Death Gone A-Rye

by Winnie Archer

  “What can I do for you today?” she asked.

  I’d come up with a story on the drive over and now I launched into it. “My name’s Ivy Culpepper. I work at Yeast of Eden, the bread shop downtown? We’re one of the sponsors for the Spring Fling this weekend.”

  Miss Jackson brought her hands together and her smile, unbelievably, grew bigger. “Of course! We’re so excited you all are sponsoring one of the booths this weekend.”

  I did a mental head slap. Of course! The Miss Jackson before me had to be the same woman who’d tapped Olaya to sponsor a booth at the Spring Fling.

  “I adore Yeast of Eden!” she continued. “When you have challah? And with the poppy seeds? Oh man, that stuff is dangerous.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I said with a smile. “Dangerously good, though.”

  She laughed. “You got that right.”

  The door from the school’s hallway opened and a young woman came in. She was petite, with a short pixie haircut, olive skin, and a tentative smile. Her body was stick straight with no hint of a waist or curves. From the back, she looked like she could be one of the sixth-grade students. “Miss Jackson?” she said, her voice as tentative as her demeanor.

  The receptionist turned her full-wattage smile to the young woman. “Whatcha need, Miss Betancourt?”

  At Miss Jackson’s warmth, the woman, Miss Betancourt, visibly relaxed. “Julian Krazinski’s mother is coming to pick up some work for him.”

  “Is that boy out sick again?” Miss Jackson rolled her eyes heavenward.

  Miss Betancourt answered by stepping closer to the counter Miss Jackson sat behind. She held out a thick goldenrod envelope. “There’s enough work in there for today and tomorrow. If she asks.”

  Miss Jackson took it and set it next to her keyboard. “You got it.”

  Miss Betancourt thanked the receptionist and scurried back out into the hallways of the school.

  Miss Jackson looked back at me with arched pencil-thin brows. “I had to be on my deathbed for my mama to excuse me from school. Nowadays, all it takes is a fake cough or a tiny little sniffle. Good lord, kids today.”

  “Parents today,” I added, because it was the permissive parents who let the kids get away with their shenanigans.

  Miss Jackson chuckled and grinned at me. “Snap! You are right about that.”

  I looked toward the hallway Miss Betancourt had disappeared into, as if she’d left a trail of stardust and I could trace it with my eyes. “She seemed very nervous. . . .”

  “Who?” She followed my gaze to the empty hallway. “Oh, you mean Miss Betancourt?”

  “Yes. A little bit scared of her own shadow.”

  Miss Jackson frowned. “There was an incident a few years back. It, um, really affected her.”

  Oh wow. Was she referring to the bullying scandal? Was Miss Betancourt the victim?

  “You mean the bullying scandal?” I asked, my eyes wide and innocent. “That was horrible.”

  “That doesn’t even begin to describe it. Poor thing’s still as skittish as can be.”

  “So that was the teacher that was bullied by other teachers? That is such a crazy story. I think about it sometimes and I still can’t get over how bizarre it was.”

  Miss Jackson picked up a thick-walled stainless-steel tumbler and sipped from the rubber straw sticking out of the top. “You got that right. Those teachers were something else.” She leaned toward me a little bit, though the raised level of the desk was still between us. “You never woulda suspected that group of the horrible things they did, either. Low-down and dirty.”

  I laid my forearms on the top level of the desk and clasped my hands together. “How did they get away with it?” I asked.

  Miss Jackson lowered her voice to a whisper. “There was a group of ’em, and they convinced her that they were just a snapshot of the rest of the staff. Poor thing was so scared, she didn’t know if she was comin’ or goin’. She almost quit teaching for good. That woulda been sad, too, ’cause she’s a good teacher. In the classroom with those kids, she comes alive. I wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “What about the teachers who did the bullying? What happened to them?”

  “That lot? They lost their jobs and their teaching credentials. Miss Betancourt didn’t press charges, although personally, I think she should’ve.”

  I did, too, but maybe she just wanted to put it all behind her. Couldn’t fault her for that. Now that I had Miss Jackson talking, I hoped she’d keep going. “Sylvia Cabrera was here around then, wasn’t she?”

  The receptionist drummed her fingers against the envelope Miss Betancourt had given her. Her voice returned to full volume. “Sylvia Cabrera. Sylvia Cabrera. Sylvi—” She slapped her open palm down on the envelope. “Of course! I remember her! She’s the one that got Miss Betancourt to finally say something about what was going on.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said, playing it off as if that little tidbit had been buried in my mind somewhere.

  “If I’m remembering right, her daughter was in Miss Betancourt’s class? I think? Anyway, she heard about the bullying through the grapevine, or, I don’t know, maybe she saw it firsthand. I really don’t know about that. But when it didn’t stop, she marched right on in here, met with Miss Betancourt, and reported what was happening to the principal and to one of the school board members.” She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows again. “The one that just died. Nessa Renchrik. Now that’s another sad situation. She was just here last week.” She lowered her voice. “The day before she died, if you can believe it. She stood right where you are.”

  My eyes popped wide. A second connection between Sylvia and Nessa, and another person who’d seen Nessa the day before she’d died. “That’s crazy. Why was she here?”

  At this question, Miss Jackson rolled her eyes. “Trying to make it look like she cared about this school. Playing the part, you know?”

  “She didn’t? Care, I mean?”

  Miss Jackson shook her head. “Not the constituency she cared about, if you get my meaning.”

  I wasn’t sure I did.

  “A lot of the parents here can’t vote.”

  Ah. I understood. Nessa Renchrik didn’t care about Chavez Elementary School because it didn’t benefit her career. “Have you heard anything about the murder?” I asked.

  “Only what the news is saying, and I think they’re trying to keep it on the down low. She was a piece of work, though. That, uh, situation with Miss Betancourt? Ms. Renchrik tried to control it. She somehow did manage to keep it out of the papers. I still don’t know how she did that, you know? The district, too. They managed to hush it up.”

  Nessa must have called in some favors to keep it quiet. “So, Sylvia was kind of like the whistle-blower?”

  “That’s exactly what she was. Ms. Renchrik, she was not a happy camper, let me tell you. If she could have unblown that whistle, she would have.”

  “Guess it didn’t look good for her, since the school’s in her district?” I asked, but really, I didn’t understand. It wasn’t like Nessa had been one of the bullies. If the school district and the board dealt with the situation, I’d think that would make them all look good in the end. And Sylvia was gone, so she couldn’t have killed Nessa, even if she’d had a motive. Which, if she had, I couldn’t see it.

  I kept spreading the gossip to see what other information Miss Jackson would cough up. “Ms. Renchrik must have got over it. I heard Sylvia worked for her.”

  From the way she reacted, though, Miss Jackson hadn’t heard that. “No, really?!”

  An explanation suddenly popped into my head. What if Sylvia had asked for a better job—one other than the labor-intensive housekeeping—and Nessa gave her one . . . in return for her silence? To keep the story about the bullying from spreading too far and wide? “I think she became her personal assistant. That’s what I heard anyway.”

  A buzzer sounded. Miss Jackson looked past me to the entra
nce of the school, then pressed a button. A moment later, a delivery driver wheeling a stack of boxes on a dolly came in.

  Miss Jackson flipped a braid behind her shoulder and batted her long eyelashes. “How you doing, Kyron?”

  “Doing great, Misty. How you?”

  Before she could answer, a door to one of the interior offices opened and a man dressed in a suit, his tie snug around his neck and his ash-blond hair brushed to one side, came up to the reception desk.

  Kyron, the delivery guy, deposited the boxes against one wall. He gave Misty Jackson a smile, then turned to leave. “See ya next time.”

  She wiggled her fingers at him. “You sure will, baby.”

  “Misty,” the man in the suit said. “Would you give me a hand? We’ve got to get the Spring Fling notices out to teachers before two thirty. They need to be counted and distributed.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Davies.” She stood to follow him but stopped suddenly and turned back to me. “You needed somethin’. About the Spring Fling?”

  I waved her off. “Oh no. It’s okay. I’m good.”

  She tilted her head and this time, instead of going up, her eyebrows pulled together as her brow furrowed. “You sure?”

  “Nah. I’m good. I’ll see you there, though?”

  “You better believe it! My little boy? He’ll be the one zipping around like a banshee. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I laughed. “I’ll be on the lookout for him.”

  “Okay, Miss . . . Ivy, was it?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay then, Miss Ivy. See you Saturday.”

  I hoped so, because I liked Misty Jackson. And she’d given me food for thought.

  Chapter 13

  After my visit to Chavez Elementary School, I went home, made a batch of popovers, and sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open. Agatha lay stretched out on the floor by my feet.

  I’d decided my next step was to figure out who the political donor was that Nessa Renchrik had met with the morning she died. I tore a popover in half and slathered it with plum jam from a local farm. Bread, coupled with something sweet, had a way of soothing the soul.

  It only took a few minutes to track down the Renchriks’ home number. I was only slightly surprised they had one. Nessa had been a public figure, so it made sense she’d have a landline with a number separate from her cell and her husband’s business. I dialed, it rang once, and a boy picked up with a tentative, “Hello?”

  “Oh, hi,” I said, surprised at hearing a real voice. I’d half-expected to get an answering machine. I immediately regrouped, placing the young voice with a name. “Is this Tate?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Ivy. I spoke to your dad a few days ago at your house.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was there with my friends. You came to the door as your dad was leaving?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  He wasn’t a chatterbox, that was clear. He’d probably been ingrained with the idea that you don’t talk to strangers. “Your dad, he was going to work when we left, I think?”

  “Maybe. To one of his properties.”

  “Right, right. Something about Sylvia, I think.” I was fishing, and part of me felt guilty for trying to get information from a child, but I had no choice.

  “Syl—?”

  There was a scuffle and a female voice came on the line. “Who’s this?”

  I recognized the voice right away. “Rachel?”

  “I said, who is this?”

  “Ivy Culpepper. I met you the other day at your house? I was talking to your dad with my friend—”

  “The hot guy. I remember.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Right.”

  “My dad’s not here.”

  “I’m sure he’s dealing with a lot right now.”

  Silence.

  I tried again. “I just have a quick question for you. Do you know Sylvia Cabrera?”

  Again, silence.

  “Rachel?”

  Crickets.

  I tried again. “Did she work for your mom?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I just learned that she was deported. I, um, I didn’t know if you knew that.”

  Rachel gasped. I could picture her putting one hand over her mouth. “Deported? You mean sent back to Mexico?”

  “Colombia, actually. And yeah. Sent back.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “I spoke to her husband. It’s right.”

  “But my mom and dad, they would have told us.”

  Her reaction raised a red flag. Why would her parents have told her about Sylvia? “Did you know her pretty well?”

  “She babysat Tate sometimes when Carmen was off duty, and she was kind of like our cook. Plus, she worked for my parents’ company.”

  “I thought she was your mom’s assistant.”

  “Yeah. Household assistant.”

  So a glorified gofer? I slathered more plum jam on my popover and took a little bite before answering. “I mean I know she worked for the business. I just didn’t know she worked at your home, too. When did you last see her?” I asked.

  She fell silent for a beat before answering with, “It’s been a couple of months. End of February, I think? My dad said she went on a vacation.”

  The timeline according to Rachel fit with the February 23 raid.

  Her voice cracked. “I guess.... After Carmen, I should have. . . .”

  She trailed off, ready to beat herself up for not knowing. “You couldn’t have known,” I said. “Did you ever meet Sylvia’s husband?”

  “No,” she said. “Why?”

  Good question, but I couldn’t explain that Guillermo Cabrera and his daughter with Sylvia were shouldering a huge loss. That little girl could use a friend, I thought.

  “Who are you?” Rachel asked. “I mean why do you care about Sylvia?”

  I’d been waiting for this question. “I work at Yeast of Eden, the bread shop in town? We are one of the sponsors for the Spring Fling. We want to do a small memorial for your mom at our booth—”

  “What does that have to do with Sylvia?”

  “We just have a mutual friend and I just found out Sylvia worked for your parents, that’s all.”

  “Okay. So? You’re doing something for my m-mom?”

  Once again, her voice faltered as her emotions took over. Candace Coffey’s comment about Rachel missing important time with her mother came back to me. Rachel might be a senior and close to graduation, but she was still just a girl—and now a girl who’d lost her mother. “We are. I’d like to invite you to be there.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Right. The Spring Fling starts at noon on Saturday and Sunday. We thought we’d have a few people speak in a little tribute to your mom starting at one o’clock on Saturday.”

  “Tate should come?”

  “Absolutely. And your dad.”

  She made a guttural sound. “I don’t know if he will.”

  “Oh?”

  “He and my mom weren’t getting along very well when she died,” Rachel said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, though in truth, I was glad to have a little inside information. “Is there anything I can do? I can invite him myself?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

  “Rachel, can I ask for your help with something?”

  There was a pause before she answered. “Okay.”

  “I heard your mom met with a political donor. I’m wondering if you know who it was. I’d like to extend an invitation to the memorial.”

  “You mean Joseph Patrick?”

  An alarm bell in my head went off. Any connection to Lulu Sanchez-Patrick? “That’s it. Thank you.” I wanted to find out one more thing before I ended my call with Rachel. “What did your mom do the morning she died?” I asked her.

  She hesitated. “Why?”

  “Your mom and I have a mutual friend. We’re just trying to work out what
happened, you know? It’s been really upsetting.”

  “Mmm.” I could picture her staring out a window, zoning out.

  “Rachel?”

  She snapped back to attention. “Yeah. Um, I don’t know. Whatever her and my dad always do. They fight. I spent the night at my friend Ronnie’s house. When I got home, she was already—”

  She broke off, but I knew what she’d been about to say. By the time she got home from her sleepover, her mom was already dead.

  “Why weren’t your mom and dad getting along?” I asked, hoping I’d built enough of a rapport with Rachel that she’d keep talking.

  She gave a heavy sigh. “Me going to college. Something with Tate. Their business. Her politics. You name it. They fought about everything, all the time.”

  Not the makings of a happy marriage, I thought, and like a game of Whac-A-Mole, Guillermo slipped back into his hole and once again Cliff Renchrik popped out, rising back to the top of my list of suspects.

  “Thanks, Rachel. I’ll see you Saturday?”

  “Sure,” she said, and we hung up.

  I considered the information I’d come away with. Strife between Mr. and Mrs. Renchrik. Silence about what had happened to Sylvia Cabrera. And the name Joseph Patrick. I had to wonder if he was related to @Marissas Mama. If so, it would certainly put her animosity toward Nessa Renchrik in a new light. Maybe Cliff Renchrik would slip back into his hole and someone else would pop up as the most likely suspect.

  Chapter 14

  Nessa Renchrik’s funeral took place on Friday. The Lutheran church, St. Anne’s, was two streets down from Yeast of Eden. I’d driven around the block, thinking I’d find a spot in the church parking lot, but it was overflowing. I circled around, left my car in the back lot of the bread shop, and walked back to the church. I spent most days in jeans, leggings, or some other easily laundered pants and an equally casual top, and had sneakers or flats or some other comfortable shoes on. Today, however, I’d donned a black skirt that hit at the knees, a gray blouse, and two-and-a-half-inch heels. They put my feet in an unfamiliar position to begin with, but walking a few blocks while wearing them made them scream. By the time I got to the entrance of the church, I was already counting the minutes till I could get back home and kick off the heels.