Dough or Die Read online

  “They happened, one after the other. They worked at the same place. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Except . . .”

  “Except what?” I prodded.

  “I can see plenty of people wanting to hurt Sandra. She was a piece of work. But not Ben.”

  “You can’t think of a connection?” I asked.

  “No. But like you said, anything’s possible.”

  “Ivy,” a woman’s voice said. “You should go home now.” Olaya came through the swinging door, stopping short when she saw the two of us standing side by side. “Lo siento. I apologize. I did not mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just walking Mrs. Nader out.”

  Olaya rushed forward, her multicolored caftan swinging behind her, her arms wide. Before Tammy Nader knew what was happening, Olaya had her wrapped up in a hug. She held her tight, and after a moment Mrs. Nader succumbed to the embrace. From where I stood, I could see her glassy eyes and quivering lower lip. She was barely hanging on.

  “Your husband, he is a very nice man,” Olaya said. “He made all of us here feel very comfortable in front of the camera. He did not deserve what has happened to him.”

  As Mrs. Nader pulled free, Olaya said, “If you give me your phone number, I’d like to check on you.”

  Mrs. Nader nodded. Olaya looked at me and I understood. She didn’t carry her cell phone around with her, but I did. I took mine out and opened the Notes app. Mrs. Nader rattled off her number and I typed it in. I’d write it down for Olaya later.

  Mrs. Nader offered her a sad smile before heading to the door. “Thank you for saying that. You’ve both been very kind. Thank you.”

  Olaya joined me at the door and together we watched Tammy Nader walk slowly toward the curb, staring at the street where her husband had been hit. She turned to look at us, as if she’d felt our eyes on her back. She lifted her arm in a brief acknowledgment before gathering herself together and continuing on down the street, her hand and the wad of tissue I knew was clutched there pressed to her face.

  “Very sad for her,” Olaya said, “but she will be all right.”

  After Mrs. Nader melted into the sea of pedestrians walking down the street, I locked the door and we retreated to the kitchen. Since I’d been back in Santa Sofia—and maybe before, since Luke had been unfaithful to me—I’d developed a suspicious mind and tended to question things that I used to take at face value. The question that came to mind at the moment was all about Tammy Nader. What had she really hoped to learn by coming to the bread shop? None of us had any more information than the sheriff did, and Emmaline had given the woman everything she could. Was it part of her coping process, that she needed to hear firsthand from someone who’d witnessed what had happened? Did she question the sheriff department’s ability to do their job and get to the bottom of what happened? She hadn’t said so. Maybe on some level, she wanted to take matters into her own hands.

  It bothered me. What had she been after?

  Chapter 19

  I spent the rest of the afternoon hunkered down in Olaya’s office at Yeast of Eden, working on the blog and website. Even with a user-friendly interface like WordPress, I got stuck and frustrated. By the time four thirty rolled around, I was ready to hurl the computer out the window. I needed a break. And a snack.

  I opted for a hunk of sourdough, one of the few loaves left at this late hour. I slathered on a healthy pat of butter, got some grapes from the fridge to go with the bread, and poured myself a glass of iced tea. Miguel and I were going to dinner at my dad’s tonight, so I didn’t want to overdo it.

  Four thirty. I had a solid two hours to kill before I needed to go home to change. I let my thoughts return to Esmé and Crosby House. The next Bread for Life class wasn’t for a few days—far too long to wait to see if Esmé turned up.

  I’d been thinking a lot about the books she had on her nightstand. They were tied together, but I couldn’t quite make out how. I opened a new browser and typed in Tuesdays with Morrie. It was a tribute to a dying man and lessons on life that he passed on in his last moments. I searched Looking for Alaska next. The blurb didn’t give me much information, so I scrolled down to the reviews, zooming in on the idea that the book was about life, death, and moving on.

  The bottom drawer of Esmé’s dresser. The green knitted blanket. The sketchbook. The box in the closet. The books on Esmé’s nightstand both had to do with loss and grieving. The box in the closet had been marked with the initials KM. Had something happened to him or her? Was Esmé mourning a loss?

  Anxiety crawled through me like the legs of a spider scurrying over my skin. I had to find her. To make sure she was okay.

  Olaya had a spreadsheet file with the names and information of all the people who’d taken her classes. Each class had its own tab. She archived each year’s classes on December 31st with the new year’s classes ready to go. Olaya Solis had run a successful business not only because of the magical properties she baked into her breads, but because she was an astute and incredibly organized human being.

  I already had Esmé’s number, but didn’t have the others’. It took only a few clicks of the mouse to find the spreadsheet with Claire’s, Esmé’s, Zula’s, and Amelie’s information. I dialed Esmé first, hoping she’d answer, but not surprised when it went to voicemail. I left a message, asking her to call me, then used the info sheet to dial Claire.

  “Hello?” Her voice was tentative, as if she was baffled that she’d gotten a phone call.

  “Claire, it’s Ivy Culpepper. From Yeast of Eden?”

  It was as if a switch flipped. She became instantly animated. “Ivy! Hi!” Then a pause, followed by, “Oh my gosh, do we have class tonight? Did I blank on it? I can be there—”

  “No, no. Not at all. Class Tuesday.”

  She exhaled with relief. “Oh, good.”

  “You’re fine. I was just wondering if maybe you’d heard from Esmé. She, uh, hasn’t been home for a few days. Since we saw her after Ben Nader’s accident, actually.”

  “I haven’t seen her.” Claire hesitated before she said, “Do you think something’s happened to her?”

  “I admit, I’m a little bit worried. I didn’t realize it, but she knew Ben Nader outside of the bread shop. I’m concerned that she’s taking the accident hard.”

  “She knew Mr. Nader before?”

  I didn’t want to reveal that Esmé was staying at Crosby House, so I phrased my response carefully. “Apparently they crossed paths when he did some volunteering.”

  “She never mentioned that.”

  No, she hadn’t. That in itself troubled me. Why had she kept it quiet that she knew Ben Nader in a different context? Was it because the connection was through Crosby House and she didn’t want to open up that can of worms? Or was it something else entirely? Or again, maybe I was drawing a connection where there was none.

  “Have you seen or heard from her, by any chance?”

  I sensed her shaking her head. “No, sorry.”

  “Claire, has Esmé ever talked about a boyfriend. . . or husband? KM?”

  “Not to me. Why?”

  Why indeed? “I was just wondering. I got the feeling that maybe he died?”

  “Wow. I don’t know, Ivy. Poor Esmé. I hope you find her.”

  I thanked her, hung up, and made the next call, this one to Zula. The phone rang three times before she answered with a vibrant, “Hallo!”

  My own tone changed in response to her natural enthusiasm. “Zula! It’s Ivy Culpepper. From Yeast of Eden.”

  “Hallo, Ivy! How wonderful that you have phoned me. What can I do for you?”

  I launched into the same spiel I had with Claire, ending with, “Have you seen or heard from Esmé?”

  “Sadly, no, I have not.”

  I asked her the same question about a husband or boyfriend, but Zula had the same response Claire had. Esmé had never mentioned her relationships, and Zula had no idea who KM was. “Do you think we should be worried?” she asked me.
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br />   That was a good question. In my gut, the answer was a resounding yes, but I didn’t have rhyme or reason why I felt that way. “I don’t know, Zula. Let me know if you hear from her, okay?”

  “I most definitely will do that, Ivy.”

  I called Amelie next. She answered right away with an out of breath, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Amelie. It’s Ivy Culpepper, from Yeast of Eden. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Yes, sure. Wait one minute, please.”

  There was a clank followed by a rustling before she came back on the line. “Sorry about that,” she said, still breathing heavy. “I just finished a run. A mile for every piece of bread we eat!”

  “That’s why I do it, too,” I said, although I didn’t think I was as committed as Amelie.

  She sighed happily. “The beach is so lovely. I think I will never leave here.”

  I understood her sentiment completely. I’d left my hometown after high school. Looking back now, I wondered why it had taken me so long to come back. Santa Sofia was a small town with a lot of charm. The historic district. The Bungalows. Cambria and Main Streets. Beach Road. The pier. Every little corner had character to spare.

  I got to the point of my call, asking her if she’d heard from Esmé.

  “Yes! I saw her at the beach just now,” she said.

  I practically fell off my chair. “Really?”

  “Really, yes. I like to run on the paved path between Cambria Beach and Rockway. It is two miles there, and two miles back.”

  I knew that stretch well. The city council had done an amazing job of creating a beach-to-beach paved walking path that started at the northernmost beach and went all the way down to Rockway, the southernmost beach in town. Cambria Beach started a little ways south of the pier where Miguel’s restaurant was. We didn’t have a boardwalk with rides, like Santa Cruz, but we had a lot of artisan shops and a stretch along the beach where vendors set up to sell their wares, sketch caricatures, and perform for the tourists. And we had the beach-to-beach path. “And Esmé’s there right now? Where exactly? I need to talk to her,” I added quickly.

  “She was at a table at the Shrimp Shack.”

  The Shrimp Shack! The Shrimp Shack was a beloved Santa Sofia institution. The restaurant was a converted house with seating inside and a deck that ran along the sides and back, affording spectacular views of the coastline. Celebrities from all over made it a point to visit, take pictures with the owners and staff, and sign menus. Unlike a lot of places, the Jacobs family didn’t hang up those photos in the dining room. Instead they used the space in the hallways and in the kitchen, making sure that the people who worked the hardest to make their restaurant a success could bask in the memories of the celebrity visits. I liked that about the Jacobses. They understood the importance of the people who worked for them, never taking them for granted.

  I logged out of Olaya’s computer, grabbed my purse and what was left of the sourdough bread, and raced to my car in the back parking lot. “I have to run. Thanks, Amelie!”

  “Sure. What’s go—” she started, but I hung up and tossed the phone in my purse. Minutes later, I was on Beach Road heading south. Traffic was thick with tourists and locals heading to the beach for Friday evening activities. I crawled along, impatiently tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, starting and stopping, starting and stopping.

  Out of nowhere, an SUV heading north in the oncoming lane veered left. I jerked my steering wheel to the right, barely escaping a head-on collision. “Hey!” I yelled, but the driver’s head was angled down. She was intent on her cell phone, I realized. I laid on the horn, but by the time I saw her look up in my review mirror, I was already past her.

  This, on top of the incident the other night, made too many close calls for comfort. My hands shook as I signaled, slowed, and pulled into the parking lot at the Shrimp Shack. The distracted driver was long gone and probably never fully realized what a close call we’d just had.

  I shook away my frustration and calmed my nerves. I had no time to waste and could only hope that Esmé was still here. The board-and-batten white siding of the Shrimp Shack was crisp and fresh. The contrast of the charcoal shutters, window trim, and a thin black trim at the roofline made the place welcoming. It was a restaurant you couldn’t wait to get into, knowing the inside would make you feel as happy as the outside did. This, I thought, was the type of restaurant that Guy Fieri would go crazy for and celebrate in his Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. It had always been owned and operated by the Jacobs family. The atmosphere was addictive and the food was spectacular. Fried prawns with a delicate buttermilk batter that literally melted in your mouth. Thick homemade potato chips. Fresh crab salad and coleslaw. Cod fish-sticks in a beer batter. These were the standouts, but everything was delicious. They also served sautéed portobello mushrooms and spinach with browned butter, braised artichokes with garlic aioli, and grilled asparagus that tasted like it had just been picked from the most fertile patch of earth. The homemade tartar sauce had just the right amount of zing to tickle every last taste bud.

  My stomach rumbled. God, if I wasn’t going to dinner at my dad’s, I’d grab a menu and order one of everything. I might be the first person ever to leave the Shrimp Shack still hungry.

  I didn’t think to ask Amelie where she’d seen Esmé sitting before I’d hung up on her. Had Amelie been heading down to Rockway, or on her way back up to Cambria when she’d spotted Esmé? Either way, it was logical to assume that Esmé had been on one of the porches. I went inside, told the hostess I was meeting someone, and walked right on through to the back. The Shrimp Shack had a primo location. The porch wrapped around the house on the north, south, and west ends, each with a stunning view of the water that rivaled what Baptista’s Cantina and Grill offered. Basically you couldn’t go wrong with a restaurant near the beach in Santa Sofia.

  There was no time for soaking in the beauty of the place, though. I searched the porch, fearing I’d missed Esmé, heaving a relieved sigh when I spotted her. There she was, sitting at a tall café table along the railing on the south side of the building, her elbow on the table, one hand spread across her forehead, her fingers and thumb massaging her temples.

  “Esmé!” I exclaimed, coming up to her table and in full theatrical mode. “What a surprise running into you here!”

  She jumped out of her skin, staring at me wide-eyed. And, I thought, slightly terrified.

  “No one has seen you for a while. I’ve been so worried,” I said, dropping the overenthusiastic tone I’d forced into my voice and sliding into the chair opposite her.

  Her eyes instantly teared, as if the mere question itself turned on a faucet. “I am staying with a friend.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t know.” She looked up at me. “I do not know what to do.”

  I rested my arms on the table and leaned in, wanting to take her hand, but not sure if she’d appreciate the gesture or eschew it. “You don’t know what to do about what?”

  She dropped her hand, folding her arms on the table in front of her, and raised her gaze to mine. “Maybe it is not that I do not know what to do, but more that I do not know what to think?”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  She sighed, her breath tremulous from whatever was bothering her. “I can’t,” she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

  Could it be guilt that had her so distraught? “Esmé.” She looked at me, watery-eyed. “Are you upset about KM?”

  Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. “Wh—” She stopped. “What?”

  “I was with Meg at Crosby House. We were looking for you and I . . . I saw a box in your closet with the initials KM. I just—I wondered if he was your husband or—”

  She froze. Stammered. “My husband? N-no. I am not . . . w-we were never m-married. Ay Dios, mi amor, lo siento,” she murmured.

  I summoned my rudimentary Spanish, translating what she’d said. Oh God, my love,
I’m sorry. What was she sorry for? Hadn’t he driven her to Crosby House? “But did he hurt you?”

  Her head jerked up and her eyes flashed. “Who?”

  “KM?” I repeated.

  “You have it wrong, Ivy.”

  “Then help me understand,” I said.

  “No, no. Eduardo. He is the one . . . Pero KM—no, that’s not . . . no . . .”

  She trailed off and I read between the lines. Whoever she’d been with after KM—this Eduardo . . . that was the person she had escaped from. That was why she was in Crosby House.

  The books on Esmé’s nightstand flashed in my mind. Was KM dead? It made sense. I thought about the open journal on her bed, the words fresh as if they had just happened. This time I did reach for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Life is not fair, you know.” She looked at me, imploring me to understand what she was saying. “I have tried to make a life. I came here to do that. To make a life, but now I cannot. There is too much—” She stopped abruptly. “Everyone has a story. Everyone has heartache.”

  Never was there a truer statement. “You’re right.”

  She looked at me. “Why are you here?”

  “No one has seen you since Tuesday night. I was worried about you.”

  “I have been staying with a friend. I told Mrs. Cantrell.” She paused, then asked, her eyes suddenly guarded, “Ivy, how do you know about Crosby House?”

  I went with the partial truth, leaving out that I’d wanted to snoop. “I heard that Ben Nader volunteered there and I wanted to . . . to help. So I volunteered. Meg and I worked on gardens in the backyard. Your name came up and we realized that we both knew you.”

  She seemed to take me at face value, but didn’t ease up. “Why were you in my room?” she asked with a hard edge in her voice.

  “To look for you,” I answered, my guilt mounting. “I knew I should have waited, but—”

  “Meg should have known better. Our spaces are private.”

  I kicked myself for even mentioning Meg’s name. The last thing I wanted was to get her in trouble. “She tried to stop me. I was worried about you—”