If Bread Could Rise to the Occasion

by Paige Shelton

  “Sure, Freddie, that’d be great,” I said. Gram and I eyed each other. It was clear that she suspected the same thing but didn’t try to stop us.

  “I’m so sorry about all this,” Freddie said as he sat in the Nova’s passenger seat and pointed at his black eye. “I shouldn’t have even gone into that party, but I was curious. I was sure I saw Brenda. It won’t happen again.”

  “You said that no one hit you, Freddie, that you ran into something but aren’t sure what. What did you run into? Come on, tell me,” I said.

  “I wish I could tell you.” Freddie shook his head slowly. “But I don’t know what it was. It was confusing, crowded, you know. I was in the middle of so many people, and then I just got hit.”

  “Then, it could have been by a fist,” I said.

  “I really don’t think so. I think something happened to be flying through the air and it hit me in the eye.”

  I paused a moment before I said, “I’m having a hard time with that one, Freddie.”

  “I’m sorry.” Freddie sighed.

  “Me, too.”

  The store was unusually busy and it took us much longer than normal to get through the line. We chose the ten-items-or-fewer cashier and it quickly became clear that we would have been better off in another line.

  “New cashier, I think,” I said quietly to Freddie.

  “I think so, too.”

  The cashier was a young woman who didn’t look to be over twenty. We took our place in line just as the checkout perfect storm hit: the register’s tape ran out, the store manager wanted to retrieve the large amount of cash out of the new cashier’s drawer, and the cashier herself was so worried about making customers angry about the delays that she over-apologized.

  I looked at the other now long lines with full carts and each three or four customers deep and decided it was just best to wait it out. As the cashier gushed, “I’m so sorry,” her eyes flitted up and down the line, but on one such trip, her eyes stopped right on Freddie. Suddenly, she quieted as her eyebrows came together.

  “Uh, do you know her?” I said to Freddie. The cashier’s stare was unwavering.

  “No, not at all,” Freddie said. His face reddened, and he became uncomfortable, which is how I might have reacted, too.

  The cashier helped the two people in front of us but continued to glance at Freddie. I began to wonder if she’d never seen a black eye before.

  Fortunately, we didn’t have to ask what was bothering her. As she took the two large containers of cinnamon from the belt and ran them over the scanner, she pointedly said, “Your picture was just in a magazine, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so.” Freddie laughed.

  “Really? You look so familiar. I saw a picture of someone who looks a lot like you, then. In that one, I think.” She pointed to one of the magazines on the racks above the conveyer belt, one that was light on hard news but heavy on celebrity gossip. “No, wait, it was this magazine, but it was the one from last month. I can’t remember the story, exactly, but I think it had something to do with restaurants or something.”

  I watched Freddie’s reaction closely. He smiled sheepishly and looked away from the cashier.

  “I really don’t think so. You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

  “Wow, two people on the planet with those eyes,” she flirted.

  “Thanks.” Freddie grabbed the bag of cinnamon that I had paid for during their discussion.

  “That magazine?” I pointed.

  “Yep,” she said. “Last month’s issue. His eyes are beautiful.”

  “Yes, they are. Thank you,” I said before I followed the even more mysterious mystery student out to the Nova.

  I thought about confronting him or taking him out to the library immediately and forcing him to sweat while I thumbed through the issue in question. I suspected that his picture was, indeed, inside the magazine, and finding it would explain just exactly who he was and what he was up to. Sarabeth kept copies of all the popular magazines for a few months. But I decided to say nothing at all. He wouldn’t answer honestly, that much I now knew. I would research it first and then ask him some specific questions.

  I got in the Nova and only said, “Phew, that place was busy. Thanks for the company.”

  “Sure. Anytime.”

  The temptation to tell Gram I had somewhere else to be and then hurry to the library was huge, but I resisted. Fortunately, everyone was quickly on task, and in no time we had some of the best Granny Sebastian bread puddings I’d ever tasted. I’d watched our students learn and create; I watched them improvise and make the recipe their own. It was as if today was the true first day of school.

  Once the students were gone, I was still anxious to check the library’s back issues, but it did occur to me that the cashier might just have been flirting with the cute young man with the pretty green eyes. I had to give her credit; it would never occur to me to flirt with someone by telling them I saw them in a magazine.

  But my mission was further thwarted by two ghosts who thought it was necessary to be honest with Gram.

  Gent and Jerome had both shown up; Gent because he wanted to talk to Gram and me, and Jerome because, apparently, Gent had begged him to come along. Though Jerome didn’t say it out loud, I got the impression that he would rather not hang out with Gent Cylas. I didn’t ask how they’d finally found each other, but given all the crazy circumstances I wasn’t too surprised.

  When they arrived, Gent immediately launched into what had happened the night before at the bakery.

  “Betts! You and Cliff could have been killed!” Gram said.

  “They might not have been killed; maybe hurt a piece,” Jerome said as he leaned back against one of the center islands and crossed his arms in front of himself.

  “No, no, sir, you saved them,” Gent said to Jerome. He turned back to Gram. “This old boy saved them, I’m sure of it.”

  Jerome adjusted his hat.

  “While it’s good to see you again so soon, Jerome, I don’t like any of this,” Gram said. “As far as I know there has never been any threat to me or anyone alive from you ghosts. What’s going on?”

  For a long moment, we were all silent, but finally Jerome spoke. “Miz, things are different.” He didn’t want to blame me, but it was easy to figure out where the changes had come from. He avoided looking my direction.

  “Different bad?” Gram said as she hoisted herself up to a stool.

  “I don’t think so,” Jerome said as he looked directly at me this time.

  I shrugged.

  “I think they’re just different,” Jerome continued. “This time we’re faced with a little more danger but that won’t happen all the time. And . . .”

  “And what?” Gram said.

  “Well, we have a pattern. I think I came back because I sensed danger, and it looks like I was able to do a little to prevent it, too. Maybe I’m balancing out the bad; maybe I’m not the only one who’ll be able to do that.”

  Gram’s mouth twisted as she thought. “Betts,” she said a moment later, “you keep your hind end away from that bakery building, do you understand?”

  “Yes. I’ll stay far away.”

  Gent slumped. “I guess you won’t be able to help,” he said.

  “I’m not going back into that bakery, Gent. Not a chance,” I said, much more forthright than I’d been in my kitchen. “But I can still help. I’m going to try to talk to Mary Silk, and believe it or not, you’ve got a slew of town officials—law enforcement officers, the fire marshal—investigating the fire. They don’t know all the details about you, but I’ll try to find a way to inform them, to let them know they should be diligent about trying to find out what happened to you and your family.”

  “How are you going to talk to Mary Silk?” Gram said.

  “She’s alive,” I said. “And Gent says she was the reason—the Mary—that his family went to the bakery for that night.”

  “Really? She was a teacher, a m
ean one if I remember correctly,” Gram said. “She was strict to the point of not allowing us to fidget even a little in our seats.”

  “You want to come with me to talk to her?” I said.

  Gram looked around the room, at me, at the ghosts, and then shook her head. “No, dear, I don’t.”

  “I’m so sorry, Miz. I know this is all still painful,” Gent said.

  Gram seemed to pull her spine straighter. “I’m fine, Gent. I just don’t think that it’s possible to find you and your family’s bodies. I’ve tried, too many times to count. I can’t put my energy into that any longer, but it’s not because it’s as hurtful to me as it used to be. Been there, done that, that’s all. It’s fine if Betts wants to give it a shot, just as long as she stays the hell away from that building. Got it?” She turned to me as she said the last two words.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now, everyone needs to go away. I have some paperwork to do in the back and I don’t want to have you all distracting me. Understand?”

  “Want me to stay?” I said, hoping she’d say no.

  “No, thanks, I’m good. Go. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 20

  Gent disappeared quickly, though he told me that he’d find me later to ask what more I’d discovered about Mary Silk.

  What I hadn’t mentioned in front of him was that I’d already scheduled the appointment and had left a message for Jake to join me. The ghost of Sally Swarthmore had taught me that if I made plans that were somehow about the ghosts, it was best to keep them to myself. She had pestering down pat.

  Jerome walked with me out of the school and to my Nova. The awkward discussion about feelings and my further doubts about their validity had been eclipsed by the fear we’d experienced from the falling window. Somehow this allowed the air between us to normalize and settle back to something comfortable, something similar to how it had been when we’d first become acquainted. There would be further awkward conversations ahead, but for the time being I enjoyed the ease.

  “I don’t know much about your students, yet, Isabelle. I’ll keep looking. But you really will stay away from the bakery?” Jerome asked as we approached the Nova.

  “Yes. I don’t know why everyone keeps emphasizing that. The window falling was more than enough to keep even someone with—as Gram would say—‘a few bolts loose’ away from that place.”

  “We just want to make sure.”

  I nodded. “I’m going to visit Mary Silk this evening. I’ve asked Jake to come along. Want to come, too?” I didn’t regret offering the invitation, but I was struck by the somewhat freakish nature of inviting a ghost to come along on our evening outing, like he was just another guy.

  “Uh, sure.” He seemed flustered by the invitation, probably sensing the same thing. “But I don’t really know anything about Gent Cylas other than the little I’ve learned in the last few days, dead or when he was alive. He was after my time, and I don’t remember meeting him when I visited Miz. I’m not sure I will be useful.”

  I shrugged, trying to be casual. “You don’t need to be useful. Thought it might give you something to do.”

  “All right, then. I accept your invitation.”

  “Okay. Good. Be outside Jake’s office in a couple hours.”

  “Isabelle . . .” he began.

  “What?” I said as I put my hand on the car door handle.

  For a moment Jerome struggled with what to say. The sunlight was so bright that he was almost transparent, but I could still see him searching for the words. The normal air between us started to waver again. I took my hand off the handle and stood straight. I didn’t want the normal air to go away, but I would listen to what he had to say.

  Finally, he just said, “Isabelle, be careful. I’ll see you this evening.”

  And then he was gone, and I could finally make my way back to the library. But my phone buzzed, halting my progress again.

  “Jake?”

  “Got your message. Yes, I’d love to go with you this evening.”

  “Good. I hoped so. I’m running to the library right now to take a look at a past issue of a magazine. Can I call you back and we can make arrangements when I’m done?”

  “Which magazine?” I heard his fingers start to work his keyboard.

  I told him the pertinent information and he responded a couple seconds later. “I can pull it up here. No need to go to the library.”

  “Really? Great, I’m on my way.”

  Jake was in civilian clothes; this, more than even the students returning, always heralded the end of the summer. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, but for a moment I missed his sheriff’s getup.

  “Come in, come in. I have refreshments. I ran down to the saloon after your call,” he said as he pointed to two smoothies sitting on the center table.

  “Yum. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said as he handed me a smoothie while slipping an extra-long straw into the lid’s slot. “So, magazine or what I’ve found out about Mary Silk first?”

  I took a long sip. The news about Mary Silk sounded interesting, but I said, “Magazine.”

  I relayed the grocery store clerk’s behavior and words, which made him as curious as I knew it would. He showed me he’d pulled up the issue of the magazine and then directed me to sit in his desk chair. He dragged a stool up to a spot where he could glance over my shoulder.

  “This guy’s been strange from the beginning, hasn’t he? Maine, my foot. I just know he’s from somewhere else,” Jake said.

  “Maybe. He’s strange, but likeable, too. The clerk might have just been flirting with him. He’s a cute guy, but I thought it warranted at least a quick look, especially if it’s this easy.” I clicked a right-pointing arrow on the screen, which turned the full-color page. “Is it legal to have this?”

  “Sure, this is the magazine’s site. They put up past issues right when their new issue hits the stands. We really have to get you much more Internet savvy. Everyone knows how to do this sort of thing. You’re kind of getting a little embarrassing.”

  I ignored the comment, but then I literally gasped as I turned to page thirty-seven.

  “Jake! That’s him! That’s Freddie.” I pointed. “Or, I think it is.”

  Freddie, or allegedly Freddie, stood behind two people, each of which seemed to be blessed with the same wonderful dark hair and his bright green eyes.

  Jake scooted closer and read the headline above the story.

  “‘Successful Local Business Owner Killed After Catching Culprit Poisoning Bakery’s Magic Ingredient.’”

  “Yikes,” I said, but then I continued to read the article.

  Local family-owned and -operated bakery, Mario’s Sourdough, has closed their doors, and the surviving family members say they will never open them again.

  Even if their decades-old sourdough starter hadn’t been contaminated, the murder of Gepetti patriarch, Mario Gepetti Jr., would have caused the family to discontinue their successful business.

  On the morning of January 15, Mr. Gepetti Jr. arrived at his store at the normal time of 3:30 A.M. to begin baking the sourdough bread that has become famous throughout all of San Francisco as well as much of northern California. Investigators say that Mr. Gepetti must have come upon the culprit, who from all indications had already poisoned the starter, effectively ‘killing’ it. When a confrontation occurred, Mr. Gepetti was stabbed with a knife from the bakery’s supply. Mr. Gepetti died instantly; his body was found by his son, Mario Gepetti III.

  I turned to Jake. “Freddie is Mario III,” I said.

  “Looks that way. Keep reading.”

  The victim's father, Mr. Gepetti Sr., came to America from Italy in 1908. He was the classic definition of an American success. He arrived in this country with only three dollars and fifty-four cents in his pocket. He worked whatever menial jobs he could find until he managed to save enough money to open a bakery in New York City. Gepetti Jr. married a woman from San Francisco who
convinced him to move back to the West Coast shortly after the nuptials. Gepetti Sr. had created the sourdough starter that Gepetti Jr. carefully transported across the country and had used as the spark for what is estimated to be hundreds of thousands of loaves of sourdough bread enjoyed by Mario’s Sourdough customers, including several local restaurants.

  The article continued to discuss the specifics about how a sourdough starter was made and how its future taste was a mystery, often a surprise, and could usually never be duplicated no matter what precise and similar steps were taken. It was close to a repeat of what Gram had said in class the day the students made their starters.

  However, it was the end of the article that caused me to gasp and fumble for my cell phone.

  It is believed that the poison used to contaminate the starter was from a plant that thrives in meadows across the western United States. Death camas is a bulb plant containing toxic alkaloids. Eating any part of the plant or bulb will cause drooling or frothing at the mouth, vomiting, extreme weakness, an irregular pulse, and confusion and dizziness. In cases of severe poisoning, the final symptoms include seizures, coma, and death.

  It is unclear as to whether the killer intended to ruin the starter or poison it so that it might poison those ingesting the end result: loaves of bread. However, the Gepetti family states that poisoning the starter would have caused the starter to be unusable, therefore, if anyone would have attempted to make bread with it, they would have been unsuccessful.

  “Holy . . .” I said as I dialed Morris, who surprisingly answered on the first ring.

  “Dunsany.”

  “Morris, was it . . . death camas that killed Roger?” I said.

  “Betts?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, it was. I’ve heard of it killing lots of livestock in the West in the springtime. I’m researching it now. How did you know?”

  “Come to Jake’s archives right now if you can.”

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  I called Cliff and told him to hurry over, too. And then I told Jake I needed the Tied and Branded’s number. He scooted to the computer, typed for a second, and then pointed at the number on the screen. I punched it into my phone.