Flour in the Attic

by Winnie Archer

  When we’d come with Emmaline, only two of the lockers had been secured with locks. She’d cut the combination lock off of Marisol’s, but the other we’d left alone. Now, however, none of the lockers were secure. How had we not thought to ask if the other belonged to David?

  “This was David’s,” Miguel said, opening a locker at the end of the row. A baseball cap hung from a hook at the top right, a lightweight windbreaker from the hook on the left, and a rolled-up newspaper sat on the shelf at the top. That was it. No journals, notebooks, letters, or anything else that looked like it might have belonged to Marisol.

  My eyes skimmed the other lockers. “Can we take a quick peek—?”

  Miguel grimaced. “I’m going to check on things in the kitchen,” he said pointedly. I took that to mean that he wanted no part in searching his employees’ lockers, and he was leaving me to my own devices in his absence.

  He left, and I was alone. Searching the lockers was an invasion of privacy. I knew that. But I also knew we were on the right track. This is where David had come. I’d lay down money that he’d found what he’d been looking for, and he’d ended up dead.

  I worked quickly, opening each locker, searching only with my eyes—unless I had to move something aside, in which case I did that, albeit with lightning speed—then closing it again. Purses hung from hooks, spare shoes sat at the bottom, extra changes of clothes swung from hangers, but there was nothing that looked like it might have belonged to Marisol. No journals, letters, notes, dollar-store composition books. “Nothing,” I muttered.

  I sat down facing the little kitchenette, elbows propped on the table, head in hands, and racked my brain. Marisol had discovered something. If she’d written letters or notes, as Johnny indicated was her habit, she had to have kept them somewhere. If not her house, then where? The restaurant—this break room—this was the only logical answer. “I’m not wrong,” I said under my breath, thinking that David must have taken them. If he did, then the killer now had them. That was obvious. And yet . . .

  Something Miguel said niggled at the back of my brain. When we’d met Emmaline here and she’d searched Marisol’s locker, Em had asked if everyone used the break room. Yes, he’d said, but Marisol more than anyone. She’d come up here, make a cup of tea, and relax until her shift started. I tried to put myself in her place. She was spooked about whatever it was she’d discovered. She’d wanted to talk to Johnny—whether because he was part of it or because she needed someone to confide in, I wasn’t sure. If I assumed that she had written down some notes about the situation, or had written a letter, or had journaled, I could also assume that she’d hidden those notes somewhere. She hadn’t kept anything like that at her house, presumably for fear of discovery. Was David involved, then? Had she been hiding it from him? Is that why she’d called Johnny instead of her own husband?

  If she didn’t want David to discover her notes or letters, then she certainly wouldn’t have hidden them in his locker. But Baptista’s still made the most sense. If not in the lockers, where else might she have hidden something? I stood abruptly, dragged my chair across the room and climbed onto it. I peered at the top of the row of lockers, thinking maybe she’d stuck something there, then I sighed. Nothing but a thick layer of dust.

  I turned and faced the room, still on my perch. My gaze fell on the sofa. Could she have stuck something underneath it? Or in the cushions? I climbed down, dropped to my knees in front of the couch, and peered into the darkness. There was no way I was blindly sticking my hand into the narrow space. I quickly inspected the cushions, but they were not the removable type, so there was no way Marisol could have hidden anything between them.

  I stood all the way up, grabbed hold of the sofa’s armrest, and pulled it away from the wall. Dust bunnies danced around in the revealed space, but nothing else. I put my hands on my hips and spun around, looking at other possibilities in the room. All that was left was the kitchenette area. One by one, I flung open the cupboards. Miguel had outfitted the break room space with a matching set of dinner plates, small plates, bowls, and mugs. In the next cupboard were both large and small glasses. Next to that was a bag of coffee grounds, boxes of crackers, granola bars, teas, containers of salt and pepper, and a few other snacks designed to tide over a hungry server or hostess. The second shelf held several more larger boxes: cereal, more crackers, a bag of granola, and two bags of chips. With all the good food the restaurant made, I couldn’t imagine stuffing myself with the processed foods up here, but when you’re hungry, you’re hungry, I reasoned, and black bean arepas were not always at the ready.

  There was a small sink in the middle of the counter with an equally small drying rack positioned next to it. A single plate and mug lay haphazardly on the rubber-coated slats. I crouched to my haunches, opening the bottom cupboards. A mini-fridge was built in. Inside it were colorful cans of sparkling water, two bottles of kombucha, a container of hummus, a carton of almond milk, a quart of whole milk, and a baggie of baby carrots mixed with celery slices.

  The space directly under the sink held a roll of paper towels, a spray bottle of cleaner for the countertop, an unopened package of sponges, as well as a single shriveled sponge that had seen better days, a cylindrical container of abrasive cleanser, and a drain stopper. All the things you’d expect to find underneath a sink and nothing out of the ordinary. There was no “what doesn’t belong” item. No stationery or metal lock box. No bag tucked away in the back corner.

  I hauled myself to standing again just as the door opened and Miguel reappeared. He took in the altered state of the room—the chair next to the lockers, the couch pulled away from the wall, and the cupboard doors open—and frowned. “Nothing?”

  “Not even an illicit pack of cigarettes. Your employees are squeaky clean.”

  He strode across the room, replaced the chair and the table and moved the sofa back against the wall. “I really thought you might find something,” he said as he moved to the kitchenette and began closing the cupboards I’d opened.

  “Lots of cereal and crackers,” I said, “but no letters or journals.”

  Miguel froze, one hand on the knob of the cupboard door he’d been about to close. “Unless. . .” He took out a box of crackers and turned it this way and that, looking at the front and back. He replaced it and took out another box. “Some of these are communal, but sometimes people bring in their own stuff and label it.”

  My skin pricked again as I watched him finish the bottom shelf then move on to the contents of the upper shelf. One by one, he removed the boxes, checking for names, popping open the lids and peering inside, and one by one, he slid them back into the cupboard. One bag of all-natural organic granola was labeled DAVID. The bag was half full. A box of Wheat Thins had RUBY scrawled across it. It was unopened. A box of Pop-Tarts was empty save the crumbled remains of half a pastry. JULIAN was written in faint pencil.

  The last few items in the cupboards were cereal boxes. Miguel took the first two out, handing them to me to inspect, then reached for the last one. “This one is Julian’s,” I said. His name was scratched into the cardboard with a pencil. The sugary cereal was nearly gone. “He has a bit of a sweet tooth.”

  “He does. He’s a good guy, but I have to watch the flan and churros when he’s on shift.”

  I handed him the box to put away and looked at the last one. It was a whole-grain organic concoction filled with nuts, dried berries, and ancient grains. Not the type of cereal Julian would go for, but it was the type a health-conscious athlete might eat. I searched for a name, drawing in a sharp breath when I saw Marisol’s name written in block letters across the top in bold black Sharpie. “This is hers,” I said, setting down the box and reaching to look inside, but my heart sank. It was brand-new, so she couldn’t have hidden anything inside.

  “So much for that theory,” Miguel said, but as I lifted the box to slide it back into the cupboard, the bottom flaps loosened.

  “Look,” I said, breathless after I’d flipped
it over. It had been opened from the bottom.

  Miguel and I looked at each other for a moment. Could my hunch really have paid off? I held my breath, opened the flaps, and looked inside. The thick plastic of the interior bag crackled as I pulled it out. It was unopened. I could see something else inside the box. I set the cereal bag aside, then turned the box right side up, holding the flaps open. A sheaf of folded papers fell to the counter, scattering as they hit the beige Corian.

  “That’s Marisol’s writing,” Miguel said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve worked with her and seen her order tickets come through the kitchen since I was a kid. I’m sure.”

  I held my breath as I picked them up, moved to the table, and spread them out.

  Chapter 22

  Miguel and I spent more than forty minutes reading and rereading, deciphering and discussing the notes we’d found in the cereal box. With each passing minute, the weight pressing down on me grew exponentially. The first sheet was an apology letter she’d started, but not finished, to her father. One line stuck out to me: I don’t know where you are, but you will always be in my heart. In my soul.

  “What does that mean, she doesn’t know where he is?” I mused aloud. It was like her father had disappeared, not died, but Miguel couldn’t answer that question any more than I could. I set aside the letter and moved on to another sheet of paper. It was a list of items and questions, but with no specific rhyme or reason.

  Betrayal

  Donors

  Legal?

  Regulations?

  Cement

  Bricks

  Garden

  CFB

  How many?

  Records

  The van

  I read it to myself, then aloud. “What’s CFB?” I wondered as I took out my cell phone. I saw a missed call and message from Lisette. I listened to it, squinting my eyes closed as if that would heighten my ability to hear and decipher the slurred words. I couldn’t make it all out, however, so I put it on speaker and pressed play again.

  The connection was bad, broken up with static to the point where there were big gaps in her speech. “It’s Lis—can’t leave her—David tried—getting my mom—still there—”

  “I can’t make sense of that,” I said after playing it a third time.

  “Neither can I,” Miguel said.

  I tried to call back, but the phone went straight to voicemail. I left her a message telling her that we had some new information and to call me back ASAP. Then I went back to the Internet browser on my phone and looked up CFB.

  Listing after listing came up for financial advisers and banks. None of it seemed to connect in any way to Marisol. I tried one more page— the sixth—and scanned it. And then, just like that, the room seemed to turn upside down. “Oh no.”

  Miguel had been studying one of the bits of information, but his head snapped up at my voice. “What is it?”

  I handed him my phone, pointing to the link partway down the page. He read aloud. “CFB.CA.gov. The Department of Consumer Affairs, Cemetery and Funeral Bureau.” And then he looked up at me. “Oh. My. God.”

  * * *

  I’d been so off-base, but now I felt as if the fog was lifting. “Does this mean what I think it does?” I finally asked him after we’d gone over Marisol’s list with a new focus in mind. It was a rhetorical question, because I knew that we’d stumbled upon the truth. A truth full of holes and questions, but still the truth. My voice was quiet. Shocked. Horrified.

  Miguel had his elbows on the table, his hands clasped, his index fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He met my gaze, his lips drawn into a grim line, accentuated by his closely trimmed goatee. I took his silence as confirmation.

  “Do you think David found this stuff?” I’d gathered up the papers, queued up a scanning app on my phone, and was now laying them down, one by one, taking pictures so they’d be compiled into a PDF.

  “If not these, then something else that led to his murder.”

  I looked up suddenly. “We thought he went to the funeral home to provide a picture of Marisol for the service, but what if he’d arranged to meet the killer there? To force a confrontation?”

  Miguel’s cell phone vibrated against the table. “Damn.” He stood abruptly. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  I scoffed at the very idea. I had a plan, but it was not something I wanted to do alone.

  After he left, I finished scanning the last of Marisol’s papers, generated a PDF, and emailed it to myself and to Emmaline with the subject line: Marisol Ruiz. Inside the email, I wrote a brief explanation:

  Em, Miguel and I found these notes written by Marisol. We think David might have found them, too. We are going to Vista Ridge to find out the truth once and for all. ~Ivy

  Next, I called her, but the call went straight to voicemail. After I hung up, the time reappeared on the screen of my phone: 9:36. How had it gotten to be so late? I tried the actual sheriff’s office on the off chance that she’d be there burning the midnight oil, but the call was answered by a recording stating it was after hours and directing me to 911 if it was an emergency. I dialed the cell phone again, this time leaving a message telling Emmaline that Miguel and I had discovered something big and to check her email. Finally, I sent a text saying the same thing as my voicemail message had. I was zero for three in successful communication, but she wouldn’t be off the grid for long.

  I put Marisol’s notes in my purse, replaced the cereal box in the cupboard for the time being, turned off the light, and went downstairs to wait for Miguel.

  * * *

  Miguel and I headed to Vista Ridge, new thoughts spinning through my mind. The Alcotts. Suzanne and Benjamin. Sister and brother. Morticians. Long time Santa Sofia residents.

  My skin turned cold. The way I interpreted Marisol’s list led me to believe there was a very dark and sordid side to the funeral home. I summoned up an image of the sign in front of the building, remembering the backlit rectangle with the stark white background and VISTA RIDGE FUNERAL HOME in bold navy blue letters. But it was the services offered that I conjured up in my mind.

  BURIAL * DONOR * PRE-NEED * MONUMENTS * CREMATION

  Marisol had written the word Donor on the list we’d found. A quick Internet search had shown me that there were, in fact, strict regulations in place for donor services. I’d also found that it was rare for a donor business to be aligned with a funeral home. “Could they be donating body parts without signed consent?” I asked aloud, speculating. I’d read enough to understand that organs and body parts were used for research and education. This wasn’t about organ transplants, but about selling organs and body parts for profit. I reorganized my thinking about the letter David had shown us. Could it have been written to Benjamin Alcott instead? I repeated it in my mind, redesigning the recipient:

  I know what you did. What you’re doing, and I’m disgusted. But I don’t know what to do. What do I do? Do I tell? We’ve been grieving for my father, and you do this? We’ve known each other since we were kids. I should have been able to trust you. I can’t get my head around the idea that you betrayed me like this. My father . . . oh God, my father. And my kids . . . what do I tell them?

  It made sense. More sense than if she’d written it to her ex-husband, in fact. I broke the letter down by line. Marisol knew what the Alcotts had done. Selling organs from the dead, presumably. But she was overwrought and betrayed because she’d trusted her old friend, and it had happened to her own father. Marisol had known them a long time, I realized. Mrs. Branford said Benjamin Alcott had been her student. That would have been around the same time as Marisol and Johnny had been.

  Miguel’s lips were drawn into a tight, grim line. He didn’t have to say anything for me to know what he was thinking. He hadn’t forgotten the fact that his father hadn’t been buried in his suit. If Vista Ridge was operating their donation services without family consent, it was possible that had happened to his own father.


  “Miguel,” I said, but he shook his head and gripped the steering wheel. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities relating to his father at the moment. I didn’t blame him.

  Instead, he asked, “So why’d she call to meet Johnny? Was she going to confide in him? Tell him what she suspected? Ask for his help?”

  I’d given this some thought and had a theory. “I think she wasn’t sure if she was on the right track and needed some validation.”

  “Why not go to David?”

  I’d also given this consideration. “Here’s what I think. The letter David found was written to someone Marisol had known for a long time. I thought it was to Johnny—that this was all about his gambling debt and the house. But it wasn’t. It’s not. Santa Sofia is a small town. There are still a lot of people here who never left. Look at us.”

  “We left,” he said. “We just came back.”

  “True. But my point is that she might have been questioning her own thought process, because she’s known the Alcotts for a long time. They both said they knew Marisol in school. I think she wanted to run her theory by someone else with a long history here. Johnny. I mean, without proof, saying a funeral home sold some organ of your loved one is hard to believe, isn’t it? Johnny could have helped her get perspective. He could have told her if she was way off-base or supported her if he thought she was on to something.”

  As “on track” as I felt we were in discovering what had led to Marisol’s death, it also felt as if there was a gaping hole that still needed filling. It had to do with some of the other things Marisol had noted. What van was she talking about?

  And what about the garden, the bricks, and cement? Was Marisol just noting that the funeral home was expanding the memorial garden? But again, why? What made that important?