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

by Shelton, Connie

  A white Cadillac Escalade was parked at the side of the building. But the door was locked and he didn’t respond to a knock or to a tap at one of the side windows. When she dialed his cell phone it, too, went to voicemail. She suppressed a surge of impatience. The man probably just needed time to work in peace. If Mark had answers he would let her know.

  She turned around and headed for her old house, where she caught Kelly in an oversized T-shirt, pouring what was obviously her first cup of coffee for the day.

  “Hey there,” Sam said in her most wheedling voice. “Do you suppose Riki would let you take the day off? Or at least half of it?”

  Kelly paused with the cup at her lips, sending Sam a half-lidded stare.

  “I need someone to be entertainment chairperson for your grandparents today. I really have to be here, working with Beau to find answers and clear my name, and it’s hard to keep them from being bored.”

  “Sure—I’d like to spend some more time with them anyway. I’ll try to beg at least a partial day. How am I going to keep them busy?”

  “Well, I thought you might do the Enchanted Circle drive. You know, Angel Fire, Eagle Nest, Red River and back. Lots of shopping to keep your grandmother happy, lots of nice lunch places along the way . . .” The route, which circled New Mexico’s highest mountain was roughly a hundred miles of breathtaking scenery, punctuated by picturesque little ski towns.

  Kelly brightened further when Sam pulled cash out of her wallet. Sam could read her thoughts—getting out sure beat playing endless domino games at the dining table.

  “Just don’t drive a million miles an hour. We want them to spend a day having fun, not spend it throwing up on those curving mountain roads.”

  “I can handle it.” Kelly took a long slug of her coffee and picked up the phone to talk to her boss.

  “Call your grandmother in another hour or so and tell her when you’ll pick them up.”

  One down, a hundred to go on the to-do list, Sam thought as she left.

  She drove toward the plaza, Evie Madsen’s face pestering her, as it had all night. No matter what Beau said, Sam couldn’t help but think of the girl’s cold manner. Maybe she saw Tustin as the bigger fish and getting rid of Jake seemed like a solution; Tustin after all appeared to have lots of money and maybe he treated her well.

  Maybe Jake had become jealous and they’d argued. The fact that Jake had flirted with Sam when he came to town could have made Evie’s twisted little mind decide that Sam could be made to look guilty in the process. But killing? Evie dumped men all the time. The vengeance line of thinking was very junior-high—but then Evie didn’t seem much brighter than the average thirteen year old.

  Sam drummed her nails on the steering wheel as she sat at a red light. Confronting Evie at the hotel hadn’t worked too well yesterday. She would have to come up with something better. Probably not a gift from Sweet’s Sweets though. A horn tooted behind her and she realized the light had turned green. She turned left, skirting the outer edge of the plaza trying to decide whether to stop in at her shop or what, exactly, her next move should be. The same beeping horn sounded behind her again.

  What was this guy’s problem? She couldn’t exactly run down the car ahead just to please someone who was late for work. She glanced back in her mirror. It was a red BMW and it looked like Tustin Deor at the wheel. She drove through the narrow section of street where two-way traffic was hemmed in by close curbs on both sides. A block later, the road widened slightly and she edged to the right. Instead of passing, Tustin followed.

  Fine. I wanted to talk to you anyway.

  She made a right turn and pulled into the wide parking lot of a consignment shop. The Beemer came alongside and Tustin jumped out before she’d even powered down her window. The young flunky with the cell phone waited in the car, chatting away with someone.

  “Samantha, I’m glad I saw you back there,” Tustin said, flashing that people-charmer smile. “I was planning to stop by your shop.”

  His gelled hair stood up and in the sunlight she saw that he had tiny freckles on his forehead. It gave him a farm kid look, like he could be Tom Sawyer’s crony.

  “I guess I owe you a debt of thanks,” she said. “For not pointing me out in the crowd yesterday at the news conference.”

  “No problem.” He glanced off to the west for a second. “Look, the real reason I wanted to chat with you was to see if I couldn’t change your mind about investing with us. Could we do lunch? Pick a nice place.”

  “I’ve really got a full day,” she said, although she wouldn’t mind asking him a few more questions about Evie. Although he hadn’t been in town at the time he might know how the young woman had spent last Friday afternoon. The turn-off was the idea of spending an hour with someone whose only goal was to talk her out of money—kind of like those way-too-friendly timeshare presentations.

  He rested a forearm on the edge of her window. “Jake thought very highly of you, Sam. This isn’t about the size of the investment, is it? Because Jake said you’d done really well for yourself, selling that Cantone sketchbook for—well, I have no idea but I heard rumor that it was six or seven figures.”

  “I can’t invest with you, Tustin.”

  “But Jake said—”

  “Even if I had the money, which I don’t, I wouldn’t. It seems like a very speculative investment.”

  His eyes narrowed, his face hardening. “That could prove to be a very bad decision.”

  “Is that a threat?” She edged her hand toward the window buttons.

  His smile reappeared. “Not at all. I just think when the show hits number one in the ratings you’ll wish you’d gotten in on it. It’ll be an excellent return on your money.”

  Chapter 17

  She watched Deor saunter back to the BMW and climb in, acting like he owned the world. She wondered how many thousands were still due on the car, let alone his other massive debts. It was amazing how people began to believe their own images.

  He started the car and roared out of the parking lot, narrowly missing a UPS truck. She held her breath as the driver slammed on his brakes and glared at the red car.

  Her phone rang and she picked it up. Beau.

  “Hey, darlin’, how’s the search going?”

  “Well, I just blew a chance to ask some more questions about Evie’s whereabouts on Friday,” she said, telling him about the encounter with Tustin. “Why? Do you have any news?”

  “I contacted my friend in the police department and asked him to check on the note that was with the cupcake bag. Haven’t heard anything yet. Kelly called your mother and said she would come out to the house and take them out for the day.”

  “I know. Thank goodness for everybody who’s pitching in this week. I’m feeling a little let down that we haven’t been able to get more information.”

  “Would it help if I went by the hotel and talked to Evie?” he asked. “She might feel like she has to answer questions if they come from someone in uniform. She won’t know that this isn’t my case.”

  “Good idea. You might be able to get more out of the hotel staff too. In the meantime, what can I be working on? I really feel at loose ends.”

  “Hang in there. We’ll start getting answers soon. I’ll call you when I come up with something.”

  She hoped those answers came very soon. Waiting to hear from her attorney, waiting for Beau’s contact in the police department and waiting to see what Evie had to say—all this spare energy with no outlet for it was driving her crazy. She started her truck and rolled out of the lot, covering the few blocks to Sweet’s Sweets.

  “What are you doing here?” Becky asked, looking up from a child’s birthday cake with a brown sugar stretch of beach and a gray candy shark roaring up out of blue-gel icing.

  “I can’t stand sitting around and hoping the police or my attorney come up with answers. I have to be doing something.” Sam pulled on a baker’s jacket and turned to Julio. “Do you have any cookies I can decorate or s
omething?”

  Within fifteen minutes Sam had decorated six dozen butter cookies. Normally after handling the wooden box her energy level went a little ballistic and she could accomplish an amazing amount of work in a short time. But she always did this little feat at night when the employees weren’t around to witness. She told herself to slow down.

  She carried the tray of cookies out front for the display, took a deep breath and went back to see what else awaited. She was nearly finished with the three dozen fancy cupcakes they would need for the afternoon crowd when Beau called.

  “I’m at the La Fonda,” he said, “and I got access to the room where Jake stayed. No other guests have used it yet and it hasn’t been cleaned. I thought you and I might conduct a little investigation of our own.”

  “Is this going to get you in trouble?”

  “The police released the crime scene, so it’s up to the hotel manager how soon he wants to put it back in use. I just asked him to hold off a little longer.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  She washed her hands, switched the baker’s jacket for her regular shirt again, and headed out the front door. It would be simpler to walk the two blocks than to find parking on the plaza in the middle of a busy morning. She found Beau in Room 301, where he’d told her to come.

  “Put these on,” he said, handing over a pair of latex gloves. “Even though they released the room, the police could always come back and it wouldn’t be good for our prints to be here.”

  She scanned the room—typical setup with king-sized bed, two nightstands, a pine desk with a cute-but-uncomfortable looking iron-backed chair, and a pine armoire. Indian blanket motif bedding added to the Southwestern feel, and a kiva fireplace in one corner gave a touch of coziness. Three windows overlooked the plaza and a door led to a balcony.

  “This one adjoins room 302,” Beau said with a tilt of his head, “and they share the balcony, but someone else was staying in that one and all the connecting doors were locked the whole time, according to the manager.”

  Chocolate crumbs littered a corner of the desk; no one had bothered to brush them into the trash basket below and the receptacle was completely empty.

  “Look around for the note that the desk clerk said was attached to the bakery bag,” she said, lifting the skirting around the bed. “Just in case.”

  “Bathroom’s empty,” he called out. “I guess the police took what they wanted and tossed any personal possessions into the suitcase that Tom Calendar took home with him.”

  The bed was one of those built on a solid wooden base and there was little chance that an item would end up between it and the bed skirt but Sam crawled on hands and knees all the way around, making sure. No sign of the note. When she stood up her vision blurred and she squeezed her eyes shut. Opening them, she saw a vague grayish form near the desk, almost human in shape. It bent over the corner where the cupcake crumbs were scattered. She strained to recognize it but the vision dissipated and vanished.

  “B—” she started to call out. But what was there to say?

  Her hands tingled faintly, reminding her that she’d handled the wooden box this morning. Similar things had happened before—colored auras, glowing fingerprints invisible to the naked eye. It was downright spooky and she knew from experience that other people couldn’t see them. She walked to the desk and stared hard but no prints appeared to her, no trace of the ghostly figure.

  “Sam? What’s the matter?” Beau had come out of the bathroom and was staring at her face. “You’re awfully pale.”

  She blinked again. “Really? I guess I stood up too fast. I thought I saw some—” She shook her head. “Never mind. It probably wasn’t anything.”

  Nothing but an overactive imagination, she told herself. She crossed over to the small rounded fireplace and looked at the arrangement of ceramic logs stacked to look like a pile of wood. Beneath them, the crumbly fake ashes looked normal enough. She stooped down and poked her gloved finger through them—no burned scraps of paper. Where was that note?

  Beau had walked out to the balcony and when Sam stood and turned toward the center of the room it happened again. A grey figure near the desk, but this one was slightly different from the first—taller, broader in the shoulders.

  “Beau, can you come here?” she said without taking her eyes off the faint shape.

  She heard his tread crossing the balcony, stepping through the doorway.

  “Do you see anything over by the desk?”

  “On the floor? Or on the desk itself?”

  The shape melted away. Clearly, he hadn’t seen it.

  “No, it’s gone now. I just thought I saw something.” Was this another aura-like vision, or did she want answers so badly that she was fooling herself into seeing them?

  “Well, I don’t see anything useful here,” Beau said, closing the balcony door and locking it. “Looks like the police took everything that might have helped us.”

  Sam stripped off her gloves and handed them over to him, disappointed.

  “Well, there’s still hope that the police do have the note and that Mark Nelson can get a copy of it.”

  They stepped out into the corridor and Beau locked the room. He slipped an arm around her shoulders as they walked toward the stairs.

  “There’s also a chance that the killer got hold of the note and destroyed it after Jake got the package,” he said. “You need to be prepared for the idea that it may never turn up.”

  “So, who had access to Jake’s room other than Evie? You’re not suggesting the hotel personnel?”

  “Mr. Deor, the fancy-schmancy producer?”

  “No. He arrived in town after Jake died so he could take over the press conference. That, and pestering me for money.”

  “Well, there are lots of ways to get into hotel rooms. We really can’t rule out anyone.”

  A picture of Vic Valentino, the unfortunate singer who’d failed so miserably at his audition attempt, came into her head. She thought about him as she and Beau walked through the lobby. Valentino, aka Victor Garcia, was slightly built. So was the first of the two smoke-like apparitions she’d seen in the room. Valentino also had a reason to hate Jake Calendar. Perhaps he’d thought with Jake out of the way that he could get to someone higher up with You’re The Star and manage to get a more successful audition with somebody else—he’d almost admitted that to Sam when she’d visited his home. Maybe they should talk to him again. She said as much to Beau when they reached the sidewalk.

  “Could you question him this time?” she suggested. “I didn’t get much out of him. Meanwhile, I want to run by Mark Nelson’s office and see what he may have found out about the note.”

  They parted ways outside the hotel. As she walked back toward her shop Sam found herself thinking about the two visions she’d had in Jake’s room. They weren’t well defined, not clearly human beings, but they certainly didn’t look animal or ghostly in the Casper sense. They were almost more like energy fields. Still, she had to wonder, had she just witnessed the figure of the person who poisoned the cupcake?

  She retrieved her truck from the alley where she’d parked it, cranked the engine and headed out to see her attorney.

  The law offices looked moderately busy from the outside. Five vehicles, including the Escalade Mark Nelson drove. She went inside, hoping she wouldn’t get the runaround or have to wait through someone else’s long consultation. Luckily, he was standing at the reception desk and there was no graceful way for him to escape. He invited her into the conference room and closed the door.

  “No luck, Sam. I’m sorry. The note didn’t show up in any of the photos or on the evidence list, so I went by the police station. They swear they never found a note at the scene.”

  Her mood plummeted. Life would have become a whole lot simpler with that bit of evidence. Nelson didn’t have anything to help lighten her spirit so she left, wondering just how helpful he really wanted to be. He would certainly bill a lot more hours if this
thing went all the way to trial. She and Beau needed to find answers, quickly.

  Her phone rang as she was getting into her truck.

  “Another lead,” Beau said.

  At this point almost any news had to be positive.

  “I got a callback from Tom Calendar and he gave me the names of Jake’s former wives. Did you know there were three? So, anyway, I made a call to Vital Statistics in Sacramento. No info on the first one—Tom said it was twenty-five years ago and they divorced a year later in Nevada—but the other two took place in California. Wife number two was Glenda Tronto. That lasted seven years—maybe someone got the itch.”

  “All that sounds like way old history,” Sam said, wondering where this was going.

  “It’s the last one that gets interesting. Six years ago he married Doralee Wickham. Tom said they had their problems but wasn’t sure whether they’d officially split. The court records show that Jake filed for divorce in May of this year. The records don’t show whether it became final. I requested information on the couple’s finances but haven’t gotten anything back on that.”

  “That’s recent enough that a scorned woman might still be angry enough to retaliate,” Sam mused.

  “That’s only one half of the news,” Beau said. “Each week I review the county traffic citations—checking to see if any new warrants might have been issued against someone we’ve had contact with—and I remembered yesterday seeing a female driver from California listed, speeding through the red light at the ski valley road—”

  “Beau! Bottom line.”

  “Doralee Wickham Calendar.”

  “Jake’s most recent ex was here, in Taos County.”

  “Yes. She got the ticket four days ago.”

  “What would she be doing here unless it had something to do with Jake?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sam chewed at her lower lip. “I wonder how we might track her down and find out what was going on.”