Chapter 11
For the second time that day, I was waiting in line in the bread shop. I hadn’t been just a customer at Yeast of Eden since I’d taken my first baking class with Olaya Solis. Before that time, I’d stood in the lobby, contemplating the myriad bread selections, struggling to choose. But after I’d learned to mix flour and yeast and water together and actually end up with edible bread—and after I’d become fast friends with Olaya—I started working in the bread shop rather than strictly being a customer.
Earlier in the day, I’d craved a skull cookie. This time I was after something different. I was a firm believer of the “you catch more flies with honey” philosophy. Bringing a box of croissants to Wellborn Homes was the honey.
With the exception of a young mother and her son, the bread shop was empty. Maggie, the dark-haired high school student Olaya employed to work part time, was crouched down in front of one of the display cases, the little boy by her side. He looked to be about four years old. He was a shy one, completely quiet, but looking intently at Maggie.
Maggie was a quiet girl, but over the time I’d known her, she had started coming out of her shell. Now her hands moved in front of her, like she was talking with them. The boy’s mother stood nearby, her eyes glistening. I looked more closely at Maggie, suddenly realizing what she was doing. She was, quite literally, talking with her hands. Signing with the little boy.
The tears in the mother’s eyes made sense. So did the lump in my throat. Maggie said something else with her hands, and the little boy fisted his hand and moved it, as if it were a nodding head. He and Maggie both looked up, and the mother gave the nod of approval. Maggie grinned, scooting behind the counter. Using a square of waxed paper, she reached into the display case and retrieved one of the hidden skull cookies.
The little boy’s eyes popped open. His mom nodded again, both with her head and her fisted hand. And then, after Maggie handed over the cookie, the lump in my throat grew right along with the little boy’s smile. Maggie got down to her knees and wrapped the little boy in a hug; the mom took his hand in hers, held the baguette she’d bought, and left the bread shop.
The second the door closed behind them, I turned to Maggie. She brushed her hair back from her face, her own eyes gleaming. “That was beautiful,” I said. “Where did you learn to sign?”
She circled back behind the counter. “My brother is deaf,” she said. Ah, I thought, the brother she drove around in the car seat Laura had borrowed.
Maggie looked back at the little boy and waved. It was clear her connection with him was as big a deal to her as it probably was to him.
The bell on the door dinged and a small group of people came in laughing and talking. One of them held open the door for the boy and his mother. They disappeared down the sidewalk, the little boy’s happy grin lingering in my mind. I stepped aside, letting the small group of people who’d just entered go before me.
While I waited for Maggie to help them, I glanced out the bread shop’s front window at my car parked along the sidewalk in front. Mrs. Branford was plenty capable of taking care of herself, but leaving her alone—and asleep—felt akin to leaving a baby unattended. From my vantage point, it didn’t look as if Mrs. Branford had moved.
The bell on the door dinged again as the customers left with their brown twine-handled bags stuffed with their bread selections; then Maggie spoke. “What are you doing in front of the counter?” she asked. “You’re usually back here.”
I swiveled around, bringing my attention back to her. “I need a box of croissants,” I said. It might have been more accurate to say I needed a box of bribery, but I was pretty sure that sweet Maggie would not appreciate the plan I was ready to put into action.
“What kind?”
I’d given this decision some thought on the drive over. Did I go with a savory mix of ham and Gruyère, spinach, mushroom, and roasted bell pepper, and Kalamata olive, thyme, and feta cheese? Or would a sweet collection with the always popular chocolate, cherry preserves with slivered almonds, Nutella, and roasted apricot be better?
“Or maybe a combination of both,” I muttered.
Olaya appeared from the back. “I do not know what these are for, m’ija, but I suggest you choose either savory or sweet, not both.”
“Why?” I asked, at the same time Maggie asked, “Really?”
“Porque, the people, they will fight over them. Some will want sweet. Some will not. There will not be enough of either, and so who is made to be happy?”
She looked at us expectantly, waiting for one of us to supply the answer to her question. “No one will be happy,” I said.
Maggie finished the thought. “Because there wouldn’t be enough of either one.”
Olaya tapped her finger against the tip of her nose. “Exactamente.”
In a split second, I made up my mind. “In that case, I’ll take a dozen sweet. Six chocolate, three apricot, and three cherry,” I said, knowing that two out of four people always chose chocolate.
Maggie got to work filling a white bakery box. I handed over the money, she handed over the pastries, and with a wave, I headed off to grease a few stomachs in my pursuit of information.
Mrs. Branford still hadn’t budged since she’d fallen asleep. Not when I’d stopped at the bread shop; not when my hand slipped and the car door slammed; not when I absently turned on the radio before remembering that she was there, completely zonked. I hadn’t realized she was such a deep sleeper. But when the car was off and we were in the parking lot of our destination, she stirred. She sat up and immediately patted her loosened silvery curls. She looked around, her gaze stopping on the Max Litman Homes sign. “Aha. I’m ready.” She turned to me, her already wrinkle-ridden brow furrowing even more. “What am I ready for?”
I pointed to the two businesses. “I came to talk to someone at Wellborn Homes. They’re Billy’s alibi—sort of.” I spun my head to look at the Litman Homes building. “I didn’t know they were side by side.”
“Which is very convenient.” She threw open her door, used her cane to leverage her way up and out, and was halfway across the parking lot before I’d grabbed the box of croissants and caught up with her.
I expected her to slow down at the curb, but she swung her cane at an angle, dropped it down, and once again moved up and forward in one fell swoop. Spry. There was no other way to describe the woman, and—not for the first time—I hoped I’d have half as much energy as she did when I was in my ninth decade.
Once I’d seen both builders in one location, I had debated which to go to first. Mrs. Branford made the decision for me. She went straight for Wellborn Homes, yanked open the door, and then stood back. “After you, my dear.”
I looked at her with what I was sure was an expression of awe, and skirted past her. The lobby was devoid of people. So much for winning people over with baked goods. There was, however, plenty to look at. The builder had pulled out all the stops, showcasing every one of their high-end finishings for prospective clients—hardwood floors, heavy wrought-iron light fixtures, thick carpet with a heavy carpet pad beneath it. Every bit of the place screamed expensive.
We heard the click of shoes and then a woman’s voice. “Can I help you, ladies?”
That voice. I stood up straighter, as if a string attached to my head had yanked me upright. I turned around slowly. “Dixie?”
Her eye twitched with . . . surprise? Or was it dismay? But then she was rushing forward with open arms and the only emotion I got from her was happiness. “Ivy!”
I gestured wide with my free arm. “This is where you’re working?”
“For a few months now,” she said; then she lifted her eyebrows and her mouth curved flirtatiously. “Between you and me, darling, it’s paid off already.”
So many things were rushing through my mind. First was what a crazy coincidence it was that Dixie worked for Max Litman’s business neighbor and, presumably, rival. Second was why she had failed to mention it when I’d seen her at the scene of the crime.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Mrs. Branford said.
“Dixie lived at the Thompson boardinghouse,” I said, jogging her memory.
The skin around Mrs. Branford’s eyes was creased, but it smoothed out as her eyes opened wide. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” she said, her voice quiet. Reflective. And then it hit me. Dastardly Mrs. Branford. Allusion and the English teacher. I’d told her about seeing Dixie, backlit through a second-story window, and so she pulls out her Shakespeare references. “Of course I have heard about you,” she said to Dixie, “but our paths have never crossed.”
Was that true? Our last adventure had taken both Mrs. Branford and me to the boardinghouse where Dixie had lived. I thought back, though, realizing that Mrs. Branford hadn’t actually been with me when I’d met Dixie.
“They’ve crossed now.”
Mrs. Branford switched her cane to her opposite hand and shook Dixie’s proffered hand. “They certainly have.”
If we weren’t talking about an elderly old woman and a middle-aged throwback to the golden era of Hollywood, I’d have thought the two of them were sizing each other up, complete with puffing chests and peacock feathers splayed, jockeying for position. I intervened with a formal introduction. “Penelope Branford, this is Dixie Mayfield. Dixie, Penelope.”
Dixie sashayed to the granite bar that was set up as her reception area. “Are you in the market for a new house?” she asked.
“No, no,” Mrs. Branford tsked. “We’re in the market for information.”
I swung my head, bugging my eyes at her in silent communication. Being so forthcoming hadn’t been my plan, especially once I’d laid eyes on Dixie. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her, but, well, I didn’t know her well enough to say that I absolutely did.
Although I knew Mrs. Branford understood me, I hadn’t actually expected her to respond in the way I wanted her to. She was emboldened and had taken on my determination to absolve Billy of any wrongdoing. Which meant she would completely ignore me if she had a different idea than I did.
Dixie perched on the leather-seated stool at the counter, glancing at the other stools, then back at us. We took her cue, sitting down. I slid the box of croissants to her. “We got these for . . . well, actually, I thought more people worked here. You now have a lot of croissants,” I said, smiling.
She lifted the lid to take a peak, licking her plump red lips. She pulled a tuft of the flaky bread from one of them, her eyes rolling up as she let it melt in her mouth. “The boss will definitely appreciate them,” she said with a wink.
The room was open, but the air felt heavy. “Dixie, why didn’t you tell me you worked for Wellborn Homes?”
She arched one brow, looking from me to Mrs. Branford, then back to me. “Is it important?”
“Maybe,” I said, but Mrs. Branford cut me off with a curt, “Of course it’s important.”
I’d been wrong earlier. She wasn’t back to her old self; she had morphed into a bulldog with a bone.
“My brother actually met with Mr. Wellborn about a job,” I said.
Dixie’s smile didn’t betray any concern over our question about her not mentioning where she worked. “Recently?”
“Last week, in fact,” Mrs. Branford said.
I leaned forward on my elbows. “And then Max Litman died and the job went away. I’m just wondering why he’d take the job away after Max died, given that they were competitors.”
“Darling, you know I can’t speak for Mr. Wellborn,” she said, as she jiggled her computer mouse. The screen came to life, she logged in, and a moment later she looked up at me, and for the briefest moment, her gaze was more intense. “Is your brother Billy Culpepper?”
I nodded.
“I remember the day he came in.” She gave another flirtatious wink. “He’s a good-looking man.”
I forced a smile. “I’ll tell him you said so.”
Mrs. Branford leaned toward me. “She’s a little old for Billy,” she whispered.
Dixie cleared her throat. “Beauty and age are not mutually exclusive.”
Mrs. Branford conceded the point. “True enough.”
“Beauty knows no age, now does it?”
Mrs. Branford and I startled at the unexpected baritone of a man’s voice, but Dixie just looked up, batting her eyes and giving a throaty laugh. “Why, Mr. Wellborn. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
He let the door slam behind him and waved her away. “It’s hard to stay away—from work.” He added that last part, but I didn’t think it was work he couldn’t stay away from. Dixie might be older than Mr. Wellborn, as Mrs. Branford so indelicately pointed out, but she truly was a beauty. “Don’t mind me, ladies.” He strode across the room and disappeared briefly into another room, reappearing with a folder tucked under his arm.
“Do you need anything else, sir?” Dixie said, sounding as if she were propositioning him rather than being a good secretary.
Mr. Wellborn was attractive—dark hair, straight nose, not quite six feet. He looked to be somewhere in his late forties, but from the curve of his smile, he appreciated her pinup girl style. “Nope, I’m all good, Dixie. But thanks.”
He headed toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Wait, Mr. Wellborn?” I jumped up. “I’m Ivy Cul—”
He’d been reaching for the door handle, but suddenly stopped, his hand midair. The rest of my name froze on my lips. He turned around, his eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, Ivy—?” His voice had become oddly disquieting.
From Mr. Wellborn’s reaction to just hearing my last name, I realized that I had to change my tactic. Yes, I had to help Billy, but I couldn’t go about my investigation with that angle. People didn’t want to help a guy some thought could be a potential murderer. “Ivy, Cullison,” I said, blending the tail end of my mother’s maiden name, Madison, with mine.
He visibly relaxed. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cullison. Did you have a question Dixie couldn’t help you with?”
Dixie started. “They’re not he—”
“No, not at all,” Mrs. Branford said, cutting her off. She stood and faced him. “She’s been very helpful. It’s just, we’re—”
Mr. Wellborn looked at her. A moment later his jaw dropped. “Mrs. Branford? Is that you?”
She stared; then, leaving her cane behind, she crossed the room to peer up at his face. She snapped her fingers. “Twelfth-grade English,” she said. “About thirty years ago, I’d wager.”
“That sounds about right. I can’t believe it’s you.” He laughed, looking a little sheepish. “No offense, I liked you, but I hated your class.”
“None taken. Not everyone likes Joseph Conrad, Thoreau, and Márquez,” she said.
“All I can say is thank God for CliffsNotes.”
Mrs. Branford stepped back, trying not to look offended. She didn’t quite pull it off. “I accepted that kids relied on those long ago. You certainly weren’t the first, nor the last,” she said. When she’d said that not everyone enjoyed classic literature, she wasn’t being facetious, just matter-of-fact. “But you can make up for it now.”
He grew wary, the lightness he’d had in his step when he’d first entered all but gone. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”
I took my cue. My story wasn’t really a lie, but more of a stretching of the truth. “I’m documenting the Art Car Show and I’m trying to get a little more information about Max Litman.”
Mrs. Branford shot me a quizzical look, but from her nod, I knew she finally understood the direction I was going and that she’d play along. “Such a tragedy,” she said, shaking her head sadly. We hung our heads. After a moment of silence, I cleared my throat.
Mr. Wellborn let out a heavy sigh. “Huge loss for the community. I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that he’s gone.”
He looked appropriately somber. His voice held a degree of sadness. But something about the way he spoke belied a different sentiment.
“Were you good friends?” I asked, watching him closely.
And there it was. It was brief—maybe no more than a split second—but he hesitated before he answered. “Sure, of course we were friends.”
So far he hadn’t asked why we’d make that assumption or why we were so interested, so I forged ahead while I could. “He didn’t have many, from what I’ve heard.”
Mrs. Branford snorted. “And by that she means that he preferred the female persuasion.”
Mr. Wellborn dipped his head in agreement. “That’s true enough.”
“I didn’t realize his business was right next door. I would have thought you’d be rivals rather than friends.”
Mr. Wellborn shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Friends might not be the right word, exactly,” he admitted after a moment.
“Truth be told,” Mrs. Branford said, “I didn’t like the man.”
Dixie tossed her hair back. “I did not care for him, either.” She glanced my way, meeting my eyes in a way that made me think she was trying to help me get information, even if she didn’t quite know what I was after.
I held up my hand. “Me, three.”
Mr. Wellborn grimaced. “Then I guess it’s unanimous.”
“I thought you said you were sort of friends, Johnny,” Mrs. Branford said, pulling his first name out of thin air.
“Never reveal all your cards,” he said cryptically.
I understood that philosophy completely. Mine were held close to the vest, too. The box of croissants still sat on the granite countertop. I picked it up, offering one to Mr. Wellborn.
His eyes opened wide. “Are these from—” He picked one and took a healthy bite. “They are,” he said, his words muffled. “Mmm. Yeast of Eden.”
“You’re a fan?”
“That place has the best bread I’ve ever had. Ever.” He reached for another before he’d finished the first.
I hoped he’d reveal at least one of his cards after being buttered up with the croissant. “I’ve heard Max was a wheeler and dealer,” I said.
Mr. Wellborn grunted, flicking a croissant flake from his lip. “He was a crook, plain and simple.”
That was more direct than I’d anticipated. “I knew him as a liar, but a crook?”
Mrs. Branford jumped in again. “What did he do?”
That was all the prompting he needed. “What didn’t he do?” was his cryptic answer.
“Come now, Johnny, you can’t tease us and then not deliver,” Mrs. Branford scolded playfully.
Mr. Wellborn smirked. “The guy swindled me out of one hundred twenty thousand dollars.”
All of our jaws dropped, but Mrs. Branford took her next cue and launched into a scolding. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, one hundred twenty thousand dollars? How?”
“It was supposed to be an investment. A condo development along Oceanside Drive. There were four of us.”
“You pooled your money?” she asked.
He took another bite of croissant, grimacing before continuing with his mouth full.
“That would have been better. We each contributed one hundred twenty thousand. Max was supposed to invest it with a developer.”
We were all on the edge of our seats. Max Litman, the swindler. That had the makings of a motive. “But he didn’t?”
He swallowed, shaking his head. “Who knows.”
Dixie had disappeared into a back room, returning a minute later with four bottles of water. She passed them around, one for each of us, laid out a stack of napkins, and then reached for her own croissant. She pulled off a piece with her fingers, placing it neatly in her mouth. No flakes on her lips. “There was no investor?” she asked once she’d washed her bite of croissant down with a dainty sip of water.
“I never met him,” he said. “It was some Japanese investor. At least that’s the story Max spewed.”
“You didn’t believe it?” Mrs. Branford asked.
He polished off the last of his second croissant. “What I believe—no, what I know—is that the money’s gone.”
“Wait.” Dixie flipped her hair back as she worked through whatever she was thinking. “If there was no investor, and ten of you invested one hundred twenty thousand each, then you’re saying that Max stole more than a million dollars?”
“We had the law on our side, but we could never prove it,” Mr. Wellborn said. “Max said he was taken to the cleaners, too, but—”
“But you don’t believe it,” Mrs. Branford finished.
“I have an easier time believing that he figured out how to steal our money than that he was duped in an investment scheme by someone else. If there was a scheme, and I think there was, he was behind it.”
“Who were the other investors?” I asked. More potential suspects.
“Unfortunately, I have no idea. We were all silent investors. To protect us, he said.”
“And there’s no way to get it back?” Mrs. Branford asked.
“If there was, it’s dead and buried with him.” He clutched the folder he’d come for. “At least someone else can win that damn car contest,” he said as he headed for the door.
“You’re not a fan?” I said, leaping through the opening he’d just presented.
“Everyone should have a passion,” he said. He glanced at Mrs. Branford. “Even if it’s British literature and poetry.”
We all smiled at that. That he felt comfortable ribbing his former English teacher endeared him to me just a little bit. I sensed there was a “but” coming, though.
“But Max was obsessed with that stupid contest. Art car this and art car that. It’ll sound coldhearted, I’m sure, but I am not going to miss that. He wouldn’t have won this year anyway.”
“Why wouldn’t he have won?” I asked. Billy’s car was amazing, but there was no reason to think anything would be different this year. Plus I was fairly certain he hadn’t seen Billy’s car to be able to make such a pronouncement.
“There’s been a change in the voting committee membership this past year,” he said. “I’ve been on it for years. No plans to leave. But a few others were ready to retire, so to speak.”
And suddenly my head was spinning. “Wait. I thought the planning committee voted on the winner.”
Mrs. Branford looked at me as if I were daft. “That would be a very overt conflict of interest, Ivy. There is a completely separate voting committee. We have a selection process and we’ve done our best to make it fair.”
Mr. Wellborn scoffed. “It hasn’t been fair in years.”
It wasn’t hard to believe what he was alluding to, especially since I’d hypothesized this scenario for years. “So what you are saying,” I said, “is that Max Litman bribed the voting committee every single year?”
“I haven’t seen it firsthand, if that’s what you mean,” Mr. Wellborn said, “but that’s what I’ve heard.”
“From . . . ?”
It was a fill-in-the-blank moment, but Mr. Wellborn didn’t bite, and his forthrightness came to an abrupt halt. “Ladies, what exactly are you looking for?” He looked at me. “How is this helping you to document the show?”
“I’m just trying to get a clearer picture of him,” I said. “I want to get to the core of who he was, not just who he was on the surface.”
He looked skeptical. “For the Art Car Show?”
“He won every single year,” I said, ignoring the fact that those wins had not been honest. “And he even died in his car.”
“He was ruthless, and he would do anything to win. It finally came back to bite him in the ass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies—”
I held my palm out to him. “Mr. Wellborn, wait, please.”
“I’m done, Ms. Cullison. I appreciate what you’re doing, I guess, although I don’t quite understand it, but I’m not going to waste any more time on Max Litman.”
I didn’t want to, either, but I didn’t have the luxury of going to a meeting and putting the murder out of my mind. My head hurt from trying to make sense what any of this meant. I’d known Max Litman was not an honest man, but the depth of his dishonesty was a bit mind-boggling.
Suddenly my thoughts went in an entirely different direction. I looked at the man heading for the door, a chill running over my skin. He clearly had no love lost for Max, ratting him out about the failed condo investment and the art car voting scandal. I drew in a stabilizing breath. The man had thrown out enough bait about potential other suspects with motives, but what about himself? Could Wellborn be the murderer?
I circled back around to the reason I’d come here in the first place. Billy. Wellborn had left Billy in the dust after the murder. Initially, I’d thought that was out of some inexplicable loyalty to Max, but now I knew there was no allegiance to the dead man. There was only justified betrayal. It seemed most likely that he’s nixed any agreement with Billy so his company wouldn’t be associated with someone he thought might be capable of murder. Self-preservation.
Dixie had been silent during our exchange, but now she stood, walking with her boss to the door. She shook her head, looking forlorn. “What in the world has happened to our quiet little town?”
He scoffed. “Don’t be delusional, Dixie. Every city . . . every town . . . hell, every place has an underbelly. You’re experiencing ours for the first time, but it’s been here all along.”
“Oh Lord,” she said. I could imagine her fanning herself and placing the back of her hand to her forehead à la Scarlett O’Hara. “I don’t know about you all, but I’ll feel a whole lot better when they figure out who killed Mr. Litman. When they have a suspect.”
Mr. Wellborn was halfway out the door, but he stopped and turned to face her. “They do, Dixie,” he said.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I closed my eyes to ward off what I knew was coming. And then he spoke the name I had prayed he wouldn’t.
“Billy Culpepper.”