Bram Fenton. No wonder the investigator’s notes were encrypted. Among his clients had been the former mayor.
Then Sam remembered the trench coat. The picture confused her—where was Elena’s car parked? Where did the knife incident take place? “Did he follow you out to the gorge bridge?” Sam asked.
Elena’s sob turned into a hiccup and she stared at Sam. “No . . . why would you think that?”
“Never mind. What did you do next?”
Elena took a breath, blew her nose on the napkin. “I panicked. All I could think of was getting away . . . I ran.”
Tears continued to run down Elena’s cheeks and she looked drained.
“Elena, you need to tell the authorities about this. I’m sure they’ll see that it was self-defense. An accident that the cut was fatal.”
Her red-rimmed eyes went wide. “No! Sam, that’s not an option. I—Carlos—the election is everything to him. He would—”
She reached for her purse and scarf. “I have to get going.”
“Elena, calm down. We’ll give it some thought. Meanwhile, you’re not driving. You’ve had a lot to drink and you are way too upset.” Sam pulled Elena’s keys from her pocket. “I’ll drive you home and give these back to you when we get there. You can come back for your car tomorrow.”
Elena looked like she wanted to argue the point but she submitted. She gave Sam her address.
During the drive, Elena sat slumped in the passenger seat. The ordeal of telling her awful secret had clearly drained every ounce of her energy. Sam concentrated on the drive, on getting Elena into her house. Her mind couldn’t yet wrap itself around the deed and the implications for her friend.
“Please don’t tell Deputy Cardwell,” Elena whispered to Sam. “It won’t solve anything.”
“Get some sleep,” Sam said. “We’ll decide what to do, later.”
Fine advice Sam thought as she fought for sleep, hours later. Elena, a killer? The woman’s distraught face appeared to Sam at every turn. She would roll over in bed, there would be Elena. She puzzled over the logistics. Elena, walking toward her car parked on a side street in town. It must have been fairly near one of the hotels. Nowhere near the isolated gorge bridge, miles outside town on the west side. The only question with an answer was the part about how Fenton’s trench coat had become saturated with his blood. But how had that coat ended up in Cheryl Adams’s closet? Did Cheryl and Elena know each other? The elegant mayor’s wife, acquaintance of the young trailer park mother? If Cheryl Adams had offered to hide the bloody evidence, she’d certainly pulled a good bluff on Beau when they interviewed her.
Sam rolled over in bed for the hundredth time, wrestling with the dilemma about how much to tell Beau versus leaving it up to Elena. When she looked at her bedside clock, it showed four-fifty in the morning and she didn’t feel like she’d had a wink of sleep.
I could at least be doing something with my time, she decided, fumbling about in the dark room for some clothes. The mess from the party still needed to be dealt with, and even though Sweet’s Sweets would be closed today, Sunday, there was plenty of work to be done.
By nine o’clock Sam had managed to put much of last night’s drama behind her. Amazing what a few hours of vigorous cleaning will do for an unsettled mind. She’d tossed out the scraps of snacks, which didn’t look nearly as appetizing in the pre-dawn as they had last night, trashed paper plates and plastic wine glasses, washed platters and coffee makers and reassembled the remains of the gala cake—the square tier replica of the shop itself—presenting it on a fresh cake board and putting it on display in the front window.
The half-sheet cake for tonight’s catered dinner was simple to whip up and she felt herself relaxing as the scent filled the bakery. Mopping floors to the accompaniment of warm cake batter offered a soothing respite. After stashing the cleaning gear and decorating the sheetcake, Sam headed home.
“Hey, Mom.” Kelly was busy in the kitchen. “How about if I make us a nice breakfast in honor of the first time we’ve both had a day off in ages? Eggs benedict?”
“I’d love that,” Sam said. “Is there time for me to grab a quick shower?”
She emerged from the steamy bathroom ten minutes later, cogitating on the idea of eating Kelly’s nice breakfast and then sleeping the day away. She could do it as long as she awoke in time to deliver the cake for the senate candidate’s dinner that night.
“Nearly ready,” Kelly said. Eighties music came from the radio on the counter and she swayed in time to it as she topped the poached eggs with hollandaise sauce.
Sam found silverware and napkins and hastily set the table. Aside from two pilfered cookies at her shop, she’d eaten nothing since the previous night—and very little then. Thinking of the evening brought back her dilemma about how much of Elena’s confession to tell Beau.
“Here we go,” Kelly said, setting their plates on the table and pulling out her chair. Belatedly, she remembered the salt and pepper and as she was rising to get them, the music stopped and the voice of the news announcer came on.
Sam paid little attention until a familiar name grabbed her. “. . . Elena Tafoya, wife of the former mayor and gubernatorial candidate Carlos Tafoya, found dead in the couple’s home this morning, an apparent suicide.”
Her fork dropped with a clatter. She felt the blood drain from her face.
“Mom? What’s the matter?” Kelly mumbled through a mouthful of egg.
“Shh, I need to hear this.” Sam leaned toward the radio, but the announcer had already gone on to other stories.
“No, no, no . . . I can’t believe it—”
“What, Mom?” Kelly had set aside her own fork and was staring at Sam.
“Elena—I think you met her last night. Pretty blond, wearing a turquoise silk blouse . . . the wife of Carlos Tafoya. They just said that she’s died.”
“Mom, ohmygod, how awful.”
Sam’s head buzzed, like a swarm of insects drilling at her brain with a terrible drone. Impossible. She’d just seen Elena, just talked with her. She’d been upset but not suicidal. Surely not. There had to be a mistake.
The ringing in her head began to coalesce, and Sam realized it was the phone. Kelly had already jumped up to answer it.
“We just heard,” she was saying.
Sam waited, numb, not wanting to talk to anyone.
“Sure. No problem. Twenty minutes? You’re sure?” Kelly’s side of the conversation made no sense until she handed the phone out to Sam.
“It’s Beau,” she told her mother. “He’s been called out to the Tafoya’s home and wants to know if I can come over and stay with Iris. I told him I would. Now he wants to speak with you.”
He gave her the bare facts—yes, it was true that Elena was dead. Until he got to the scene he wouldn’t know for sure, but the call indicated that she’d hung herself with a long piece of woven material.
“Beau, I need to talk to you about this. Can you call me the minute you are finished at the scene?”
“What do you know, Sam?”
What did she know? Nothing, really. And everything. At least protecting Elena’s privacy over the affair and the death of Bram Fenton were no longer a priority. It was all bound to come out now. “I don’t think she killed herself,” Sam told Beau.
“Darlin, everyone feels that way when it’s a friend or relative. It’s just so hard to accept. Eventually you’ll get used to the idea.”
“Elena and I had a long talk last night, after the rest of the guests left the shop. I need to tell you about it.”
“Okay . . .” The word dragged out as he considered the possibilities. “I can’t let you near the scene.”
“I couldn’t handle it.”
“Good. I mean, it’s good that you aren’t going to fight me on that. I’ll call you when I can get away.”
“Beau? Take good care of her. She was just so—” Sam choked on a sob.
“I will, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” She hung onto the
phone long after his call clicked off and the dial tone began buzzing in her ear.
Kelly hurriedly jammed down a few more bites of her breakfast. “Sorry that I need to leave so fast,” she said. “Would you like to come with me out to the Cardwell’s? It might be better if you didn’t stay here alone.”
Sam took a deep breath and forced a weak smile. “No, no, I’ll be fine. I could really use some sleep.”
She watched as Kelly grabbed up her jacket and purse, and stood leaning against the kitchen counter as her daughter’s red car pulled out of the long driveway.
Sleep. Like that would be possible.
Her brain swirled with a million thoughts, reliving last night’s conversation, seeing Elena with her multicolored scarf around her shoulders. The secret she revealed was a terrible one, granted. But Fenton’s dying had been an accident, Elena’s strike against him she believed to be self defense. Sam tried to remember what she’d said to her friend, how they’d left things. Elena’s state of mind—frightened, worried, secretive. She clearly didn’t want her husband to know the truth. But was she scared enough to kill herself?
A chill settled over Sam and didn’t go away even when she crawled back under the thick quilts on her bed. She’d insisted that Elena go to the authorities.
And that, she feared, was the thing that pushed the poor woman over the edge.
Chapter 16
The bedroom was dim with late afternoon light when Sam awoke with a start. Despite her whirling thoughts and ragged emotions, exhaustion won out and she’d drifted off to sleep for several hours. She stared at the clock, uncomprehending, until it hit her that the thing she had to remember was to deliver the cake for the Senator’s dinner, which started at six.
She dragged herself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, combing her hair into a semblance of order and then wandering back to her closet for fresh clothes. Thank goodness she didn’t have to play hostess tonight. No way she could have handled that. She checked her appearance in the mirror; with puffy eyes and ghostlike skin she was barely presentable.
She’d obviously slept more soundly than she imagined. In the kitchen three messages blinked on her machine: one from Zoë asking whether they might want to drive to the party together to deliver the food and dessert; one from Kelly saying that she would be staying with Iris past dinnertime; the final one from Beau to inform her that they’d nearly finished processing the scene and that he’d try her cell. On the cell, he’d said that he would call her again when he actually got away. He could either come by her house or they could meet somewhere. When she returned Zoë’s call, Darryl informed her that Zoë had already left. Sam erased the messages then got in the van and drove to the shop.
Sweet’s Sweets was quiet, as was the street at this time of day. Most of the small retail businesses along here were closed on Sundays, one main reason that Sam had decided to take the day off as well. She pulled to the alley behind and went inside.
Wrestling the large cake board from the walk-in fridge, she admired her handiwork. Good thing I did this one before I learned about Elena—my hands wouldn’t have been nearly this steady, she thought. She felt the telltale prickle of tears again and forced herself to think of something else. Reviewing the directions to the hostess’s home, she secured the cake in the back of the van and started out.
The large house sat perched on a steep hillside with views of the town, the river and the far-off volcanoes in the west. The sun was well below the horizon, leaving the sky in brilliant crimson, as Sam followed the winding drive.
Guest cars filled two pullout areas and she bypassed them, hoping there was a separate service entrance. When she spotted Zoë’s little Subaru wagon, she headed that direction.
The kitchen bustled with activity. A housekeeper seemed to be in charge, a thin reed of a woman who was speaking urgently with a lady in full Taoseña regalia, brushed silk skirt and top with loads of turquoise jewelry.
“Ah, the cake,” the dressy lady said. “We were beginning to worry.” She said it in a tone that really meant ‘it’s about time.’ She turned her back and left it to the housekeeper to organize and instruct Sam where to put it.
“The cake can go on that table,” the other woman said. She, too, turned around and began directing others. Sam spotted Zoë in a corner of the large kitchen, checking something under foil in a large chafing dish. She gave a quick nod toward her friend and headed out to the van to get the cake.
“Now I know why I don’t often cater meals for rich people,” Zoë said as they walked out to their vehicles together after assuring that the serving staff were ready to handle the actual interaction with guests. “Too many bosses and too many opinions.”
Zoë had grown up in a hippie commune in the sixties where food consisted of whatever someone cooked at whatever time they cooked it. No whining unless you wanted to do it yourself.
“So, what’s up with you? You were beaming all over last night, and now you look like something that’s been run over and left by the road.” Zoë looked at her suspiciously. “Have a little too much fun last night?”
“Not that kind,” Sam assured her. “I just found out this morning that a friend died.” She still had a hard time saying the words.
“Oh, god, Sam. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so flippant.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
“Come home with me. We’re having the same dinner as all these snooty political donors, minus the speeches and the groveling. I made extra.” Zoë took Sam’s hand and squeezed it. “You look like you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Sam hesitated. Being alone probably wasn’t the best thing for her, but she couldn’t imagine coming up with dinner conversation either. “I, uh—” Her cell buzzed inside her pocket and she pulled it out to look. “It’s Beau. I, um, I may have some information about his current case and he wants to talk to me.”
“If you didn’t look as if you were about to go to a dental appointment, I’d think that was just an excuse to see Mr. Gorgeous.” She gave a half wink. “Go—get the interview done. If you want to talk later, I’ll be home.”
Sam caught the call just before it went to voice mail, and she waved bye to Zoë.
“Hey there. Glad I caught you,” Beau said.
“Yeah, sorry I managed to sleep through all the other messages.”
“You needed the rest. So. I need to hear about this final conversation between you and Elena Tafoya. Is it something that needs to be done at my office, with a stenographer and all?”
Sam hadn’t considered that. She fumbled an answer.
“How about if we meet somewhere private. You tell me about it. If it’s the kind of thing that needs to go into the record we’ll re-do it, officially.”
“Thank you. I . . . I guess I’m . . .”
“Still shaken up. I know. Since Kelly’s at my house with Mama, how about if I come to your place? Have you eaten?”
Less than a bite of egg at breakfast, Sam realized. Nothing since. “I don’t feel hungry.”
“By that answer, I’m guessing you’ve had nothing all day. I can’t have you wasting away to nothing. I’ll bring a bucket of chicken.”
Wasting away to nothing was not going to happen in this century, Sam thought, but it was nice of him to offer. They agreed to meet at her house in thirty minutes.
Beau was sensitive enough not to bring up the subject of Elena’s death right away. Despite believing she couldn’t eat a bite, the smell of the spicy chicken captured Sam and she surprised herself by eating three pieces, along with coleslaw and a biscuit.
“I’ll never lose these extra pounds if you keep treating me this way,” she told Beau as they cleared the paper plates away and put coffee on to brew.
“Have I ever asked you to? I’ve told you, I like you just the way you are.” He pulled her close and she tried to relax against him. But the upcoming conversation was eating at her.
“Let’s take our coffee into the living r
oom and sit down. This may take awhile.”
Suddenly she felt nervous about what she knew. But she laid it all out, everything Elena had said about her affair and how someone was following her down a dark street. The knife, the blood. How she’d run away as the man gripped at the collar of his coat.
“Don’t you see? It was Bram Fenton,” Sam said. “Carlos Tafoya must have been his last client, the man who hired him to watch Elena and catch her in the affair.”
“She mentioned the trench coat?”
“She said he held his coat collar against his neck, where the knife caught him.”
“But she left him on the street, nowhere near the gorge bridge?”
“I mentioned the gorge and she was really puzzled. She wasn’t out there.”
Beau stood up and paced to the far end of the room. “So how did Bram Fenton end up at the bottom of the gorge? Someone took the coat off him and moved the body.”
“Cheryl Adams? The coat was at her house.”
“You saw her, Sam. She’s about ninety pounds soaking wet. How’d she pick up a lifeless man and move him? Much less get him up and over the railing on the bridge?”
“With help?”
His eyes squinted nearly closed as he thought about it. “I don’t know. I sure didn’t get the feeling she knew anything about Fenton or his coat.”
Sam sipped at her coffee but it tasted bitter in her mouth. “Even though she admitted to the killing, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Elena in all this. After she told me the story, I suggested that she needed to report it. That the case was surely self defense. She got panicky when I told her that.”
Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 12
