“Call Josie,” Billy said.
“Right.” She lived and breathed her job and her students, investing every spare minute in them. Chances were good that she’d be here. I took out my phone, went to my list of favorites, and activated the call.
It rang twice before she answered, not with a polite hello, but with an enthusiastic, “Ivy!”
“Hey, Aunt Josie,” I said, automatically calling her the name I’d grown up with.
“What a surprise. It’s always so good to hear your voice,” she said, the sincerity in her voice encircling me.
“Yours too,” I said. I held out the phone between my brother and me. “Billy’s here, too.”
“Hey, Aunt Jo,” he said, using the same familiar endearment I did. We were cut from the same cloth, he and I. When we’d been students in her classroom, we’d called her Mrs. Jeffries, but otherwise it had been Aunt Josie, or in Billy’s case, Aunt Jo. It was hard to teach a dog a new trick.
Her sigh was audible across the airwaves. “Darling boy, how are you holding up?”
“So I guess you’ve heard, then,” he said, his voice turning monotone.
“It’s a small town. Of course I’ve heard. I planned to come around to see you this week, in fact. Billy, anyone who knows you knows it’s utterly ridiculous.”
“But the sheriff doesn’t know me. It’s not ridiculous to him.”
“Is Emmaline not—”
“She’s deputy,” he interrupted, “and she was taken off the investigation.”
I needed to redirect the conversation. “Josie, are you at school?”
She laughed. “Where else would I be?”
“Can you let us in?”
We heard a scraping sound, as if she’d shoved a chair back. “You’re here?”
“Yes, we want to talk to—”
She cut me off. “I’m coming down. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where does she think we’d go?” Billy asked, cracking a grin.
My heart swelled. It was the first genuine and spontaneous smile I’d seen from him since all this had begun. I shrugged, smiling with him. “It’s Josie.”
“Right. Enough said.”
A minute later she appeared at the door. Her look was typical Josephine Jeffries: a sliver of skin between her maroon skinny jeans and black booties; an off-white peasant shirt; a karma ring necklace strung on a black piece of leather; short waves of auburn hair, blond streaks in front framing her face; red-and-black-framed glasses. She was not what most people thought of as a typical sixtysomething-year-old teacher, but she’d been Teacher of the Year for Santa Sofia High School three times, had been Teacher of the Year for the state once, and was a perennial student favorite.
She leaned against the bar on the door, releasing the lock and pushing the door open. “My darlings,” she said, wrapping us up in a Josie-sized bear hug, “you are a sight for sore eyes.” She was a familiar comfort. Outside of our immediate family, she was the closest thing we had to a blood relative anywhere near Santa Sofia.
Her hug was as warm as a wooly blanket on a stormy night. I stretched my arms around each of them, the flat of my hands against their backs. I could have stayed in the hug forever, but I felt Billy melt into her. Then his chest heaved. I slipped myself free from them, letting Josie slide her arm from me to around Billy. He sank deeper into the embrace and she held him. He muttered something into her shoulder. “Sshh sshh,” she soothed, rubbing his back. “It’s going to work out, Billy. You’ll see. It’ll be okay.”
I choked back my own emotions. Seeing how real this was for him, how scared he was strengthened my resolve. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, leaving Josie to comfort Billy. I hurried out of the main building, through the quad, and to the art building in the far southeast corner of campus.
Chapter 21
It had been nearly twenty years, but walking through the door to Mr. Zavila’s art room was like walking through a time portal. I stood just inside the threshold, taking a moment to look around the classroom. It had the same paint-spattered tables; the same shelves loaded with art supplies and student work; the same graffiti art and murals decorating every open space. It was just as I remembered it, right down to Mr. Zavila himself hunched over a potter’s wheel. His foot moved up and down on the pedal, controlling the wheel’s speed. His hands worked the beige clay as he shaped what had started as a mound of nothing into what I guessed would be a vase.
“Mr. Zavila?”
He jumped, his fingers curling and misshaping the clay he’d been working. He cursed under his breath, smashing the clay with his fist before turning to me. “What the hell—” he started, his words cutting off as he registered who I was.
I raised one hand. “Hey, Mr. Zavila.”
His aggravation disappeared. Instead he was now flustered and looked shell-shocked that I was standing here in his classroom. He took his foot from the pedal, his potter’s wheel coming to a stop.
“Sorry to barge in,” I continued when he didn’t speak. I gestured to the mound of clay on his potter’s wheel. “I hope you can salvage it.”
He looked at it, his eyebrows knitting together as if he were trying to figure out just what had happened to the vase, but he still didn’t utter a word. I remembered this about him, too. He was chatty when he wanted to be, like every year when he consulted with Billy about his art car. Talking to him when he was in an antisocial mood, however, had made me want to pound my forehead against a wall. It was like trying to teach a dog to speak English—nothing but blank stares and the occasional bark.
It had been less than a minute, but I could already tell that this conversation was going to be one-sided. I waited to see if he’d ask how I was, or inquire about Billy, but he offered only a vacant stare.
“Billy’s here,” I said, watching carefully to see his reaction. It had been several years since I had discovered that Mr. Zavila had been working against Billy, so just as many since my brother had stopped using him as a consultant.
His jaw tensed again as he looked over my shoulder.
I looked behind me, too, wondering if Billy had extricated himself from Josie’s hug and followed me to the art hall. No one was there. I turned back to Mr. Zavila after registering the empty doorway. “He’s with Mrs. Jeffries,” I said.
Mr. Zavila’s eyes relaxed slightly, but his posture was rigid. “Nice woman,” he said.
He’d engaged. It was a start, so I pressed on. “She’s family.”
This time he didn’t respond. An awkward silence fell, but I cleared my throat and shifted the conversation to the subject I was most interested in talking with him about. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Zavila.”
“My loss?” he asked, his face blank.
“I know you were friends with Max Litman,” I said. “It must have been a shock to hear that he died. That he was murdered.”
His head jerked ever so slightly. And then his nostrils flared. An involuntary reaction to hearing Max’s name? It might be a reach, but I was here to look for any sign—any inkling—that Mr. Zavila knew something. Mentioning Max’s name had caused an infinitesimal reaction. The question was why?
“It’s not my loss,” he said. “I didn’t know him.”
It was an out-and-out lie. I’d followed Mr. Zavila from our garage straight to Litman’s house to give his report on Billy’s car. Why would he lie about something that was probably easily provable? Surely other people had seen them together over the years. I met his gaze head-on, measuring my words. “I’m sure I’ve seen you with him once or twice over the years.”
He blinked, his eyes darting away briefly before coming back to me. “You’re mistaken. I didn’t know him.”
I wondered how far to push. If he had killed Max, what would stop him from killing me? I hadn’t felt this tension and unease when I’d met with Vanessa Rose, or either of the Wellborns. Mr. Zavila, on the other hand, made me think of a caged animal. I needed to be on my guard. I stayed hyperalert, re
ady to bolt, but made a show of checking my watch, then looking over my shoulder as if I were waiting for someone. He wouldn’t do anything to me if he thought Billy was going to show up any second. Hopefully. “Sure you did,” I said as I turned back to him. “A couple of times, actually, always before the Art Car Shows.”
This time he visibly balked. “You saw—?”
He stopped, catching himself before giving himself away, but I nodded. How far should I go with my information? There was no plausible reason for me to be cruising around Malibu Hills Estates, but I had to go with a factual encounter, one he couldn’t deny. “Oh yes. I saw you at his house. On the driveway, in fact.”
His spine stiffened, his entire body growing tense. He looked in control, but just barely. “You are mistaken.”
I leveled my gaze at him. “I don’t think I am.”
Behind his eyes, the wheels were turning. How far would he take his denial? “What is it you want, Ms. Culpepper?”
People were asking me that question over and over lately. Instead of the response I’d given before—that I was trying to help exonerate my brother for Max Litman’s murder—I went for a sucker punch. “I know that you were never helping Billy with his cars. It was always about helping Max beat him.”
“That is not true . . .” he snapped.
“It is true. You helped him beat Billy every year. How much did he pay you to be a spy for him?”
“He didn’t—”
“I followed you!”
He started, suddenly looking not only caged, but rabid. “What do you mean, you followed me?”
I hesitated. I had put myself in danger by being here, which had been foolish. I glanced over my shoulder again, hoping Billy would materialize. He hadn’t. I analyzed the situation. I’d have a head start if things here went south and I had to make a run for it. I was closer to the door by a good fifteen feet, and there was a long table he’d have to either go around or leap over. He was portly, his belly hanging over the waistband of his jeans. If he was, in fact, a killer, his belly wouldn’t stop him from killing an unsuspecting victim, i.e. Max, but it gave me the advantage right now.
After calculating the risk, I forged ahead. “The last time you helped Billy,” I said, making air quotes as I said “helped,” “I was waiting in my car. I followed you to Max’s house.” I paused, letting him sweat before adding, “I saw you.”
The color drained from his face. “You set me up. Max barely won.”
“We had to know for sure.”
He balled his fists by his side.“Billy lied to me.” His voice was laced with disdain, as if he had been the one wronged.
I heard the intake of a sharp breath behind me, turning. Billy had materialized. He stood in the doorway, Josie by his side. “You’ve got to be kidding. You lied to me,” he said. Scorn colored his face. “Year after year after year.”
Mr. Zavila looked away, staring for a moment at the mound of clay on the wheel. “You don’t understand. I’d bought a house from him, but my financing fell through. I was going to lose my deposit. He wouldn’t refund the whole thing unless I helped him.”
“Blackmail,” I muttered. I’d always wondered why Mr. Zavila would work against Billy. Now it made sense. “Of course.”
Mr. Zavila nodded in confirmation, and just like that, he gave himself a motive.
“So every time you spied for him, he gave you back some of your deposit?” Billy asked.
Josie’s jaw dropped with disbelief. “Is this true, Cristopher? You cheated Billy so Max Litman could win a car competition?”
Mr. Zavila couldn’t meet Josie’s disbelieving face. Instead, he turned to face Billy. “You have to understand, I had no choice. I did this so I could keep my house. Take care of my family.”
That was a cop-out. “You always have a choice,” I said, not accepting his rationalization. “You could have said no.”
“No, I couldn’t. I have a family.”
Billy fisted his hands, the veins in his neck popping. “You screwed me over.”
“I had no choice,” he said again, this time not sounding so convincing.
Billy started to move around the table separating us from the art teacher. “You set me up for his murder.”
I hurried to his side, putting my hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Billy, wait.”
“If he killed Max—”
Mr. Zavila stepped back, his face contorting. “What are you talking about? I didn’t kill him!”
Billy surged forward again. “Tell me the truth. Did Max stop paying you back when we figured out what you were doing? Did the money stop?”
Mr. Zavila shook his head. “No, no, no. That happened years ago. We worked out another deal. I helped him build his cars every year. We developed the concept for the car each year and I organized a team to execute it.”
I studied his face. His posture. The way he retreated in fear. And I believed him.
Billy stopped halfway around the long art table. “You didn’t kill him,” Billy said. A statement, not a question. His anger deflated and I could see that he believed him, too.
“God, no. I never wanted any of this to happen,” he said. His voice dropped to a pained whisper. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’m so sorry.”
There was nothing left to say. We left him to his guilt, no closer to the truth than when we’d entered the school. Mr. Zavila had been a Hail Mary, and it hadn’t paid off.
Chapter 22
That afternoon, I convened a meeting of The Blackbird Ladies at Yeast of Eden. I’d dubbed them that the moment I’d first laid eyes on them. They met regularly at the bread shop, and when they were together, they wore hats, each adorned with a little blackbird.
The hats themselves, as well as the blackbirds with which each woman had festooned her hat, I realized after I’d gotten to know them, symbolized who she was in some form or fashion. Mrs. Branford’s wide-brimmed hat was lavender, simple, and the blackbird on it was small, but sat prominently on the brim. She’d taught English for half a century, a guide in the classroom, but was prominent and impactful in her students’ lives. Her bird was symbolism at its finest.
Alice Ryder was a little uptight, in my opinion, and not overtly friendly, but she was loyal to her friends and had a caring heart. The style and design of her hat reflected that. It was cool and reserved compared to the others: white, with a band of black along the outside of the downturned brim, and black tulle forming a tasteful bundled bow off to one side. The blackbird sat, small and prim, tucked into the left side of the tulle.
And then there was Mabel Peabody. If you were to line the three women up and ask which one didn’t belong, the obvious choice would be Mabel. On a bell curve, Alice Ryder was on the far end of one side, Mrs. Branford sat squarely atop the curve, and Mabel Peabody was clear on the other side, the direct opposite of Alice. I wondered sometimes how they were even friends. After a time, I realized that although they bickered, they also had each other’s backs. They had a long history, and that was the glue in their friendship.
Mabel’s hat, like her, was bright and unique. It was a felted concoction, she’d told me, of merino wool, decorative silk fabric, and lace; it was bohemian in style, and had a floppy brim. It ran the color spectrum from chestnut-brown to rust orange, and she’d had her blackbird sitting between sprigs of peacock feathers and vintage buttons. It was truly one of a kind, just like her.
The women—just like the birds—were utterly unique, and I adored them all.
Not long ago, Mrs. Branford had dubbed both Olaya and me honorary members of their unofficial club. We’d spent an afternoon choosing our own hats and adding little blackbirds to them, symbols of intelligence and quick wit, characteristics each of the women, including Olaya and me to some degree, possessed. Olaya looked a bit like an Aztec queen. She was slightly shorter than my own five feet eight inches, but looked statuesque with the soft curls in her steel-colored hair and warm skin tone. She’d chosen a black classic men’s hat. A single feathe
r and a blackbird sat on the left side, close to the black flat band circling the fedora. She wasn’t really a “hat” person, but this one completely suited her.
True to form, I’d found my perfect hat at the antique mini mall down the street from Yeast of Eden. I’d loved how it looked a bit like a top hat, reminiscent of the Mad Hatter’s. It was a rich maroon and was adorned with soft waves of organza ribbon and a few artfully placed feathers, both of the same color. The blackbird I’d chosen rested between the folds of organza as if it were hiding away, observing. Just like I tended to do.
“What’s this about?” Alice asked once we were gathered around one of the bistro tables of the bread shop.
I cut right to the chase. “Max Litman.”
They knew I’d been digging around, so none of them were surprised. “Have you made any progress?” Mabel asked.
I rested my chin on my fist. “Yes. But at the same time, no.”
“Don’t give up,” Alice said. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her terse expression didn’t change, so the encouraging statement was uncharacteristic coming from her.
“Don’t worry, I’m not.” I talked, almost without taking a breath, rattling off the things I’d learned over the last week.
1. Max was most likely killed somewhere other than the hangar that housed the art cars because he was not in it when it was delivered by Allen Trucking Company.
2. There was an unexplained broken window in the hangar.
3. Billy was there, summoned by Max, when Max’s art car was loaded up to be hauled to the hangar.
4. The truck drivers didn’t seem to know anything helpful.
5. Billy’s Through the Looking Glass book was found in Max’s car.
6. Billy had never won the Art Car contest, but Max always did, thanks to Mr. Zavila.
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