“I’ll be back toni—” I started to say to Mrs. Branford, who had been all too willing to dog sit, but she held up her hand to stop me.
“Maybe you will, but maybe you won’t. Agatha is with me, so you have no reason to worry if you don’t come back tonight.”
I started to protest, but then stopped, thinking realistically. “You’re right,” I said. “Thanks.”
She eyed me suspiciously, brushing back a floppy snowy curl from her forehead. “That was too easy. What are you up to?”
I blanched on the inside—how could she know what I was planning?—but outside I feigned innocence, pressing the flat of my hand to my chest. “Me? I’m not up to anything. I’m just going to Miguel’s for dinner.”
She watched me, and I could see the gears turning behind her eyes. “Oh no, you’re definitely up to something. If you’re going to be playing detective tonight—” And just like that, her bright blue eyes narrowed and she pointed at me. “Aha! You are going to be detectiving tonight—”
“I don’t think detectiving is a word—”
She carried on. “It may not be, but you’re going to be doing it tonight, aren’t you?” She pushed her lips out until they resembled a duck’s bill, then snapped her gnarled fingers. “You’re going to do a stakeout, aren’t you?” She watched me closely, then said, “Yes, that’s what you’re going to do. A stakeout. Who? Lisette Morales? David Ruiz? Johnny Morales? Who?”
My jaw dropped. I did want to follow Johnny, but I didn’t want to do it alone, and Mrs. Branford wasn’t much in terms of backup. I’d thought that once dinner was over and Laura and Sergio had gone back home to their kids, Miguel would join me in a little surveillance work. “How in the world did you know that?” I asked.
She smiled devilishly. “My dear, I’ve studied human nature for eight decades. I might know you better than you know yourself.”
She might at that, I conceded.
“Am I right?” she asked. “Are you going to scope out Johnny?”
“If Miguel will come with me—”
“Oh, he will. That man will follow you anywhere.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not so sure about that, but if he comes with me, and if we can find Johnny, then yes.”
“Johnny drives a late model Chevy Malibu,” Mrs. Branford said. “From what I remember, he likes to frequent a brewery down the street from his apartment building.”
This time I stopped my jaw from dropping. “How do you know—” I started to say, but stopped myself. I knew Penelope Branford was the Mrs. Kravitz of Maple Street, and the entire historic area of town, for that matter, but I hadn’t known she was so well-informed about everyone in her radius. Now that I thought about it, though, I wasn’t surprised. She was elderly and the reality was, she had a fair amount of time on her hands. She read. She lunched. She walked. She played bridge on her phone. She detectived with me as often as she could. And she kept abreast of all the goings-on in Santa Sofia. I waved my hands and said, “Dumb question. Forget I asked that. Where does he live?”
Her eyes twinkled. She loved having information that I didn’t. “After the divorce, he got himself a place at The Inlands. Still there, as far as I know. Clear across town, about as far away from the beach as you can get and still be in town limits.”
“The Inlands, and the brewery down the street from it. Got it.”
“And an old Chevy Malibu. We’re talking nineteen-sixties, or thereabouts. Blue. I believe it was his father’s, actually. Yes, I’m sure of it. His pride and joy, from what I remember, both father and son.”
Agatha had been idly standing by, her tail curled, but not entirely sure what was happening. Was she going for a walk, or staying put? I handed the leash to Mrs. Branford, set down a baggie of kibble, and bent to scratch Agatha’s head. “See you later, Agatha. You be a good girl.”
“See you tomorrow,” Mrs. Branford said with another wink, then, before I could protest, quickly added, “I go to sleep early, so if you’re back much after nine, which of course you will be, then I’ll just plan on seeing you tomorrow.”
“Bright and early,” I said, not bothering to hide my grin. I was definitely looking forward to the night ahead.
Chapter 16
Miguel lived in Santa Sofia’s Bungalow Oasis, a historic district in its own right, but different than the area I lived in. Our town, like so many of its sister cities, experienced a boom in the early 1900s when oil was discovered. Suddenly, the town, which had been settled by Spanish missionaries late in the sixteenth century and had been a haven for pioneers searching for gold in the 1800s, exploded. The first thirty years of the twentieth century brought crazy growth, although the town had always done its best to control inland sprawl. Santa Sofia had maintained its charm, in large part due to the preservation of its early history.
Bungalows dotted all of the town’s older neighborhoods, but Bungalow Oasis held the highest concentration of traditional bungalow architecture, which meant single-story, low-rise houses with verandas and privacy. Bungalow Oasis was bordered by Malibu Street to the east and Riviera Street to the south, and was part of what locals called the Upper Laguna District. Early residents had banded together to form a homeowners association, aptly called Santa Sofia Bungalow Oasis Neighborhood Association.
Miguel’s stucco-sided house sat on a knoll with a single-car garage at the lowest point on the right, and a red terra-cotta tiled stairway on the left leading up to a wrought-iron gate. Green leafy shrubs and a railing lined either side of the steps, and atop the pillars at the gate were massive cement pots bursting with flowers. The Mediterranean-style house could have succumbed to a hard-edged look, but the curved vertical line of the wall framing the garage and creating the base of the veranda, as well as the open courtyard created by a retaining wall, softened the look. The courtyard held a single tree, more shrubbery, and a bed of flowers. The veranda above the garage was rimmed by flower boxes cascading with colorful blooms.
I sighed, a sense of peace settling over me. I loved old homes: the history, the charm, the unique elements that gave them character. These were the things I’d fallen in love with about the house I’d bought, and I already knew they were the things I’d adore about Miguel’s house.
I walked up the stairway, carrying the second crusty sourdough loaf I’d picked up from Yeast of Eden, noting the wall of cypress trees creating a natural barrier between Miguel’s house and the one next door. The lots were small, but they were private at the same time.
The arched wooden door opened before I could knock, and there stood Miguel in jeans and a casual cream-colored guayabera, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He took my hand as I crossed the threshold, pulling me to him. “Mmm, you smell good,” he said, breathing me in, then kissing me. The feel of his hand pressed against my lower back, holding me close to him, sent a thrill through me, and Mrs. Branford’s prediction that I’d need Agatha cared for all night surfaced in my brain. That woman, I thought with a smile.
Miguel lowered his lips to my neck, and goose bumps rose on my flesh. This man.
He slid the strap of my purse from my shoulder, reluctantly let me go, and hung my bag on the coatrack just inside the door. “Let me show you around,” he said, taking my hand. “Laura and Sergio’ll be here in a few minutes.”
The small entry of the house gave way to a larger living room with sliding glass doors opened to the veranda. The honey color of the hardwood floors made the room feel warm. The seating area was grounded by a shag rug, and while the sofa and chairs looked inviting, I was drawn outside. The porch had three potted patio trees, a small bistro table with two chairs, and a rattan loveseat, two matching chairs, and a small outdoor coffee table. It was the perfect outdoor room—an extension of the house. I spread my arms wide and gripped the railing, breathing in the scent of the abundant flowers and the salty ocean air. To the south, I glimpsed downtown Santa Sofia. It was walkable from here, as was the pier where Miguel’s restaurant was located. But it was the view str
aight ahead and to the west that was so arresting. The house had an unadulterated broad view of the Pacific Ocean. I stared. I breathed. I let the brisk air fill my lungs. “You’ve been holding out on me. This is beautiful.”
His arms wrapped around me from behind, his hands against the flat of my stomach, the length of his body against mine. “It is,” he said, but from his tone, I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the view . . . or me.
He lowered his lips to the back of my neck, his feathery kisses and the roughness of his goatee against my skin making me quiver, but we pulled apart at the slam of a car door below. Laura gazed up at us, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, which still lit up the evening sky.
Sergio stepped out of the driver’s side of the truck now parked on Miguel’s driveway and grinned up at us. “Are we interrupting?”
Miguel didn’t bother answering. “Come up,” he said, waving them toward the stairs.
As they climbed, he put his hands on either side of my head and pulled me in for one last kiss. “To be continued,” he said, and then he took my hand and led me back into the house. We walked through the living area, past a dining table already set with burlap placemats, napkins, silverware, and water glasses, and into the galley kitchen.
It was small but efficient, and from what I could tell, Miguel had gone top-of-the-line with the commercial-grade stainless steel Wolf range. It had five burners, plus a grill and two ovens. I couldn’t tell what he’d cooked, but it smelled amazing.
At that moment, the front door slammed and Laura and Sergio’s voices carried to us. A moment later, they came into the kitchen bearing a bottle of red wine and a square pan covered in aluminum foil. “Tiramisu from Luigi’s,” Laura said, skirting by us. She opened the refrigerator and slid the pan in.
Miguel nodded with approval. “Perfect.”
“I know,” she said, turning back to face us. She drew in a deep breath as she looked at the stove. “Sun-dried tomato pesto, right? With prawns?”
Miguel smiled, long creases like dimples carving into his face and framing his mouth. “What gave it away?”
“Garlic, for one,” Laura said. She pointed to a mass of herbs on one section of the butcher-block countertop. “That pile of fresh basil, for two. And the giant pot of water, for three.”
Sergio laid his hand on Laura’s shoulder, giving a squeeze. “Impressive, babe,” he said, nodding appreciatively, and Laura beamed.
Sergio had opened the bottle of wine and retrieved wineglasses from one of the kitchen cupboards. Clearly he and Laura spent enough time here to feel comfortable and to know where things were. He poured, handing a glass to his wife, then to me. Miguel had set to work, stirring the sauce he had simmering on the stove, then adding a light balsamic-based Italian dressing to the salad he’d prepared and tossing it until I was sure each individual lettuce leaf was coated. Using salad tongs, he filled four carved wooden bowls and took them to the table.
We sat at the rectangular table with Miguel and Laura on one side, closer to the kitchen, and Sergio and me on the other. I faced Miguel, while Laura was directly across from Sergio. From where I sat, I could see through to the sunroom in the back of the bungalow, and through the kitchen to a hallway that had to lead to the bedrooms. “Tell me about the house,” I said as we sipped our wine and ate our salads.
Miguel held the stem of his wineglass between two fingers and circled, the deep purple liquid swirling inside the bowl. “It’s a love-at-first-sight story,” he said, and once again, I was pretty sure he was speaking in double entendres.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks as I met his gaze head-on. “That is the best kind.”
“I agree,” he said.
Laura rolled her eyes and took a healthy swig of her wine. “We get it. You’re in love. Tell her about the house, Miguelito.”
I stifled a smile at the term of endearment she’d used for her brother, a remnant of their childhood. “Please do, Miguelito,” I teased.
He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. They reached all the way to where I sat. His foot brushed against mine and his mouth quirked up, his eyebrows right along with it. For a moment it felt as if it were only Miguel and me at the table, but then Laura cleared her throat, bringing us both back. “It was a dump,” she said, starting the story off for her brother. “Over the years, renters had torn the place apart. I thought he was crazy for wanting to buy it, but it’s a good piece of property—”
“It’s a great piece of property,” Sergio interrupted.
“There’s hardly a backyard, though,” she said.
Miguel jumped in. “The yard is fine.”
“It’s a dirt hill.”
“It’s a clean palette. And I have a plan.”
She rolled her eyes. “You always have a plan.”
My head swiveled between them as they bickered in true sibling fashion.
Miguel ignored her sarcasm, instead talking about the terraced gardens he planned on creating on the slope in the back of the house. “It’s going to blow your mind,” he said.
Laura rolled her eyes. “Sounds like it’s going to blow your bank account,” she said, but she smiled. It was all lighthearted.
Miguel started to collect our salad plates. I stood to help him, skirting around the table and following him to the kitchen. I rinsed them at the sink while he tossed the cooked linguine with the sauce he’d made, then plated it, placing five grilled prawns around each mound of pasta. Finally, he sprinkled finely chopped flat-leaf parsley on top of each serving. I took two plates, and he took two, and we returned to the table. “There’s fresh parmesan,” he said, handing me the bowl of shredded cheese.
I stopped to admire the meal, thinking it couldn’t possibly taste as good as it looked. But after I used my fork and the large spoon Miguel had put on each plate to twirl the linguine into a manageable bite, then placed it in my mouth, I stood corrected. The sauce was like nothing I’d ever tasted. It was creamy, rich, and flavorful. I’d never be able to eat all he’d put on the plate, but I was certainly going to give it my best shot.
We talked about the restaurant remodel, the new menu, Sergio’s trucking business, the bread shop, and Laura and Sergio’s kids. Eventually . . . inevitably . . . the conversation turned to the investigation. “I saw your brother today,” I said to Sergio.
“You did?” Laura asked at the same time Sergio said, “He told me.”
All three of them turned their full attention to me, waiting for me to elaborate. “He told me a little bit about your mom and dad,” I said to Sergio.
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “He said you thought my dad had an affair.”
News traveled fast. “I did. I met him the other day. He said something about making a mistake. I assumed that’s what he meant, but Ruben said it was something else.”
“It’s kind of a family secret,” Sergio said, shooting a glance at Laura.
She responded by stretching her arm across the table. He did the same, their hands meeting in the middle. She nodded, which I took to be encouragement for him to keep going. “She’s trying to help,” Laura said to him about me.
Sergio speared a forkful of pasta, spinning it loosely around the tines before putting it in his mouth. He followed it with a bite of bread and a swig of wine. When he was ready, he cleared his throat and spoke. “My dad—he’s a gambler. Poker, mostly, although if there isn’t a game going, he’ll go to Paso Robles.”
Paso Robles is in California’s Central Coast wine country. The casino over there is European in tradition—what they call boutique—meaning the games, the lounge, and the bar are all in one area, not split off in separate rooms like a bigger casino. In other words, it is small.
“When you say he’s a gambler, what does that mean?” I asked, not wanting to jump to the wrong conclusions.
“He has a problem,” Sergio answered. “He’s gotten himself in and out of trouble with it over the years. There were a few times when it was really bad.”
When I raised my eyebrows in a question, it was Laura who continued. “He lost big at a couple of games. Really big. That’s what led to the divorce.”
“He tried to stop a few times,” Sergio said, withdrawing his hand from Laura’s and clasping them in front of his plate. “He’d stay away from the games for a while, but then he’d sit in on a hand, and that was that. He was all in again. When he got involved with a loan shark to cover his debts, that’s when my mom had had enough. He was in too deep. We knew my grandfather was going to leave my mom the house, and she was afraid she’d lose it because of my dad. She was afraid they’d lose everything because of his debt.”
So his mistake hadn’t been adultery; it had been gambling. Ruben had said that splitting up had been the smart thing for Johnny and Marisol. I was starting to understand what he’d meant by that. Also by Johnny’s off-the-cuff comment that there were other ways to get money besides traditional loans. “She still loved him, but couldn’t be with him,” I said, appreciating now why she might still turn to him in a moment of crisis.
Sergio was quiet for a minute before saying, “The idea that love conquers all is bullshit.”
I brought up Marisol’s mental state, and the fact that she’d been struggling with reality. “She talked to you about that?” I asked Sergio.
“I knew she couldn’t sleep,” he said, pushing his now empty plate aside. “She was really messed up after my grandfather died.”
Flour in the Attic Page 12
