Olaya shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
I looked at the three sisters, and my thoughts turned to my first conversation with Emmaline after Jackie’s death. She’d said they were all suspects. They all knew how to cook and could have easily given Jackie a box of ricin-infused cupcakes. I dismissed the idea the very next second. The truth was, I was no closer to knowing the truth and anyone could have killed both Jackie and my mom.
The bell in the lobby tinkled, and Olaya disappeared for a moment, then returned a moment later. “Ladies, you must excuse me for a few minutes. I have business to discuss.” She turned and waited as a young man pushed a wheelchair into the kitchen. In the wheelchair was Renee Ranson.
Chapter Thirty-one
Several things happened all at once.
Olaya introduced Renee as the owner of Divine Cuisine. “I’ll be providing bread for Divine Cuisine’s catering jobs,” she said.
As I thought about what a small world it was and how strange it was that only this morning I’d met with Renee Ranson and heard about her theory that Jackie was behind her injuries, I saw Renee’s face contort. She was staring at the women in our Yeast of Eden baking class, an inexplicable expression on her face.
“Becky?” she said.
At the same moment, the young man behind the wheelchair said, “Becks! What are you doing here?”
Becky . . . Ranson? The talented daughter who was good with numbers?
I whipped my head around to see Sally and Jolie both staring at Becky, who’d gone completely pale.
“I’m, um, taking a baking class.”
“Why?” the young man asked. “You don’t need a class.”
“Tía Olaya!” The back door to the kitchen slammed open, and Jasmine burst in. She dropped her purse, so her eyes were on the floor in front of her. When she looked up, she froze, staring at the group of people in the kitchen. Slowly, she scanned the faces, growing paler and paler with each passing second.
Becky stared at Jasmine, made a choking sound, and took a step backward. She looked as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, which I didn’t understand. Her mom ran a catering business, not a bakery. There was no conflict here, so I couldn’t understand her reaction.
Until suddenly I did.
The images around me became fixed in my mind like a tableau. My brain processed everything I knew at lightning speed. My mom, the teacher, the essay she’d found and then presumably given to Jackie. The one written by Jasmine. I thought about what Renee Ranson had told me just this morning. Jackie had been the one to hit her with her car. She’d been filled with guilt, showing up at the hospital, asking after Renee’s well-being, wanting to make amends. But it wasn’t because she’d been the one to hit her.
Renee had said she’d seen a blur of white. My mind went to the white car housed in Jackie’s garage. The one with the dent in front. The one Olaya had told me belonged to Jasmine. The hit-and-run vehicle.
Jasmine had hit Renee Ranson. That had to be why Jackie had felt guilty and why she’d tried to help Renee. She’d been protecting her daughter, but also trying to make things right . . . in her own way.
Had the Mastersons figured it out?
When I looked at Jasmine now, I knew I was right. Her face seemed to crumple into complete guilt and misery when she looked at Renee Ranson. All at once, my body went cold. My mom had figured it out, and she’d died because of it.
I surged forward toward the girl. “You.” Needles pricked under my skin. “You did this?” I pointed to Renee, but then I wheeled back around and put my hand over my mouth, trying to hold in the bubbling emotions. “You killed my mom?”
Jasmine reached for the wall, trying to grab hold and keep herself upright, but she couldn’t. She slid down, fell onto her knees. Her sobs were painful and tortured, like a wounded animal’s. “I couldn’t . . . I didn’t know. . . .” She moaned. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I felt my face turn hot, imagined the rage climbing from my broken heart to my brain. Somewhere in the back recesses of my mind, I heard Olaya’s voice, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I heard the word now. Now. Now. Now. Over and over again, it echoed in my mind. “You killed my mother, and you’re sorry?”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Jolie move toward me. Felt her arm slip around my shoulder. “Shhh.” She tried to soothe me, but it was too late for that. I shrugged free.
“Why? Why would you kill her? She wanted to help you!”
Jasmine’s howls had reduced her to a puddle on the floor. If I hadn’t been so hurt, so stunned, so overwhelmed by my grief, I might have felt sorry for the wreck she’d become. But I didn’t. Anger bubbled inside of me like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, but this time it was directed to Renee Ranson. Becky gasped, stumbling back against her baking station. “I didn’t mean to. I—I was so . . . my mom had—” She looked at Jolie, and I knew what she was trying to say.
I spoke for her. “You found out about Jolie—”
She nodded.
“What does that have to do with me?” Renee’s voice held its own degree of confusion. Of shock.
“I . . . nothing,” Jasmine managed to say. “I was so mad. I wanted her to pay, so I was going to help you. It was a mistake. It was an accident. Please believe me. I never meant to hurt you.”
Renee let out a cruel laugh. “Help me? You ruined my life.”
Jasmine broke down again, half nodding, half shaking her head. “I—” She sobbed. “Know.”
Renee wasn’t about to let Jasmine sink into her own self-preserving grief. “And Anna Culpepper, she figured it out, so you mowed her down just like you did me? Figured it worked once, might work again, right?”
Jasmine dipped her chin in a fractured nod. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Olaya had moved next to me, pale and stunned. “And Jackie? Did you kill your mother, too?”
“No.” We all turned to see Mrs. Branford with her cane outstretched like a weapon. “She didn’t kill her mother. This one did.”
Becky, with her brown hair falling around her pale face, her eyes wide and scared, tried to shrink back. She turned and clutched the stainless-steel counter. Her gaze found her mother. “You said it was Jackie Makers,” she said, pointing at Renee. “Every day you said how she ruined your life. How she’d done this to you.”
Renee let out a leaden cry. “You . . . ?”
Jolie, Sally, and the Solis sisters stood dumbstruck. I felt my legs go rubbery. I couldn’t keep myself upright. Couldn’t make sense of what was happening. What had happened. How Jackie’s indiscretion so many years ago had ended up impacting so many lives. As Jasmine had said in her essay, it was the butterfly effect.
My gaze found Jasmine again, and rage filled me. “You took my mother.” Tears streamed down my face. “You did this.”
I somehow stiffened my body and tried to move forward. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I wanted to touch her, to hurt her, to make her pay. But just as I started to propel myself forward, out of my mind, an arm snaked around my shoulder, stronger this time, holding me back.
“Ivy, it won’t change anything.” Miguel’s voice in my ear was like a lifeline. My body trembled with six months of grief, but he held on to me, grounding me, holding me back. “I’m here, Ivy. I’m not letting you go,” he said.
“But she killed—”
“It won’t change anything,” he said again, and in that instant, I knew he was right. My mother was gone. And nothing I did could bring her back. Like I’d wished for Renee, I had to let go of my anger and move forward. I had to accept what had happened and make the choice to live my life.
Suddenly Emmaline was flanking me on the other side. She directed her officers to detain both Jasmine and Becky. Mrs. Branford finally lowered her cane, her arm shaking with the effort of having held it up for so long.
“You figured out the truth,” Em whispered, squeezing my h
and. “Like I said, you missed your calling, Ivy.”
I managed a small smile through my tears. I had figured out the truth. It was the only thing I could hang on to at the moment, but it was enough.
Chapter Thirty-two
Two months later, I parked my mother’s pearl-white Fiat on Maple Street. “It belongs to you,” my dad had said, handing me the keys, a few days ago. “She would have wanted that. And so do I.”
Now Agatha and I stood in front of 615 Maple Street, the brick Tudor I’d fallen in love with the first moment I’d laid eyes on it. The house I’d just bought. Every detail was emblazoned in my mind, from the tall pine tree to the right of the front door, to the dark brick facade, to the steeply gabled green roof and the tall chimney.
Penny Branford swung her cane as she walked across the street, spritely as ever. “Hello, neighbors!”
Her snowy curls looked freshly done, and her Nike sneakers were brand new. This pair was sparkling white. To match her hair, I thought with a grin. Today she wore a coral velour sweat suit. I hoped I could be half the woman she was when I was eighty-five, with a fraction of the energy. She was a force to be reckoned with, and I was proud to call her my friend.
I stooped to give her a hug. “Can you believe it?”
We stood side by side in front of Jackie Makers’s former home.
“Actually, I can. You were meant for this street. For this house,” Mrs. Branford said.
“Meant for? I don’t know about that. I definitely love the house, though.”
“Meant for, most definitely. I believe in fate, Ivy Culpepper. Your mother’s death brought you back to Santa Sofia. It was a tragedy, to be sure, but it also brought you to me, and to Olaya,” she said, adding the last part a little reluctantly. “And that is our good fortune. This is where you’re supposed to be. Of that, I’m sure.”
When I thought about everything that had happened, I still couldn’t believe that I’d been the one to realize that my mother had unwittingly wandered into a situation that had cost her her life. I missed her so much, I could almost taste the sorrow, but knowing why she died and bringing her killer to justice went a long way toward making me feel like I’d let her rest in peace. She was still with me, and always would be, and like my mother, I knew I’d always try to do my best to help the people around me.
Mrs. Branford linked her arm with mine and tugged me forward. “Ready?”
I smiled. “Ready.” We walked up the front pathway to the porch. A little table, the top a mosaic made from broken glass and tiles, sat in one corner. On it was the beautiful Galileo thermometer from the glass shop on the pier. The blue glass bubble inside was at the top, and the yellow-filled one hovered slightly below it. A little note was tucked under the base. I slipped it out and smiled.
There’s a bottomless bowl of queso for you at Baptista’s. But stay balanced, like Galileo. Eat your veggies, too.
Miguel
The front door opened. Olaya Solis stood there, a tray of pan dulce in her hands. “Bienvenida, Ivy. Welcome home.”
Gruyère and Black Pepper Popovers
This recipe was inspired by Jodi Elliott, a former co-owner and chef of Foreign & Domestic Food and Drink and the owner of Bribery Bakery, both in Austin, Texas.
Butter for greasing the popover pans or
muffin tins
2 cups whole milk
4 large eggs
1½ teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 cups all-purpose flour
Nonstick cooking spray
¾ cup Gruyère cheese (5 ounces), cut into small cubes, plus grated Gruyère cheese for garnishing (optional)
1. Place the oven rack in the bottom third of the oven and preheat the oven to 450°F.
2. Prepare the popover pans or muffin tins (with enough wells to make 16 popovers) by placing a dot of butter in the bottom of each of the 16 wells. Heat the pans or tins in the oven while you make the popover batter.
3. Warm the milk in a small saucepan over medium heat. It should be hot, but do not bring it to a boil. Remove from the heat.
4. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the salt and black pepper until smooth. Stir in the reserved warm milk.
5. Add the flour to the egg mixture and combine. The batter should have the consistency of cream. A few lumps are okay!
6. Remove the popover pans or muffin tins from the oven. Spray the 16 wells generously with nonstick cooking spray. Pour about ⅓ cup of the batter into each well. Place several cubes of cheese on top of the batter in each well.
7. Reduce the oven temperature to 350°F. Bake the popovers until the tops puff up and are golden brown, about 40 minutes. Remember not to open the oven door while baking. You don’t want the popovers to collapse!
8. Remove the popovers from the oven and turn them onto a wire cooling rack right away to preserve their crispy edges. Using a sharp knife, pierce the base of each popover to release the steam. Sprinkle grated Gruyère over the finished popovers, if desired, and serve immediately. Makes 16 popovers
Conchas
Conchas Dough
3 teaspoons active dry yeast
½ cup warm water
½ cup lukewarm milk
⅓ cup granulated sugar
⅓ cup unsalted butter, softened
1 egg
1 teaspoon salt
3½–4 cups all-purpose flour
Nonstick cooking spray for greasing the cookie sheet
Cinnamon and Vanilla Topping
⅓ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup salted butter
½ cup all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1. Prepare the conchas dough by dissolving the yeast in the warm water in a large bowl. Add the milk, sugar, butter, egg, and salt. Next, stir in 2 cups of the flour and mix until smooth. Add more flour, a little at a time, until the dough is easy to handle and forms a ball.
2. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead it until it is smooth and elastic, about 5 minutes.
3. Place the dough in a large greased bowl, and then turn it so that it is greased side up. Cover the bowl, place it in a warm place, and let the dough rise until it has doubled in size, about 1½ hours. You’ll know the dough is ready if an indentation remains after you press on it.
4. While the conchas dough is rising, prepare the topping. Beat together the sugar and butter in a medium bowl until light and fluffy. Stir in the flour and mix until a dough with the consistency of a thick paste forms.
5. Divide the topping dough into 2 equal portions. Mix the cinnamon into the first portion and the vanilla extract into the second portion. Divide each portion of topping dough into 6 equal pieces, and then pat each piece into a 3-inch circle. Set the circles aside.
6. Next, grease a cookie sheet with nonstick cooking spray. Punch the conchas dough down and divide it into 12 equal pieces. Shape the pieces into balls and place the balls on the prepared cookie sheet.
7. Place 1 topping circle on each ball of conchas dough. Shape the circle so that it fits over the ball. Make about 5 cuts across each topping circle to create a shell pattern.
8. Cover the dough balls and let them rise until doubled, about 40 minutes. When 15 minutes of rising remain, preheat the oven to 375°F.
9. Bake the conchas for 20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Makes 12 conchas
Kneaded to Death Page 23