Not exactly what I wanted to hear from him, Sam thought. But at least he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. See there, you little witch. He’s fine.
She went back to the ganache, turning out a perfect batch on the second try. She gave the cream cheese filling another stir, then quickly filled and stacked the layers. The ganache spread over the top, shiny and sleek, giving the cake a sophisticated appearance.
“This needs to chill for at least an hour,” she told Becky, “but then I want to get it out for sampling. Can you help me keep an eye on the time, not let the whole day get away from me?”
Her assistant looked up from the tray she was filling with yellow and red roses, pre-making them for Tafoya’s victory cake. “Sure. No problem. Are you going out?”
The idea took hold. Maybe if she just happened to be out for lunch . . . Beau’s office wasn’t that far away . . . And maybe if she happened to see his vehicle there . . .
As it turned out, he was just getting out of his patrol SUV when Sam cruised by and he spotted her. She whipped into a parking space and joined him at the sidewalk.
“So? I’m dying of curiosity since you described the search as ‘interesting.’ Can you tell me about it?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Okay. Does it involve the bloody trench coat that was found at one of my properties? Doesn’t that make me involved, just a little?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” He grinned and flicked at her chin.
“I can make it a hundred questions if you’ll let me.”
“Uh-huh. Well . . . no.”
“Beau! At least tell me whether you have a suspect. I already know what the MI said.” She looked around, realized that they were standing right in front of the sheriff’s office. People were coming and going, although most were scurrying along to get out of the chilly November wind. “Can I take you to lunch?”
He glanced at his watch. “I don’t have much time. There’s a lot of evidence to process.”
Another car pulled in beside Beau’s in the spots reserved for Sheriff’s Department vehicles. Lisa, the technician who always helped gather evidence at crime scenes. She had the knowledge and basic equipment for performing a few limited tests locally, but more complicated tests such as DNA and tissue matching were always sent to the state crime lab in Santa Fe. She greeted Sam as she walked to the back of her large SUV and began to pull boxes and bags from the back. Beau walked over and spoke to her for a moment.
“Okay,” he said, turning back to Sam. “Let’s take a quick lunch break.”
They headed for a place two blocks over, a spot known for its hearty soups, which seemed perfect for a day like this. On the way, Beau began to talk.
“I found a heavy nylon bootlace that I think might be the murder weapon,” he said. “Came across a pair of boots at the bottom of a hall closet, one is missing the lace but the other one indicates that the laces are pretty new, in good condition, thick and strong. So, I ask myself where’s the other one? If someone used it to strangle Elena, what did they do with it? Didn’t take too long to find it in a garbage bag out at the curb. Funny how people don’t think things through.”
“And you’re pretty sure it’s the one?”
“Without getting too graphic about it, let’s just say that there’s evidence of that, yes.”
Sam pictured blood or tissue, but she stopped her thoughts right there. “So, you’re thinking Carlos Tafoya?”
“The boots were a man’s size nine, which fits with the other shoes in the home that belong to him. But—” he held up an index finger. “We don’t yet have any proof that someone else didn’t pull that lace and use it. A defense attorney would point out that anyone entering that house could have access to boots in the front hall closet.”
“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 was 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.”
Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 16