Sweets Forgotten (Samantha Sweet Mysteries Book 10)

by Connie Shelton

  Beau told him about the other number. “She must have two of them.”

  Still, it didn’t make much sense. The neighbor’s information was undoubtedly older than that of the in-laws, but when someone gets a new phone the old one normally ends up in a drawer somewhere, not out on the counter. And, the service would have been discontinued. Beau got a ring and voice message. Maybe she had some reason for keeping them both active. Only a few possibilities came to mind.

  Chapter 7

  Sam reviewed the photos of possible Jane Doe matches once more, but none of them were hers. The face with the closest resemblance was a case more than five years old and the woman was last seen near Buffalo, New York. She set that one aside in case Beau wanted to look at it, but Sam held little hope. She turned out the lights in his office and locked the door. Walking back to Sweet’s Sweets would be the best way to take the crick out of her back and would return her to work quicker than waiting for Beau. She covered the few blocks in less than fifteen minutes.

  In the sales room Jen was seated at one of the bistro tables discussing a new order with a customer. It took less than sixty seconds in the room with them for Sam to feel the tension. Jen had an order form in front of her and a few penciled sketches, but Sam noticed other pages off to the side. Lots of entries had been made and crossed out. Jen’s normally cheery demeanor looked as if it was stretched pretty thin and her smile was tight.

  “Anything I can do to help?” Sam asked as casually as she could.

  “Mrs. Salazar wants an interesting birthday cake.” Jen held out the order form.

  “Our specialty,” Sam said to the customer. “When is the occasion?”

  “I leave for Santa Fe in the morning and need to take it with me.” The woman’s eyes flashed in challenge. “I thought your shop could provide what I wanted but it looks like I’ll have to take my business elsewhere.”

  Sam looked toward a photograph on the table. The cake in the picture was a variation on a Mad Hatter theme with three tiers set at cockeyed angles, intricate fondant bows, and loads of sugar-paste flowers, in addition to a lot of piping and quirky little add-ons that Sam didn’t happen to have in her inventory. Sam knew at a glance this cake would take a minimum of three days to construct because the flowers alone had to be made a day ahead and then allowed time to set up. Baking the layers and trimming cake and fondant to fit was a whole separate operation.

  “I suggested some modifications to make it feasible,” Jen said.

  “To make it entirely different,” Mrs. Salazar replied.

  Sam took a breath. “If you need an exact replica of this cake, I’m afraid we have to decline. I want you to know that we always do our best to accommodate every customer. With four or five days notice, we could have done this one easily. But overnight? No. Overnight, most bakeries are going to be able to provide you a sheet cake with Happy Birthday, Somebody written in script.”

  Sam turned sideways to the woman and picked up Jen’s sketches. The ideas were good and they were innovative. Even so, it would be a push to make anything like this theme cake for the specified number of guests and to have it done by mid-morning tomorrow. Sam thought again of the carved box in her safe at home.

  Clearly, this lady was used to getting her own way and pushing sales girls around to do it. But when the owner handed her photograph back and said ‘good luck’ she caved.

  “That one,” she said, pointing at the sketch in Sam’s hand. “If you can have that one for me before noon tomorrow, I’ll take it.”

  Sam clarified a few details with her and quoted almost double their normal rate. The job would require overtime by everyone, plus there was just the bitch-factor. Sam didn’t like when pushy people hassled her employees. “Rushes like this are cash in advance,” she said.

  The customer’s expression told Sam she wasn’t used to being treated this way, but hey. Sam accepted the counted currency and gave a receipt with a smile.

  “Noon tomorrow,” she reiterated as Mrs. Salazar opened the door and headed toward a silver Mercedes.

  “Thanks, Sam.” Jen’s stress level had gone down about twelve notches, while Sam’s was just ramping up. Now that she’d taken the money she had to produce this thing.

  In the kitchen, Sam caught an air of taut silence but ignored it and went straight to Julio.

  “I need two eight-inch layers in red velvet and two twelve-inchers in devil’s food.”

  “Sam, I have plans tonight. I need to leave in an hour. I got everything caught up so I could, remember?”

  She didn’t remember but couldn’t very well blame him for that. She’d had a lot on her mind. “If you can get the batters made and pans into the oven, I’ll watch them and take them out.”

  He nodded and set to work. Sam made a quick call to let Zoë know she couldn’t possibly break away for tea now.

  “Becky, I’ll need—” Sam stopped in mid-sentence. She’d turned around just in time to catch a glare directed toward Jane, who was sitting at one end of the worktable drizzling decorative patterns over a tray of truffles.

  “Becky? Something the matter?”

  Her assistant shook her head. “No. I’m fine. What were you saying?”

  “For this rush order, I’ll need a dozen full-blown roses and they have to be tinted this exact shade of purple.” The fabric swatch seemed to be a big point with the customer. “I hate to say this, but I need them before quitting time so they can set up in the fridge overnight.”

  Becky gave a slightly exaggerated sigh but assured Sam she was nearly done with the birthday cake for a boy’s soccer-themed party and could start right away on the roses. Sam was used to her assistant’s ups and downs but had the feeling something about Jane had triggered this one. If it didn’t blow over quickly, she supposed they would need to have a talk.

  She complimented Jane on the truffles, wondering how to work up to the question of where she would go for the night. The shelter again, Sam guessed. Meanwhile, she had more urgent things on her mind.

  For this cockeyed cake the customer had okayed elements from two of Jen’s sketches. Sam had already told her because of the tight deadline they would substitute a few pre-made items because there was no time to form every single flower and bow from scratch. She began pulling plastic bins of gadgetry from the storage shelf and stacked them on her desk. None of the purple ribbons matched the given fabric sample but a couple of them were decent complementary tones so she set them out on the worktable.

  Yellow always made a nice accent color with purple but the customer had been set on traditional pink, so Sam scrounged up some whimsical butterflies and a string of beading that could be tucked around the tiers to add elegance. She began to gain confidence about the design as she set out the items and played with placement to see which accessory looked best beside the other.

  At one end of the long stainless steel table, Jane had finished decorating the truffles and placed them on a drying rack. She seemed a little at loose ends but Sam didn’t have a spare brain cell to devote to worrying about keeping the uninvited visitor occupied. The other end of the table had Becky deftly piping large roses onto squares of waxed paper on a flower nail, sliding each finished one onto a baking tray in readiness to go into the fridge for the night. Sam felt a current of tension in the air between the two women even though nothing had been said since she came into the kitchen.

  Julio hung up his baker’s jacket and told Sam he’d set two timers for the different sized cake layers. He was out the door and rumbling away on his noisy machine within moments.

  Sam noticed Jane meandering through the kitchen. “I’m sorry I really don’t have anything for you to do,” she said. “I can call the shelter if you’d like a ride back.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.” Jane said without enthusiasm. She was carrying a borrowed purse that must have been someone’s Goodwill donation. “I think I’d like to walk back.”

  Sam wished her luck and resumed sorting the trims in the plastic bins. As soon as t
he front door bells tinkled, she sensed that Becky had something to say.

  “Okay, you can get it off your chest,” Sam said, keeping it casual as she worked.

  “I’m suspicious of her,” Becky said.

  “In what way?”

  “She just seems too ‘with it’ if you know what I mean. She works the chocolate like a pro and yet she can’t remember her name?”

  “They say amnesia can be like that. Skills from the past aren’t forgotten. Otherwise, people with amnesia wouldn’t remember their language or how to dress themselves.”

  “It’s other stuff, too. I think she’s faking.”

  * * *

  Kent Taylor looked a little haggard by late afternoon and Beau suggested they stop for coffee and a review of what they’d learned so far. He thought of Sam’s bakery, a mile or so away, but had a feeling he would get caught up in other topics and would have to explain why he hadn’t made further progress on that Jane Doe amnesia case. Java Joe’s was only a block over so he headed there.

  “We’ve got zilch at the victim’s house,” Taylor said as he sat down with his high-octane blend called The Waker-Upper. “The one neighbor was interesting though. Gossipy ones are a little hard to take but sometimes you get the best information.”

  “Yeah, it’s always amazing how people really believe their neighbors can’t hear a screaming match. Might be a good idea to put the son, Bentlee Robinet, on your interview list for when you get back to Albuquerque.”

  “Already have. A father-son battle usually doesn’t get told just the way it happened, but the emotion always comes through. I’ll know if the kid hated his old man enough to do something about it. We’ll know if we have both motive and means.”

  Beau sipped his own regular-strength coffee.

  Taylor continued: “Holbrook Academy is notorious for being a haven of designer drug use,” Taylor said. “Those rich kids can afford anything and somebody always makes sure they get what they want.”

  “You didn’t mention ‘opportunity’ but with Bentlee right there in the city where his father died, it does fill out the trilogy of requirements for a valid suspect.”

  “I’m not giving up on the wife, either,” Taylor said. “She conveniently disappears on the day her husband died.”

  “Maybe a little fling on the side? She heads out the moment he leaves town?”

  “It fits with keeping two cell phones. The boyfriend might be the only one with access to one of the numbers.”

  “If she and the new honey went away somewhere she might not have gotten the news about her husband.”

  “That’s the innocent explanation. Could be that she and the new honey wanted Zack completely gone forever. She would most likely inherit his half of that multi-million-dollar business. I want more on her background.” Taylor’s nervous index finger tapped the side of his paper cup.

  “Meanwhile, this afternoon I’m thinking we could get some interesting info at the offices of ChanZack Innovations.”

  “When both cats are away the mice will really play?”

  “Exactly.”

  They finished their coffee and got back into Beau’s cruiser. Ten minutes later they were taking the elevator to ChanZack Innovations’ upper suite in the Appleton Center. The gorgeous receptionist, whose name plate identified her as Amber Carter, was no less model-like today, with her long, dark hair, high cheekbones and porcelain complexion. Beau noticed Kent Taylor subtly straightening his tie as she greeted them.

  “We have a few more questions,” Beau said after introducing Taylor.

  Her deep brown eyes widened slightly. “Um, Mr. Lane isn’t here today.”

  “I know. He’s at the trade show. We really only need to speak with the rest of the staff today. Can you give me a list of all the company employees?”

  “There are only six of us, besides the two owners. Two sales reps—they went to Vegas with Mr. Lane—two programmers, myself and the bookkeeper. Mrs. Robinet handles taxes so she has the official records in her files. But I don’t think I can let you see her stuff while she’s gone.”

  Kent Taylor touched the badge at his belt, a subtle reminder that answering their questions was not optional. “Let’s start with whoever’s here now.”

  Amber picked up the intercom. “I’ll page the programmers to the conference room for you.”

  “How about just taking us back to their offices? I’d like to get a better feel for the whole business.”

  She seemed unsure about that. Obviously, Chandler and Zack required fairly strict security for such a small business. Again, Kent Taylor touched his badge.

  “We can get warrants and subpoenas,” he said. “It won’t be hard to do, considering one of the partners was murdered.”

  Amber’s face went a little paler. She got up and led them toward the inner sanctum, using her own thumb image to open the door. Once past that, the rest of the offices had a fairly open-door policy, it seemed. They passed a very standard-looking office with desk, credenza, file cabinets and a couple of potted plants.

  “Helen Melrose’s office,” Amber said. “She’s probably down at the copy machine or making herself a cup of tea in the kitchen. She drinks a lot of tea.”

  Across the hall, a closed door listed Ed Archuleta and Jamie Phillips on little plaques. An oblong window set into the door showed that the lights inside were off. “The sales team,” Amber explained. “Mostly what they have in their office is the artwork for the big ad campaigns. Until they packed everything up for Vegas, their room was practically overflowing with that stuff.”

  The two programmers shared a large office with dim overhead lighting and, not surprisingly, looked about fifteen years old. The room was full of computer monitors showing everything from incredibly realistic depictions of warriors and battle scenes to full screen images of cartoonish avatars. One screen was full of complex lines of letters and numbers that must have been computer code. All of it was completely outside Beau’s realm.

  Both young men looked up with somewhat glazed eyes, like moles who had poked their heads out of the ground for the first time in months.

  “This is Mike and that’s J.B.,” Amber said before turning to go back to her own desk.

  “Michael,” said the tall, plump one. “I prefer Michael.”

  Kent Taylor wrote down the basics: Michael Anderson, senior programmer. John Bryan Bonds, who went by J.B. Michael had worked for the company four years; J.B. came along two years ago.

  “We’re investigating the death of Mr. Robinet,” Beau told them, wondering whether the tendency for their eyes to dart around to various objects in the room had to do with their work, an aversion to the lawmen, or if it was some inherent trait of nerdy types. “Does either of you know if he had any enemies?”

  “Whoa. You think someone did that to him? We heard it was a drug overdose.” This from Michael.

  Beau realized he had started at the wrong place with the questions. “Okay, what about that? Do you know if he used drugs?”

  “Zack? I don’t think so. He was a pretty straight up kind of guy,” Michael said. “Plus, we all have to get random pee tests. Something about qualifying for the insurance plan or something? You could ask Helen, but I’m pretty sure even the owners have to do it.”

  Kent Taylor was writing all this down. “Back to the sheriff’s question. Did either of you hear of Mr. Robinet having an altercation with anyone in the last few weeks?”

  J.B. snickered a little, then caught himself.

  “Want to share what that’s about?” Taylor asked.

  J.B. slid a quick glance toward Michael, who responded with a tiny one-shoulder shrug.

  “It’s just that I’m not sure I should say this about my boss,” J.B. said, fidgeting from one foot to the other.

  “Whatever it is, you need to say it,” Beau said, trying to keep his tone softer than Taylor’s. He stepped over and closed the door to the hallway.

  “Well, the truth is that there aren’t many people Zack doesn�
��t clash with. Helen and Amber are the only ones here in the office that he hasn’t yelled at since I’ve worked here.”

  “Even the two of you? He’s yelled at you?”

  “Not so much in the last couple weeks,” Michael said. “When we were on deadline for the new upgrade? Yeah, it got a little intense then. He was under a lot of pressure ’cause the trade show space was booked and he’s got all these suppliers calling, like, fourteen times a day.”

  “Yeah,” J.B. added, “and the sales team. Some of those meetings got really—whew!”

  Beau took another tack. “Mrs. Robinet works here sometimes, right? How is she to work with?”

  “Oh, she’s pretty nice.” Michael actually blushed a little. Young guy crush?

  “Although she really doesn’t come back here much at all,” J.B. said. “She and the partners would have these meetings. I suppose they talked about money. That’s our impression. She does something with investments or something like that.”

  After asking if they could think of anything else, Beau and Kent moved again toward the front, stopping at Helen Melrose’s office. The bookkeeper was in her seventies, with a short perm and polyester pants suit that would not have been the height of fashion twenty years earlier. She sipped from a pink tea mug and waved them inside.

  “Hello,” she said, amiably enough. “Amber told me you were here, Sheriff.”

  Beau vaguely recognized the bookkeeper from somewhere—he wasn’t quite sure. They took seats in front of her desk and covered the basic questions with her, then asked about any conflicts between Zack Robinet and his employees.

  “Oh, nothing that would lead to a murder, I wouldn’t think,” she told them. “The young guys pretty much live in their world of computers and blow off steam by blasting away at those games they invent. I suspect Amber might have had a fling with either Chandler or Zack, which led to her being hired here. But it’s been over for a long time, if it ever happened. I don’t sense any strain between them now. Younger people are so casual about sex these days. All this ‘friends with benefits’ stuff is way beyond me.” She made air quotes when she used the phrase.