Chapter 14

O wen Culpepper was Santa Sofia’s city manager and my father. He’d come a long way in his grieving process since my mother had passed unexpectedly, and for the first time, I felt like I could go to him for some comfort without adding too much of an extra burden to his already loaded shoulders. I wouldn’t call my meeting him midafternoon on a Thursday a father-daughter date. That conjured up memories of roller skating, a special dinner out with just the two of us, a trip to the library, and the annual Father-Daughter Valentine’s Day Dance.

Today? This was me needing a shoulder to lean on. His shoulder specifically.

I turned up at his office unannounced, hoping he’d be available and not tied up in meetings or even out in the field. The city offices were flat-roofed, boring buildings on the west side of Santa Sofia. During the summer months, the town was overrun with tourists, and even in the off months, places like Yeast of Eden kept people coming. But over in this area of town there were no souvenir shops or trinkets stamped with Santa Sofia: A Beach Town with Style; or Live, Laugh, Love in Santa Sofia.

The parking lot was filled with cars. I found a spot in front of one of the annexes, backtracking to the front entrance of the main building. I’d spent a good amount of time at my dad’s office throughout my childhood. It was as familiar to me as Baptista’s and the schools I’d attended or Santa Sofia High School where my mother had taught. Sally O’Brien, the office manager, sat at her desk, her fingers flying over the keyboard. She stopped only so she could move a hand to her mouse, navigate somewhere, then start typing again. She’d worked with my father for almost the entirety of both their careers and were friends as well as colleagues. She’d been there for Billy and me after our mother died, and she’d been an anchor for my dad throughout the years.

She looked up from her computer. As she laid eyes on me and recognition hit, her smile lit up her face. She was ten years older than my dad, a little shorter than me, and was probably stronger than any American Gladiator—physically and emotionally. She would always be our rock. “Ivy. Darlin’, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

I felt the same about her. I caught her up on my new hours at the bread shop, my photography freelancing, and my romance with Miguel before giving her a hug and heading down the hallway to my dad’s office. I knew he’d be willing to drop everything to find out what was on my mind.

I wasn’t wrong. He canceled a meeting he’d had on his schedule and shepherded me out to his car. Minutes later, we stood side by side ordering at Two Scoops, our favorite ice cream parlor. The classic striped awnings, the long malt shop bar inside, the checkerboard floors, and the long case of homemade ice cream. This place took me back to my childhood and brought up good memories and warm feelings. Coming here had been a good decision.

My usual go-to was a scoop of strawberry in a cup, but today felt like a hot fudge kind of day. I went for the cappuccino chip with extra hot fudge while my dad had two scoops of vanilla bean. We sat across from each other on old-fashioned bistro chairs at a slightly sticky table. It was all part of the experience.

“What’s going on, Ivy?” my dad asked after we’d both taken our first spoonful. He’d aged after my mother’s death, his salt-and-pepper hair turning solid gray. He’d taken up running as a way of exorcising his demons. The result was that he was lean and fit in a way I don’t remember him ever being. People dealt with grief differently. He handled his ongoing loss by moving his body. The more he ran, the less he had to think. At least that was my theory about it.

There was no need to beat around the bush with my dad, so I cut to the chase. “You’ve heard of Sandra Mays?”

He put his pink plastic spoon in his mouth, pulling it out again, half the vanilla ice cream left behind. “From TV?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I know who she is,” he said, finishing the ice cream that remained on his spoon.

“You know the reality show I told you about? The one doing the feature on Yeast of Eden?”

“America’s Best Bakeries, right?”

Owen Culpepper absorbed a lot of information in that vast brain of his. If I’d told him about it, he remembered every last detail. “Right. She and Mack Hebron, the celebrity chef, are the co-hosts.” Were, I corrected myself. They were the co-hosts.

My dad’s eyes grew wide. “That’s impressive. Good for her.”

Only not. “She’s dead, Dad.”

He’d been about to take another spoonful of his vanilla, but froze, the spoon stopping midway to his mouth. He dropped it back into the cup, interlaced his fingers on the table, and waited for me to go on.

“She didn’t show up this morning. Mack and I went out to the back parking lot to look for her. Her car was there, but she wasn’t. When he dialed her number, we heard her phone ringing. And then we found her. She was on the roof of the building.” The image of her hand casually flung over the edge was emblazoned in my mind. “It appears that she met someone up there, had an argument, was knocked down, and her head slammed against the roof.”

He ran his palm down over his face as he took in everything I’d said. “How did she get on the roof?”

“There’s a ladder. It’s kind of hidden behind the vines. I just learned about it the other day from Ben Nader—”

“The man who was hit outside the bread shop?”

I nodded. “I don’t know who else could know about the ladder, Dad. Olaya didn’t even know about it.”

“Okay, here’s another question. Why did she climb the ladder to go up to the roof?”

That was the first question I’d asked myself when I’d seen the dangling hand. I felt pretty sure that if we were able to figure out the why, we’d learn what had happened and who was responsible. Because someone was definitely responsible. Sandra Mays had been murdered.

“Emmaline and her team have processed the crime scene. She said it looked like no one had been on the roof in years and years except for the cluster of footprints and disturbance connected to Sandra being up there. They’ve got forensics looking at some fibers they found both on the roof and gathered from Sandra’s body. That’s the only physical evidence they have to go on.”

“Ivy.” My dad’s brow furrowed with his concern. “It’s enough that your brother’s soon-to-be wife—”

“And my best friend, don’t forget—”

“How could I? I’ve always loved that girl like a daughter. It’s enough that Em lives in the dangerous world of law enforcement. You don’t need to get involved in this.”

He was right, of course, but how could I not when it had hit so close to home? Something dark was going on, and though I couldn’t prove it, I was convinced the attack on Ben and the murder of Sandra were related.

“If I can help, I want to.”

“Let Em and her people do their job.”

“Dad,” I said, pushing my half-eaten ice cream aside. “There’s something else.”

He looked at me, waiting for me to continue.

“Ben Nader showed me the ladder to the roof the day he died. Miguel was there, too. Other than us, who else could have known about it? How did Sandra Mays know about it? I’m worried—”

He took one of my hands and squeezed. “If this guy Ben showed you, he probably told other people about it, too. The police have no reason to think you had anything to do with this woman’s death.”

“I don’t want it to affect Olaya or the bread shop, either. A murder right there on the roof, and so soon after her friend Jackie was killed in the parking lot? It doesn’t look good. I have to help if I can,” I said.

He nodded, tight-lipped. “Be careful, Ivy.”

I squeezed his hand. “Always.”