Flour in the Attic

by Winnie Archer

  “Unfortunately, we live on the coast. I’ve seen a few drownings during my time with the sheriff’s department,” Em continued, “and I’ve learned that, without exception, if a body isn’t taken immediately from the water, then it drifts downward before putrefaction gases cause it to rise again. And—this is key—no matter what, the body ends up in a semi-fetal position.”

  “Okaaayy,” I said, not sure where she was going with this. “And Marisol—?”

  “Was not in a fetal position.”

  “But you just got done saying it would end up in a fetal position, no matter what.”

  “The body tells a story, Ivy. If it isn’t in a fetal position, or if the head is tilted to one side or the other, it’s telling us that it wasn’t drowning.”

  I gulped, replaying David’s parting words from earlier. Something’s not right about this, he’d said. She shouldn’t have drowned. “Cut to the chase, Em. What does it mean?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

  “Marisol Ruiz was put in the water post–rigor mortis to make it look like a drowning, but Ivy, the woman died on land. The ME says strangulation.”

  Which meant David was right. Marisol Ruiz was murdered.

  Chapter 5

  Olaya Solis, and Penelope Branford, my eighty-something sidekick, weren’t the family I’d been born with, but they had become the family I’d chosen to have in my life. We were an unlikely trio, to be sure, especially given the former love triangle they’d been part of. Olaya had been in love with Penelope’s husband, and although nothing ever came of it, theirs was a complicated friendship. After years and years of harbored animosity, they’d reached a peaceful coexistence with each other, for which I was grateful, because they’d become my female inspirations. I was thirty-six years old, and while my mother would always be a huge part of who I was and was like a guardian angel, her spirit always with me, Olaya Solis and Penelope Branford were in my daily life. They were women I wanted to emulate. They both embraced life fully, were positive and impactful, and knew what it meant to be a friend.

  Now, the morning after the sleepless night I’d had, I parked in the back lot and entered the Yeast of Eden kitchen. The stainless-steel countertops, a large demonstration mirror, racks of cooling baked goods, and commercial-grade ovens were a welcome reprieve from my whirling thoughts. I wanted nothing more than to dig my hands into a bowl of soft and pliable bread dough, turn it onto the counter, and knead it till the cows came home.

  Which is just what I did. I pulled out the organic flour Olaya sourced from a local mill, sugar, yeast, salt, olive oil, sesame seeds, and filled a measuring cup with warm water. The end result would be a loaf of crusty rustic Italian bread baking in the oven.

  The process of baking bread, I’d discovered, was therapeutic. I let myself get lost in the experience, letting the yeast proof with the sugar and a quarter cup of warm water. It took about ten minutes to bubble and foam, and once it did, I was ready to add the rest of the warm water, combine it with the flour and salt, and mix until the dough formed a ball. With floured hands, I did a soft knead of the dough, formed it into a smooth, firm ball, placed it in an oiled proofing bowl, covered it, and placed it in the commercial refrigerator for a long rise. I’d come back tomorrow to actually bake the bread.

  Just as I closed the refrigerator door, Olaya came into the kitchen from the front of the store. She wore a vibrant blue maxi dress with an abstract design artfully patterned across the fabric, and beige suede Birkenstocks. Her short, loose, iron-gray curls bounced playfully as she glided into the room. “I thought I heard a little mouse here in my kitchen,” she said with a slight Spanish accent. She spoke nearly perfect English, but her native Spanish was part of her speech. Her gaze traveled from me to the workstation I’d used to mix the bread. “What is wrong, mija?”

  Olaya had come to the United States from Mexico when she was a young woman. She’d brought her country’s tradition of long-rise bread with her, something many people didn’t automatically associate with Mexican cuisine. She’d learned from her mother and grandmother, and had continued the tradition, infusing her love into her work—and many people believed infusing magic into her bread, as well. She baked with lavender and anise and myriad other herbs, all of which were associated with love or healing or contentment or some other universal human emotion.

  She also had a sixth sense for understanding what I was feeling, and today was no exception.

  “Did you hear about the body down by the pier?” I asked.

  “Pobrecita,” she said. “Martina knows Marisol Ruiz very well. Running, always running together.”

  I told her what the autopsy had revealed. “Emmaline is going to talk to the family. She may have already. I can’t help but feel for them. I’ve been through it—losing my mother to a violent death was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.”

  Olaya nodded sagely. “And yet you cannot make it better. The pain is theirs to experience. You can only be there to support them.”

  I’d had ample support throughout the grieving process, most importantly from Olaya and Mrs. Branford. Without them, I’m not sure how I would have coped. I also may never have gotten to the truth of what had happened to my mother.

  “Entonces, what will you do?” Olaya asked.

  She was right a moment ago. I couldn’t take away the pain Marisol’s family was experiencing, but I could do what David asked of me. I could help Emmaline get to the bottom of what had happened to her. “The family is meeting at the funeral home. Miguel is going for moral support. He asked if I’d come.”

  Olaya nodded her approval. “Bueno. Then that is exactly what you should do.”

  * * *

  Santa Sofia had two options when it came to funeral homes: the Lutz Family and Vista Ridge. My mother’s final arrangements had been handled through the former. Marisol Ruiz’s family had opted for the latter.

  I didn’t make a habit of visiting funeral homes, so although I’d driven by Vista Ridge probably hundreds of times, I’d never really registered the details of the place. The marquis for the funeral home was a large backlit rectangle on a post at the front edge of the property. The background was stark white, Vista Ridge Funeral Home in bold navy letters, a single line drawing of a cross with a closed loop at the top—a symbol for eternal life—artfully displayed behind the business name. Beneath and running along the bottom of the sign were the funeral home’s services:

  BURIAL * DONOR * PRE-NEED * MONUMENTS * CREMATION

  Miguel and I joined Marisol’s kids in the front lobby. Sergio, Ruben, and Lisette were all there, but Laura and Ruben’s wife, Natalie, were absent, but none more conspicuously than Marisol’s husband. “Where’s David?” I asked. My own father had been so distraught after my mother’s death that Billy and I had stepped in, but I didn’t equate David’s absence to his distress over losing this wife. All the emotions associated with loss were bubbling under the surface, but for the time being, his anger was front and center. So where was he?

  “No idea,” Miguel said with a shrug.

  I’d spoken quietly, but Lisette had heard and now she answered. “We asked him not to come—”

  “No, you asked him,” Ruben corrected. “Whatever you think of him, Lis, he was still our mother’s husband. You shouldn’t have excluded him.”

  “He basically said our mother was murdered!” she screeched. “He’s causing drama in an already stressful situation. Maybe you don’t mind, but I do. I don’t want to listen to his stupid theories about”—she made air quotes—“something not being right.”

  I inhaled sharply, realizing that Emmaline hadn’t told the family what the autopsy had revealed and her theory about when Marisol actually died.

  “Are you all right?” Miguel asked me. He was so tuned to me that he’d picked up on my change of breath and the slight step backwards I’d taken.

  I took him by the sleeve and dragged him toward the door. “Be right back,” he managed t
o say to his childhood friends before I’d hauled him all the way outside.

  The second the door closed behind us, I dropped his arm and spun around, my back to him, my fingers splaying through my hair.

  “What the hell is wrong, Ivy?”

  I turned back to face him. “What David said last night? It bothered me, so I called Emmaline. Marisol was murdered, Miguel. David’s right.”

  He stood there, motionless. Stunned. Then, at last he said, “Holy shit. Is Em sure?”

  “She seemed one hundred percent positive. The ME did a report of his findings. Strangled.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered, still struggling to process what I’d told him.

  “And then, only after she was already dead was she thrown in the water.”

  David’s absence suddenly felt wrong. Even if Lisette had told him not to come, Marisol was his wife. My mind conjured up the photograph I’d taken of the two of them. He’d looked like a man in love. Happy. Content. And last night, he’d been overwrought at the idea that Marisol had been killed. Could he be at the sheriff’s station talking to someone about his theory? Could he have transitioned from anger to distress? Whatever he was feeling, and regardless of what Lisette had told him, he should have been here.

  Chapter 6

  Miguel and I came back into the funeral home to find the siblings had moved to the director’s office to go over burial details. “Sorry,” Miguel said. “We should go.”

  Sergio shook his head. “Stay. You’re part of this family. You loved her.”

  That was true. She’d been with Baptista’s forever. Miguel nodded, ushering me just in the doorway.

  The siblings were seated in a semicircle around Benjamin Alcott’s desk, the director himself in a high-backed black office chair, clasped hands resting on the blotter pad in front of him. I wondered if there was a special etiquette class morticians attended to get the body language, expressions, and mannerisms exactly right.

  A series of brochures were neatly displayed on a side cabinet. I scanned them, noting the different facets of the business. It was almost identical to the funeral home we’d used for my mother. There were brochures for “green” burials, cremation options, casket sales, organ donation, planning a funeral for a loved one, and pre-planning services. It was a lot to take in.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Mr. Alcott said. “And on the heels of your grandfather’s death, it makes it that much more difficult.” He made a sorrowful tsk tsk tsk sound. “My sister and I knew your mother from school. Hers was a life taken far too soon.”

  His voice was low, with a measured cadence that all on-screen funeral home personnel exhibited. The woman we’d dealt with at Lutz Family Funeral Home, Susan Hollister, had spoken with the same slow and empathetic tone. Another learned behavior, I thought. “Again,” he said, “I am so sorry for your loss. It’s a difficult time, but we do need to make the, er, arrangements.”

  My thoughts drifted back to my mother’s death. Billy and I had been in charge of organizing her funeral. Cremation had been an option, but in the end, we’d wanted a physical grave site. What I’d realized since then was that the entire funeral process and the rituals of death were not for the deceased at all; they were for the people left behind who were grieving and needed to hold on to something tangible. Closure was such a cliché word, and yet a funeral provided just that. It was the final step in letting go of the person you’d lost. I wasn’t sure cremation could offer the same closure—I liked to visit my mother’s grave, to sit and talk to her, to bring her a bluebell and tiger lily bouquet—but ultimately, it was a very personal decision.

  “She wasn’t particularly religious. We’d like to hold the wake or the service here,” Sergio said. “She chose cremation for Abuelo. I think we should do the same for her, then scatter her ashes in the ocean.”

  Lisette crushed a balled-up tissue against her eyes to absorb her falling tears. “If we do that, there’s no place to visit.”

  Ruben made a sound. “Hmmm. But I think Sergio’s right. If she didn’t see the ocean every day, she felt like something was off.”

  Lisette scoffed as she looked from one brother to the other. “So what I want doesn’t matter?”

  “It’s not about you, Lisette,” Sergio said in a placating voice. He sounded remarkably calm, though his face was tense. “It’s what she would have wanted. You know that.”

  It made sense to me. From what I understood, Marisol had spent a good portion of her life in the water. What better way to honor her than by returning her to the place she loved so much?

  Lisette threw up her hands and turned her back on us. Sergio and Ruben ignored her.

  “We spent a lot of time with your mother, making arrangements for your grandfather,” Benjamin Alcott said after giving the grieving family a moment to gather themselves.

  “She didn’t talk that much about it,” Ruben said. “Would you take us through it?”

  “Of course. Let me start, though, by thanking you for coming to us during this difficult time. We know you have a choice, and we appreciate the confidence you’re placing in us as we lay your mother to rest. My sister and I worked with her on her father’s cremation. From our many conversations, I believe I have an understanding of her perspective on her eternal rest.”

  Lisette had calmed down enough to listen, but now her chin fell, quivering, and her tears flowed. Her hunched shoulders heaved as she sobbed.

  Mr. Alcott was unfazed. He had seen it all before. He gently slid a box of tissues closer to the edge of his desk and within her reach and continued. “Vista Ridge Cemetery is incredibly picturesque,” he continued. “It combines the natural beauty of the area with complete tranquility.” He looked pointedly at Lisette. “Now, this is most definitely an option. We also have donor services for those who wish to donate their bodies to science. However, based on my conversations with your mother as we planned for your grandfather, I do believe that she would have opted for cremation.”

  “Why did she choose that?” Ruben asked.

  Mr. Alcott didn’t seem surprised by the question, but he did tilt his head to the side slightly, as if he were wondering why Ruben didn’t already know the answer to his question. “She felt strongly that he return to the earth.”

  “But his ashes are sitting in an urn in her house,” Lisette said. “She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t just scatter him to blow away in the wind because she wouldn’t have a place or anything to visit. Which is my point. Don’t we want that?”

  “She wasn’t ready, that’s all,” Ruben said. He looked at Sergio, eyebrows lifted. “What did she tell us the other day? Something about needing to know where he was.”

  Sergio nodded. “She was still grieving, but you know Abuelo. He spent his life camping and fishing. She wanted him to have that forever after.”

  Mr. Alcott cleared his throat softly, bringing the attention in the room back to him. “Let me tell you about our services. There is a growing request for cremation, and of course we take every consideration possible to ensure the purity and authenticity of the remains. We have a state-of-the-art crematory and offer a viewing room for your family to view your mother prior to cremation.”

  I recognized the silence that ensued. The three siblings wanted to remember their mother however they’d seen her last, not bloated and waterlogged.

  Mr. Alcott continued. “We also have a lovely memorial garden where we offer in-ground burial with a separate scattering area where you may spread the ashes. You are always welcome to take your mother’s ashes, of course, as she did with your grandfather, or, finally, we have an aboveground inurnment in our lovely columbarium.”

  “A place to come visit would be nice,” Sergio said. “I know she loved the ocean, but maybe we could spread some of the ashes here in the garden? I like the idea of her being in one place.”

  They discussed the pros and cons of each scenario, their voices—even Lisette’s—amazingly calm and composed. It was as if the reality of what had happ
ened had been filed away, allowing them to deal with the nitty-gritty details that had to be sorted through. “But she chose cremation for Abuelo,” Ruben said again. “She liked the idea of him going back to the earth.”

  “Cremation,” Sergio said, making up his mind.

  “Cremation,” Ruben agreed.

  Lisette looked ready to combust, but she closed her eyes for a moment and calmed herself down, finally nodding. It wasn’t her choice, but she acquiesced. “Fine.”

  “Excellent. It’s a fine choice and I do believe it’s what your mother would have wanted.” Mr. Alcott talked through the basic contract for funeral services, including the burial-versus-cremation options, the memorial garden, donor services, headstones for the cemetery, plaques for the garden, and reception services. When he’d finished with his talk, he slid the contract across the table toward the siblings. Ruben reached for it, but Lisette stepped up, taking the pen from the mortician and placing her hand on the paper to hold it in place.

  It was interesting that, in an era when so many contracts were electronic and iPads and other devices were used to acknowledge and sign, the funeral home business was still pen and paper. Or maybe it was just Santa Sofia. The contract for my mother’s burial had been more extensive and had been done in triplicate, but it was still paper, nonetheless. They’d catch up with technology at some point, I imagined.

  “We just need your initials, please.” He pointed to the lines as he ran through them, one by one. Lisette scribbled LM on each of them so quickly that I wondered how much attention she was paying.

  “And signature here,” Mr. Alcott said, pointing with his index finger.

  After she scratched in her name, he turned to the next page. “Here you acknowledge additional services offered,” he said. “Initial in the spaces.”

  “If we want to add or change something with the wake, we can do that?” Ruben asked as Lisette went down the list adding LM to each space. From where I stood, they hardly looked like letters at all. Anyone who didn’t know the letters stood for Lisette Morales would be hard-pressed to figure them out.