Flour in the Attic

by Winnie Archer

  I’d stick with my baking and photography, thank you very much. “And the grieving families. Seeing all that sadness has to be hard, too.”

  “Oh, yeah, absolutely,” she said, “but you’d be surprised. One thing I’ve learned over the years in this business is that everyone has secrets. The things that come out after a person dies!”

  “What kind of secrets?” I asked, immediately intrigued, although I could certainly imagine the types of things people would work hard in life to keep hidden.

  Suzanne glanced back at the front door of the funeral home as if to make sure she wasn’t overheard. Turning back to us, she puffed on her smoking device, then said, “Affairs. Debt. Secret children. Second families. Hidden money. You name it.” Suzanne shook her head at the memories.

  Martina drew back, as if she’d been personally affronted. “Secret money. Second families. Marisol did not have secrets like these,” she said indignantly. “She was a good person.”

  Suzanne Alcott finished smoking her pressurized nicotine and tucked the vape device into her coat pocket. “You can be a good person and still have secrets,” she said, “and I’m not saying that Marisol had any. All I’m saying is that a lot of people have something to hide.”

  I tended to agree with the woman, but Martina vehemently did not. “Marisol was killed. There is a violent murderer out there and he needs to be stopped. Whatever secrets Mari had or did not have were not things to be killed over.”

  “There is nothing a person should be killed over,” I said, although I also knew that shouldn’t didn’t really mean a thing. The fact was, people were killed over ridiculously stupid things all the time. I’d seen that firsthand. Whatever had happened to Marisol had certainly not been warranted, but it had happened nonetheless.

  Suzanne Alcott offered her condolences, excused herself, and disappeared back inside, leaving Olaya, Martina, and me to wonder about Marisol’s secrets.

  Chapter 9

  Olaya Solis was a savant when it came to bread-making. I’d learned everything I knew from her, and I didn’t even begin to touch the depth of her knowledge. She could tell you anything you wanted to know about the myriad flours used in baking, including the specialty flours used in gluten-free baking; she understood the challenges that came with high altitude baking versus baking at sea level; long rise versus short rise was something she had strong opinions on; but one of the things that truly set her apart was her gift for understanding people and how her bread affected them. Folks came from far and away because of the mystique of Olaya and her bread. “It’s magical,” people said. “It can heal you,” others claimed.

  If you were experiencing heartache, the fig and almond loaf was a go-to selection. Feeling anxious? Her rosemary brioche was instantly calming. Whatever ailed you, Olaya had something that could make it better. Her breads were bewitching. Her breads were gifts that she shared with the community, but no one understood how it worked. They just knew that anything from Yeast of Eden put a skip in their step, or lessened their pain, or filled them with a warm glow from the inside out.

  When I stepped into the kitchen at Yeast of Eden that afternoon and saw Olaya in a half apron, hand-kneading a round of dough, I knew she was up to something specific. The day’s baking was long finished, and the bread shop was closed. She wasn’t holding any classes tonight, and aside from the funeral, she didn’t have any immediate special orders or events.

  There was something about the way she looked right now—peaceful, yet focused—that made me dig my cell phone from my purse, swipe to the camera, and take a few pictures of her. I stood back, taking a full body shot from the side, then came closer and zeroed in on the flour dusting the stainless-steel countertop and the strength of her hands as they kneaded the dough.

  I snapped another picture as she looked up at me, capturing the mischievous look in her gold-flecked eyes. “What are the pictures for?” she asked.

  “For myself,” I said. I pointed to the dough. “Who is that for?”

  “The widower,” she answered. “To ease his pain.”

  I looked more closely at the dough, wondering if I could guess the type of bread she was making. I recognized the container that held her sourdough starter, the stone-ground whole-grain wheat flour she’d chosen, and saw the canister of wheat malt. Jars of cinnamon and cardamom were pushed to the back of the countertop, as well as salt and olive oil. I breathed in, detecting a faint floral scent. “Wheat bread, but what’s that?” I asked, pointing to the jar of an orangey-brown substance I didn’t recognize.

  “Ah, that is rosehip powder.”

  I knew that rose petals were edible, and that hips were the fruits or seed pods found at the base of the petals, but that was the extent of my knowledge. I’d certainly never cooked with either the berries or the powder, let alone put them in bread. “Why rose hips?”

  She formed the dough into a round, patted it down with her fingertips until she had a rectangle, then folded it in in thirds, gently laying it in a loaf pan she had at the ready. “The rugosa rose produces the best rose hips,” she said. “High in vitamin C and flavorful like their cousin the crab apple. Tart. But the powder, ah, the powder has healing elements. It cannot make sadness disappear, of course, pero it can help to make it more bearable. For David, I hope it will help him to be strong.”

  There was a knock at the back door as the door itself opened. Penelope Branford strode into the bread shop’s kitchen, her cane swinging alongside her. She was a fan of the velour sweat suit; she owned one in every color of the rainbow, and every color in between. Today, she had on a vibrant teal set, pristine white leather sneakers, and a matching teal and white bandana as a headband that pulled the tight snowy curls away from her forehead. Her sprightly step, the pink of her cheeks, and her colorful outfit made her look not a day over seventy. I wanted to be her in my old age.

  After the bread shop, I’d planned to head straight home to get Agatha, then head across the street to Mrs. Branford’s house. Apparently she hadn’t wanted to wait for me to come to her, so like Muhammad and the mountain in the Turkish proverb, she’d come to me. “I knew I’d find you here, Ivy Culpepper,” she said.

  Mrs. Branford had been an English teacher for the better part of her life. She used my first and last name to address me now, as I imagined she had during her decades in the classroom when she had been displeased with a student. Although I didn’t know what I’d done to vex her.

  Instead of getting rankled, I smiled—because Mrs. Branford always made me smile—and bent to kiss her on the cheek. “I was on my way home, but stopped when I saw the lights on in here,” I said.

  “Well, I’m sure sweet Agatha is in desperate need of a walk,” she said, mirth lacing her voice. She loved my little pug nearly as much as I did. “Since I’m here, however, you can fill me in.”

  Olaya and I stole a glance at one another. I knew Mrs. Branford was talking about Marisol Ruiz, although I didn’t know how she knew I was involved in any way, shape, or form. At the same time, I wasn’t surprised. She had her proverbial ear to the ground.

  I told her everything I knew so far about Marisol, not expecting her to have any specific insight, but she surprised me. “I taught school in Santa Sofia for more decades than you’ve been alive,” she said. “Three generations of families in some cases have passed through my classroom. I taught Marisol and her children, you know, although she was Betancourt back then. I also taught Johnny Morales. They were high school sweethearts, those two. I never did think they’d get married, but they did. Invited me to the wedding, in fact. Their divorce was disappointing, to say the least. I thought they’d make it. Amicable, for the kids, which is unusual, but heartbreaking just the same. There are too many divorces,” she said. “Far too many divorces.”

  Mrs. Branford wasn’t judging me, but her words made me think of the shambles that had been my marriage. It had nearly crushed me. After my high school love affair with Miguel had ended, I’d run far away from Santa Sofia, ending in A
ustin, Texas. Luke Holden, who I’d always described as a swashbuckling cowboy, had thrown a lasso and caught me when I’d been at my most vulnerable. I met his Louisiana family, spent long weekends with him in the Texas Hill Country, and had buried my heartbreak over Miguel. For all his faults, he’d helped me move on. Which didn’t mean I should have married him, but I had. In the Rhinestone Chapel in Nashville, no less, married by an Elvis look-alike. My family hadn’t been there. I hadn’t had the white dress, the walk down the aisle on my dad’s arm, the something blue, along with words of wisdom from my mom. I’d sacrificed those things in order to get over the love of my life.

  I’d made a choice. A bad choice, as it turned out, which I’d discovered after spending countless hours sleuthing, confirming what I had already known: My husband was a lying cheat. In retrospect, I realized that I’d naïvely chosen to ignore the clues. I’d wanted so much for the marriage to be real. For it to last. I hadn’t wanted to be a statistic, or a woman who’d fallen for the wrong sort of man. But in the end, I couldn’t deny the truth of the matter: Luke Holden had not been the man I’d thought he was.

  So I, like Marisol and so many others, had ended up divorced. It certainly had not been in my life plan, but ending my marriage had given me a chance for a new beginning—or a reboot of an old one—with Miguel Baptista. Mrs. Branford had said he was my soul mate, and Olaya had had no doubt that Miguel and I would end up together again. I, however, hadn’t been so sure. We’d had baggage in the form of a hugely overblown misunderstanding, but turns out that those two women—the women I valued most of all in the world—had been right. Miguel and I did belong together and we were figuring that out. He’d told me that he was “all in,” and I believed him. I’d been fortunate enough to find love again, just like Marisol had with David.

  “Penelope, how you do love the chisme,” Olaya said with a tsk, but then she urged Mrs. Branford on. “I believe it is you who need to, how did you say, fill us in? You tell us what you know about Marisol and Johnny.”

  Mrs. Branford looked around, spotted a stool in front of the baking station next to Olaya, and scooted over to it. She perched, propping her cane on the floor in front of her, looking like she might break into a rendition of “All That Jazz.” She was only missing the top hat. Well, and a black halter burlesque outfit with black stockings and garters, à la Liza Minnelli, but still.

  I found my own stool opposite Mrs. Branford while Olaya set aside the loaf pan with the rosehip wheat bread and started to clean the area.

  “Can you listen and work at the same time?” Mrs. Branford asked. Her expression was innocent, but there was a mocking undercurrent to the question. She and Olaya had forged an unlikely friendship after years of steadfastly avoiding one another. They were still navigating the shift in their relationship and it wasn’t always smooth sailing.

  Olaya flashed an indulgent smile. “I know that must be challenging for you, Penelope, but remember, you do have a few years on me. You tell your story. I will manage just fine, gracias.”

  Mrs. Branford ran her gnarled fingers along the edge of her bandana, tucking a stray silver curl back under the teal fabric. “To teenagers, a tragic Romeo and Juliet or Maria and Tony love story fraught with discord and forbidden love is what it is all about. Something stable and normal is, quite sadly, not exciting enough to so many. But Marisol and Johnny, they were different, as I recall. They genuinely liked each other. Their families approved. They were friends before they were anything else. It happened quite naturally for them.”

  “Your memory of them, it is quite strong. How many years ago was this?” Olaya asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

  Mrs. Branford tapped her temple with the pad of her index finger. “My mind is a steel trap.”

  I did a little mental math. If Marisol was in her fifties and Mrs. Branford taught her when she was sixteen or seventeen, that had been up to forty years ago, back when Mrs. Branford herself would have been in her forties. Her mind really did have to be a steel trap for her to remember the ins and outs of two students’ relationship that long ago.

  “So you’re saying they were really in love?” I asked.

  “As much as two teenagers can be,” she said. “And then their relationship developed into something more mature. More adult. And they married and had three very smart, very lovely children.”

  By this time, Olaya had finished wiping down the stainless steel countertop where she’d been kneading bread. She turned her full attention to Mrs. Branford. “What went wrong?”

  “Now that, I’m afraid, I was not privy to. Of course I ran into Marisol once in a while at Baptista’s, but the failure of one’s marriage isn’t typical lighthearted conversation during one’s meal. And although I do sometimes see Johnny, as well, he isn’t one to make small talk.”

  I’d wondered about Marisol’s ex-husband. There was always the possibility of a motive there. And Martina had started to say something about the change in the will being about Lisette’s father. From what I’d gathered, they’d been divorced a good many years, but had the dissolution of their union been mutual, or could he harbor disgruntled feelings about it? About her? About her second marriage to David? About the house? “Where do you see Johnny?” I asked.

  “He’s a loan officer at my bank. Of course, I don’t have much occasion to speak with him, given that I have no need to borrow money. Still, he’s of the generation that values the elderly and he is always quick to show respect in that way, even if he’s reserved. He asks about my health, as so many are wont to do when speaking to someone as old as I am. I ask after his children. That is about the extent of it.”

  She fell silent just long enough for me to meet her gaze. “Did you say you were thinking of fixing up your backyard?” she asked randomly.

  I had, but not with any real intent, but I nodded. “You need money for that.”

  She tilted her head. “Money in the form of a loan, perhaps?”

  “I don’t want it that badly,” I said slowly, my mind trying to catch up with whatever she was suggesting.

  “You could come to my bank.”

  “I could,” I agreed, finally catching her drift. “And I could speak to Johnny Morales about it—”

  “Among other things—” she suggested.

  “Like his ex-wife’s death,” I finished.

  Olaya looked from Mrs. Branford to me, her brows tugged together like two thin caterpillars crawling toward one another. “You are changing your backyard?”

  “No, no,” I said, hiding a smile. Something had been lost in translation during my quick exchange with Mrs. Branford. “I mean, maybe, but no. I just want to talk to Marisol’s ex-husband to see, mmm, you know, if he might have any ideas on Marisol’s death.”

  Olaya’s face cleared of confusion. “Ah, entiendo. A loan is simply an excuse to talk to him.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Because maybe he knows something.”

  Mrs. Branford stood, using her cane to steady herself. I was never sure if she really needed the walking stick or not. Half the time she had it with her, she swung it around more like a prop. But then there were times, like now, that made me doubt my skepticism. “If we leave now,” she said, “we will just make it before closing.”

  Chapter 10

  Mrs. Branford and I made it to the Golden State Credit Union thirty minutes before closing. We sat side by side in the lobby of the credit union she’d been a member of throughout her teaching career. The building was smaller than some of the national bank branches. It was more utilitarian than luxe, with countertops of neutral quartz, equally neutral walls, and dark wood accents. A pneumatic tube system was prominent behind the main counter, where one teller manned the three drive-up stations. I watched as car after car after car drove into the bay. The drivers called the cylindrical carrier to them, filled it with deposit slips, and sent it back through the tube line to the bank. The teller’s voice was loud in the quiet bank. “I’ll have this deposited for you right away,” or “Ca
n I help you with anything else?” echoed though the building, as well as through the intercom system that traveled to the car station and customer he was actually speaking with.

  I’d put my name on the sign-in sheet to speak to a loan officer. From what I could tell, only one was on duty at the moment. Mrs. Branford confirmed that the man was, indeed, Johnny Morales. He worked intently with the customer seated across the desk from him, taking notes, typing on his keyboard while looking at his monitor, and relaying information back to the customer.

  Mrs. Branford had pulled out her smartphone and opened a card game app. “Bridge,” she told me.

  I came from a generation of Bunco players, but Mrs. Branford was of a different era. She had learned, like so many of her contemporaries, to play the complicated card game. It required concentration, understanding of the vocabulary, and skill in betting and playing the cards. “It is not a game of chance,” she told me once when I’d watched her play.

  “Do you play in a bridge group?” I asked. I’d met her little posse of friends, but she’d never mentioned playing cards with anyone.

  “Jimmy and I used to play duplicate bridge in a group,” she said. “Now I just play on this”—she held up her phone—“to keep my brain young, you know.”

  It certainly did the trick. Mrs. Branford was one clever woman, and age hadn’t slowed her down any.

  The man who’d been sitting with Johnny Morales stood. They shook hands, and he left. Johnny straightened up the papers on his desk before coming to the waiting area, checking the list, and calling my name. He was all business from his button-down shirt and tie to his serious demeanor. I wondered if he’d be difficult to talk to, or if he’d open up about anything other than loans.

  As I stood, holding on to Mrs. Branford’s elbow to help her rise more easily, recognition dawned on Johnny’s face. “Mrs. Branford,” he said with a subdued smile. “Good to see you.”