“Do you remember a dark green trench coat that you brought in yesterday? With all the other clothing?”
One item of hundreds? “Not specifically.”
“Um, I’m not sure what to do with this,” Rose said.
Sam rolled her hand in the air, as if that would speed the woman along with her question.
“It’s got a dark stain, like blood.”
“Well, would it just wash out if you used some pre-soak or something?”
“Uh . . . it’s more than that. I mean covered.”
“It should probably just be thrown away, then.”
“Sam, obviously you didn’t see this when you gathered up the clothes. This is a lot. It’s soaked.”
She gulped. “Rose, I think you better turn it over to the authorities.”
“I just didn’t know who to call.”
Sam debated for a second. “Here’s a direct number for Deputy Beau Cardwell. He’d be the best one to talk to.”
“Oh thank you, Sam.” Relief was evident in the older woman’s voice. “I was just so shocked about this. I didn’t know what to do first, and then I got worried about how something like this happened—”
“I understand, Rose. Just call Deputy Cardwell. He’ll take care of everything.”
Despite her outward calm Sam’s thoughts zipped all over the place. What on earth had happened out at that little house?
She couldn’t get the image of a blood-soaked trench coat out of her head as she stacked boxes and carried them out back. When Darryl called to say that his men were ready to meet her, Sam decided it was for the best. She needed to give the shop her full attention and it just wasn’t happening. She gave directions to the small white house on the south side then locked up her shop and headed there.
This time when she entered the forlorn little house the idea that something violent may have happened to the owner made the shadows seem deeper, the smells more pungent. She tiptoed through the tunnel of papers in the front hall and made her way to the larger of the two bedrooms. About the time she reached the closet where she assumed the stained trench coat had been, she heard a vehicle out front.
Three beefy young guys were climbing out of an old white pickup truck and eyeing the roll-off in the front yard when Sam reached the tiny porch.
“Hi,” she called out.
The guy in the lead introduced himself as Troy and the other two as Phillip and Gus. He addressed her as Miss Samantha. She smiled at the old-fashioned courtesy.
“I guess the simplest thing is to start at the front door and work your way back, she said, showing them inside. “Start with all these newspapers and magazines—toss them straight into the roll-off. If you come to any furniture, I’ll take a look and see if anything is worth leaving with the house. Any question about an item, save it for me to look at.”
The three men each grabbed an armload of stacked papers and headed out the door. Sam watched them for a couple minutes and then headed back into the master bedroom. The closet, which had held all the adult-sized clothing, was still cluttered with shoe boxes, hats, a bowling ball, three tennis racquets and a few wadded t-shirts and tangled belts that she’d not bothered to gather for the thrift shop. She began pulling things from the upper shelf and raking it all out into the center of the room.
In a far corner on the floor, a pair of men’s boots were crushed under the weight of a duffle bag that turned out to contain a collection of paperback romance novels. A pair of sneakers, old and stained, also looked to be the same male size. Otherwise, just about everything was for a female.
As she worked her way through the clutter she kept an eye open for any other bloodstained items, for any sign of blood on the walls or floor. She found absolutely no trace.
Chapter 4
“Miss Samantha?” Troy stuck his head around the doorjamb. “Want to take a look at the hall and tell us what to do next?”
That was quick. Maybe not. Sam glanced at her watch and saw that more than forty-five minutes had passed while she was buried in the closet clutter.
The home’s small entryway felt amazingly larger now. With the walls visible, Sam realized that the place might actually clean up pretty well.
She pointed the three workers toward the living room. “This room next, I guess. Strip out everything but the furniture and we’ll see how that goes. Then do the same in the dining area.”
She stepped into the kitchen, belatedly remembering what a disaster it was. Grabbing a box of extra-strength trash bags she dispensed with the disgusting contents of the fridge as well as the crusted dishes and pans. There were times Sam went to the effort to clean up a place and leave some of the household items for the new owner, but this wasn’t one of them. She opened the back door and a window to the fresh October air, and surveyed the room in hopes that she’d gotten most of the smelliest junk out of there.
The light was fading fast, and without power in the house they wouldn’t be able to work much longer, which was fine with Sam. Her body ached all over. She flopped onto one of the kitchen chairs, from which she’d just cleared a kid’s booster seat and a nasty-looking baby doll.
“It’s almost five, Miss Samantha.”
She glanced at her watch. “You’re right, Troy. What time do you guys normally knock off?”
“Just whenever.”
“Good enough for me.” She forced herself not to groan as she stood up.
The three guys had made good progress through the living room and partway into the dining area.
“Tomorrow, eight o’clock?” She directed the question at Troy.
What am I thinking. Do I want to be back here at eight? “Just a sec.” She pulled a new lockset from the toolbox in her truck, took one of the keys from the package and handed it to Troy. “This will open the front door. Do not lose it.”
“Yes ma’am.” She smiled as she watched them drive away. Troy seemed like a responsible guy, pretty good looking. Maybe she should introduce him to Kelly.
Forget it. I do not need one more thing to think about at this moment.
Ignoring her protesting muscles, she drilled the old lock and replaced it with the new lockset. Pocketed the remaining key, locked up the rest of the house. In the waning light she walked slowly through the rooms where walls and floors were now free of clutter. The condition of that old coat weighed on her mind, but she could see no sign of blood anywhere in the house. She would have to ask Beau if he’d taken a look at the garment.
As much as Sam yearned to work on her new shop, her body was simply telling her not to. She drove through town, stopping at the market for something ready-made for dinner, realizing that part of her energy slump might be because she’d entirely forgotten to eat lunch.
Her kitchen phone was ringing as she walked in but before she could reach for it, the cell phone in her pocket went off too. Sheesh. The readout on the cell told her it was Beau; the voice coming over her answering machine was a bakery customer. The woman won out. Sam felt around for pen and her order pad as she intercepted the call. A Chamber of Commerce breakfast. They wanted eight dozen pastries—assorted muffins, breads and coffee cakes. And if she could provide fruit platters and juice, that would be even better. Oh, and it all needed to be delivered by eight o’clock the next morning. Sam gritted her teeth but put a smile into her voice as she assured the woman she could handle it. Why did she have the feeling that someone who’d been assigned the job of organizing all this had completely forgotten until the last minute?
Sam immediately phoned Kelly and gave her a list of groceries to pick up on her way home from the Cardwells. Then she collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and seriously considered whether to scream or simply cry.
Bertha Martinez’s words came back to her: The box will give you immense power. Use it to your advantage and to help others.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. The dream she’d dismissed last night now seemed to offer hope for accomplishing all she needed to do in the next few hours. She eyed the bottle of
ibuprofen sitting on the counter but got out of her chair and walked into the bedroom instead. The bottom dresser drawer where she’d shoved the wooden box this morning stood open a couple of inches. Sam came to a dead stop.
She stared around the room but nothing else was out of place. What the hell was going on? Could the damn box move?
She gingerly reached for the edge of the drawer and pulled it open. On top of a folded sweater lay the box, its dull red, blue and green stones catching the light from the overhead fixture. Sam picked it up and ran her hands over the quilt-shaped surface.
Immediately, the box began to warm to her touch. She wrapped her arms around it and held it close to her body. When she looked down at it, the sour yellow varnish had taken on a golden glow. The colored stones sparkled with life. Her hands warmed and she felt a new energy surge up her arms and through her chest. The aches in her body vanished.
The first time this had happened, more than a month ago, it frightened her. Farm girls from Texas did not buy into the idea of magical powers, brujas or the ability to see things that weren’t there. Yet here she was, turning to a charmed object to help her accomplish more than humanly possible. She deposited the box on the dresser and kicked the drawer shut. Rubbish!
She tried to put it out of her mind as she rushed back to the kitchen, washed her hands and got out her recipes. Assorted pastries. She would need at least three varieties of each item. And she better go with simple recipes and rely on little embellishments. Autumn flavors. Pumpkin, apple, cinnamon. Pulling ingredients from the pantry she mixed the first batters. As pans of muffins went into the oven, she mixed streusel for one of her favorite coffee cakes and a lemon glaze for another.
When Kelly got home Sam put her daughter to work cutting up fruit and arranging it on platters.
“Is there going to be any dinner tonight?” Kelly asked as she came in from the service porch after placing the fruit platters into the spare refrigerator.
Sam aimed her elbow toward the microwave. “Would you mind warming up that deli casserole I brought home?”
Fresh, homemade goodies for the clients; deli food for themselves. Sam vowed to stop that trend once the bakery opened and her own kitchen was once again reserved for home cooked meals. She set the pans of perfectly baked muffins out to cool and put the coffee cakes into the oven.
Sam’s chirping cell phone interrupted. Beau again. She’d forgotten all about returning his previous call. She set her dinner plate down and fished the phone out of her pocket.
“Hey there. Sorry I didn’t get right back to you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been pretty tied up today, too. It’s about a trench coat that Rose found at the thrift shop.”
“Ah, yes. Was it okay that I gave her your direct number?”
“No problem. She was right. It’s . . . well . . . a mess. She said you brought it in?”
Sam explained the circumstances and how she’d not found any other traces of blood at the house where she’d gotten the coat.
“I’ll need to come out there and take a look. Someone may have cleaned up the visible evidence, but there could be traces. Would tomorrow be good?”
She explained about the pastry delivery first and they made a plan to meet around nine o’clock. It wasn’t until she’d hung up that she realized he’d used the word ‘evidence.’
Chapter 5
Sam rolled over in bed and grumbled at the beeping alarm clock on her nightstand. Even with Kelly’s help, they’d been up until after one o’clock to finalize the pastry order for the Chamber breakfast, and now six o’clock was here way too quickly. She slapped at the button to shut off the annoying thing and flung the covers off. The room was too chilly to tolerate being coverless for long, so she pulled on her robe and headed for the shower.
By the time she’d finished slicing the breads and arranging everything on disposable platters, her delivery deadline was quickly approaching. At some point Kelly drifted through the kitchen, grabbed a mug of coffee and headed out for her job at the Cardwell’s. Sam felt a small flash of envy toward her daughter. Most likely Iris would still be in bed when she arrived, giving Kelly the luxury of time for another cup of caffeine. They would eat breakfast together at Beau’s sunny dining table which faced out over open pasture land, and it wouldn’t matter if the elderly lady wasn’t dressed and ready to face the world until well after mid-morning.
Sam loaded all the platters into her van and drove to the conference center where the breakfast was being hosted. Parking, as usual, was non-existent and she found herself in a red zone, hoping that she could get away with it. Luckily, the woman who had placed the last-minute order was waiting there for her and Sam informed the customer that she could use some help. Three volunteers stepped up and soon all the goodies were carried inside. Once Sam had the check in hand she was on her way.
She arrived at Hickory Lane to find Gus, Phillip and Troy already at work and looking far more chipper than she felt. She wandered inside, sipping from her travel mug of coffee and nibbling at the one slice of pumpkin bread she’d saved for herself.
The cleaning effort was going well. The living room was down to the furniture, a threadbare natty brown sofa, two end tables of peeling laminate and a recliner that wouldn’t go upright. She started to instruct the guys to toss everything, but decided to wait. Those might be the very things Beau would want to look at.
In the dining area, they’d revealed a table that was probably once a fine piece of furniture—someone might be able to refinish it—but the chairs were a mismatched conglomeration. Sam brushed pumpkin crumbs from her hands and braced herself for the kitchen.
It was exactly as she’d left it—darn it. No kindly gnomes had appeared in the night to finish off the work. The spoiled-food smell had begun to dissipate, at least until she opened the refrigerator door. She slammed it quickly and debated. An older model, not worth much, saturated with that odor. She called a man who’d previously disposed of used appliances for her and asked him to come get it. He knew, far better than she, all the rules and regulations. She’d just hung up when she heard Beau’s voice at the front of the house. She met him in the entry and directed Troy and his men to start clearing the kitchen.
“You aren’t having them throw away anything that might be evidence, are you?” he asked, first thing.
Sam bristled. “Good morning to you too.” She turned to go inside.
“Sorry. But seriously . . .”
“How would I know?” She led him toward the two untouched bedrooms and waved her arms wide to indicate the clutter in the children’s room. “This is how the whole house looked. Worse, in the living room and entryway. I literally could not open the front door when I first got here. And I didn’t have a clue that there might have been a crime until Rose took a close look at that coat.”
“You’re right. I didn’t mean to— Could we just start this conversation over?” He smiled at her, removed his Stetson and held it across his chest. “Good morning, Samantha Sweet, the light of my life. May I offer you a kiss first thing on this lovely day?”
She raised her eyebrows. “That might be taking it a little too far the other direction. But yes, a kiss would be nice.” She glanced toward the living room and, satisfied that the worker-guys were not nearby, went into Beau’s arms.
“Umm. Now I think I’m ready to show you the closet where the coat came from.”
He followed her into the master bedroom and peered into the now-empty closet.
“See? No sign of blood,” she said.
“I’ll bring in the lab kit and spray some Luminol around. Maybe we can dump some of the stuff off the bedding, and maybe clear the carpet too?”
“Let me get the helpers right on that. You just tell them what you want moved, and where.” She found the guys and told them to leave the kitchen for the moment and do whatever Beau asked.
Hey, this felt pretty good, having minions to order about. She wished she could get used to it, but the truth was that she
did the majority of the labor on most of these properties herself. She took a sip from her coffee but discovered it had gone cold. She’d just come back inside after putting her travel mug in her truck when Beau caught her attention.
“No blood is showing up yet,” he said. “But do you want to see what I’m dealing with?” Without waiting for an answer he headed out to his cruiser.
Sam followed and watched as he retrieved a paper bag from the back seat. From that, he pulled a dark green trench coat and held it up by the shoulders. When he spread the lapels she saw what the fuss was about. The lining, which had originally been a tan plaid fabric was now stained a dark rust-brown over almost the entire torso area.
“That is a lot of blood,” she said, feeling a little queasy.
“Enough that the wearer probably bled out. This isn’t a little cut.”
“And yet there’s no real damage to the coat. No bullet holes, no rips or tears.”
“The waterproof fabric probably kept all the blood on the inside, and the dark color obscured whatever seeped to the outside. It will go to the state lab to see if we can get some answers.” He refolded it and placed it carefully back into the paper sack. “Who knows? It could be animal blood. Or maybe someone was hurt and grabbed this to wrap around a wound. That’s why I needed to see what additional evidence might be in the house.”
“But, geez, Beau. If it’s enough blood loss to kill a person . . .”
“Exactly. I don’t think they died inside this house. There would have to be spillage outside the coat.”
“So . . . where does that leave us with the house? I need to get the place cleared and ready for sale pretty quickly.”
“I know. I’d say it’s okay to keep removing the small stuff. Leave the furniture for now—beds, sofas and such might be places that a murder could occur. Once we’ve got a few test results from the lab, I’ll know whether I need to come back.”
Sam fumed. Getting this place finished up would free her to work on her shop and the delay chafed at her.
Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery ssm-2 Page 3
