Sweets Galore: The Sixth Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Shelton, Connie

  Tom shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t know. Jake and me—we’re brothers but we’re not much alike. He always wanted adventure. Me, I’m a school teacher—eighth grade math. He loved the ladies, flirted a lot—three marriages. I’ve been married more than twenty years to the same woman, got two kids. Jake liked things flashy, went to Vegas a lot . . .” He spread his arms and looked down at the simple plaid shirt he wore under the windbreaker.

  Three marriages? Jake had kind of glossed over that little fact. “Did you stay in touch?” Sam asked.

  “Sort of. We only lived an hour’s drive from each other. We’d call now and then. He’d send me a text, I’d email him pictures of the kids.” He shrugged. “That’s about it. No big, cozy Christmas dinners or any of that.”

  “He’d recently become involved in a television project, a reality show called You’re The Star. Did he talk about that?”

  “No, never heard of it.”

  “Back when I knew Jake before, he played guitar. Did he still have that interest in music? It might be what drew him to get involved in this type of talent search program.”

  “Yeah, he never gave up the guitar, although I doubt he ever learned more than a dozen chords. Volume over detail—that was more his style.”

  Their enchiladas arrived and they paused until the waitress had walked away.

  “At one point, Jake formed a little band that he said would go big-time,” Tom said. “He always had a group he played with—guys came and went all the time. But this once, they’d stayed together long enough to get pretty good. Did some bar gigs, even recorded an album. I always suspected that they paid for the studio time and bought all those tapes themselves. But Jake liked to make it out like they’d really impressed some music producer and that there’d be a contract coming along any day.”

  Tom ripped a tortilla in half and swabbed it in the red sauce on his plate.

  “But that was Jake. He could sure tell a tale. Anything to put himself in the limelight. He wanted so much to be a star of something. That was kind of the sad part.” His eyes grew distant. “He thought living in Hollywood would make him one of them.”

  * * *

  By the time Sam dropped Tom Calendar off at the Econolodge it was almost time for the press conference Tustin Deor had told her about. She parked her truck behind Sweet’s Sweets and walked the two blocks to the plaza.

  A table was set up under the roof of the bandstand, with a row of chairs and a couple of microphones. A backdrop with repeats of a logo—a flying gold star with electric blue lettering proclaiming “You’re The Star”—ran like wallpaper so that it would appear in any photograph that might conceivably be snapped. Outside the little fencing around the raised platform stood a gaggle of reporters with long lenses and big fuzzy microphones to keep the wind from messing up their sound-bites.

  Parked along the sides of the plaza were at least a half-dozen vans, one for each of the network stations from Albuquerque and a few from cable news channels, the ones that spent their energy on covering the publicity-hungry world of personalities, those familiar faces that were famous for nothing more than the fact that they were famous. Sam was surprised at the level of media interest.

  Near the edge of the group a couple of rough-looking men in polyester shirts stood out among those who were obviously reporters. A picture of Tony Soprano flashed through Sam’s head.

  She scanned the crowd for familiar faces, wondering if Pete Sanchez would station officers around the crowd because of the connection to Jake Calendar. She spotted a few business acquaintances and some of her customers.

  A little rustle passed through the crowd, like aspen leaves on a windy day, and Sam looked to see that the stir originated near the front of the La Fonda. Tustin Deor’s gelled hair showed above the little entourage that accompanied him and she caught a glimpse of his all-black clothing as he crossed the street. Evie Madsen clung to his arm, trying to stay up with his long stride in a pair of very awkward and clunky platform heels. He marched to the bandstand, paused and looked busy with his phone long enough to be sure that everyone within a block would notice him.

  Evie with Tustin. Wow, that girl gets around, Sam thought, watching Evie give Tustin the same dewy eyed admiration that only days ago had been aimed at Jake Calendar. The girl’s instant switch in affections could explain why she wasn’t registered at the hotel. She’d merely moved in with a different guy. Tustin walked up the steps, flanked by Evie and the young gofer Sam had seen with him earlier at the bakery. They stood by the chairs at the table on stage. Another man quickly followed, apparently someone tied to a local radio station—he had that sort of voice—who stood by Tustin and greeted the crowd. They all smiled and waved, giving the audience time to ogle the star producer.

  Eventually the murmur dwindled and Radio Voice introduced Tustin Deor with a flourish.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” he said, working to appear loveably humble yet great.

  He read a thirty-second statement about how excited they were to be almost ready to launch season one of You’re The Star, stating that auditions were already being organized in five major cities, and that the judges had been chosen. He announced each of the three personalities—with major pauses between—names that Sam had no clue about. She should have brought Kelly with her; that girl read People nearly every week.

  Once he’d finished the dramatic announcement, Tustin opened it up for questions and the reporters surged forward. Sam realized that a lot of early publicity must have gone out to attract this crowd and this kind of excitement. No wonder Jake and Tustin were so desperate for the money to come in.

  She spotted a uniformed officer at the edge of the crowd, one of Sanchez’s men. Nearby, the chief himself watched, his thin lips a slash across the hard lines of his face, his coal black eyes barely moving. Like a feral cat, though, he probably saw everything.

  Sam edged farther back in the crowd, getting a glance over the shoulder of a young female journalist who was reading down a list of pre-answered questions.

  “One of your colleagues was killed a few days ago. What’s happening with the investigation?” a reporter shouted from somewhere in the middle of the group.

  Sam’s neck-hairs prickled.

  “We heard that a woman has been arrested,” another man said.

  Tustin Deor gave some platitudes—the old “we are assisting the local police in every way possible” kind of thing. A flat smile crossed Sanchez’s face. Sam knew Deor’s statement to be complete b.s., since he’d only been in town less than a day and had been standing in her bakery this very morning asking for money. Nonetheless, she didn’t want to hang out until Sanchez noticed her and someone put it together. She backed to the edge of the gathering. Near the entrance to the La Fonda, half a block away, she spotted Vic Valentino. She hoped he hadn’t seen her. The two mobster types were nowhere to be seen now.

  She turned and ducked into one of the narrow alleyways that would take her out to the street and the safety of her shop. No way could she afford for one of those reporters to connect Sweet’s Sweets to this awful thing and broadcast it with their usual endless speculation.

  In the kitchen she called a quick meeting.

  “If anyone comes in here asking about me, just say that I’m out. If they mention Jake Calendar’s name, you know nothing. Don’t even admit that he ever came in here—nothing.” She glanced at Jen. “I have faith in you, hon. Be my gatekeeper.”

  “I can do it.”

  Julio spoke up. “I can get some guys. Like, if you want a security team.”

  “Uh, that’s okay. Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m just going to get out and ask some questions. If it’s urgent, call me. Otherwise, I don’t plan on being either here or at home until all the reporters leave town.”

  Sam went out the back door, got in her truck and took off, unsure exactly what she would do the rest of the afternoon. She made a left and eased her way down Camino de la Placita, traffic from the press conferenc
e slowing things down. When she passed the side street where Beau’s office was located she gazed toward it; a news van sat nearby. She cruised on.

  Tom Calendar had said that Jake’s desire was to become one of the elite Hollywood crowd. Sam wondered if she could find out whether he’d actually ever come close. He drove that expensive truck and dressed as a Tustin Deor lookalike. But that didn’t mean anything. The vehicle could be financed for years to come and his clothes certainly weren’t designer labels. He talked the talk—that might be the extent of his success.

  She came to the entrance to Kit Carson Park where the lure of golden trees and shady walkways beckoned. She pulled the truck well away from view of the street, choosing a parking spot near the performing arts theater. With the windows down and the warm September air to calm her she began thinking of her list of suspects.

  Evie, Tustin or one of his flunkies? Seeing those Vegas types at the news conference she was reminded of the hard-looking blond man who’d approached Jake near the plaza. Then there was still Vic Valentino, and there could also be someone else associated with the start-up production. Even Tom Calendar’s face went through her mind. He seemed genuine enough, but Beau had taught her that no one could be above suspicion until the facts had ruled them out. She’d run through that much of the list when her phone rang.

  “Hey, darlin’ where are you?”

  “The park. How about you?”

  “I guess I just missed you at that press conference,” he said. “I showed up about the time they started grilling him about Jake.”

  “I left about then. How did it go?”

  “The entertainment news channels lost interest pretty quick. Jake’s name must not be big news out there in California. The Albuquerque reporters got a little more mileage out of it. The Hollywood-underdog-gets-eaten-alive angle, questions that made it sound like Jake must have gotten involved in the show only to be dropped, his memory ignored, the minute he was gone.”

  “That could be pretty close to the truth. How did Deor handle those questions?”

  “Went all solemn, worked up a couple tears, said his people wanted answers even more than the police did.”

  “Did he mention me?”

  “Funny thing there. Somebody asked about the local woman they heard was arrested—Deor acted like he knew nothing about that.”

  “Maybe he hadn’t heard.”

  “He’s heard, if he’s really working with the police as he claimed. My guess, he still wants money from you. Thinks maybe he can get it before you go on trial.”

  Well that was a happy thought.

  Chapter 15

  Sam closed her eyes and pictured the odd cast of characters in this whole thing. Evie Madsen’s face kept coming up. She’d never actually talked with the girl but Evie had certainly given Sam the eye when she spoke to Jake. Jealousy? It was crazy to think that Jake would go back to his chubby, over-fifty ex when he had a girl like Evie. But crazy people were capable of doing crazy things.

  Beau had said he was back at his office, doing some more background checks. At least he was accomplishing something. Sam’s impatience rose; she felt like her life was on hold and there was nothing she could do about it. She put the truck in gear and drove back to her neighborhood.

  A news van sat in front of Sweet’s Sweets. Sam’s gut tightened. She could trust her crew not to talk; she wasn’t sure she could trust herself not to rant about the injustice of it. Her attorney would have a fit if she appeared in front of a news camera. She kept rolling.

  Surely these vultures would leave town soon and she could feel free to move about. She cruised past her old house, noting that it looked empty and quiet. She parked her truck around the corner and walked back, letting herself in the back door.

  She turned on the computer. While it booted up she put the kettle on and found a mug and teabag.

  With steaming mug beside her she sat at the desk, squared her shoulders and flexed her fingers. A quick visit to Netflix, where she searched Tustin Deor’s name. Nothing. Wikipedia had a biography, which gave brief mention of one television production credit. The show sounded like a flash in the pan that aired six episodes before being canceled. She copied the name of the production company and pasted it into her browser, coming up with a glossy website that played up their single accomplishment as being far more successful than it was. Similarly, Tustin’s personal website portrayed him as a cross between a corporate mogul and America’s hottest bachelor.

  On a whim, Sam ran a search on Evie Madsen. Several celebrity-watch websites appeared and she followed the link for the first one. Evie at the Oscars on the arm of a young man Sam didn’t recognize; the caption with the picture associated him with one of the Batman movies. Then there was Evie at the Sundance Film Festival, Evie at the Grammys with some rapper, Evie at the Emmys—each time with a young man, each pose with sparkling eyes and a dazzling smile no doubt practiced in front of a mirror for maximum effect. Judging by the number of photos, either Evie was a lot more famous than Sam would have imagined or paparazzi would photograph anyone who happened to stand on a red carpet. She suspected the latter.

  She slugged back the rest of her tea and turned the computer off, itchy to be moving again.

  The street in front of Beau’s office was clear of media vehicles so she parked down the block and walked there.

  “Hey, I was just about to call you,” he said, looking up from his keyboard. “Got some financial information on Tustin Deor.”

  She moved around to stand behind him and look at the screen.

  “Credit rating—awful. Kelly’s credit score is probably higher.”

  “Seriously? How can that be?”

  “Looks like he had an influx of money a couple years ago.”

  “Which would jibe with what I found about his career—one production credit for a show that lasted less than a full season.”

  “Well, Tustin lives like that money came from a never-ending source. He ran through his entire cut from it within six months. Bought a big house, two cars and high-end furniture, all with minimums down and payments that stretch on for ages.”

  Just as Sam had suspected.

  “Looks like he picks up the check for every party, stays at five-star hotels, the works. Travels all the time to stay ahead of the repo man and the bank. He’s got fourteen credit cards, all maxed. Six months ago he began getting new cards to pay off old ones.”

  “I thought the banks had really cracked down on that stuff.”

  “Apparently not as much as you would imagine. He’s got some of the cards in his own name, but a lot of them are under various business entities. Each time he has a brainstorm for a new project he forms a new company.”

  “My dad would call it robbing Peter to pay Paul.”

  “Exactly. There are also payments that don’t match up with his known income, which tells me to look for a private source.”

  “So then . . . Would that be why he turned to Jake to help finance this You’re The Star thing? Jake was every bit as flaky as Deor himself.”

  “We know that. But maybe Deor didn’t.” His fingers twitched near the keyboard.

  “I saw two men at the press conference, Beau. Polyester shirts, hard faces—really didn’t look like they were from around here. Did you see them?”

  He shook his head. “Sound like the kind of men who would be willing to track down somebody who owed them money.”

  Loan sharks. Again, she remembered the man who’d come up to Jake on the street that evening outside the jewelry shop. He wasn’t one of the men she’d seen at the press conference but something told her they were connected.

  “Can we find out who they are?”

  Beau nodded and made a note on a scrap of paper.

  “Even if somebody like that came to town looking for Jake, it still doesn’t really explain why they would kill Jake and try to frame me for it.” Sam sat in one of the chairs across the desk from him. “And I don’t see how Tustin benefits from Jake’s death.”


  “Deor couldn’t possibly have hoped to inherit from Jake, not unless he’d gotten him to write a will to that effect.”

  “Or to go in as a business partner? One of those deals where upon the death of one partner the other gets a big insurance policy or something?”

  “He could have done that. He certainly had enough of these little business entities. Maybe he talked Jake into signing something.” Beau tapped his index finger against the space bar on the keyboard, caught himself and quit. “Without getting into the corporate records in California, I don’t know how we could find out. I’ll try that track though—plus we still have the ex-wives and Jake’s gambling to look into. What are you planning on next?”

  She told him how Evie’s involvement kept nagging at her and what she’d found when she researched the young woman.

  “Clearly, she’s got a good agent or a great dating service—showing up all the time with these various actors. I have to wonder why she showed up here in Taos with Jake. And now she’s hanging on Tustin like a silk scarf. I’d like to ask her some questions,” Sam said, “if I can ever catch her without Tustin attached at the hip.”

  “What time do your parents get back from Santa Fe?”

  She glanced at her cell phone where the readout showed 4:37. “I better check in with Rupert. I asked him to entertain them as long as he could possibly handle their company.” Her thank-you pastry for him would have to be something fabulous.

  She scrolled through the numbers and pressed his. Rupert answered on the first ring and the conversation went quickly. She clicked off and looked at up Beau.

  “They’re just leaving Santa Fe. He said he couldn’t talk them into staying there for dinner. He didn’t sound all that unhappy to be bringing them back.”

  Beau smiled with good grace.

  “So, I have maybe an hour,” she said. “I wish we’d made more headway today. I want to get this solved and clear my name and get married so Mother and Daddy will go home.”