The Walking Bread

by Winnie Archer

  He shrugged. “Like I said, sometimes I have no idea what goes on inside her head. Keeping you and Miguel apart didn’t work, so I think she just threw in the towel. I think she finally decided to just come clean.”

  It had taken her a long time to get here, but at least she had.

  Sergio took his cell phone from his pocket, tapping his thumb against the touch screen. A moment later, he held the phone out for me to see. “Nate Allen,” he said. “Allen Trucking. Want me to share the contact?”

  I answered by giving him my cell number. “Thank you, Sergio.”

  He gave a single nod. “Thanks for accepting her apology. I think my life just got a lot easier,” he said, with a wink.

  I hoped mine had, too.

  Chapter 9

  Crime drama TV shows made solving murders look so simple. A clue was discovered that led to another clue, which in turn led to yet another, and before long, a suspect was targeted, alibis were discounted, and a murder was solved. Badabing, badabam, badaboom . . . done.

  It didn’t happen that way in real life. At least not in my real life. I’d been the one to discover the body, and other than the Through the Looking Glass book connecting Billy to the crime, not a single other clue had been unveiled. With Emmaline’s help, we had gotten back into the hangar to reexamine the crime scene, but other than the broken window, we’d come up empty-handed. Knowing who brought the cars to the hangar was the first actual connection someone had to the scene of the crime. If the police already had this information, I didn’t know about it. I channeled my Archie Goodwin, texted Emmaline my next move, and formulated a semblance of a plan. First order of business was a trip to Allen Trucking Company. Next, depending upon what information, if any, I gleaned, I planned to stop by the Litman Homes office. Between the two, surely I’d be able to learn something about Max and who—other than Billy—could be a viable suspect in his death.

  I dropped Laura and her kids back at the bread shop and then made a pit stop on Maple Street to collect my partner in crime. I’d called ahead, and Mrs. Branford was waiting on the curb for me. Today her standard velour sweat suit was dark gray, a stark contrast to her snowy hair. She leaned on her cane and reached for the door handle before I’d even rolled to a complete stop.

  I slammed on the brakes. The car lurched forward before it stopped altogether, but Mrs. Branford was none the worse for wear. “Did you get caught behind a train?” she asked after she strapped herself in, an unfamiliar tone in her voice.

  As a lifelong Santa Sofia resident, she knew perfectly well that that the town did not have a rail system. I cocked an eyebrow at her. “There was traffic.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Seriously. An accident on PCH has things backed up.”

  She stared straight ahead. “So where are we going?”

  I shot a puzzled glance at her. My, but she was salty today. I might have thought she didn’t want to do any crime-solving today, except that, despite her bad attitude, I knew that she did. She lived for this kind of thing, sometimes dragging me into something I thought we’d be better off avoiding.

  I pulled away from the curb, heading east, but avoiding PCH by going through town. “Allen Trucking Company.”

  She harrumphed again, but I ignored her bad mood, chalking it up to a poor night’s sleep. I filled her in on the sudden turnaround with Laura and the fact that Sergio knew the guy who’d hauled Max Litman’s art car to the hangar. “Maybe he noticed something, but doesn’t know that he noticed,” I finished.

  “Ivy,” she said with a shake of her head. “You can’t barge in and ask a person if they know something they don’t know they know. That is a completely muddied thought.”

  “Of course I’m not going to phrase it like that,” I said, suddenly on the defensive and thinking that this is what it must have felt like to be one of Penelope Branford’s high school English students on the receiving end of her disappointment.

  “Good, because we have to think this through. Your brother needs you.”

  “This is the only thing that’s been on my mind,” I said. “The sheriff took Emmaline off the investigation. It’s just me.”

  “Then we need to get serious.”

  The traffic light turned red and I slowed to a stop. “Mrs. Branford, what in the world is wrong?” I asked, concerned. She was as sharp as a tack, but was her shift in attitude a sign that her old mind was slipping? Or . . . Oh my God, was she sick?

  I looked at her, waiting. She drew her lips in and closed her eyes for a moment. The light turned green, so I drove, still watching her from the corner of my eye. Finally, when she still hadn’t spoken, I pulled over, put the car in park, and placed my hand on hers. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  Finally, she let out a heavy breath. She had one hand over the other, clamping the handle of her cane. “I heard from my boys today,” she said.

  Her oldest son, Jeremy, lived and worked in banking in San Francisco. Peter, her youngest, was a computer programmer who lived abroad. He worked virtually and had never laid claim to one specific locale. He climbed, surfed, biked, and generally lived outdoors when he wasn’t tethered to his computer.

  I waited. She loved to hear from her children, so there had to be more. Something was upsetting her. “Today is the anniversary of Kat’s death,” she said, her emotions barely under the surface.

  A vice gripped my heart. Her daughter, Katherine. She’d fallen victim to cancer long ago, but, had she lived, she would have been fifty this year. Mrs. Branford didn’t talk about her daughter much; in fact, for the first few months after we’d met, I’d had no idea she’d even had a daughter.

  Not long ago, Mrs. Branford had paid me the highest compliment by telling me that I reminded her of her headstrong and bold Kat. She’d described her as quick-witted, book-smart, intuitive, and wise, all things she felt I embodied, as well.

  Losing Katherine had left a hole in her. It had nearly driven her husband, Jimmy, into another woman’s arms. But they’d survived, the love they had for Kat like the circling light from a cliff-side lighthouse, guiding them through their daily lives until they were safe and could emerge from the fog.

  “And neither the angels in heaven above, /Nor the demons down under the sea, /Can ever dissever my soul from the soul / Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.” She spoke softly, but I’d heard enough to recognize the line from one of Edgar Allan Poe’s most famous poems. Poe had written of a romantic love, but the sentiment was universal. Not even death could break the eternal love between a mother and a daughter. I felt that with my own mother. Sometimes I thought Mrs. Branford coming into my life, and me coming into hers, was serendipitous. Neither of us could replace the people we’d lost, but we were surrogates for each other.

  Still, there were no words. Nothing I could say would lesson her grief. I waited in silence, ready to take my cue from Mrs. Branford. It took her a few minutes to gather herself, but finally, she closed her eyes and exhaled again. “I’ll always miss her,” she said. “The day that marks her passing is the one day I allow myself to slip back in time. To grieve. Some years it hits me harder than others.”

  “I know,” I said, squeezing her hand. The loss of my mother hit me harder on some days than others. I’d seen the same struggle in my father and my brother. Something would trigger a memory and then, bam, we were shot right to that empty hole inside, the one that would never be filled.

  We sat in silence for another few minutes before I squeezed her hand in solidarity and support. I started the car and resumed our trip to Allen Trucking Company, the air between us clear, our purpose renewed.

  A short time later, we pulled up to a grouping of warehouses. Allen Trucking Company was housed in the last space in a row of attached rental spaces, the modest sign the only evidence that that particular spot was occupied by a business.

  “This is it?” Mrs. Branford peered out the car window, her eyes pinched to block out the bright light of the sun. “This man, this Allen. Do you really think he know
s something about Max’s death?”

  That was the one-hundred-twenty-thousand-dollar question. “I hope so.”

  She threw open the car door, swung her legs sideways, leveraged herself out with her cane, and started for the nondescript door.

  “Mrs. Branford, wait,” I said, slamming the car door behind me and hurrying to her side.

  “No time to waste, Ivy, my dear,” she said, her voice and sass back to their normal tenor. “If the man from the trucking company can help, then we must talk with him, posthaste.”

  “Right, but Mrs. Branford, you have to be careful. You’re—”

  “—not in the ground yet,” she finished; then she raised her cane, rapping the base of it against the door.

  No answer. I tried next, pounding with my fist, but still nothing. “Let’s check around back,” I suggested. The words were scarcely out of my mouth before she was already walking to the end of the building, swinging her cane, and making a sharp turn at the corner. She was incredibly agile for her age. I speed-walked to keep up with her, turned the corner, and nearly ran right into her. She’d stopped short, but I caught myself before I took us both down. Looking up, I froze. Three men stared at us from in front of a low flatbed truck. We stood staring at each other until one of them finally strode toward us. “Can I help you find something, ladies?”

  I circled around Mrs. Branford and met him halfway. He readjusted the ball cap on his head, lifting the brim slightly so I could see his eyes. “I’m looking for Mr. Allen? Allen Trucking Company.”

  “Which one?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the other men and then back at me.

  That was a good question. Given the fact that I didn’t know there was more than one possibility, I didn’t have the answer. “The one that drove Max Litman’s art car to the hangar.”

  “Right.” He notched his thumb toward the other men. “Nate, these ladies need you,” he hollered.

  The three of them snickered.

  Seriously? I crossed my arms and gave them a death stare. Juvenile. But Mrs. Branford was not in the mood for male shenanigans. I’d caught a glimpse of this side of her in the car a few minutes ago, but now she embodied it fully. She wasn’t going to let them off so easily. She lifted her cane, pointing it like a sword at the men. “You need to learn respect. Has the recent downfall of prominent men taught you nothing?” she snapped. “This is about a murder. It is not a joke.”

  They reacted as I imagined her students did when she’d taken them to task. The three men stood up straighter. The one we had been talking to removed his hat, holding it by his side. The others strode over to us, their gaits purposeful.

  One of them, the man with heavy stubble and dark brown hair in a buzz cut, looked a little unsavory. But he was the first to extend his hand to Mrs. Branford. “We meant no disrespect, ma’am.”

  Looks can be deceiving. I reminded myself never to judge a book by its cover.

  “I suggest you think before you act next time. Mrs. Branford’s stern voice and lips drawn into a tight line more than conveyed her dismay, but she finally nodded an acknowledgment of the man’s apology and lowered her cane.

  The same man turned to me. “What can I help you with?”

  I looked at the three of them. “Are you Nate Allen?”

  “That’s me.”

  Finally. Maybe now we’d get somewhere. I cut to the chase. “Sergio Morales gave me your name. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  He drew his head back slightly, narrowing his eyes. “About what?”

  “Max Litman.”

  I took his silence as acknowledgment.

  “Sergio said you took Max Litman’s art car to the hangar?”

  He rocked back on his heels, plunging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “That’s right.”

  In and of itself, that confirmation was nothing to get overly excited about. Still, I was hopeful that it would be a boon for potential progress in the investigation. “How does it work?”

  “How does what work?” he asked.

  “I mean, how’d you get the job? And did Max meet you when you loaded it up?” That was the big question I wanted answered. Had the man already been dead and posed as a corpse when his car was taken to the hangar? Or was Max alive and well when Nate Allen picked up the car? Was he killed in the hangar, or brought there after? Knowing the answer to that could help focus my unofficial investigation.

  “Max always uses—er, used—me to take his car. Been doing it for years. I don’t think he trusts—trusted,” he corrected, scratching his head—“anyone else.”

  “So he’s the one you arranged the pickup with?”

  “Right. He coordinated with the others. I just load ’em up and haul ’em away.”

  “And that day? The day you took Max’s car to the hangar?”

  “It was a light load. A few other cars were already there when I delivered.”

  “So you just took Max’s car?”

  He shook his head. “Two cars. Max brought his the day before the delivery. He was supposed to meet me for the haul, but he was a no-show.”

  It struck me as odd that Max would trust a complete stranger with his art car. If he knew he couldn’t be there, why wouldn’t he have rescheduled for a later time, or even for the day before?

  “What was the other car?” I asked. Who did he trust to make sure his car was safe?

  Nate shrugged his burly shoulders. “Don’t remember the guy’s name. He just showed up with the car and I hauled it away. Something to do with a book.”

  I froze. Mrs. Branford put her hand on my arm. “What book?” I forced out the words in a whisper.

  “Shit, I don’t know. Books aren’t my thing.”

  I wasn’t sure I really wanted the answer, but I pressed anyway. “Do you remember anything about the car itself?”

  He snapped his fingers as if it just came back to him. “Tim Burton.”

  “Tim Burton?”

  “Mrs. Branford knocked her cane against the ground, her voice in rhythm with it. “Tim Burton and Johnny Depp.”

  Nate snapped his fingers and grinned. “That’s it! Alice in Wonderland. Max didn’t show, but the other guy did.”

  My pulse flared, blood pounding in my ears. I couldn’t find my voice, but Mrs. Branford knew exactly what was on my mind. She moved closer to me, clasping my hand. “What other guy?” she asked, although we both knew the answer to that question.

  Nate pinched his eyes, thinking. He turned to the man with the ball cap. “What was his name?”

  But it was the third man who took a step forward. “I remember him,” he said. “His name, it was Billy.”

  Chapter 10

  I called Billy the second Mrs. Branford and I had rounded the corner and were clear of Nate Allen and the two other men. He answered on the fourth ring, his voice low. Angry.

  A knot formed in the pit of my stomach, but I forged ahead, doing my best to keep my voice calm. “When was the last time you saw Max Litman?”

  He sighed, the tone of it clearly irritated. I pictured him dragging his hand through his hair in frustration. “What?”

  I felt bad for him, but I needed an answer. “Just tell me. When was the last time you saw him?”

  He let out a heavy sigh. “Ivy, I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” I closed my eyes for a beat, willing my voice to remain steady. “You didn’t tell me that you were the one who met Nate Allen.”

  “Nate who?”

  “Allen. Nate Allen. Allen Trucking Company. The guy who hauled your art car—and Max’s—to the hangar.”

  “Okay,” he said, drawing out the word. “So?”

  “That’s a problem, Billy.”

  “And why is that, Ivy? Another nail in my coffin?”

  I shuddered at the reference. “As a matter of fact, yes. That truck driver puts you as the last person to see Max’s car before it was taken to the hangar, and that’s where his body was found. Max was a no
-show meeting the truck driver. Why did he not show up? It begs the questions of whether or not Max was already dead, and if so, was his body already staged in the car and no one noticed? And, see, here’s the problem, Billy. If he was still alive, why wasn’t he there to see his award-winning car loaded and then unloaded at the hangar? And why were you, his nemesis, there? And if you were there, which we now know you were, and Max was already dead, you could have put his body there.”

  A heavy silence fell between us. “So that’s what you think,” he said, more disgusted statement than question.

  I realized how what I’d said must have sounded. “No, it’s not what I think. It’s what other people might think, Billy. Why were you there?”

  “Max texted me. Said he had the transport arranged, but he couldn’t make it. He asked if I could. He said he’d bring his car earlier, so there’d be no problem there. I figured I could drive my car the short distance to the pick up location, then let the truck load them on the flatbed and take it from there.”

  “I didn’t know you two were text buddies.” It came out more like an accusation than I’d intended, but I let the words hang there.

  “Yeah, Ivy. All those years of him besting me, it was all a ruse. We were secretly great friends.” His sarcasm dripped like honey from an overflowing pot.

  I didn’t care that it came out wrong. “Since when does he text you?”

  “Never. That was the first and only time.”

  I wanted to bang my head against the steering wheel. “Billy, that’s important information! Does Em know?”

  He exhaled, heavy and downtrodden. “No.”

  “Oh my God, Billy. Oh. My. God.” I held my cell phone away from my ear for a second, bugging my eyes at Mrs. Branford. She raised her snowy eyebrows, her forehead crinkling into a roadmap. This was turning into a bad TV show.

  “It was free transportation of the car, so I took it.”

  “So you didn’t actually talk to him?”

  “I did not talk to Max that day, or any other. I did not see Max that day, Ivy. He texted me. He said he couldn’t make it. He asked me to meet the guy. He arranged it, I didn’t. But it sounds bad, doesn’t it? I know it does, so I didn’t tell Em. How could I?”