Chapter 5

I dug my hands into the bread dough, kneading, kneading, kneading. With each squeeze of my hands, I exhaled. I was waiting for a stroke of brilliance. For an idea about how to prove that Billy had nothing to do with Max’s death, but the aha moment didn’t come. I had to go about things with as much logic as I could muster, which wasn’t easy given my current desperate need to save my brother from the hell he was going through. I’d told Emmaline, my brother, and my father that I could be objective, but my emotions still flared. I muttered aloud, listing any and everything I could think of as a possible reason behind Max Litman’s death. “A shady business deal?” Seemed pretty likely. “Had one of his bevy of beautiful women turned on him?” Possible. There wasn’t a disgruntled ex-wife. A long-lost child come back for vengeance seemed overly melodramatic and unlikely. So what else? A mob hit? But I laughed that idea away. Organized crime in Santa Sofia was about as likely as the Loch Ness Monster emerging from the Pacific Ocean.

There was no way to know the truth, at least not at this moment. I needed to do exactly what Emmaline had asked me to do. I needed to keep my eyes and ears open to see if anyone knew anything; then I had to dig deeper into his life. “What were you hiding, Max?” I plunged my hands deeper into the soft goop of dough. I repeated his name over and over and over, as if saying it would somehow give me answers.

A hand gently touched my wrist. “M’ija,” Olaya Solis said, and I blinked. She stood beside me. She was a vibrant-color person, usually wearing bright pigments. Today was no exception. Her tunic was a floral pattern with a black background that she paired with dark pink leggings. The soft curls of her iron-gray hair were pulled back with a black cloth headband, and her gold-flecked green eyes were laced with compassion. “You are thinking too much.”

I considered that. Over the last few months, Olaya had become my rock. Santa Sofia had always been a peaceful seaside town, but when crisis had recently overshadowed that peace, she’d been there to keep everyone even-keeled. She’d kept me grounded, even in the face of my mother’s untimely death. She was right! Was I overthinking things?

“Ivy, Max Litman was not a well-loved man in Santa Sofia. The police, they will find who did this.”

“But what if they can’t?” I asked. It was rhetorical. Of course Olaya couldn’t answer that any more than I could. But it seemed to reason that if Billy was the prime suspect and no other motive surfaced, then he’d take the fall.

Olaya removed her hand as I grabbed the pliable mass in my bowl and plopped it onto the floured counter. I patted the dough, folded one section over another, and pressed, adeptly turning it as I kneaded the flour in. After the remaining stickiness disappeared, I put the dough back into the bowl, turned it over, seam side down, brushed it lightly with oil, and then covered it with a towel.

“M’ija,” Olaya prodded. She knew me well enough to sense I wasn’t telling her everything.

I leaned against the counter, wiping my hands on one of the bakery’s standard Kelly-green dishtowels. “Emmaline asked me to dig around. I’m going to dig around, but . . .”

She dipped her chin slightly, considering me. “But what?”

“But I’m not a detective and I don’t work for the police department,” I said. My words were a rationale for my insecurities. I’d gotten involved in local mysteries before and neither one of those things had stopped me. This time, however, the stakes were higher. I couldn’t fail.

“You have done it before. You will do it again,” Olaya said, echoing my thoughts. And I would. Somehow.