Sweets Forgotten (Samantha Sweet Mysteries Book 10) (7 page)

Both young men looked up with
somewhat glazed eyes, like moles who had poked their heads out of the ground
for the first time in months.

“This is Mike and that’s J.B.,”
Amber said before turning to go back to her own desk.

“Michael,” said the tall, plump
one. “I prefer Michael.”

Kent Taylor wrote down the
basics: Michael Anderson, senior programmer. John Bryan Bonds, who went by J.B.
Michael had worked for the company four years; J.B. came along two years ago.

“We’re investigating the death of
Mr. Robinet,” Beau told them, wondering whether the tendency for their eyes to
dart around to various objects in the room had to do with their work, an
aversion to the lawmen, or if it was some inherent trait of nerdy types. “Does
either of you know if he had any enemies?”

“Whoa. You think someone did that
to him? We heard it was a drug overdose.” This from Michael.

Beau realized he had started at
the wrong place with the questions. “Okay, what about that? Do you know if he
used drugs?”

“Zack? I don’t think so. He was a
pretty straight up kind of guy,” Michael said. “Plus, we all have to get random
pee tests. Something about qualifying for the insurance plan or something? You
could ask Helen, but I’m pretty sure even the owners have to do it.”

Kent Taylor was writing all this
down. “Back to the sheriff’s question. Did either of you hear of Mr. Robinet
having an altercation with anyone in the last few weeks?”

J.B. snickered a little, then
caught himself.

“Want to share what that’s
about?” Taylor asked.

J.B. slid a quick glance toward
Michael, who responded with a tiny one-shoulder shrug.

“It’s just that I’m not sure I
should say this about my boss,” J.B. said, fidgeting from one foot to the
other.

“Whatever it is, you need to say
it,” Beau said, trying to keep his tone softer than Taylor’s. He stepped over
and closed the door to the hallway.

“Well, the truth is that there
aren’t many people Zack
doesn’t
clash
with. Helen and Amber are the only ones here in the office that he hasn’t
yelled at since I’ve worked here.”

“Even the two of you? He’s yelled
at you?”

“Not so much in the last couple
weeks,” Michael said. “When we were on deadline for the new upgrade? Yeah, it got
a little intense then. He was under a lot of pressure ’cause the trade show
space was booked and he’s got all these suppliers calling, like, fourteen times
a day.”

“Yeah,” J.B. added, “and the
sales team. Some of
those
meetings
got really—whew!”

Beau took another tack. “Mrs.
Robinet works here sometimes, right? How is she to work with?”

“Oh, she’s pretty nice.” Michael
actually blushed a little. Young guy crush?

“Although she really doesn’t come
back here much at all,” J.B. said. “She and the partners would have these
meetings. I suppose they talked about money. That’s our impression. She does
something with investments or something like that.”

After asking if they could think
of anything else, Beau and Kent moved again toward the front, stopping at Helen
Melrose’s office. The bookkeeper was in her seventies, with a short perm and
polyester pants suit that would not have been the height of fashion twenty
years earlier. She sipped from a pink tea mug and waved them inside.

“Hello,” she said, amiably enough.
“Amber told me you were here, Sheriff.”

Beau vaguely recognized the
bookkeeper from somewhere—he wasn’t quite sure. They took seats in front of her
desk and covered the basic questions with her, then asked about any conflicts
between Zack Robinet and his employees.

“Oh, nothing that would lead to a
murder, I wouldn’t think,” she told them. “The young guys pretty much live in
their world of computers and blow off steam by blasting away at those games
they invent. I suspect Amber might have had a fling with either Chandler or
Zack, which led to her being hired here. But it’s been over for a long time, if
it ever happened. I don’t sense any strain between them now. Younger people are
so casual about sex these days. All this ‘friends with benefits’ stuff is way
beyond me.” She made air quotes when she used the phrase.

“So your particular job is fairly
stress-free?” Beau asked.

She snorted. “Hardly. Both
partners are constantly uptight about money, so I have to keep my posting up to
date and be able to print out a P&L on a moment’s notice. Awhile back I
couldn’t seem to get into the computer banking records, but luckily Mrs.
Robinet took over.”

To Kent Taylor’s inquiry about
whether she’d had words with Zack, she merely chuckled.

“I don’t let men with tempers get
to me. And, believe me, I do
not
take
my job home with me. Life’s too short for that kind of stress.”

“Maybe outside the office?” Kent
Taylor asked, ignoring her life’s-too-short comment. “Anyone other than staff
who might have hated your boss?”

Helen chewed at her lower lip for
a moment. “A week or so ago … there was one instance. Zack had gone to the
dealership to have his car worked on and he wasn’t happy with the bill. He
stomped in here and told me to lodge a complaint with the credit card company and
not to pay the bill when it came because he was ‘pissed as hell’—his words—over
the quality of the work.”

“Which dealership was it?”

She named the place and Taylor
wrote it in his notes. The men thanked her for her time and went on to speak
with Amber at the reception desk. As the two programmers had said, it appeared
Amber had managed somehow to never have a beef with Zack. She was quite
effusive in her praise of how well he ran the company and Beau caught the
subtle movement as her fingers played with a decent-sized diamond pendant at
her throat. Another of those ‘benefits’?

Back in the cruiser, Kent Taylor
mentioned the necklace then brought up the subject of the fight between Zack
and the car dealer.

“Sounds like it got pretty
heated,” he said.

“Could have, true. But for
six-hundred dollars in car repairs, how likely is it that a guy from Taos would
drive all the way to Albuquerque and go to elaborate means to set up a
drug-overdose scene in a hotel room? Wouldn’t it be more likely that he’d send
a couple of his strongmen to catch Zack Robinet in an alley somewhere here in
town?”

Chapter
8

Sam kneaded purple food color
paste into a huge ball of fondant, enjoying the quiet of the kitchen after
hours. Everyone else had left and Beau had called to say that if they had no
other plans he really ought to take the detective out for a meal before Kent
Taylor got back on the road for the drive to Albuquerque. She told him to go
right ahead.

Dividing the sugary dough, Sam
left the bigger portion medium lavender and began working more of the color
paste to create a violet for the smaller tier. Two small portions of fondant
would later become hot pink for the accent pieces and an extremely deep purple
for the swags and leaves.

The trick with these lopsided
cake designs was to create sturdy bracing beneath the bottom tier so that two
heavy layers of cake and fondant could appear to be sitting effortlessly at
angles. She had already placed a plastic wedge on the cake board to begin the
process. Correct placement of a couple of dowels would assure that the upper
tier would seem to be balanced precariously in place. The whole thing would be
sturdy but deceptively tippy looking.

A light staccato tap sounded at
the back door and Zoë’s wavy salt-and-pepper hair framed her smiling face.

“You’re working—I know—and I
don’t want to interrupt. Just brought you this.” She held up a large insulated
mug with a lid. “The Assam. I brewed a pot and it was so good. Since I had
another quick errand I decided to pop by.”

Zoë stepped inside and set the
mug on Sam’s desk, eyeing the lopsided cake.

“It’s okay—it’s supposed to look
this way,” Sam said, setting the ball of fondant aside.

She picked up the tea mug and
ventured a sip of the steaming brew. “Oh, that’s good. Thanks!”

Another sound. “Hey, Mom,” Kelly
said, breezing in through the open back door and spotting the worktable. She
carried a small makeup bag and a garment on a hanger covered in plastic.
“Ooh—cute!”

She greeted Zoë with a peck on
the cheek.

Sam set her mug down and turned
back to the worktable, flattening the large lavender ball of fondant with her
hands then placing it into the rolling machine.

“Mind if I change clothes here?”
Kelly asked. “By the end of the day at Puppy Chic my shirt smells like soapy
dog.” She headed for the bathroom.

“Sure.”

Zoë watched as Sam caught the
sheet of rolled fondant, adjusted the machine to a thinner setting and ran it
through again. Roll, repeat. Finally the sheet was just right to cover the
twelve-inch cake layers. She wound the entire thing around a long rolling pin
and maneuvered it into place, draping it over the cake and the little booster
wedge at once.

“I don’t know how you do that,”
Kelly said, catching the last few seconds of the operation. She winked at Zoë.

“Just practice,” Sam said, eyeing
the positioning of the dough for any possible gaps before she began smoothing
the wrinkles and trimming excess, marginally aware that Kelly had ducked back
into the bathroom.

“I’m on my way,” Zoë said, her
hand on the edge of the door. “Enjoy the tea. And let me know when we can work
out time for a real lunch or something.”

Hands occupied, Sam blew her
friend an air kiss.

By the time her daughter emerged
ten minutes later, Sam had trimmed the bottom tier’s fondant to fit and was running
the other ball of fondant through the machine for the second tier. A flash of
red caught her attention. Kelly was wearing a low-cut dress with super-short
flared skirt that shimmered in the overhead lights.

“Whoa, you’re looking more than
slightly fabulous,” Sam said.

“Thanks. We’re going to Romano’s.
Thought I’d spiff up a little.”

This was more than a little.
Kelly’s normal attire was a pair of skinny jeans and fitted T-shirt. Dressing
up consisted of trading the T-shirt for something with glitter or putting on a
fuzzy vest over it all.

“I’m guessing that ‘we’ isn’t you
and the girls. This guy must be special.” Hint, hint.

“Same guy.”

“Two nights in a row … and you’re
still not going to tell me who it is, are you?”

“Gotta go!” She pecked a kiss on
Sam’s cheek and headed toward the door.

“Don’t you have a coat? You’re
going to freeze in that dress.”
Oh my
god, I sound just like my mother.

Kelly flashed a smile and walked
out. Why on earth was she being so secretive about this guy? Oh well. Sam
flipped the fondant sheet back into the roller. The fondant on the second tier
didn’t fit right and Sam ended up tearing a hole in it with her finger. Then it
stuck to the first tier before she was ready, botching the first one as well.
More than slightly irritated with the last-minute cake order, and herself, she
resisted throwing the whole piece across the room and took a deep breath.

Focus on this cake and try to get home at a reasonable hour.

She sipped Zoë’s tea and stared
at the ruined fondant coating. Figure it out, she reminded herself. Carefully
peeling it from the smaller tier, she kneaded it once more and put it back
through the roller. Meanwhile, the small ripped place on the lower tier could
be patched with a little water and a careful touch. A big rose could cover the
spot anyway. As any decorator knew, there were a hundred ways to fix life’s
little boo-boos.

The clock showed well past ten by
the time Sam switched off the lights to head home. With cake layers baked,
filled and stacked, the fondant coating placed over them and the structure of
dowels and wedges holding the entire foot-and-a-half confection in place, she
was well on her way to completing the rush order. Tomorrow morning she would
come in early to add bows and bedazzles and place the roses Becky had made.
They would make the noon deadline, even though she felt as if she’d been
through the roller machine herself right now.

She drove through the quiet
streets, thinking only of a hot shower and snuggling in beside Beau for the
five or six hours of sleep she would be lucky to get.

“Hey darlin’,” he greeted when
she came through the front door. “Can I get you something to eat?”

Sam realized she hadn’t eaten
anything in many hours, but although the sentiment was wonderful she only
wanted sleep. She shook her head and he followed her up the stairs, switching
off lights along the way.

“Dixie said to tell you she had
no luck with that number you gave us. It’s not a telephone number anywhere in
the US.”

Somehow, Sam wasn’t surprised.
She was too tired to care right now anyway. By the time she emerged from the
shower he’d turned back the covers and was settled on his side of the bed with
a book on how dogs’ brains work. How did he come up with topics like that?

Sam’s eyes closed immediately and
she was even able to ignore the ringing telephone, up until Beau answered it
and she overheard: “Jane? You mean the Jane Doe who came to Sam’s shop
yesterday?”

Sam edged one eye open and looked
through her lashes at him. He was listening to the phone but watching her,
obviously trying to decide whether she’d fallen asleep yet. She mumbled so he
would know she’d heard.

“Okay,” he said to the phone.
“Hold on a moment.” He held the phone to his shoulder and turned to Sam. “It’s
Melissa Masters. She says Jane didn’t show up at the shelter this evening. Did
she say anything to you about changing her plans?”

Sam was fully awake now and
sitting up. “No. Actually, she left the bakery around five and specifically
said she was walking back there to stay the night.”

Beau relayed the information to
Melissa. “I know. It worries me too. Okay. Well, let me know if she turns up.
I’ll put out a BOLO for our night shift deputies.”

He hung up from the call and
immediately dialed his night dispatcher to repeat the information about where
Jane had last been seen and where she was going. When he hung up, he swung his
legs off the bed and Sam seriously wondered if he planned to get up and go out.

“Jane’s a free woman, isn’t she?”
Sam asked. “I mean, she wasn’t under any obligation to go back to the shelter,
was she?”

“No, not legally. It’s just that
since she told you she was going there and then she never showed, well, it
would be as if Jen said she was going home and never got there, right?”

True, when he put it that way.
“Beau, what if she recovered her memory and suddenly knew where she lived and
just went there? Could that be possible?”

“I suppose anything
could
be possible. But, knowing we were
trying to find her family, and since she’s hung around your shop the better
part of two days, doesn’t it seem logical that someone would call to let one of
us know the good news?”

She had to concede the point.
Then she thought of what Becky had said earlier. “What if she recovered her
memory earlier in the day and for some reason didn’t want to tell anyone? We
don’t know if she’s on the run from something or someone … maybe even the law
in some other state …”

“Not everyone does the
responsible thing, unfortunately. Even if there’s a simple explanation for
this.”

He yawned and settled back under
the comforter. Sam snuggled against him, her mind far too active, but a peek at
the clock showed she only had about four hours to sleep now, even if she
managed to turn off the big question-machine in her head. With the light out,
at last she drifted into an uneasy rest.

Four-thirty came way too early,
reminding Sam of those early days in the pastry shop before she hired extra
help. She should have charged that belligerent Mrs. Salazar triple the regular
price for her stupid specialty cake.

By the time she’d driven the
pre-dawn route to the shop and made herself a cup of coffee she’d calmed down.
In some ways, even though she wasn’t naturally an early riser, it was good to
get a head start on the day. She took the decorator frosting out of the fridge
so it could warm to room temperature while she drank her coffee, then got the
half-finished cake out to work on.

Julio showed up a short while
later and went quietly to work on the morning pastries, their standard
selection of muffins, croissants, scones and coffee cakes. He had the routine
down pat and moved smoothly through the kitchen, with no sign whatsoever that
he might have been out late. Sam thought of Kelly’s stunning red dress, her
flirtatious manner last night, and the tattooed biker.
Get a grip
, she told herself.
You
have to admit he’s a nice guy, a responsible worker and honest.

She put those thoughts out of her
head and filled a pastry bag with hot-pink decorator icing. Getting into her
own decorating rhythm was normally the best antidote for all things troubling
but she found her mind zipping with thoughts of Jane Doe, now twice missing,
plus Kelly, plus the nagging thought that there was some forgotten important
thing she was supposed to be doing.

She piped white swags and elegant
fleur-de-lis of tiny dots onto the smaller tier and formed pleated fondant
draping for the large one. From the fridge she retrieved the large roses Becky
had made yesterday and set them around the base.

By the time Becky arrived, Sam
had the super-rush order about ninety percent done.

“It’s really looking great,”
Becky said. “I wasn’t sure how we would ever finish on time but you, Sam, are a
miracle worker.”

Sam smiled, proud of the job and
not admitting that she’d sneaked a few moments alone with the box this morning.
As she’d handled it, the wood surface began to glow and the artifact warmed to
her touch. An unknown power, centuries old, flowed through Sam’s hands and
arms, lending energy to her tasks. She had missed regular contact with the box,
which felt like an old friend now. And, hey, you never knew when a dozen
interruptions would come along during any average workday.

She stepped back from the cake,
eyeing it critically. Considering the tight timeframe and sleep-deprived hours
she had spent on it, she had to admit it had turned out well. A few more little
touches, some leaves to accentuate the roses …

Jen stepped into the kitchen. All
morning the phone had been ringing but the kitchen staff normally ignored it,
letting her handle the calls. Sam glanced at the clock and discovered three
hours had ticked by.

“Mrs. Salazar just called,” Jen
said. “She wanted to remind you the cake has to be there in thirty minutes.”

Sam stopped in her tracks.
“What?”

“I know. I don’t remember her
saying she wanted it delivered either.”

“She didn’t. Did you tell her it
was her responsibility to come and pick it up?”

Jen rolled her eyes. “I kind of
hinted at that but I know how we aren’t supposed to piss off the customers …”

“You’re right. You can’t win an
argument with a customer.” Sam set down her pastry bag. “I’ll take it.”

“Here’s her address.” Jen held
out a slip of paper.

Sam picked up the order sheet and
reviewed the details to be sure she hadn’t left off anything vital. As much as
she really didn’t want to go out of her way for this disagreeable woman, she
might turn it into a positive thing by meeting up somewhere with Beau for lunch
afterward. She carried the cake to her delivery van and secured it inside a box
with high sides, then dialed Beau.

“Sure—lunch sounds good. How
about if we meet at Paco Taco?”

Thirty minutes later she had
handed off the purple and pink cake. Today, Mrs. Salazar wore her gracious
persona and effusively thanked Sam for her effort on the cake. You just can’t
figure out some people, Sam decided as she parked at the outdoor taco place and
scanned for an empty table on the patio. Beau pulled in beside her van and got
out of his cruiser, talking to the microphone at his shoulder.

“Was that about our Jane Doe?”
Sam asked, catching a few words as they took seats in the shade.