Chapter 9
Things went from bad to worse in a matter of a few hours. If we’d thought the vultures were circling before, now they were in full attack mode. The local news station had come around asking questions, and the Santa Sofia Daily had tried to get statements from Olaya, Zula, Esmé, and Felix, all to no avail. The news station had aired their report on scene, capturing the protest. By noon, the crowds had finally thinned out, but Marcus Brolin, a reporter from the local tabloid, The Scout, was hanging around, talking incessantly to any and every person who came and went from Yeast of Eden. When he tried to talk to the bread shop’s employees, he’d started out professionally, asking politely for a statement, on the record. With each refusal, he became more and more agitated. By the time I marched across the street to confront him, any pretense of politeness was gone.
“Is Olaya Solis concerned about the accusations against her that she poisoned Josh Prentiss?” he demanded.
It had gone from bad to worse. Now Olaya was being directly accused. “There are no accusations,” I said.
“The community won’t let this rest until justice has been served.”
I stared at him. From his deep tan, it looked like he spent a good amount of time either on the beach or in a tanning salon. And from the stubble on his face and his red-rimmed eyes, he’d gotten very little sleep the night before. The death of Edward Yentin popped into my mind. He’d been a reporter for The Scout, too, and it had ended badly for him. If this guy, Marcus Brolin, wasn’t careful, he might end up with the same fate. I felt my nostrils flare. “Justice will be served when people start looking for the real killer. Olaya had nothing to do with it.”
I tried to walk past him, but he sidestepped, blocking my path. “Is it a coincidence, then, that you discovered the body of the man your employer is accused of killing?”
“She’s not accused of killing him!” I blurted. “The man was a customer, that’s it. She has no other connection to him.”
“That’s not entirely true now, is it?”
I balked. “Of course it’s—” I stopped abruptly when his lips curved up in a triumphant smile. “What?” I demanded, thinking this guy was way too cocky for his own good.
“There is another connection between the late Josh Prentiss and Olaya Solis.” His smile turned smarmy. “I’m surprised she hasn’t told you.”
I knew he was baiting me, but I couldn’t help myself. “Tell me what?”
And then he dropped the grenade he’d been holding. “Josh Prentiss had a relationship with Ms. Solis.”
My brain sputtered. That certainly couldn’t be true. First of all, Olaya was dating my father. And second, she was far too old for Josh Prentiss. But then my father’s story about Josh’s older girlfriend, Jeanne, came to mind. I pushed away the very idea. After all, Olaya had scarcely ever spared a single glance for Josh Prentiss.
A niggle of worry wormed into my mind. That, in itself, was unlike her. She usually greeted her customers warmly, but other than her approval of him saying he wanted to savor her bread without jam or butter, he was a person she had rarely spoken to. Surely that wasn’t a cover because they actually did know each other. Overcompensation?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said to Marcus Brolin, managing indignant.
“Then I’ll say it again. It appears your boss was closer to Josh Prentiss than she let on.” He paused, knowing full well the dramatic effect it caused. I waited with bated breath for him to continue. “Jilted by him is what I heard.”
“That is simply not true,” I said. He was fishing. He had to be. Still, his words played on repeat in my mind. Jilted by him. Aside from the fact that it would break my father’s heart, if by some cruel twist of fate what Marcus Brolin said was true, that gave Olaya motive, which meant the idea that she’d been the one to poison Josh Prentiss wouldn’t be so far-fetched. I knew she could never commit murder, but that didn’t mean the rest of Santa Sofia would believe it.
Without warning, what Olaya had said to me earlier came back. Go. Go find the truth about what happened to that man.
The impact of those words sank in. “She knew,” I muttered.
Like a quick-moving lizard, Marcus Brolin’s head snapped toward me. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I said, all the while thinking, No, no, no. Olaya knew. She knew she’d be a suspect when her connection to Josh Prentiss came out.
“You need to separate yourself from her. Don’t let her drag you down,” Marcus warned.
He’d be the type of person to leave a loved one in a burning building, saving only himself. I wasn’t that person. I’d risk life and limb to help the people I cared about. I stuck my elbows out to the sides and ducked my head, pushing past him. “No comment.”
* * *
On a normal day, the bread shop would have been hopping. Even though the protestors were gone, the lack of normalcy continued, and the dearth of customers remained. Other than the woman Zula was helping, the place was still empty.
I kept my head down and fast-walked past the counter and into the kitchen. The low morale was palpable. Felix stood at the grain mill. He turned when he heard me enter, giving a small wave. His usual smile and good cheer were notably absent.
Janae had removed every bowl and kitchen tool from the stainless-steel shelves. They were laid out in front of her on the shiny silver counters. She stood on a stepladder, her arm outstretched as she wiped down the shelves with a white rag. “Deep cleaning,” she said when she saw me. Right. Because there weren’t enough customers to keep the normal bake load going.
Mae was a the only other late-morning crew member present. Felix had apparently let everyone else go for the day.
My head buzzed. Rumors about Olaya and the possibility that her bread had caused Josh Prentiss’s death were affecting business to a degree I’d never have imagined. Yeast of Eden simply was. It was an institution in Santa Sofia. It had been here forever, and it had gone without saying that it would continue to be here forever.
Only now its enduring existence was in question.
I raised my brows at Felix in another unspoken question. Where was Olaya? He gestured with his head. She was holed up in her office. I rapped my knuckles lightly against the closed door. A few seconds later, it slowly opened. I’d expected to see Olaya. Instead, it was my father looking back at me. I felt my eyes bug. “Dad?”
“Ivy,” he said, and he opened the door wider, closing it again after I entered.
Olaya leaned forward in her chair, one elbow on her desk, her fist propped under her jaw. She looked up at me. Her normally sanguine eyes looked tired. I glanced from her to my dad, then back. Something was going on, but I still couldn’t bring myself to believe what Marcus Brolin said was true. My dad pointed to the chair facing Olaya’s desk. “Sit down, Ivy.”
I squeezed into the narrow space and sat facing Olaya. My dad leaned against the door. If it was true that Olaya had been seeing a much younger man behind his back, he was awfully calm about it. “What’s happening here?” I asked.
“Things are a little complicated,” my dad said.
He couldn’t have said anything truer and, at the same time, less helpful. “I’ll say. That hack Marcus Brolin? From The Scout? He’s outside and he’s saying—” I swallowed. Regrouped and directed my gaze at Olaya. It hurt to even say the words, but I forced them out. “He’s saying you were involved with him. With Josh.”
Olaya pressed her lips together as her spine stiffened. She sat up straighter. “It is a lie, Ivy.” She looked at my father and gave a slow blink.
“Tell her,” he said, his tone supportive and encouraging.
Olaya blinked again before returning her gaze to me. “About that he is wrong, Ivy. I did not have anything to do with him.”
A wave of relief flowed through me. If she said she didn’t have anything to do with Josh, I believed her. It wasn’t Olaya. She hadn’t broken my father’s newly mended heart. “Oh, that’s good news.” I exhaled a loaded breath. “Such a relief!”
But my dad and Olaya didn’t look relieved, and suddenly I knew it wasn’t as simple as Olaya saying she wasn’t involved with Josh. A rush of anxiety climbed from my chest to my throat. There was more to the story.
Olaya gave me the same slow blink she’d given my father a few seconds ago, as if she needed the extra second or two to garner up all her strength. “He was not seeing me, Ivy. He was seeing Martina,” she said.
“Oh.” I stared, then said, “Oh,” again, this time cupping my hand over my forehead as I processed this bit of information. Just a few months ago, Martina had been seeing Vicente Villanueva, a businessman investor in town. She’d been smitten, maybe even in love, but Vicente had lost a bundle in a bad deal and had moved to the East Coast to head up a new hotel operation. He’d wanted Martina to go with him, but she hadn’t mustered up the gumption to leave her coastal California home.
I caught my father’s eye and heard his voice in my head telling me to remember the woman he’d overheard in the grocery store.
“Right.”
Olaya looked at me, puzzled. “What?”
I left her question unanswered as I processed through my thoughts. Josh Prentiss had been a rebound for Martina, only Marcus Brolin had ID’d the wrong Solis sister. But that wasn’t my top concern. No, what bothered me the most was that—at least from where I sat—it looked like Josh Prentiss had been stringing at least two women along—Martina and Jeanne, the woman at the grocery store. Not to mention reconciling with his wife, if Nina was to be believed.
“There’s more,” my dad said. He dipped his chin—silent encouragement for Olaya.
Olaya closed her eyes for a beat. When she opened them, her nostrils flared. “Something happened between them last week, and Martina ended it.”
I looked from Olaya to my dad, eyebrows raised. “What happened?”
Olaya shook her head. “She won’t say.”
She broke it off. After losing Vicente, I thought, filling in the blank.
“She will not tell me more than that.”
Olaya’s earlier directive haunted me again. Go. Go find the truth about what happened to that man.
Go find the truth about that man who’d hurt her sister.
In order to do that, I had to get answers to two questions: Had Martina found out about Josh’s wife? Or about Jeanne?