“Along comes Larry Lissano. Rich. New money rich. The Ivy bunch would have nothing to do with him, but Bunny fell hard and fast. It happens to everybody who’s never had much. Diamonds and jewelry, a fleet of fast cars, all the showy trappings. Bunny already had a clue that she wasn’t going to bluff the East Coast bunch for very long. Moving to Dallas with Larry was a way to live the high life without having to explain her lack of pedigree.”
“So, where did Larry get all this money? Win a lottery or something?”
“They say—and I don’t know this for a fact—but the rather believable rumor was that his business dipped into a few slightly illegal trades.”
“Drugs?”
Rupert shrugged. “I don’t know . . .? Like I said, it was all rumor.”
“But Bunny didn’t know this?”
“Or ignored it. She was purely in it for the money and the status money can buy. The home they built outside Dallas was over fifteen-thousand square feet and every square inch was a showplace. I visited there once, soon after I met her, and got lost in the guest wing. I had my own swimming pool, and three servants to fetch whatever I wanted.”
Sam couldn’t begin to imagine a life like that.
“I felt for her,” Rupert said. “The gloss wore off the romance very soon, and all she had to do was to decorate, buy art, have lunch with a bunch of women who were in similar situations. The brain that got her into Brown University was far too wasted on that crowd. I was surprised that she stayed married to him for twelve years.”
“So she decided to take what she could and get out?”
“Basically. Larry might have been a savvy businessman, but he didn’t give Bunny credit for the smarts to outmaneuver him financially. So, no pre-nup. When she got the most vicious divorce lawyer in Texas to represent her, well, Larry didn’t stand a chance. She got enough to set her up for life, herself and every charity she might ever choose.”
He parked behind the bakery and they sat in the Rover with the motor running.
“Bunny is a one-woman patron of the arts in this state, plus several other pet projects she has going on elsewhere. The divorce settlement was three years ago and she’s begun doing a lot of good for a lot of people. ”
“Do you think part of William Montague’s art collection came from her generosity?”
“You know, I hadn’t thought of that, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I think he was Bunny’s paramour, shall we say, at the time of the breakup. When she received her settlement check she went a little crazy. That house you just saw, all the furnishings . . . she spent like a wild woman. Not to mention the art she brought from the Dallas place. She knew good pieces, and she was smart enough to stipulate that part of her settlement would consist of certain artworks. Just the bit I know about art—Sam, I know she took at least a million in paintings and sculpture. Larry was a mad hornet, I’ll tell you.”
And revenge was . . . Sam pictured Larry Lissano easily harboring a grudge for three years.
“I’m surprised Bunny isn’t afraid for her life. Surely if Larry has connections with dangerous people—”
“I know. I’ve wanted to caution her about being so visible.”
Sam remembered the blood stain on William Montague’s bedding and a shiver ran through her. Bunny might not be the only target of revenge.
Chapter 15
Sam watched Rupert maneuver the large SUV down the alley and then walked back into her business. The kitchen seemed quiet enough. Chocolate molds covered the work table, waiting for whatever Bobul was patiently stirring at the stove. He answered with a tilt of his head when Sam asked how things were going.
Out front, Kelly and Jen were coping with the afternoon dessert crowd. The coffee urns were about half full and the pastry displays appropriately lean for this time of day. Sam suggested to Kelly that she rearrange the remaining items so there weren’t obvious gaps. Jen gave Sam a subtle nod and showed her the day’s subtotal on the register. Not bad.
Sam issued a couple more orders to the girls and then went to the back to write down Bunny Fitzhugh’s instructions for her winter party cake. Sam thought ice-blue fondant over a two-tier hexagon cake, with sugar snowflakes, some hand-piped bunting, and maybe a frosty white topper of some sort. She would have to give that some thought. She’d just finished sketching out her ideas when Beau appeared in the doorway from the sales area.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, sending his gorgeous grin her way.
Sam immediately looked down at her clothing, which was relatively free of flour smudges, for once.
“It’s not what you’re wearing,” he reminded. “It’s you.”
She marveled again at whatever wonderful twist of fate had brought this kind and loving man into her life.
“How’s your mom doing today?” she asked, feeling a stab of guilt that she’d not yet stopped by the hospital.
“Better. Every day is an improvement.” He propped one hip on her desk. “Doc says she may go to the rehab facility next week or the week after.”
“That’s great news, Beau. I’m so happy to hear it.”
“Well, it won’t be the end of the problems. We’ll have to figure out whether we can manage at home, even with Kelly’s help. We may still be looking at a nursing home.”
Hard news to handle, especially at the holidays, Sam thought.
“But that’s not why I stopped by,” he said. “I had a busy afternoon and thought I’d fill you in. Can you break away for coffee? A drink? Dinner?”
She chuckled. He always tried to be so accommodating, even though he was the one with the important job and more responsibilities.
“Whatever I can do dressed like this. Or I have to go home and change.” She tamped her bakery orders into a stack and set them in their basket. “I’ve got some interesting developments to tell you about too.”
They agreed that drinks at one of their favorite small bars would be relaxing and probably the most private at this time of day. She walked Beau to the front door and suggested he grab them a quiet table at the back and she would be five minutes behind.
“Can you girls handle things until closing?” Sam asked, surveying the small crowd in the sales room.
“No problem,” Kelly assured her.
By the time she walked into the little pub-style place just off the plaza, she found Beau at a corner table with a soda in front of him and a glass of red wine at the place beside him. A young guy was just setting a basket of tortilla chips on the table.
“Figured I better not have a drink,” Beau said. “Technically, I’m on duty for another thirty minutes.” He patted the radio at his hip. “At least it’s been a quiet afternoon.”
They reached for chips and dunked them in the bowl of red salsa that sat beside the basket.
“Okay, news? You first,” Beau said.
Sam filled him in on the visit to Bunny Fitzhugh’s lavish home and Rupert’s later revelation that Bunny’s ex-husband might very well have a motive to come after Will Montague.
“I don’t know if the idea that Larry Lissano was a drug dealer or something is just rumor. But it could be true, and if so he could be a pretty dangerous man,” she said.
Beau jotted the names in his small notebook. His expression was pensive as he said, “It’s worth a look. Guy like that, even if he doesn’t personally pull the trigger, he sure would have connections.”
“Bunny claims that she hasn’t had contact with Montague in ‘ages.’ I didn’t get the chance to pin her down and ask exactly when she did last see him. I guess I could have done better at that.”
“Don’t worry about it. It looks like our investigation is going to ramp up. We’ll probably have to question her again anyway.”
“So, your news? Did you get the chance to ask around among Montague’s neighbors?”
“A few. It’s hard to canvass a neighborhood by yourself, in an afternoon, but I managed to find a few folks at home.” He scooped up more salsa. “Unfortunately, the two on either side
of his place really don’t know him that well. One guy is a traveling salesman, rarely home. They’ve said hello out at the mailboxes a couple of times. The other is a stay-home mom, so she watches the neighborhood a bit more closely. But she didn’t say much about Montague other than he drove a nice car but he didn’t come and go much.”
“That brings up a point,” Sam said. “We never did check the garage, see if he had cars at the house or if any were missing. How would we know?”
“I did that. After I talked to the third neighbor, a guy right across the road. He told me that Montague worked from home. Some kind of internet business, buying and selling collectible art or antiques or something like that—his words. I didn’t mention that we’d come across a few of the odder collectibles.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “Remember the printer sitting on the desk? No computer though. A guy can’t run an internet business without a computer. So, someone has taken it. I first thought Montague, when we believed he’d just gone on a trip.”
“Yeah. But I told you that I went ahead and checked the garage? Two spaces, two vehicles. There’s a small convertible, a Honda S2000, parked with the top down as if he’d just come in from a summer drive.”
“But this is December, so he hasn’t touched that car in awhile. And that fits with the time-frame when he disappeared from the radar.”
“Right. The other vehicle is an SUV, Cadillac Escalade. I’d guess that it hasn’t been driven in months either. There’s a fine layer of dust on everything in that garage, and there were no footprints near either vehicle. I’m having my office run the plates and VINs, just to see if anything turns up.”
“Hmm. Sure doesn’t tell us much.” Sam sipped from her wine. “But it doesn’t make sense that Montague left voluntarily. If he went on a trip he’d have packed a bag, taken clothes and toiletries, driven one of his cars to the airport. He’d certainly have made arrangements to pay his bills while he planned to be gone.”
“I think that’s key. I don’t think he planned to be gone. I don’t like the blood. I don’t like the missing computer. Those would point to someone else having been there and taken Montague and his computer, against his will.”
“But all that expensive art? That just doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless the crime was purely revenge, without robbery as a motive.”
“So, now what?”
“We need to search the rest of the property. Behind that house are a lot of trees, heavy shrubbery. There could be a body out there. In this cold weather, a shallow grave . . .”
Sam shuddered.
“Meanwhile,” Beau said, “I’ve got a deputy at work on the address book. We’ll see if we can find anyone, friend or relative, who’s heard from Montague. If no one is willing to file a missing person’s report, the department will take over and conduct an investigation.”
A tiny digital sound came from Beau’s watch. “Well, I’m officially off duty now,” he said. “Want to go ahead and make this dinner? I’ll need to run by the hospital before I can go home, so this might be my chance to eat.”
“Maybe I’ll come along and visit Iris for a little while.”
They ordered thick sandwiches from the bar menu and Sam pondered what she had learned about William Montague while she ate.
The more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed that the man was going to be found alive and well. And she really wished she’d gotten the chance to meet him and ask why on earth he had a photo of her jewelry box.
Chapter 16
Sam’s cell phone rang as she reached her van. Beau stood by as she plucked it from her pocket.
“Hey, Kel. What’s up?”
“Jen and I are ready to go home, but Bobul wants to stay awhile. He’s cooking something that he says will get ruined if he doesn’t finish tonight. At least I think that’s what he was telling me.” She lowered her voice a little. “Anyway, I didn’t know if you’d want me to leave him alone here. I mean, I shouldn’t give him a key or anything, should I?”
“Let him finish,” Sam said. “I can come by before I go home.” She would miss seeing Iris but she could use the time to do some preliminary prep for the morning and to make sure they were on top of tomorrow’s orders while the chocolatier finished his tasks.
She explained and gave Beau a brief kiss, waving a quick goodbye as his department cruiser drove away.
When Sam arrived, Bobul was still at the stove, slowly stirring something that smelled like caramel. The work table was cleared of chocolate molds, and boxes of truffles sat in neat ranks at one side.
“The customers sure are crazy about your chocolates,” she told him.
“Bobul chocolate no make insane,” he said.
Something got lost in that translation. Sam laughed and tried to correct the misconception. “No, Bobul, I mean that they like them. They like them a lot.”
Over his shoulder, he gave one of his little lopsided grins.
While he removed the caramel from the stove and started to do something with it, Sam mixed up enough of the dry ingredients for her standard breakfast pastries. She’d learned that by making up a couple of five-gallon buckets of dry mix each afternoon, she could sleep an extra few minutes in the morning. When she came in she could blend the eggs and milk, add the right amount of her premixed dry ingredients, and then adjust the spices, add fruit. It wasn’t a huge time savings but on days that tended to get a little crazy, it helped.
She peeked in on the Chamber of Commerce cake-in-progress, noting the huge amount of work she and Becky would need to do to get it out the door by the following afternoon. Which reminded her that Becky had left midday with a sick child. She dialed her assistant’s home while she pulled food coloring from the shelves. Becky sounded non-committal but there wasn’t a lot Sam could say. She remembered what it had been like, having to work when your child occasionally got sick. But it sure couldn’t have come at a worse time. Sam hung up with a groan. Maybe Kelly could learn some of the decorating techniques quickly.
Meanwhile, she did a quick inventory of staples and went to the computer to place an order. Once she’d clicked the Send button on her supply order, she had a thought.
Quickly entering William Montague’s name in her search engine, she was surprised to see his name come up in five separate listings. Montague Art & Collectibles seemed to be his official business name. She clicked the link.
Fine art and rare collectible items for the discriminating collector.
Photos showed paintings—a couple of which Sam remembered seeing in his home—and ornate pieces of furniture. Interesting. Maybe nothing in Montague’s house actually belonged to him; maybe the whole place consisted of inventory in his business.
Before she had the chance to ponder that, Bobul announced that he was ready to leave. Sam saw that it was after eight o’clock and she felt her own energy lagging. She shut down the computer.
“Bobul, how do you get home?” she asked. She’d never seen a vehicle and assumed that he rode the bus.
“No, no bus,” he replied when she asked. “Friend bring me to town in morning. Night, I find a way.”
“Bobul, it’s freezing out there. I can’t let you just start out walking. Let me give you a ride home.”
He gave a quick nod and shrugged into his gigantic coat, while Sam switched off the lights. Her remote key fob unlocked the van doors and Bobul started to take the passenger seat. Then he paused and picked up something. By the time Sam had edged into her own seat, she noticed that he was staring intently at it.
“What this is?” He stared hard at her.
The photograph she’d found at Montague’s place. Her jewelry box.
“Why? Do you know something about it?” she asked.
He glanced uneasily at the picture and set it on the center console of the van as he sat down.
“It’s okay. Just close your door and tell me which way to go.” She started the engine and waited for him to respond.
He motioned for
her to take a right turn out of the alley and another right at the first intersection. “Place is in canyon.”
With several choices of canyon roads in the area, Sam hoped this wasn’t going to turn into an hour-long project. She followed his cryptic instructions and found herself on winding Highway 64, eastbound.
“Two mile,” he said, once they were past the turnoffs to the public picnic sites.
Sam adjusted the heater settings and touched the photo again. “Bobul? What do you know about this box?”
He slumped in his seat, staring out the side window.
“Please? It’s important for me to know more about it.”
Oncoming headlights around one of the sharp curves drew her attention and Sam concentrated on staying on her half of the narrow road.
“Have you ever seen the box in this picture, Bobul?” she asked, once the other vehicle had passed.
His glance edged toward her. She waited, letting the question hang in the air.
“One time, Bobul see this. Many years away. Box belong to young woman, witch. Witch get some . . . some power . . . some, how do you say, magic.”
“From the box?”
“Da, the power come from the box.”
“And you saw this witch use the box to create magic?”
His eyes grew wide and he nodded.
He’d specifically said that it was a young witch. And yet the woman who’d given it to Sam was very old, much older than Bobul. “Do you know where the witch got the box?”
But his attention had been drawn back to the road. He indicated a two-track path to a log cabin. “Is Bobul home.”
The small structure looked decrepit, like something a homesteader might have thrown together to get through their first mountain winter. The logs were rough hewn with wide chinks filled with some whitish matter. One small window to the right of the front door, three wooden plank steps leading to a narrow porch, a tin roof over the whole thing. It looked cold and dark.
Sweet Holidays: The Third Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 10