Crust No One

by Winnie Archer

  We’d stopped a few feet from the information and mail desk, but no one was around. An antique brass call bell sat on the counter. I reached out and depressed the button three times. It sounded with a tinny ting, ting, ting.

  A young man, probably in his late twenties, appeared from a back room. He wore blue scrubs, which I thought might be overkill. Then again, there was no doubt he was the one to flag down if there was a medical problem. The rectangular plastic name tag clipped to his shirt confirmed his position: Steven Lang, RN. He looked surprised to see the three of us standing before him expectantly. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” I said, resting my open palms on the counter. “We’re looking for one of your tenants. A Mr. Rivera?”

  “Are you family?”

  The answer, of course, was no, and from his expression, he seemed to know that. If we were family, wouldn’t we know where he was, at least generally speaking? “We’re friends with his son,” I said, hoping that would be enough.

  Nurse Lang considered our multigenerational trio, must have considered us harmless, and moved the mouse next to his computer, waking it up. He searched for a minute, finally saying, “There’s an Enrique Rivera. Is that him?”

  Olaya leaned close to me and whispered. “Enrique is Spanish for Henry.”

  And Hank was short for Henry. I couldn’t say with complete certainty that this was our man, but I went with my gut. “Yes, that’s him. Can you tell us which building he is in?”

  The man narrowed his eyes, revisiting his earlier suspicions. “So you’re friends with his son? And why do you need to see him?”

  As I thought about how to answer, Olaya cleared her throat, an indication that she was going to field this particular question. “We know his son. Mustache Hank—you may have heard of him?”

  “Is that a real name? Mustache Hank?”

  “It’s a moniker he picked up years ago,” Mrs. Branford said. “He has a handlebar mustache, hence the name.”

  The nurse shrugged. “Never heard of him, sorry.”

  Olaya continued: “I am a volunteer with Helping Seniors.”

  “Oh, right,” the young man said. “That’s a good organization.”

  Olaya nodded, her eyes dropping to his name tag. “It certainly is, Mr. Lang.”

  “The bread’s from Yeast of Eden, just off the PCH, isn’t it?”

  PCH was the acronym for the Pacific Coast Highway, also known as California State Route 1. It was the highway that ran along most of the state’s Pacific coastline. “One and the same,” Olaya said.

  “I’ve heard it’s good,” he said.

  Olaya smiled. “Stop by sometime. I’ll give you a croissant, on the house.”

  His eyes opened wide. “You’re the owner?”

  “Owner, baker, magic maker,” she said, tilting her head in a slight bow.

  “From what I hear, there is magic in the bread. I’ll be by tomorrow!”

  She nodded with approval. “I will keep an eye out for you. I have bread to deliver to Senõr Rivera,” she said.

  If Nurse Lang noticed Olaya’s empty hands and wondered where this bread was, he didn’t let on. I forged ahead while I could. It was 8:00, and while that wasn’t late for a person my age, it was quite possibly past the witching hour for the seventy-five and older crowd. “Which building is Enrique in?”

  He punched a few keys on the computer keyboard and his eyes scanned the screen. “He’s in the Eternal Peace building,” he said after a second. “I’ll call over there and let them know you’re coming. When you get there, press the button on the speaker, let them know I sent you. They’ll buzz you in.”

  We thanked him, and then followed his directions, driving to the Eternal Peace building. Olaya did have a bag of bread in the car, from which she pulled a loaf of sourdough, and I brought Mrs. Sanchez’s tortillas with me. We looked for the doorbell. It took a minute, but I finally noticed the little round button on the keyless entry mechanism. I hadn’t noticed the identical swipe pad on the Aged Oaks building. Clearly, I hadn’t looked closely enough.

  The attendant buzzed us in, directing us to apartment 315. We took the elevator up to the third floor. It was a nice facility. Clean. Muted colors that were comfortable to live in. We passed amenities like an exercise room, an entertainment area with a grand piano and chess and checkers set up on a few tables, and even a mini–coffee lounge complete with a barista during daytime hours. If I ever had to leave my home and live in an old folks’ home, this would definitely be the type of place I’d want to be.

  We arrived at Enrique Rivera’s apartment. I knocked and we all stood back, surrounding the doorway in a woman-made semicircle, and waiting with bated breath.

  Enrique was elderly and we had no idea how mobile he was, so we waited as patiently as we could. After a solid minute and a half, I knocked again. From inside, we heard a muffled, “Esperate. I am coming.”

  Finally, the doorknob rattled. And rattled. And rattled some more. At long last, the door wrenched open and before us stood a man who was the spitting image of Hank Rivera. Or rather Hank was the spitting image of this man—right down to the handlebar mustache. The man standing in front of us was a generation older than Hank. He had a spattering of dark hair still visible, but most of it was white. All except for the mustache, which was as black as muddy coffee. If I hadn’t seen Hank’s, I’d have wondered if it was genuine.

  He ran his forefinger and his thumb along one side of the handlebar, twisting it at the end to emphasize the curl at the tip. “It is mine,” he said, as if he’d quite literally read my mind. “Many people ask it.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Mrs. Branford.

  “Gracias, mi amor. Entonces, am I able to help you?”

  Chapter 20

  It seemed as if most of the people I’d met lately were on the far side of sixty. Enrique Rivera, however, was the most dapper. “We’re friends of Hank’s,” Mrs. Branford said, answering his question.

  He smiled at the mention of his son. “Oh! Que bueno. Las amigas de Hank—his friends, they are also friends of mine.” He bowed slightly and slowly stepped back to open the door wide enough for us to enter. “Come in, come in!”

  I’d wondered if Phil had told his father that Hank had vanished, thinking that he must have, but Enrique seemed too joyful. He couldn’t possibly know that his son was nowhere to be found. Should I sugarcoat things or be direct? I hadn’t decided, but once he welcomed us in, it didn’t feel right to hold back. Beating around the bush seemed unfair and cruel.

  Enrique slowly made his way to an upright chair, the plaid upholstery faded and worn. Olaya, Mrs. Branford, and I sat side by side on the small couch across from him. I cleared my throat, hating to be the one to make Enrique’s affable smile dissolve, but I had no choice. “Sir, we’ve been looking for Hank now for a few days. He seems to be . . . um, missing.”

  The man frowned, leaning forward, his hands on his knees, elbows out to the side. “No intiendo. I do not understand. Hank is missing?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “He’s missed his deliveries. He left the place he’s been staying and no one has seen him since. We’re all worried and—”

  I’d been hoping that Hank’s father might know Hank’s whereabouts, but it was clear that he didn’t. “That cannot be,” he said, shaking his head as if he hadn’t heard us correctly and he could fling the words back out and unhear them. Worry instantly clouded his eyes.

  I didn’t know what to say next. My gaze met Olaya’s; a thread of understanding passing between us. She steeled herself, looked at Enrique, and spoke to him in Spanish. He replied and they slipped into a conversation in their native language. Mrs. Branford waited patiently and I listened intently, trying to understand the gist of what they were saying. Unfortunately, my high-school Spanish wasn’t up to par.

  By the time Olaya was done, the debonair mustached man had dissolved, his smile gone, his shoulders slouched. He looked up at her. “Su camion?”

  She no
dded. “The truck was found, but there is no sign of Hank.”

  As the color drained from his face, Olaya moved from the sofa, crouching in front of Enrique. She put her hand on his. “Lo siento,” she said.

  I recognized those words. I’m sorry, she told him.

  “We are still looking,” I said to him. He needed hope to hold onto. We all did.

  He nodded. His nostrils flared as he looked at Olaya, and then at Mrs. Branford and me. “What can I do?”

  I felt for him. Inaction made you feel powerless. “Could you answer a few questions?”

  Enrique drew in a tremulous breath, steadying himself. “Por supuesto,” he said. He followed it up in English: “Of course. If it will help find my son . . .”

  He trailed off. I pushed on before he could slip away into his worry. “Did he seem okay the last time you saw him?” I asked, wishing we hadn’t been the bearers of bad news for this man.

  “Okay? Yes. He was Hank. He was normal. We talked about Brenda. And Jason. He brought me tortillas. He always brings me tortillas.”

  “From Nancy,” I said, and I held out the bag we’d brought with us. “We saw her earlier. She sent these for you.”

  He ignored the tortillas. “Daniel, he did not know where is Hank?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. Mr. Rivera, did Hank say that he was going away? On a little vacation, maybe?”

  He shook his head. “I am trying to remember, but no. I do not think so, no.”

  “Can you think of anything different? Something he might have said that was unusual?”

  He thought for a moment, and then his eyes sparked. “He has a friend. An old teacher, I think? He has been talking about the man to move in here,” he said, his English a little off. “He ask me if this man, if he could call me, if I would talk to him.”

  “Mason Caldwell?” Mrs. Branford asked. “Was that the name of the teacher? Of the man Hank wanted to move in here?”

  Enrique’s expression was uncertain. “It is possible. I do not remember. Caldwell, Caldwell,” he murmured to himself. “Posiblemente.”

  “Mr. Rivera,” I said, deciding to simply ask the other thing I needed to. It had taken many years and a failed marriage to be confident enough to simply be direct. There was no point in backsliding now. “Do you know what kind of financial situation Hank is in?”

  The horizontal lines of Enrique’s forehead deepened as he considered how to respond. “Hank, he works hard always. He builds his business from the ground. From nothing. Pero some things for Hank, they are difficult,” he finally offered. “He can grow anything. He has many contracts, but he must do more than grow, yes. Crops for the week to the restaurants in town. It is not make enough money to keep going.”

  I caught Mrs. Branford’s and Olaya’s eyes, a knowing look passing between us. This information brought us back to the money Hank borrowed from Alice Ryder. I reviewed the possibilities relating to this money in my head:

  1. Hank had had good intentions in borrowing the money. He’d planned to pay his debts and get back on his feet, but the temptation of having the money was too much and he ran away from his problems to start over.

  2. Maybe Hank’s intentions were never good. What if he borrowed the money from Alice with the intention to disappear from the beginning?

  3. Or maybe he confided in an online friend, who then arranged a meeting.

  A new idea barreled into my head. From everything I’d heard about Hank, he was honorable and responsible. He took care of others more than himself, allowing his clients to postpone payments, not burdening others any more than necessary with his problems. He’d stayed with Daniel Sanchez only briefly, moving into a new place pretty quickly after leaving his home. That’s when he borrowed the money, not before. Why move into the boardinghouse and then borrow money to disappear? My guess was that he wouldn’t have bothered. So what else could he have wanted the money for?

  My idea grew until I felt sure I should add it to my list of possibilities.

  4. What if the money he borrowed wasn’t to pay off his debts at all? What if it was to help Mason Caldwell, who he seemed so determined to help, get settled here at Rusty Gates?

  In the end, I decided that a more focused conversation with Mason Caldwell was in order. Which made me anxious for morning to come and for the photo shoot at the Thompson boarding house.

  By the time we took our leave, Mr. Rivera looked distressed and beaten down. He walked us to the door, but the confident swagger he’d had when we’d first arrived was gone. It felt as if he were the victim of a hit-and-run: We’d delivered bad news, and then abandoned him to deal with it alone.

  “Can we call someone for you, Mr. Rivera?” Olaya asked.

  He shook his head. “I can do it, but thank you. You’ll let me know if you find him? Or find out anything?”

  I promised we would.

  My cell phone rang before we were out of the parking lot. Mrs. Branford was still riding shotgun. She jumped in her seat at the sound. “I will never get used to some of these newfangled technologies,” she said.

  No, I didn’t think she would. At least not without some prodding. She had a flip phone, which was as advanced as she got.

  Her cane rested next to her leg. She held on to the top and twirled it. “Go on, Ivy, answer it!”

  From the rearview mirror, I could see Olaya leaning forward, equally anxious. Then it hit me: They thought it was Miguel on the phone.

  I knew better. “Simmer down, you two,” I said as I hit the button on my dash to answer.

  All I could hear was distant chattering and the sound of cars in the background, but nothing I could identify. I tilted my head to the side, keeping my eyes on the road, but trying to get a better angle to pick out something distinguishable.

  “Hello?” I said, then more loudly, “Hello!”

  It sounded as if whoever was on the other end of the line was fumbling with the phone. Finally the noise stopped. “Ivy,” someone said.

  “Em!” It’s Emmaline, I mouthed to Mrs. Branford and Olaya.

  “Hold on,” Emmaline said. She seemed to cover the phone as she spoke with someone. “Hey,” she said, coming back.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. It was late for her to be working, but that’s what it sounded like.

  “Ivy,” she said, her voice shifting from the commanding tone I’d vaguely heard to something softer. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was almost regretful.

  My heartbeat started to quicken. “What? What’s happened? Is Billy okay?”

  She was quick to answer. “He’s fine. No, Ivy, it’s not that.”

  I heaved a relieved sigh. “Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Ivy,” she said again. “We found Hank’s body.” Beside me, Mrs. Branford gasped. She clutched the side of the door. From the backseat, Olaya let out a sob. My blood ran cold as Emmaline said, “He’s . . . dead.”

  * * *

  After Emmaline’s bombshell, my hands wrenched to the left, nearly driving my car up onto the curb. “Dead?”

  “That can’t be right,” Mrs. Branford said.

  Emmaline’s voice came back over the line, sharper in tone again. “Where are you, Ivy?”

  I pulled the car over to the side of the road and clutched the steering wheel. I hadn’t known Hank, but I felt knocked out by the news just the same. “We just saw Hank’s father,” I said.

  There was a long pause and for a moment I wondered if she’d covered the phone again and was dealing with one of her officers. But then I heard her letting out a steadying breath. “Where and how?” she asked succinctly. She was no longer Emmaline, friend. She was all deputy sheriff.

  “We paid a visit to . . . to Daniel Sanchez, Hank’s right-hand man. He mentioned that Hank visited his father every week. We—”

  “Who is we, Ivy?”

  “Penelope Branford and Olaya Solis,” I answered.

  Another sigh. “Okay, go on.”

  “We figured that no one had
told Enrique—that’s Hank’s father—that his son was missing.”

  “So you were the messengers,” she stated.

  I didn’t need to answer, so I asked a question instead. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  She paused for a beat before answering. “I guess so. The media is already here. It’ll be on the eleven-o’clock news and in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “Where’s here?” I asked, and then she dropped another bombshell.

  “His son found him in the large plastic garbage can on his mother’s driveway.”

  In the rearview mirror, I saw Olaya clasp her hand over her mouth, her shoulders trembling. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, her silent crying more heartbreaking than if she’d let out wailing sobs.

  Mrs. Branford stayed facing forward, stone-still. Her chin quivered and her eyes glistened, but she was stoic.

  Grief emanated from them both, seeping through my skin until my hands shook and my eyes pricked. I fought the tears, staying focused on Emmaline and what she’d just said.

  Hank Rivera was more than dead. He’d been murdered.

  Chapter 21

  I’d spent the night tossing and turning, wondering if we could have somehow saved Hank. If we’d found him sooner, would he still be alive?

  I braced myself for the day ahead. The search for Hank Rivera had turned into a search for his killer.

  We weren’t the Blackbird Ladies, but after the night before, Olaya Solis, Penelope Branford, and I were united in our goal. “You don’t have to come with me this morning,” I said to each of them over the phone, but they’d both insisted.

  “I am not sitting here at home to wallow in my grief, Ivy,” Mrs. Branford said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Olaya just harrumphed. “I’ll be at the bread shop.”

  I picked them both up and we headed to Richie Thompson’s old Victorian boarding house. I was determined to have a conversation with Mason Caldwell. Did he know about the money Hank had borrowed from Alice? Was it possible that he intended to help him move into Rusty Gates? I’d had a new idea during the night. If Mason had known about the money, could he have somehow killed Hank and kept the money for himself? That was the question I needed an answer to.