Sweet Hearts Page 3

  “Okay, this is ready for storage,” Sam told Becky, turning to the next order in the stack while her assistant carried the romantic little cake to the fridge.

  “It’s going to get crowded in there,” Becky said when she returned.

  “Be sure we set the smaller cakes close together at one side. Once we start assembling wedding cakes, we’ll need all the tall spaces we can create.” Sam pulled out the next of the order sheets. “At least this cross-shaped one will be gone this afternoon. It takes up a lot of shelf space.”

  Staring at the smooth white cross with its draping of contrasting red roses and delicate white daisies, Sam wondered again about Marla Fresques and the family so deeply affected by the disappearance of the son. The intense impression of sadness surrounding the woman was understandable but there was something else . . . Bits of Marla’s conversation filtered back but Sam couldn’t quite pinpoint the sense of mystery surrounding the woman.

  The cross cake reminded Sam that once she’d promised to deliver it she’d committed to two others, as well. She would just have to make time for three stops. She turned to the work table again and set about piping trim on four dozen heart-shaped cookies, finishing them just as Cathy set three flavors of cupcakes in front of her. Sam sighed. It was good to be busy.

  Busy, right up to the moment that Sandy, carrying a huge mixing bowl of batter, stumbled in front of Sam and drenched her with the gooey vanilla substance.

  “Sam? I’m so sorry?” Her blond hair began to work out of its net as the younger woman dropped the bowl and jostled a row of cakes on the cooling rack.

  “Slow down, it’s okay,” Sam said as she grabbed for the rack and steadied it.

  “Oh my god? Oh my god?”

  Sam reached out, to keep Sandy from losing her balance in the slick spill. “Let’s just get this mopped up . . .”

  Becky had set down her pastry bag and was already reaching for the trash can and a dust pan. Before Sandy could track the mess any farther around the room, Becky began scooping.

  “Cathy, can you take a minute to run us a pail of water?”

  Sam let Becky take charge. She wiped her feet on the wet mop that Cathy provided, then went to work on her clothing with paper towels. It wasn’t making much difference.

  “I’ll have to go home and change,” she told the crew. “I can’t very well make deliveries like this.”

  Sandy looked like she wanted to cry. Sam swallowed the impatience in her voice and tried to reassure her that accidents could happen to anyone. While Becky mopped the floor and Cathy washed the mixing bowl, Sam retrieved Marla Fresques’s cake from the fridge and loaded it into her van, along with the others.

  “I’m not sure how long the deliveries will take, but everyone can just keep working on what you’re doing.” She breathed deeply of the bright outside air when she got to her vehicle. Sometimes it really was better to put the hectic atmosphere behind her.

  After a quick stop at home where she changed into clean black slacks, a vivid saffron top and black wool jacket, Sam pulled out the three order forms and checked the addresses, deciding on her route. One, a torte for a business luncheon, wasn’t really due until the following day but Sam reasoned that they would rather get it early than late, and tomorrow’s schedule might bring nearly anything. The place was only a few blocks off the plaza, so she headed there first. The second was for a child’s birthday party on the north side of town, and leaving there set her on the path toward Marla’s home beyond Arroyo Seco.

  Passing the turnoff to Beau’s place—soon to be her home too—she cruised past bare earth fields lying brown in the February afternoon. Although the sky was brilliant blue, the air felt chilly and the forecast called for increasing humidity and the inevitable reversion to winter weather. Beyond the few buildings comprising Arroyo Seco, the road curved twice and Sam spotted the narrow lane she wanted.

  The Fresques house sat amid a cluster of parked cars, a small adobe with a pitched metal roof. Bare-limbed cottonwoods and elms surrounded the place and a small yard with brown grass and mulched flower beds stood out front. A driveway ran beside the house but it was blocked by two vehicles, one being the older sedan Marla Fresques drove yesterday. Four other cars sat along the road, pulled out of the traffic lanes onto the verge of short, tan mountain grasses. Sam slowed, hoping for a parking spot with minimal distance to carry the large cake board, but another vehicle had come up impatiently behind her. She edged her van to the right at the first open spot. The other car passed and pulled in just ahead of hers.

  “Oh, that looks good,” the woman from the car said, staring.

  Sam wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the bakery themed artwork on the van or to the cake that Sam was pulling from the back.

  “Could you use a hand with that?” the lady’s husband asked, stepping forward.

  “Sure.” Although Sam had loaded the rectangular board into the van alone, it would certainly be easier with some assistance.

  The man placed his hands at the right intervals under the board for perfect balance and lifted it easily to his shoulder. In his pressed jeans, western shirt and string tie, he looked the type who was accustomed to managing heavy loads and coming to the aid of women. Sam sent him a polite smile.

  “Hard to believe it’s ten years now,” the woman said conversationally as the three of them walked toward the house. “Poor Marla, just waiting so patiently.”

  “You’ve known her since—”

  “She was a wreck. Well, she and Tricia both. Can you imagine? Their little girl was still a toddler. Tito supported them well. It was a blow to be left alone like that.”

  The husband skirted the two cars in the driveway, obviously heading for the back door of the house, so Sam and the wife followed along.

  “And then, Tricia dying so young. Cerebral hemorrhage—it was so sudden . . . well, little Jolie was very lucky to have her grandma to take her in.”

  The woman stepped ahead and opened the back door for her husband. He edged sideways to get through the doorway and Sam followed, wanting to be sure there was a secure place to set the cake.

  Marla Fresques stood in the kitchen, her sad eyes scanning the room and she perked up when she saw Sam and the cake.

  “Oh, Samantha, it is beautiful! Exactly as you described it to me.” She gave a quick hug to the woman who’d walked in with Sam, then directed the husband to carry the cake through a swinging door to a dining room.

  Sam followed along, helping Marla move a few cups and plates aside to make space at one end of the dining table. Checking it over, she adjusted the angle and quickly wiped a tiny smudge of frosting from the paper-covered board. There, she thought. It looks good. She turned to Marla to ask about a cake knife, but the hostess was halfway across the room, her attention snagged by someone else. The other couple, too, had blended into the crowd in the adjoining living room.

  Sam wandered back toward the kitchen. Surely it couldn’t be too hard to rummage around for a knife and cake server without bothering the hostess. She could see to it that the cake was ready to serve and then make a quiet exit out the back.

  “. . . only a matter of weeks. You know how doctors are about telling you anything, really.”

  Two women in very similar dark dresses stood at the far side of the room, near a doorway that probably led to a small pantry. Sam sent a little smile their direction but pretended to be so busy that she wasn’t noticing their conversation.

  “Jolie doesn’t know yet,” the shorter woman said in a low voice.

  Sam spotted a wooden block with knife handles sprouting from it. She pulled a couple of them before finding the one that would work best for the cake.

  “When is Marla going to tell her? She can’t wait until the last minute.”

  Doctors? A matter of weeks? Was Marla critically ill?

  Chapter 4

  Someone else walked into the kitchen just then and the women headed toward the rest of the party. With a cake server and the knife
in hand, Sam followed.

  “Sam, thank you,” Marla said, intercepting her. “I was just on my way—”

  Sam set the utensils on the table, unsure what to say.

  “Oh, here’s my granddaughter.” Marla reached toward a girl of about twelve, circling her shoulders with a loving arm. “Jolie, this is Ms Sweet from the bakery, Sweet’s Sweets. She made this beautiful cake for us.”

  At an age when a lot of girls began testing their boundaries, dressing goth or piercing their body parts, Jolie seemed like a grandmother’s dream. She wore a perky little dress of something blue-swirled and silky that kept her slim, budding body childlike. Her long, dark hair was drawn back at the crown with a little cluster of silk flowers. She smiled shyly at Sam, her teeth white and straight in her caramel complexion.

  “Hi, Jolie, nice to meet you.”

  “You made this?” the girl said, looking at the cake.

  “Yeah. Maybe you’d like to learn how sometime?”

  Jolie sent another of her hesitant smiles toward Sam, then she spotted two other girls across the room.

  “Go ahead,” Marla said. “You can take Jenny and Sarah to your room.”

  “She seems like a good kid,” Sam said.

  “She is. I’ve been really lucky.” Marla’s eyes misted over and she blinked to clear them. “Her dad went missing when she was only two. Then her mom died when she was five. They lived in Albuquerque, and I hadn’t gotten much time with Jolie until then. Suddenly, she had no one else, so I brought her here.” She cleared her throat. “She’s such a sweet girl.”

  Sam thought of the conversation in the kitchen but it didn’t seem like her place to ask.

  “You can stay awhile, can’t you?” Marla asked. “Father Joe already gave us a private blessing. Now we’re ready to start serving the food. I’d love to introduce you to everyone, along with the cake.”

  Intruding on someone’s family time didn’t feel right, but Marla seemed to sincerely want her there. Her hostess took hold of Sam’s arm and pulled her into the living room where she proceeded with a flurry of names. Sam would do well to remember half of them, but she tried. The couple who had helped bring the cake inside were Joy and Bill; neighbors from the houses on either side were the two women she’d overheard talking in the kitchen, Diane and Deborah; another couple introduced themselves as Jorge and Camille. The priest, Father Joe, gave her a warm handshake. Someone offered her a glass of wine and then Marla’s voice rose above the conversation for a moment to announce that the meal was ready. Jolie and her friends had come back, eager to be first in line for the food.

  Platters and bowls crowded the table, except for the end where the cake sat, filled with homemade dishes—tacos, posole, enchiladas plus beans and salads and more. Sam stood aside, feeling like an extra, letting the others fill their plates first.

  “Go, Sam, eat,” Marla urged.

  “After you.” She touched Marla’s elbow and edged her toward the serving line. She noticed that the other woman took only tiny spoonfuls of the salads and a scant dipperful of the beans.

  “Saving room for the cake,” she said when she caught Sam noticing her small portions.

  Sam scooped enchiladas onto her own plate, wondering again about the conversation in the kitchen.

  Someone else pulled Marla aside at that moment. She gave the newcomer a bright smile and went along. Sam found a spot to sit at one edge of the living room. She watched Marla interact with her guests and decided she’d probably misinterpreted the earlier conversation.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” The voice beside her was Camille, if Sam recalled correctly. “The way Marla keeps hoping Tito will come home.”

  “She told me she believes he’s alive and well somewhere,” Sam said, remembering Marla’s comments yesterday in the bakery. “Can’t she find out where he is and contact him?”

  Camille shrugged. “She tried. She reported him missing. I don’t think the police treated it very seriously. And then she hired some investigator. But that didn’t work out either.”

  Sam stared at a spot on the carpet. Maybe Beau would know something about the case.

  “It was really hard when Tricia died. Tito’s wife,” Camille said. “Gosh, she was so young. It just didn’t seem right. That little girl, all alone. She seemed so lost.”

  “Marla really loves her, doesn’t she?”

  “Jolie is all the world to her now.”

  Someone tapped on a glass and Marla’s voice again rose to get everyone’s attention. “We have a lovely memorial cake for Tito,” she said. “And I want to introduce you to the talented baker who made it.”

  Sam blushed as all eyes turned to her.

  “Samantha, would you do the honor and cut the cake?”

  She nodded and made her way to the table. Within minutes she’d handed out dessert plates to nearly everyone. Jolie and her friends held back.

  “I want one of the big roses,” Jolie said.

  At choruses of “Me too!” Sam worked out ways to make cuts that gave each girl a slice of the cake with a whole rose on her plate. They wiggled with delight and headed back to Jolie’s bedroom with their treasures.

  The other guests began to surround Sam when she went back to the living room with a small slice of the red velvet cake, and she found herself explaining what kind of shop Sweet’s Sweets was and giving directions to the place. Several of Marla’s friends promised to come by and others talked about upcoming birthday orders. By the time she caught sight of Marla again, Sam realized the crowd had thinned.

  “I think I’ve overstayed a bit,” she said when Marla walked up to her.

  “Oh, nonsense, Sam. Everyone was delighted to meet you.”

  Sam looked at the ruins of the meal. Most of the serving bowls were gone, taken away by whoever brought them, but there were the remains of the cake alongside splotches of spilled food on the tablecloth.

  “Let me stay and help you clean up,” she offered.

  Marla started to defer but Sam could see that she was tired. Through the doorway to the kitchen she could see the two neighbors scraping plates and loading them into the dishwasher.

  “With several of us working on it,” Sam said, “it’ll only take a few minutes.” She headed toward the table and began carrying the remaining dishes to the kitchen. A platter from a cupboard provided a good place for the leftover cake, and Sam expertly cut it into pieces, arranged them on the platter, and set the messy cake board aside to be taken away.

  Diane finished wiping the counter tops and Deborah had put detergent into the dishwasher and started the machine. Sam lost track of them for a few minutes and when she looked again, they were saying goodbye to Marla who had stretched out on a couch in the living room, looking worn out.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Marla?” Sam asked, as the two neighbors walked out the front door.

  “Not really,” Marla said with a weak wave of her hand. “Unless you’d like to sit and have a cup of tea.”

  Sam truly felt more like going home and putting her feet up, but something about Marla’s demeanor made her pause.

  “Tea would be nice.” Sam remembered seeing a kettle somewhere in the kitchen, and she went back to fill and heat it.

  “I’m sorry to be so lazy, making you do everything,” Marla said. “I just don’t seem to have a bit of energy right now.”

  “It’s been a big day,” Sam said. She glanced toward the short hall that led to the bedrooms. “Does Jolie need anything?”

  “She went home with Sarah to spend the night. That’s Diane’s daughter. Even though it’s a school night I don’t mind. They’ll walk to the bus together in the morning.”

  Marla pulled a crocheted afghan over her legs and picked at the edge of it.

  “Sam? Could I ask you something?”

  The kettle sent out a long, screeching whistle. “In a second, you sure can.” Sam hustled to the kitchen and spent a minute organizing two cups of tea.

  “Here we go. This wil
l relax you.” She set the delicate china cups on the coffee table and pulled an armchair in close for herself.

  “Sam, you know the sheriff pretty well, don’t you? I mean, I’ve heard that you—”

  Sam smiled. “We’re getting married, actually.”

  Marla brightened. “That’s nice. I’m happy for you.”

  “But I have a feeling that isn’t the real question you wanted to ask me, is it?”

  Marla sipped from her cup, buying time. “No, it isn’t. I need to find Tito, and I need to do it now.”

  “Ah. Someone at the party said that you’d filed a missing persons report when he first disappeared.”

  “I did. And nothing came of it. I called the sheriff’s department here in Taos, but since Tito and Tricia lived in Albuquerque at the time, I think they pushed the case off to the Albuquerque police. But he was here in Taos when it happened, and I thought they should have done more.”

  “And this happened ten years ago?”

  “Yes. Late August. Tito, Tricia and Jolie were here for a family weekend. Tito went to the store for some beer and he never came back.”

  “What did the sheriff’s people say?”

  “It got ugly. They said he probably went off with some woman from his work. Tricia was devastated. She couldn’t believe it and neither could I. I still don’t. Tito wasn’t like that. He served in the Navy, became an electrician, he had a good job and provided a good life for his family. He loved the outdoors, hiking, fishing—things like that. He wasn’t a cheat. And he would have never left little Jolie. He loves that baby.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I have no idea, Sam. If he’d gone hiking he would have told us. He always said where he was going and what time he would be home. We would have known where to look. But this—this is too weird.”

  “You said you don’t believe he’s dead, though.”

  “Jolie and Tricia always get birthday cards. They’re never signed and they come postmarked from all kinds of places. But I know he sends them. He sent them for awhile even after Tricia died.”