The Walking Bread

by Winnie Archer

  “Agreed.”

  Now, twenty minutes later, we were in Baptista’s Cantina and Grill’s kitchen. Miguel had pulled a stool off to one side. I perched on it, watching the carefully choreographed dance of the cooks and the waitstaff. They juggled steaming pots on the professional-grade stoves; a woman manned the salad and soup station; someone else handled sauces; yet another prepared desserts. Together they were a well-oiled machine.

  The entire process was dramatically different from the inner workings of the bread shop. The kitchen at Yeast of Eden was calm. The long rise of yeast bread took time. The shaping of rolls and scones and baguettes was methodical and repetitive. I found the process therapeutic.

  Here, on the other hand, there was a buzz in the air; the space was alight with energy. Different personalities responded to different environments and different stimuli. While I preferred the relative calm of Olaya’s kitchen, Miguel clearly thrived here amid the activity of his restaurant kitchen. No matter the environment, there was something about being in a restaurant kitchen that was exhilarating. It was as if the place was filled with possibility.

  Miguel knew his way around a kitchen, but I had never seen him in action. I watched him now with fascination. He checked on his staff, dipping a spoon into a saucepan to taste, nodding with satisfaction after sinking his teeth into a cherry tomato, pulling a homemade corn tortilla off the griddle. He was clearly in charge, and he was in his element. Food was in his blood. He’d grown up right here in this very kitchen. Now he’d taken it over, slowly but surely, putting his own stamp on it.

  Once he was satisfied with the current kitchen operations, he set to work in a tucked-away corner of the stainless-steel counter. He started by splitting open two telera rolls from the bread shop. The knife sliced through the crispy crust of the outside, revealing the soft texture of the bread inside.

  He’d pulled a few things from the walk-in refrigerator, setting them at his makeshift workstation. And then he began to assemble. First, he slathered on a spread of black beans. Next, he added a layer of perfectly fanned slices of avocado followed by finely chopped lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. My stomach growled relentlessly now, my hunger coming at me with full force.

  With the tortas laid out on two plates, he took a pair of tongs and a small bowl from the stack of dishes on the open shelves above the counters and disappeared into the heart of the kitchen. He reappeared a moment later, the bowl steaming, the aroma seeping through me.

  “Carne asada,” he said, taking a thin piece of freshly grilled beef and laying it on his cutting board. With a knife that looked sharper than any I’d ever laid eyes on, he sliced the beef, using the tongs to arrange it onto the prepared telera rolls. Finally, he wrapped each one in parchment paper, sliced it in half, and placed the two pieces on a plate.

  After wiping his hands on a clean dish towel, he pulled up another stool and set the plate between us. Before he sat, he took two Topo Chicos from the beverage cooler under the counter where he’d been working, using a knife to pop off the bottle caps.

  I picked up one of the two sandwich sections, tearing part of the parchment back. And then, unable to wait a second longer, I took a bite. “Oh my God,” I said, savoring the first bite. “So good.” My stomach thanked me; so did my taste buds.

  I took another bite before I washed it down with a sip of the mineral water. “Did your dad teach you to cook?” I asked.

  He sat on the second stool, picking up a jalapeño slice with one hand, holding his sandwich in the other. “Dad. Mom. Abuela. Pretty much my entire family.”

  “They taught you well,” I said before taking another bite.

  After we’d satiated ourselves, we launched back into the investigation. “We know Wellborn was one of the investors, and Vicente Villanueva is another. That still leaves seven more.” I had racked my brain but had no clue who they might be.”

  “Is there a Mrs. Wellborn?” Miguel asked.

  I opened my mouth, ready to say no, but I realized that I didn’t actually know. I’d assumed there wasn’t. He hadn’t worn a wedding ring, and while he hadn’t actually done anything overt, there had most definitely been some flirtation between he and Dixie. “Good question. I have no idea.”

  “Because if there is, we could—”

  “—see if she knows anything,” I finished.

  There were probably several ways I could find out if Wellborn was married, but I went with the simplest. I picked up my cell phone, searched my contacts, and dialed Dixie.

  A minute later, I had the answer to my question. Johnny Wellborn was, indeed, married. “I don’t know,” Dixie said hesitantly when I asked her for Wellborn’s home address. “Isn’t that private?”

  “It’s not top-secret information. I can find it through public records,” I said, hoping that was actually true. Still, it would be so much easier if she’d just give it to me.

  Turns out I didn’t need to press her. “They live on a property on the other side of the interstate,” she said, rattling off the address. “But you did not hear it from me.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Dixie.”

  “Wait just a minute, darlin’,” she said before I could hang up. “What are you going to do?”

  “The same thing I’ve been trying to do all along. Find a murderer.”

  * * *

  The drive east took us to farmland and prime properties with the most expensive addresses in Santa Sofia. “Pays to be a contractor,” Miguel said as we passed massive house after massive house after massive house.

  That wasn’t always true. Billy was a contractor, but he lived in a modest home about five miles from our childhood home, not a 4,000 square foot house on five acres in the country. “It does for Johnny Wellborn, anyway.”

  We found the address and turned down the paved road. Miguel gave a low whistle. “Their own moat,” he said as we drove over a small bridge arched over a trickling creek.

  A majestic weeping willow grew just over the bridge. It was planted far enough away so as not encroach on the irrigation, and from this vantage point, it brought a fairytale-like element to the property.

  “Impressive,” he said, scanning the scenery.

  If you liked that sort of thing. Did he like that sort of thing? If so, that was an incompatibility. Nice as it was, I could never live out here, just as I could never live in Max Litman’s neighborhood.

  We kept driving, finally catching sight of the house around a bend in the asphalt road. It was a sprawling single story with a stone and brick façade. Dark wood accents accentuated the stone. “And I thought Max’s house was something else,” I said.

  “Big and expensive doesn’t necessarily mean better. Your house, now that’s a keeper.”

  A relieved sigh escaped me. He preferred character to expansive living. A man after my own heart. A thought suddenly hit me. I only ever saw Miguel at Baptista’s, at some other location where we happened to run into each other, some prescribed place where we’d agreed to meet, or at my house. I knew he lived somewhere near the restaurant, but I had no idea where. “You’ve never taken me to your house,” I said.

  “Haven’t I?”

  “Um, no, you haven’t.” I suddenly wanted to go. To see how he lived. Did he wash his dishes after he ate, or leave them in the sink? Did he make his bed in the morning, or leave it rumpled from the night’s sleep? Did he have real furniture, or was he still living like he was in college? These were things a woman needed to know about her man.

  “It’s kind of near the restaurant,” he said.

  I stole a glance at him. He had a smoldering look and there was a glimmer in his eyes that gave him the Cheshire cat mischievousness. Still, he managed to look sheepish somehow.

  “Yeah, you’ve told me that, but where?” Baptista’s was on the pier. The closest neighborhood was inland, on the other side of PCH. I wouldn’t have described that as near the restaurant, but before I could inquire any more, he pulled his truck into a space on the driveway that seemed design
ated for visitor cars.

  Even the refurbished dark wood barn-style garage doors, arched and sporting a row of windows across the top of each, were spectacular. They elevated the look of the house—as if it needed that. The sprawling single-story home was surprisingly welcoming for such an enormous place. Colorful flowers, wispy fronds from a cluster of ferns under the shaded porch, and a stone walkway leading up to the front door welcomed visitors. The landscaping on the side of the house where we were was just as gorgeous. The Wellborns had taken the time and invested the money to make the entire place a showcase.

  Miguel got out of the truck, circling around to the passenger side. He put his hand on the doorframe as I pushed it open and stepped down. As we turned to face the house, a woman materialized in front of the garage. The knees of her jeans were browned from kneeling, and her dark green Hunter garden clogs were caked with a layer of dirt. She brushed her gloved hands together, a mist of dirt falling to the ground, before peeling them off. “Can I help you?”

  I walked toward her, casually placing my palm against my chest. “I’m Ivy. This is Miguel.”

  Her eyes narrowed warily. “Are you selling something?”

  “Oh no, no, ma’am—”

  “Then am I supposed to know your names? Or you?”

  It was a long shot that she’d be inherently trusting and accept two strangers at face value, but I’d expected her to be pleasant. My hope was dashed on both counts. “No, not at all. We were just—”

  Miguel jumped in. “We know your husband, and since we were in the neighborhood, we—”

  “—decided to stop by,” I finished. I stretched my arm out in a friendly gesture.

  She looked at it, then to my face, hesitating. Finally she stripped off her garden gloves and stepped forward to shake my hand first, then Miguel’s. “Johnny’s not here.”

  I imagined she and her husband didn’t get many random visitors out here in the country, but if she thought it was odd we were in the neighborhood, she didn’t let on. I’d been smiling amiably, but let my face fall. “That’s too bad. We’re sorry to miss him.”

  She’d folded her arms over her chest, still guarded. “What was your name?” she asked me.

  Too late I realized that it would have been smart to give my Anna Cullison alias. Then again, if Mrs. Wellborn described me to her husband, my curly red hair would give me away. “Ivy,” I said. “And this is Miguel. You’re Mrs. Wellborn?” I asked, wanting to confirm the fact before continuing.

  Her lips were drawn into a thin line. She wasn’t unattractive, but the harsh manner in which she held her expression, coupled with the sharp point of her nose and her small dark eyes, didn’t give her a warm and fuzzy look. She gave a curt nod to answer my question.

  I had to try the softest approach I could. Bees and honey again, only this time I didn’t have a box of Olaya’s croissants. “We’re sorry to bother you. We had a quick question for your husband.”

  She let out a derisive laugh. “You drove all the way out here to ask Johnny a quick question? Come now . . . Ivy, was it? What is it you want?”

  “Mrs. Wellborn,” Miguel said, “let me be straight with you—”

  “I wish you would,” she snapped.

  “The investment deal with Max Litman—”

  The moment Max’s name crossed Miguel’s lips, Mrs. Wellborn grew stiff as a board. I thought she’d been uptight before, what with her rigid spine and taut neck, but in comparison to now, she’d been positively slouching. Her jaw pulsed, her lips drawing together in a thin line. “You know about that?”

  We both nodded, afraid to say too little or too much.

  “Did he tell you how that man swindled us? If I could, I’d spit on his grave.”

  While I was taken aback by Mrs. Wellborn’s anger, I understood it. Losing a hundred and twenty thousand dollars was more than a big deal. It could be life altering.

  “We’re well aware, Mrs. Wellborn.”

  “Did he also mention how Mr. Litman walked away from the so-called deal with a cool million in his pocket? Or in some Cayman Island numbered account, anyway.” Her eyes opened wide, clarity striking like a hot iron. She pointed at us, a floppy garden glove in her hand. “You’re part of it, aren’t you?”

  Miguel and I had talked about how to answer that question. Now I forged ahead with the tactic we’d decided on. “We have a stake in that, too.” It wasn’t a lie; our stake just wasn’t financial.

  Her seething fury was palpable, but it was directed toward Max and the situation, not us. “Of course you do. Why else would you be here?”

  “So I guess you haven’t been able to recoup any of your money,” I said, fishing.

  She scoffed. “Have you?”

  “Um—” I faltered, but she picked up where she’d left off.

  “We tried every possible avenue, but Max was pretty damn smart. Smarter than us. Wherever that money is, we’ll never get our hands on it again.” She leveled her gaze at us.

  “What’s the quick question you want to ask Johnny?”

  Miguel jumped in. “We wanted to run something by him.”

  “And the other investors,” I added.

  She wasn’t moved. We clearly weren’t going to be able to soften her up, so I hardened my own expression to mimic hers and nodded. Solidarity. “He screwed a lot of people. We want justice.” Again, not a lie, just not the entire truth.

  She grimaced. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  “We haven’t seen any of the others,” Miguel said, playing into the ruse that we were part of the elite group that had been swindled by Max. “Keeping a low profile after the loss, I guess.”

  Mrs. Wellborn slapped her garden gloves against her thigh. “That I wouldn’t know.”

  “You haven’t seen them either?” I asked.

  “Seen them? How could I? My husband refuses to tell me who the other victims are. And yes, I do consider us all victims.”

  “You haven’t seen Vicente around?” She gave me a blank stare. “Vicente Villanueva?” I clarified.

  Mrs. Wellborn pulled on her gloves again. “Another of Max’s casualties, I presume. I don’t know him.” She walked to the end of the garage, but stopped at the corner to look back at us. “I’ll tell Johnny you stopped by,” she said; then she rounded the corner and disappeared from our sight.

  By the time we’d made it halfway back to Santa Sofia, we’d almost convinced each other that Mrs. Wellborn was a pretty good suspect. She certainly had a strong motive, but we ended up dismissing her from our minds. “She’s too obvious,” I said. “If she’d killed him, she wouldn’t be so . . . so . . . so . . .”

  I was at a loss, but Miguel finished my thought. “So brutally honest about her hatred for the man?”

  “Exactly.”

  After another few minutes, my cell phone rang. Olaya. “You should come here to the bread shop,” she said when I answered. “Martina is here.”

  “We’ll be back in twenty minutes,” I said. “Don’t let her leave!”

  “To Yeast of Eden?” Miguel asked, confirming what he’d gathered from my half of the conversation.

  I pointed forward. “To Yeast of Eden.”

  He nodded, flicked the turn signal down, and made the left turn to take us back into town.

  Chapter 18

  Olaya Solis had two sisters. Olaya was in her mid-sixties, Consuelo was a few years younger, and then there was Martina. The youngest Solis sister was in her late fifties. The three women were tighter than a knot, but vastly different. Olaya was bohemian, green-eyed, and statuesque; Consuelo, also green-eyed but with a fairer skin, was a casual jeans and T-shirt kind of woman; and Martina, who had a darker complexion, amber eyes, and auburn hair, was the most stylish of the three. Every time I’d seen her, she’d been put together. Refined. At the moment, however, before us in the bread shop, she was wide-eyed and nervous.

  Olaya, Martina, Miguel, and I sat at one of the bistro tables. Martina leaned forward, one hand resting o
n top of the other. “Vicente lost one hundred twenty thousand dollars?”

  “We think so,” I said, “although we haven’t been able to confirm it.”

  She stood abruptly, her chair teetering behind her. Miguel reached over, grabbing the back and pulling it out of the way. And then Martina paced, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She whirled around to face us again. “All that money? For nothing?”

  I nodded, wishing I could tell her something different. “He wasn’t the only one.”

  “Who else?” she said, sitting down again.

  Miguel answered. “Johnny Wellborn.”

  Martina and Olaya looked at one another, both shaking their heads. “I do not know him,” Martina said.

  “And there are more,” Olaya said. “Each one put in the same amount of money?”

  “One hundred and twenty thousand dollars each,” Miguel said.

  Martina stood again, backing away from the table. “It is all gone?”

  “That’s why we want to talk to Vicente,” I said. “The investors gave their money to Max Litman. We don’t know what happened to it after that. What we heard is that the deal went south in a bad deal. Max said he took a loss, too.”

  “One hundred and twenty thousand dollars, that is not a loss. That is to be destroyed.” Martina’s face waffled between anger, frustration, and compassion. Finally she landed on the latter. “Pobrecito. How could Vicente keep this from me?” She spoke aloud, but she didn’t expect an answer that none of us could give.

  “Can we see him?” I asked.

  The truth seemed to suddenly dawn on Martina. “Oh no.” She backed away, her hands shaking, palms out. “No, no. You cannot think Vicente could have done this thing to Max? That Vicente could have killed him?”

  I stood now, taking her hands in mine. They were cold. Trembling. “What I know is that Billy did not kill Max. I know Johnny Wellborn lied about not knowing who the other investors were. I know that there are plenty of other people who didn’t like the man for one reason or another.” I turned away from Martina, talking to Olaya, too. Talking to the universe, maybe. “Someone killed Max. I need to figure out who. If Vicente knows something, it could help us prove Billy’s innocence.”