Knowing that he was innocent, I really couldn’t blame him. If it had been me, what would I have done?
“I’ve replayed every minute of that day, wondering if I saw something that just didn’t register. I showed up a little early. I wanted to look at his creation to see if I was really going to lose again. I looked at it, and I realized that it was good. Good enough to win? Probably, but not because it was actually better than mine, but because he always won. I walked around and around it. The details were great, you know? I waited while they were loaded and I followed him to the hangar. The guy there let us in, then locked it up after the cars were inside and we left. That was it. I never saw Max that day, and then the next morning you found him.”
“Was there a body in the zombie mouth?”
“Are you asking me if I noticed Max was already dead and sprawled in the car, and I just neglected to mention it?”
It sounded ridiculous when he put it that way, yet people sometimes didn’t realize that they’d seen something until their memory was jogged. I didn’t know if him being certain about the body being there—or the body not being there—would help him one way or another. Still, it felt like something we should try to be definitive about. I pressed. “Think, Billy.”
“Don’t you think I have been?” he snapped. “That’s all I’ve been doing. Replaying it in my mind, trying to remember everything. Every drop of imitation blood. Every fake wrinkle. The red of that tongue. Did I really miss seeing a dead body right there in front of me?”
I glanced at Mrs. Branford. She had leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Sound asleep. Doing my best not to wake her, I slipped out of the car, gently closed the door, and leaned against it. “Billy,” I said, “do you have an alibi from the time Allen Trucking took Max’s car to when I discovered the body?”
Instead of an answer, I heard the reverberating sound of a boom, like he’d put his fist through a wall. “I met the truck guy, we drove to the hangar and dropped both cars off, and then I went to work.”
“Work, where?” As a contractor, work could mean he went to wrap up a house remodel, headed to the city to pick up a special-order kitchen faucet, a meeting with an architect, or anything in between.
“I had a meeting with a developer. Wellborn Homes. There’s a piece of land east of town. Thirty-three houses planned and they called me to bid them out.”
I put a smile into my voice, happy for him that something was going right. A boon for my brother’s business would give him something real to focus on, and that could only be a good thing. “You never mentioned that. That’s great.”
But my enthusiasm was short-lived. “Yeah, not so much. The second Max’s body was found and I became an unofficial ‘person of interest,’ they ran.”
“They could corroborate the timeline, though,” I said, thinking aloud. “If Max was already dead and in the car when it got to the hangar, and if you have an alibi for before you met the truck driver and for after they left, then you couldn’t possibly be the killer.”
Why hadn’t Emmaline thought of this? Or the sheriff? It would be so easy to exonerate Billy based on his alibies.
“Right, but this is real life, Ivy. I don’t have an alibi for before I met the truck driver. I was taking care of some odds and ends. Digging through my garage to find some tools I needed, stopping by a completed job site—”
“No one was there?”
“Nope. We’d wrapped up the day before, but I always take a final look around.”
Disappointment flared, but I tried to stay positive. “Okay, but you met this Wellborn guy right after—”
“Yeah, except he was late.”
“How late?”
I could almost see Billy shrugging. “Thirty minutes. A little more.”
“Which means you have no alibi,” I said.
“Which means I have no alibi,” he confirmed.
I tried to bolster him up, failing miserably. I hung up, leaving him feeling worse off than he had before. A minute later, I was back in the car. Mrs. Branford was still snoozing in the passenger seat. I leaned over, pulling the seatbelt over her shoulder and snapping it into place. I had a plan, but before I executed it, I had to figure out what to do about Mrs. Branford. I weighed my choices. Did I take her home? Or did I take her with me? Either way, I’d have to wake her up. She’d stifle a yawn, spread her fingers open, and then ball them into a fist. “Working out the arthritis,” she told me once. “It’s like oiling a squeaky gate. I have to get the joints lubricated.” And then she’d look around, shake the cobwebs from her brain, and register where we were.
Once I told her I was dropping her off at home before I went to dig around at Wellborn Homes, she’d turn right around, swinging that cane, and march back to the car. I could hear her voice. “And, what, you think I’m going to sit around at home while you have all the fun?”
So the decision was less about where to take her and more about how she’d feel if she didn’t end up in the thick of things with me. Decision made.
“Okay, Mrs. Branford,” I whispered. “Let’s go pay a visit to Wellborn Homes.”
Chapter 11
For the second time that day, I was waiting in line in the bread shop. I hadn’t been just a customer at Yeast of Eden since I’d taken my first baking class with Olaya Solis. Before that time, I’d stood in the lobby, contemplating the myriad bread selections, struggling to choose. But after I’d learned to mix flour and yeast and water together and actually end up with edible bread—and after I’d become fast friends with Olaya—I started working in the bread shop rather than strictly being a customer.
Earlier in the day, I’d craved a skull cookie. This time I was after something different. I was a firm believer of the “you catch more flies with honey” philosophy. Bringing a box of croissants to Wellborn Homes was the honey.
With the exception of a young mother and her son, the bread shop was empty. Maggie, the dark-haired high school student Olaya employed to work part time, was crouched down in front of one of the display cases, the little boy by her side. He looked to be about four years old. He was a shy one, completely quiet, but looking intently at Maggie.
Maggie was a quiet girl, but over the time I’d known her, she had started coming out of her shell. Now her hands moved in front of her, like she was talking with them. The boy’s mother stood nearby, her eyes glistening. I looked more closely at Maggie, suddenly realizing what she was doing. She was, quite literally, talking with her hands. Signing with the little boy.
The tears in the mother’s eyes made sense. So did the lump in my throat. Maggie said something else with her hands, and the little boy fisted his hand and moved it, as if it were a nodding head. He and Maggie both looked up, and the mother gave the nod of approval. Maggie grinned, scooting behind the counter. Using a square of waxed paper, she reached into the display case and retrieved one of the hidden skull cookies.
The little boy’s eyes popped open. His mom nodded again, both with her head and her fisted hand. And then, after Maggie handed over the cookie, the lump in my throat grew right along with the little boy’s smile. Maggie got down to her knees and wrapped the little boy in a hug; the mom took his hand in hers, held the baguette she’d bought, and left the bread shop.
The second the door closed behind them, I turned to Maggie. She brushed her hair back from her face, her own eyes gleaming. “That was beautiful,” I said. “Where did you learn to sign?”
She circled back behind the counter. “My brother is deaf,” she said. Ah, I thought, the brother she drove around in the car seat Laura had borrowed.
Maggie looked back at the little boy and waved. It was clear her connection with him was as big a deal to her as it probably was to him.
The bell on the door dinged and a small group of people came in laughing and talking. One of them held open the door for the boy and his mother. They disappeared down the sidewalk, the little boy’s happy grin lingeri
ng in my mind. I stepped aside, letting the small group of people who’d just entered go before me.
While I waited for Maggie to help them, I glanced out the bread shop’s front window at my car parked along the sidewalk in front. Mrs. Branford was plenty capable of taking care of herself, but leaving her alone—and asleep—felt akin to leaving a baby unattended. From my vantage point, it didn’t look as if Mrs. Branford had moved.
The bell on the door dinged again as the customers left with their brown twine-handled bags stuffed with their bread selections; then Maggie spoke. “What are you doing in front of the counter?” she asked. “You’re usually back here.”
I swiveled around, bringing my attention back to her. “I need a box of croissants,” I said. It might have been more accurate to say I needed a box of bribery, but I was pretty sure that sweet Maggie would not appreciate the plan I was ready to put into action.
“What kind?”
I’d given this decision some thought on the drive over. Did I go with a savory mix of ham and Gruyère, spinach, mushroom, and roasted bell pepper, and Kalamata olive, thyme, and feta cheese? Or would a sweet collection with the always popular chocolate, cherry preserves with slivered almonds, Nutella, and roasted apricot be better?
“Or maybe a combination of both,” I muttered.
Olaya appeared from the back. “I do not know what these are for, m’ija, but I suggest you choose either savory or sweet, not both.”
“Why?” I asked, at the same time Maggie asked, “Really?”
“Porque, the people, they will fight over them. Some will want sweet. Some will not. There will not be enough of either, and so who is made to be happy?”
She looked at us expectantly, waiting for one of us to supply the answer to her question. “No one will be happy,” I said.
Maggie finished the thought. “Because there wouldn’t be enough of either one.”
Olaya tapped her finger against the tip of her nose. “Exactamente.”
In a split second, I made up my mind. “In that case, I’ll take a dozen sweet. Six chocolate, three apricot, and three cherry,” I said, knowing that two out of four people always chose chocolate.
Maggie got to work filling a white bakery box. I handed over the money, she handed over the pastries, and with a wave, I headed off to grease a few stomachs in my pursuit of information.
Mrs. Branford still hadn’t budged since she’d fallen asleep. Not when I’d stopped at the bread shop; not when my hand slipped and the car door slammed; not when I absently turned on the radio before remembering that she was there, completely zonked. I hadn’t realized she was such a deep sleeper. But when the car was off and we were in the parking lot of our destination, she stirred. She sat up and immediately patted her loosened silvery curls. She looked around, her gaze stopping on the Max Litman Homes sign. “Aha. I’m ready.” She turned to me, her already wrinkle-ridden brow furrowing even more. “What am I ready for?”
I pointed to the two businesses. “I came to talk to someone at Wellborn Homes. They’re Billy’s alibi—sort of.” I spun my head to look at the Litman Homes building. “I didn’t know they were side by side.”
“Which is very convenient.” She threw open her door, used her cane to leverage her way up and out, and was halfway across the parking lot before I’d grabbed the box of croissants and caught up with her.
I expected her to slow down at the curb, but she swung her cane at an angle, dropped it down, and once again moved up and forward in one fell swoop. Spry. There was no other way to describe the woman, and—not for the first time—I hoped I’d have half as much energy as she did when I was in my ninth decade.
Once I’d seen both builders in one location, I had debated which to go to first. Mrs. Branford made the decision for me. She went straight for Wellborn Homes, yanked open the door, and then stood back. “After you, my dear.”
I looked at her with what I was sure was an expression of awe, and skirted past her. The lobby was devoid of people. So much for winning people over with baked goods. There was, however, plenty to look at. The builder had pulled out all the stops, showcasing every one of their high-end finishings for prospective clients—hardwood floors, heavy wrought-iron light fixtures, thick carpet with a heavy carpet pad beneath it. Every bit of the place screamed expensive.
We heard the click of shoes and then a woman’s voice. “Can I help you, ladies?”
That voice. I stood up straighter, as if a string attached to my head had yanked me upright. I turned around slowly. “Dixie?”
Her eye twitched with . . . surprise? Or was it dismay? But then she was rushing forward with open arms and the only emotion I got from her was happiness. “Ivy!”
I gestured wide with my free arm. “This is where you’re working?”
“For a few months now,” she said; then she lifted her eyebrows and her mouth curved flirtatiously. “Between you and me, darling, it’s paid off already.”
So many things were rushing through my mind. First was what a crazy coincidence it was that Dixie worked for Max Litman’s business neighbor and, presumably, rival. Second was why she had failed to mention it when I’d seen her at the scene of the crime.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Mrs. Branford said.
“Dixie lived at the Thompson boardinghouse,” I said, jogging her memory.
The skin around Mrs. Branford’s eyes was creased, but it smoothed out as her eyes opened wide. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” she said, her voice quiet. Reflective. And then it hit me. Dastardly Mrs. Branford. Allusion and the English teacher. I’d told her about seeing Dixie, backlit through a second-story window, and so she pulls out her Shakespeare references. “Of course I have heard about you,” she said to Dixie, “but our paths have never crossed.”
Was that true? Our last adventure had taken both Mrs. Branford and me to the boardinghouse where Dixie had lived. I thought back, though, realizing that Mrs. Branford hadn’t actually been with me when I’d met Dixie.
“They’ve crossed now.”
Mrs. Branford switched her cane to her opposite hand and shook Dixie’s proffered hand. “They certainly have.”
If we weren’t talking about an elderly old woman and a middle-aged throwback to the golden era of Hollywood, I’d have thought the two of them were sizing each other up, complete with puffing chests and peacock feathers splayed, jockeying for position. I intervened with a formal introduction. “Penelope Branford, this is Dixie Mayfield. Dixie, Penelope.”
Dixie sashayed to the granite bar that was set up as her reception area. “Are you in the market for a new house?” she asked.
“No, no,” Mrs. Branford tsked. “We’re in the market for information.”
I swung my head, bugging my eyes at her in silent communication. Being so forthcoming hadn’t been my plan, especially once I’d laid eyes on Dixie. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her, but, well, I didn’t know her well enough to say that I absolutely did.
Although I knew Mrs. Branford understood me, I hadn’t actually expected her to respond in the way I wanted her to. She was emboldened and had taken on my determination to absolve Billy of any wrongdoing. Which meant she would completely ignore me if she had a different idea than I did.
Dixie perched on the leather-seated stool at the counter, glancing at the other stools, then back at us. We took her cue, sitting down. I slid the box of croissants to her. “We got these for . . . well, actually, I thought more people worked here. You now have a lot of croissants,” I said, smiling.
She lifted the lid to take a peak, licking her plump red lips. She pulled a tuft of the flaky bread from one of them, her eyes rolling up as she let it melt in her mouth. “The boss will definitely appreciate them,” she said with a wink.
The room was open, but the air felt heavy. “Dixie, why didn’t you tell me you worked for Wellborn Homes?”
She arched one brow, looking from me to Mrs. Branford, then back to me. “Is it important?
”
“Maybe,” I said, but Mrs. Branford cut me off with a curt, “Of course it’s important.”
I’d been wrong earlier. She wasn’t back to her old self; she had morphed into a bulldog with a bone.
“My brother actually met with Mr. Wellborn about a job,” I said.
Dixie’s smile didn’t betray any concern over our question about her not mentioning where she worked. “Recently?”
“Last week, in fact,” Mrs. Branford said.
I leaned forward on my elbows. “And then Max Litman died and the job went away. I’m just wondering why he’d take the job away after Max died, given that they were competitors.”
“Darling, you know I can’t speak for Mr. Wellborn,” she said, as she jiggled her computer mouse. The screen came to life, she logged in, and a moment later she looked up at me, and for the briefest moment, her gaze was more intense. “Is your brother Billy Culpepper?”
I nodded.
“I remember the day he came in.” She gave another flirtatious wink. “He’s a good-looking man.”
I forced a smile. “I’ll tell him you said so.”
Mrs. Branford leaned toward me. “She’s a little old for Billy,” she whispered.
Dixie cleared her throat. “Beauty and age are not mutually exclusive.”
Mrs. Branford conceded the point. “True enough.”
“Beauty knows no age, now does it?”
Mrs. Branford and I startled at the unexpected baritone of a man’s voice, but Dixie just looked up, batting her eyes and giving a throaty laugh. “Why, Mr. Wellborn. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
He let the door slam behind him and waved her away. “It’s hard to stay away—from work.” He added that last part, but I didn’t think it was work he couldn’t stay away from. Dixie might be older than Mr. Wellborn, as Mrs. Branford so indelicately pointed out, but she truly was a beauty. “Don’t mind me, ladies.” He strode across the room and disappeared briefly into another room, reappearing with a folder tucked under his arm.
The Walking Bread Page 8
