Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery ssm-2

by Connie Shelton

  “And Carlos wasn’t home that night so it probably was someone else.”

  “Only the evidence will say for sure. A killer could have easily left his own DNA on the cord. Even with gloves there might be some traces of fibers or something like that.”

  Sam puzzled over that as they walked.

  “There were a lot of different fingerprints in the master bedroom and bath, places you would normally only associate with the owner of the house. We finally got the maid to agree to being printed, for elimination purposes. The woman is Tewa, from the Pueblo, and I guess she believed that somehow the ink pad was going to read her spirit or some such thing. Lisa soft-talked her and took the prints right there at the house. We can find Tafoya’s from our databases because all public employees have prints on file.”

  “What about other items? I’m still trying to work out how Fenton’s coat got to Cheryl Adam’s house on the south side of town.”

  “In one of Carlos’s coat pockets, I did find Fenton’s business card. It’s the first real proof that the two men had contact, although it’s a far cry from showing that Carlos actually hired Fenton to track Elena. I gathered up most of the bills and other paperwork from his desk, just to see what we come across.” He held the door to the restaurant for Sam. “Oh, one other thing you might find interesting. Elena kept a journal.”

  They stepped into the crowded room and a hostess immediately greeted them. Sam fidgeted, wanting to question him about the journal. Their table in a back corner afforded some privacy and people at the adjacent tables were engrossed in their own conversations.

  “Could I see her journal?” Sam asked, shrugging off her winter coat. “I might be able to spot a clue in it, something that stands out because of the conversation we had, that final night.”

  He chewed at his lip, debating. “Normally, I’d say no way. Letting a civilian handle evidence can get into some sticky issues.”

  “But you deputized me, remember? Way back when . . .”

  “I know.” He stared at the menu without really seeing it. “We’ve already dusted it for prints. And I’m really short-handed this week. Would you promise not to bend, fold or mutilate—or jot notes in it? And wear gloves while you handle it.”

  She sent him a look to let him know she wasn’t that stupid.

  “It’s in my cruiser, unless Lisa finished carrying all the stuff we collected inside. I’ll get it for you after lunch.”

  She smiled at him. “I really hope I can help.”

  Their server stopped by again, order pad at the ready, and they both chose the homemade vegetable soup.

  “So, do you think there’s any chance you’ll have answers before the election?” she asked, once the server walked away.

  “Not really. Anything going to the state crime lab will probably take weeks. I can always hope that we can match some fingerprints from our local databases.”

  “Maybe somebody will just show up and confess.”

  “I’d give better chances to a snowball in hell, Sam. Those things don’t happen except on television. Especially if it involves somebody like Tafoya—no way a guy like that isn’t going to lawyer up immediately.”

  Sam caught a sharp glance from one of the women at the next table, late twenties, dark hair cut in a sleek page, an oversized handbag on her lap where she was rummaging for something. Suddenly, their conversation felt a little too public. She tapped Beau’s boot under the table. They started talking about the weather, and the dark-haired woman and her companion left a few minutes later. Sam watched them go outside and get into a blue sedan parked at the curb.

  Their bowls of soup arrived just then and Sam gave her attention to eating, still mulling over what Beau had told her. She couldn’t believe a married woman—a smart married woman—would actually reveal anything in writing, but there was always the chance of some little clue that would lead the investigation somewhere in a new direction.

  Once they stepped back out on the street, Sam brought up the subject that had brought her to Beau’s office in the first place.

  “I’m worried about you on this investigation, Beau.” Although I can’t really admit that a whispered message from a Halloween kid is the reason why.

  He draped an arm around her shoulders and brought her close to him. “So far, I haven’t gotten any real sense of danger, Sam. Heck, this is a whole lot tamer than patrolling back streets where the drug gangs hang out.”

  “I know. But be careful. Please.”

  They walked the two blocks back to his office, pulling their coats tight against the increasing wind. Gray clouds sat low over the face of the mountains and tiny grains of sleet spat down in gusts. Beau located Elena’s journal and handed it to Sam, extracting another promise that it would remain safe and intact. At her car, he paused and kissed her lightly.

  “If this little sleet turns to snow, I want you to go home early. No sense being out in it.”

  “You too. You’ve got a lot farther to drive than I do.”

  His expression told her that leaving early was a dream. “If I get home late I’ll call ahead and just tell Kelly to stay in our guestroom. It wouldn’t be good for her to be out on bad roads either.”

  “Not for a girl who’s spent the last ten years in southern California. Thanks, Beau.”

  Sam started her van and pulled onto the street, giving Beau a quick wave as he headed into the county building. She was nearly a block away when she spotted the blue sedan with the young, dark haired woman who had been sitting near them in the restaurant.

  Chapter 21

  The blue sedan sat at the curb and the woman was sticking coins into a parking meter, struggling to keep her dark green wool coat from flying open and shrugging her oversized bag onto her shoulder at the same time. Her neatly cut page was whipping across her face, obscuring her vision and making the job twice as difficult. It didn’t appear that she had seen Sam.

  Curious coincidence, Sam thought. Same restaurant, same street as Beau’s office. She shook off the sense of worry. Taos is a small town. A lot of people plan their errands to get several things done in the same part of town at once. Silly to give it a second thought. But she couldn’t help remembering how the woman had appeared to be listening to their conversation at the table.

  At Sweet’s Sweets Jen assured Sam that all was well. They’d had a larger than normal rush on cupcakes and cookies right after lunch, people stocking up with bags of goodies to take home for a quiet evening in front of the fire. The cheesecakes were all gone, too, she noted, as were the apple tarts and most of the cinnamon crumb cake.

  Luckily, Becky had noticed the shortages. Four cheesecakes had just come out of the oven—their signature amaretto, a chocolate to be topped with raspberries, a pumpkin spice, and of course a plain one. She told Sam she’d also just put a crumb cake in to bake.

  “You’re wonderful,” Sam said, admiring her new assistant’s meticulous work.

  Becky blushed slightly. “I’ve mixed up the dough for tomorrow’s cookies and put it in the refrigerator. And the dry ingredients for muffins and scones—they’re mixed and stored in those tubs. All we have to do in the morning is add the liquids and bake them.”

  “Great idea. That will save quite a bit of time. Especially if the roads are snowy and I’m a little late getting here.” Sam surveyed the kitchen and made up a supply list, which she faxed to her wholesaler. “Ladies, if it stays slow this afternoon, or if the weather gets bad, feel free to close a little early. I have to meet a repairman at home, but you can reach me there if you need to.”

  She didn’t mention that while she waited she intended to read Elena’s diary, which was burning a hole through her backpack at this moment. Fifteen minutes later, she’d pulled the small book from her pack and was putting the kettle on for tea. Snuggled into a corner of the sofa, she opened the leather-bound book.

  Familiar writing covered the pages. Sam felt a catch in her throat as she remembered her friend’s written instructions for the cake that w
as to celebrate her husband’s election. A decision soon to be made by voters. Sam tuned out those thoughts and concentrated on the pages.

  The first entry was dated earlier in the summer. The initial entry seemed to indicate that this was Elena’s first attempt at keeping a journal.

  I don’t normally put personal things into writing. But this summer has become too . . . what shall I say . . . too emotional, too revealing, too strange to ignore. I feel like I must talk about it with someone and yet I cannot. I feel as if my head will burst with this new knowledge. If not my head, my heart will surely break.

  After that first one, the entries were more traditional, dated, beginning the first week of July.

  Despite knowing it’s wrong, I’m still seeing him, the man I shall refer to in these pages by the initial D. The first few pages discussed the very things Elena had told Sam on what was to be her final night. She was seeing a man, believed herself to be in love with him. D? The name didn’t fit anyone Sam could think of but she read on. In spite of the fact that both were married, they wanted to be together, to leave their unhappy marriages and start a new life together. Then came the part that frightened Elena.

  Someone may have seen me. I’m so afraid that I may be caught out at night in the wrong neighborhood. That the person might reveal my affair to Carlos. Or worse, to the media. Carlos’s life revolves around becoming governor. The next few months will be crucial. If only he would lose the election and give up. Then I could leave and start my own life. But he won’t. He’ll never give up.

  Another entry, three weeks later: I’m now sure someone is spying on me. I might try to get a small gun for protection. I could probably ask for bodyguards, like Carlos has, because I’m the wife of the candidate. But that would only complicate things further. I would have to give up seeing my real love, and that is also impossible. It’s better that I be ready to defend myself.

  Apparently the idea of the gun hadn’t worked out, since Elena ended up with only the small knife. Two weeks went by with mundane entries about everyday life. Almost as if the fears and intrigues of Elena’s life had disappeared. But Sam knew better.

  In the second week of August came the entry she expected. Elena’s normally elegant script was jagged and off-kilter.

  Horror!!! I had the most—absolutely most—awful experience. The stalker caught up with me. I swung. I ran. I don’t know what to do now.

  Couched in vague language that didn’t admit to the murder, nevertheless Sam knew what Elena meant.

  The next entry was calmer: It’s been taken care of. D assures me that the awful deed will be noted as an accident. I don’t know how—I’m just thankful to put this behind me. We have agreed to take a break, to see each other less often until November. I don’t know how I will survive this but I shall.

  Sam found a yellow pad and jotted notes to discuss with Beau. Apparently the lover had disposed of Fenton’s body, which explained a lot. No one of Elena’s size could have lifted a grown man over the railing at the gorge bridge and dumped him. But another man . . . it made sense. It also made sense that the lover would now want some distance between them, and if Elena hadn’t seen him in a few weeks it could very well be the reason that she broke down and confided in Sam. But Sam’s sense of tidiness ended abruptly when she read the next entry.

  The gross unfairness of it!!!! I hate him!!! My loving husband – he is lower than scum. I’ve always suspected his affairs but now I learn this new fact. There is a child—a little boy!!!! He told me so, himself. The BASTARD! As if to rub my face in it!! He wants me to ignore his indiscretions while I am so tortured about mine??

  Sam found herself reading faster, needing to know Elena’s state of mind as this revelation had surely rocked her world. A child by someone else. Elena’s own heartbreak over not having any children of her own, and now learning that he’d fathered a son, secretly. She turned to the next entry.

  I cannot keep still about this. We screamed at each other half the night. He swears he has not seen the other woman in years—he finally tells me that she died in a car accident more than two years ago. He says the child has no idea who his father is, that he is now being raised by an aunt. Isn’t that convenient for him?? I want to scream, to scratch his eyes out! I should tell that reporter about it, the one who interviewed me last year about our happy home life. That would teach Carlos a lesson. What would the voters think of him then?

  The rest of the pages were blank. Sam’s heart thudded.

  What better motive for Carlos Tafoya to kill his wife? She’d confronted him and threatened to ruin his career. A bombshell like this, practically on the eve of the election? Oh, Elena, what did you do?

  Sam dialed Beau’s cell phone and read him the last two pages. “Do you suppose she actually confronted him and threatened to expose his secret?”

  “Certainly points us to a motive, doesn’t it?”

  “But he has a pretty good alibi, doesn’t he? Giving a speech in Albuquerque the night she died, a few hundred people witnessed that, didn’t they?”

  “I’d be surprised if a guy like Tafoya actually did the deed himself, Sam. He’s got connections and bodyguards and henchmen who would do that sort of thing for him.”

  “True. But, geez, Beau. That sure opens him up to a greater risk, doesn’t it? People like that wouldn’t be exactly trustworthy in keeping a guy’s secrets.”

  “You’d be surprised. If the money’s right, a man can buy just about any kind of loyalty.”

  Sam grumbled but let it go. He was right.

  “Have you looked outside recently?” he asked, changing the subject. “There’s already an inch or more on the ground.”

  Sam peered around the edge of the living room drape. Sure enough, the ground was white.

  “It’ll probably start sticking to the roads pretty soon,” Beau said. “Unless you want Kelly home with you tonight I think I’ll suggest that she stay with Mama. I could get called out to handle traffic problems or something.”

  That seemed like the best plan. They ended the call with a few suggestive ideas but Sam knew they both had more on their minds besides getting romantic.

  She’d no sooner hung up the phone than there was a tap at her front door. Oven guy. With a quick comment about the encroaching weather, he bustled into the kitchen.

  “Got the part for your oven right here,” he said, applying a screwdriver to the control panel. “Should just take a minute.”

  It was longer than a minute, but not by much. Three hundred dollars later, he was on his way. Sam made the entry in her checkbook absentmindedly, thoughts still bouncing around in her head, puzzling over what had really happened to Elena Tafoya.

  At eight o’clock she peered out the window and noticed that it was, indeed, a white world out there. She went to bed wondering how much snow might possibly accumulate overnight, remembering that she’d not been out to check the Adams property in nearly a week and making a mental note to do that. She had two other properties under her care right now, but she’d thoroughly winterized them when the first of the cold weather came along.

  By four a.m. she’d come to the conclusion that sleep was not coming back. A glance out the window showed that about four inches had fallen. The silent sky was black with pinpoint dots of light. In the distance she heard the grind of a snowplow, blocks away, probably clearing the intersections and major roads. If she left soon and took the back streets she could get to the shop before anyone else was out. The fresh snow and her four-wheel-drive pickup truck should make for easy traveling. Once the sun came out everything would clear by noon. She dressed quickly and reached into the wooden box for her watch and earrings.

  Sweet’s Sweets looked like something from a Kincaid painting with its softly glowing nightlights, snow sprinkling the awning like powdered sugar. Along the roadway and parking area the trees and shrubs stood as frosty sentinels with white icing mounded upon their branches. She cruised past them, circled the building and cut a path through the alley with t
he truck’s wide tires.

  Inside, she preheated the ovens and adjusted the salesroom’s thermostat so it would feel cozy for the early customers. Becky’s planning paid off—Sam added eggs and milk to the dry ingredients for muffins, divided batches and added spices and fruit, and soon had four dozen little golden pastries ready for the front room. Scones followed. Napoleons, chocolate cream puffs, apple strudel, and fruit tarts. She stayed in her own zone and relished the enjoyment of pure creation.

  By the time Jen arrived at six, the place was filled with the scents of sugar, fruits and spices.

  “Looks like all I have to do is add the coffee,” she said. “Too bad we don’t have a giant vent fan to send this heavenly smell all over town. We’d have customers lined up out the door.”

  As it turned out, they nearly did. It seemed that everyone who worked in the center of town and the plaza area had the same thoughts: warm, comfort food for breakfast on a day like this. The coffee, chai, hot chocolate and cider went out by the gallons. Office staff came in with orders and left with boxes neatly tied in purple ribbon and stuffed with dozens of assorted pastries. Riki walked over from her grooming shop.

  “Hi luv, the scent of this place is driving me crazy over there, you know.”

  She browsed the cases and chose a blueberry tart and a hearty square of Becky’s Pennsylvania Dutch crumb cake. Sam poured her a large latte and said, “On the house. Just send your customers our way, while they wait for their dogs.”

  “I’m already doing that, Sam. In case you hadn’t noticed, you are the favorite spot on the block now.”

  Sam gave the slender British transplant a quick hug before she departed. She stayed in the front long enough to rearrange the displays and neaten things up before heading to the kitchen again to see how Becky was doing.

  “Got it under control here, I think,” Becky told her. “I’ll have more muffins ready in a jiff.”

  “Okay. That’s great. If you can handle things here, I need to get out to one of my properties and check it over.”