Sweets Forgotten (Samantha Sweet Mysteries Book 10) (6 page)

“All the tire tracks look old,”
Taylor said.

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

They circled the garage and let
themselves into a walled patio through an unlocked high wooden gate. Three
sliding glass doors opened onto a huge tiled deck, each door at a different
angle to ensure privacy. Peering into the middle one showed a great room large
enough to entertain an army battalion or half the kids at the local high
school, depending on your preference. Oversized leather couches faced a
theater-sized TV screen, and a variety of Indian pottery, mostly in the Tewa
and San Ildefonso styles, filled nooks and crannies. No one was in sight,
although a discarded shirt over the nearest chair, a plugged-in cell phone and
some pocket change on the kitchen counter made it look as if someone could have
walked out of the room five minutes ago. Beau tried the door but it was
securely locked.

“This one’s a pretty fancy master
bedroom,” Taylor said, his hands cupped around his eyes at the door to the
west.

Beau walked to the third door and
saw that this room was another bedroom done in grand style. He tugged at the
door handle but this one didn’t budge either.

“Okay. So the wife’s off
somewhere out of town, the son is at boarding school and hubby went and got
himself killed in Albuquerque.” Kent Taylor probably didn’t mean for his words
to come off so cavalierly. Beau saw it as the attitude of a cop who’s seen too
much and is facing the end of a long career.

“I suppose we should begin
canvassing the neighbors, see if anyone is a friend of Mrs. Robinet and might
know how we can reach her.”

They had circled again to the
front of the house. Beau faced the road, scanning the neighboring properties
and realizing that neither the garage nor the front porch were likely to be
visible to any other homes on this curving lane. No matter. It was work that
had to be done because you never knew where a lead would come from. Although
Beau would have appreciated the chance to stretch his legs, Taylor suggested
they take the cruiser to the nearest neighboring house, about a quarter mile up
the road.

A sleepy-eyed man of about fifty,
wearing only a pair of boxers, answered after their second ring at the
doorbell. His expression clearly said “I was asleep, what the hell do you
want?” Night shift worker, no doubt. They usually disconnected their doorbells
and turned off phones, so Beau didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy for him.

“Sorry, never had nothin’ to do
with ’em,” said the man, who gave his name as Randy Walker.

“Within the last few days, would
you have seen Mrs. Robinet leave the house, maybe with a suitcase?”

“I tell you, we never exchanged
more’n a dozen words in the five years since they built that house. Me, I work
nights. Don’t see much of anyone. My one neighbor, Buddy, we try to catch some
Sunday football now and then.” He nodded his head toward the west, presumably
indicating the next house along the road.

“Well, if you should see Mrs.
Robinet return home, would you mind giving my department a call? We really need
to get in touch with her.” Beau handed the man his card.

For the first time, Walker’s eyes
fully opened. “One of ’em done something wrong?”

“Thanks for your time,” said Kent
Taylor.

The two lawmen headed back to the
cruiser parked at the road. The next two houses yielded no answers to their
knocks, but that wasn’t unusual for midday. It was a neighborhood where people
held jobs. They doubled back and walked up to the house directly east of
Robinet’s.

A woman with a baby on her hip
answered the door, her blond hair caught up in a clip at the back, strands
hanging across her face. A toddler edged into view from behind her red
calf-length skirt. The woman looked ready to slam the door had the visitors
turned out to be selling magazines, pans or religion. At Beau’s question, she
gave her name as Lacy Padilla.

“I might have Jo’s cell phone
number,” she said, her eyes aiming skyward as she worked to remember. “She had
me accept a package for her once and asked me to call when it arrived.”

“That would be very helpful,”
Beau said.

She untangled the one kid from
her leg and shifted the baby to her other side so she could reach into the
pocket of her skirt. One-handed, she thumbed across the cell phone’s screen
until she came up with it. Beau wrote down the number she read out.

“Did you know the Robinets very
well?” Taylor asked.

“No, not at all. I mean, you’d
think that Jo and I both being home all day we would have the time to
socialize. But we never did. She seemed all wrapped up in charity work and her
husband’s business. I got pregnant the first time shortly after they moved in
next door. Talking baby food and diapers and that kind of thing completely did
not interest her. And, unfortunately, the Junior League and all that stuff
completely does not interest me. You might check with Sharon across the road
and down a little ways. She’s about the only other person who’s home a lot.
Other than Randy—you may have met him.” She made a face at the mention of the
boxer-clad gentleman.

Beau thanked her for the
information and, as usual, handed out his card in case she thought of anything
else.

Sharon Redmond answered so
quickly after the doorbell rang that Beau knew she must have been watching as
they drove up. Chances were she had seen their entire progress up and down the
road. She seemed that kind of woman, with her tightly bobbed hair and pursed
mouth.

“Well, I heard fights sometimes,”
she said with a juicy little smile.

“Physical?”

“Nah, I think mostly verbal.
Summer nights when windows were open was mostly all I ever got wind of. But you
never know. That Zack Robinet has a hell of a temper.”

“Does he?”

“I used to see him rag that kid
of theirs. Drive him to school, reaming him out over grades or sports and such.
That was only the first year they lived here, though. After that, I guess the
kid went away to school. I only ever see him on holiday weekends. He was here
over the summer and I think the dad tried having the son work at his office.
They’d go off together in the mornings. But that lasted a couple weeks. The kid
is a teenager with attitude now and he dishes it out as much as the dad does.
There was another screaming match and the boy went off with friends and didn’t
come back for nearly a week.”

This was degenerating into
blatant gossip but the lawmen let her go on until she’d covered the summer and
it seemed the son had gone safely back to Holbrook Academy in August.

“Thanks for your time, Mrs.
Redmond,” Kent Taylor said. He rolled his eyes the moment he and Beau turned
away from the door.

“Well, not much to go on for a
morning’s work,” Beau muttered as they walked back across the road to the empty
Robinet home.

He pulled out the number Lacy
Padilla had given him and checked it against the one given by Zack’s parents
yesterday. It was different. He dialed this new one but it went to voicemail.
Beau left only his name and number. Then he remembered something.

“It can’t hurt to try,” he said,
leading the way to the back of the house once more.

He stood at the sliding door to
the greatroom and dialed Josephine Robinet’s number again. Sure enough, a faint
tone came through and he noticed that the screen on the phone on the kitchen
counter lit up.

“What woman goes anywhere these
days without her cell phone?” Taylor asked.

Beau told him about the other
number. “She must have two of them.”

Still, it didn’t make much sense.
The neighbor’s information was undoubtedly older than that of the in-laws, but
when someone gets a new phone the old one normally ends up in a drawer
somewhere, not out on the counter. And, the service would have been discontinued.
Beau got a ring and voice message. Maybe she had some reason for keeping them
both active. Only a few possibilities came to mind.

Chapter
7

Sam reviewed the photos of
possible Jane Doe matches once more, but none of them were hers. The face with
the closest resemblance was a case more than five years old and the woman was
last seen near Buffalo, New York. She set that one aside in case Beau wanted to
look at it, but Sam held little hope. She turned out the lights in his office
and locked the door. Walking back to Sweet’s Sweets would be the best way to
take the crick out of her back and would return her to work quicker than
waiting for Beau. She covered the few blocks in less than fifteen minutes.

In the sales room Jen was seated
at one of the bistro tables discussing a new order with a customer. It took
less than sixty seconds in the room with them for Sam to feel the tension. Jen
had an order form in front of her and a few penciled sketches, but Sam noticed
other pages off to the side. Lots of entries had been made and crossed out.
Jen’s normally cheery demeanor looked as if it was stretched pretty thin and
her smile was tight.

“Anything I can do to help?” Sam
asked as casually as she could.

“Mrs. Salazar wants an interesting
birthday cake.” Jen held out the order form.

“Our specialty,” Sam said to the
customer. “When is the occasion?”

“I leave for Santa Fe in the
morning and need to take it with me.” The woman’s eyes flashed in challenge. “I
thought your shop could provide what I wanted but it looks like I’ll have to
take my business elsewhere.”

Sam looked toward a photograph on
the table. The cake in the picture was a variation on a Mad Hatter theme with
three tiers set at cockeyed angles, intricate fondant bows, and loads of
sugar-paste flowers, in addition to a lot of piping and quirky little add-ons
that Sam didn’t happen to have in her inventory. Sam knew at a glance this cake
would take a minimum of three days to construct because the flowers alone had
to be made a day ahead and then allowed time to set up. Baking the layers and
trimming cake and fondant to fit was a whole separate operation.

“I suggested some modifications
to make it feasible,” Jen said.

“To make it entirely different,”
Mrs. Salazar replied.

Sam took a breath. “If you need
an exact replica of this cake, I’m afraid we have to decline. I want you to
know that we always do our best to accommodate every customer. With four or
five days notice, we could have done this one easily. But overnight? No. Overnight,
most bakeries are going to be able to provide you a sheet cake with Happy
Birthday, Somebody written in script.”

Sam turned sideways to the woman
and picked up Jen’s sketches. The ideas were good and they were innovative.
Even so, it would be a push to make anything like this theme cake for the
specified number of guests and to have it done by mid-morning tomorrow. Sam
thought again of the carved box in her safe at home.

Clearly, this lady was used to
getting her own way and pushing sales girls around to do it. But when the owner
handed her photograph back and said ‘good luck’ she caved.

“That one,” she said, pointing at
the sketch in Sam’s hand. “If you can have that one for me before noon
tomorrow, I’ll take it.”

Sam clarified a few details with
her and quoted almost double their normal rate. The job would require overtime
by everyone, plus there was just the bitch-factor. Sam didn’t like when pushy
people hassled her employees. “Rushes like this are cash in advance,” she said.

The customer’s expression told
Sam she wasn’t used to being treated this way, but hey. Sam accepted the
counted currency and gave a receipt with a smile.

“Noon tomorrow,” she reiterated
as Mrs. Salazar opened the door and headed toward a silver Mercedes.

“Thanks, Sam.” Jen’s stress level
had gone down about twelve notches, while Sam’s was just ramping up. Now that
she’d taken the money she had to produce this thing.

In the kitchen, Sam caught an air
of taut silence but ignored it and went straight to Julio.

“I need two eight-inch layers in
red velvet and two twelve-inchers in devil’s food.”

“Sam, I have plans tonight. I
need to leave in an hour. I got everything caught up so I could, remember?”

She didn’t remember but couldn’t
very well blame him for that. She’d had a lot on her mind. “If you can get the
batters made and pans into the oven, I’ll watch them and take them out.”

He nodded and set to work. Sam
made a quick call to let Zoë know she couldn’t possibly break away for tea now.

“Becky, I’ll need—” Sam stopped
in mid-sentence. She’d turned around just in time to catch a glare directed
toward Jane, who was sitting at one end of the worktable drizzling decorative
patterns over a tray of truffles.

“Becky? Something the matter?”

Her assistant shook her head.
“No. I’m fine. What were you saying?”

“For this rush order, I’ll need a
dozen full-blown roses and they have to be tinted this exact shade of purple.”
The fabric swatch seemed to be a big point with the customer. “I hate to say
this, but I need them before quitting time so they can set up in the fridge
overnight.”

Becky gave a slightly exaggerated
sigh but assured Sam she was nearly done with the birthday cake for a boy’s
soccer-themed party and could start right away on the roses. Sam was used to
her assistant’s ups and downs but had the feeling something about Jane had
triggered this one. If it didn’t blow over quickly, she supposed they would
need to have a talk.

She complimented Jane on the
truffles, wondering how to work up to the question of where she would go for
the night. The shelter again, Sam guessed. Meanwhile, she had more urgent
things on her mind.

For this cockeyed cake the
customer had okayed elements from two of Jen’s sketches. Sam had already told
her because of the tight deadline they would substitute a few pre-made items
because there was no time to form every single flower and bow from scratch. She
began pulling plastic bins of gadgetry from the storage shelf and stacked them
on her desk. None of the purple ribbons matched the given fabric sample but a couple
of them were decent complementary tones so she set them out on the worktable.

Yellow always made a nice accent
color with purple but the customer had been set on traditional pink, so Sam
scrounged up some whimsical butterflies and a string of beading that could be
tucked around the tiers to add elegance. She began to gain confidence about the
design as she set out the items and played with placement to see which
accessory looked best beside the other.

At one end of the long stainless
steel table, Jane had finished decorating the truffles and placed them on a
drying rack. She seemed a little at loose ends but Sam didn’t have a spare
brain cell to devote to worrying about keeping the uninvited visitor occupied.
The other end of the table had Becky deftly piping large roses onto squares of
waxed paper on a flower nail, sliding each finished one onto a baking tray in
readiness to go into the fridge for the night. Sam felt a current of tension in
the air between the two women even though nothing had been said since she came
into the kitchen.

Julio hung up his baker’s jacket
and told Sam he’d set two timers for the different sized cake layers. He was
out the door and rumbling away on his noisy machine within moments.

Sam noticed Jane meandering through
the kitchen. “I’m sorry I really don’t have anything for you to do,” she said.
“I can call the shelter if you’d like a ride back.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Jane said
without enthusiasm. She was carrying a borrowed purse that must have been
someone’s Goodwill donation. “I think I’d like to walk back.”

Sam wished her luck and resumed
sorting the trims in the plastic bins. As soon as the front door bells tinkled,
she sensed that Becky had something to say.

“Okay, you can get it off your
chest,” Sam said, keeping it casual as she worked.

“I’m suspicious of her,” Becky
said.

“In what way?”

“She just seems too ‘with it’ if
you know what I mean. She works the chocolate like a pro and yet she can’t
remember her name?”

“They say amnesia can be like
that. Skills from the past aren’t forgotten. Otherwise, people with amnesia
wouldn’t remember their language or how to dress themselves.”

“It’s other stuff, too. I think
she’s faking.”

*
* *

Kent Taylor looked a little
haggard by late afternoon and Beau suggested they stop for coffee and a review
of what they’d learned so far. He thought of Sam’s bakery, a mile or so away,
but had a feeling he would get caught up in other topics and would have to
explain why he hadn’t made further progress on that Jane Doe amnesia case. Java
Joe’s was only a block over so he headed there.

“We’ve got zilch at the victim’s
house,” Taylor said as he sat down with his high-octane blend called The
Waker-Upper. “The one neighbor was interesting though. Gossipy ones are a
little hard to take but sometimes you get the best information.”

“Yeah, it’s always amazing how
people really believe their neighbors can’t hear a screaming match. Might be a
good idea to put the son, Bentlee Robinet, on your interview list for when you
get back to Albuquerque.”

“Already have. A father-son
battle usually doesn’t get told just the way it happened, but the emotion
always comes through. I’ll know if the kid hated his old man enough to do
something about it. We’ll know if we have both motive and means.”

Beau sipped his own
regular-strength coffee.

Taylor continued: “Holbrook
Academy is notorious for being a haven of designer drug use,” Taylor said.
“Those rich kids can afford anything and somebody always makes sure they get
what they want.”

“You didn’t mention ‘opportunity’
but with Bentlee right there in the city where his father died, it does fill
out the trilogy of requirements for a valid suspect.”

“I’m not giving up on the wife,
either,” Taylor said. “She conveniently disappears on the day her husband
died.”

“Maybe a little fling on the
side? She heads out the moment he leaves town?”

“It fits with keeping two cell
phones. The boyfriend might be the only one with access to one of the numbers.”

“If she and the new honey went
away somewhere she might not have gotten the news about her husband.”

“That’s the innocent explanation.
Could be that she and the new honey wanted Zack completely gone forever. She
would most likely inherit his half of that multi-million-dollar business. I
want more on her background.” Taylor’s nervous index finger tapped the side of
his paper cup.

“Meanwhile, this afternoon I’m
thinking we could get some interesting info at the offices of ChanZack
Innovations.”

“When both cats are away the mice
will
really
play?”

“Exactly.”

They finished their coffee and
got back into Beau’s cruiser. Ten minutes later they were taking the elevator
to ChanZack Innovations’ upper suite in the Appleton Center. The gorgeous
receptionist, whose name plate identified her as Amber Carter, was no less
model-like today, with her long, dark hair, high cheekbones and porcelain
complexion. Beau noticed Kent Taylor subtly straightening his tie as she
greeted them.

“We have a few more questions,”
Beau said after introducing Taylor.

Her deep brown eyes widened slightly.
“Um, Mr. Lane isn’t here today.”

“I know. He’s at the trade show.
We really only need to speak with the rest of the staff today. Can you give me
a list of all the company employees?”

“There are only six of us,
besides the two owners. Two sales reps—they went to Vegas with Mr. Lane—two
programmers, myself and the bookkeeper. Mrs. Robinet handles taxes so she has
the official records in her files. But I don’t think I can let you see her
stuff while she’s gone.”

Kent Taylor touched the badge at
his belt, a subtle reminder that answering their questions was not optional.
“Let’s start with whoever’s here now.”

Amber picked up the intercom.
“I’ll page the programmers to the conference room for you.”

“How about just taking us back to
their offices? I’d like to get a better feel for the whole business.”

She seemed unsure about that.
Obviously, Chandler and Zack required fairly strict security for such a small
business. Again, Kent Taylor touched his badge.

“We can get warrants and
subpoenas,” he said. “It won’t be hard to do, considering one of the partners
was murdered.”

Amber’s face went a little paler.
She got up and led them toward the inner sanctum, using her own thumb image to
open the door. Once past that, the rest of the offices had a fairly open-door
policy, it seemed. They passed a very standard-looking office with desk,
credenza, file cabinets and a couple of potted plants.

“Helen Melrose’s office,” Amber
said. “She’s probably down at the copy machine or making herself a cup of tea
in the kitchen. She drinks a lot of tea.”

Across the hall, a closed door
listed Ed Archuleta and Jamie Phillips on little plaques. An oblong window set
into the door showed that the lights inside were off. “The sales team,” Amber
explained. “Mostly what they have in their office is the artwork for the big ad
campaigns. Until they packed everything up for Vegas, their room was
practically overflowing with that stuff.”

The two programmers shared a
large office with dim overhead lighting and, not surprisingly, looked about fifteen
years old. The room was full of computer monitors showing everything from
incredibly realistic depictions of warriors and battle scenes to full screen
images of cartoonish avatars. One screen was full of complex lines of letters
and numbers that must have been computer code. All of it was completely outside
Beau’s realm.