Chapter 21

It felt like Groundhog Day. I’d worked with Maggie, who Olaya was paying overtime to work on a Sunday, to set up the table just like we had the day before. People milled around as we loaded the table with all the featured breads. We had more van Dough focaccias. More hot cross buns. More skull cookies. More star bread. And today, we had what felt like a million pumpernickel rye rolls.

Mrs. Branford sat on the edge of the padded folding chair I’d brought for her, biding her time until she saw a familiar face. She had her hands clasped around the top of her cane, almost like she was using it for balance, but I thought it was just so she wouldn’t grab another roll or move on to the cookies. “Ever since Olaya and I buried the hatchet, baked goods have become my weakness,” she often said.

That hatchet had been about a long-ago love triangle between Olaya, Mrs. Branford, and her husband, Mr. Branford. They’d come to an understanding with each other after I came into the picture, and it seemed that they’d both moved on—Mrs. Branford with her chemistry teacher and Olaya with her mysterious love interest.

Day two of the Spring Fling officially began at noon. Perfect timing for those families who attended church to go to service first, then come to the festival. My heart squeezed tight at the sight of little girls and boys in their Sunday best.

“Ready for one of those?”

I spun around to find Miguel behind me. “One of what?” I asked, though I thought I knew what he meant.

“A little rug rat of your own.” He paused, adding, “Of our own.”

My heart swelled. I smiled, but I knew it didn’t reach all the way to the crinkles of my eyes. Miguel and I had talked about our future together, but this was the first time he’d mentioned something as permanent as having kids together. The weight of Captain York’s focus on Miguel for the murder of Nessa Renchrik dampened the sentiment, though.

“It’s about time,” Mrs. Branford interjected from her chair. “The clock is ticking, you know.”

I spun to face her. “Mrs. Branford!”

“Pshaw.” She fluttered one hand. “The truth is the truth, my dears. You wasted many years apart. Now it’s time to move forward.”

Olaya raised one hand. “I agree.”

The conversation was cut short when someone in the crowd called my name. “Ivy!”

“Dad!” I circled around the table and pushed through the line of people waiting to buy bread from Olaya. “I didn’t know you were coming today,” I said, giving him a hug.

“Unlimited bread, so why not?” he said, his lips quirking up into a half smile.

My dad did love Olaya’s bread. When I’d first come back to Santa Sofia, I’d gone to Yeast of Eden nearly every day, making my way through everything she baked and bringing something home for my dad. He’d slowly come through his grief at losing my mother, and I thought the special bit of magic in Olaya’s bread had had something to do with it.

“What would you like? I’ll grab it for you,” I said, but he shook his head.

“No, no. I’ll wait in line. You go back to your work.”

My dad was a stickler for the rules. Before I turned to go, I asked, “Any word from Billy and Em?”

“Billy texted from the airport last night. Dinner next weekend at the house so we can hear all about their trip,” he said.

Oh, thank God. I couldn’t wait to fill in Emmaline on all my different theories. She’d be objective and could take over, figuring out who had killed Nessa and putting a stop to Captain York’s ridiculous idea that Miguel had had anything to do with it.

As if I’d magically summoned him by thinking his name, Captain York appeared in my line of sight. He looked right at me and gave a small nod. It took everything I had not to react . . . not to acknowledge him.

“Your dad’s looking good,” Miguel said when I went back behind the table and my dad got in line to buy some bread.

It was true. Every day, Owen Culpepper looked healthier than he had the day before. He was cycling again, and his skin glowed from being back in the sun. His salt-and-pepper hair gave him a distinguished appeal, and he was smiling again.

The line moved at a quick clip. Miguel left to find his sister, Laura, and his niece and nephew, while I used my purple nitrile-covered hands to bag the breads Olaya and Maggie sold. It was mindless work, so, of course, my brain shifted to thinking about the memorial for Nessa Renchrik the day before and everyone who’d shown up for it.

“Two rye rolls,” Olaya said.

When I looked up again, York was gone and my dad at the front of the line smiling and chatting with Olaya as he pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet. Once again, my gaze was pulled into the distance. Gretchen. She stood near the booth sponsored by a local coffee shop talking to someone, her hands on her pregnant belly, her floral sundress fluttering around her legs.

Why was she here? She didn’t have kids yet, I thought, but then Tate Renchrik walked up to them and I realized who she was talking to. The ash-blond hair. The slight physique. It was Rachel. Instantly, my suspicion about Gretchen dissipated. She had done Rachel’s hair since Carmen, the nanny, had taken her to the salon that first time. Carmen had been a constant in Rachel’s life and then she was gone. Gretchen had told me that she wished she could help Rachel. Maybe she had become a constant for the girl, too. I hoped so, because Rachel needed all the support she could get.

Still, two words circled in my head over and over and over.

She lied.

She lied.

She lied.

Or had she just neglected to mention it?

Was there a difference? I made an instant decision. I wanted to find out why Gretchen hadn’t told me that she’d done Nessa’s hair the day before she’d died.

By the time I looked back to the line, my dad had moved behind the table and was in an animated conversation with Mrs. Branford. They both had a love of books, so if I had to guess, I’d say they were talking literature.

Things at the booth looked under control, so there was no time like the present. I caught Olaya’s eye. Her cheeks were flushed, but she was smiling and focused on each customer in line as if they were the only person in the world. I remembered the feeling of her attention the first time I’d spoken to her outside Yeast of Eden. “We are waiting for you,” she’d said, as if I’d known her for years. She had a knack for making each and every person feel special.

“I’ll be back,” I called to her.

She gave me a nod and went back to her customers.

Only by the time I looked back to the spot where Gretchen had been a moment ago, she was gone.

* * *

As I hurried along the blacktop trying to spot Gretchen, Rachel, and Tate where they had been just seconds ago, I wondered how I’d ever managed to help Emmaline solve murders in the past. It had never been easy, but now, when it mattered so much to prove Miguel was innocent, I was at a loss.

I had a fleeting thought about Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express. There were so many people who had grudges against Nessa Renchrik, and not enough clues to make one of them rise to the top of the list. What if they’d all done it, one after the other?

I dismissed the idea one second after I thought it. This wasn’t a book by the Grand Dame of mysteries. This was real life in a small coastal town. This was the murder, not of a beloved community member, but of a divisive politician. Divisive and diabolical, I amended.

Nessa had cheated on her husband—at least twice, but probably more than that.

I’d lay money down that Tate was not Cliff’s son. That gave him a strong motive.

Then there was Guillermo. If he discovered that Tate was his son, could he have lashed out at Nessa? Keeping a child from his father. If he’d learned the truth, that definitely gave him motive.

Nessa had divided the school board by lobbying with Jerry Zenmark for the surf club. The other three board members wanted the tech funded, not the surf club. It didn’t feel like a strong motive, but it was something nonetheless.

Nessa’s push for the surfing club would keep Chavez Elementary from getting much-needed funding for technology. Could Principal Davies have killed her to guarantee the funding his students needed?

And then there was Joseph Patrick. Nessa had lost her biggest backer when he pulled his support.

A new thought hit me. Could Nessa have had something on Joseph Patrick . . . or his wife? When he’d met with Nessa, could she have tried to blackmail him into keeping his support of her? That would be a strong motive.

Gretchen’s face drifted into my mind. I couldn’t fathom a motive for her to kill Nessa, but I couldn’t dismiss her, either. Once again, those two words echoed in my head. She lied.

My final thought was about Miguel. Captain York had him at the top of his suspect list for three reasons. One, they’d dated ten or eleven years ago. Two, she’d been in touch suddenly, coming by the restaurant. Three, she’d contacted him about being a sponsor for the Spring Fling. All this proved was that Miguel had known Nessa, but it didn’t give him a motive.

Once again, as if on cue, York appeared. “Ivy,” he said. In that one little word, I felt the man’s unpleasantness.

I matched his tone. “Captain.”

He adjusted his Santa Sofia sheriff’s department hat and said, “Looking for your boyfriend?”

“No. Are you?”

“At the moment, I’m talking to you.”

I felt my nostrils flare. “Why?”

“Why am I talking to you? Why not?”

“Look, Captain. I don’t know why you think Miguel is involved in Nessa Renchrik’s death, but he’s not. And there are a lot of other people you should be looking at—”

“There you go again, butting into something you shouldn’t. I’ve heard all about you. And let me tell you, you are not a deputy. You are not an employee of the county, in fact. You have no reason to be involved in this investigation—”

“I do if you aren’t doing your job!” I snapped. “Miguel has—”

His eyes flashed red. “You need to back down.”

There was no way that was happening. “What makes you think Miguel has anything to do with this? Because he doesn’t.”

He didn’t speak for a few seconds and his eyes narrowed. Finally, he said, “Nessa Renchrik’s son is not her husband’s.”

I had to fight to keep my eyes from rolling. “I know.”

This caught him off guard. “You know?”

“Yes, and if you think that gives Miguel a reason to kill Nessa, you’re wrong. First of all, Cliff would be the one to have a motive to kill Nessa since she betrayed him. And second, Tate is not Miguel’s child.”

He pulled a face, his lips twisted. “And I suppose you know who is.”

“As a matter of fact—”

He held up a hand, palm out, and I clamped my mouth shut. “The Santa Sofia sheriff’s department does not need your help to solve this crime!” he snapped.

I debated shutting my mouth and walking away, but my anger and frustration got the better of me. “If you’re not considering all the possibilities, then I think you do.”

He dropped his arms to his sides. I stared at his face, but I could see his hands clenching by his sides. Too late I realized that Captain York’s hubris was fully in play now. He had something to prove and he wouldn’t let me interfere in him making his case, no matter how wrong he was. He’d lose face if he let go of his theory about Miguel.

I spoke slowly enough to emphasize every word as I said, “Miguel is not the boy’s father, and he no longer had a connection to Nessa Renchrik. He has no motive,”

“What’s going on here?” It was Miguel, coming up beside me. He put his hand on my lower back. A little show of protection from the big, bad Captain York. I appreciated the gesture. We were a united front.

Captain York spoke before I could. He was blunt with his question. “Is Tate Renchrik your son?”

Miguel balked. “Of course not,” he said, his voice tight.

“Isn’t that, in fact, why Nessa came to see you Friday night at your restaurant? She was finally coming clean?”

Oh wow. York had worked out a whole scenario in his head.

“She came to the restaurant Friday night to pick up an order for her kids. Her kids.”

“Mmm-hmm.” York was clearly not convinced. “And how are you so certain?”

I turned toward Miguel and let my hands slide down his arm, taking it from my back and clasping his hand in mine. There was always the possibility that I was wrong, but Tate and Guillermo’s daughter looked so alike that I couldn’t fathom that they weren’t brother and sister. Why had York concocted this scenario in his mind and why couldn’t he see another possibility?

Miguel leveled his gaze at York and spoke slowly. “I’m so certain because I never slept with Vanessa Arnold.”

Whatever Captain York had been expecting, it wasn’t this. He clamped his mouth closed and his jaw pulsed. If his case against Miguel was entirely based on the idea that Miguel had had an affair with Nessa that had resulted in a child, it was just derailed. If this were a game of chess, the captain had made a bold move, putting Miguel into check, but Miguel had come back stronger and just checkmated him.

Miguel stared at York without an ounce of fear. “Anything else, Captain?”

York inhaled, letting his chest broaden in an unspoken cockfight stance. “The truth always comes out,” he said. It was a veiled threat, implying that Miguel was lying, but Miguel didn’t take the bait. His eyes narrowed as he said, “It will. And it’ll prove you’re wrong.”

Without another word, York turned on his heel and melted into the crowd.

At the same moment, I spotted Rachel and Tate and called to them. Rachel stopped and turned around, spotted me, and raised her hand. I held up my index finger so she’d wait. “I have to talk to her,” I said to Miguel. “But are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Ivy. You go on. I have to catch up with Laura.”

Miguel’s sister and I hadn’t spoken for years and years—from the time we were both still kids and Miguel and I broke up after high school. It had taken some serious conversations, but Laura and I’d finally mended our fences and it turned out that I liked her, quite a lot. I liked her kids even more. Andrea was in her terrible twos, though she was anything but terrible from my experience. And Mateo was an adorable toddler. They were just a year apart, so Laura had her hands full. If her husband, Sergio, wasn’t here helping out with the kids, she’d need Miguel.

I stretched on my tiptoes to give him a kiss. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this,” I said.

He wrapped his arms around and pulled me in for a hug. “I know.”

We parted and went our separate ways, him to find his sister, niece, and nephew, and me to check in on Rachel and Tate and find out where Gretchen had gone.

* * *

Rachel looked like she hadn’t slept a wink the night before. She was thin to begin with, but it looked to me like she’d lost ten pounds since yesterday. The memorial for her mother must have really taken a toll—more than either of us had considered.

Tate looked the same. Innocent big brown eyes that didn’t betray the emotions he was surely feeling.

I approached them at the same time Fernanda did. The replacement nanny. Once again, my heart ached for these kids. They’d both lost so much. I laid my hand on Rachel’s arm in a show of support, smiling at both the kids.

Fernanda put a protective hand on Tate’s shoulder. I hadn’t seen her up close before. She had short curly hair that sat like a helmet on her round head. The features of her face were flat, her complexion dark, and she had pocked scarring on her cheeks. She wasn’t short, but she wasn’t tall, and she was pleasantly plump. I smiled at her. “Fernanda, right?”

She nodded but did not smile.

“She doesn’t talk much,” Tate said with a grin. Once again, I saw the resemblance between the boy, Guillermo, and his little girl.

Nessa, Nessa, Nessa, what did you do? I thought. If Cliff renounced this child for not being his own, Tate’s whole world would fall apart—more than it already had.

“I talk just enough,” Fernanda said, ruffling his hair. She had a slight accent.

I felt relief flow through me as I watched her interact with Tate. She may not have been with the family for very long, but I could see the affection she had for the boy.

It was Rachel who looked lost. “Are you doing all right?” I asked her.

She gave a helpless shrug and pressed her palm against her chest. “It feels like there’s rope squeezing inside me.” She looked at Fernanda, her eyes pleading. “I just want it to go away.”

Fernanda gave her an encouraging smile. “It will. Give it time.”

“You did a great job speaking yesterday,” I said.

She exhaled audibly, blowing out through her mouth as if she could expel the anxiety coursing through her body. “Maybe.”

“No, really. It was a beautiful memorial.”

Fernanda nodded her agreement. “She is right. It was from the heart.”

I hadn’t realized that she’d come the day before. It was nice that she’d been a support for Rachel and Tate. “I thought I saw you with Gretchen,” I said, glancing around. There was still no sign of her.

Rachel looked at me, her darkly rimmed eyes wide. “You know Gretchen?”

I patted my hair and smiled. “Saw her Friday for the first time.”

“Looks nice,” she said, though it didn’t sound like her heart was in the compliment.

“Thanks.” I acted as nonchalant as I could. “How did you find her? She’s a treasure.”

“I got a . . . mmm, what do you call them . . . a cold call?”

“You mean the salon called?”

“Yeah. No, Gretchen did because she was a new stylist trying to get clients.”

That was interesting. Cold calling was an annoying marketing practice, but I’d never had a call from a hairdresser. “Sounds like it worked. You go to her, and your mom did, too, right?”

Rachel’s lips twisted and her eyes instantly turned glassy. “I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Sure, sure. I’m sorry, Rachel. Is there anything I can do for you?” I looked at Tate. “For you both?”

Rachel shook her head, tucking a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear. “I have my family. We’re fine.” She added, “Thanks,” almost as an afterthought.

“I know you do. Candy Coffey is there for you, too. Just don’t be afraid to reach out if you need anything, okay?”

She gave a slight nod. I looked at Tate, noting how completely opposite he looked from his sister. His half sister. “You, too, Tate.”

“Okay,” he said. He looked past me, his eyes lighting up as they landed on someone. “Ruby!” he hollered, waving his arms overhead. He looked up at Rachel. “I’m going to go with Ruby and her dad.”

Rachel turned paler. I wanted to grab her elbow and lead her to a chair where she could put her head between her legs. She looked seconds away from passing out, wobbling on her feet. “Okay,” she managed. Her fluttery gaze followed Tate as he ran across the blacktop, dodging people.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

Her nostrils flared and she exhaled through her nose. Her voice dropped to a pained whisper, her attention still focused somewhere behind me. “I don’t know,” she said.

I turned to see what she was looking at. My own breath caught in my throat. Tate’s friend Ruby was none other than Guillermo’s daughter. Which made Ruby, not just a friend, but Tate’s half sister.

And from the expression on Rachel’s face, she knew the truth.

* * *

“Rachel.” Gretchen appeared beside me, her belly arriving first, followed by the rest of her. She snapped her fingers in front of Rachel’s face. “Hey. Come on.”

Rachel blinked, coming back to herself, and focused on Gretchen. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are, sweetie. Come on. Let’s sit down.”

I followed as Gretchen led Rachel to a bench along one of the school’s exterior walls. Gretchen had a crossbody bag on and reached inside, retrieving an unopened bottle of water from it. She sat down next to Rachel, unscrewed the top, and handed it to her. “What’s going on?” she asked.

Rachel closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, her breathing ragged. “I can’t . . . I don’t know what to do. She shouldn’t be gone.”

She could only be talking about her mother. It didn’t matter how many enemies Nessa had made during her political career; she was still Rachel’s mother and the girl needed her. Gretchen, for her part, was true to her word. She was doing everything she could to help Rachel.

Gretchen slid her arm around Rachel’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “I promise you, it will.”

Rachel squeezed her eyes tighter, fighting the tears that were sneaking out. “Okay,” she managed.

For the first time, Gretchen looked at me, her eyes widening with recognition. “Ivy. Sorry. I—”

I held up my hand, stopping her. “No, it’s fine, really. I just want to help, if I can.”

Rachel slumped against Gretchen, laying her head on the older woman’s shoulder.

I felt as if I was intruding on a personal moment between them. I mouthed to Gretchen that I was going. As I circled the blacktop, checking out the different Spring Fling games going on, anxiety bloomed inside me. Something nagged at me. The fact that Tate had run off with his father, who he presumably didn’t actually know was his father? That had to be it.

Except . . .

I looked back over my shoulder at Gretchen and Rachel, the older blonde comforting the younger one. There was something about the two of them together. And then something Rachel said came back to me. She’d told me she had her family to take care of her . . . and here was Gretchen.

As if I’d turned on a radio show in my head, little snippets and phrases came back to me:

Ali, the hairdresser next to Gretchen’s station, had said that Nessa Renchrik was terrible to Gretchen. She’d started to say something. That Gretchen, of all people—

I’d assumed she’d been referring to Gretchen as Nessa’s hairdresser. But what if it was something else?

There are no secrets in a hair salon.

Something Candy said popped into my head next. I tried to remember exactly what she’d said: My daughter and I both will be there for Rachel. For Nessa’s children. Poor girls. Poor Tate.

Who had she meant when she’d said “poor girls”? Her daughter and Rachel? Or could it have been Rachel and—

I yanked my phone from my back pocket, pulled up a search engine, and typed in Soho Salon. The website popped up and I scrolled through it looking for the names of the stylists.

My breath hitched. There it was. Gretchen Arnold.

Oh. My. God.

I dialed Candy. She picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Ivy.”

My blood pumped and pounded in my temples. I felt like I was so close to something. No time for small talk. “Hey. Listen. Quick question.”

“Okay.”

“This might be out of left field,” I warned.

“Okay,” she said again, drawing out the latter part of the word.

I inhaled, bracing myself for both the question and the answer. “Is Gretchen, the hairdresser Nessa went to . . . is she . . . ?”

The line went silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, “What?”

I looked over at Gretchen and Rachel again. Rachel was sitting up and they faced each other. Gretchen held Rachel’s hands and looked like she was giving the girl a pep talk. Suddenly I saw the resemblance. The blond hair, of course. Their height. Their build. Beneath her pregnancy, Gretchen was slight. Just like Rachel. They had the same slightly upturned nose. If Rachel chopped off her hair, she’d look like a pixie, just as Gretchen did.

There was suddenly no doubt in my mind. They were sisters. “Did Nessa have a child—a girl—when she was younger? Before she married Cliff?”

“Yes,” Candy said.

“Gretchen Arnold.”

Candy sighed heavily. “She never admitted it to me, but the minute I saw them together, I knew.”

A long-lost daughter, even if she was pregnant, had a pretty good motive to kill the mother who’d given her up.