Crust No One

by Winnie Archer

  We arrived promptly at 7:30, gathered my equipment from the back of my car, and trudged to the front door, loaded down with camera bags, a light stand (just in case), and a mind full of sadness. Janice opened the door before we even had a chance to ring the bell. The moment I saw her, I knew she’d heard about Hank’s fate. I had to admire the woman. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was perfectly coiffed, nary a wrinkle in sight. Botox and fillers, I thought, lightly touching the pads of my fingers to the corner of my eyes. I’d started to get the telltale signs of aging, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about trying to eliminate them. I was living my life and whatever wrinkles I ended up with would be hard-won. Did I want to hang on to my youth, or did I want to age gracefully, wearing the evidence of a life well lived?

  I guess time would tell.

  Janice stepped out onto the porch and she and Mrs. Branford wrapped their arms around each other. Olaya and I looped arms as the two Blackbird Ladies embraced. Their words were unspoken, but their emotions were the same. I suspected that everyone who’d known Hank Rivera would feel the same grief.

  After another minute, the two women separated. Janice held the door wide and took the lightweight bag Mrs. Branford had carried up the walkway. “Come in. Richie is brewing a pot of coffee.”

  Olaya held out a white pastry box. “Croissants and pan dulce,” she said.

  Janice tried to smile. “Ham and cheese?” she asked.

  “Por supuesto,” Olaya said. “Just for you.”

  We deposited my gear in the entryway and followed Janice into the kitchen. The house was cut up, as was traditional for homes in the early twentieth century. Open floor plans were not a thing. But French doors led from the dining room to the kitchen, and two other sets led from the kitchen and the entryway to the main living area. An old-fashioned PARLOR sign hung above the French doors, announcing what the room was. With the doors open, the house felt bigger and airier than it might have otherwise. We passed into the parlor. Straight ahead were three side-by-side windows—the ones Bernard had stood at the other night. In the morning light, I could see that each was framed in what looked like the original refinished oak molding and faced the backyard. A door opened to the backyard, where muddied Crocs, a pair of rubber boots caked with mud, blades of grass, and a spattering of white flower petals, a pile of gloves, and some gardening tools were scattered. Had they been Hank’s?

  As Janice set out the flakey croissants and rich pan dulce and poured cups of coffee, I looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mason Caldwell. He wasn’t around, but Bernard, wrapped up in his green bathrobe, sat on the couch staring at the windows. It seemed to be his favorite view in the house. I turned back to the kitchen and took one of the mismatched mugs on the square island, added a splash of cream, and took a sip. “Does he know?” I asked quietly, gesturing toward Bernard.

  Janice shook her head. “We think it might be too much for him to handle right now. Best not to mention it.”

  From my limited experience, Bernard’s mental state was fragile. Janice’s reticence about how Bernard might take the news of Hank’s death seemed warranted.

  Mrs. Branford cleared her throat. “Is Mason around?”

  I was still pretty certain that her interest in Mason Caldwell ran deeper than our plan to question him, but her heart wasn’t into flirtation at the moment.

  “He’s here somewhere. Do you want me to get him for you?” Richie said. His face was drawn and sallow, his eyes sunken. It looked as if he hadn’t slept at all the night before.

  “I would appreciate that,” Mrs. Branford said. I felt the strength of her determination. We’d been so intent upon finding Hank when he was missing; now we both wanted only to find his killer.

  Richie walked to a little antique desk in the corner of the kitchen. He depressed a button on a little black device, there was a beep, and he spoke. “Mason, you awake?”

  He let go of the button and waited. A few seconds later, a voice came back at us. There was a fair amount of static. It was difficult, but I could make out the response. “Of course I am. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

  From that lone comment, I could see why Hank would want Mason Caldwell to move to Rusty Gates; he’d fit right in with his morbid humor.

  Richie depressed the button on what I now knew was a portable intercom system and waited for the beep. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  The voice replied, “Of the male or female persuasion?”

  Mrs. Branford marched to the desk. “This button?” she asked Richie. He nodded, stepping back so she could take over the communication. She pressed it, waiting for the beep as he had, and then spoke. “Mr. Caldwell, last time I checked, I determined that I am indeed female. I’d like to speak with you, if you are so inclined. Over.”

  There was a pause and for a moment I thought Mason Caldwell might not reply, but then the voice came back. “I am indeed so inclined, Mrs. Branford. I’ll be there in a hop, skip and a jump. Cliché, I know, but it aptly conveys my eagerness to visit with you.” There was another pause before Mason’s static-filled voice added, “Over and out.”

  I tried to bring a little levity to the room. “Mrs. Branford,” I said in mock scolding. “Are you leading the poor man on?”

  She patted the loose curls in her white hair. “Of course not. I may be old, but I’m not pushing up any daisies just yet.”

  “The daisies’ll come in the spring,” Bernard said from the couch. “Right now we have white winter jasmine and sweet alyssum. Hank planted them. Do you know Hank? He planted flowers. They die in the winter, I told him, but he planted flowers and said they would bloom. And they did.”

  Bernard mentioning Hank opened up the subject for all of us, although we stayed in the kitchen, speaking in hushed tones so we wouldn’t upset him. “We saw the news last night. Is it definitely Hank?”

  “It is,” I said.

  Richie leaned back against the counter, running his hand over his face. “Do you know what happened?”

  Now that this had turned from a missing person to a murder, Olaya, Mrs. Branford, and I had decided to hold our cards—what few cards we had, anyway, close to the vest. What if Bernard was involved, for instance? Or even Mason Caldwell. Of course, my gut was telling me that neither were a likely option, but I’d learned that you just never knew. “Not really,” I said, answering Richie’s question. “I don’t know any more than you do,” I said. It was the truth. Emmaline had given me the bare minimum.

  The room fell silent, as if in respect for Hank. The fact remained that the man had vanished into thin air. While I had a few theories, none of them felt quite right, but suddenly time was of the essence. There was a murderer on the loose.

  Richie had seen Hank with a suitcase, but where were the rest of his belongings? Surely, he had acquired more than one case worth of stuff in his lifetime. If he had been lured away by someone, who was that person, and how did they become connected with each other? I dived right in, turning to Richie. “Did Hank have a computer here? A laptop?”

  Richie was mindlessly scooping rounded spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. He stopped scooping and started stirring, looking at me. “Not that I know of. He spends—spent most of his time in the yard,” he said.

  “Spent,” Bernard said from where he sat on the couch. “Hank. In the yard. Always in the yard.”

  “Yes, Bernard,” Janice said, controlling the tremor in her voice. “You’re right. Always in the yard.”

  Bernard stayed on the couch, but went back to staring out the window. I circled back around to my earlier question. “Is there a desktop?” I asked, looking around. “A computer everyone uses?”

  “No!” Bernard stared out the window, but he was clearly agitated. “No computers. No computers! Danger, danger.”

  Richie strode over to Bernard, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Bernie. Calm down.”

  “Bernard. My name is Bernard. B-E-R-N-A-R-D. Bernard.”

  Richie jerked his head as if he we
re giving himself a mental slap. “Sorry, man. Old habit. Bernard. Relax, okay?”

  Janice lowered her voice. “He used to go by Bernie. He switched one day because of Hank. They were out there planting flowers and Hank started calling him Bernard. He liked it, and it stuck.”

  “He connects with Hank, that’s why it stuck,” a voice said. We heard Mason Caldwell before we saw him stride into the parlor, a little jauntiness in his step. At least as much as he could muster, anyway, given the aluminum three-footed cane he was using instead of the walker he’d had the first time we’d met him. He had traded in his baggie sweatpants for khaki chinos and his corduroy slippers for a pair of brown leather shoes. He looked well worn, but stylish—in an old-guy kind of way. He was aiming to impress. He headed straight for Mrs. Branford—slowly—and swept her hand up in his, bowing slightly to give it a little kiss. It was crystal clear whose attention he was hoping to garner. “Good morning, Penelope. I hope it’s all right if I call you that. Such a delightful name.”

  Bless her sweet heart. Despite the emotions coursing through her over Hank’s death, Mrs. Branford blushed a bright shade of pink. “I usually go by Penny,” she said, “but coming from you, Penelope sounds so lovely.”

  “And you call me Mason.”

  We introduced Olaya to him, and to Bernard, who had finally grown quiet again. And then we broke the news.

  Mason stared at us, shock clear on his face. “Dead?”

  Richie had rejoined us in the kitchen and leaned back against the counter. He spoke to all of us, but ended by looking at me. “Can I run something by you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He lowered his voice and beckoned us closer. “I don’t want to get Bernard riled up.” We circled around him so his voice wouldn’t travel into the other room, and Richie continued. “We’re pretty sure Hank was on medication. A mood stabilizer, I think.”

  “A mood stabilizer—as in depression?”

  “Mmm, no. Bipolar,” Richie said.

  My heart instantly sank. I knew two people with bipolor disorder and if they stopped their medication, their swings between mania and depression were scary. Highs and lows were no laughing matter. This could definitely explain why Hank disappeared in the first place. “How do you know?”

  Richie notched his chin toward Bernard. “Bernie is on medication for it. Clozapine, I think? About a week ago, he went around saying Hank had taken his pills. I finally had to ask Hank straight up. He showed me his own prescription bottle. It wasn’t the same medication, but it had the pine at the end. To stabilize the chemicals in his brain, he said.”

  Olaya frowned. “That could explain some things.”

  Right. “If he was depressed, whatever hopelessness he felt would have been intensified. It might have been enough to push him over the edge.”

  “Or if he was manic,” Janice said, “he might have thought he could do anything. He could have gone off on some crazy adventure, thinking he could save his business.”

  “And then someone killed him?” Olaya shook her head. “I do not think so. He was in a garbage can at the house of his ex-wife. That is not random. Whoever killed him knew where she lived.”

  A chill ran up my spine. That little fact eliminated the possibility that Hank’s death was a crime of opportunity committed by a stranger. He had been killed by someone he knew.

  The money he borrowed from Alice came to my mind again. From what I knew, mania could lead to financial disaster. According to both Brenda, the ex-wife, and Enrique, Hank hadn’t handled the financial end of his business very well. Could it be because of his illness? It would certainly explain a lot. What if Alice lent him the money and then realized that it had been a mistake? If Hank hadn’t been willing to give it back, could she have killed him for it?

  Or . . . what if she’d told her husband, Michael, and he’d gone after Hank? Surely Michael knew where Hank lived with Brenda, and he’d have been able to heave a dead body into a city garbage can.

  I filed that theory away and came back to my questions. “If Hank had his own prescription, why would he need Bernard’s?”

  Richie pondered this while he took a sip of his coffee. He made a face, his tongue snaking out from between his lips. The sugar. He poured the coffee out in the sink as he said, “No idea.”

  “Any chance you have his prescription bottle?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Nah. He cleared out everything,” Richie said, and then he repeated, “Everything.”

  “Does Bernard stay on his meds?” I asked, wondering if he was reliable enough for us to believe his theory that Hank took some of his pills. To my mind, he didn’t seem stable enough to be responsible about it.

  “He does, but only because I give them to him,” Richie said.

  Olaya was working hard to keep her composure. She had swallowed her grief and was fully focused on the moment. “Would he not be better off in a facility of some sort?” she asked, glancing over at Bernard. He still sat on the couch, but now he rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  Richie frowned. “I take care of Bernard,” he said, “and I will for as long as it works for him.”

  My first impression of Richie had had me thinking he wasn’t the most compassionate caretaker, but I’d recalibrated my thoughts. He seemed to have a soft spot for Bernard. The soft morning light was fading quickly. “Did you still want me to take the photos?” I asked. I’d come prepared, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted to postpone.

  “I do. It’ll be a good distraction,” Janice said. Richie nodded his agreement.

  Having something else to think about would dissipate the stress we were all feeling, and might allow my mind to absorb new ideas. “Okay.”

  “Where should we start?” Janice asked as she led us back to the entryway and my equipment.

  “I’ll get the exterior shots first,” I said. “Front, then back.”

  She frowned. “I hadn’t thought about the outside. The flower beds aren’t up to snuff.”

  I got my wide-angle lens locked onto my camera and headed for the door. “I can come back in the spring,” I said, “but I’d like to at least get some test shots.”

  She looked unsure, but led me to the front door. The entire group, excluding Bernard, started to follow me outside like an entourage. I held up my palm, halting them in their tracks. “You all should stay inside,” I said. “Unless you want to be in the pictures.”

  “It’s too cold out there anyway,” Mrs. Branford said.

  Mason moved next to her. He’d do his best to keep her warm.

  The door closed behind me and I got to work. I wanted to capture the entire house straight-on, and then try a few from different angles. I crossed the street and got to work, adjusting my camera settings as I worked to capture the best lighting. I hurried, wanting to get to the backyard before the softness of the light gave way to the harsher midmorning glare.

  I ended in the front yard with a shot of the house numbers and the birdbath in the front shrubbery. As Janice had said, the dirt had been freshly turned and the flowers were not in bloom, but the greenery was still pretty.

  The temperature had dropped slightly the night before and was holding at a steady 55 degrees. Not freezing by any stretch, but cold enough that I was shivering by the time I went back inside.

  My two comrades in crime fighting were sitting with Bernard, Janice, and Mason in the parlor. I scooted past them and opened the single French door leading to the backyard.

  Once outside, I looked around, trying to decide how best to capture the yard. Bernard had been right: the flowers weren’t abundant, but there were a few varieties blooming. Mounds of white alyssum and the delicate miniature flowers of winter jasmine dotted the landscape, giving wisps of color here and there. The house itself, with the windows, a trellis patio cover, and relatively fresh paint was lovely. I shot from a few different angles, stepping through patches of dirt and over small embankments in the yard to capture the best angles of the
house. I stood in the furthermost corner of the yard and took a few final shots of the yard itself. I’d come back in the spring, like I’d told Janice, but now I’d have a pretty good idea about which angles worked and which did not.

  I turned my back to the house to shoot the flowers, zooming in on a few of the flower petals, the greenery, the crocuses poking up through mounds of dirt. I started to review the digital images I’d taken so far, when something touched my shoulder, lightly at first, then clamping down. I jumped and yelped, nearly dropping my camera.

  I spun around to find Bernard looming over me, dislodging his hand in the process. “You should not be here,” he said. “The flowers. The flowers. Leave them alone.”

  I raised the camera, depressing the button to show the digital display of the flowers I’d just photographed. I held the screen up for Bernard to see. “I’m not going to hurt them, Bernard. I love the flowers, too,” I said. “When I take pictures, they are with me forever.”

  He barely glanced at the pictures, instead bending to pluck a scrap of a dead branch from a cascade of alyssum. “No, no, no,” he muttered, clasping the piece of wood in his fist.

  “It’s okay,” I said, gently pinching the dead branch between my thumb and forefinger and pulling it free from his grip.

  “The flowers,” he said. “We have to take care of the flowers.”

  “Of course. You do a good job, Bernard.”

  He smiled, big and grateful. “I take good care of the flowers. No branches. No branches. Hank. He watch for me. Take care of me. I take care of his flowers now.”

  “Of course. You do a good job, Bernard. No branches.” I guided him back toward the house. “You just tend to the flowers.”

  “Flowers, yes. No dead branches. Flowers. Only flowers.”

  I watched him picking up branches and leaves and moving them from one dirt mound to another. He was an interesting man with an interesting face. The whites of his eyes and teeth fairly sparkled against his dark skin. I snapped a few pictures, capturing the contentment on his face as he cleared away branch after branch, and then gently touched the flower petals. He looked up at me, not smiling, but not agitated anymore, either.