Chapter 17
Gretchen wrapped up my hair, giving me just enough time to speed walk home with Agatha, then race across town to the law offices of Brendall and Choken. They were a small outfit situated in a business park that also housed a physical therapy practice, a medical supply company, and a printing company.
Before I’d raced out of my house, I’d changed from the jeans and T-shirt I’d worn to the salon. Now, with my hair full of product, the curls controlled and in place, and wearing a pair of black skinny pants and a sheer floral-patterned blouse with a cami underneath, I felt ready to face Lulu Sanchez-Patrick.
The receptionist greeted me with a pleasant smile. “How can I help you?”
“I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Ms. Sanchez-Patrick,” I said, matching her smile and raising her by exposing my teeth. “Ivy Culpepper.”
She checked her computer. “I’ll let her know you’re here. If you’d like to have a seat,” she said, indicating the armchairs in the waiting area.
I thanked her and picked up a magazine before sitting. It was a current copy of Newsweek, the label addressed to the firm at this address. Impressive. Often, the address labels were either cut out or blacked out because the magazines went to a person rather than the company that later displayed them. Good to know that Brendall and Choken spent some of their clients’ money to keep them entertained while they waited.
I flipped through the pages, stopping here and there to read a story or sidebar that caught my eye, but eventually replaced the magazine on the table and pulled out my phone. I called up my texting app and sent a message to Olaya. She was probably busy finishing up the daily baking and getting ready to start the prep for the Spring Fling. She might not see the text right away—or at all—but I sent it anyway: At an appointment. I’ll be in to help soon.
To my surprise, three dots appeared, followed by a single-word response: Bueno.
I tucked my phone away just as the door between the waiting area and the offices opened up. A woman stepped out, her eyes zeroing in on me. She was curvy in all the right ways. She wore a slim navy skirt, pale pink blouse, and fitted navy blazer, along with high-heeled pumps. Highlighted streaks artfully flowed through her auburn locks. Frankly, she was gorgeous, and even with my newly trimmed and styled hair and the dressy clothes I’d changed into, I felt dowdy in comparison.
“Ms. Culpepper?”
I nodded and stood.
Her lipsticked mouth curved into a welcoming smile. “I’m Lulu Sanchez-Patrick. You can call me Lulu. Come on back.”
I tried to picture her together with her husband, Joseph Patrick. He was tall and graying, with piercing eyes. She was Eva Mendes in a suit. They were a power couple, through and through.
“And I’m Ivy,” I said as I followed her back and into a small conference room with a rectangular table and chairs all around. A small table along one of the side walls held a telephone set up with more buttons than an airplane cockpit, two rows of unopened plastic water bottles, and a basket with snack goodies like granola bars, boxes of raisins, and fruit snack packs.
“Help yourself,” Lulu said as she sat down and folded her hands over the yellow legal pad on the table in front of her.
I kind of wanted a pack of gummies, but I resisted and sat across from her empty-handed.
Lulu cleared her throat. “I have just fifteen minutes for a free consultation. From there, we can make an appointment with one of the firm’s lawyers. Sound good?”
Fifteen minutes. I didn’t have a minute to waste. I also didn’t have a story concocted that would fool this woman. What I did have was the element of surprise. I would ask whatever I could before she figured out that I was on a fishing expedition. “Nessa Renchrik,” I said. “She was a client here.”
Lulu raised her chin. I’d been hoping for nonplussed, but she was cool as a cucumber. Her only tell was that her hands clasped tighter. “I am not at liberty to discuss our clients’ cases.”
“Oh, of course not,” I said, but I took her non-answer as an answer confirming my suspicion. “It’s just that I’m wondering why you’d be happy she’s dead.”
Again, I’d expected a reaction of some sort, but Lulu Sanchez-Patrick was married to a politician and she worked for a law office. She was a pro. When she spoke, it was slowly and clearly, each word enunciated, every consonant pronounced, an emphasis on each and every word. “I am certainly not happy that Mrs. Renchrik is dead.”
I smiled sweetly and cocked my head to one side. “But you are @MarisasMama on Twitter?”
Her lips parted and her eyes opened wider. I’d shocked her, but her physical reaction was a blip that she corrected almost instantly. Eyes back to normal. Mouth drawn into a tight line. She pressed her hands against the table and stood, the movement shoving her chair backward. “I think you should leave, Ms. Culpepper.”
I kept my gaze steady on her and said, “Ding dong, the witch is dead.”
She stared at me, and this time her composure did break. Her breathing grew audible and her nostrils flared. She was rattled. “What?”
“A few nights ago, you tweeted: ‘Ding dong, the witch is dead’—”
“I would never—”
I channeled Mrs. Branford and tsked, wagging my finger at the same time. “Ah, Lulu, but you did. You told me she was just another politician and that she didn’t really care about the kids in Santa Sofia. You said she had people in her pocket.”
She pulled her chair under her and sat back down. Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Who are you?”
I answered her question with one of my own. “Do you know who killed Nessa Renchrik?”
Her beautiful olive skin paled, making her brick-red lips look stark and unnatural. “Are you with the police?”
“No,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
The first thing that came to mind was that she had something to hide. And didn’t police officers have to answer honestly when asked directly? Otherwise it would be coercion. “I’m not a police officer.” I didn’t add that Captain York would be beyond furious if he found out I was still digging around. “Do you know who killed Nessa Renchrik?” I asked again.
“Of course not.”
I rested my forearms on the table, clasping my hands together. “Did you kill her?”
She leaned in, mirroring my posture. “Of course not.”
“Okay then.”
Realization hit her. “You’re Ivy Baker.”
It took her longer than it should have to figure that out. I nodded. “I am.”
She looked me up and down, as much as she could given I was sitting. “You don’t look like you bake.”
“I do. I swear. At Yeast of Eden.”
Her eyes opened wide again, but this time it was because I’d said the magic words. Yeast of Eden had that effect on everyone. “The sourdough loaves there are dangerous.”
I smiled. “I hear that a lot.”
“You must not eat what you bake.”
“I do. How could I not? Olaya is amazing.”
“I’ve heard about her.”
“She’s taught me everything I know.”
Lulu leaned back and folded her arms over her blouse and blazer. “What do you want?”
“Someone killed Nessa. I want to find out who.”
“You’re not the police, and you’re not related to her?”
“No, and no.”
She still looked skeptical. “So why do you care?”
I had no idea if she or her husband was involved, but at this point, I needed her to trust me. To know that I was telling the truth. “Because the police think someone I know is involved.”
This time she cocked her head at me, and her smile turned into a small smirk. “They think someone you know killed Nessa Renchrik? Friends with murderers?”
“My friend is not a murderer and I’d rather not get into it,” I said, “but I am trying to figure out what happened to her.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about her death,” she said. “When I saw her at the Communities in Schools dinner, she was perfectly fine.”
I inhaled and braced myself before asking the next question. “But your husband met with her the morning she died?”
The words hit her like a sucker punch to the gut. Her voice dropped to an accusatory whisper—as if I’d been the one to meet with the woman hours before she died. “How do you know that?”
Of course, I answered her question with my own. “Has he been questioned?”
“Joseph had nothing to do with that woman’s death. She was vile. It’s true, neither one of us are grieving a loss here, but he was not involved.”
“And you?”
She met my gaze head-on and scoffed. “I was not involved, either.”
“What was their meeting about that morning, Nessa and your husband?”
She was silent for a moment, debating how to answer that question. She sighed and lowered her arms, her hands in her lap. A breaking down of the barrier she’d erected. Was she going to tell me the truth? “He had planned to back her senate bid. He was going to endorse her and be a campaign donor.”
So far this was nothing I didn’t already know. “And?”
“And then he found out that she and her husband were operating some part of their business, mmm, outside the law. Nessa would not have passed the vetting process. She had skeletons.”
“Meaning what?” I asked, but I thought I knew the answer. Joseph had used the same word and had implied that the old bones in Nessa’s closet had done her in.
“Like I said, she would have been called out during vetting. A state senator should be above reproach.” I opened my mouth to offer myriad examples of elected officials who were the exact opposite of above reproach, but she held up a hand to stop me. “Don’t bother. I know the scum exists. But Joseph won’t put his name behind someone he doesn’t respect and who doesn’t have integrity.”
“And because Seaside Properties uses undocumented—”
“Look. He believes in immigration reform. And he believes in human rights. What he doesn’t believe in is someone in a position of authority, especially in politics, subverting the law for their own benefit. Joseph wants to back someone who will tackle immigration reform with compassion and fairness, not someone who speaks out of both sides of her mouth.”
“Okay, so your husband withdrew his support for Nessa. Did he tell her that morning? The morning she died?”
Lulu shook her head. Emphatically. “No! He’d already told her. Then she called and said she wanted to see him. When I told him, he said he had nothing more to say to her, but he changed his mind. He agreed to meet with her out of courtesy.”
Once again, the situation seemed to warrant the victim having a motive to kill the suspect rather than the other way around. If Joseph withdrew his support because of some failing on Nessa’s part, that would give Nessa a motive to retaliate against Joseph. Joseph, on the other hand, would have no reason for killing Nessa. He was the one in the power position.
Unless, I thought, she’d reacted badly and launched herself at him, forcing him to react—killing her to stop her attack.
I drummed my fingers against the table. It was possible.
Lulu Sanchez-Patrick sat with her spine straight and her neck tight, veins popping along either side. Where was this tenseness coming from? Something she’d said a moment ago slid to the front of my brain. “You said you talked to Nessa?”
Her shoulders rose like a defensive move. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yes. You did. Just a minute ago you said Nessa called and wanted to meet with your husband again. You said you told him, but he said no.”
She swallowed. “He was in the shower. I answered his cell phone.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Saturday morning. We were getting ready for a brunch event. Joseph ended up missing it to go see her.”
“How did she sound when you talked to her?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked up to me. “What, do you mean did she sound like she was going to be murdered that afternoon? She sounded fine. As snippy as ever. When Nessa wasn’t on, you know, playing the part of the caring politician, she was horrible.”
“But she was trying to get your husband to back her. She wasn’t polite to you?”
She gave a scornful laugh. “No. It’s like she had a certain amount of niceness. She wasn’t about to waste any of it on me when I wasn’t the one she was trying to woo.”
That seemed odd to me. As Joseph’s wife, it seemed to me, Lulu wielded a lot of power that Nessa would have wanted to harness rather than alienate.
“Don’t think too hard on it. Nessa Renchrik was a model of contradictions,” Lulu said, seeming to read my mind. “School board member who supposedly cared for the kids in the district but didn’t lift a finger to help out the kids in her own sphere—”
“What do you mean?”
“Look. Her daughter and my daughter were in the same grade. They were friends, but Nessa put a stop to that back when they were in third grade. At that point, Joseph wasn’t in a position to help her. He was a public defender with no donor capacity or political presence. She dismissed us, and so she dismissed our daughter.”
A vibe was coming off of Lulu—that of a woman scorned. A chill swept up my spine. Another player in the Whac-A-Mole game. Was I sitting across the table from a killer?