spine straightened. “If you’re anything like your mother, you have a nose for it. Why, I remember when she was back in high school, she single-handedly uncovered a cheating ring among the students. This was before computers, mind you. Some of the students would write their notes and adhere them to a water bottle. The water acted like a magnifying glass, and no one was the wiser. It was quite a scandal when your mother broke the story.”
I stared. I knew she had often nosed around to ferret out the truth of something, but my mom had never told me that story. I felt a mixture of gratefulness at learning something new about her and an odd emptiness that there were missing pieces to my mother’s history, pieces that I didn’t know about. Pieces I’d never know about. Knowing this about her sent my curiosity into overdrive, and a rogue thought entered my consciousness. My mother had died so suddenly, and the hit-and-run had some oddities about it. No skid marks, for example. And no witnesses. Maybe it wasn’t an accident like we all thought. Was that possible?
I shook my head, dislodging the idea. Of course it wasn’t possible. No one would want my mother dead.
“I can see it in your eyes. You’re just like her,” Mrs. Branford said. “You always get to the bottom of things, don’t you?”
Her comment brought me back to Mrs. Branford’s kitchen. I directed my gaze to the ceiling as I considered that question. Did I? “I guess so.” I had, after all, deduced the affair my former husband had been having. He’d done a good job of hiding the evidence and operating on the down low. But secrets, I found, were meant to be discovered. An unfamiliar number on the cell phone bill, a lip gloss container on the floor of his car, late nights at work but no answer at the office when I’d called. Bit by bit, I’d pieced together the clues. And then I’d divorced his cheating ass.
“Buck Masterson is up to no good, Ivy, and I want to catch him in the act. I will catch him in the act.”
“In the act of doing whatever it is he does—”
“Exactly.”
“Like sitting on the porch and staring at your house?”
“Well, no. That wouldn’t be very exciting, now, would it?” She leaned forward. “We need to do a stakeout and catch him breaking and entering.”
“Breaking and entering?” This was sounding way out of my league. “Maybe we should call the police and let them know what he’s doing. If he’s breaking and entering, that is illegal. They’d be able to stop him. Arrest him. Something.”
“He’s come uninvited into my house, you know. Opened the door and waltzed right in, acting like we’re old friends. He’s intrusive, and it has to stop. He’s got some nerve, don’t you think? And, no, I don’t want to go to the police. I’m perfectly capable of handling issues in my neighborhood.”
Except she wasn’t. She needed me to help her handle the issues in her neighborhood. And if I was being honest with myself, I was happy
Penny Branford had come to me for assistance if it meant I could form a tenuous connection between myself and who my mother had been when she was a girl. Add to that that my mind was going to be more occupied than it had been in months, and I was sold, any danger in staking out Buck Masterson notwithstanding. Distraction was something I desperately needed.
“Now if Jimmy were alive, he’d have skinned Buck’s hide.”
The scraping of Agatha’s teeth against her bone stopped, and she peered up, almost as if she’d understood and didn’t like the idea of any hide being skinned.
Mrs. Branford continued. “He was a rule follower, my Jimmy. He might have teetered on the line once in a while, but he never crossed it. Buck Masterson would be thinking twice if Jimmy were still around.”
At the mention of Jimmy’s name, that inkling of a feeling came back. There was something . . . It hit me like a fifty-pound sack of flour. The bad blood between Penny Branford and Olaya Solis. The love of Olaya’s life. Olaya had said he’d been a rule follower, just like Penny Branford’s Jimmy. Jimmy and James. Could they be the same person?
The more I thought about, the more sense it made. Which led me to my next thought. Perhaps it wasn’t so crazy to think I’d be able to catch Buck Masterson up to no good. Who knew? Maybe I’d even be able to figure out what had happened to Jackie Makers. After all, if I was right, I’d just identified the source of the feud between two women who otherwise would be great friends. I knew that in my heart. They were more alike than they probably realized.
I sat back, sipped my tea, and concocted a plan with Mrs. Branford to stake out Maple Street to spy on Buck Masterson. It was turning into an interesting day.
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Branford waved to me from her front door. “Can’t wait for tonight,” she said, beaming.
“Six thirty. See you then.”
I walked down the street, stopping to let Agatha take care of business and cleaning it up with a plastic doggy bag. I took a few pictures along the way. An old freestanding red gas pump caught my eye. It stood to the side of a detached garage. I walked as close as I dared. With the camera in my hand, I doubted I’d be accused of trespassing, but walking on someone else’s property felt wrong. Even though I stayed as far back as I could, I was still halfway up the driveway. I hadn’t brought my best telephoto lens, but I was able to zoom in enough to capture detail without compromising stability.
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