The sky was black and glittered with the reassuring silver pinpricks of stars. Orion had traveled across the sky and the Big Dipper sat at its early morning angle beneath the North Star. He breathed deeply, feeling the below-zero air freeze the moisture in his nose, tickling the tiny hairs there; on the exhale, his warm breath unfrosted them. He listened to the silence of the early morning, disturbed only by the sound of a single vehicle somewhere on the road more than a mile away.
A light came on upstairs and he knew Sam would be starting another early morning at the bakery. He missed having her input on his cases since she’d opened the chocolate factory. Her two separate-but-related businesses kept her running, and he wondered if she wasn’t stretching herself too thin. The upside, as she’d reminded him on several occasions, was that the contract with the travel company was helping to pad their retirement fund quite nicely.
Retirement. What would that be like?
No picture came into his head—no vision of a fishing pole and riverbank, no golf clubs, no television binges of old Westerns. If anything, he wouldn’t mind tackling the library of unread books that lined the living room walls. Travel held some appeal, but only if Sam hung up her apron at the same time and they found places to explore together. He shook off the thought. He was a long way from being ready to turn in his badge.
The house felt warm, as it always did after the brisk outside air, and he quickly shed his heavy coat and fleece vest. The scent of Sam’s shampoo came wafting down the stairs. He could hear her moving around in the bedroom. The coffee machine had already brewed a pot, thanks to the timer.
“Sam, would you be up for some bacon and eggs if I cook them?” he called out.
Her face appeared at the doorway. “I’d better not today, honey. It’s already five.”
He sighed. No point getting grease on the stove, messing up several pans, and clogging his arteries. He spooned oatmeal into a bowl, added water, and put it into the microwave. Sam bustled into the kitchen as the timer dinged.
“Hey, handsome,” she said, her smile warming him as always. “I’m surprised you aren’t already at your desk, considering what you said about the new developments with your case yesterday.”
“I’ll be there before you know it.” He pulled her into his arms and they kissed. “Unless we both want to go back upstairs and start the morning in a more fun way.”
She laughed. “Umm, that would be so nice.”
But neither of them made a move toward the bedroom. They had definitely settled into routine married life.
“I don’t have to dash out right this minute,” she said, pulling two mugs from the cupboard and filling both from the carafe. She had read his thoughts.
“So, anything new on your case overnight?” she asked, while he took his oatmeal from the micro and set it on the table.
“Nothing. Didn’t really expect it though.” The coffee was on the bitter side and he added a spoonful of sugar. “I’m hoping to talk with the widow this morning. Finally reached her and she agreed to come by my office.”
“You said there were a ton of unanswered questions?”
“We basically know nothing about this Percy Lukinger’s life, so there’s nothing to go on. We believe the murder was premeditated—as opposed to accidental or done in the heat of a fight. Usually, there’s either something at the scene of the crime, some witnesses who can tell us what was going on in the victim’s life, or some clues in their personal belongings. I sent deputies to the home yesterday. Today I’ll have forensics go through the vehicle with a magnifying glass, but I don’t hold much hope. I looked through it at the time of the accident and didn’t find anything.”
Sam gave him a sympathetic look, but he could tell she was eager to get moving. No doubt some new cocoa emergency. He pushed back the thought that her work was frivolous compared to law enforcement—that wasn’t fair.
He kissed her goodbye and watched her red truck pull down the driveway, but his mind was quickly back on his case as he went upstairs to put on his uniform. Twenty-five minutes later he was pulling into the parking lot at the department. His first stop was the evidence locker, where Rico and his team should have left everything they found at the Lukinger home.
Beau wanted to go through it all in preparation for his meeting with Ramona Lukinger. She had agreed to come by the station, but only said ‘first thing in the morning.’ Now he was wishing he’d been a little more firm in setting an exact appointment.
Now that the case went beyond a file-folder’s worth of reports and photos, a box had been created with the label ‘Lukinger, P.’ and the date of the man’s death. Beau carried it to his desk and opened the lid. He was pleased to see Lisa had left documentation showing she’d taken hairs and toothbrushes to have evaluated for DNA. It was becoming standard procedure to test and document everything. There was no telling how the case would eventually go, who their suspects would be, what type of denial defense those suspects would present in court. Always good to have their evidence lined up well before the prosecutor asked for it.
He pulled out the small collection of plastic bags, disappointed but not surprised that there wasn’t more to show for two searches of the house. A business card, dingy and frayed at the edges, a couple of lottery tickets, a gas receipt dated the previous October. The Player’s Club card from the Indian casino might turn out to be valuable. If Percy was a regular gambler, patterns of his casino habits might provide clues. Beneath the paper items his fingers encountered a small, hard nugget.
When he picked up the tiny plastic bag holding it, he saw what appeared to be a diamond. Beau felt its contours then held the bag to the light. He knew almost nothing about gemstones, but guessed this one must be at least two or three carats in size.
“I found that loose in a dresser drawer, jammed into the corner.” Rico’s voice startled Beau.
“Hey. Didn’t realize you were here yet.” He held up the baggie. “You think this is real?”
“Doesn’t make any sense to me, boss. A diamond that big thrown into a drawer?”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Beau decided he would take the stone by a jeweler, though, just for verification. He looked at the diamond’s many small surfaces—too small to read a fingerprint from, for sure, although he wished it were possible. For all they knew, the stone had been in that dresser for years, through many tenants in the house, maybe even a garage sale or flea market where Charles Romero purchased the furnishings for the rental. A heartbroken woman may have been wondering, for years, whatever happened to the precious stone from her ring.
“The rest of those things, the tickets and that casino card, I found those in the pocket of a jacket hanging in the closet,” Rico said, breaking Beau’s wandering train of thought.
Beau set the stone aside and picked up the bag with the business card and receipts. “Grant Mangle. Grant Mangle Enterprises, Inc. Doesn’t tell us a whole lot.”
“The card is pretty worn,” Rico said. “Maybe Lukinger carried it around for a long time?”
“Could be. It’s worth a call. See if you can reach Mr. Mangle and find out how he knows Percy Lukinger.” He handed the bag to Rico.
Alone in his office, Beau glanced at his watch. The widow Ramona should be showing up any time now. He picked up his desk phone and told the front desk officer to buzz him the minute she arrived. While he waited, he could check a few other facts on his own. He picked up the casino card.
It took a few minutes to track down the casino’s security chief, after being told the manager of the establishment only worked nights. Not a problem, Beau assured himself. Security could likely answer his questions. The man who came on the line introduced himself as George Stennis.
“We’re investigating a death,” Beau told him, “and we think the man carried one of your Player’s Club cards. If I give you the number, can you verify that for me?”
“Sure thing.”
Stennis came back with a
name—Johnny Luck. One of Percy’s aliases.
“Sounds like a made-up name to me,” Beau said. “Do you require ID when you issue these cards?”
“Not to get the card. If somebody wins a big jackpot, something we have to report to the IRS, then yeah, we get identification, social security number, the whole bit. People have funny beliefs about gambling, and it isn’t uncommon at all for them to choose a name they think will be lucky.”
“Can you trace the gambling habits of a customer through this card?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s the whole point. We want to know how often they visit, how much they wager, and who our high rollers are.”
“Can you tell me the last time Mr. Luck used his card?”
“One minute …” Computer keys tapped in the background. “Looks like he got the card back in October … Then he gambled pretty steady and was in here quite a bit in December.” A chuckle. “Lots of people think they’ll earn their Christmas spending money at the slot machines. Hmm … New Year’s Eve was the last time he was here.”
More than two weeks ago. “No activity at all since then?”
“Nada.”
“Okay, thanks.” Beau was about to hang up when he thought of something else. “How long do you keep your security videos?”
“Thirty days. Anybody with a dispute over his winnings usually raises a question right away, but sometimes he’ll come back later. But, if we suspect employees of shenanigans, we’ll keep watch on them a while, then make copies of certain tapes that might prove a legal case against them.”
“I need you to hang on to the tapes from the dates Johnny Luck was there.”
“Uh, that would be up to the manager.”
“I can get a subpoena.” He hoped he could. “Or you could just do me this favor until I have a chance to come by there and review them.”
“You realize we’ve already erased the ones from early December.”
Beau knew he would have to take his chances. “I’ll come out there this afternoon.”
By anyone’s clock it was now midmorning and he hadn’t heard a peep from Mrs. Lukinger. He found her number again in his notebook and dialed.
“Did you forget our appointment this morning?” he asked when she answered. “If it’s more convenient, I can come to your place.”
“Sorry, Sheriff, today’s not going to work for me.”
“When—?” He realized the line was dead.
Chapter 19
Sam looked up from the elaborate, ruffled hydrangeas she was creating for a cake, stretched her shoulders, and decided a cup of tea was what she needed. She’d been working steadily at the multi-toned flowers for more than two hours and every part of her body felt stiff. Kelly had come through before her workday began at Puppy Chic, flashing her ring and her news to the girls in the bakery.
By the sounds of voices from the sales room, Sam suspected her daughter was still around. She draped a sheet of plastic over the mound of sugar paste she’d been working with and walked toward the doorway, stretching her arms, rolling her neck and shoulders.
“… since my husband’s in the business. Really. He’ll get you a great deal on it.”
Sam took in the little tableau. Jen behind the counter, Missy facing the door where Kelly stood with one hand on the knob. The statement had clearly come from Missy, most likely directed toward Kelly.
“What business is that?” Sam asked, sending a little smile toward the three younger women.
“Oh, hi, Sam. Jewelry. I was just telling Kelly when it comes time to get Scott’s wedding band, we could get her a good deal. Too bad I didn’t know you guys sooner. Scott could have saved a bundle on your diamond.”
What kind of thing was that to say to a newly engaged woman? Sam tried for what she hoped was a reassuring look toward her daughter. Kelly seemed to laugh it off, though. She gave a tiny wave to the rest of them and breezed out the door.
Sam went to the beverage bar and made herself a cup of tea, stifling the urge to say anything. Missy was actually becoming a regular customer, as evidenced by her coat draped over one of the bistro chairs. A plate with the remains of crumb cake, a crumpled napkin, and an empty mug with a pink lipstick mark on the rim sat on the table. Sam hoped Missy was paying for her daily indulgences, that Jen wasn’t footing the bill just to have a friend to chat with each morning.
“Sam, how is your husband’s newest case going? Jen tells me it’s a murder case?”
Sam shot Jen a look. Beau’s work was not to be discussed casually in the bakery, not to mention Jen truly didn’t know anything about it beyond what she might read in the local paper.
Almost reading her boss’s thoughts, Jen sputtered. “Sam, I didn’t—”
“That’s true,” Missy said, covering quickly. “I’d heard something about it elsewhere, I guess. I’m just so fascinated by police work.”
“Yeah, I hear you’re going to school for your forensic sciences degree?” Sam took a step closer.
“Oh, actually not. I’m going to start writing crime novels.” She moved toward the bistro table and gathered her dirty dishes.
“Crime novels. Has writing been an interest of yours for a long time?”
“Um, sort of. I mean, I haven’t actually studied it or anything. I just thought—well, look at how much money James Patterson makes. It wouldn’t be a bad career choice.”
Jen watched the exchange, frozen like a baby deer. She seemed relieved when the phone rang and hastened to answer it.
“Sam, it’s Mr. Bookman,” she said.
Sam couldn’t ignore her biggest customer, but she locked eyes with Missy an additional half a minute. The blonde picked up her coat, suddenly remembering she had to be somewhere. Sam went to the kitchen and her desk to take the call.
Stan Bookman was bubbling with a concept for a new marketing campaign featuring her chocolates, and it was all Sam could do to scribble down the ideas as quickly as the words poured out of him. After a couple of minutes, she caught his infectious enthusiasm, letting thoughts of the irritating conversation with Missy Malone slip away. By the time he hung up, Sam had taken two pages of notes about custom chocolates for his new ‘travel the world’ campaign.
Her cup of tea had become chilly and she dumped it in the kitchen sink, mulling over everything Bookman had said. Jen walked in, heading for the rack where Julio had just set a tray of freshly iced mocha-cappuccino brownies.
“Sam, I hope Missy didn’t overstep—”
“Do you trust her?” Sam asked. “I mean, it seems like a different story every time she’s here. Is she making this stuff up as she goes, or does she just not know what she wants to do with her life?”
Jen shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. She just seems to want a friend to talk to.”
“Maybe that’s all it is. But it seems weird, you know. She’s talked about this husband who’s so successful and rich. They have two homes, they travel a lot. Seems strange her choice of hangouts is a small-town bakery.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought that too. I don’t know … as long as she buys something every time she comes in, I’m not complaining.” Jen picked up the brownie tray and turned toward the sales room.
With hydrangeas to finish and Stan Bookman’s call still running through her mind, Sam had more important things to think about than whom Jen chose to chat with during the day. She went back to her sugar paste flowers. By noon, three large hydrangeas in shades of blue, pink and lavender topped the four-tier wedding cake on which Becky had draped fondant and pressed a quilted pattern, inset with hundreds of candy pearls. They set the cake into the fridge to await delivery later in the afternoon, and Sam decided she was starving.
A quick call to Beau didn’t net a lunch date. He was headed to the casino, and she couldn’t figure out what that would be about. With a hundred things to think about, maybe it was better she didn’t add a whole new conversation to the melee that was going on inside her head already. She asked i
f the others wanted anything; they all declined, so she grabbed her coat and went out the back door. McDonald’s was closest. When she saw the length of the drive-thru line, she parked in the lot and dashed inside.
The woman at the head of the line started adding stipulations to her order—no pickles, mayo instead of ketchup—and Sam saw this dragging out for a while. But the clerk was courteous and finally figured it out. When the woman turned, Sam knew it was a familiar face. Most likely a bakery customer, but Sam couldn’t quite place her. She smiled.
“I know you, don’t I?” the lady said as she stepped to the side to wait for her food. “Don’t tell me.”
Sam wanted to say “Sweet’s Sweets” but she didn’t.
“My father’s neighbor. No … you were working at the house next door.”
Dolores Zuckerman. The name clicked into place.
“Yes. How is your father doing? Any luck with the retirement home idea?”
Dolores rolled her eyes. “Not a bit. I’m putting it on the back burner for a while. His wife has been around a bit more these past few days, and he seems happy enough.”
Two people had finished placing their orders and it was Sam’s turn. When she turned around after requesting chicken nuggets, Dolores Zuckerman was on her way out the door. Just as well. Sam hadn’t really wanted to linger over a conversation about an irascible old man and the dynamics with the daughter who was trying to control his life.
She decided to head for the Victorian, where she could see how the factory crew was getting along and also to check her inventory of chocolate molds. She would need a variety of new designs for Mr. Bookman’s big plans.
Chapter 20
Few people defied a lawman with as much cheery disdain as Ramona Lukinger, Beau thought as he stewed over the brush-off from Percy’s widow. He debated calling back—useless—she would simply not pick up. He missed the old days of landlines. You didn’t always catch a person at home or work, but when you did you knew where she was.
Sticky Sweet Page 9
