Kneaded to Death

by Winnie Archer

  “You and Billy,” I blurted when she picked up.

  Her voice was groggy. “It’s two in the morning, Ivy.”

  “Sorry,” I grumbled. “But Billy?”

  “What do you mean, ‘but Billy’? You’ve been wanting me and Billy to get together for years and years. We finally are.”

  “Together?” I squealed. “You’re together?”

  “We are.” I could hear the smile in her voice.

  I grinned. This was exactly what I wanted. What needed to happen. And I was so happy about it. “How?”

  “It is the twenty-first century, as you have reminded me so often. I called him up and asked him out.”

  “That night at Baptista’s when you left me there with Miguel, was it a case like you said or were you going to meet Billy?”

  She hesitated for a split second and then admitted it. “Billy.”

  I slapped the bed. “I knew it!”

  We broke into a fit of laughter. In the background, I heard the low rumble of a man’s voice. Billy was there. My heart filled with warmth. Emmaline and Billy. Billy and Emmaline.

  “Sorry to wake you,” I said. “Can I run something by you? Real quick.”

  She gave me a sleepy okay and then listened while I told her all my theories. “You missed your calling,” she said, not for the first time.

  “You really think so?”

  I could almost see her nodding. “Absolutely.”

  “If only I could figure out what actually happened.”

  “You will!” Billy shouted into the phone. And then his voice grew more somber. “You will, Ivy. But tomorrow. Go to bed.”

  After what felt like a million fitful hours, I finally fell asleep, but I woke up with a start sometime later. Josephine Jeffries! Of course!

  Josephine was my mom’s best friend and taught social studies at Santa Sofia High School. Just like Emmaline and me, she and my mom had told each other everything. Why hadn’t I thought about talking to her before? My mom might have kept her suspicions from my dad, not wanting to upset him, but from Josephine? Not likely.

  I drifted back to sleep, relieved to have a plan for the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Like clockwork, I awoke just before sunrise. I threw on a pair of black leggings, a Santa Sofia sweatshirt, brushed my teeth, and harnessed Agatha. Five minutes after I’d climbed out of bed, my sweet pug and I were in the fresh air and heading toward the beachfront. I stopped at the highest point of the small hill my parents’ house was on, readied my camera, and captured the layered colors as the sun made its entrance for the day.

  We made quick work of our walk; it was a school day, and I needed to get to Santa Sofia High School to meet Josephine before her first class. She’d always been Aunt Josie to me outside of school, and when we were within the walls of Santa Sofia High School, she’d been Mrs. Jeffries, but at some point she’d insisted I transition to her first name. Not an easy thing to do; even being around her made me feel as if I was back in high school and just sixteen years old.

  I held my breath as I walked through the hallways of the school, a wave of nausea rolling through me. It was too familiar, but not because of my own years there. My unease was because of the connection to my mother. This had been her home away from home. Everywhere I turned, I remembered something about her. I could picture a bulletin board she’d created for the journalism club. I had a vision of the time we’d gone to the school musical and she’d brought a bouquet of roses for one of her students who’d had a supporting role. The girl had been overwhelmed. Her own family hadn’t come to a single performance, but my mom had been there for her. I remembered the academic decathlon teams she’d led to victory.

  Maybe it was a mistake to come here. It was too soon. I stopped, ready to turn around and hightail it out of the there, but Josephine called my name from the doorway of her classroom. “Right here, Ivy.”

  I felt as if I’d been caught red-handed. Slowly, I turned back around. Josephine looked just like she had the last time I’d seen her. Her short auburn hair was streaked blond in the front, framing her face with soft waves. She had never looked like a stereotypical teacher. No slacks or clogs or vests for Josephine Jeffries. She had on skinny jeans, ankle boots, and a draped top that flattered her soft-around-the-edges body. She was a few years older than my mom had been, but even at sixty, Josephine looked hipper than many of her teenage students.

  I met her gaze, and I felt as if an opera singer had just hit the highest soprano note and shattered every bit of glass in sight. I crumpled, my nose pricking with emotion, tears pooling in my eyes. I stumbled forward, and we fell into each other’s arms. She wrapped me up, her hand on the back of my head, calming me with her touch.

  “It’s okay, baby,” she said. “I know. It’s okay.”

  I hadn’t seen Josephine since my mom’s funeral, and now I knew exactly why I’d been avoiding her. Just seeing her brought out every last shred of emotion I had so carefully packed away. I felt myself cracking, my grief just as real in this moment as it had been when I’d gotten the phone call from Billy, when I’d rushed back to Santa Sofia on the first flight out of Texas and seen my dad, when we’d buried my mom, the three of us each tossing white rose petals into her grave, tears streaming down our faces.

  I pulled away and ran my fingers under my eyes to clear away my tears. “I’m sorry, Josephine. I’m not normally so . . . so . . .”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “There’s no normal anymore, sweetheart,” she said. “It’s fine.”

  She led me into her classroom. It was like the calm before the storm. Her handwriting scrawled across the whiteboard, posing questions about The Sun Also Rises. I realized I didn’t know anything about Josephine’s life since my mom died. She’d been the conduit to my previous life in Santa Sofia.

  “You still teach tenth grade?”

  “Still. Always. They’ll have to take me out of here kicking and screaming.”

  “I don’t know how you and Mom did it,” I said.

  “Do it,” I added, correcting myself.

  She laughed. “Some people say it’s a calling. Some people say it’s craziness.”

  “And you? What do you say?”

  She shrugged. “I guess it’s a little of both.” She checked her watch—a leather strap that wound around her wrist three times. “Class starts in a few minutes, Ivy. What did you want to talk about?”

  I sat down at one of the student desks and leaned my chin on my fisted hands. I had only a few minutes, so I launched into my tale, trying to keep my emotions at bay. “I think my mom was killed because she knew something,” I summed up. The more I said it, the more normal it was sounding.

  I couldn’t remember ever seeing Josephine at a loss for words, but she certainly was now. She stared at me.

  “She was killed, Josephine. Purposely killed,” I said, driving my point home.

  Finally, she found her voice. “It was an accident, Ivy. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “No. No! Josephine, I’m right about this. She knew something.”

  “She was a teacher, Ivy. What could she know?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you about. She and my dad were taking cooking classes at Well Done with Jackie Makers, the woman who was just killed. But she had an appointment with someone from Divine Cuisine.”

  “So?”

  “So it doesn’t make sense to me. She was happy with the classes at Well Done. You know Mom. Once she finds something she likes, that’s it. I don’t know if it was a secret, but she didn’t tell my dad about it.”

  Josephine looked at me with her sympathetic brown eyes. “I think you’re trying to find an explanation for what happened, Ivy, but there isn’t one. It was a horrible accident.”

  My dad had said basically the same thing. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was reaching, but deep down I didn’t think so. Focusing on discovering the truth kept my emotions at bay. I rallied, asking the questions I’d com
e to ask. “She never seemed strange to you in the days before she died?”

  “Strange?”

  “You know, distracted or preoccupied?”

  Josephine shook her head. “Not really—” She stopped, her eyes clouding. “Well, there was this one thing.”

  I leaned forward. “What thing?”

  “She was concerned about one of her students. She thought the girl was in trouble or something. Of course, that was nothing new. The concern, not the girl in trouble.”

  “In trouble how?”

  Josephine cupped her hand over her forehead, thinking. Finally, she shook her head. “Something about an essay she wrote raised a red flag for your mom. She was afraid the girl might do something.”

  “What does that mean, do something?”

  Josephine ran her index finger under the band of her watch. “I can’t quite remember, Ivy. It was a while ago.”

  I put my hand on hers. “Please, Josie.”

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples, nodding. “I remember when she mentioned it to me the first time. She stopped by my classroom after school one day with this essay in her hand.” She closed her eyes, as if she were reliving the memory. “She’s going to hurt someone.”

  “What? Who?”

  “That’s what she said. ‘She’s going to hurt someone. ’”

  I stared. “Like who? Who was she going to hurt? Who was the student?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  Josephine shook her head. “I did, but then we started talking about something else, and she never said.” She paused, then added, “That had to have been a few months before the accident, though, Ivy. You don’t think—”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I looked at her, wishing she felt what I did, wishing she was as convinced as I was that something about my mother’s death wasn’t right. “I think it might be. Related, I mean.”

  “I don’t have the essay.”

  And just like that, a lightbulb when off above my head. The essay I’d found in Jackie’s kitchen. “Did my mom have a student . . . Jasmine Makers?” I asked.

  Josephine nodded. “Yeah, of course. Jasmine graduated in May. Why? You think she might have been the student your mom was worried about?”

  “Maybe,” I said. But inside I was more convinced than I let on. It made sense. I didn’t know how it might factor into my mom’s death. Maybe it didn’t. But it felt like progress, nonetheless.

  I’d read the essay, and I hadn’t gotten any red flags about the state of mind of the author, but then again, I wasn’t a teacher with years of experience dealing with hormonal and emotional teenagers. I grabbed my cell phone and texted Olaya, asking her to bring the essay we’d found to Yeast of Eden. I wanted to have another look.

  The first bell rang. The storm came as a group of students careened into the room.

  “Thank you, Aunt Josie.” I fell back on the name I’d grown up calling her. She wasn’t related by blood, but she was as close to an aunt as I had, and suddenly I wanted to have that connection with her.

  “I miss her, too, Ivy.” She stood and began greeting her students. “This place isn’t the same without her.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  What I lacked in a plan, I oozed in determination. I left Santa Sofia High School and headed east to Divine Cuisine. I’d Googled and read about the car accident that had befallen Renee Ranson, the owner of Divine Cuisine. It had forced her to close shop, but now she was reopening her cooking school/catering business, and I hoped to find her there.

  My mind was swirling with a million thoughts. Jackie Makers. The cooking schools. My mom’s planner. The student she was worried about. The historic district and Buck Masterson. It felt like all the ingredients to a complex bread dough that I just had to mix together and let rest.

  The whole Divine Cuisine lead could be a big, fat dead end, but I felt I needed to talk to Renee. If nothing else, it would help me understand what was going through my mom’s mind before she died. I parked on the street in front of the building. It was in a warehouse area, so it didn’t have the quaintness of so many businesses in Santa Sofia. Next to it was an embroidery and uniform shop, and on the other side was a cheerleading and tumbling studio.

  The front door was unlocked. I let myself in and called out, “Hello? Ms. Ranson?”

  I heard a noise to my right and turned as a woman in a wheelchair rolled out. She leaned forward, her hands on the wheels, propelling herself forward. She looked up at me. “We aren’t open yet. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. My name is Ivy Culpepper.”

  She angled her head slightly. “Culpepper?”

  “My mother was Anna Culpepper.”

  Her expression didn’t change, but she said, “I remember. A car accident.”

  “Yes. At the high school.”

  She gestured to her wheelchair. “I know a little something about hit-and-runs.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  She grimaced. “That’s what happened. It was like some bad scene from a movie. One minute I was standing there, and the next I was flattened. I woke up without the use of my legs. This,” she said with a sweeping gesture, “is my lovely future.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” Bitterness spilled from every syllable.

  I had the impression that she wanted to talk about it. People who were wronged often did, I’d realized over the years. I waited, giving her the space and permission to speak, and in another few seconds, she continued.

  “I was unloading my catering van. Minding my own business. My shop—this shop—was doing great. A full calendar of catering gigs, cooking classes. I worked damn hard for this place, then bam!” She slapped her hands together. “Just like that, it was over. A car came out of nowhere. All I saw was a white blur, then nothing. It hit me head-on, and then it backed up and ran right over my legs as it backed away.”

  I tried to hide the shudder that rolled through my body. In the blink of an eye, her life had completely changed. In a similar flash, my mom’s life had ended. It wasn’t fair.

  “Do you know who did it?” I asked, knowing full well that the driver had never been caught.

  “Oh yes. I know exactly who it was.”

  A flare of excitement shot through me. “Really?”

  She lowered her voice, as if she were imparting some deep, dark secret. “The owner of Well Done. It’s a cooking school and catering business in town. Her name is—well, was—Jackie Makers. She’s the one who ran me over.”

  My mouth gaped, and I was speechless for a minute. “Are you sure?” I asked once I found my voice.

  She hesitated. “Well, I didn’t see her behind the wheel, but it was pretty obvious after a while. She came around to check on me at the hospital, trying to be a”—she made air quotation marks with her fingers—“Good Samaritan. Right. As if I couldn’t see right through that. She was my competition, and suddenly I was out of the way. Her cooking school started to take off. Since I was out of commission, the catering jobs that had been on my schedule moved over to her. Guilt must have gotten the better of her. She wouldn’t freaking leave me alone. Always bothering me, calling to see if I needed anything. Finally, I told her like it was. That if she couldn’t rewind time and stop herself from mowing me down in my own parking lot, then leave me the hell alone.”

  I was flabbergasted, but I managed to ask another question. “And did she?”

  “She had the gall to deny it. ‘I didn’t run you over, Renee.’ Yeah, right. And I have a million-dollar piece of swampland for sale.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  She pinched her nose and closed her eyes for a beat. “What do you think? Of course I did. But there was”—more air quotes—“no evidence. No witnesses. No reason for them to believe me.” She tapped the tires of her wheelchair. “Put me in this thing for life, and she got off scot-free.”

  “Well, she did meet her own tragic death, so
not scot-free.” I couldn’t believe that Jackie had been behind the hit-and-run. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected, and it didn’t help me figure out who, then, had killed her. Maybe one of Renee Ranson’s family? Revenge for the accident that had stolen their wife and mother? And once again, it didn’t help figure out what had happened to my mom.

  The face Renee made indicated that she didn’t seem to think Jackie’s murder was enough payback for what had happened to her, but she said, “Whatever. I’m moving on. My business has reopened. My family and I are working round the clock to get back to where we were. My son is the new chef. My daughter is talented in the kitchen, too, but she’s a numbers girl. She’s doing the books. My husband is the driver and all-around muscle. I’m contracting some things out. Hiring temp workers for service, getting bread from a local bakery, and keeping one full-time employee on staff for everything else. Dishwashing, loading, prep. And me, I’m the delegator. Because—ha!—that’s all I can do. Raise my voice and yell at people.”

  Her bitterness was understandable, but it was wearing. I hoped she could come to terms with what had happened and let her anger go, otherwise it would eat her up, bit by bit by bit.

  “They never caught who killed my mom, either,” I said, turning the conversation back to the reason for my visit. “That’s kind of why I’m here.”

  “Sit,” she said, indicating a low stool at the stainless-steel counter.

  The seat of the stool was shaped like a bike seat, only without the cushion. It was oddly comfortable.

  “My mother came to see you the week before she died.”

  She nodded, and from her expression, I knew that she remembered my mom. “That’s right. She thought she might know something about my accident, but she wasn’t sure. She’d wanted to ask me a few questions.”

  My heart thrummed. Finally, I might get some answers. “You mean about Jackie?”

  Renee tucked a mass of hair behind her ears. Her cheeks were flushed, small red splotches marking the angles of her face. “No. I told her what I thought, but she wouldn’t say if that’s what she knew. Said she couldn’t, in good conscience, until she was certain. Those were her words exactly.”