Kneaded to Death

by Winnie Archer

  We all looked lovingly at sweet Agatha. Her tail curved a little, and I sat back. I wanted to talk about my mother and Jackie, but I couldn’t quite do it. Instead, I went with the other thing on my mind. “I saw Randy Russell last night,” I said, and I spilled the whole story.

  Olaya stared at me, then beyond the businesses across the street to the blue of the ocean. After a few minutes, she looked back at me. “He is sure someone else was with Jackie in her car?”

  So she couldn’t corroborate Randy’s story. “You didn’t see anyone?” I asked her. It hadn’t occurred to me the night before, but on top of nobody seeing anyone in the car with Jackie, and no one seeing a person leaving the parking lot, no one had heard a car door slam. Maybe Randy Russell had had more at the Broken Horse than he’d conveyed and those drinks had had him seeing things.

  She shook her head. “No one. I was thinking only of Randy and Miguel. That fight. It was not until later that we saw Jackie in her car. And she was alone.”

  Mrs. Branford grimaced. “And she was dead.”

  At first, the comment struck me as a bit heartless, but Mrs. Branford’s expression was anything but. She was simply stating the sad fact that had led us to this conversation.

  Olaya’s eyes glassed over. Her tough facade had cracked for a moment, the idea of the killer made more real by Randy’s assertion.

  “It could have been Buck Masterson,” Mrs. Branford said.

  “My thought exactly, but how do we find out?” I mused. We’d already done a stakeout, and all it had shown us was that Masterson and his wife had broken into Jackie Makers’s house. The why was still an unknown, but aside from following the man, I couldn’t think of a way to figure out what he was up to.

  Olaya’s face lit up. “What if Mrs. Masterson wins a free baking class? We’d have her in the kitchen with us for a few hours and maybe—”

  “She’d spill all her husband’s secrets without even knowing what she was doing.” Mrs. Branford clapped her hands with glee. “Brilliant!”

  “Assuming she takes the bait and shows up,” I said, the voice of reason. It was a good idea, but Nanette Masterson was an unknown, in my opinion.

  “Then we need to make it irresistible,” Olaya said. “We will create a certificate—”

  “I can do that,” I said, getting on board with the idea.

  We brainstormed ideas and finally settled on the concept of Yeast of Eden reaching out to members of the Santa Sofia community and offering free bread-making classes as a way to attract new customers and thank existing ones.

  We moved from the bistro table in front of the bakery to Olaya’s office. We gathered around the desk, me at the keyboard, and set to work on a Yeast of Eden “free baking class” certificate. An hour later the three of us sat back to admire our handiwork.

  “I might incorporate this idea into the business,” Olaya said, holding the printed document.

  “It does look good,” I said. We’d used the Yeast of Eden logo, which was a simple oval with “Yeast of Eden” prominently written in a typed font, and “Artisan Bread Shop” beneath it in a readable cursive. It was classic and accessible, like Olaya herself.

  “How are we going to explain how she won it?” Mrs. Branford had asked midway through the production.

  “The accompanying letter,” I’d said.

  Now Olaya directed me on opening up the letterhead for the bread shop, and I started typing. A short while later, I printed the letter and read it aloud to them.

  Dear Friend,

  Yeast of Eden has been part of the Santa Sofia community for more than fifteen years. Our bread is a testament to the artisan practice of bread making the old-fashioned way, and we’ve been fortunate enough to do what we love for many years. Our continued success is due, in great part, to people like you. If you’re an existing customer, we’d like to say thank you. If we’re unfamiliar to you, we’d like to introduce ourselves. We’re offering you free registration in our exclusive bread-making classes. Learn how to make some of your favorites in la cocina, the bread shop’s kitchen. Please call to register. Hurry! Spaces are filling up fast.

  With appreciation,

  Olaya Solis

  Mrs. Branford clapped her hands. “Perfect! You have a way with words, Ivy, just like your mother did.”

  I waited for the tug of sorrow I’d grown accustomed to feeling whenever my mom was mentioned, but for the first time it didn’t come. Instead, I felt pride. It started as a sliver of a feeling in my heart and spread outward, giving each of my limbs a pleasant sensation of warmth.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling, savoring the connection Mrs. Branford had shared.

  Olaya put her hand on my shoulder, and I recognized the gesture as a sign of her gratitude. She wasn’t effusive; I’d already learned that about her. But she managed to show her appreciation with a single touch. I laid my hand on top of hers, and in that instant the connection between us grew. I understood suddenly what the Grinch must have felt as his heart grew three sizes. I was filled with what I could describe only as love, both from and for these two women. It wouldn’t ever replace the relationship and connection I’d had with my mother, but it was the next best thing. There was something about a bond between women that fed the soul. I’d been missing that since I’d been back in Santa Sofia, and since my mother’s death. But now it was rekindled, both with Emmaline Davis, my oldest friend, and now with Penny Branford and Olaya Solis.

  The moment faded, but the feeling of contentment remained. Olaya handed me an envelope, Mrs. Branford rattled off the Mastersons’ address, and I folded the letter and the certificate, then slipped them inside the envelope. We stamped it, and minutes later, Agatha and I were walking down the street toward the post office to mail the summons to Nanette Masterson.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “She never called to register,” Olaya said a few days later. I’d picked up Mrs. Branford on my way to class, and we’d arrived at Yeast of Eden, ready to bake.

  “I tried to run into her in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Branford said, “but she’s been in hiding or something. Nary a sight or sound from that house all week.” She shrugged. “Truly, I thought about calling someone to check on them. But I didn’t. I’m nosy, but I’m not that nosy.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” I said.

  I tied my floral apron on and then tied the back of Mrs. Branford’s utilitarian number for her, and we set to inspecting the ingredients at our stations. I photographed the canisters of flour and sugar that sat on the counter, grouping and arranging them artistically, framing them in the lens to capture interesting angles and portions of the bags and clear plastic containers, spoons, and measuring cups.

  I had reactivated my blog and had been posting more regularly. Most of my photographs lately had been of food, and more specifically bread. I had a good sprinkling of coastal images I’d taken on my morning walks with Agatha, and I’d started capturing the birds I saw around town, too. But the cocina at Yeast of Eden was chock-full of interesting things that I was loving photographing. Bit by bit, I was recapturing my creativity and was feeling more like myself.

  The other class participants began trickling in. Sally, Consuelo, and Becky came in first, and then a few minutes later Martina showed up. Jolie trailed in last, just as Olaya was getting under way with the class.

  No Nanette Masterson.

  “Bienvenidos a todos,” she said, a chipper quality to her voice, which I was pretty sure was manufactured. She was just as anxious about Nanette coming as Mrs. Branford and I were. We all hoped she’d hold some vital key to figuring out what had happened to Jackie Makers, most importantly if her husband had been with Jackie in her car just before she died.

  I listened as Olaya talked about the baguettes we’d be making. “Baguettes are a French staple. The flour is the absolute key ingredient. Sixty percent of the bread by weight is flour. We use only the best quality,” she said, pointing to the canister at her station. “It is ambitious to be making baguette
s at this point in our adventure together, but why not, as they say, go for the gold? Baguettes are just flour, yeast, water, and salt. And time. Always time.”

  “Why is it so complicated when it seems so easy?” Jolie asked.

  Olaya smiled. “As I said, it comes down to time. All of us, we are too impatient. Cell phones. Social media. Work. We want to rush, rush, rush, but with the baguette, we cannot rush. We will wait while the flour and water and salt do their work in the bowl. It is magical. We will knead, we will let the dough rest, and we will let it rise. We will wait and let time work its magic with the dough.”

  Sally piped up. “But we’re not here all night to do that. I have to help my mom later. I have other things to do.”

  Once again Olaya smiled. “No problema, señorita. I have the different steps of the process completed for you. We will work in stages.”

  We started by mixing together the flour, water, and a pinch of yeast. We each mixed our concoction and set it aside.

  “Ivy,” Olaya said. “Ven aqui. Ayúdame.”

  I stared at her, trying to piece together the three words she’d spoken to figure out what she wanted me to do.

  “She wants you to help her,” someone said from the doorway.

  I turned, as we all did, to see Nanette Masterson walking in.

  “Nanette!” Penny Branford lunged forward, an enormous smile on her face. She clasped her neighbor’s hand ardently. I didn’t know how well Nanette Masterson knew Mrs. Branford, but it seemed obvious to me that her enthusiasm was overexaggerated.

  “Oh, uh, hi. Hi there, Mrs. Branford,” she said, taking a step back.

  Mrs. Branford didn’t let up. “How wonderful to see you here! I didn’t know you were a baker.”

  I stifled a laugh. Those were pretty much the same words Olaya had said to Mrs. Branford when she’d shown up at Yeast of Eden.

  Nanette Masterson held out the certificate we’d so carefully created. “I don’t bake. Much. I got this in the mail, so I thought I’d . . . check it out.” Her gaze found Olaya’s. “I meant to call ahead, but—”

  Olaya waved her hand, dismissing Nanette’s excuse before she had time to utter it. “We happen to have room in this particular class.”

  I met Olaya’s eyes and grinned. Inside I did a silent cheer. Our ruse had worked! Olaya sent me a look that said to take it slow and not spook Nanette. I nodded, completely agreeing. If Nanette knew anything that could be helpful about Jackie Makers’s murder, she wasn’t going to just blurt it out. And if she or her husband was involved, then she’d work triple hard to keep her mouth shut. Which meant Olaya, Mrs. Branford, and I had to play this carefully.

  “What did you need help with?” I asked Olaya.

  She beckoned me to the back counter near the large walk-in refrigerator. We were too visible for us to have any sort of private conversation, but we shared another satisfied glance. Bowl after bowl was laid out across the stainless steel, each one filled with an odd bubbly white goop.

  “Take one of these to each baker,” Olaya instructed.

  “Ew. What is it?” Sally asked, wrinkling her nose and taking a tentative sniff after I handed a bowl to her.

  “That,” Olaya said, “is the starter. What you just created with the flour, yeast, and water will turn to this after many hours. We are speeding things up. I made these early this morning. This, mis estudiantes, is what yeast looks like when it starts growing. It is exactly what we want. Exactamente.”

  I passed out the rest of the bowls before going back to my own station, giving Mrs. Branford a wink as I went by.

  She waggled her eyebrows in response, and I stifled a laugh. She was not the subtlest person, but I doubted Nanette Masterson would equate Mrs. Branford and her wiggly salt-and-pepper brows with the subterfuge we were in the middle of.

  Olaya showed Nanette to the station next to mine, then handed her an apron and a bowl of starter. “It is Mrs. Masterson. Is that correct?” she asked, feigning ignorance. She did it quite well, I had to admit.

  “Nanette’s fine.”

  Olaya clasped her hands together. “Qué bueno. And this is Ivy Culpepper. Ivy, mi amor, will you help Nanette if she needs it?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, hoping my innocent act was as convincing as Olaya’s. Of course we’d planned the whole thing in advance. Olaya had reconfigured the stations, moving Jolie to Jackie Makers’s spot and sliding Mrs. Branford over one. This had left the space next to me open and ready for Nanette . . . if she showed up.

  Which she had.

  I felt slightly diabolical and thought about rubbing my hands together, throwing my head back like Maleficent, and letting out a twisted “mwahahaha.”

  Instead, I smiled at Nanette.

  Working with the starter as our base, we added flour and salt to our mixers, then put warm water into the starter bowl to loosen up all the little tidbits of goop stuck to the sides of the bowl. “You want every last bit,” Olaya said, demonstrating how to scrape the bowl with a spatula. The water turned slightly opaque, the starter bits floating around in it. Next, we added another dose of yeast to the milky water and stirred to mix it in.

  “Like this?” Nanette asked me.

  I glanced over at her handiwork. “Looks right to me.” I held up my camera. “Do you mind?”

  Her mouth pulled down on both sides in a heavy frown. “Uh, no, thank you. I don’t want a photo taken of me.”

  “Oh, no. I was talking about the yeast concoction.”

  “Why not take it of your own?” she asked, glancing at the mixer on my counter.

  “You can take a picture of mine,” Jolie said. She took the stainless-steel bowl from her mixer and held it in front of her. I had to admit, I thought it would make an excellent picture. She had on a white and red apron with a red- and white-checked gingham ruffle and succulent-looking cherries as the fabric’s main pattern. She clasped the bowl on either side with her hands, her fingernails painted red, grinning at her handiwork.

  I aimed, focused my lens, and shot, focusing on the contents in the bowl only and blurring the rest. “That’s actually perfect, Jolie. Thanks.”

  Olaya directed us to add water and the starter mixture to the ingredients already in our mixers and let the beaters do their magic, churning just until the dough formed a cohesive ball. “Now, at this point,” she said, “we could switch to a dough hook and let the mixer do the work, but we are not going to do that.”

  Sally grimaced at the sticky mess in her stainless bowl. “We’re not?”

  “We are most certainly not,” Olaya confirmed.

  Consuelo piped up from her corner station. “My sister likes to make us work harder than we actually need to. We’re going to knead this dough by hand.”

  Martina smiled, nodding. “Always. When we were little girls back in Mexico, she would make us sit under the single tree in our yard, mix water with dirt, and make mud pies. If we did not do it right, we had to start again.”

  “Otra vez,” Consuelo said with a laugh. “Otra vez! Those were her favorite two words. Otra vez!”

  “Es verdad,” Olaya said, completely serious, but I could see a glint of amusement in her gold-flecked eyes. “Y hoy también. Do not do this bread correctly and you begin again. Otra vez.”

  Martina and Consuelo burst into laughter, then chanted, “Otra vez! Otra vez!”

  Olaya dismissed them with the practiced look of an older sister at her younger, irritating siblings. “Entonces . . . my sisters can have their big laugh. We will continue. Knead until the dough is soft and elastic.”

  Nanette was the first to dig her hands into her bowl of prepared dough.

  Olaya rushed over to her. “Turn it onto your floured surface first. We knead here, not in the bowl.”

  A pink tinge colored Nanette’s cheeks. “Oh. Right.” She grabbed hold of the soft dough and plopped it on the floured counter. Everyone else followed suit, and a moment later we were each wrist deep in our dough, attacking it, kneading it, and turning it.r />
  “Not too much,” Olaya warned. “It should still be a bit rough. The yeast will keep working, allowing the gluten in the bread to develop. If you knead too much, the dough will overdevelop and be difficult to shape in the end. Not too smooth, pero not too rough.”

  I felt my dough, trying to gauge what would be just rough enough but not too smooth. Olaya came up beside me, touched the mound on the counter, and proclaimed it perfect.

  One by one she moved to each station, making a determination if more kneading was necessary or if, as was the case with Sally, the person had over-kneaded.

  Sally bit her lower lip and stepped back. “Will it be okay?”

  “It is not too far gone,” Olaya said.

  “Oh, Dios mio! It will be just fine,” Consuelo said. “Olaya, stop tormenting the poor girl. It is just bread.”

  Olaya turned on her sister, fire in her eyes. “There is no such thing as just bread.” The blaze in her subsided, and she patted Sally on the shoulder. “I am instructing, not tormenting.”

  Sally nodded, but the expression on her face was sheepish and hesitant. She eyed her dough, clearly not sure if she could successfully turn it into the baguettes it was meant to become.

  Olaya directed us to grease the clear glass bowls she’d placed at each station. “Put the dough in the greased bowl. It will rise for one hour.”

  Jolie worked two stations down from me. “She wasn’t kidding when she said this would be an extended class,” she said to Becky.

  Becky brushed her hair away from her face with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of flour behind. “Good thing I canceled my dinner plans.”

  “Oh, give us the details,” Mrs. Branford said.

  Becky blushed. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  Mrs. Branford pshawed. “You know, dear, I’m far too old to go out on dates of my own. I must live vicariously through others.”