Sweets Forgotten (Samantha Sweet Mysteries Book 10)

by Connie Shelton

  A car pulling in very close beside her interrupted the thought as she stepped closer to her van to get out of its way.

  The red convertible seemed familiar and she realized why when she saw Chandler Lane get out.

  “I saw your van,” he said. “I was just on my way to talk to the sheriff. I heard they arrested a couple of people for Zack’s murder.”

  It took Sam a moment to switch gears and process what he was saying. She didn’t recall Beau saying he’d formally charged Krystal or Ray or Donny. Only that he was questioning them all. She stepped closer to Chandler’s car.

  “I’m afraid I really don’t know much about the progress on the case.” Her eyes dropped to the interior of his car.

  There on the light-colored floor mat was a dark spot, a footprint that made an ugly mark on the pristine carpet. Light carpet, dark footprint. The other one—at Jo’s house—flashed through her mind. The print was the same, that distinctive patterned shape from a boot. Chandler had shown up as they were leaving the Robinet house and he wore boots then. She glanced at his feet but he now had on sneakers.

  Suddenly, the break-in at Jo’s house and the stalker at her hotel made sense. Sam swallowed hard and dared a glance at Chandler’s face. He knew that she knew.

  His right hand had remained in the pocket of his lightweight jacket. Now a firm, cylindrical shape distorted the fabric as he pointed the barrel of a gun at her.

  “I had really hoped to get this thing solved without you figuring it out,” he said.

  Gone was the smile. The wide-eyed inquiries about progress in the case weren’t so innocent at all. Chandler Lane wasn’t asking out of concern for his dead friend or justice or anything like that. He wanted to know if the lawmen were on to him. A sick feeling settled into Sam’s gut.

  She glanced at Zoë, who stared open-mouthed without a clue about what was happening.

  “Get into my car, Mrs. Cardwell. I need those papers Jo Robinet gave you and to persuade your husband to let me leave.”

  Sam was so accustomed to her business name that Cardwell didn’t immediately click. And papers? What papers? He took her hesitation as a refusal.

  “Okay then. I guess you aren’t so worried about your friend.” His voice became more menacing with every word.

  Sam looked frantically up and down the short street. Not a soul in sight. The lack of traffic that appealed so much to Zoë’s guests was not such a good thing now.

  “I don’t have the papers,” she said, stalling. “I left them at the bakery.”

  “In the car then.” He meant it.

  Sam knew going along with him would be stupid. The man had killed once. Even as the thought occurred to her, she realized it had to be true. She still wasn’t clear on the reason—maybe an argument over the stolen money, maybe something else—but the man in front of her was crazy and dangerous.

  “Let’s get the sheriff here and you can tell him your story,” she said, reaching for the phone in her pocket.

  The moment the phone appeared, he rushed closer and kicked it from her hand. It went flying toward the street and landed with the sound of smashed glass. When she looked at Chandler again he was laughing, a high maniacal sound.

  “You’re crazy. I’m not telling the sheriff my story. There is no story, as far as I’m concerned. Zack got mixed up in drugs and overdosed. It looks like he took a bunch of money from the company’s funds too.”

  “Really?” No one knew about the missing money until Jo discovered it last night. Another fact that would nail Chandler’s ass, if Sam could manage to survive the next few minutes. How could she get help or get control of the gun, she wondered. Two seconds later, she heard the sound of a vehicle making the turn onto the narrow lane where they stood.

  Unfortunately, Chandler heard it too. He lowered the hand with the gun. Sam calculated her odds of dashing out and getting the driver’s attention before he could raise the gun again and shoot her. It didn’t look good.

  The car passed them, a tiny white-haired woman at the wheel. Good thing Sam hadn’t rushed for help from that sector. When she looked at Chandler again, he was studying her face and the gun hand was back up.

  Zoë had finally caught on and was edging her way toward her house. With a hedge and wide porch between herself and safety, that wasn’t a good bet either. Sam started to warn her to stay put, but Zoë took it the wrong way and began to run.

  Chandler Lane had no compunction about using his weapon. He whipped it free of the jacket fabric, raised it with a practiced eye and fired. The shot reverberated and echoed through the neighborhood of closely built houses. Sam froze, horrified, as Zoë stumbled sideways and went down.

  Chapter 25

  Heedless of any danger to herself, Sam raced to Zoë’s side. Her best friend lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Blood covered the shreds of her left sleeve.

  “Oh god, Zoë, can you hear me?”

  Zoë groaned, rolling to her side and gripping the wounded arm with her other hand.

  “Hold on. I’ll get help.” But when Sam looked toward the street, Chandler Lane blocked her view.

  He was standing above the two women, holding the gun at Sam’s head.

  “This isn’t one of your video games, Chandler,” she said, fearing the waver in her voice. She had to stay strong for Zoë now. “You don’t want to kill us. Your life would be over.”

  A tiny flicker of hesitation showed in his eyes.

  Sam made a plan. “Drive away. Let me get medical help for her.”

  The flicker had not been compassion. His expression hardened. “Get her in the house. I don’t want anyone to see us out here.”

  “That’s right. Dozens of people heard that shot. We’re only two blocks off the plaza. I’m sure they are rushing over here right now.”

  “You’re not helping your case, Sam.” He almost smiled as he said it. “Get her inside. Now.”

  Zoë’s injury seemed confined to her left arm. Sam put both arms around her and managed to get her to her feet, although Zoë’s face lost all color when she stood.

  “Stick with me,” Sam murmured. “We’ll get you inside and I’ll think of something. Hopefully, he’ll let us go in and then leave us alone.”

  Obviously, Darryl wasn’t home or he would have come running. Sam knew it was up to her to save her friend’s life. She took most of Zoë’s weight, guiding her wobbly legs along the driveway beside the house. By the time they reached the kitchen door, Zoë, surprisingly, seemed to have a little more strength. Sam half expected Chandler to get them out of sight of the road and shoot them both, but he let Sam open the door and guide her friend into the house.

  The big kitchen with its commercial-grade appliances and Saltillo tile floors offered no comfortable spot for an injured person. Sam kept moving, going down the hall toward the room Zoë called the parlor, one with soft sofas and chairs where guests met in the evenings for wine and snacks. She eased Zoë onto one of the couches.

  “I’m going for some gauze and alcohol,” she told Chandler.

  “No, you’re not. Stay right there.” To reinforce the order, he blocked the doorway and kept the pistol trained on Sam.

  “Fine. You can get away now. I’ll stay with her and call paramedics once your car is gone.”

  “And you’ll call the sheriff who’ll have an alert out for me. I won’t get a mile away, will I?”

  Well, that was sort of the plan, Sam thought. She saw his dilemma. Leaving them here gave him no way out. Staying with them didn’t either. Sadly, she couldn’t think of any chance this was going to end well.

  Her best bet was to keep the status quo. If Chandler stayed here, providing he didn’t go wild and start shooting, eventually Beau would either try to call her or go to meet her at the restaurant for dinner. When he learned she had left Sweet’s Sweets hours earlier, he would begin looking. If Becky told him Sam had meant to deliver a gift to Zoë, it would send him this direction and he would see her van out front. Unfortunately, he would assu
me she and Zoë were in the house, talking endlessly until she’d forgotten the time. Unless he realized the car out front was Chandler’s, that it didn’t belong to one of Zoë’s guests, he would walk right into a trap, never suspecting a thing. How could she warn him?

  As long as Sam was defiant, Chandler’s mood stayed hostile. He stood in the doorway with the gun aimed toward the sofa where Zoë lay and Sam knelt to attend to her injury. She could tell that the bullet had not entered the arm. A long, ragged gash had ripped the skin, but it went through muscle, not into bone or artery. The more frequently Sam touched the injured area, the better it looked. The box’s power, even in the brief time she’d handled it earlier, still offered potent effects.

  She watched Chandler surreptitiously while wiping Zoë’s forehead. When Sam went quiet, thinking of what she could say to summon help—how to phrase it most effectively in the fewest words—their captor became restless, almost bored. He paced to the window and looked out through the lace curtain.

  “Who else is likely to show up here?” he asked. “Do you have guests tonight?”

  Zoë moaned without answering.

  That agitated him. He was accustomed to control, to issuing orders. He didn’t mind unknowns, up to a point. The nature of the gaming world had taught him that, Sam supposed. As long as you held the weapon it didn’t matter what enemy sprang out at you. But he was used to being the mastermind behind the games. He knew how many potential enemies lurked, how many levels it took to reach the top. Now he didn’t. She needed to figure out how to use that against him.

  She murmured soft words to Zoë, initially asking how she felt, telling her to stay calm. When she sensed Chandler’s distraction she added instructions. “Don’t let on it’s getting better.” Zoë complied by screaming with Academy Award persuasion.

  “You can’t let her lie here in pain,” Sam insisted. “At least find me something to clean the wound and some bandages. There are six bathrooms in this house, and I’d bet there’s a first aid kit somewhere near the kitchen. Let me go get something.”

  He ignored the request until the next scream.

  “Where’s the closest bathroom?” he demanded.

  “Go to the hall. The first door on the right,” Sam said.

  He looked around and spotted a telephone on one of the end tables. Sending Sam a knowing look, he walked over to it and unplugged the cord, taking the phone with him.

  Snag number one.

  “Quick, Zoë, is there another phone I can get to?” Sam whispered close to her friend’s ear.

  Zoë took a ragged breath. “Darryl had a spare cell phone for a long time. In one of the desk drawers over there, across the room. If the battery isn’t dead—”

  Chandler came back, holding out a box of tissues. “It’s the only thing I could find.”

  “This is useless,” Sam told him. “Can’t I just go look?”

  He peered at Zoë’s sleeve. “It’s not bleeding anymore. It’ll be fine.”

  He pulled an armchair to the doorway and sat on the edge of the seat, his legs bouncing with pent-up energy. The jumpiness finally registered. He was high on something. Any chance of getting to the desk or somehow shoving past him and running outdoors went away.

  At the window, daylight was fading fast. It had to be only another hour or so until full darkness. She might be able to do something then. Zoë kept going with her litany of moans. Then she said something that chilled Sam.

  “Darryl,” she whispered.

  “What?” Then it hit her—with the loss of daylight, Zoë’s husband would soon come home from whatever construction job he was on. He would walk right in unless something alerted him not to. They couldn’t afford to wait this out much longer.

  “Beg for something,” Sam whispered, “something in another room.”

  “Aahh, the pain,” Zoë cried loudly. “I need something for the pain.”

  Sam stared accusingly at Chandler. “Come on. Some Tylenol or something. I think she keeps in it the kitchen. Let me get it.”

  She stood up as if to walk right past his chair.

  “No way. I’ll get it. Which cabinet?”

  Darn. They couldn’t even gain extra time by making him search.

  “The one nearest the microwave,” Zoë said, gasping the words.

  The moment Chandler left the room, Sam raced to the desk and the drawer Zoë told her to look in. The cell phone was there. She flipped it open and pressed the power button. It lit up. She watched it search for a signal—ten seconds, twenty, thirty. Chandler was being none too quiet in the kitchen, thank goodness. By the time a few bars showed a signal on the cell phone she heard him in the hall again. She dropped the phone into her pocket.

  “We have to think of something else to send him for,” Sam whispered. “In a couple minutes. By then we should have a better signal.”

  Their captor stood in the doorway. Sam had a moment’s awful feeling he might have overheard her last words. But he merely tossed a pill bottle her direction. She instinctively reached for it, grabbing it in midair.

  “What about some water?” she said. “She can’t swallow these without water.”

  Chandler’s expression darkened.

  Zoë cried out again, grabbing her wounded arm and rolling into a fetal ball on the sofa.

  The heel of his hand smacked the back of the armchair he’d left in the doorway. His face contorted in anger and Sam had a brief flash of him going completely berserk, shooting them and trashing the house before leaving. Then, in an instant, his jerky movements settled and he turned back toward the kitchen after sending an impatient scowl her way. With these mood swings, he was likely to go over the edge at the very next slight provocation. They most likely only had one chance to live through this ordeal.

  She whipped out the cell phone and punched Beau’s number with shaking hands.

  She got out only a few words before Zoë shrieked her name. She could only hope they were the right words.

  Chapter 26

  Beau felt his cell phone vibrate as he got ready to get into the shower. He glanced at the readout, didn’t recognize the number. Debated whether to answer. If he lost much time he would be late to meet Sam at the restaurant. She was probably running late, too. There was no sign she’d been home to change clothes and shower. After the third ring the call went to voicemail. He sighed. He would listen to the message but whatever it was would have to wait until morning. He would not ruin their anniversary plans again.

  He tapped the button and turned up the speaker volume. What he heard froze him in place. “Beau, help! Zoë and I are held hostage at the B&B. Bring reinforcements.” It was Sam’s voice.

  What the hell had happened? He straightened his clothes, his mind racing furiously. The danger had to be real—Sam would never say something like that if it weren’t absolutely genuine. He ran downstairs, started his cruiser. Before he reached the end of his driveway he’d got dispatch on the radio and ordered all units to the end of Zoë’s street.

  Hostages. The worst of all scenarios. He couldn’t let his men or vehicles be seen until they were certain of what they were dealing with. He didn’t dare call that strange cell number back. It could make the whole situation explode. His small department didn’t have SWAT teams or hostage negotiators. He had to solve this himself.

  He visualized the layout in his mind. The bed and breakfast sat on a short lane. At the south end was Kit Carson Road, one of the busiest in the central part of town. The north end dead-ended near the park but didn’t connect with it. So, basically, one way in and one way out. He immediately went to a secure frequency and began issuing orders: block the lane at the intersection; let no one in or out; send an officer in a plain car to cruise by and observe the location. He would be there himself in ten minutes. He hit his lights and siren and roared through traffic.

  Kit Carson Road was already a mess by the time Beau arrived at the blockade. Two lanes were barely enough to accommodate the normal traffic but throwing in police v
ehicles and barriers caused every driver to slow to a crawl to see what was going on. He whipped into the oncoming lane and angled his cruiser next to the barrier, pleased to see how quickly his men had responded. He sent one of them to act as traffic control and keep things moving.

  “She’ll be fine,” Rico said when he joined Beau beside the cruiser.

  Somehow, the word that Sam was involved had leaked. He didn’t recall he’d actually said her name.

  “I drove a plain car to the end of the block and back. Sam’s van is out front. There’s also a red convertible.” He gave the plate number. “It’s registered to Chandler Lane. The building is dark except for a light in one of the front rooms.”

  “No other guest cars?”

  “No, sir.”

  That was one less worry.

  “Do you think you were spotted?”

  “No sign of anyone near the window that’s lit. It looks like one of those lacy curtains that you can see through. They might still be able to see the street, but once it gets dark outside he may decide they’re too visible. He could order them to shut off the indoor light or close some heavier drapes.”

  “What about other residences on the street? We need to decide whether it’s necessary to evacuate them.”

  Rico nodded. “There are only about a dozen. We could have Dixie use the reverse directory and phone each house, warning them to stay indoors. People are just now getting off work, so there might not be anyone home in some of them anyway.”

  “Good thinking. Get right on that.”

  Headlights lit his cruiser as a vehicle pulled out of traffic. Beau started to order the driver to move on, then he recognized the white pickup with lumber rack as Darryl Chartrain’s. He walked over to inform Zoë’s husband that he couldn’t go home. Although he didn’t want to say why, he felt bound to let the man know the overall situation.

  “How can I help?” Darryl said.

  A man of action rather than hysterics. Beau appreciated that. Unfortunately, he couldn’t let Darryl anywhere near the house.