Sticky Sweet

by Connie Shelton

  “I just need to know whether the box is safe. There has been some new … some increased activity.”

  “It’s been with me the past several days,” Sam said. Had it? Her mind struggled to switch gears. She remembered taking it with her to the new break-in house, but that had been more than a week ago. It was on the seat of her truck yesterday—or was it the day before?

  “If you have it in your hands, that’s fine,” Isobel said. “But if you need to go out, please be sure you have it locked away. Marcus Fitch seems to have disappeared from the East Coast and we think he may be headed in your direction.”

  Sam had to work at remembering all the players in the game she had learned about last summer. The box that had come into her possession was one of three. She had only been told of the dangers associated with the various factions who were trying to get their hands on all three boxes only because one group, OSM, had Sam in their sights. Fitch had personally come after Sam with the intention of taking away hers.

  She assured Isobel she would keep the box under lock and key, and they ended the call. Once again, Sam felt tempted to package it up and mail it to The Vongraf for safekeeping, taking herself completely out of the picture.

  “Darlin’?” Beau asked. He’d finished his own phone call with about three words and now sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his uniform pants. “Everything okay?”

  She nodded. He only knew the barest of details about the situation and she preferred to keep it that way. His lawman instincts would dictate that he become involved and protect her, and this was something that went way beyond the realm of the county sheriff’s office.

  She walked over to the window and looked out. Their flat pastureland was covered in a fluffy white quilt. Fence posts wore puffy white hats, and the trees in the distance appeared as black arms and fingers coated in sugar. Judging by the accumulation on the edges of their back deck, she guessed the snowfall had ended shortly after they got home. The clouds were still white, but clear patches had begun to reveal stars as the storm moved off toward the mountains to the east.

  “Are you opening the bakery today?” Beau asked through a foam of toothpaste.

  “I told the chocolate factory staff to go according to the school announcement. I think the bakery crew will do the same—it’s what we normally do in the winter.”

  He rinsed and spat water into the basin. “Just asking in case you want a ride into town. I need to call Roger to come out and shovel the path to the barn, clear our driveway. As soon as I reach him, I’ll be leaving for the office.”

  Sam considered for a second. “Do I have time for a quick shower? I think I still have chocolate in my eyebrows.”

  He smiled. “Your eyebrows look fine, but you’ve got time for the shower if you want.” He watched her drop the nightgown, a wistful look for the bad timing of the phone calls. “I’ll make some coffee, tend to the dogs, and meet you at my cruiser in fifteen minutes.”

  Sam did the fastest wash-shampoo-rinse she’d done in a long time, aimed the dryer at her hair for two minutes, and pulled on fresh jeans and a soft flannel shirt. Downstairs, she grabbed her keys and went out to her truck, instantly regretting that she’d put on sneakers instead of boots. Oh well. Once the shoes were snow-filled, another few steps didn’t matter. She brushed enough snow aside with her bare hands to open the passenger side door. The wooden box wasn’t on the seat. A mild current of concern went through her.

  Marcus Fitch may be headed in your direction.

  “Calm down, Sam,” she whispered in the empty truck. “It’s going to turn up.”

  Beau had come out the front door and she turned toward him.

  “Ready? Or did you decide to stay home?”

  She looked at the white expanse all around. She really should go to the bakery, look around for the box and check her delivery van. She couldn’t remember which vehicle she’d been driving the last time she’d seen the box.

  “I blew it with these shoes,” she admitted, holding up her foot. “Give me a minute to get dry socks and change into my boots.”

  He tapped his watch face, although his expression didn’t register true irritation. She imagined he was no more eager to start the workday than she, but his job didn’t afford the luxury of weather days. She raced into the house and up the stairs. In under two minutes, she’d gathered what she needed and was stuffing her feet into her warmest snow boots.

  Road crews had made decent headway during the night. Once Beau had slow-poked his way down their own driveway, he found the roads into town had been cleared. Paseo del Pueblo Norte already had light traffic, as evidenced by the slush thrown to the sides of the street. Beau cruised past the turn to his office.

  They circled the plaza, where the streets were clear except for huge mounds of snow piled at the corners of the square. The adobe buildings still wore their picturesque winter lighting and the snow added a Norman Rockwell charm to the whole scene. At the stop sign leading to Camino de la Placita, Beau waited while an orange county truck with flashing yellow beacon roared past, its plow to the pavement.

  Across the way, Sam could see a smaller, private truck with a plow working on the parking lot of her building. Old man Tafoya, surprisingly, hadn’t skimped on this very basic service for his tenants. He wasn’t exactly known for providing anything without pulling some teeth to get it.

  “So, to the bakery or my office?” Beau asked.

  Sam thought of the box. “I’d better spend some time here,” she said, indicating the bakery with a tilt of her head.

  He obliged by pulling right up to the front door. “You can always come help out at the office if things get too boring here,” he said.

  Sam reached for her keys and sent him on his way with a kiss. Normally, Sweet’s Sweets would be opening about now but seeing as how there had been virtually no private vehicles on the streets yet, Sam guessed she had a little time to spare. The sky was only now beginning to show pearl gray in the east.

  She surveyed the bakery cases and saw that, due to their early closing yesterday, there was adequate stock of cookies and cupcakes to get started. Half remained of an amaretto cheesecake and there were a dozen cinnamon rolls, which should satisfy the mid-morning crowd if it materialized. She switched on the lights and started the coffee maker—remembered she had meant to go out back and search for the box in her van, so she switched the lights off again and locked the front door.

  In the alley the van sat under a mound of white. Sam went back indoors for a broom, then cleared enough to let her crawl inside. The box wasn’t in plain sight on the seat or floor and trying to see beyond that in the dark was ridiculous.

  The man who’d been plowing the parking lot now came around to the back alley. This was most likely the real reason Tafoya paid him to be here. The city wouldn’t pick up garbage unless access to the dumpsters was clear, and if it remained blocked for more than a day or so, there would be a fine. Sam got out of the van, swept the remaining snow off it quickly, and waited until the truck had made one clear strip before she started and moved the van around to the front parking lot.

  The light was better here, as the eastern sky now glowed. She intensified her search for the carved box and found it stuffed under the driver’s seat. As she pulled it out she felt it scrape the seat-adjustment mechanism. A new scratch now showed on the bottom. She rubbed the wood tenderly, as if she’d just scraped her own hand.

  “What new drama are you about to bring to me?” she asked quietly, thinking of Isobel’s phone call. The box responded by gleaming faintly. “I suppose I won’t know until it happens.”

  She carried the box into the bakery, where the aroma of coffee filled the room. The box, by now, had warmed her cold hands. She switched the salesroom lights back on and took the box to the kitchen, where she stuffed it into her backpack purse.

  Bag and coat safely hung on the hooks at the back wall, Sam turned the large bake oven to preheat before going back to fetch hersel
f a mug so she could brew a cup of good English Breakfast tea. She stood at the front windows, staring out at the predawn morning. It would be a few hours until traffic really began moving. For the first time in a month, she felt an easy calm about the way the day was beginning.

  The mellow feeling didn’t last long. She looked closely at the two cakes in her window display and saw one of them had suffered a mishap. Most likely a customer’s child who wanted a closer look—two of the large frosting roses were missing.

  Since the cakes themselves were plastic forms, they never spoiled, but it was good to change the windows regularly and give people something new to look at. The current design went along the Winter Wonderland theme—very appropriate at the moment—but she should be revamping them soon for the Valentine season. She studied the space and began to get some ideas. Meanwhile, she could quickly whip out a couple of replacement flowers to fix the obvious boo-boo.

  She started for the kitchen when the flash of headlights across the back wall alerted her. A vehicle had pulled up to the front of the shop. The small car didn’t seem like the type to be out on a snowy morning with icy roads filled with slush and the mixture of sand and cinders spread by the road crews. Sam caught herself staring. But the bakery lights were on and the front door unlocked, so it looked as though she had her first customer of the day.

  She set down her tea mug and gave a quick glance to be sure the tables were clean and the beverage bar was neat. When she looked up again, the driver had emerged. It was Missy Malone.

  Chapter 37

  Sam’s mind reeled. Missy was the suspect in Beau’s case, the woman he’d called Ramona … something …. At the moment, Sam couldn’t think. Beau had questioned and released Missy, but then hadn’t he learned something new?

  Missy pulled a stylish fur hood over her head as she emerged from the car. Her boots—more fashionable than functional—slipped a little on the icy pavement, but she balanced herself well and came to the door. Sam itched to reach for the phone and call Beau, but Missy was inside before she could make a move.

  “Oh—I was hoping Jen was here already this morning,” Missy said.

  If she remembered that Sam had been at the station when the sheriff questioned her, she was pretending it never happened.

  “Well, anyway. All I need today is something for breakfast. My husband’s sweet tooth is on the prowl, and well, I just don’t bake.” Her eyes scanned the items in the display case. “Four of the cinnamon rolls, please.”

  Sam waited for the flicker of recognition, the subtle acknowledgement of what had gone on. And husband? Beau was investigating the death of this woman’s husband. Apparently, she was sticking to the charade she’d been playing in front of Jen, that she was married to some rich guy.

  Sam took her time removing the four rolls from the tray and placing them into a paper bag. How could she report Missy’s appearance here without alerting the woman that she was calling the sheriff? She wanted to ask a dozen questions, but didn’t know enough about his progress with the case to risk messing it up by saying the wrong thing. She took the ten dollar bill Missy held out, but when she opened the register to make change, the woman simply grabbed her bag of cinnamon rolls and walked out. In a few seconds, she was in the car and backing out.

  Sam rushed to the window. She needed to see the back of that car, to get the plate number for Beau. She barely made it before the car reached the end of the parking lot near Puppy Chic. Repeating the numbers in her head, she jotted them on the back of an order form then dialed Beau’s cell phone.

  “Missy Mal—no, Ramona whatshername,” she blurted. “Red Mercedes SLC Roadster. All I got of the license was SPV 4. I missed the last two digits. Sorry, I couldn’t keep her here.”

  “Darlin’ take a breath,” Beau said. “I only got part of that.”

  Sam went through it again, slowly, starting with her surprise at seeing the woman in her shop again.

  “Why do you suppose she would take the chance on coming here?” she asked. “She must know you’re looking for Ramona, even though Missy is off the hook.”

  “I’m thinking that myself,” he said.

  “You know … when she was hanging around before, she kept asking Jen little things about your investigation, hinting around. Remember how she first said she might go into forensic work, then it was because she planned to write a crime novel. Maybe she thought she would catch Jen here and keep up that pretense.”

  “It makes sort of roundabout sense, but this is an accomplished con artist. They usually cut and run as soon as suspicion turns toward them. I’m surprised she’s even in town.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t have gotten anything from Jen. She’s royally pissed at Missy for trying to buy her friendship with stolen gifts.”

  “At least with the information about her car, we can try to catch up with her and bring her in for more questioning. Thanks for being quick on your feet with that, Sam.”

  Sam stared at the phone for a minute after they’d hung up, wondering if there was anything she could do to help. She couldn’t think what it would be. Beau’s deputies would be out patrolling the streets anyway; maybe one of them would spot Missy—or, Ramona. Her tea had gone lukewarm; she added hot water and headed to the kitchen. At least she could bake some muffins, in hopes that once the sky cleared people would be eager to get out.

  With Julio normally at the oven in the early mornings, it had been awhile since Sam had mixed and baked much. She had to consult the recipe, muttering to herself that she’d better not be losing her skills. It all came back though, and within minutes she had batches of apple-cinnamon, blueberry, and honey-bran muffins in the big oven. While they baked, she looked through the order forms on her desk. Nothing seemed urgent. If Becky made it in today, she could easily handle everything.

  Sam felt her attention wandering to the chocolate factory. She’d evidently been in such a trance-like state last night, she’d created dozens of pieces for Mr. Bookman’s approval and this morning she couldn’t remember what they were. She itched to get back there and see how they’d turned out, whether she would want to add finishing touches. But she kept reminding herself that the road out to her place was too remote to have been cleared by county crews—too remote to take her bakery van through deep snow and risk sliding off. The chocolates could wait, she decided.

  She picked up one of the cake order forms. According to the checklist, the layers had been baked. Pulling them from the fridge, she gathered buttercream frosting and color paste. The design was a simple one for a baby shower, and the time sped by as she formed tiny booties and pastel ribbons. She’d just set down her piping bags when she heard a noise at the back door. A second later, Julio stepped in.

  “Oh, I wasn’t sure if you were really here,” he said. “Saw the van out front.”

  “How did you get here?” She thought of his prized Harley.

  “A buddy with a big Dodge Ram.” He sniffed the air.

  “I made some muffins. Not sure how many customers we’ll have, so I hadn’t planned to bake a lot.”

  “Sky’s clear in the west already,” he said. “We could do the afternoon stuff.”

  “Good idea.”

  The bells on the front door tinkled and Sam started toward the sales room.

  “It’s just me,” Jen called out. She came through the curtain into the kitchen. “I got a ride and decided to come in.”

  “Is the sun coming out?”

  “Bright and clear,” Jen said. “The main roads aren’t bad at all. I thought you’d be at the chocolate factory today. How’s it going with Mr. Bookman’s order?”

  “I’m not really sure.” Sam realized, the moment the words popped out, how true it was.

  With the passage of a few hours, last night’s frenzy of creation had begun to feel a bit surreal. Had she actually come up with designs and flavors for all those exotic destinations? Would they look and taste as fantastic as she’d imagined them to be?
>
  Jen was giving her a puzzled look.

  “I mean, I think everything’s coming along fine.”

  “I doubt Becky will be in,” Jen offered. “I talked to her this morning, and the fact they closed school has her in a little tizzy with those two rowdy boys at home.”

  “It’ll work out. None of the factory crew is coming in today either. I imagine half the town will just snuggle in at home or spend the morning outside, building snowmen in their front yards.”

  For a moment, a vision passed through her mind, a picture of Kelly as a kid. Had those school days really been more than twenty years ago? She stared at the finished baby shower cake. It wouldn’t be long before she was baking one of these to celebrate her own grandchild. Or not. Young couples these days didn’t always opt for the traditional family patterns. Kelly and Scott might spend their lives exploring the historic haunts of some far off country, for all Sam knew.

  While she had her piping bag handy, she carried it to the front window display and patched the damage on the wedding cake. Jen was right, the sun was beginning to glow through the clouds now, although the air still held the bite of frost. The shrubs out front were thick with snow that didn’t appear to be going anywhere. She stared up the street to the north.

  When she turned around, Jen was arranging the display trays, making room for the new muffins.

  “Your ex-buddy stopped by this morning,” Sam said. “Missy or Ramona or whatever her name really is.”

  Jen dropped a warm muffin but managed to catch it left-handed. “What did she want?”

  “She asked if you were here, but didn’t say why. Bought four cinnamon rolls and left super quick.”

  “Nervy.”

  “Extremely. Especially since Beau wants to question her again. I got part of her license plate and told him about it.”

  “Well, if she comes back, you can be sure I won’t talk to her. I am so done with that fake friendship. If she shows up again, I’ll figure out a way to tie her down and then I’ll call Beau.”