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  Sticky Sweet

  Samantha Sweet Mysteries, Book 12

  Connie Shelton

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  Chapter 1

  Samantha Sweet studied the sketch her assistant had made for the cake design on the table in front of her. A “Gone Fishing” cake in January? Okay, maybe ice fishing—intrepid people, unintimidated by freezing temperatures, did it over on Eagle Nest Lake the other side of the mountain. But this seemed like a summer theme. The design had blue water, gentle lily pads, cattails, and river stones; the centerpiece on top was a full-color rainbow trout. The fish could be made from sugar paste, the colors airbrushed, and the effect would be fun. Still … maybe she should clarify before starting the work.

  Normally, Sam loved January. The month-long break between the Christmas rush and an onslaught of Valentine orders gave the bakery staff a chance to breathe before heading into the spring holidays and the wedding season. This year was a little different. She’d hired three new chocolatiers and four more assembly helpers to ease the load at her chocolate factory in the old Victorian house on the north end of town. Meanwhile, Becky Harper, her chief cake decorator at Sweet’s Sweets, was taking a week’s vacation, so Sam now worked alongside Julio the baker to turn out the pastry shop’s regular fare and the dozen or so decorated cakes that had been custom ordered this week.

  “Starting to snow again,” Jennifer Baca said as she pushed past the curtain to the front showroom, heading toward the rack of cookies Julio had pulled from the oven fifteen minutes earlier.

  “Hey, Jen,” Sam said, waving her toward the worktable. “Let me be sure I understand this design. The customer wants this to look like summer?”

  “Yep, that’s what she said. It’s her husband’s birthday and he’s in a slump because he hasn’t been fishing in months. She thought it would cheer him up to see his favorite little fishing hole. The fish photo is of a trophy trout he got a few years ago. She says it’s his pride and joy. She wants the edible sugar fish on the cake to look exactly like it. If it’s different in any way, he’ll know.”

  Seriously? Any old fish doesn’t look just like the others?

  Jen laughed as Sam shook her head.

  “Okay … whatever.” Sam set to work tinting fondant in two batches—lily pad green and summer-pond blue.

  Jen picked up the tray of cranberry macadamia nut cookies and headed back to the showroom.

  “Really,” Sam muttered. “The guy will know whether the fish I make looks just like his real one …”

  Julio, the quiet baker who could turn out cakes, cookies, and tarts all day without a word, spoke up. “Yeah, he’ll know. My dad’s like that. He would tell the story of this one old catfish he tried for years to catch from the stock tank where he grew up. He said he had caught the wily old fish three times but it always got away.”

  “Sounds like a family legend.”

  He nodded as he pushed his red bandanna a bit higher on his sweaty forehead. “It became one.”

  “So, did he ever catch the catfish?”

  “Eventually, yeah. My mother cooked it up and made fish tacos, but they didn’t taste very good. Guess that fish just got tougher as he got older.” He dumped a heap of flour into the Hobart mixer, ending the conversation.

  Sam rolled fondant and quickly covered the cake, fashioned cattails and lily pads, and concentrated on setting up the little scene. An hour vanished while she shaped the ten-inch-long trout and tested her airbrush to get the right amount of spray for the delicate colors. A subtle addition of silver glitter would bring out the shine of the fish’s scales. When she glanced at the clock again, she was amazed to see the afternoon was quickly slipping away.

  “I’d better have Jen come take a look at this before I box it for the customer. I think the lady is coming to pick it up right before closing.” Sam said it aloud before she realized Julio must have stepped out back.

  Kids filled the showroom, another indicator it was late afternoon. The elementary school a block away provided her most loyal customers, the kids who’d talked their moms out of an extra fifty cents to get a cookie to eat on the way home. Jen was behind the counter, capably exchanging cookies for quarters and sending the kids on their way.

  A woman in her thirties—fluffy blonde hair, dark eyes, lots of lashes, wearing a bulky fleece jacket over skin-tight jeans—pushed her way through the crowd and picked up a single, wrapped chocolate truffle from the display near the register. Sam saw her glance around the room. When the woman’s dark brown eyes met Sam’s, she set the candy on the counter and held out a twenty-dollar bill to Jen.

  Distracted by the horde of kids, Jen quickly rung up the two-dollar item and began counting out change for the woman.

  “Sorry to pay with such a large bill. It’s all I have on me,” the lady said as Jen handed over the last of the coins.

  She gave the customer a polite smile and turned to the most impatient of the children. Sam headed toward the coffee bar. Clearly, it would be a few minutes before Jen could answer her questions about the cake, and the beverage center always needed attention for small spills or refills of the coffee, tea and cocoa supplies.

  In the background, she was aware the female customer hadn’t left yet. She seemed engaged in having Jen make change for the parking meters or something. Sam refilled the coffee maker with her signature blend, topped off the water container and started the machine. When she turned around, the blonde woman had a hand on the door.

  “Wait a second,” Jen called out. “I don’t think I gave you the right change.”

  “Oh, you did—I’m sure you did.” She started to pull the door open but two of the schoolkids pushed forward and filled the doorway.

  Jen was all cool composure as she came from behind the counter. “No. It wasn’t right.” She approached the blonde and casually leaned a hand on the door to close it behind the last of the children.

  Sam came forward. “Problem?” She, Jen and the customer were the only ones in the shop now.

  “May I see the money I just handed to you?” Jen asked.

  The woman jammed her hand deeper into her pocket.

  Movement outside caught Sam’s attention. Beau’s department cruiser had pulled into the lot. Sam stepped to the door, joining her employee, blocking the customer’s exit.

  “I imagine the sheriff can help sort this out,” she said as she opened the door and let him inside.

  Beau stomped fresh snow off his boots and gave his wife a kiss on top of her head as he came in. “Something needs sorting out?” he asked.

  Sam held a hand out toward Jen.

  “I believe this lady just pulled a fake-change trick on me,” Jen said. “She started with a twenty-dollar bill for a small item, asked me to make change several times—you know, can you break this ten with a five and some ones—but I’ll bet you right now she’s got thirty-seven dollars and eighty-two cents in that pocket. She conned me out of an extra twenty.”

  Beau turned toward the customer, staring down from his six-three height.

  She batted the heavy lashes. “Officer, really … I have no idea …” She ran delicate fingers tipped in cardinal red through her blonde curls.

  He ignored the dark eyes and asked to see her identification. She rummaged in the tiny purse hanging from a thin strap across her body and came up with a driver’s license from a slender wallet that also contained a couple of credit cards.

  “Missy Malone. You live in Albuquerque?”

  “My husband and I have a home here in Taos, as well.”

  “May I see the money in your coat pocket?” he asked.

  “Well, if there’s any discrepancy …” Missy couldn’t quite me
et anyone’s eye as she reached into the pocket of the fleece jacket and came out with a wad of bills.

  “Set the money on the table here,” Beau said, indicating one of the bakery’s bistro tables.

  When Missy laid out the money, including a straggle of coins, it was exactly as Jen had said—thirty-seven dollars and eighty-two cents.

  “Interesting, since you said a twenty dollar bill was all you had with you,” Jen observed.

  “Do you want to press charges?” Beau asked Sam.

  Missy became twitchy at the suggestion. “Look, I’m really sorry. I miscounted and didn’t mean any harm. Here’s the twenty dollars.” She snatched two tens off the table and handed them to Jen. “Can I just have my license back and we call it even?”

  The radio mike on Beau’s shoulder crackled and his dispatcher’s voice came through. He looked at Sam and raised his eyebrows.

  Missy’s eyes reddened and her lower lip trembled. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Beau, we’ve got a 10-50-F,” came over the radio.

  “Sam, I need to—”

  “It’s okay,” Sam said. “Looks like we’re not out any money.”

  Beau handed the customer’s license back and she scurried out the door and got into a red Mercedes convertible parked in front of the dog grooming salon next door. Beau leaped into his SUV cruiser and, with lights and siren blazing, roared out of the parking lot.

  Chapter 2

  Sam watched as the red convertible pulled out of the parking lot and turned the opposite way from where Beau had gone. The snow had begun to stick; both vehicles left tracks, and Sam briefly wondered how far Missy Malone had to drive and whether the roads would be slick. Beau’s radio call involved a traffic accident with fatality—she knew from the dispatcher’s code—perhaps due to the worsening weather?

  But she had no time to ponder the question. The customer would arrive within the hour to pick up the fisherman’s cake, which needed a bit more work. She rushed back to the kitchen. At some point while she was airbrushing the final details onto the sugar paste fish, her cell phone rang, but she ignored it. If it was important enough, the person would either leave a message or call back later.

  She set the fish in place, its gracefully arched body complementing the smooth fondant and straight lines of the sugar cattails that jutted out of the water on wooden dowel stems. Overall, she was pleased with the finished piece. She placed the cake in a box and carried it out front at the same moment Mrs. Martinez walked in the door.

  “Oh, Juan is going to love this!” she exclaimed when Sam lifted the lid.

  Her phone rang again and she excused herself, leaving Jen to ring up the sale. The number on her caller ID looked vaguely familiar.

  “Sam?” came a weak female voice. “It’s Sadie. Sadie Holmes.”

  The friend who, about a year ago, had taken over Sam’s Department of Agriculture job of breaking into houses. Friend might be too strong a word—they’d met a few times at Chamber of Commerce functions, and Sadie was a semi-regular customer at the bakery. She’d been there the day Sam gave notice, the day her supervisor had said she couldn’t quit until she found a replacement. The rest was a matter of a ten-minute conversation and Sam giving Delbert Crow’s phone number to Sadie.

  “Hi, Sadie. What’s up?”

  “I need a favor—desperately.”

  Sam had a feeling she knew what was coming.

  “I broke two vertebrae last week and I’m in the rehab center in Santa Fe. I thought the timing was all right, since I’m between house jobs right now. But then Delbert called this morning with an urgent one.”

  “Sadie, I … gosh. My schedule is absolutely crazy right now.” Not as crazy as a month ago, but she didn’t say so.

  “It’s just … right at the moment I only need an assessment of the situation. You, better than anyone else, know what’s involved. If you could just find the time to run by the place, look it over, let me know if a simple cleaning will do, or if it’s going to require three roll-offs to clear it.”

  Sam knew only too well. She’d seen all ends of the spectrum, including a dead woman at one place and a bloody trench coat at another.

  “I was told the key is under a flowerpot at the front door. The house is in a nice neighborhood and has been empty for a couple months. Most likely, it’ll be clear of possessions and I can just hire the Merry Maids or someone to go in and clean. Please, Sam? Take fifteen minutes to run by there, then give me a call and let me know?”

  Come on, Sam. The woman is in the hospital and it’s only a quick favor. “How soon do you need to know?” She’d promised her daughter she would help her shop for a new pair of snow boots, and they’d planned to meet at the ski shop in—yikes—fifteen minutes’ time.

  Sadie went into an explanation about Delbert’s impatience, which was old news to Sam. She quickly flipped through her calendar and gave up finding a few clear hours. Kelly’s boots could wait.

  “I’ll head over there right now,” she told Sadie. “Give me the address.”

  She jotted it down, happy to realize the street was very near her old house and only about ten minutes from the bakery. A quick call to Kelly, who assured her mom she could manage the boots on her own, and Sam was on her way.

  The sun had set, turning the cloud-whitened sky a dim gray, but at least the snow had stopped falling. Sam’s delivery van didn’t have all-wheel drive, but the going was easy enough through the mushy streets. She made her way to the address Sadie had given her, remembering all too clearly what a pain it was to respond to Delbert Crow’s calls with the sort of urgency he wanted. She could only guess this particular house was getting nibbles from buyers and he wanted to maximize the asking price.

  She pulled into the driveway of a neat, territorial style home on Wicket Lane, brown stucco with white trim, bare cottonwood trees towering in the back yard, arbor vitae that could use a trim flanking the front porch. A street light across from the place provided ample light outdoors but the electricity would almost certainly be turned off inside. Sam grabbed the flashlight she kept in the glovebox and stepped out.

  “If you’re delivering something, no one’s home over there.” The female voice came from the next driveway to the south.

  In the gloom, Sam made out the form of a woman—solid but athletic looking.

  “It’s okay. I’m just here to look over the house for a friend,” she called out, aiming her flashlight toward the porch and spotting the flowerpot Sadie had mentioned.

  Too late. The woman had stepped over the foot-high stucco wall separating the two properties and was walking toward her. Sam decided she might be able to get some helpful information for Sadie. Sam introduced herself with the quick explanation she always gave when a neighbor confronted her at one of her break-in properties—the fact the USDA had taken over the property and she was merely here to keep it in good order until it was sold.

  “Dolores Zuckerman,” the woman said. “I’m not the neighbor, actually. My father is. Arnold Zuckerman.”

  “Um, so you don’t know how long ago this family moved out?” Sam asked.

  “Someone was here the last time I came by, right before Christmas. I’m an accountant in Santa Fe. The end of year is the second most insane time for me, next to tax season. Still, I try to get by here every few weeks to check on Dad. Trying to get him to agree to move into assisted living is like talking to a brick wall. He won’t hear of it. Won’t even let me take over handling his finances. He’s eighty-seven—you know how they get at that age.”

  Up close, Sam realized Dolores Zuckerman was older than the first impression conveyed. She had to be in her sixties, despite the unnaturally dark hair, slim jeans and fitted down jacket.

  “My parents live in Texas,” Sam told her. “Luckily, they still have each other to drive crazy. But, yeah, I suppose I know what you’re saying.”

  “Oh, Dad’s not alone,” Dolores said with an edge to her voice. “He always loved
to show off a good-looking woman on his arm. It’s just weird when they start to be a lot younger than him, you know?”

  As much as her mother drove her nuts, Sam felt thankful she truly didn’t know what Dolores faced with her father. She glanced at the lit windows of the Zuckerman house, swearing the living room curtain moved a little.

  “Well, I guess I’d better …” Sam waved the flashlight beam toward the empty house.

  “Yeah, me too. I still have to drive back to Santa Fe.” Dolores turned back to the other property and got into a blue minivan.

  Sam wished her luck and warned about the road conditions. The minivan backed out and headed toward Kit Carson Road. Sam followed her flashlight beam to the porch where massive Mexican pots sat on each side of the blue-painted front door. She had to set the light down and use both hands to push one aside. Of course, her first guess was the wrong one so she scooted it back and moved the other. There was the key, just as Sadie had promised.

  The moment of truth would come when the door swung open. Would she find just an empty house, or would it entail a massive clean-up job?

  Chapter 3

  The ease with which the key turned in the front-door lock told Sam it hadn’t been many weeks since the owners’ departure. She’d seen doorknobs so corroded they wouldn’t turn, even with the help of her large pipe wrench; she’d worked long stretches with lock picks on a number of occasions. Very seldom was she provided with a key and a smoothly working mechanism. She smiled when the knob turned and the door opened with nary a squeak.

  She located a bank of light switches beside the door, but flipping them confirmed her suspicion that the power had been cut off. The house felt cold and tomb-like inside.

  “Okay, I’m only here for a quick checkout,” she murmured to herself. Her voice echoed off the travertine flooring in the foyer.

  The flashlight revealed a spacious living-dining L to her left, a long hallway with multiple doorways to the right. Ahead, a step down led to a den where a whitewashed kiva fireplace sat like a hunched-over old ghost in the corner. No furniture—that was the good news—although a scattering of packing boxes remained, along with dust-balls the size of prairie dogs.