Flour in the Attic

by Winnie Archer

  We shook off the somberness in the room, clearing the table, washing up, and serving the tiramisu for dessert. An hour later, Laura gathered up their things. “The babysitter can’t stay late tonight,” she said, and a few minutes later, after hugs and a heartfelt thank-you, they’d gone.

  Miguel and I were alone.

  Chapter 17

  For the time being, I’d dismissed all thoughts of Marisol’s children being involved with her death. Ruben and Sergio? No way. Lisette? She was angry, but I didn’t think she was a killer. Maybe my gut was misleading me, but I went with it anyway.

  Which meant focusing on Johnny.

  Miguel and I sat in his truck in his driveway debating our choices. “We could go knock on his door and just ask him outright,” I suggested.

  “I don’t think that would go over too well,” Miguel said. “ Hey, Johnny, is your ex-wife dead because you owe money that you can’t pay? Are you in deep with a loan shark?’ ”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” I said, conceding that showing up on Johnny’s doorstep at ten o’clock at night probably wasn’t the best idea, especially if there was a real chance that he was guilty. It seemed as if he’d had great intentions when he and Marisol had divorced; he’d wanted to protect her so she wouldn’t lose everything. But what if that sentiment had changed when she’d married David? It was entirely possible that he was in such debt that he’d thought Marisol could help him somehow. That she owed him. If she’d refused, he could have gotten angry.

  The downside to that theory was the fact that Marisol had asked to meet Johnny, not the other way around. If he’d been angry at her, wouldn’t he have been the one to initiate a meeting? I tossed out another idea. “We can see if he’s at the brewery Mrs. Branford told me about. If he’s not, we can ask around about him. Maybe someone there knows something about who he plays cards with, or if he’s in debt to someone.”

  “Maybe,” Miguel said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking it’s not the best idea to go digging up dirt on loan sharks. If Johnny had been concerned enough about his family’s safety to choose divorce, whatever he’s involved in can’t be good. Marisol was killed, remember.”

  That was a very good point, but I had an idea. Santa Sofia was a small town, after all, and as Mrs. Branford had said many times, she’d taught nearly everyone in town. I already knew that she was a gossip. If anyone would know about a loan shark in town, it would be her.

  Or Emmaline. But I didn’t want to call her. Not yet, anyway. We needed proof.

  I dialed Mrs. Branford, knowing she was probably in bed. But I also knew that she’d be thrilled that she was my go-to person. She loved being Watson to my Holmes. Archie Goodwin to my Nero Wolf. Hastings to my Poirot. She answered, not sounding groggy at all. “It’s about time,” she chastised.

  My first thought was Agatha. Had my little pug been a little pain? “Is Agatha okay? Do you need me to come get her?”

  She responded quickly. “Agatha’s just peachy. Right here by my side, aren’t you, sweet girl?” she said, and I imagined her scratching the dog’s little head.

  But then, all at once, I registered several unfamiliar sounds. My hackles went up. Maple Street was exceptionally quiet at this time of night. Most families with small children lived in the newer homes, usually more inland where they were slightly more affordable, and where there were parks and schools more easily accessible. I shouldn’t be hearing the blaring of a horn, or the chatter of people’s voices, or music. “Mrs. Branford—”

  “Penny, dear,” she said, interrupting me with what had become a running battle of wills. She wanted me to call her Penny, or Penelope, even, but I had met her as Mrs. Branford, and there was something respectful to her age and wisdom that kept me using that instead of adopting one of the informal monikers.

  “Mrs. Branford,” I said, emphasizing the name by speaking it slowly, “where are you?”

  She chortled. “Little Agatha and I decided we needed some fresh air.”

  I narrowed my eyes, my brows pinching together, because I knew she was up to something. Still, I played it off as if I weren’t suspicious. “Oh, great, you went for a walk?”

  “Well, no, not a walk.”

  “Where are you?” I asked, shooting a worried look at Miguel. My voice had dropped an octave and my heart suddenly pounded in my chest. Mrs. Branford’s night vision wasn’t great—she saw halos—and I knew by the way she’d responded that the fresh air she and Agatha had wanted had been achieved by them taking a drive. Mrs. Branford was a self-proclaimed nondriver at this point in her life. She preferred the volunteers who came and took her to the library or market or movies, or she waited for me to do those things with her. She had a beautiful old Volvo coupe, sage green, in her garage, but I’d been the last person to drive it. Mrs. Branford’s only daughter—Katherine, whom she’d named after the character in Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew—and who she said I reminded her of, had lost her battle with cancer years ago. She had two sons who would inherit the majority of her estate, but her car, which she and her husband had loved, she was bequeathing to me. I didn’t think she’d be out tooling around in it, and certainly not at this time of night.

  She exhaled, loudly, but didn’t answer my question. I mouthed to Miguel to start driving as I posed it again, more insistently this time. “Mrs. Branford, where are you?”

  “Ivy, dear, Agatha and I decided to get a jump on things—”

  Oh my God. “Tell me you’re not staking out Johnny Morales’s apartment.”

  Miguel snapped his head in my direction. “What the hell?”

  I dropped the phone to my lap and pressed the speaker button. “I am not staking out Johnny Morales’s apartment,” she said.

  I sighed with relief—until I thought about the way she’d phrased her denial. She was playing semantics with me, answering the question literally, which still left her whereabouts in a gray area. “Mrs. Branford,” I said, a tone of warning in my voice.

  This time she sighed. “We were staking out Johnny’s apartment, but when he left, we did, too.”

  “You followed him,” I said. It was a statement, not a question. I knew Mrs. Branford well enough to know that she would have stuck to Johnny like glue. I also knew enough about Johnny and what he was involved in that worry filled me. Mrs. Branford, with her snowy hair, distinctive velour tracksuits, and pristine white orthopedic shoes, didn’t exactly blend in, especially not in the gambling circles Johnny was likely to frequent.

  Miguel stopped at a traffic light, waiting to hear where she was so he’d know which way to drive.

  Mrs. Branford didn’t hear my chastisement, or she chose to ignore it. She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “He’s at the bar down the street from his apartment, just like I said he might be.”

  Chalk one up for Mrs. Branford’s armchair detective skills. “Stay in the car,” I directed. “We’re on our way.”

  I’d written down the address of the Inlands apartment complex. I showed the paper to Miguel. He took off the moment the light turned green and just as Mrs. Branford said, “What car?”

  My brows knitted together. So she hadn’t driven the Volvo. “You didn’t drive,” I stated matter-of-factly.

  “Ivy, dear, you know me better than that. Driving, especially at night, is not something I do anymore.”

  “Then how did you—oh, Uber,” I said.

  “Lyft, actually,” she corrected. “Very nice driver, I might add. He’s a young man saving money for college. He offered to wait for me, but I sent him on his way because I knew, of course, that you’d be along at some point.”

  “Mrs. Branford, where are you right now?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t actually inside the bar.

  “Sitting in the bar,” she answered glibly, as if she could read my mind and loved being contrary, “but don’t worry, Johnny isn’t here.”

  Miguel and I looked at each other. �
�If he’s not there, why are you there?”

  She chuckled. “Let me rephrase, my dear. He is here, he’s just not here.”

  Miguel turned onto Broadway, following it east. I rubbed my head, puzzled and a tiny bit frustrated at her word games. “What?”

  She lowered her voice and spoke, but her words were lost amidst the din of the background noise.

  “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?” I asked, raising the volume of my own voice.

  “There’s a gam—oom—” she said, but again, her words faded away as an electric guitar blared. She started to speak again, but the connection crackled. “I’m lo—sing y—ou,” she said, her voice breaking, and then, before she could say anything more, the line went dead.

  “Mrs. Branford?” I stared at the phone, watching as the screen turned dark. I immediately called her back, but it went straight to voicemail. I looked at Miguel. “How could she lose service in a bar?”

  His expression was grim. “I think she was saying that there’s a gaming room.”

  “Gaming, as in poker?”

  He nodded. “Most likely. And if it’s downstairs, which it probably would be given that gaming’s illegal, reception wouldn’t be as good.”

  Oh no. “You think she was going downstairs to spy on Johnny?”

  His frown gave me the answer to that question.

  We were silent for a few minutes as he drove, leaving the palm trees and beachy feeling of downtown behind the farther east we traveled. He made a left turn, followed by a quick right, then another left. We headed north for another mile before he turned onto Pelican Street.

  “There,” I said, spotting Inland Apartments a half mile down.

  Miguel slowed. He scanned the left side of the street while I searched the right, looking for the bar/brewery Mrs. Branford had followed Johnny to. “That’s gotta be it,” I said, pointing to the sign that said THE LIBRARY, sporting not books but a frothy mug of beer.

  “Clever,” Miguel said. “Where were you tonight, babe?”

  I put my flattened palm against my chest and feigned innocence. “Who, me? I was at the library.”

  Miguel smiled crookedly. “No lie there.”

  I spotted an old blue car parallel parked across from the bar. A Chevy Malibu. “That’s probably his.”

  Miguel pulled the truck into a spot on the next block. We doubled back to the bar, stopping just inside the entrance. For a Wednesday night, the place was hopping. I’d thought the guitar I’d heard over the phone had been from a juke box, but a live band was set up on a stage in the back of the room. They were in the midst of playing a Paramore song that I’d heard a million times on the radio. The bar itself was on the right side of the room with tables set up in an orderly manner. Along the wall were shelves with books lined up, lending a bit of corroboration to the name of the bar.

  I scanned the perimeter, looking for a stairwell or any other clue or sign that a poker game might be going on somewhere on the premises. Nothing jumped out at me, and there was no sign of Mrs. Branford or Agatha. I didn’t want to ask at the bar to alert the people here that an elderly woman with a little dog was lurking around, so I headed toward the back hallway where the restroom sign hung, Miguel right by my side.

  The hallway was dark and narrow. On one side were two scuffed dark wood doorways clearly marked GUYS and DOLLS. The restrooms. On the opposite side of the hall were two more doors, one marked with a placard that read OFFICE—PRIVATE. The other was unadorned.

  “I’m going to check in here first,” I said, wanting to make sure Mrs. Branford hadn’t just hidden herself away in in the women’s bathroom before Miguel and I ventured into an illegal gambling den.

  It took all of ten seconds to crouch down and see that one of the stalls was empty and the other was occupied by someone wearing flip-flops. Someone who was not Mrs. Branford. I returned to Miguel in the hallway. He notched his thumb to the men’s room. “She’s not in there, either.”

  My heart had been pounding since I’d found out Mrs. Branford was out detectiving on her own, but now it was practically hammering out of my chest. Who knew what was behind door number four and what she might have gotten herself into. If Johnny was mixed up with the wrong sort of people and they were sitting at a table with him playing illegal cards, then they wouldn’t be too happy having an old lady snooping around—or Miguel and me, for that matter.

  We looked at each other, nodded simultaneously, and before I could talk myself out of it, I turned the handle of the door, slowly pulling it open. An old sconce hung on the wall with a low-wattage lightbulb screwed into it. The illumination was dim, but it was enough to see the stairway leading down. I couldn’t hear anything—no voices, no interrogation of Mrs. Branford, no barking—so I stepped into the depths. Miguel followed, quickly closing the door behind him. It was an old building, with what looked like creaky wooden stairs. We tiptoed down, making as little noise as possible, managing to get to the bottom without alerting anyone who might be down here to our presence.

  I didn’t move forward, but instead held my right arm up in a silent gesture, feeling like a SWAT team officer noiselessly communicating with the rest of her team before doing a coordinated attack. The room was filled with cases of liquor. From where I stood, I could see boxes of bottled Michelob, Budweiser, Corona, Coors, and a handful of other brands, all in both regular and lite. Along another wall were boxes of the well liquor the bar used, as well as a variety of the top-shelf varieties like Tanqueray and Bombay gin, Glenfiddich, Patrón, and so many more. This was a drinker’s paradise. With this much alcohol, I couldn’t believe they didn’t keep the door locked. Unless—

  “Do you think Mrs. Branford knows how to pick a lock?” I whispered.

  Miguel looked over his shoulder to the top of the stairs as if the answer would be there, then turned back to me. “Does she have a secret sketchy life we don’t know about?”

  Neither one of us could answer either question so we left it and walked stealthily around the room. There was a built-in refrigerator where I assumed more beer was stored, as well as the kegs for the beer on tap. Shelving lined one section of wall housing bulk packages of napkins, stir sticks, massive cans of maraschino cherries, green olives, and other bar paraphernalia. I rounded a stack of boxes and stopped suddenly. Miguel’s hand landed on my hip as he came up short behind me. “There,” I said, pointing to a closed door. It could be another office or storage room, but it could be the secret gambling den Johnny played in.

  He nodded at me, and we both crept closer. I put my ear to the door and held my breath, my heart skittering when I heard faint voices. I couldn’t make out any of them, though.

  Miguel’s hand clasped my arm at the sound of a door opening at the top of the stairs. “What the hell?” someone said, then footsteps pounded quickly down the steps.

  Miguel yanked me behind the stacks of rum and whiskey boxes, ducking out of the way and crouching down on our haunches just as a figure approached the door. An arm jetted out, grabbing the handle and flinging it open. From where I hid, I could only see the man’s back, but the anger in his voice was unmistakable. “Why the hell is that door up there unlocked?” he demanded, followed quickly by a flabbergasted, “Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s cool, man,” a voice I recognized said. It was Johnny. “She used to be my teacher.”

  Mrs. Branford!

  Miguel squeezed my hand. My feisty friend was safe, and in the poker room.

  “I don’t care who she is. How the hell did she get down here?”

  “I ran into her outside the john,” Johnny said. I thought I detected a hint of contrition in his voice, but wasn’t sure.

  “It’s my fault,” Mrs. Branford said. Her voice was strong and confident. “When Johnny came out of the unmarked door in the hallway, I was curious. I know places like this have poker rooms, so I took a chance and asked him.”

  “She’s not the cops, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Johnny said, stating what had
to be obvious to anyone who met Penelope Branford. “I can vouch for her.”

  What a guy. I suspected he wouldn’t feel that way if he knew why she was really here.

  “Is that a dog?” the man at the door asked, incredulous, then again, “Is that a goddamned dog?”

  Mrs. Branford’s elderly voice piped up. “Have you heard of the poverty-of-vocabulary hypothesis?” After the man at the door responded with a negative grunt, she continued. “The theory is that swearing shows the weakness in your vocabulary, which is a direct result of poor education, laziness, or simply lack of impulse control. People will tend to judge you, perhaps unfairly, based on your use of vulgarity. They may, for example, see you as less friendly than your non-swearing counterparts.”

  The man stiffened and started to speak, but Mrs. Branford cut him off. “That is not to say that I believe this is all true, although I am not sensing the friendliness of your nature,” she said as an aside. “There are those who believe, conversely, that people who have a particularly strong vulgarity index may, in fact, be extraordinarily intelligent. Imagine, if you will, the difficulty that exists when one tries to translate untranslatable words from one language to another. There isn’t a way to express some things because the word only has meaning in one language. Likewise, certain so-called taboo words communicate an idea or emotion more effectively or succinctly than any other words might be able to. It is a linguistic strength, then, to effectively communicate using these words.”

  Someone in the room with Mrs. Branford sniggered. “Are you saying Brent is some sort of genius? Because I don’t know if that’s true.”

  “It is a possibility,” Mrs. Branford said. “He first asked if this was a dog, then he inserted the invective into the sentence, effectively changing the tone of the question. His intent was quite clear. The first question simply checked for understanding. Yes, in fact, this is a dog. But the second question conveyed his extreme displeasure in having said dog on the premises, all by adding a single word.” She paused, and I imagined her surveying her audience around the poker table. “Language is fascinating. An individual’s personal lexicon says so much about them. You, sir, run a business, suspected me of wrongdoing of some sort because I’m down here in this room with your regulars, yet you haven’t dragged me out of here because you know that I am not a threat. You’re curious. I probably remind you of your grandmother.”