She dismissed my concern with the wave of a hand. “He is harmless.”
“That’s what everyone says . . . until someone comes unhinged and shoots up a senior center . . . or a school. Then they’re not so harmless anymore. What if he killed Jackie? What if he comes back and tries to kill you?”
She put the bread back on the professional-grade metal bread rack, then wiped the cutting board clean with a damp cloth. “He had no reason to kill Jackie, and he certainly has no reason to want to kill me. We don’t get along. I’ll give you that. But he is not a killer, Ivy.”
I’d dropped the subject as we set up my laptop in her office and I uploaded the pictures. She sat in her plush black office chair, and I pulled up a smaller, less comfortable chair, then pulled up the photos.
“Gorgeous,” she said as I scrolled through the shots.
“The lighting was perfect.”
She went back and forth between several but finally zeroed in on one particular shot. I’d stood directly across the street and centered the storefront in my lens. With the pink awning and shutters, the quaint green table and chairs, the pots overflowing with flowers, and the bread artfully and delectably arranged in the windows, it was the perfect choice. “This is it,” she said.
“It’s a good one,” I agreed.
We spent another hour selecting the interior brochure shots, flipping through the different bread types, evaluating the shape, size, and the overall appeal of each one. Finally, we had a solid selection, one she felt represented the vast yet traditional offerings of Yeast of Eden.
Just as I was closing the folder on my laptop screen, she put her hand on mine, stopping me. With her other hand, she pointed to a folder labeled “MapleStreet_May10.” “Are those the pictures from last night?”
“Yes.” I double clicked on the folder, opening it up. “I had my best lens, but it was dark. They turned out pretty grainy.”
The first series was of Buck and Nanette Masterson walking down the sidewalk, then stopping to confer before they closed the distance to Jackie Makers’s house.
“Nothing notable there, is there?” Olaya said.
“Not at that moment, no.”
I moved on to the next series, which showed Buck standing sentry at the gate to the right of Jackie’s house. I scrolled through the photos one by one, allowing enough time for Olaya to take a good look before moving on to the next shot.
“Look at the window of the house,” I said, pointing to the shadowy face behind the blinds on the right side of the house.
“They actually broke into Jackie’s house.” Olaya’s voice was incredulous. She muttered under her breath, ending with, “Hijo de su madre. I cannot believe they would do such a thing.”
I still couldn’t believe it, either. I hadn’t gone by to show the pictures to Emmaline yet. I hadn’t even had a chance to look at all of them myself. After the police had left the scene, I’d driven the short distance to Mrs. Branford’s house, parked in the driveway, and walked her inside. I had no reason to suspect that she was in any type of danger, but I’d still wanted to be sure her house was buttoned up tightly. Back at my dad’s place, I’d uploaded the pictures, then glanced at a few to confirm what I already knew. The quality was as good as I could have hoped for given the light conditions and my powerful camera lens, but they still weren’t, by any definition, acceptable.
Now, with Olaya next to me, I moved through the next few frames. I’d taken multiples of each shot, so I flipped through them quickly, but once again, Olaya stopped me.
“What was that?” she asked.
I pressed the BACK button and returned to the previous frame. “What?” It was the same shot: Nanette in silhouette as she peaked through the blinds.
“No, not that one. Go forward.”
A moment later, we both stared at the picture, stunned.
“Is that . . . ?”
She nodded, and a chill swept over me as she whispered, “Someone else was in the house.”
Chapter Thirteen
I pointed to the upstairs window, showing Emmaline the figure Olaya had spotted in the picture.
“Wait,” she said. “Go back a few frames.”
I knew what she was doing. Looking at a series of pictures in a row, all of which looked basically the same, was like looking at one of those old cartoon flip books that showed a hand-drawn cartoon character going through some simple motion. Mickey Mouse spinning Minnie in a sweet dance move. Popeye downing a can of spinach and flexing his bicep. Curious George doing somersaults.
I went back to the first shot, which showed the shadowy image of Nanette Masterson peering through the downstairs window of Jackie Makers’s house. Clicking the right arrow, I advanced through the next few photos one by one until we saw the change.
She stared at the screen. “Unbelievable.”
In the previous frame, the upstairs window had been dark, but this frame held the clear image of a figure, backlit by ambient light from somewhere in the house. It was eerie and ghostlike, the way the upstairs window had been dark and now it was filled with a human shape.
“Male or female?” Emmaline posed the question aloud, but I knew she didn’t expect me to answer. There was no way to know. Even with super crime center–enhanced imaging equipment, which I was pretty certain Santa Sofia didn’t have, I didn’t think there was any way to get more details from the photograph.
I scrolled through the next few pictures, stopping when the window upstairs went dark again.
“Nanette Masterson’s gone, too,” Emmaline commented.
Sure enough, the downstairs window was dark again, the blinds closed tight, not a speck of light coming from inside.
“I think that’s when we first heard the sirens,” I said, lowering my chin slightly as I looked at her to drive home my stance that in a situation like this, sirens did more harm than good.
She ignored me, instead scooting the laptop closer to her and taking over the touch pad. She went back to the beginning and scrolled through the entire collection slowly and methodically, taking notes on a pad of paper she’d pulled from her desk drawer. “So you started your stakeout around eight thirty?”
“Right. We wanted to wait until the sun went down. Mrs. Branford seemed to think the Mastersons wouldn’t venture out and do anything nefarious until it was dark. We settled in a little before the sun went down.”
“I guess she was right about the cover of darkness,” Emmaline commented. “And you first saw them at—”
“About ten o’clock. Can I just say, as an aside, that stakeouts are not fun?”
She arched her perfectly coiffed eyebrows, tucking her thick black hair behind her ears. “You don’t say.”
“Watching grass grow, and all that.” Or maybe watching bread dough rise, I thought. That was about as exciting as the stakeout had been before we hit pay dirt with the Mastersons’ appearance. “I do say. I was ready to call it a night. I’d just told Mrs. Branford that we should give it thirty more minutes, then bam! There they were.”
“And then what happened?”
I took her through the events, aligning them with the captured moments from my camera, ending with seeing Nanette and Buck Masterson make a hasty retreat from Jackie Makers’s house back down the street to their own just as the police car pulled up.
“You stayed until the police left?”
“We stayed in the car, which was parked down the street. We waited a while longer after the police cruiser left, just in case the Mastersons came back.”
“But they didn’t,” she said, still taking her notes.
“Not that I saw.”
She stopped again at the photos showing the dark shadowed figure in the upstairs window. “And you never saw anyone else enter or leave the house?”
I shook my head. “No. Either they snuck out through the back somehow or they were still inside when Mrs. Branford and I left.”
“Male or female?” she asked herself again.
“It could hav
e been her daughter,” I said, realizing that Jasmine very well might have decided to end her ban on all things having to do with her mother. I filled Emmaline in on what little I knew about Jasmine and the feud she’d been in with Jackie. “She came to the funeral,” I said, “but she refused to help Olaya—”
“Solis? The bread shop woman?” Emmaline asked
“Right. She refused to help her clean out Jackie’s house. Maybe she had a change of heart. She’d have every right to be in the house. Except . . .”
“Except that the lights weren’t on. Which means it probably wasn’t Jasmine.” Still, Emmaline turned the page of her notepad and wrote down Jasmine’s name. “So she and her mother didn’t get along. She refused to help clean up the house and pack up Ms. Makers’s effects. If she changed her mind and was there last night—although, again, why would she remain in the dark?—she would have been surprised by someone else sneaking into the house.”
“Right!” I slammed my open palm against the desk. “Which is why she would have looked out the window, so she could see if she could spot anyone. A car, another person, anything to tell her who might be in the house.”
“Any other ideas, Ivy?”
Buck Masterson was the only other person I could think of who’d had it in for Jackie Makers. He was already in the mix, so beyond that, I was drawing a blank. “No. Nothing,” I said.
We rehashed the events of the stakeout one more time before calling it a night. “Dinner?” she said as she shut down her computer.
“Yes.” As if on cue, my stomach growled. I’d had a chocolate croissant at Yeast of Eden earlier in the day, but nothing since. And I was starving. “Where should we go? Chinese? Thai? That new sandwich shop on Acorn?”
“We can talk about it in the car,” she said, already halfway out the door. “I’m driving.”
I figured we’d take her civilian car, but instead she got in the driver’s side of a police-issued SUV.
“What happened to your Jeep?”
“It’s at home. I just drive this most weekdays and save the Jeep for the weekends.”
“I didn’t think you took weekends off.”
“This is Santa Sofia, Ivy. Pretty much nothing all that exciting or extreme happens here that warrants weekend work. Until now, of course. I won’t sleep until we find Jackie Makers’s murderer.”
I hadn’t paid any attention to where she was driving until we pulled into the parking lot of Baptista’s Cantina and Grill. I bolted upright in the passenger seat. “Oh no,” I said. “We aren’t having dinner here.”
“It’s by far the best Mexican food in town, Ivy, and I need some chips and salsa. And queso.”
My left eye narrowed suspiciously, and I tilted my head to the side. She’d zeroed in on my weakness. The gooey, melted deliciousness that was chili con queso had me salivating. It was everywhere in Texas, but not so prevalent in California. “They have queso?”
“They do, indeed. The best.”
I harrumphed fairly indignantly. “I doubt that. I lived in Austin, remember? I don’t know if anyone in California can make it as good as they do back there.”
There was a glint in her eyes. “Wanna bet?”
I weighed my options. Miguel might be in there. It was his restaurant, after all. So I could refuse to go in, acting like an immature twentysomething, or I could deal with my past heartbreak and have cheese dip.
I was no fool. I held out my hand. “Winner treats.”
She shook my hand rather vigorously and grinned, her teeth bright and white against the milky chocolate color of her skin. “Deal. Better bring your wallet.”
Twenty minutes later, I took my wallet out of my purse and laid it on the table. Our main course hadn’t arrived yet, but our large order of queso and the basket of tortilla chips were both gone. “You win. My treat.”
She laughed. “Told you. Wait till you taste the Tacos Diablos.”
We’d ordered one dinner plate to share. I was already stuffed, but when it arrived, it looked too good to pass up. Three homemade corn tortillas were cradled in a metal contraption made just to house tacos. Bacon and jalapeño-wrapped shrimp filled the bottom of each tortilla and were topped with shredded cabbage slaw and creamy lime-chipotle mayo.
I took a bite, and a bit of the sauce dribbled down my chin. My cheeks were bulging when someone approached our table, a shadow looming over us. “Welcome to Baptista’s,” a familiar baritone voice said.
Miguel.
My mouth was on fire from the jalapeño. I peered up at him through my watering eyes. I quickly chewed, then swallowed in one dangerously large gulp. Before I was forced to answer his greeting, with cabbage probably still in my teeth, Emmaline spoke up.
“Delicious as always, Miguel.”
He rocked back on his heels, hands in his slacks pockets, a satisfied grin on his sun-kissed face. “Glad you think so.” He swiveled his gaze to me, his grin lifting on one side. “And do you agree, Ivy?”
I swallowed the last of the food in my mouth, swiped a napkin across my chin, took a sip of water, and finally attempted a smile. “Definitely. Very good stuff.”
Good stuff ? I cringed at the lame comment on his restaurant’s food.
His gaze found the empty bowl on our table. “Liked the queso, too, I see.”
“Apparently, queso is Ivy’s favorite,” Emmaline said. “A result of living in Texas. She was skeptical, but yours passed muster.”
I remembered Miguel as having one of those faces that was hard to read. He had never put his feelings out there on his sleeve for everyone to see. He masked his expressions, making it impossible to know what he was really thinking behind a smirk. Looking at him now, I could see he hadn’t changed in that respect. The mildly cocky grin was still there, but what was churning in his mind behind it was anybody’s guess.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed in the queso, Ivy.”
My eyes narrowed involuntarily. I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or sincere. “Mmm-hmm,” I said noncommittally.
“Take a load off, Señor Baptista.” Emmaline scooted over, making room for Miguel on her side of the booth.
I tilted my head. “Señor Baptista?” I mouthed, eyebrows raised.
“Ah, he knows I’m just messing with him, don’t you, Miguel?”
“I’d expect nothing less, Em.”
Em? How well did these two know each other? The world had turned topsy-turvy.
They continued chatting, and it was clear that they were comfortable with each other. No, more than comfortable, they were downright friendly. I didn’t know if I should feel betrayed by Emmaline for her friendliness with Miguel or if I was being hypersensitive about a man I had no business being sensitive about. Still, for a brief second I wondered if the reason Emmaline was still resisting Billy might be Miguel. But after a few minutes Miguel rested his forearms on the table, his attention fully focused on me.
“How long are you in Santa Sofia for, Ivy?”
Inside my stomach was in knots. I couldn’t deny it; Miguel Baptista still had a hold on me. But outside I played it cool. Or at least I tried. “Cut right to the chase, why don’t you, Señor Baptista.”
“It’s all the military training, I bet,” Emmaline interjected. “No time for small talk when you’re in a ditch, fighting for freedom.”
“Guess not,” he said with a chuckle, but his eyes never left me. “So?”
“I’m here to stay.”
Emmaline dropped her fork with a clang. “You are?” she said at the same time Miguel said, “Hmm.”
I could have sworn I’d told Emmaline about my plans to stay in town, but now that I thought about it more carefully, I realized I’d only intended to tell her. I hadn’t ever actually gotten around to it.
“I want to be here for my dad,” I said.
Miguel dipped his chin in a single nod, and I knew we had some common ground. He understood.
From across the table, Emmaline grab
bed my hand. “Texas’s loss, but our gain.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’ll miss Austin. It’s a great city. But—”
“But since you found queso here,” Miguel said, “you’ll be fine in Santa Sofia.”
“That’s right,” I said with a coy smile. “Queso and the bread shop.”
Emmaline and Miguel both nodded in agreement.
“Olaya Solis is a master,” Miguel said reverently.
“For a little while, Em thought she might be capable of murder.”
“What?” Miguel’s spine went stiff as he sat bolt upright. “No way. That woman helps people. She doesn’t kill them.”
“I have to agree,” Emmaline said. “I’ve been digging all day, and I have zilch for a motive. I’m still looking at the other Solis sisters, but I haven’t been able to find anything on them, either.”
Miguel whistled softly and shook his head. “Hard to believe there’s a murderer walking around Santa Sofia.”
Just as I was wondering how good a friendship Emmaline and Miguel had, and if Em would reveal the theory we’d tossed around about Jackie Makers’s daughter, Jasmine, having a motive, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, instantly muttering something unintelligible under her breath and holding up one finger. “I have to take this.”
She answered with a curt “Davis,” then listened. A moment later she had hung up and was gathering her bag, shoving her phone inside it, and sliding toward the booth’s exit. “I gotta go, guys.”
Miguel stood to let her slip out. I slung my purse strap over my shoulder, ready to join her, but Emmaline held out her hand, palm facing out, stopping me. But instead of talking to me, she turned to Miguel.
“Hate to ask, but would you take Ivy back to her car? It’s at the station.”
“Uh, no. Don’t worry about it, Miguel,” I said. “I’ll just go with Em.”
But Emmaline was already heading to the door. “Can’t. There’s a . . . a situation. I’m heading in the opposite direction. No time, really. Sorry. Talk tomorrow, Ivy.”
“Sure,” I muttered, but she was already gone.
“I won’t bite,” Miguel said, sliding back into the booth. He pushed the plate of Tacos Diablos toward my side of the table. “Enjoy. They’re on me.”
Kneaded to Death Page 11
