Sticky Sweet Page 4

  “You’re in a feisty mood this morning,” she teased, picking up her toothbrush.

  “It’s an act.” His words came out slightly blurred as he stretched his mouth to get the best angle for shaving his jaw. “Remember? I have to drive down to Albuquerque and attend the autopsy on our traffic fatality.”

  “Ugh. Sorry.” She had to admit, compared to his job, she couldn’t very well complain about mopping floors or being swamped with bakery orders.

  While he rinsed his razor and headed for the bedroom to dress, she went through a mental list of priorities. Shower—check. Hair—check. Put on bakery clothing, gather alternate grubby clothes to change into if the day’s work allowed time to go back to Sadie’s break-in job. Add wooden box to the stack—just in case.

  The smell of burnt toast wafted up the stairs, and she knew Beau had forgotten that the timer on the toaster oven wasn’t working. She stuffed her things into a tote bag and hurried down to give him a kiss before he headed out the door.

  “Be safe,” she whispered in the direction of his cruiser.

  The good thing about arriving at Sweet’s Sweets early was there’d been no time for Jen to add to the stack of orders. Customers couldn’t come in until seven so there was a blissful hour in which to whittle away at the backlog.

  Sam assembled the beach scene cake, placing the surfboard and palm trees on top of freshly spread brown sugar sand. The flower bouquet sheet cake came together quickly, with piped roses and daisies and the birthday greeting in beautiful flourishing script.

  Julio had just pulled cupcakes from the oven and they would need to cool completely before they could become monsters for the little monsters at the school. Sam turned to look at the wedding cake design Jen had sketched on the order form. The tiers, in three sizes, were baked. She brought them from the walk-in fridge and began the process of filling and stacking, using dowels to handle the weight as the cake grew taller.

  Sometime between brown sugar beach sand and piped roses on the sheet cake, Jen had come in and the sounds of customer voices began to drift toward the kitchen. Sam, as usual, tuned them out until a familiar giggle came through. She glanced up at the wall clock over the oven and saw it was already after ten. Half a morning had passed with the slipperiness of an eel.

  “Kelly? Is that you?” she called out.

  “Hey Mom.” Her daughter’s cinnamon curls did a little bounce as Kelly peered through the curtain dividing kitchen and sales room.

  Sam returned her attention to the stacked tiers, checking to be sure they sat levelly on their base.

  “Hey. Not busy next door right now?”

  “Not bad. Riki’s brushing out a cocker spaniel, which takes a good hour or so. Two schnauzers are under the dryers, and I think the next client is bringing in a Lab around noon.”

  “How would you like to create some monsters?” Sam tilted her head toward the rack of cupcakes.

  “Ooh, fun!” Kelly hung up her coat and washed her hands. “Can I do anything I want?”

  “Within reason. They’re for third graders. Aim for more cute than gory, please.”

  Kelly checked out the shelf with the food color paste and chose brilliant orange, lime green, black, and a new one—Day-Glo yellow. She set the bottles at one end of the large worktable and began stirring a generous amount of the orange into freshly made buttercream icing.

  From the corner of her eye, Sam caught movement at the salesroom door. Jen sidled across the room and dropped some pages into the basket on Sam’s desk. When she noticed Sam had seen her, she gave a sheepish little smile.

  “Another wedding cake and three birthdays. The good news is you’ve got three weeks for the wedding cake …”

  Which would put it due as they were getting into the Valentine season. Most February brides had ordered their cakes months ahead, but this one would just have to go into the queue. At least Becky would return in a couple more days. Sam lifted the top tier and placed it on the cake in front of her. One thing at a time.

  “Weather’s warming up,” Kelly said, apparently to get Sam’s attention away from the overflowing basket of orders. “It’s already forty-one out there.”

  As if in response to the comment, Sam’s phone rang down inside the pocket of her white jacket. She steadied the six-inch tier of cake, wiped her hands on the damp towel on the table, and reached for the phone. The screen showed Sadie Holmes as the caller.

  “Hey, Sadie, how’s your back?”

  “Rehab’s going slowly. I can’t believe I’m not already hopping around like a kid again.”

  “Um, sorry to hear it. But don’t worry, I’ve almost got your job finished. I’ll leave the bakery in plenty of time before—”

  “Uh, that’s the thing … Delbert just called. It’s an emergency.”

  Sam looked at the cake creation in front of her and tried to will away Sadie’s last word.

  “Apparently, a neighbor called and said there is water running out from under the front door of that house.”

  Oh, great. Super cold temps in a house with no power, forty-degrees now …

  “I don’t exactly know what to do. This hasn’t happened to me before,” Sadie said.

  Sam sighed. “I’ll call the water department. They’ll get someone out there and shut off the water main.”

  “But the—”

  “Cleanup. Yeah, I’ll go right over there and see what needs to be done. You just take care of that injured spine, and I’ll report back to you.” She tried very hard not to let frustration creep into her voice. No good deed goes unpunished, she reminded herself.

  She looked up the number for the water department and waited on hold while they undoubtedly handled several hundred calls identical to hers. Capping the container of white buttercream icing she’d been about to scoop into, she wheeled the wedding cake into the fridge and slipped her bakery jacket off while pacing the room with the phone to her ear.

  “This is ridiculous,” she finally said. “I can probably find the shutoff valve myself.”

  She reached for her winter coat and told Kelly to be sure Jen knew when the cupcakes were finished so she could call the customer. The whole time she was bustling about and heading for her truck, she could only picture those beautiful parquet wood floors now covered in water. Water and who knew what else—Sam had left some boxes of rubbish and a couple garbage bags with the dust and dirt she’d vacuumed the previous day. She could be starting the clean-up job all over, farther back than square one.

  She steered the streets cautiously. Melting snow and, no doubt, other broken lines had turned ordinary roads into rivers of muddy water and floating litter. She dodged a quartered log of firewood that was headed toward a storm drain at the central intersection near the plaza. There’s a clog-up waiting to happen, she thought. She crossed the intersection, creeping along in traffic as other drivers dealt with the same obstacle course. No wonder the water department wasn’t answering its phones. It might take days before anyone attended her call.

  A wave of tiredness threatened, the penalty for skipping breakfast this morning and spending too many hours running at a frantic pace to get everything done. She realized she should have stopped for an early lunch, but she was already into the residential area at this point. The wooden box sat on the passenger seat, within easy reach.

  Sam, Sam … not a good thing to keep going on the rush you get from the box. Your body wants nourishment.

  Shut up. Deal with the emergency first, then figure it out.

  She would figure out something. If nothing else, there was probably an old granola bar in the glovebox. She had spotted the house when her phone rang again. She recognized the number at her chocolate factory.

  “Sam, it’s Benjie. I’m afraid we have a little emergency.”

  Chapter 8

  Beau cursed the fact that he’d timed his arrival in Albuquerque to the morning rush hour. Crawling along in traffic on I-25 reminded him just how much he ha
ted cities. He was a country boy at heart and always would be. On the radio the traffic report girl, in a voice that sounded like a twelve-year-old, informed drivers of a crash in the southbound lane. Dead ahead of his current location.

  He let his cruiser coast along, trying to leave adequate space from the vehicle ahead of him, but each time a car’s length opened up someone would swerve to fill it. No matter that they weren’t gaining any sort of advantage, they did it anyway. He wished he’d lingered over coffee before leaving Taos or, better yet, stayed home in bed with Sam an extra hour.

  Once past the Big I interchange, the lanes of cars magically began to move. No sign of the reported crash, which no doubt had happened much earlier. He exited and discovered the maze of roads had been rerouted and it was no longer a straight path to the OMI’s office. He berated himself for not programming the cruiser’s GPS with the destination. Now he would have to wend his way along one-way streets until he found the distinctive building with its walls of glass and concrete.

  The macho attitude of navigating by intuition didn’t serve him at all in a city this size. He gripped the wheel and felt his teeth grind. Doubling back cost an extra ten minutes but he eventually recognized the series of turns and spotted the blue-green windows of the place he’d not visited for several years.

  He found a parking space in the lot across the street and welcomed the chance to stretch his legs after the two-and-a-half-hour drive. The stretch ended quickly though, as an icy wind off the mountains stole all the warmth his heater had provided. He hurried through the lot, heading toward the automatic front doors.

  Inside, the smell of coffee wafted through the lobby. He approached a reception desk and presented his credentials, admiring the elaborate tile mural which covered walls and pillars while the young woman behind the desk checked the schedule and phoned someone deep inside the building to announce his arrival.

  Three minutes later, a lanky thirty-something guy with jeans, a plaid shirt, and sandy brown curls that touched the white collar of his lab coat came through the double doors at the far side of the lobby. The two were exactly the same height although the other man’s narrow frame put him at twenty pounds lighter.

  “Sheriff Cardwell? Good to meet you.” He met Beau with a handshake and sincere gaze. “I’m Winston Reed, toxicology technician. Can I offer you some coffee?”

  Beau shook his head. “I’m fine, thanks.” He didn’t admit that stepping into a room of stainless steel and person-sized refrigerated beds always sent his discomfort meter skyward. This was the least favorite part of his law enforcement job, but one that was becoming more crucial, nearly mandatory, these days. When solving a case nearly always relied on evidence gathered from the victim’s body, every lawman became involved at some point.

  He could have sent one of his deputies for this task; Rico was diligent with details and good at asking the right questions. But Rico also had a tendency to get lightheaded at the sight of a cut-open cadaver. Already this case was looking like a situation where the details would matter a lot.

  Reed ushered Beau back through the double doors from which he’d emerged and down a long corridor.

  “I believe the preliminary incisions are done, organs removed and weighed, initial notes recorded,” he said as they walked.

  “It was a traffic fatality, so there’s probably not much doubt about the cause of death,” Beau mentioned. “Mainly, we’re curious as to whether the victim was under the influence. A witness said he was weaving quite a lot before his vehicle went off the roadway and rolled.”

  “That would be my department. We’ll pop in and pick up the blood and tissue samples and I’ll get them into the lab.” Reed pushed a heavy stainless steel swinging door, which whooshed against the shiny tile flooring. “While I start the testing process, you can speak with Doctor Plante, the pathologist on this case.”

  The temperature in the room was chilly, making Beau glad he hadn’t removed his jacket in the warm lobby. A shrouded body lay on a stainless steel table, the white sheet sticking up in points over the toes. Beau glanced away. A man in green scrubs and white lab coat stood beside a desk, leafing through photographs.

  “Winston, your samples,” he said to the younger man, handing over a tray containing a dozen or more vials with gory contents and neat white labels.

  He turned toward Beau. “Sheriff—hi, I’m Ralph Plante.”

  Beau shook the man’s hand, resisting the urge to look down and assess its cleanliness. C’mon, he told himself, they wear gloves during the whole procedure.

  “So, Winston says it’ll be a little while before we know if our vic was under the influence?”

  “Yeah, some of the tests take a day or so for results to show up. Do you plan to stay in Albuquerque and wait for them?”

  “Hadn’t planned on it. Mainly, I just have to cross the T’s, make sure my accident report covers the same basics as the autopsy.”

  Doctor Plante paused a moment. “I need you to see something. You want to look at the body or do you prefer the photos?”

  “Can I see what I need to in the pictures?”

  Plante smiled. “Sure. Either way, I can tell you what it is you’re seeing.” He held up a small sheaf of eight-by-ten color photos and fanned them like a hand of cards. “These two probably show the injury best.”

  Beau recognized Percy Lukinger’s head, both by the color of his hair and by the large bloody gash at the temple. “Yeah, we saw that. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. It was pretty obvious he’d been tossed around inside the car.”

  “But this wasn’t the cause of death,” Plante said.

  “So … what, then? Internal injuries?”

  “It’s easier to tell on the body, but this head injury happened some time before the accident. Clotting around the wound indicates this happened at least thirty to sixty minutes before the other injuries.”

  “Our victim got a head wound—somehow—and then went on to drive down the highway. It sure could explain the erratic driving.”

  Plante nodded at Beau’s assessment. “I’m not prepared to state the cause of death yet,” he said. “Each of the physical injuries, taken on its own, isn’t serious enough to cause death—including this one on the temple. I want Winston’s tox report before I make a determination.”

  Beau nodded. Thoughts buzzed him like dive bombers. A fairly hard bash to the head, a rollover traffic accident, not to mention how much booze or drugs the man might have in his system—any or all of it might have contributed.

  “I appreciate that,” he told the doctor.

  “I’m definitely not prepared to concede it was an accident,” Plante said. “And because of that, I’ve made you a folder of my findings.”

  He picked up a manila folder and handed it to Beau. A quick glance showed the collection of photographs, a set of fingerprints, and an autopsy report clearly labeled ‘Preliminary.’ A large plastic bag contained bloodied clothing, a ring, and gold neck chain.

  “Those sad rags are what we cut off him. I assume your department already collected his wallet, and any other personal effects?”

  “We did. My deputy has been looking for the next of kin.”

  The doctor nodded. “I can email you digital files of any of this, along with my final report.”

  Beau thanked him and retraced his steps out to his cruiser. Mid-morning and his quest for answers had only dealt him more questions.

  Chapter 9

  Sam watched as water flowed from beneath the garage door and sheeted down the driveway while she tried to register Benjie’s word ‘emergency.’

  “What type of emergency?” She envisioned the hardwood floors at the old Victorian flooded in water, but surely he would have reported that sort of situation well before ten-thirty in the morning.

  “FedEx called to say the truck with our order went off the bridge down near Pilar. Boxes went into the river and … well, we won’t be getting that shipment at all.”

>   Sam tried to recall what was in the shipment that would classify this as an emergency.

  “It’s the cocoa powder—the Brazilian Select. We are totally out, and Mr. Bookman’s order is due day after tomorrow.”

  Yikes. She took a deep breath, dimly aware of the old man watching her from the house next door. She gave a pointed stare and watched him duck behind the curtain.

  “Okay,” she said to Benjie. Deep breath. “Get on the phone with Tanner Wholesale and tell them to do whatever it takes to get a duplicate shipment to us overnight. Better yet, if they’ll put it on a plane that will arrive tonight, I’ll run to wherever it takes to pick it up. You’ll find their contact info on my desk upstairs. Stress the absolute importance of it and get a promise before you let them off the line. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  Benjie was such a mild-mannered sweetheart, Sam felt the need to reiterate that it was all right in this instance to throw a little urgency into his words.

  “Once you’ve got their commitment, call the employees together and inform them everyone will be pulling double shifts for the next day or two. If anyone from Book It Travel calls to ask about the order, do not tell them about this. Just tell them I’m out of the office and will get back to them soon.”

  “Got it.”

  The water from the driveway continued to flow, racing down the gutter and forming a small lake at the intersection down the hill. Sam felt her blood pressure rise. Too bad she hadn’t thought to carry Wellies in her truck. She stepped out, making a leap for the sidewalk beyond the river in the gutter.