Kneaded to Death

by Winnie Archer

  Billy clasped my hand, then squeezed. “I get what you want to do, Ivy, but Dad’s right. It’s not going to bring her back. And if you’re right and she was killed by Jackie Makers, then it doesn’t matter, anyway, because Jackie’s already dead. There’s no justice to be had here.”

  Heat crawled up my chest, then spread like tendrils through my body. I wrenched my hand free. “How can you say that? Don’t you want to know what happened to her?”

  My dad stood and calmly gathered his soup bowl and plate. “Good dinner, Ivy.” He rinsed the dishes, stuck them in the dishwasher, and with a quiet good night, he disappeared into the bedroom he’d shared with my mom for nearly forty years.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I left Billy to clean up the kitchen. I didn’t agree with the two men in my family. I wanted to know what my mom had discovered. I wanted to understand why she had died. I wanted to let go of the unknown and come to peace with it, and the only way I knew how to do that was to find out the truth.

  The only thing I could think to do was to start with the most tangible theory I had—that Jolie was Jackie’s oldest daughter. I texted Olaya to get Jolie’s address. When she didn’t reply, I unlocked my phone and dialed her directly.

  “Why do you want it?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to tell Olaya my suspicions about Jackie being behind my mother’s death, so I kept my answer vague. “I don’t think she had anything to do with her mother’s murder, but I want to ask her a question. Please, Olaya.”

  She hesitated but gave me the address. Ten minutes later I pulled into a guest parking spot at Beachfront Apartments, a midrange complex on State Street. It wasn’t actually beachfront, but it sounded good. According to her registration form at Yeast of Eden, Jolie lived in apartment 232. I tried to open the front door, but without a key fob, there was no entrance. I found her name on the directory and pushed the intercom buzzer.

  It took about thirty seconds before she answered with a short “Yes?”

  “Jolie? It’s Ivy. Culpepper. From baking class?”

  “Ivy!”

  There was a buzzing sound, followed by a click as the door to the building unlocked. I grabbed the handle and let myself in, then headed up the stairs and down the hall until I reached her apartment.

  She was waiting at the door, a huge smile on her face. Her black hair was piled up in a loose topknot. She had on jogging shorts and a tank top, was barefoot, and had not a stitch of makeup on her beautiful face. She hadn’t been expecting company, but if she had, I didn’t think she would have changed a thing. She was one of those perfect specimens that made other women crazy with jealousy and men fall at her feet.

  “What a surprise!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me into her apartment. I quickly took in the interior. It was sparse, but tasteful. Neat and tidy. A book was open and facedown on the sofa.

  “Sorry to barge in on you.”

  She waved away my apology. “Something to drink? I tried to bake some bread earlier today, but it was a complete bust. I should probably get my money back and give up on the baking classes.”

  “I tried dinner rolls today. They weren’t bad. I’m not sure Olaya would agree, but we ate them.”

  “It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be. Baking, I mean. I figured it would be easy and I’d be able to bake and bake and bake.”

  I’d thought the very same thing. So far it seemed my success inside and outside class was better than Jolie’s.

  She poured two glasses of cabernet, and we sat on her white sofa, chatting about baking and Yeast of Eden. After a while I broached the subject I’d been waiting to bring up.

  “You went to Santa Sofia High School?”

  “Yes! Good school. Good teachers,” she said, sympathy in her eyes.

  “Did you grow up here?” I’d wondered whom Jackie had given her baby to. Someone in town, if Jolie went to the local high school.

  “Born in San Francisco but raised here. I don’t know if I could ever leave, actually. I love it here. You must, too, since you came back. You were in Texas, right?”

  “Yep. Austin. Now that I’m back, I realize how much I missed it. There’s something about the ocean air. It’s clean. Fresh.”

  “I know what you mean!” She said everything with such enthusiasm; it was hard not to smile. “I keep the windows open as much as I can, which is pretty much whenever I’m home.”

  I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, cupping my wineglass in my hand. “Can I ask you something?”

  She drew her lips into a straight line, which I took to be her serious look. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Well, yes. Kind of.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  I was fishing and felt completely incompetent as a sleuth, but I kept my focus. If I asked enough questions, and somehow one or two of them were the right ones, I might discover something that would help me get to the truth. I decided not to mince words. “Do you know Jasmine Makers?”

  Whatever she thought I’d ask, it wasn’t that. Her persona completely changed, the happy-go-lucky Jolie replaced by a reticent, nervous young woman. “Wh-what?”

  “Jasmine Makers. She told me about . . . her mom and . . .” I just went for it and dropped the bomb. “You.”

  Her jaw dropped, and she looked away. Her voice dipped low. “Did she say she wanted to see me?”

  That was all the confirmation I needed. I’d been right. Jolie was Jackie’s other daughter. But from the raw emotion emanating from Jolie, I didn’t feel like it was a victory. The crack in Jolie’s optimistic veneer was painful. She was an upbeat person, but the estrangement from her biological family had broken her on some level. She wanted to connect with her sister. The fact that Jackie had gotten pregnant and had given Jolie up wasn’t her fault. Jasmine needed to recognize that. I hoped that she would someday and that the two could become real sisters.

  “We, uh, didn’t talk about that. She told me about you—about her mom’s other child. About her mom giving you up for adoption.”

  “I get it, you know. She was married, and Gus is black.” She gave awry laugh. “Look at me. Not much chance of her trying to hide the truth from him.”

  “Do you know who your father is?” It was a blunt question, but I didn’t know how to ask it subtly. In that instant, a new theory surfaced. It was possible that Jolie’s biological father could have been so angry at losing all those years as a parent that he killed Jackie out of anger. It was also possible that my mom had somehow learned who he was, confronted her about it, and was killed by Jackie to protect that secret.

  But she shook her head. “I wanted to talk to her about it that night at the bread shop. I had it all planned out. I was going to pull her aside during one of our breaks and come right out and ask her.”

  “But she died before you had the chance.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said suddenly. “My parents were great. I don’t know how Jackie found them, but they were good to me. They died when I was seventeen, just before I graduated. It was a horrible car accident down in Santa Barbara. I loved them, but eventually, with them gone, I just really wanted to find out where I came from. Who my biological mother was.”

  “Is Flemming the name you used in school?”

  “No. I got married right out of high school. Big mistake. It lasted only six months, but I kept the name.”

  I sipped my wine as I thought about what to ask next. “Did Jackie know you were her daughter? You’d met?”

  “She knew. I mailed her a letter. God, must have been more than a year ago now. I sent one to Jasmine, too. It took three more letters and four months before Jackie finally replied and agreed to meet me.”

  “How was that?”

  She set her wineglass on the glass coffee table and stood, then folded her arms over her chest and walked to the sliding glass door. “Not what I expected,” she said after a moment. “She was distracted. Looking over her shoulder. She kept saying that she had to get back to the kitche
n. She definitely didn’t want to be meeting me.”

  “That was it?” I could see why Jolie’s naturally exuberant personality was tamed when talking about Jackie. It certainly hadn’t been a fairy-tale reunion between a mother and her long-lost daughter.

  “Pretty much. She said it was a mistake. That she didn’t mean to. Get pregnant, I mean.” Jolie’s eyes pinched as she remembered. “But you know, even though she said it, I didn’t ever feel like she was talking to me. Like she really meant it. But then she never called me. Never tried to meet me again. I tried a few more times, but it was pretty clear she wasn’t interested, so finally I gave up. She was really focused on her business, so maybe she just didn’t have time for me. The other cooking school in town had just closed. She said something about her being the better chef and now she’d have the chance to prove it.

  “She kept looking at her watch and checking the door, like she was expecting someone else. Finally, she just got up. She told me that she couldn’t ‘do this’ right now. Do what? I thought. She couldn’t make time to meet her daughter? The one she’d given up without a second thought? Before she left, she told me that she’d done things she wasn’t proud of, and that other people had paid the price. She said she was sorry and that she’d make things right.” Jolie wiped away a tear. “And then she left.”

  “And did she? Make things right?”

  Jolie shook her head sadly. “I waited for her to call. To reach out to me. But she never did.”

  I didn’t want to beat a dead horse, so I redirected the subject. “Did you know she’d be at the baking class? Because you said you were going to ask about your biological father.”

  “I knew. I love the bread shop, although, as you know, I’m not a natural. Olaya mentioned the classes to me one day when I was in there getting my daily fix. She pulled out the sign-up sheet, in case I was interested, and Jackie’s name was right there. I thought, Maybe it’s fate. Maybe this will give us the opportunity to get to know each other. No pressure, right?” She sighed. “But it didn’t quite work out that way. She never even looked at me that night.”

  We finished our wine, and I got up to leave. “Will you be there tomorrow?” I asked.

  “With bells on. I am determined to learn how to bake halfway decent. It’s in my genes, after all.”

  Before I left, I gave her a hug. I didn’t know if I was a good judge of character, but I liked her. She’d been dealt a bum hand, what with Jackie giving her up, a sister who wanted nothing to do with her, and her adoptive parents being dead. “See you tomorrow,” I said, adding to myself that maybe I’d have some answers by then.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  My dad was waiting up for me when I got home, Agatha curled up at his side. My pug lifted her head as I walked in, her ears twitching back when she heard my voice.

  My dad sounded tired. “Sit down, Ivy.”

  I perched on the edge of the coffee table opposite him. I knew my dad, and I knew that he had something he wanted to say to me. I couldn’t rush it, so I waited.

  Finally, he spoke. “You’re right. I know it, but that doesn’t make it easy.”

  I leaned forward, reaching for his hand. “I know, Dad. I just want the truth. It may not help at all, but then again, it might.”

  He didn’t look like he thought the truth would bring any peace, but I appreciated the effort he was giving. What he needed and what I needed were two different things. He might not agree with me, but he could respect me. “You’re looking for a reason, Ivy. You’ll never find one that’s good enough. Mom died, and she shouldn’t have. But if you’re determined to look for answers, then I’ll help you.”

  Heat pricked the skin on my face, and my nostrils flared with emotion. I fought the tears that burned in my eyes. “Thank you, Dad.”

  “You said you thought Jackie Makers had some sort of secret.”

  “More than one, I think. She gave up a daughter for adoption before she and Gus had Jasmine, but I think Mom figured out something else.”

  “You can retrace Mom’s steps. Maybe that’ll help you.”

  “What do you mean, retrace her steps?”

  “You know your mom. She never went anywhere without her planner.”

  I felt as if a lightbulb had suddenly gone off in my head. My mom had written down everything, in a million different places. She’d had her lesson plan book. Even though the school district had gone to an online method of tracking and submitting lesson plans, my mom had kept her old-school spiral book. She’d had her journals for her writing and inspirations. And she’d always kept a day planner. The one my dad handed me now was called a Spark Notebook The hard black cover gave it a utilitarian look, but inside it was filled with graphic elements, quotes, spaces to write and doodle, and prompts to make you think about your desires, accomplishments, and goals.

  I flipped through it and immediately saw what my dad had seen. My mom’s appointments were noted on the calendar pages, along with a few anecdotal notes here and there. I started at the end—her last entries.

  The last few pages were mostly school related. Department meeting, parent-teacher conference, staff meeting. She’d made an appointment to take her car in for service the week before she died. There’d been a community cleanup day she’d noted. But the thing I zeroed in on was a ten o’clock Saturday meeting with someone named Renee at Divine Cuisine. The business’s name rang a bell, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  “What’s Divine Cuisine?” I asked my dad.

  He had been scratching Agatha’s head. Now he stopped and let his hand run from her head to her curled-up tail. “One of the cooking schools your mom was looking at for our classes.”

  “But didn’t you start the sessions with Well Done and Jackie Makers?”

  “We went to three or four be-before the accident.”

  That was what I’d thought, which was why it seemed odd that my mom had made an appointment with someone from Divine Cuisine.

  “Did Mom like the classes?”

  “At Well Done?”

  I nodded.

  “I think so,” he said. “She never said she didn’t. She came home pretty inspired. Mostly, though, I think she just liked that I did it with her. Being an empty nester was hard for her. Harder on women than on men. She was always looking for something we could do together. She suggested salsa dancing. Do you believe that? I said no way in hell was she getting me on a dance floor, but now I wish . . .”

  He left the sentence unfinished. I imagined that the what-ifs and the wishes could eat him up alive if he let them.

  “Dad . . .”

  He swallowed down the emotions bubbling up in him and tensed his jaw. “Why? What do you see in there?”

  I pointed to the Divine Cuisine appointment.

  He frowned, peering to get a closer look. “You know your mother.”

  I did. She was a thinker and a doer. “Why would she meet with another cooking school if she was happy with Well Done?” I mused aloud.

  “That is definitely a puzzler.”

  “Right? If she was happy with Well Done, would she want to switch to another school?”

  “Maybe she thought the other place had an interesting concept or something. Who knows? Your mom was always looking for new things. But no, that’s not what doesn’t make sense.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Divine Cuisine,” he said, and at that moment, it came back to me. Olaya had told me about it. It had been the other cooking school in Santa Sofia, but it had closed down. “They shut down. A year ago or so. Maybe a little more.”

  “Why?”

  He looked to the ceiling, thinking. “Something with the owner. An accident, I think.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “I don’t remember the details,” he said, “but yes. Bad enough that they had to close their doors.”

  “And they didn’t reopen?”

  “Ivy, you’re asking the wrong person. I’ve been a little distracted. Haven’t kept up with th
e local cooking schools.” He almost said it as a joke, but as always, the undercurrent of pain was evident.

  “I know, Dad.”

  He thought for a second and then shook his head. “Now that I think of it, though, I don’t think it reopened.”

  “So . . .” I trailed off, processing my thoughts before speaking up again. “If Divine Cuisine shut down more than a year ago, then Mom couldn’t have scheduled a meeting with this Renee woman to talk about classes.”

  “No, I don’t suppose that’s what it was about,” he said.

  We fell silent because neither of us had any inkling what might have been behind the meeting my mom had scheduled with Renee at Divine Cuisine.

  Finally, my dad squeezed my hand, his eyes glassy and his skin cold to the touch. “Be careful, Ivy. I can’t stand the thought of losing you, too.”

  “I will, Dad. I will.”

  As I climbed into bed a little while later, my cell phone beeped. A text from Mrs. Branford came through.

  Community meeting at Mastersons’ tomorrow morning. Come with me!

  I turned my smartphone sideways and quickly tapped in my response.

  What time?

  Ten o’clock.

  I told her I’d see her there, and then I turned off the light. My head sank into my pillow, as if it were cradling the myriad thoughts ricocheting in my brain. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I parked at Mrs. Branford’s, arriving thirty minutes early.

  “Step right in,” she said, ushering me through the living room and into the kitchen. This room, I’d come to realize, was where Mrs. Branford lived her life.

  “What’s this meeting about?” I asked. I did not have a stake in the neighborhood, although I wished I did. Regardless, I was happy to tag along—if only to see inside Nanette and Buck’s historic house.