“Not yet, but do you remember Candace Coffey?”
He closed his eyes and for a few seconds I thought he had drifted off, but he opened them again suddenly and said, “Didn’t she used to be Candace McIntyre?”
“Right. She married Maxwell Coffey.” I rolled my eyes. “What were his parents thinking when they named him that?”
Miguel laughed. “God. Good question. Very good question.”
I swallowed my laugh. “Candy is on the school board, too.”
“One of the schools has a Spring Fling coming up next weekend. Someone there did hit me up to sponsor it.”
“Are you going to do it?” I asked. The Spring Fling was a big fundraiser for one of the elementary schools. Some schools did fall festivals. Others held holiday events. Chavez Elementary capitalized on the temperate weather and spirit of new beginnings, holding theirs in April. Olaya had been asked to sponsor a booth, so Yeast of Eden would be selling bread there.
Miguel’s eyelids fluttered to half-mast. “I can’t. We have a big event that weekend. I need to find that message,” he murmured.
I went back to Candace Coffey. “Candy was elected two years ago. Board members serve four-year terms.”
“Mmm.”
I was losing him, and it was no wonder. Restaurant work was hard. The guy was exhausted after a long week followed by catering the wedding.
I scanned back over the search results for Nessa, zeroing in on her social media profiles. Just like that, I made a decision, moved the mouse, and tapped the touchpad on my laptop to start an account on Twitter. For the bread shop’s account, I’d used the Yeast of Eden info email. For this one, I used my personal email. I paused as I thought of what handle to use. I went with @Ivy_Baker. Miguel’s eyes had drifted closed and before long his breathing grew rhythmic and steady. I finished setting up my Twitter account, and immediately followed the people who’d been actively commenting on Nessa Renchrik’s death. Finally, I responded to @MarisasMama, the person who’d said: Ding dong, the witch is dead, with the simple statement, Tell me more.
I was about to close the tab and sign off for the night when a got a direct message alert from @MarisasMama. It was short and to the point: Santa Sofia is better off without Nessa Renchrik.
Immediately, I typed: Why?
@MarisasMama was just as quick with her response: She was just another politician. She didn’t care about the kids, or anyone for that matter.
Huh. My fingers flew over the keyboard. I thought people liked her. Three terms . . .
She was a liar and she didn’t play by the rules.
@MarisasMama seemed to be in the know. I replied with a shocked, What do you mean?
You have to practice what you preach, @MarisasMama replied.
I decided to push a little further. See if she would give up some actual details. Who did she have in her pocket?
This time, @MarisasMama didn’t answer right away. I tapped the pads of my fingertips against the sides of my laptop, waiting. God, I hoped I hadn’t scared her away. Finally, after a solid minute, the DM came: Who are you?
Shoot. How could I answer that question and keep her talking? I went with a version of the truth: Just a concerned citizen.
The police?
No! Ha-ha. I work in a bakery. I grew up here. Just curious. That was all true.
There was another pregnant pause before @Marisas Mama responded again. It was a link. That was it.
I clicked on it, and it took me to a newspaper article about a local ICE sting that had resulted in the arrest of more than one hundred people just outside our county limits. The article detailed the operation, which included the raid of a local trailer park that housed the majority of the immigrants. A few, apparently, managed to escape through something that was being called an Underground Railroad, of sorts, but most had been caught in ICE’s net. It was unclear from the article how or why this particular region and location had been selected by the immigration agency.
How had I never heard of this? Why had Emmaline never mentioned it? The neighboring sheriff’s department would have worked with the government agency, but surely she would have had information about it. I picked up my phone to text her, abruptly stopping when I remembered that it was her wedding night.
I went back to Twitter and my direct message inbox. Nothing new from @MarisasMama. I messaged her: What does this have to do with Nessa Renchrik?
I waited for a response. Crickets. @MarisasMama seemed to be done chatting with me. I clicked on her profile to see what information I could glean about her. Front and center was her photo, which was a close-up of her face, oversized throwback glasses, bright red lips, a sweep of brown highlighted hair, and sparkling white teeth. Her bio information stated that she was a feminist, immigrant daughter, and proud mother of a baby girl. More than that, though, was her name. Lulu Sanchez-Patrick. I highlighted it, copied it, and pasted it into the search bar. The Internet was magic. Just like that, I had more information than Lulu Sanchez-Patrick probably wanted the world to know about her. I clicked, clicked, clicked, writing down in my notebook her name, birth-date, email address, place of employment, and the name of her husband. The Internet was magic, but also scary.
Beside me, Miguel sighed and rolled over, his body facing me. Agatha complained, repositioning herself, her back pressed against his legs. His eyes were still closed, but his hand reached out to touch mine.
I signed off, leaned my computer up against my nightstand, and turned off the light. Tomorrow, I’d see if I could set up a meeting with @MarisasMama, aka Lulu Sanchez-Patrick.
Chapter 3
Miguel’s restaurant was closed on Sundays and Mondays. So was Yeast of Eden, and the school district was not open on Sundays, which meant I did not have direct access to any information from the belly of the beast, so to speak. What I did have was an email for Candace Coffey, but despite multiple tries, I didn’t hear from her until Monday morning.
“Ivy Culpepper,” she said when I called her on the number she sent through email. “Getting your message was like a blast from the past. I heard you were back in town, but, God, I haven’t heard from you in ages. I was really sorry about your mom.”
My mom’s unexpected—and far too early—death had initially brought me back to Santa Sofia. Olaya Solis and her bread shop had been one of the key factors in my staying. Bread making, it turns out, is good for the soul.
“Thanks,” I said, wanting to quickly change the subject. I couldn’t ask her how she’d been during the many years I’d been gone because, as of Saturday, I knew she had been horrible. A murder could do that to a person. “I heard about what happened—”
“It’s unreal,” she interrupted. “I don’t know why she was even at the district office. The board meeting’s not till tomorrow.” She paused. “You know, when I first found out, I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that she was just here, and then suddenly she just wasn’t. Honestly, I still can’t quite believe it.”
I knew that feeling well, but I didn’t want to go there with my emotions. Instead, I redirected. “I’d love to get together for a cup of coffee or something.”
She hesitated for the briefest moment before saying, “I’m meeting the detective in charge of the investigation at the district office in . . . gosh . . . thirty minutes, then . . . I don’t know; it’s a busy day.”
I jumped at the opening. “No problem. I can come to the district office. I’d just love to see you and say hi. I’ll see you soon!” I spoke quickly and hung up before Candy could discourage me from coming or, worse, tell me not to come at all.
Agatha stood at my feet, looking up at me with her huge expectant eyes. I crouched down to scratch the top of her head. “Sorry, chickadee. No w.a.l.k. right now.” I spelled it out because she knew the word “walk” and I didn’t want to tease her. “We’ll go to the beach later. Deal?”
She gave me a slow blink, as if she’d understood everything I’d just said and was communicating her disappointment. She tu
rned her backside to me, trotted to the couch, her little tail curled into a coil, jumped up, and turned herself around until she found the perfect spot to curl up in.
“Okay, then. Wish me luck.” I slung on my crossbody bag, took the keys from the hook in the hallway, and went into the garage, pressing the button to open the door. It was an automatic action. I entered the garage, got in the car, and backed out, almost without thinking. Today was no different, except when I put the car in reverse and started back I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a figure standing smack in the middle of the driveway. I slammed on the brakes and yelled. My hand instantly shot out, my finger depressing the button on the door. The driver’s side window slid down and I craned my head out, yelling. “Mrs. Branford! You scared me to death! I could have hit you.”
She marched up to the passenger side of the car, swinging her handy-dandy cane, which was more of a prop than an actual necessity, yanked open the door of my pearl-white Fiat crossover, and slid in. “Thankfully you did not hit me. Now, where are we going?”
I rolled my window back up then turned to face her. She’d closed her door and her cane was now lying across her legs, the handle in her right hand, the bottom of it pointed straight at me, moving slightly in a back-and-forth slide. The way she held on to it conjured up an image of a pool cue, with me as the ball.
I shook my head, dislodging that idea. Mrs. Branford was feisty and she wasn’t one to easily follow directions if she had her own idea about something, but a pool shark she was not. “We? Where are we going? I know where I’m going,” I said.
“And I know that wherever you are going, it has something to do with that woman’s death.”
I sputtered in a non-denial denial, but she held up one gnarled hand. “No need to deny it, my dear. I know you quite well.”
That was true. But my suspicion was that she’d also overheard my conversation with Emmaline at the wedding. “I’m just doing what Em asked me to do. You know how she is.”
“I do, indeed. She has a hard time letting go of control, even on her honeymoon.” She’d hit the nail on the head. “And as you know,” she continued, “every good sleuth needs a sidekick. Time to reprise my role.”
I finished backing out of the garage, but now the car was idling on the driveway. “Reprise your role?”
“Of course.” She left it at that.
When I thought about it, she had practically given me a heart attack a couple of times (poker at a bar called The Library), but she’d also been quite helpful in ferreting out the truth, too (poker at a bar called The Library).
I thought about canceling. Calling the whole thing off. After all, I was not a crime investigator. Miguel’s words from the wedding sounded in my head: Stay out of it. But it turns out I couldn’t. Em had asked for my help, and Mrs. Branford was strapped in and ready to go. “Okay, then,” I said. I checked the rearview and looked over my shoulder, then backed out of my driveway.
I started filling Mrs. Branford in on the few details I had. “The victim’s name is Nessa Renchrik. School board president. She was found dead in the board’s meeting room.”
“Dead as in murdered,” Mrs. Branford said. Not a question, but a statement. “R-e-n-c-h-r-i-k?”
I verified the spelling with a nod of my head.
A periwinkle Moleskine notebook suddenly appeared in Mrs. Branford’s hand, along with a black gel pen.
I stared. Where had she hidden that?
She turned to the first page and wrote something. I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the page. In her spidery writing, she’d created a title page that said: “Nessa Renchrik.” She turned the page and wrote something else. Presumably the cause of death.
“You’re taking notes?”
“I always have. It’s the best way to commit things to memory if you are a tactile learner, which I am.”
“Have you always taken notes, I mean, of—” I broke off, not sure how to say what I wanted to say. “Our cases” wasn’t accurate. I went with, “Of the crimes we’ve, um, sleuthed?”
“Always. I have a neat row of five little notebooks on my bookshelf.”
Huh. It was quite similar to the notes I’d taken during my Internet search the other night. But five uniform Moleskine notebooks was more orderly than I’d been. How had I never known this about her?
“Okay, then,” I said again. Mrs. Branford was leaving me a little speechless today.
“Cause of death?” she asked.
“Emmaline texted this morning. She said the victim appeared to have been hit with a chair. Blunt force trauma to the head when she fell against the table on the dais.”
“What else do you know? Cops?”
I turned to stare at her. She gained confidence with every crime we encountered. “With Em on her honeymoon, Captain Craig York is in charge.” Of course he probably would have been in charge regardless, given his position in the department and the new division Emmaline had created. But I knew her. She liked to have her hands in every pot, and the murder of a school board member was a pretty big pot.
“And Emmaline asked you to keep her posted about anything unusual you happen to happen upon.”
Statement, not question. Mrs. Branford knew me well, and it looked like she had a pretty good handle on my new sister-in-law, too.
“The criminal division is investigating. I’m just going to talk to an old high school friend.”
At this, Mrs. Branford, with her snowy white curls and the map of wrinkles on her face, turned a side-eye to me. “Any high school friend of yours is probably a former student of mine.”
That was true. Mrs. Branford had been an institution at Santa Sofia High School. Both Billy and I had been through her class, as had Emmaline, Miguel’s sister, Laura, and most of our friends. “Her name was Candace McIntyre, now Candace Coffey.”
She leaned her head against the back of her seat and closed her eyes. “Candace McIntyre. Candace McIntyre. Candace . . . Candy.” She sat up and her eyes popped open. “Candy McIntyre. I remember her. On the short side. Permanent smile and rosy cheeks.”
“That’s her,” I said, “although I haven’t seen her in years. And given the murder, she’s probably not too smiley right now.”
Silence fell for a few seconds before Mrs. Branford’s voice broke into it, calm and reflective. “ ‘If I should go before the rest of you / Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone / Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice / But be the usual selves that I have known / Weep if you must / Parting is hell / But life goes on / So sing as well.’”
Ever the English teacher, I ventured a guess. “Walt Whitman?”
“Good heavens, no. Joyce Grenfell. She was not known as a poet, but if the poem fits—”
We drove in silence and I thought about the recitation. It was, I realized, Mrs. Branford’s ode to death, though written by someone else. She had no use for sorrow. She lived life as she wanted. Maybe Nessa Renchrik had, too.
“What else do you know?” Mrs. Branford asked after we’d driven a few blocks.
“Forty-two years old. Mother of two. She’s been school board president a long time. She was in the middle of her second term.”
“And she was found, on a Saturday, in the boardroom.”
“Yes. The board meeting is scheduled for tomorrow night.”
“Did she have a reason to be in the district office?”
That was a question I’d asked myself and of course I didn’t have the answer to. Candy didn’t seem to think so. “Whether she did or didn’t, who would have known she was there?”
Mrs. Branford rolled her cane on her lap. “Who’s to say she was the intended victim? Could she have interrupted something?”
That was an excellent question. I’d assumed Nessa Renchrik had been the intended victim, but maybe she hadn’t been. Figuring out the truth there meant fleshing out Nessa’s life. My mind strayed to @MarisasMama. She seemed to think Nessa had it coming. “If we look at her death as accidental—wrong place, wrong time�
�that definitely changes things. Who else would have been there? What could she have walked in on?”
“Or,” Mrs. Branford said, “maybe she had planned to meet someone there and things had gone wrong.”
My octogenarian neighbor loved nothing more than to play devil’s advocate. “She was elected twice; either she was well liked . . . or respected, or she was a good politician,” I said.
“Those things are, quite often, mutually exclusive,” she said.
Well-liked and respected politicians. Right. “If she was the intended victim, someone clearly was not fond of her. This case is high profile, Mrs. Branford. Emmaline is worried because it’ll be in the news cycle. If we can help get to the bottom of it, fast, she might be able to enjoy her honeymoon. If not, well . . .”
“Enough said, dear. We will put on our thinking caps and we will save your brother and new sister-in-law’s honeymoon.”
I hit the brake pedal and came to a stop at a traffic light. “Maybe Captain York already has it figured out,” I said.
She turned her head slightly, giving me a faint smile. “One can hope.”
I’d spent some time on Sunday researching the district’s school board. The now four-member board—until Nessa Renchrik’s seat was filled—consisted of three women and one man. Poor Jerry Zenmark. I didn’t envy his role as the one male. Candace Coffey had been vice president to Nessa. Now, I supposed, she was acting president.
I’d had the good sense to add Candy’s info to my Contacts on my phone. Now I pressed the Call button on my steering wheel, which was connected to my Bluetooth. A second later, I spoke aloud. “Call Candace Coffey.”
The car’s automated voice responded with a robotic, “Calling Candace Coffey.”
A woman answered, her voice wary . . . and weary.
“Candy, it’s Ivy.”
The connection was crackly, but Candace Coffey’s sigh was unmistakable. She’d been holding her breath—had probably answered the phone before checking the caller ID. When she heard a friendly voice, her relief was evident. “Ivy. Are you on your way?”
Death Gone A-Rye Page 3
