The hearty stew began to bubble so they carried steaming bowls and the conversation to the table.
“The two of them, Starkey and Rodarte, didn’t work this out between them while they were in prison?” Sam asked.
“No way. They were kept in separate cell blocks and released on different days. Knowing that one man’s confession put the other behind bars, the system did its best to keep them apart.” Beau shook his head sadly. “I thought these two were friends, back before all this.”
The murder of one innocent young woman had forever changed the lives of so many people, Sam thought.
They cleared the dishes and Beau loaded everything into the dishwasher while Sam located her calculator and carried her bank bag to the table. While she separated cash from credit card receipts and began adding it up, Beau settled into his recliner with the thick brown murder file on his lap. By the time they headed upstairs, both felt mentally spent.
Although they’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, Sam awoke to the pleasant sensation of Beau’s kisses trailing across her shoulder and neck. Maybe their Easter Sunday would go the way they’d planned after all. She turned toward him, tucking her fingers into the waistband of his pajamas. It didn’t take but a minute for all other thoughts to leave the room.
* * *
Beau pulled the first golden brown waffle off the iron. Sam stood beside him at the counter, de-stemming strawberries and slicing them into a bowl, occasionally taking a seductive bite from one, keeping with the morning’s mood. Then his cell phone rang.
He poured the next ladle of batter onto the hot waffle iron and reached for the phone. Sam took the plate with the finished waffle and stuck it into the preheated oven to keep warm. Two seconds after Beau said hello, she could tell this wasn’t good news.
His face lost a shade of color and he stared into the middle of the room as he listened. His responses consisted of “okay” “yeah” and ended with “great, just great.” He concluded the call and his mouth pulled into a tight line.
“Trouble.” Sam didn’t exactly phrase it as a question.
“Jessie Starkey’s been shot.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yeah. I need to call the OMI.” He scrolled through the numbers on the phone and picked one.
Sam realized that the waffle iron was smoking and she grabbed the handle. This second waffle was a very dark brown and she pried it out with a fork.
Someone at the Office of the Medical Investigator picked up right away and Beau couldn’t stand still as he talked. He outlined the situation in Sembramos. The incident had been reported as a hunting accident and the body moved. He gave an address and said he would be there to meet the investigator in an hour. Then he called his own office and told the dispatcher to get two men up to secure the scene.
So much for a full Sunday off.
They ate their waffles in silence, both of their minds whirling.
“Can I come with you?” Sam asked as she cleared the half-eaten breakfasts.
“Better not. I have no idea what we’ll find up there.” He’d gone upstairs and come back in uniform, complete with his holstered pistol and handcuffs and more—ten pounds of stuff around his waist. “If it truly was a hunting accident, things could be all right. But until I have the OMI’s report I’m not ruling anything out. That town could be a tinderbox. I can’t put you in danger, darlin’.”
But what about yourself? Sam thought as she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against the badge on his chest. It never got easier, watching your lawman husband walk out of the house, not knowing what might happen.
* * *
Had he been on horseback, Beau would have felt like the sheriff in an old Western, riding into an eerily quiet town while atonal music played in his ear. A tumbleweed actually blew across the road, borne on the spring wind that had come up yesterday. He passed numbered cross-streets, the elementary school on his left, the gas station on the right. Both places seemed buttoned up tight. Same with the variety store and market. He cruised the entire mile-long stretch of two-lane highway, to where the farm supply store marked the end of town, without seeing a soul.
Yes, it was a holiday. That explained the closed businesses—but still . . . He U-turned, cut over on Third Street, the only other paved one in town, and cruised back down Cottonwood Lane. Four cars sat outside the church on the left, where closed double doors didn’t especially make the place look all that welcoming. He powered his window down and barely caught the sound of organ music before it wafted away on the shifting wind. In the next block, the volunteer fire department showed where the action was. Both of the station’s tall garage doors stood open, the town’s very dated ambulance backed up to one of them. The local medical investigator’s black vehicle had pulled up next to it, and two of Beau’s deputies had strung yellow tape to keep out the dozen or so people who were milling around.
Leaving an exit path for the MI’s vehicle, Beau pulled in and got out of his cruiser. All eyes of the townsfolk seemed to follow him as he ducked under the tape and approached the back of the ambulance.
“Hi Ben.” He greeted the older man who’d served as Taos County’s field deputy medical investigator, under the main office in Albuquerque, for as long as Beau could remember.
“Sheriff.” Always a man of few words, Ben Alison went about his work quickly and efficiently. He climbed into the back of the ambulance, where Beau could see a pair of booted feet on a gurney.
He stepped over, took a quick look and saw that it was, indeed, Jessie Starkey. The stringy yellow hair and stubbled face were unmistakable; he was wearing the same clothes Beau remembered from his visit to their home yesterday. A commotion out at the driveway caught his attention. His deputy, Rico, was attempting to restrain a very agitated woman. Helen Starkey.
She had apparently recognized Beau when he drove up and now she wanted his attention. He walked over and started to speak but she overrode his words.
“This is your fault, the lot of you!” she shouted, the lines in her face fixed in anger and a deep furrow pinching her brows together. Her chin-length gray hair had probably been brushed this morning, but now it flew out in wild tangles and her flowered rayon dress wasn’t nearly adequate in the chill air. She didn’t seem to notice being cold.
“Mrs. Starkey, I—”
“I mean it! If you all hadn’t let him out—”
“Ma’am! Hold on. Let’s just talk a minute.” It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situation. She’d been furious when her son went to prison, now she was furious because something happened right after he got out.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” Beau said quietly. “I truly am. No one could have foreseen this. We were told it was a hunting accident.”
Helen Starkey settled down only marginally. She stared at Beau with flashing blue eyes.
He met her gaze evenly. “I need to know what happened, Mrs. Starkey. Did Jessie go hunting this morning?”
Joe Starkey had stepped up. He was dressed in camouflage pants, heavy boots and a flannel shirt. Beau made eye contact. “Mr. Starkey, maybe you can tell me what you know.”
“I told ’em I didn’t want ’em huntin’ today,” Helen said, pushing her way into Beau’s line of sight once more. “I just wanted ever’body to stay home, have a nice day together . . . I made a roast.”
Beau made eye contact with Rico and suggested that he take Mrs. Starkey home. She walked a few steps away but refused to get in the deputy’s cruiser.
Beau turned again to Joe Starkey. “So, you and Jessie went hunting?”
Joe’s eyes shifted left and right. Turkey season didn’t open for another week, and he knew he was in trouble.
“I got me a permit,” he said, a bit defensively. “Jessie and me used to go every spring. The boy had such a good time. Well, he just got home and we wanted to go. He was so eager. I didn’t figure it’d do no harm. What’s the difference I shoot the bird today or a week from today?”
&nbs
p; “The difference is the law and you know that, Joe. But I’m not here to bust you for hunting out of season, even though I probably should. I need to know what chain of events put your son into that ambulance.”
It sounded harsh, Beau realized, but he had a feeling he would get a huge runaround unless he kept the guy focused.
Starkey’s gaze shifted again, as if he was having trouble concentrating, and Beau wondered whether he’d been into the liquor already this morning.
“You and Jessie got up early, I suppose?”
“Yeah, well, you gotta be out before daylight to find turkeys. So we did. We got up, dressed, headed out. Got out to the woods about six.”
Beau looked toward the mountain, wondering if any of the forest near here was within the legal hunt area. He knew the Wild Rivers area and Taos Valley Overlook were not, but wasn’t sure about others. Again, beside the point right now. He waited for Starkey to start talking again.
“So, anyways, we’re walking around out there in the dark, decide on a place to sit, and then we just wait for sunrise. Figured we had about fifteen minutes before we could, uh, legally shoot.”
Again, Beau had the feeling that legally didn’t much factor into this man’s way of doing things. Again, he stayed quiet.
“Anyways, Jessie says he gotta take a leak, so he lays his gun down beside me and he goes off around the bushes somewhere. I can hear him walking over there.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s when I hear a shot.”
He drew a deep breath. “I’m thinking somebody’s starting at them turkeys a little too early, but then I hear a crash in the dry leaves on the ground. I give a shout and I hear Jessie groaning. With the flashlight I spot him lying on the ground. I run over there but, Sheriff, my boy’s gone before I even get to his side.” Starkey’s voice broke.
Beau gave him a moment, then the medical investigator’s wave caught his attention.
“Excuse me just a second,” Beau told Starkey. “Wait right here.”
Ben Alison had stepped down from the ambulance and now he pulled Beau into the fire station, out of sight of the crowd outside.
“If this was a hunting accident, it wasn’t someone hunting turkeys,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t tell you caliber—Albuquerque will have to dig the bullet out and determine that.”
“Bullet. Not bird shot.”
“Exactly. By the size and shape of the wound, I would venture a guess that it was a high power rifle. It suggests someone followed them and was waiting to take his shot.”
“A sniper did this?”
“That’s what it looks like.” His expression looked grim.
Chapter 4
Sam walked to the relief map that hung in the recess under the stairs. Sembramos was only fifteen miles away, probably twenty minutes by car, if Beau didn’t turn on his siren. She paced. Worried. Realized how vital her work at the bakery was, keeping her busy and sane while he did this kind of thing every day. There was no way she could simply sit at home and wait for news.
She started to dial her best friend, Zoë, then remembered that she and Darryl had closed their B&B for a month and used the spring lull for a much-needed vacation. Rupert, her writer friend, had a rule about no phone calls before noon—mornings were the magic hours during which he became Victoria DeVane, bestselling romance author. Secretly, of course. But she had to respect his creative time, even on holidays.
She called her own phone number, Kelly’s now. If she was home it probably meant she wasn’t doing anything in particular. Sam couldn’t honestly remember whether Kelly had mentioned Easter plans or not. She drummed her fingers on the countertop, realizing there would be no answer. What was she going to say anyway? I’m bored? I’m worried about Beau? It didn’t seem fair to dump those things on her daughter. She hung up and wandered upstairs.
With nothing else to occupy her mind, she started a load of laundry and gathered cleaning supplies. Dusting furniture and scrubbing the bathroom would at least accomplish some needed tasks while she continued to wish she was with Beau. She had planned to take a few days off for spring cleaning—here was her big chance to get started. But it didn’t feel like a satisfying way to spend the day.
She had finished the upstairs bathroom, her gaze lingering on that mysterious wooden box, when her cell phone rang. She yanked it out of her pocket, thrilled to see that the readout said it was Beau.
“Hey there, sorry I didn’t touch base sooner.”
“You don’t owe me a minute-by-minute account,” she said. “Just glad to know that you’re safe.”
“I’m fine. Not so sure about the town, though. But I’ll fill you in on that when I get home. It shouldn’t be too late. They’ve just loaded the body into the medical investigator’s car and he’ll be taking it to Albuquerque.”
“So it wasn’t clearly an accident?”
He chuckled. “You’re learning a lot about this stuff. No, the MI didn’t agree with that story. So, I’ve got a whole lot more questions to ask.”
Someone started talking to him so he had to hang up, leaving Sam wondering how ‘whole lot of questions’ and ‘won’t be home late’ went together. She ran the dust cloth over the deep grooves in her jewelry box, still thinking about her resolve to find out more answers about it.
She tossed her dust cloth down and decided it was now late enough in the day to call Rupert. He knew a lot of people in this town, and maybe she could distract herself from Beau’s case.
“Afternoon tea? What a lovely idea,” he said when she reached him.
Although tea and pastries weren’t exactly an unusual thing for a bakery owner, she mainly wanted to spend a little time with a friend and see what she could learn. Rupert suggested a quaint place that only women or a gay man would know of, Miss Rose’s Lovely Tea House. Despite her reservations over whether it would be open on a holiday afternoon, true to Rupert’s prediction, it was. They walked past shelves displaying delicate English cups and saucers, tea spoons, tea balls, and finally a case full of delectable sweets. Sam studied them, as always, thinking of ideas she could ‘borrow.’ Their hostess arrived and showed them to a table. She eyed the delicate chair legs a little apprehensively as Rupert cast aside his flowing purple scarf and lowered his two-hundred-plus pounds onto the seat.
He recommended the Darjeeling so they ordered a pot of that and an assortment of miniature pastries and sandwiches. After some minutes of chit-chat, catching up on each others’ lives, what their mutual friends were up to and pouring the tea, Sam brought up her true reason for the visit.
“You remember my jewelry box,” she began, “the funky carved one with the little stones mounted on it?” She went into a short version of how she had discovered that her uncle in Ireland had one nearly identical, only a bit larger.
Rupert nodded as she talked, plucking a crustless sandwich triangle from the serving plate and finishing it off in two bites.
“Well, knowing there was another such box out there in the world has made me wonder where mine came from. And you are always doing research for your books . . . so I wondered if you might have some ideas where I might find out more.”
“Honey, the Internet. It’s where I look up historical data for my purposes. Have you tried that?”
Sam had to admit that she hadn’t, but she had a feeling its place in history was only a small part of what made her box unique. She debated—Rupert had entrusted her with a major secret about his identity as a writer. Surely she could trust him with some of the unrevealed aspects of the box and its powers. On the other hand, he might very well turn around and use the information in a future story. She waited until he’d finished his third sandwich.
“What I’m looking for is more about where this one came from before I got it. I told you that an old woman named Bertha Martinez gave it to me?”
He nodded vaguely.
“Well, according to Beau, people here in town thought Bertha was a bruja. When I cleaned out her house I found some curious artifacts.” A dried
up old snake and bunches of odd herbs and candles. “I wonder if there’s anyone else around who might have known her.”
“Did you look for her relatives?”
“We checked that when she died. There were none that she had regular contact with.”
Rupert reached for one of the small éclairs, his mouth pursed in thought. After he’d chewed on it for a minute his expression brightened. “There’s a reference librarian at the Harwood who has helped me out several times. Cora . . . Cora . . . Well, I can’t think of her last name at the moment. It’s probably in my address book at home. For Shaman’s Love I had to do some rather specialized research on New Mexico traditions along those lines. This lady knew what books to point me to.”
It didn’t sound exactly like what Sam needed, but it was worth a try. She thanked him and picked up the last sandwich. With a bit of free time coming up, this could be the perfect time to pursue leads on the mysterious box.
She said goodbye in the parking lot and wished Rupert luck with his book, then started her truck. Her hand was on the gearshift when her phone rang. She shoved it back in Park and picked up. Delbert Crow’s name showed on the readout. Darn.
Unfortunately, if she ignored it he would only call back so she answered.
“Got another job for you,” he said. No greeting, no niceties, no Happy Easter.
“Hold on a second,” she said. “I’m in my truck.” She rummaged into her pack for paper and pen. “Okay. Give me the details.”
8 Sweet Payback Page 3
