She pulled flatware from a drawer and set places at the kitchen table, then got plates from the cupboard. As they ate, Kelly chatted freely, telling Sam about another of the daily mishaps in the world of dog bathing and clipping at Puppy Chic. Sam laughed often enough to pass for attentive but her mind raced along in a dozen other directions.
What had the whispered voice in the dark said? Something about not disturbing the panther? No, that wasn’t quite right. Leave panther alone. Where had she heard that term recently . . . there was something she wasn’t quite remembering. She picked at her food.
Panther—a name for someone. Jonathan Ernhart had used it. The catlike, stealthy name was . . . It was Tito Fresques’s code name. She locked in on that. Yes, that was it. The code name Tito used in his DEA work. Funny, Rick Wells hadn’t mentioned it. She’d heard it somewhere else.
She worked it around in her head as she put the dishes into the dishwasher. Kelly had taken a couple of cookies from the stash of day-old ones that Sam always brought from the bakery and had gone to the sofa, where raucous game show laughter filled the room.
Sam went into her room to change clothes, thrusting aside all thoughts of the encounter in the alley. More importantly, right now, was to check on Marla. As she emptied the pockets of her work slacks she opened her cell phone and dialed the Fresques home.
An unfamiliar voice answered.
“Oh yes, Samantha. This is Camille Gonzales. We met at Marla’s party awhile back.”
“I was there this morning when she got the news about Tito,” Sam said. “How is she doing now?”
“She won’t eat and she won’t sleep,” Camille said. “Neighbors have been bringing food all afternoon. All Marla wants to do is plan Tito’s funeral.”
“I guess it’s understandable that she wants to finalize things, after his being missing for so many years.” Her eyes strayed to the lumpy wooden box on her dresser.
“I suppose so.” In the background Sam heard someone ask Camille a question and she told the person to look in the dining room.
“Look, I was thinking about dropping by for a few minutes,” Sam said, instantly questioning herself. It had been a long day and she really didn’t have a desire to go back out in the cold.
She eyed the box again. Perhaps there was something good she could do for her friend.
“Marla is tired, Sam,” Camille said. “But none of us can seem to convince her to go to sleep, including Father Joe. So you might as well try.”
“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.” Sam ended the call and quickly donned jeans and a sweater.
As had become habitual, she held the box on her lap and wrapped her hands around the sides of it, letting the heat from the wood permeate her body. When she could no longer handle the intensity of it, she set it into a drawer and quickly bundled up in her coat.
“I’m going out to Marla Fresques’s place,” she called out to Kelly. “If I’m not back in two hours call the cops.”
Kelly chuckled and went back to her TV show.
What possessed me to say that? Sam thought as she walked out the back door. When she caught herself studying the shadows and opting to drive her pickup truck instead of the bakery van, she realized that the tattooed guy was still on her mind.
The eerie ice-fog began to close in around her truck once more when she approached the tiny crossroads of Arroyo Seco. Sam slowed and found herself watching the sides of the road, half expecting to see the chocolatier, Bobul, appear out of nowhere; half dreading to see anyone else. She double-checked the locks on her doors, crept along, and finally broke out of the fog as she came to Marla’s turnoff.
Two cars besides Marla’s sat out front and Sam began to doubt her mission. Maybe it would be better to simply leave the woman alone, to let her grieve in private for awhile and eventually get some rest. The stimulation of constant company might be taking its toll on the woman’s already fragile health. Sam parked the truck and walked toward the front door. She was already here. She would sit with Marla for a short while, try to impart whatever energy the box had given her, and then leave. You can only do what you can, she decided.
Camille answered the door. Her husband Jorge hovered near the kitchen door with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Come in, Samantha. It’s good to see you again.”
Sam glanced into the living room where she saw Father Joe sitting in a chair he’d pulled up alongside the sofa where Marla sat. She looked animated in a tired way, gesturing with her hands, sitting up straight, but with a weariness that dragged at her features.
The priest patted Marla’s arm and then stood up. Compared to this morning, Marla’s energy level had definitely waned. She started to stand up when she noticed Sam, but it seemed like an effort.
“Don’t get up for me,” Sam said, crossing the room. She draped her coat over the back of the sofa and took the chair that still held warmth from the priest.
Marla’s hand, in contrast, felt chilly.
“How are you doing?” Sam asked.
Marla nodded, her head wagging side to side a little. “Bien, mas o menos. I’m okay.” Her smile faded at the corners and her eyes were heavy lidded.
“I hear that no one can convince you to get some sleep.”
“Soon. I will rest soon enough.”
Sam got the feeling she wasn’t talking about going to sleep. “Let me warm your hands again.”
Marla talked as Sam took her right hand, running her own warm fingers up and down the length of Marla’s arm.
“I spoke for a long time with Father Joe,” she said. “We decided on the funeral arrangements.”
“That’s good.” Sam took a turn at the left arm.
“He will talk to the authorities and make them bring Tito home. Within a few days he thinks we can have a service here in Taos and put my boy to rest.”
Sam concentrated on sending the radiant warmth down her own arms, through her hands, and into Marla.
“Are your feet and legs also cold?” she asked her friend.
At Marla’s nod, Sam suggested that she put her feet up on the sofa and let Sam massage them. She glanced toward the other visitors but Camille seemed occupied seeing the priest out the door and Jorge had disappeared into the kitchen. She applied the warm touch to Marla’s feet, running her fingers upward to the knee, back to the arches. One leg and then the other. Energy ran through her fingertips and Marla’s color seemed to improve almost immediately.
The knitted afghan lay over the back of the sofa and Sam retrieved it and tucked it around Marla’s lap.
“Stay warm,” she said. “And try to get some sleep soon. I think you’ll feel better in the morning.”
Marla settled a pillow under her head and leaned into it. “I will. Thank you, Sam.” Although her coloring was better, the tiredness remained in the lines of her face.
Sam stood, a wave of lightheadedness washing over her.
She held her balance against the chair for a second until the dizziness passed. Camille stared at her, but with some concentration Sam walked away, picked up her coat and said her goodbyes to the group. The outdoor chill felt good, bracing her as she willed energy into her legs and walked to her truck.
Chapter 28
The drive home felt like it took forever. She seriously thought about pulling off the road at Beau’s place; she knew he would welcome her. But there was something more appealing about settling into her own bed at the moment. No conversation, no intimacy, just the temptation to walk into her bedroom and totally, completely, crash.
She kept her eyes on the road and forced them to stay open. She’d never experienced such a complete letdown after transferring energy to someone else. Perhaps Marla’s cancer was too formidable a challenge for Sam’s abilities. As she’d told Zoë, a terminal disease was a whole different thing than a pulled muscle.
She nearly missed the turn onto her own street.
“I’m too tired for this,” she said out loud, talking herself into staying
awake two more minutes. “I can’t keep—”
She hit the brakes hard, a fraction of a second before the truck would have run into her van in the driveway.
“Okay, Sam, slow and careful. Just get inside and get into bed.” She coached herself through each step of locking the truck, opening her back door, walking through the kitchen.
Television noises came from the living room.
“That you, Mom?” Kelly called out.
Sam sent a feeble wave toward her daughter. “Going right to bed,” she mumbled. But Kelly’s attention had already wandered back to the screen.
Inside her room, Sam’s backpack fell to the floor and her coat landed across the bed. She barely remembered pulling back the comforter before everything went black.
*
Sam startled awake to unaccustomed bright sunlight in her room. She still wore her same jeans and sweater and had pulled the comforter over herself at some point.
Marla Fresques. Memories of driving out to Marla’s house, trying to heal her, coming home completely exhausted, falling into bed. She groaned and rolled over. From somewhere in the room a muffled tune played. Her cell phone.
She sat up and patted the bedcovers until she located her coat and fished around in the pockets for the phone.
“Sam? Everything okay?”
She assured Jen she’d merely overslept.
“We got a little worried when you weren’t here first thing. But it’s fine. Sandy and Cathy got all the muffins and scones made. Becky is decorating cupcakes. It’s been a little slower than normal up front.”
Sam thanked Jen and told her she would be there in plenty of time to finish the two birthday cakes for pickup later in the day. Then she dialed Marla’s number, which was answered by Diane.
“She’s hanging in there,” Diane said. “I think she finally slept some last night. Father Joe just called to say that the funeral home has Tito’s body, and of course Marla’s first reaction was that she wanted to go see him. They pointed out that wouldn’t be possible.”
Thank goodness. Sam didn’t even want to think what a murder victim from two years ago would look like.
“Let me know if there’s any change in Marla’s condition,” she told Diane.
“Realistically, she should be back in the hospital.” The neighbor’s voice came through quietly. “But she won’t go. There’s no debating this until after Tito’s funeral.”
Sam glanced at the readout as she ended the call. After eight o’clock. She pulled herself out of bed and took a long, hot shower complete with shampoo and lots of conditioner. In the kitchen she stared into the fridge and decided to go all out with eggs and toast for breakfast. A pastry at the shop just wasn’t going to give the energy boost she so desperately needed this morning. For good measure she rummaged through a cabinet and came up with a multi-vitamin and a few vitamin C chewables.
By nine she was on her way to the bakery, wondering if she could entirely chalk up the lag in energy to her visit with Marla last night. She walked in to find that the girls actually had everything well under control, and Jen showed a decent sales amount on the register.
Sam pulled the layers for the two birthday cakes and began assembling them. She put Becky to work icing and smoothing the quarter-sheet for the soccer girl, while Sam lost herself in the sculpting of small figures of the players and soccer balls for the green field. With a miniature goal net and some other details, the piece came together quickly.
The flowerpot cake was a little more challenging. Becky began creating sugar flowers and hanging them from a raised rack to chill in the fridge, while Sam took a stack of round layers and carved at them until the flowerpot shape emerged.
“Let’s dirty-ice this one and get it back in the fridge,” she told Becky. “I’ll do the fondant and assembly after lunch. The customer isn’t planning to be here until around three.”
When she took a short break and headed for the coffee pot at eleven, she felt surprisingly better.
“I don’t know what happened to my energy this past day or so,” she commented to Jen when they were alone in the sales room. “Glad it’s coming back, though.”
“You push pretty hard, Sam. Gotta give yourself a break now and then.”
Yeah, us old gals, she thought. But she didn’t say anything. Her phone rang, down in her pocket, at that moment.
“Hey, darlin’. How about lunch? Stop by my office in an hour or so and we can go from there?”
It felt like it had been awhile since she and Beau had any private time for themselves, and although restaurant lunches were rarely quiet, it would be something. She told him she would get there as close to noon as possible.
When she walked into Beau’s office, a man stood inside, talking animatedly with Beau.
“Hey, Sam, come on in, you’ve met Jonathan.”
His smile was warm when he turned to face her and she could tell that the two old buddies were enjoying catching up.
“Mind if Jon joins us for lunch?” Beau asked.
She couldn’t very well refuse. Besides, she had a few questions for the FBI man.
“I had a visit from Rick Wells,” she said as they settled at a table at the Taoseño. “I guess the two of you are working the Tito Fresques case together.”
Jonathan raised one shoulder. “Off and on.” He lowered his voice. “Sometimes our agencies work certain operations together. Rick grew up in Arizona and has connections to the informants we’re using against the Mexican cartels. We take the evidence they gather and work to build the case.”
He got quiet when their waitress approached. Sam didn’t speak again until the woman had taken their orders and walked away.
“I haven’t told Tito’s mother anything about his role in all this and I didn’t think it was a good idea for Mr. Wells to spring that information on her either,” Sam said. “I hope you aren’t going to upset her.”
“Seeing Mrs. Fresques was part of the purpose for my trip north,” Jonathan said. “But Beau tells me the lady is in poor health and maybe it’s not a good idea to be too frank with her.”
“I wouldn’t. I really don’t think she knows a thing about Tito’s undercover work.”
Ernhart’s eyes scanned the room constantly.
“Are we . . . Is it not good to talk about this here?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“It would be best to wait,” he said.
Their plates arrived just then, and the agent picked up his hamburger. Before they’d gotten halfway through their meal, Beau’s radio squawked.
“Sorry, looks like I need to get back to the office. Since you all rode over here with me, I guess that means we’re all leaving.” He signaled the waitress and asked for three carry-out boxes.
While Beau placed a call with his office door shut, a file open in front of him, Sam and Jonathan carried their lunches to the interrogation room.
“So, now that we’re in a secure place, can you tell me more about Tito Fresques’s involvement with the DEA?” she asked.
“I’m just now learning a lot of it myself,” Jonathan admitted as he picked up his half-finished burger. “Tito apparently did some undercover work in the Navy. From the start, the electrician training was a cover. He got out, DEA recruited him, got Bellworth to hire him. He was fluent in Spanish, blended well, knew how to handle himself in covert operations.”
“And his family never had a clue about this?”
“Few do. Even if a guy can readily admit to his wife that he works for one of these agencies, there is never any work discussed at home. The job at Bellworth provided Tito with what he needed—a way to fit into a middle class neighborhood, a way to let his family see a paycheck from a legitimate source.”
“You said there’s new information now?” Sam picked up a French fry that had already lost its crisp.
“Well, finding his body changed everything. Wells told me they were pretty sure something had happened to him, but assumed it was back then, when he first disappeared. N
ow that we know he was on the run for eight years . . . well, our two agencies are piecing it together.”
“Have you come up with what started the whole chain of events—why he vanished that weekend in August all those years ago?”
“There’s either a mole within the agency, somebody who gave him up to the bad guys, or there’s a bad guy out there who pinpointed him. I’m working on that.”
Sam abandoned her tepid meal. “A strange thing happened to me last night,” she said. “I haven’t even told Beau about this.”
She recounted the encounter in the alley, the man who practically raced by her, dropping the name Panther as he went.
“And you say this was the same day Rick Wells talked to you?”
It was. Sam had not put the two events together.
Ernhart got quiet for a minute or two, but when Sam tried to push for more information he stayed silent.
“There’s still the other situation,” she said. “Tito’s mother is dying—cancer. The doctors are surprised she’s lasted this long already. When she goes, it leaves Tito’s young daughter Jolie all alone.”
“That’s tough. Maybe the grandmother has made provisions, named someone in her will?”
“I don’t think so. I asked once. It seemed that she’d not yet made a will, a superstition that taking care of paperwork would hasten her death. She didn’t want to die until she knew Tito was coming home.”
“And now he is.”
Sadly, that was true.
“Let me ask again,” Sam said. “See what I can find out. Meanwhile, if there’s anything at all in his employment records, the name of anyone that might have been close enough to take this on, could you . . .?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Sam closed the lid on the takeout box and looked around for a trash can but there wasn’t one in the interrogation room. She picked up the remains of Ernhart’s lunch as well, and opened the door to the squad room.
Sweet Hearts Page 18
