Death Gone A-Rye

by Winnie Archer

  “I took this job when Terry and I first moved to Santa Sofia, so seven years or so now.”

  A contact from within the system. Maybe Mei could give me a little insight. Help narrow down the suspects. “So, you knew Nessa Renchrik?”

  But that idea was shot down. “Not really. I’ve had to do a few presentations for the board over the years, but my boss is the main point of contact for them.”

  “Hard to believe someone was killed right here.”

  She grimaced. “Yesterday it was a madhouse. Reporters and investigators. It’s been quiet for a little while now, thankfully. I could hardly hear myself think with all the commotion.”

  “I bet.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked me again.

  “Oh, well, um . . .”

  Mei tilted her head to one side, waiting while I hedged.

  With no other story to explain my visit, I went with the truth. Maybe the connection between Mei’s husband and my brother would be enough for her to want to help me. “I’ll be straight with you, Mei.”

  She waited, her hands clasped on the desk in front of her.

  “Em asked me to help her out a little bit. You know, with the murder investigation?”

  “Oh really? Like a deputy or something?”

  I’d already learned that Mei didn’t give too much away with her facial expressions. She was a closed book. I pressed on.

  “Kind of. Since she’s on her honeymoon, I’m kind of like her boots on the ground.”

  “Doesn’t she have people in the sheriff’s department for that?”

  I shrugged noncommittally. “I’m just helping out.”

  She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. “Terry said you’d done a little sleuthing.”

  It seemed I was earning a little bit of a reputation. I wasn’t sure whether to sink into my chair or sit up straighter. “A little bit, I guess.”

  “What does the superintendent have to do with this, though?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing!” I really didn’t know Mei. The last thing I wanted was for a rumor to start that Dr. Sharma was involved in Nessa Renchrik’s murder. “I was hoping to talk to her, but Tonya said she’s not available.”

  At this, Mei’s porcelain expression faltered. “Dr. Sharma is here, but . . .”

  “I’m sure she is busy.”

  Mei studied me for a moment. “If she isn’t involved in the murder, then why do you need to see her?”

  I gave a small shrug of my shoulders. “Emmaline and I went to school with one of the school board members—” She raised her eyebrows in a question. “With Candace Coffey.”

  Mei kept pushing. “But why the superintendent?”

  I didn’t want to tell Mei any more than I already had. The fact that there was a murder meant there was a murder er. No one was in the clear. “It’s nothing. Just a question I have,” I said, pretty sure Mei was done with my cryptic answers to her questions. But she stood suddenly and gestured for me to do the same, then led me down the hallway in the opposite direction from which we’d come. We turned a corner and passed a break room. Two women sat at an old fifties-style table. One of them hunched over a cup of coffee, gripping it between her hands. The other sat back, one leg crossed over the other. She was angled in her seat and rested one forearm on the table. “Hi, ladies,” Mei said, stopping in the doorway. “Lori, are you okay?”

  The woman hanging on to her coffee cup for dear life looked up at Mei but remained silent. The other woman spoke up. “She’s scared. There’s a murderer on the loose.”

  I met Lori’s shaken gaze and gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. I was on it, I wanted to say, but of course I couldn’t.

  “They’ll find him, whoever did this,” Mei said. “They’ll find him.”

  I nodded my own reassurance and followed Mei on down the hall. She slowed as we came to an office, the door cracked open. Voices drifted out and I heard someone say, “Because she was putting in a bid for state senate, and she had a good chance of winning.”

  I drew in a sharp breath. What timing! They were talking about Nessa Renchrik. Mei held up her hand, fingers rounded, knuckles exposed. Her wrist faced up as she moved her hand forward to knock on the door.

  My hand shot out and I touched her arm, stopping her. Wait, I mouthed.

  We peeked in. A person stood at the door, but I honestly couldn’t say if it was a man or a woman. My gut said woman—but I wasn’t sure at all that that would be how she identified. She, if she was a she, was about five feet five, a bit on the lumpy side, and had short blond hair combed to the side. The slacks and blazer were gender neutral—navy and a loose cut—and she wore heavy Doc Martens. A second later, the other person in the room came into view. She was roughly the same height as the first, but thinner with darker skin, dark hair, and shimmering brown eyes. She wore a straight skirt and a sleeveless patterned blouse. I caught a glimpse of a blazer hanging on the back of a chair. “Ms. McLaine,” the second woman said. “While I appreciate your interest in the story, I am afraid I cannot help you. I have no comment.”

  So the first person was a she—and she was apparently a reporter. If she had a pair of dark sunglasses, she totally could have been one of the Men in Black, and this a call to investigate rogue aliens rather than a dead school board member, which was, I assumed, why she was here.

  “Just McLaine, thanks,” she said as she sat down.

  The other woman, then, had to be the superintendent. She looked nonplussed. And less than pleased. “McLaine,” she said, a touch of warning in her tone. “As I just said, I have no comment.”

  McLaine looked at her. No smile. No disdain, either. It was a noncommittal look, as if she was withholding judgment until there was something to judge on. “I understand that, Dr. Sharma, but there are rumors—”

  “What rumors?” Dr. Sharma demanded.

  McLaine was not fazed. “Rumors that you and Nessa Renchrik didn’t, shall we say, see eye to eye on things.”

  Dr. Sharma’s brown skin took on an odd pallor, but she threw her shoulders back and rallied. “In any organization you’ll find that people disagree. Those professional differences certainly do not lead to murder.”

  “In most cases,” McLaine said.

  Dr. Sharma drew her lips into a thin line. She nodded, conceding the point, but added a caveat. “You assume Nessa’s death has something to do with her role as a school board member.”

  McLaine sat quietly for a moment, then said, “Given her political aspirations and her overall commitment to the position, it’s a logical place to start.” Dr. Sharma’s arms hung by her sides and her chin lifted, but McLaine continued before the superintendent could say anything. “The Communities in Schools fundraiser Friday night. It’s my understanding that you and Mrs. Renchrik had a bit of a run-in.”

  Dr. Sharma sighed. Dark circles framed her eyes. She suddenly looked very tired. “As I said, people in any organization disagree. Mrs. Renchrik and I had differing opinions on how to allocate resources. That’s all. Here is my official statement, Ms. McLaine. The school district is saddened by the death of its school board president. It is a tragedy beyond measure, I’m sure you’ll agree. Mrs. Renchrik was an advocate for students and learning in Santa Sofia and she will be missed. Now, if there’s nothing else . . .”

  She moved toward the door. McLaine followed.

  Mei’s eyes went wide. She turned on her chunky heels and gave me a shove. For such a thin-framed, petite woman, she was surprisingly strong. “Let’s go,” she hissed, dragging me back toward her office. I managed a furtive glance over my shoulder just as Dr. Sharma shut the door to her office, leaving McLaine in the hallway alone. The reporter jotted something down in her notebook before slinging a satchel over one shoulder and heading down the hallway the way Mei and I had just come. I watched, but McLaine kept her head straight, never even glancing our way.

  Mei and I gave synchronized jagged sighs. She pressed an open palm to her chest, her calm composure
clearly shaken. “My heart is pounding.”

  Mine was, too, although it wasn’t as if we’d heard anything incriminating. Or even very interesting, for that matter.

  But Mei was done. “Ivy, if you want to talk to Dr. Sharma, you should make an appointment. Now is definitely not a good time.”

  I agreed, in part because getting in to see Dr. Sharma right now seemed impossible, but mostly because I suddenly had other fish to fry. “I’ll do that. Thanks, Mei. It was good seeing you.”

  She gave me a hug and I could feel her heartbeat in her chest. Or maybe it was mine. Anticipation. I rushed out without a backward glance or wave. Into the lobby. Out the door to the parking lot. I scanned the cars, hoping I hadn’t missed my opportunity, but then I saw her. McLaine leaned against a shiny white-and-black Jeep, her arms folded across her chest. I exhaled with relief. I hadn’t missed her.

  She raised her arm straight up. She looked right at me.

  I turned around, thinking there was someone behind me. Someone she was signaling to.

  There wasn’t.

  Facing her again, I put my palm to my chest. Me? I mouthed.

  McLaine smiled and nodded, then beckoned me toward her.

  My heart beat ratcheted up a notch. This was unexpected. I walked over, stopping in front of her.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “I noticed you inside a minute ago.”

  Oh, wow. I didn’t think she’d seen me. “Oh, right. I was visiting a friend who, uh, works for the district.”

  McLaine dipped her chin. “And listening at doors. Is that something you and your friend are in the habit of doing?”

  I swallowed, my nerves tangling, though for no good reason. Eavesdropping wasn’t a crime, after all. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, feigning innocence.

  But McLaine was having none of it. “Oh, but I’m sure you do.”

  I raised one eyebrow at her as the breeze blew wayward strands of my hair into my eyes. “Did you want to talk to me?” I asked.

  She cut right to the chase. “I want to know why you were standing at the superintendent’s door listening to our conversation.” Somehow I managed not to sputter. “No point in denying it,” she continued. “What are you playing at?”

  In a split second, I evaluated my possible responses. 1. Despite her telling me there was no point in it, I could deny; 2. I could say that I’d overheard her in with the superintendent as I was walking past and had been drawn to their voices, like a moth to a flame; or 3. I could flip the tables on her by answering her question with a question of my own.

  Obviously, I went for option 3. “Do you think Dr. Sharma has something to do with Nessa Renchrik’s death?”

  McLaine’s eyes became mere slits. “Now why would you ask me that?”

  Because Nessa Renchrik and Dr. Sharma had been at the Friday night event together and had had a run-in, to use McLaine’s words. That was enough to make me suspicious. Then there was the fact that McLaine was here at all. Why would she be, unless she suspected there was a connection? “Just curious.” The instant the words left my mouth, I mentally kicked myself, but I quickly regrouped with a question of my own. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “What do you have to do with Nessa Renchrik?” she asked me.

  I answered with another question. “Do you work for the newspaper?”

  Instead of answering, she closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she said, “Look, Ms.—”

  I saw no reason not to give her my name. She could easily go bug Mei to give it up, or the not-so-friendly Tonya at the front desk. “Culpepper.”

  “Ms. Culpepper. I’m an investigative reporter. A school board member died mysteriously. I have reason to believe her death may be related to school board business. Now. I’ve told you my story. Why don’t you tell me yours.”

  She was still leaning nonchalantly against the Jeep, arms still folded. Her hair was too short to be ruffled by the breeze, but the loose strands of mine stuck to my lips and eyes. Once again I considered my options before I responded. “I went to school with one of the school board members,” I said, going with a slimmed-down version of my interest in the case. “She’s upset. I’ve had a little luck looking into some nefariousness in the past, so I thought I’d ask a few questions.”

  McLaine cocked her head at me. “Nefariousness?”

  It was an SAT word. Mrs. Branford would be so proud. “Never mind. Let’s just say I’m curious.”

  “But you didn’t know Nessa Renchrik?”

  I told her I didn’t, which didn’t appease her interest in me. “Curiosity killed the cat, Ms. Culpepper.”

  The way she said my name sent a shiver down my spine. “The same could be said for you, McLaine,” I said, using her name with the same even tone she had. Two could play this game.

  She gave a little shake of her head. “It could, except my interest comes from my role as a reporter. I’m doing my job.”

  “And what have you discovered? Suspects?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that. You?”

  “That would be a question for the sheriff’s department,” I said.

  “Ah yes, I spoke with Captain York. He said he has a ‘person of interest’ ”—she used air quotes—“he’s looking at closely. He’s chomping at the bit to solve the murder of a local politician with a promising legislative career.”

  Now my jaw tensed. Miguel’s face floated before my eyes, but I blinked it away. “I heard she had plans to run for office.”

  “Apparently she spoke with a potential donor the day she died.”

  This was news to me. Excitement bloomed inside my chest. But I tempered it just as quickly. Why would McLaine let slip this little tidbit? She didn’t blink. Didn’t clamp her mouth shut, wishing she could pull those words right back in. Had it been intentional?

  “At the district office?” I asked, wondering if she’d give me any more.

  She pushed herself off the Jeep and started to walk around to the driver’s side. “Alas, Ms. Culpepper, I believe I’ve already said too much.”

  Chapter 8

  “I’m being followed.”

  California is a hands-free state, so I turned up the volume on my car’s stereo and spoke aloud in my car thinking maybe I’d heard wrong. “What did you say?”

  Miguel’s voice boomed through the Fiat’s speaker system. “York is having me watched. I’m being followed.”

  I reacted without thinking; my right foot moved from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. The car jerked. A horn blared behind me.

  “Ivy?” Miguel’s voice again. “Are you okay?”

  He was being targeted for murder, but he was worried about me. I hit the gas and straightened out the car, glancing in the rearview mirror and throwing up my hand in apology to the driver behind me. “I’m fine,” I said. “How do you know?”

  “A guy was parked across the street from my house all night. Now same car is in the parking lot at the restaurant. They’re not being very stealthy. It’s like they want me to know they’re there. York really thinks I did this.”

  An icy hand squeezed my heart. “I’m going to call Emmaline.”

  “I already did,” he said. “I left her a message.”

  She and Billy were probably out snorkeling or traipsing through a rain forest, which was exactly what they should be doing. Still, I wanted to hear her reassurance that York could be reined in.

  I told Miguel about Nessa’s potential donor visitor. “I’m going to look into it,” I said.

  “You think you can figure out who it was?”

  “I’m going to try.” I’d made up my mind that a visit to Nessa’s husband was in order. “I’m going to go see her husband, Cliff.”

  “I’m going with you, Ivy.”

  “But the restaur—”

  “I’ll put Mateo in charge. I can’t sit back while York tries to condemn me for a murder I didn’t commit.”

  I’d have felt the same
way. “I’m going to help Olaya for a while. Meet me at the bread shop at three?”

  “Yep. I’ll get things squared away here and I’ll find out where Vanessa’s husband works.”

  Not that it meant anything, but I noted that he’d called her Vanessa rather than Nessa. “Sounds good,” I said.

  My knuckles turned white as I clenched my fists around the steering wheel. I tried not to think about the tail York had on Miguel as I drove to Yeast of Eden. It didn’t really work. Em wasn’t here to keep him in line. That meant it was up to Miguel and me to figure out what had happened to Nessa. Failure wasn’t an option.

  I mulled over McLaine’s big reveal that Nessa Renchrik had met with a potential donor the day she’d died. Cliff Renchrik might be able to answer the question of who that donor was. I thought through the list of suspects I had so far, murmuring them to myself as I parked the car in the lot behind the bread shop. I walked to the back entrance. Not even the flower beds Olaya kept with vibrant hydrangea blooms, bursts of lavender, or the array of columbine, coral bells, bellflowers, and daisies could distract me. Any one of the people I’d written in my notebook was a more realistic suspect than Miguel Baptista.

  And if it was true and Nessa met with a donor, that was yet another person to add to the potential suspect list—and someone else to pull Captain York’s attention away from Miguel.

  By the afternoon, all the day’s normal baking was finished. These were the hours Olaya devoted to her other baking projects. She was contracted to make rolls for Sofia’s Steakhouse, the newest restaurant in town. She baked for Baptista’s three times a week. And she had several other regular customers. None of this included special activities. Catering, funerals, the annual Art Car show and ball. The list went on and on.

  When I walked in the back door, Olaya stood at her baking station with a melamine cutting board, a chef’s knife, and a mound of vegetables. This was not an everyday sight at the bread shop. It was all for the van Dough focaccias. I looked around the kitchen Not a single loaf of bread remained on any of the bakery racks, I noted. Olaya’s bread was known for its healing properties. I’d have taken almost anything in hopes that a bite might relieve some of the worry clawing its way through my insides.