Death Gone A-Rye Read online

  But what really made me gasp were the focaccia breads that looked like pieces of art. They could be van Gogh paintings. There were eleven focaccia loaves in all, each with a different floral design. One was of sunflowers and poppies with the design made from Kalamata olives, the stems and leaves made from fresh herbs set into the dough, yellow peppers for the sunflower petals, capers for the seeds in the center of each bloom, and grape tomatoes adding pops of color. Several of the focaccias were heart shaped, with herb stems and baby bell pepper slices, grape tomato or olive flower tops. Little slices of red onion created an illusion of the earth beneath the flowers. The dough palettes were gorgeous and inspiring and filled with the love Olaya had developed for Billy and Emmaline. I had become a pseudo-granddaughter to Olaya, as she had become the family I had chosen. My own family, which meant my dad, my brother, and now Em, had become like family to Olaya, too. This display of breads was her way of showing that affection.

  An arm slipped through mine and suddenly there she was at my side. I was a bit taller than she was and, with my heels on, even more so. I tilted my head to hers, the spiraled tendrils of my ginger hair cascading over her short, spiked iron-gray strands. She had traded her typical caftan for a slightly fancier flowing dress. Olaya was a free spirit with an incredible business mind and creativity that flowed from her core into the bread she baked. “This is absolutely amazing,” I said.

  “Sí. They are an amazing couple,” she said.

  Miguel appeared at my other side, complimenting the display of bread just as I had. “I’ve never seen focaccia art,” he said.

  “It is Instagram-worthy, do you not think?” Olaya winked at me. I knew she did not have Instagram or any other social media for that matter. I ran the website, the bread shop’s Facebook page, and its brand-new Instagram account. Those tasks took me out of Yeast of Eden’s commercial kitchen, but they still kept me connected to Olaya’s bread, which had magical elements that no one could explain. Whatever ailed you, Olaya had a loaf of bread that was healing.

  “Are those sourdough?” Miguel asked. He pointed to a cluster of dinner rolls. Instead of having a rounded top, each looked like the dough had been rolled into a strand, then knotted and sprinkled with white and black sesame seeds.

  “Yes. Made with fresh-milled local rye, spelt, and, por supuesto, wild yeast.”

  “Of course. Only wild yeast,” Miguel agreed with a smile.

  “You laugh, but it makes a huge difference,” she said.

  Miguel threw up his hands. “I am not laughing. I know the importance of your traditions and the best ingredients.”

  Olaya nodded her head, just once. It was her acknowledgment that she knew Miguel understood. She released my arm, took up a napkin, and used it to rearrange a few of the rolls to better balance the display. Miguel slipped his arm around me, pulling me close. “You look beautiful,” he said. With his free hand, he played with the loose strands of my hair. “I like the updo.”

  I gingerly patted the back of my head. My hair tended toward unruly, but the clips and bobby pins were keeping it controlled at the moment. My coquettish reply was stalled when the door from the patio flung open and a man stepped through. It was David Soul’s look-alike. He had his phone in his hand again, but this time he held it to his ear. “I’ll tell her, but she’s leaving on her honeymoon. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

  Miguel and I looked at each other. This was the captain in the sheriff’s department, and he was clearly talking about Emmaline. “Will do,” he said into his phone. He snapped the device onto the phone clip strung onto his belt, then looked up, noticing us for the first time. A wee bit concerning for a crime investigator. I thought spacial awareness and observation would be key to his position.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” he said. He looked at me. “You’re Ivy, right? Culpepper? Sister of the groom?”

  I nodded. I’d originally placed him in his late forties, but up close, he looked younger. Maybe forty or forty-one. His skin was tanned, and with his blond hair and white teeth, he wore his age well. I wondered how he felt about having a female boss who was younger than him, hoping he was the progressive sort who celebrated women in power.

  “The sheriff has mentioned your, um, contributions to the department.”

  Contributions. That was one way to put it. Crime solving was another. I was an apprentice baker at Yeast of Eden, but I had also found myself acting as a Santa Sofia sleuth lately. “She’s mentioned you, too. She was thrilled to steal you from San Luis Obispo.”

  He nodded but didn’t continue the chitchat. “There’s been a . . . an incident. Good to see you.” He nodded to Miguel, acknowledging him, although they hadn’t formally met, before turning on his cowboy-booted heel and heading back outside.

  From his conversation on the phone and his demeanor, I knew he didn’t want to burden Emmaline with whatever incident had happened, but she was the sheriff and I knew he had to. I pulled away from Miguel. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and started after him.

  “Stay out of it,” Miguel called after me.

  I couldn’t promise that until l knew what it was. I looked over my shoulder and smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and before he could tell me exactly what he was thinking, which was that I didn’t need to get wrapped up in another murder, I was back on the patio and making a beeline for Em and Billy.

  By the time I reached the newly married couple, the captain had already pulled Emmaline aside. With her hands on her hips and her face tight as she listened to him, she had shifted from blushing bride to badass sheriff. She glanced at me as I came up next to her. The captain looked hesitant and stopped speaking. “Ivy, this is Captain Craig York. Craig, my best friend, Ivy Culpepper.” She didn’t wait for either of us to acknowledge the introduction, instead rolling one hand in the air, telling him to keep going.

  “It’s a local school board member,” he said.

  Her breath hitched. I don’t think the captain noticed, but I’d known Emmaline Davis for nearly my whole life, and I knew what that response was about. The Santa Sofia school board was made up of five people. One of them, Candace Coffey, had been in high school with us. Now she was a mother of three and served as vice president of the board. “Dead?” Em asked, and I knew she was hoping against hope, just like I was, that it wasn’t Candy.

  York cupped one hand against the back of his neck before saying, “Murder.”

  “Who?” Em asked.

  “Nessa Renchrik. School board president.”

  Em and I both sighed in relief, although only mine was audible. Not Candy, thank God.

  “I’ll handle it,” York said. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  I could see the internal battle Em was going through. How could she leave town when a murder had just happened? But it was her honeymoon.

  She proceeded to give him precise instructions on how often he was to be in touch with her, and emphasized the high priority of the case. A school board member was a political figure in a community. The people of Santa Sofia would demand answers and justice.

  “Will do,” York said. He gave one succinct nod to both of us before walking away.

  The second we were alone, I took Emmaline’s hand. “It’s going to be okay. He seems on top of things.”

  She grimaced. Not the most desirable expression for a bride. “He’s new.”

  “You wouldn’t have hired him if he wasn’t qualified. He can handle it.”

  “It’s not Candy,” she said, hands on her hips again. “Thank God.”

  “Do you know this woman, Nessa?” I asked.

  “No. But school board president. That’s not good.”

  Billy sidled up behind her and snaked his arms around her waist. “What’s going on, Mrs. Culpepper?”

  “Murder,” she said.

  His face fell. “Uh-oh.”

  She put her hands on top of his. “And it’s a high-profile one.”

  His hold on her tightened. “You have peo
ple to handle it, though. We have a flight to catch in the morning, and, you know, a wedding reception with all our friends and family.”

  She turned to face him, tilting her head to look up at him. “And we’re going to enjoy every second of it. Captain York is handling the investigation. He’ll update me, but he’s in charge.”

  Billy nodded. “Good to hear. Now, let’s round these folks up and head inside for the food.”

  Craig York’s words came back to me then. I’d made contributions to the department with my sleuthing skills. There was no reason I couldn’t help out again. Miguel had told me to stay out of it, but I just couldn’t. And since I had an in with Candy, maybe I’d be able to get information York couldn’t.

  The next few hours would be filled with food and dancing, but in my mind, I’d be formulating a plan on how to solve a murder.

  Chapter 2

  The reception after Emmaline and Billy’s wedding had been perfect, if you didn’t count the pall of a murder hanging over the sheriff. Em had done a good job of staying in the moment, though, and she’d only excused herself a handful of times to check in with Captain York.

  By the time I got home, I was exhausted. I showered, dressed in lightweight PJs, and climbed into bed. Next to me Agatha, my brindle pug, snored and gurgled. She sounded as if she had a head cold, but it was just her smoosh-faced pug-ness coming through loud and clear. I reclined on my bed, laptop open, knees propped up at an angle, my back supported by three pillows. Agatha lay stretched out beside me, her head at my foot, her backside at my hip. I moved my computer enough to lean forward and nudge her head. She let out a complaining sigh but readjusted herself, giving one big snore before settling down again, quietly this time.

  “You are too much,” I said, laying my palm on the side of her belly. Agatha had been a rescue. Now she was my bosom buddy. “And I love you.”

  This time Agatha gave a deep contented sigh. She loved me, too.

  I went back to my Internet search. Emmaline didn’t entirely trust Captain York yet, so I told her I’d be keeping my eyes and ears open while she was gone. Of course me keeping my eyes and ears open was not a passive thing. It meant that I’d be actively searching and listening. I’d be doing my best at getting to the truth of the matter. Not only was I helping Em; I was also satisfying my own curiosity, given that I actually knew a school board member. Calling Candace Coffey was first on my list of things to do in the morning.

  I typed Nessa Renchrik’s name into the search bar on my computer. A series of photos came up first, followed by links to her Facebook page, several interviews she’d done with the Santa Sofia Daily, the local newspaper, her LinkedIn profile, and her Twitter handle, which was@RenchrikinSS. She was attractive. Blond shoulder-length hair that looked a little wispy in a few of the shots. It was pulled up into a formal style in another and she looked elegant. She had fine facial features with a narrow nose, lips on the thin side, and wide-set hazel eyes. I read about her background, discovering that she was forty-two years old, was the mother of two, and had been married for eighteen years. She’d been school board president for the last year. She was in the middle of her second term.

  It’s amazing what you can glean from Google. All that was missing was her shoe size and whether she preferred her husband in boxers or briefs.

  I went back to the top of the search page and clicked on the first entry, which was the Santa Sofia Daily’s post about Nessa’s death.

  Vanessa Renchrik, 42, a longtime member of the Santa Sofia Board of Education, was found dead earlier today in the school district’s boardroom. Mrs. Renchrik has served as Secretary, Vice President, and was currently President of the school board. She was a visible member of the community and has led the district through tumultuous times during her tenure, including leading the district through layoffs, budget cuts, tax increases. She is survived by her husband, Cliff, and their two children. The sheriff ’s department’s criminal investigation division is pursuing a series of leads.

  Ah, so her first name was actually Vanessa. Nessa for short. It went on to give the information about the celebration of life service that would be held later in the week. I marked the time and date in my calendar before logging on to Twitter. I didn’t have a personal account, but I did run the bread shop’s @yeastofedenSS account. It was a new account and had only 150 followers, but I was slowly working to build it up, along with the bread shop’s Instagram account. That was much more successful. The photo of the Vincent van Dough focaccias Olaya had made for the wedding was racking up the likes. Instagram was where it was at for a baker.

  I typed in Nessa’s Twitter handle and her feed came up. It was instantly obvious that she was not an active tweeter. One tweet, posted two days prior, said: No decision I make is based on emotions.

  I sat up straighter and grabbed a sheet of paper from my nightstand and jotted down the date and time of the text, as well as what Nessa had said in it, followed by a few thoughts that had instantly come to mind. What decision was she talking about, or was it a blanket statement? No one was tagged on the post, but it felt like a subtweet. But to whom, and about what?

  Agatha stirred and lifted her head. A second later, I heard the front door open with the light jiggling of keys followed by the click of it closing again. Miguel’s voice called out. “Ivy?”

  “In the bedroom,” I called. I’d offered to help clean up after the wedding reception, but Miguel had insisted I go home. “I have a crew of people. It’s what I pay them for,” he’d told me.

  Agatha looked at me, tilting her head when she heard Miguel’s voice. Her eyelids grew heavy over her bulbous eyes and she settled her head back down on her blanket. Miguel was old news to her. Not worth barking at.

  The man himself appeared in the doorway a few seconds later. From planning the menu, prep and set up, to the event itself, to breaking it all down and cleanup, hosting a wedding and reception was not for the faint of heart. He looked worn out. “My hot-water heater went on the fritz yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t have a chance to call for service, and a cold shower won’t cut it right now.” He dragged his hand over his face as he leaned against the doorjamb.

  “Shower here,” I said.

  He cupped his hand behind his neck. “Thanks. Not enough time in the day lately.”

  He could say that again. Between building up my fledgling photography business, working part-time at Yeast of Eden, and doing the crime solving I’d somehow fallen into, the days zoomed by. There were periods where Miguel and I didn’t see each other for a stretch of three days. Neither of us liked that.

  “The wedding was beautiful, though,” I said, “and the food was incredible.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled. “Billy and Em looked happy. Crazy about that murder, though. I hope Em can hang up her sheriff hat long enough for to enjoy her honeymoon.”

  “Oh, she definitely will,” I said. “It’s Costa Rica.”

  For the first time, he registered my laptop and notebook. His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing there?”

  “Shower first; then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  He hesitated, looking like he was going to say something, but he seemed to reconsider. He nodded, then disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, the pipes creaked as the water turned on. My old Tudor house was quaint and oozed charm, but its age was showing.

  “Did you know Nessa Renchrik’s name is really Vanessa?” I called.

  Miguel gave a low moan from the shower. The hot water felt good.

  I went back to my research, somehow managing to ignore the fact that Miguel Baptista was alone and naked in my shower. Helping out your best friend so she could honeymoon in peace took great sacrifice. And restraint.

  I searched Twitter and Facebook, jotting down more notes as I found out things about Nessa Renchrik thanks to social media:

  She was in the middle of her third term.

  Her husband said she’d been out running errands. She hadn’t told him she was going to the dis
trict office.

  The tweets and Facebook responses about her death were varied. Some people expressed their condolences to the family. Poor kids. #mourningmom What will the husband do now? #copingafterlosingalovedone What a loss for the school board. #forthekids

  Others were not so favorable. She deserved it. #liar Her kids are better off. #nomoremaleficentmother Ding dong, the witch is dead. #dingdongthewitchisdead

  * * *

  “Listen to this,” I said as Miguel came out of the bathroom. I read him the responses to Nessa’s death, finishing with, “Hashtag, ding dong, the witch is dead. Crazy, right?” I said, finally looking up.

  Miguel was rubbing his damp hair with a small white towel. He was bare chested, another white towel wrapped around his waist. I loved seeing him here, comfortable. Playing house. We’d gotten closer and closer. Who was I kidding? I loved this man. I wanted nothing more than to have him here in my house at bedtime and to wake up next to him every morning.

  I’d been married—and divorced. If I married again, it would be forever. Miguel and I were a long way from taking that step, but the romance of Emmaline and Billy’s wedding had gotten to me. As I looked at Miguel now, any future I imagined had him in it.

  “Wow. Mixed reviews on her, huh?” Miguel said as he moved to the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajama pants from the drawer of stuff he kept here. They were pine green and cotton. I’d looked down at my notes, and when I looked back up, he’d slipped them on, had tossed the towels onto the chair in the corner, and was halfway to stretching himself out beside me. I swallowed, the love I felt for him bubbling up. Or maybe it wasn’t exactly love at this precise moment. There were no mixed reviews on him.

  Agatha moved her head and let out a squeaky stretching sound. She looked at Miguel, hauled herself up from repose, and plopped down next to him, her body right alongside his. He scratched her belly, lay back, and propped his other hand behind his head. “Did you find anything else?” he asked.