Dough or Die Page 12

  “Go back to sleep,” she said when I answered.

  “You’ve been sick. I want to help—”

  “Pfft. I am, as you say, fit as a fiddle.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever said fit as a fiddle,” I said.

  “I am relieving you of your morning duties. Felix and I can handle it.”

  “It’s too much for you to do alone,” I argued, but the truth was, I wanted to be there with her. She hadn’t actually signed off on my coming in for the early baking shift. Maybe she didn’t actually want that.

  “That is why I have Felix,” she said.

  “But—”

  “I will work with him today,” she interrupted, “and see how it goes. Then you and I will work out a new schedule. Sí?”

  I fell back onto my bed. Agatha snuggled up next to my leg, exhaling with a snuffled snort. “Are you sure?” I asked, only half reluctantly. I still hadn’t fully recovered from the early morning shift I had put in, and I welcomed another hour or two of sleep.

  “Positive. Gracias por todo, Ivy. Felix said you made a good team, pero now I am back.”

  I had to admit, she didn’t sound like she’d relapse anytime soon. Alert. Bright. Excited. I’d come to know Olaya well, and the indisputable truth was that she loved the bread shop more than anything. It was her home away from home. Being back was good medicine for her.

  “I’ll stop by later,” I said, “and please don’t overdo it.”

  “I will take things slow. Now go back to sleep.”

  She didn’t have to tell me again. I hung up, sank back into the warmth of my bed, and drifted off. Three hours later, I awoke to the sound of my phone ringing. My conversation with Olaya notwithstanding, it was too early for a phone call. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Mrs. Branford. She was an early riser, had her pulse not only on our neighborhood, but on the town of Santa Sofia as a whole, and didn’t care a whit for convention. I’m old enough to not concern myself with what other people think, Ivy, she liked to say to me, and it was 100 percent true. If it was her style, she’d wear giant black-framed glasses, red lipstick, and a vibrant boa, just like Iris Apfel.

  I lifted the phone, prepared to see her name. I didn’t. Instead, it said UNKNOWN CALLER.

  “Hello?” I said, hearing the grogginess in my voice.

  Silence.

  Maybe it was a bad connection. “Hello?”

  Still nothing.

  And then . . . a rustling. “Hello?” I tried again, my skin prickling. After the break-in two nights ago, I was on edge. I listened intently to see if I’d imagined the sound.

  I hadn’t. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I registered faint whispering. “Hello,” I said, more forcefully this time. “I can’t hear—” I started, stopping at the sound of a click. The line went dead.

  I stared at my phone, immediately scrolling to recent calls. There was no point. No number or name was listed. Just UNKNOWN CALLER, with no location given. Who had been on the other end of that phone call?

  Once again, my first thought was my ex-husband’s girlfriend, Heather.

  * * *

  A hour later, after my walk with Agatha, a shower, a stop at the nursery to pick up a variety of vegetable plants to start with, and a stop at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore for supplies, I arrived at Crosby House. The phone call was still on my mind. Someone had definitely been on the other end, breathing loud enough for me to hear and moving around in a disconcerting way. I tried to talk myself out of believing it could be Heather. She lived in Austin. She wouldn’t have uprooted her entire life to come to California to stalk me. It just didn’t make sense. And yet . . .

  I parked and texted Luke. Is Heather in Austin with you?

  The three little gray dots blinked and his response appeared a second later. We’re on a break.

  Not what I wanted to hear, because if they were on a break, Heather had a lot of potential emotions she needed to direct somewhere. But is she in Austin? I typed.

  Another message appeared. Why?

  I turned my phone sideways, my thumbs tapping rapidly against the keyboard. Bc someone broke into my house, some car stalked me the other night and hit me, and I just got a weird phone call.

  What kind of weird phone call?

  I stared at the phone. After I told him about the break-in, the scary car incident, and a weird phone call, the call was what he wanted more information on? The kind with heavy scary breathing and nothing else.

  Luke didn’t respond. I waited. Surely he would say something. Anything. Instead, he said nothing. Hello? I typed.

  The dots blinked again and I waited. They disappeared, showed up again, then vanished. No message came.

  I threw my phone in my purse, cursing Luke under my breath. How dare he drop a bombshell about Heather wanting to kill me like he did, only to ignore me when I wanted more information because maybe, just maybe, the crazy adulteress was acting on her threat.

  As I got out of the car, an image of Vivian Cantrell staring at a car that had been lurking in the shelter’s parking lot came to mind. Why had that vehicle raised suspicion for the director? I had yet another feeling of unease. SUVs abounded in California, and everything surrounding the women’s shelter would have the director on high alert, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was my stalker. My. Stalker. Those were two words I never thought I’d utter, but here I was. I had a stalker.

  I pushed it out of my mind—as much as I could, which meant it was still there lurking and making me anxious and aware, but I tried not to think about it—as I deposited the array of tomato, zucchini, pepper, and eggplant seedlings next to my work area. I was on a mission. It was going to be a work-heavy garden day, but I was getting these plants in the soil. And I’d find out something about Ben Nader and his volunteerism at Crosby House. This was my day.

  I sorted through the garden storage shed Vivian Cantrell had shown me and waited for Miguel to arrive with the crates I’d bought at the Habitat store. The Crosby House property was like a little fortress. A stucco wall ran around the perimeter. A driveway on the back end of the property was closed off by an electric iron gate. Inside the gate was a row of tall shrubs obscuring the yard from the outside. I’d gotten permission for Miguel to drop off the crates, but he wasn’t allowed on the property unless he completed the volunteer application process like I had. There was no time for that, so another resident, Angie, said she’d help me move the crates from Miguel’s truck to the garden area. “What are you going to do with them?” she’d asked as we waited for Miguel to arrive. I noticed the yellow remnant of a bruise just under her eye. It underscored the reality of the lives these women were running from.

  “Keyhole gardens,” I said, keeping my voice upbeat. She stared blankly, but I’d done my research and was only too happy to explain. “It’s a garden that uses an integrated composter to continually amend the soil—”

  Her eyes had glazed over from either her lack of interest or lack of understanding. Either way, I stopped and just thanked her for her help. A moment later, a pickup truck pulled up alongside us. The driver’s side window rolled down and there he was. Miguel Baptista. “Hey there, Ms. Culpepper. You having a good day?”

  I grinned at him. “It just got a little bit better.”

  Angie was tentative at first, watching warily as Miguel backed the truck into the driveway, stopping with the bed just inside the gate. “You sure I can’t help you unload them?” he asked, dropping the tailgate.

  “Yeah, you can help get them off the truck, but Angie and I will move them to the garden area. They’re very strict about allowing people on the property here.”

  “As they should be,” Angie said. “I’m surprised Ms. Cantrell let you deliver these things.”

  Her tone made it clear that she didn’t think Ms. Cantrell should have. “Getting the crates now means we can start the keyhole gardens today, rather than waiting,” I said. I’d explained my need and solution to the director and she’d
allowed Miguel to come this far only after I’d given her his entire background, showed her his history from the opening of his father’s restaurant when he was a kid, to his time in Santa Sofia High School, to his military career, and finally his grand reopening of Baptista’s Cantina and Grill. He was clearly not one of the Crosby House women’s estranged violent partners disguised as a local man.

  The square crates were four feet on each side and about three and a half feet tall. Over time, the wood slats would deteriorate, but I figured they’d last a good couple of years. Maybe at some point we could use them as a base and create a stone frame around them that would be more durable. I could see myself volunteering at Crosby House long after my sleuthing ended.

  Together, Angie and I carried one of the three crates Miguel off-loaded for us past the shrub barrier and across the yard. We set it down in one of the areas I’d prepared. After we lugged the other two over, Angie strolled back inside, throwing me a backward glance that seemed to say, “I’m tapping out, you’re on your own.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I called to her. Maybe she was great with the women in the shelter, but I wasn’t sad to lose her company.

  Without turning around, she threw up her hand. At least she’d acknowledged me.

  By the time I trudged back to the driveway for the fourth time, Miguel had moved his truck to the curb and was against the passenger door, deep in conversation on his cell phone. He cut the conversation short, hanging up and tucking his phone into his back pocket when I slipped my arms around him. “Let me thank you properly,” I said.

  “Mmm, I like that.” He wrapped his arms around me. “Any more favors you need?” he murmured as he brushed his lips over mine.

  Somehow, I managed to pull away. I gave him a coy grin, saying, “I’m sure I can think of something, but it’ll have to wait. I’m on volunteer duty.”

  He reluctantly dropped his arms to his sides. “Until tonight, then.”

  My dad had planned a family dinner tonight at my childhood home. I nodded. “Can’t wait.”

  He lifted the coil of chicken wire from the bed of his truck, handing it over to me, along with a pair of wire cutters. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said before driving off.

  I waited until he was out of sight, then entered the code to close the gate behind me.

  I’d brought a staple gun and heavy-duty plastic sheets, which I used to line the crates. As I continued to work on the keyhole garden boxes, a woman watched me from just outside the door to the house. She stood in front of the window, her arms folded across her chest like a barrier. I recognized her from the day before. I smiled at her, but stayed focused on my work. Vivian Cantrell came up to her and they talked for a long moment. Vivian handed her something. I craned to hear, but caught only a few words, then the young woman said, “Thank you, ma’am.” After another moment, Vivian patted her on the arm and left the young woman to watch me. After another ten minutes, the woman moved a little closer to me, stepping to the edge of the small cement patio. Arms still crossed, a set of keys hanging from one hand, her other tucked tightly under the other side. Lips curved down. Guard still up.

  She was small and willowy with blond hair in a short pixie cut, a small bow-shaped mouth, and deep gray-blue wary eyes. She had a small scar above her lip that was accentuated when she frowned, but that I bet would disappear when she smiled. I had a big smile, and long ginger locks that spiraled this way and that, inherited from my mother. I was freckled and had a fair complexion. This petite woman, who couldn’t be more than five three, seemed opposite of me in nearly every way.

  I smiled again, then gave it another ten minutes before waving at her. “Would you like to help?” I asked.

  She looked over her shoulder as if she wasn’t sure I was speaking to her. She looked back to me, but didn’t budge.

  “They’re called keyhole gardens,” I said, continuing as if she’d answered me with a resounding Yes! I’d created three large cylinders, placing each one in the center of each crate. I touched one of the chicken-wire cylinders. “All the compost generated from the kitchen goes in here, along with brown compost like paper bags and leaves. We’ll plant the vegetables in the soil around it. As the compost breaks down, it’ll feed the soil of the garden.” I stood back, arms folded, and admired my handiwork. “They’ll be our own little organic gardens.”

  “What else do you have to do?” she asked, her voice quiet. She had the faintest accent. Welsh, I thought. Or Irish or Scottish.

  “We have to collect newspaper and cardboard first. Anything compostable. We layer all that in the bottom. After that, we put in leaves and twigs. Grass clippings. Things like that.”

  My gaze scanned the yard. Piles of leaves left from the fall were heaped against the fence. It was clear that keeping the yard manicured wasn’t a priority. Not surprising, since I imagined that, like having a garden, it would come down to volunteers. I couldn’t see Vivian Cantrell hiring a random lawn service to come onto the property, not when her priority was keeping the women here safe and protected.

  “There’s a rake and wheelbarrow,” the woman said. “I can get it if you like.” Her accent came out a bit more the more she spoke.

  I tempered my reaction, not wanting to come across as overly thrilled that she’d sort of agreed to help me. “That would be great, thanks.”

  She tucked the keys she’d been holding into her front pocket. I caught a glimpse of a scar that ran from the top of her hand, up her arm, and disappeared under the sleeve of her shirt. God, what these women had been through.

  She disappeared behind the shed, returning a few seconds later pushing a rickety and rusted wheelbarrow. She stopped in front of the shed, stepped inside, and came out again with a floppy-tined rake.

  Without a word, she set to work. It didn’t take long for her to fill up the wheelbarrow with the natural mulch in the yard. She brought it over next to the garden boxes. “Cardboard and paper?” she asked.

  “Right.” I wasn’t sure how much we’d find inside the house. It seemed unlikely that any newspaper was delivered to Crosby House, and any empty boxes had probably been thrown away already. With any luck, we’d be able to gather enough to get the layering started, though. “Do you have any?”

  “One of the girls, Mickey, is obsessed with the Santa Sofia Daily,” she said, “and she never throws anythin’ away.”

  That sounded promising on two levels. Another person to meet and potentially talk with, and a newspaper hoarder.

  She nodded. “This is her second time being here,” she said. “Her guy cried and apologized and swore up and down that he’d changed. Mickey believed him and went back, but . . .”

  She trailed off, so I finished for her. “But he hadn’t changed.” It wasn’t lost on me that she’d referred to Mickey’s abuser as her guy. It almost felt like ownership of the abuser, which translated to fault.

  “Beat her worse than I’ve ever seen anyone beaten. The way I see it, she’s lucky she survived.”

  If that was what another abused woman thought, I believed her. “Will she let us have some of the newspapers?”

  She shrugged.

  I held out my hand to her. “I’m Ivy, by the way. Ivy Culpepper.”

  She looked at my outstretched arm, hesitating. I didn’t think she was going to shake, but then she did. Her grip was loose and her hand smaller than mine. For a second, I thought I might shatter the bones if I squeezed too hard, but then I realized that, of course, I wouldn’t. This woman, who looked to be about my age, had gone through something difficult and challenging, but she was still here. She’d gotten herself out of whatever situation she’d been in. She was a fighter. If whoever had abused her hadn’t broken her, I certainly couldn’t.

  She looked back at the house as if she sensed we were being watched. Angie and Vivian Cantrell stood at the window. The woman waved to them. They waved back before turning their backs to us and going off in different directions.

  “I’m Meg McGi
nnis,” she said, looking at me again.

  “That’s a pretty name,” I said. The slight lilt of her accent made more sense. She was an Irish girl.

  “Okay,” she said. “Come on then.” She dropped her arm, turned on her sneakered heels, and went back into the house. I followed, brushing my hands on my jeans and stomping my feet before stepping inside. Meg didn’t stop to see if I had followed her. She walked straight through the living area, not acknowledging any of the women or kids there, turned right at a hallway, and followed it to what I assumed were the living quarters for the women and children.

  She stopped at a door on the right and gently rapped her knuckles against it. Someone called from inside, and Meg opened the door, sticking her head in. She spoke too quietly for me to hear, but a second later, she opened the door all the way and stepped inside, ushering me in behind her. “Mickey, this is Ivy. She’s making vegetable gardens for Crosby House,” Meg said.

  Mickey lay facedown on her bed, propped up on her elbows, a magazine opened in front of her. Her legs were bent at the knees, her feet crossed at the ankles. Her red hair, which was a solid three or four shades more vibrant than mine, was piled up on her head in a haphazard topknot. She looked up and I started, registering the yellowed remnants of a bruise under her right eye. My gaze skimmed over her and I saw more bruises on her arms and legs. One finger on her left hand looked permanently crooked, and her wrist was wrapped. In that moment, I realized that knowing Crosby House was a haven for abused women was vastly different from seeing the evidence staring me in the face. The very existence of this place meant women like Meg and Mickey had a place where they could feel safe.

  “You need some of my newspapers for a garden?” Mickey asked. Her voice was monotone. Even though she’d asked a question, I didn’t get the feeling she cared all that much about the answer.

  “We’re making keyhole gardens,” I said.

  Meg smiled at being part of the we. “That means a compost system is built right into the garden. We have to layer green materials, like leaves and grass, with cardboard and newspaper, then the stuff we compost from the kitchen will go on top of all that.”