Chapter 26
Two hearty French lavender plants grew in my backyard. I ran my hand up one of the thin stems, my fingers lightly dancing over the delicate purple flowers. The fragrant scent they released was floral and sweet. Life-giving, I thought, rather than the nightshade Angel’s Trumpet, which took lives. Strange to think that something as fragile and beautiful as a flower could be so deadly.
I cut several stems of the lavender and retreated from the lingering heat of the day into my kitchen, with its pale yellow cupboards, honey-colored hardwood floors, a rustic brick arch over the stove, and a window set back in the space and overlooking the front yard. The reclaimed wood of the island’s countertop made the space feel warm and cozy.
My goal was to get my mind off the murder for a little while. Maybe with the absence of thinking, answers would come to me. I could hope, anyway. I pulled out containers of flour, sugar, sticks of butter, eggs, and everything else I’d need to make the tea loaf.
Before long, I ran my fingers down the stem of one of the lavender sprigs, releasing the tiny purple buds, letting them fall into the batter. I folded them in gently, distributing them, along with the lemon zest, but careful not to crush them. I wanted the bits of lavender to be recognizable as itty bitty flowers.
Into the prepared loaf pan. Into the preheated oven. Out to cool less than an hour later. And still I had no answers.
I sat at the kitchen table, flipping through my mother’s copy of Murder on the Orient Express. Agatha slept at my feet, lightly snoring. The doorbell rang, and I jumped. The book flew from my hands and landed with a thump on top of Agatha. She popped up, disoriented from being awakened from her sound sleep. The book skittered under the table, but the doorbell rang again, so I left it.
As I rounded the corner to the entryway, the front door flew open. Mrs. Branford’s cane swung out in front of her—never quite finding the ground—as she crossed the threshold. She held a key attached to an old Santa Sofia High School lanyard. I’d given her a house key so she could check on Agatha if I had to be away from the house for too long.
“Ivy!” she exclaimed when she saw me. Her navy velour lounge suit highlighted her pink cheeks. “I’ve been calling you for hours, but you haven’t answered your phone.”
“I didn’t hear it ring,” I said, puzzled. I felt my backside, feeling for my phone in one of my pockets, but it wasn’t there. Mrs. Branford closed the door, then followed me back into the kitchen. I searched my purse, the counters, the table, and finally found it under the new salad recipe book I’d recently bought, on silent. I grumbled to myself. Sometimes cell phones had a mind of their own.
When I crouched down to fish out the dropped paperback from under the table, I remembered something else, though. Josh had been in a similar position on his knees, also looking for a dropped book. I suddenly remembered the book I’d found and put in the lost-and-found basket. It had to be Josh’s. I had no idea if it meant anything, but what if it did? I thought about my mother’s annotations in her Agatha Christie book. A book, I realized, could tell more than one story. Maybe Josh’s did. It might be wishful thinking, but it was worth a shot.
* * *
Mrs. Branford strolled at a slower pace than I did. She also held onto Agatha’s leash. I left them behind as I charged ahead and pushed through Yeast of Eden’s door. I paused long enough to register that half the tables were filled. Business was almost back to normal—hallelujah.
I looked around for Zula, but only Mae, wearing one of the front-of-shop aprons, stood at the counter. She waved to me, smiling. “Hey, you’re back.”
“Yeah, I, uh, forgot something under the counter,” I said in what I hoped was an off-handed manner.
She immediately bent down to look, disappearing from sight. Her voice drifted up to me. “What is it?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, Mae. I’ll get it. What are you doing out here? Where’s Zula?”
She popped back up. “She left early. Something about her daughter. I offered to fill in.” She winked. “Keeping an eye out for my mother, you know.”
Thankfully there was no sign of Kristin Spelling.
Zula split her time between Yeast of Eden and her job at a hospice center. She also had a fourteen-year-old daughter, Ella. The woman never seemed to need down time. She hopped from one place to the next, her exuberance never waning. When she entered a room, she lifted up everyone’s mood with her mere presence.
My plan was to take the book I’d found straight to Emmaline—or Captain York. The problem was, I didn’t want Mae to see me taking something from the shop’s lost and found. Really, I didn’t want to explain that I thought it might have belonged to a dead man.
Mrs. Branford and Agatha took up residence outside at one of the cute bistro tables under one of the equally cute awnings. Agatha’s tongue hung from her mouth. The heat had abated some, but it was still hot. “Mae, would you mind taking my dog a bowl of water, please? I’ll only be a minute.”
She hesitated, as if Felix might barge through the swinging door from the kitchen and fire her on the spot for giving water to a dog in need. The incident with Taylor had spooked her. I thought she might actually refuse and ask why I couldn’t do it, which would be an excellent question, but instead she said, “Sure,” and disappeared into the kitchen. I’d barely made it behind the counter when she was back, carrying a white bowl half-filled. As she headed outside with it, I looked for the book I’d found the day Josh had died. It wasn’t in the lost-and-found basket with the other detritus people left behind.
Had someone come to claim it? Was it not Josh’s book after all?
I pulled the basket out to search one more time, but it was instantly clear that there was no paperback novel in it. Then I remembered. That man and his posse had burst through the door as if they’d crossed a picket line, all boisterous and obnoxious. I’d shoved the book, as well as the umbrella and hairbands on the shelf, but they must not have actually made it to the basket. I reached under the counter. The bells on the door dinged.
My hand landed on the paperback’s cover. Yes! I pulled it out just as Mae came back behind the counter. “Any luck?” she asked.
I quickly shoved it in my bag and returned the basket to the shelf. “Yeah, got it.” I popped up. “Thanks for that,” I said, gesturing toward Agatha.
“Sure. No problem.”
The people from two of the tables cleared out. “I’m, uh, meeting someone soon,” Mae said, “so I’d better get started cleaning up.” She held up a folded sheet of paper. I recognized Zula’s straight-up-and-down handwriting. “I have a list.”
A boy? I thought, but didn’t ask. “Need help?”
“Nah. I think I’m good.”
“I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” I filled two glasses with water and went to join Mrs. Branford.
Once I was seated at the bistro table, I pulled the book from my bag. The cover had an old-fashioned look to it, with a colored drawing of a man in a turban and the devil playing poker. Carter Beats the Devil. I showed Mrs. Branford. “Ever hear of it?” I asked.
Her face was already a map of wrinkles, but they deepened even more as she took the book from me, turned it over to read the back, then flipped through the pages. “Can’t say that I have,” she announced. “The man certainly knew how to annotate. Color me impressed. If only my students had done half as good a job.”
“I bet they did. I can’t imagine any student trying to skate by in your classes with less than one hundred percent effort.”
She guffawed—an unusual reaction for the spritely old woman. “Oh Ivy, do you know any teenagers?”
“I know Zula’s daughter,” I said, although I’d only actually met the girl a few times. “And Pilar!” I practically exclaimed. I’d met her even fewer times, but I’d spent a quality hour and a half with her.
Mrs. Branford tsk’d. “That is hardly what one would call a solid sample set. When you gather up one hundred teenagers who are forced to read and annotate Romeo and Juliet or The Great Gatsby or Tess of the d’Urbervilles because it’s part of the high school curriculum, about one-third will do an acceptable job—with a loose definition of acceptable. Another third will give it a mediocre attempt. And the last third will scarcely open the book. And although I would love to say that I reached more than the average number of students, alas, I fear that is simply a fantasy.”
“Oh, I think you reached more than the average number of students, and then some,” I said, thinking about how many times, when we’d been together, she’d been stopped or recognized by former students, now all grown up. This town had an abundance of love for Penelope Branford. “Remember Sylvia and her love for Gabriel García Márquez? Her connection to literature from Colombia was all because of you.”
A pink blush stained Mrs. Branford’s cheeks as she handed the book back to me. She couldn’t refute what I’d said, so she was choosing to remain silent about it.
I riffled the pages of Carter Beats the Devil. Notes in both pen and pencil filled the margins. Single sentences and long passages were underlined. As I skimmed the “Overture,” words jumped out at me: President Harding; the Secret Service; a theater and a performance. I kept flipping. The next section began with a quote from Harry Houdini. I read and reread the lines. They seemed to have to do with a circus, but I didn’t understand. A few highlighted words stuck out, but the book was so marked up with writing that I closed it again.
“Historical fiction that almost reads like a biography. That is the type of book men favor,” Mrs. Branford said.
Instead of calling Emmaline, I got my cell phone from my bag and texted her. Found a book that I think was Josh Prentiss’s. He was looking for it before he left the bread shop. I found it later. Just realized it might be his.
I waited for her response. I’ll send someone. Are you home?
My thumbs flew across my phone’s screen. I will be soon.
She sent me a thumb’s up emoji, and that was that.
A short fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Branford and I sat across from one another at my kitchen table. We each had a slice of lemon tea bread and a tall glass of iced tea. We both took it without sugar. My years in Texas had almost made me a sweet tea drinker, but being back in California had brought me back to my unsweetened iced tea roots.
“I may choose this for our next book club selection,” she remarked, picking up Carter Beats the Devil again. “It looks interesting.”
Mrs. Branford’s book club was as much a social event as a literary discussion. The Blackbird Ladies were a tight group of women who lunched, gossiped, and read together. I’d been included as sort of an honorary member. I’d been reading the books they choose, but I thought I’d pass on this one. The cover didn’t do anything for me, plus I had wedding planning to do.
She moved to the couch and started reading, while I scrolled through the recent photos I’d taken and uploaded to my laptop. We sat in companionable silence until Mrs. Branford said, “Hmm.”
I looked up at her. “Hmm, what?”
She wagged one finger at me and kept reading. I went back to my photos of the park, thinking about where Olaya’s bread display should go, but stopped when Mrs. Branford pushed herself to a more upright position. “Hmm,” she said again.
“Not what you expected?” I asked.
“Ivy, my dear, I believe there is a message in this book.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She flipped back a few pages, turned the open book to face me, and pointed to a highlighted word. You’ll.
Mrs. Branford turned the page until she found the next highlighted word. Get.
There were a lot of underlined words and phrases. Some words were circled. But only three more words were highlighted in the entire book. In order, they were: What. You. Deserve.