Flour in the Attic Read online

  “Did she?” I asked.

  “The next year. Went back and competed like a boss.” I heard the smile in his voice, but it vanished as quickly as it had materialized. “How could she have died out there?”

  “Maybe she got a cramp. Or maybe the tide took her too far out.”

  Miguel let out a sorrowful sigh. “Her father just died, you know. She was having a really hard time dealing with that. She couldn’t have—”

  He stopped, but I knew right away what he’d been thinking. I’d lost my mother not long ago, and only recently had I begun to find a new normal. Death wasn’t something you just got over. No, you learned to cope and eventually, like yeast proofing in water, you realize that you’ve changed, but that you’re alive.

  Only sometimes people didn’t overcome. Sometimes depression set in and the dark hole became too deep to climb out of. “Didn’t she have kids? And grandkids?” I asked, because even if she was wrought with grief over losing her father, children or grandchildren of her own might have given her perspective and purpose.

  “Yeah. Sergio, Laura’s husband,” he said, referring to his sister.

  Laura and I had recently made amends. She’d been less than happy that I’d come back to Santa Sofia—and into her brother’s life—because she’d spent years blaming me for the fact that Miguel had left his hometown to join the military. We were on good terms now, and I was besotted with her children. Eighteen-month-old Mateo, and Andrea, his two-and-a-half-year-old sister, were adorable. To think that the dead woman was their grandmother felt like a sucker punch to the gut.

  And Sergio Morales. I’d met him briefly not that long ago, but I hadn’t made the connection between him and Marisol. I put my hand over my mouth.

  Miguel continued. “Then there’s Ruben, the oldest, and Lisette. She’s the baby. Christ.” I could picture Miguel running a ragged hand over his face. This was all too close to home for him, and the people around him—his people—were hurting.

  “I’m so sorry, Miguel. Can I do anything?”

  “They’re all coming to the restaurant at five,” he said. “Lisette, Ruben, Sergio, Laura. If you want . . .”

  He trailed off. We’d found our way back to each other after what felt like a lifetime apart, but at the same time, we were still new. Did he think he was asking too much of me to come be a shoulder for him?

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and I would. Always.

  Chapter 3

  Baptista’s Cantina and Grill was Santa Sofia’s answer to high-end Mexican seafood. It sat on the pier overlooking a rocky inlet, had the best brisket queso this side of—anywhere, and was owned and operated by Miguel. He’d recently renovated, a project he’d sunk his heart and soul into. The restaurant had been his father’s brainchild, and Miguel and Laura had spent their youth learning every aspect of it. Miguel’s mother still worked there, mostly manning the hostess station from her perch atop a cushioned stool, and Laura filled in when she was needed, but since Miguel’s father had passed and Miguel had come back to Santa Sofia, the restaurant had, for all intents and purposes, become his.

  He’d started by shutting off the back room, starting the remodel there. It had gone more quickly than he’d planned, and with my brother Billy on board as the contractor, the entire restaurant had gotten an interior facelift in no time. Gone were the Naugahyde booths and ancient tables. Now the look of the restaurant fit the menu. Aztec-patterned tile graced the floors. An open fireplace with bold and graphic—but not folksy—tile stretched up to the tall ceiling. The walls were wood planked, huge windows overlooked the pier and ocean, and blown glass fixtures illuminated the space. I’d chronicled the renovation for him, and had taken pictures of the finished spaces for new promotions he’d put in place, and I’d done extensive food photography (and tasting) for the menu.

  A long, sleek bar stretched along one side of the restaurant, to the left of the entrance and waiting room. “We’ve got a hundred tequilas and mezcals,” he’d told me, “and Jorge is our new mezcal concierge. He knows all there is to know about our list.”

  The classic menu that Miguel’s father created remained, in essence, but Miguel had upped the ante. Now he featured things like chicharrón quesadillas; tortas filled with roasted turkey, chorizo, avocado, and onion; prawns and lobster in a cast-iron skillet; and tuna carnitas. And, of course, tacos diablos and brisket queso. Taking these two things off the menu was a deal-breaker for me.

  It was an incredible transformation, and one that the people—and tourists—of Santa Sofia were embracing. I arrived a few minutes before five and the place was already packed, the people waiting spilling outside. I found Miguel’s mother taking names for the waitlist, and, in her broken English, directing the hosts and hostesses in their tasks. “Ivy, mija,” she said when she saw me. “¿Cómo estás? You are well?”

  I smiled, nodding. “Very well.” It was true, I realized. Marisol’s death notwithstanding, I was finally feeling settled in Santa Sofia, my freelance photography business was on track, and I could make an outstanding loaf of sourdough. I was in a good place.

  “Miguel, he is with the Morales children,” she said to me. The puffiness around her eyes and her sallow skin revealed that she was grieving Marisol’s death. Still, she’d pulled herself together and let work distract her. She directed one of the hosts to take me to the family. I thanked her, and then I was led through the dining room, past the blazing fireplace, and into a small private room at the back of the restaurant. The young man leading me opened the French doors, closing them again after I’d passed through. I spotted Laura first, standing next to her husband, her eyes red-rimmed, a wad of tissue clutched in one hand. She was about five-foot-five, a couple of inches shorter than me, but her grief seemed to make her body collapse in on itself. She still carried baby weight, yet her cheeks appeared hollow, her nose red and raw, and her olive complexion had turned pale. She looked more grief-stricken than Sergio, whose face was stoic. It was as if he was actively refusing to give in to his emotions in this public setting. He caught Laura’s eye, giving her an affirming, almost imperceptible nod. I’d sensed his love for her the first time I’d met him; his attentiveness to his wife now, despite his own loss, reinforced it.

  I wasn’t familiar with the other people in the room, but I knew they were Marisol’s other children and their spouses. The man I presumed to be Ruben could have been Sergio’s twin. Each stood about five-ten, had a stocky build with wide shoulders and thick limbs, and had thick hair shorn close to the scalp. Ruben carried a few more pounds on his bones, but both men were fit. Like his brother, Ruben was stoic. I imagined they’d both shed tears earlier, and would again later, in the privacy of their own homes. Ruben stood next to a petite woman who, based on the wedding band on her ring finger, I took to be his wife. She had dirty-blond hair pulled into a low ponytail, and unlike her husband, her grief was palpable. Mascara-stained tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks and her mouth pulled down on either side as she struggled to control her crying.

  Another woman stood next to Miguel. She looked to be about my age, with chestnut hair, a dark complexion, and unusually piercing green eyes. This had to be Lisette. Like her brothers, she seemed to be in command of her emotions, although as I watched, she drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed her lips together as she exhaled. Clearly the control she was exercising wasn’t coming easily.

  A man in his early sixties, gray peppering his hair, stood on the other side of Lisette. One trembling hand cupped his forehead, his head angled downward, and the other hand held a wad of tissue to his nose. I recognized him right away from the photos I’d taken during the remodel, although he looked ten years older now than he had just a few short weeks ago. David Ruiz, Marisol’s husband, didn’t have the stoicism of his stepchildren.

  Miguel had had his back to the French doors, but now, as if he sensed a change in the air, he turned toward me. He met my gaze and gave a wan smile, the deep dimples, like parentheses on either side of his
mouth, present, but lacking mirth. His hair and complexion both seemed darker in the dim light of the room, and his goatee, neatly trimmed, gave him a hard edge. His emotions were in check, but I could see the strain Marisol’s death was taking on him. He broke away from Lisette and David, skirting around the dining table in the center of the room to meet me. “Thanks for coming,” he said as he brushed my cheek with a light kiss, stepping back when the French doors opened again and three of the waitstaff came in, their arms loaded down with family-style dishes of traditional enchiladas, platters of street tacos, Spanish rice, and frijoles de la olla. Refried beans were always an option at the restaurant, but the standard was beans in the pot simmered with bell peppers, onions, garlic, and cumin.

  The table had been set with plates and silverware, water goblets already filled with ice water. Miguel cleared his throat, gesturing to the table. One by one, Marisol’s family took their seats. Platters and bowls were passed around and plates were filled with food, but no one spoke. Laura picked at an enchilada, finally putting down her fork and running the backs of her fingers under her eyes. Lisette took a few bites, but then pushed her plate away. Ruben’s wife didn’t eat at all. Ruben and Sergio managed to choke down more than their wives and sister, but not by much. Conversely, David’s head was bent down over his plate. He brought his fork from his food to his mouth in a steady rhythm, not pausing enough to breathe in between bites.

  I sat next to Miguel, feeling the grief pressing down the air in the room, but the silence grew and grew, becoming uncomfortably awkward. No one seemed to know how to talk about Marisol. Finally, when none of the family did, Miguel stood. “It’s impossible to understand that Marisol”—he looked at Sergio, then Ruben, and finally at Lisette—“that your mom is gone. I have always felt like part of your family. I can’t actually remember a time when she hasn’t been here. I know what you’re experiencing right now and I can’t take your pain away, but if there is anything I can do, I’m here for you.”

  The sincerity in his voice and the empathy in his eyes seemed to open the floodgates in the room. Laura’s tears flowed again. Sergio laid his hand on the back of her neck, giving a gentle bolstering squeeze. He spoke, looking at the center of the table rather than at any of us. “She was a good swimmer, you know? I know the ocean is unpredictable, but still, it’s hard to understand how she could have drowned.”

  “She shouldn’t have been swimming in the ocean,” David said, his voice tinged with something close to anger. “I told her over and over again to practice at the Y, but she said it wasn’t the same.”

  “Because the races aren’t always in tame pools,” Ruben said. “It’s not the same. Remember when she did the Rancho Seco race? The swimming nearly did her in.”

  “She wanted to tackle that one again. That’s what her training was all about,” Sergio said.

  David scoffed. “You mean that’s what killed her.”

  Lisette spoke up. “She was stubborn—”

  “She was distracted.”

  Lisette spun to face her stepfather. “You’re acting like it was her fault. She’s dead! Don’t you get that?”

  He came right back at her, his voice raw. “Don’t you think I know that? I’m angry, okay? She buried herself in her training to get away from—”

  He stopped, but everyone was staring at him now. “Get away from what?” Ruben asked.

  But David shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. From whatever was bothering her. Losing her father mostly, I think.”

  They all fell silent at that. Had Marisol’s grief made her careless? Had that carelessness led to her death? Whatever the cause, she wasn’t going to walk through the door, ready for her shift, as she always had. She wasn’t going to be there to cuddle with her grandkids. She wasn’t going to kiss her husband goodnight.

  Obviously David got that his wife was dead. He’d skipped right over the first stage of denial and was solidly into stage two: anger. I wondered how long before he jumped to depression, bargaining, and finally true acceptance. Everyone was different, but I knew enough to understand that it was a lengthy process and that David needed to allow himself time to grieve.

  “You’re probably right,” Lisette said, “but you can’t blame her, David.”

  He’d been clenching the handle of his fork in a fist, but now his muscles seemed to give out all at once, the utensil falling to the table with a clatter, his chin dropping, his chest heaving. He let out a wail, like a wounded animal, shoved back from the table, and stumbled toward the French doors leading from the private room to the restaurant. “Something’s not right about this,” he said through a sob. “I wish she’d listened to me. She shouldn’t have been out there. She shouldn’t have drowned.” He flicked away the tears on his cheeks with a violent, jerky movement, then wagged his finger at us all. “She shouldn’t have drowned,” he repeated.

  He opened the door, gripping the handle with one hand. His eyes scanned the room, stopping briefly on each of his stepchildren, the spouses, then at Miguel and me. His finger twitched as he directed it at us. At me. “You.”

  I startled. My hand flew to my chest. “Me?”

  “You’ve done this before.”

  Miguel’s arm had been draped along the back of my chair, but now he laid his hand on my shoulder, his protective instinct kicking in. “She’s done what before?”

  David’s Adam’s apple slipped up and down in his throat. My earlier assessment was wrong, I realized. He hadn’t skipped over denial; he was experiencing it simultaneously with anger. His conglomeration of emotions were warring against each other—grief battling with anger battling with disbelief. “Solved a murder.”

  The reaction in the room seemed to happen in slow motion. Laura gasped at the word. Sergio muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

  Ruben leaned over the table, staring at his stepfather and said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Lisette jumped to her feet. “Murder?”

  David’s gaze, however, had not wavered. It remained steady on me, eyes narrow and intense. “Can you do it again?”

  “Do what again?” I asked.

  “Solve a crime. Bring someone to justice.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ruben demanded. “You’re saying it wasn’t an accident? That someone killed our mother?”

  David jabbed his finger in the air toward me, then at Miguel, too. “You find out. Both of you. Find out what really happened to Marisol.”

  Chapter 4

  After the dinner at Baptista’s, I went home to Agatha and my thoughts. Freed from her crate, the little pug spun in circles, her tail curved into a tight curlicue. She looked up at me with her giant bulbous eyes. “Outside,” I said, opening up my own set of French doors and releasing her to the wide-open space of the backyard with its flowerbeds, patio, and Adirondack chairs.

  I sat at the outdoor dining table, chin on my fist, doing my best to ignore David’s implication that something sinister had happened to Marisol. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the intensity of his plea. Finally, I called Emmaline. “Still no proposal,” she said when I asked for an update on her personal life. “After this case is wrapped up I can think about it again.”

  “You have to be able to balance work and play,” I said. I’d lost so much of myself during my previous marriage, and then after losing my mother, sometimes I didn’t know how to relax anymore. I hadn’t known what I wanted to do, or how to spend my time. And then I’d discovered Yeast of Eden, Olaya Solis, and bread. The lengthy process of baking long-rise bread had taught me how to let my emotions unfurl and float away, allowing me to focus on other things. Allowing me to remember that there is more to life than just work or chores or grief.

  I’d been singing this tune to Emmaline since she’d taken over as interim sheriff, but she was still challenged by the concept of work-life balance. “Don’t I know it,” she said. “I’m working on it.”

  With Billy’s help, I knew she’d get the
re, so I cut to the chase. “Is there any evidence that Marisol didn’t, um, die a natural death?”

  “Drowning is not natural,” she said.

  “You know what I mean.” I rubbed the grit from my eyes as I told her what David had said.

  There was a distinct pause, she blew out a weighty breath, and said, “He thinks his wife was murdered?”

  “He didn’t come out and say that, but it was definitely implied.”

  She paused again, and from across town and via pinging cell towers, I heard the tapping of Em’s fingers on a computer keyboard. “The ME’s report just came in,” she said a moment later. “They expedited.”

  “So an autopsy was done?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. In the case of a drowning, and with no witnesses, we can’t assume anything. And when a body is waterlogged, there’s no time to waste. Deterioration happens too quickly.”

  “What did he find?” I asked, expecting her to denounce David’s wild supposition and to confirm the obvious: that Marisol had accidentally drowned in the Pacific Ocean.

  “It wasn’t a drowning,” Emmaline said instead.

  I held the phone away from my ear for a second, processing her statement. “But you said the body resurfaced and that the ME said she’d been in the water for at least twelve hours.”

  “Here’s the deal, in a nutshell. Drowning is a silent but violent death. The victim is literally fighting for her life . . . fighting for air. Eventually—usually after just two or three minutes—and with no other choice, she gulps in water. It goes to her lungs and stomach, then throughout the body.”

  I closed my eyes, trying not to imagine Marisol going through this horror, but I couldn’t block the images of her coughing, convulsing, losing consciousness, and then finally succumbing to death.