Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  “Do you have Ranger and Nellie with you?”

  “Kelly has them. I went by your shop first and when she came out she offered to take them in to Riki’s place and give them baths. Said she would take them home with her tonight and bring them back in the morning. You wouldn’t believe how smoky they smelled.”

  Sam gave him a long gaze and laughed.

  “Uh, yeah, me too, I guess.”

  “What about damage at the neighbors?”

  “Max Rodriguez’s place is all right—he was upwind. Mulvane’s lost his barn and two sheds. His crops are pretty well wiped out, but that’s more because of vehicles and trampling than the fire. Pisses me off the way these ‘love the earth’ types often do such stupid things in the name of protecting it. Don’t get me started.”

  “Won’t they have to pay for the damage?”

  “Yeah, well, all I could do was issue citations for having unlawful clearances around their campfires. There’ll be fines, and I’m sure Mulvane will try to make them pay for his lost buildings. That Moondoggie was stomping around, whining about how there’s fire retardant all over their buses. I’ll be real surprised if he actually comes to the courthouse and pays the fines.”

  “So they haven’t left?”

  He shook his head. “We took them away from the campsite during the operations, for their safety, but they went right back as soon as the area was cleared.”

  He glanced through some message slips on his desk and picked up the envelope Sam had left there.

  “That’s evidence for your murder case,” she said, belatedly remembering her own close call during the afternoon. “Kaycee Archer and Harvey Byron showed up together. I think they were vying against Carinda for the huge Julia Joffrey estate. Taos PD has them both in custody now.”

  “Sam . . . did you put yourself in danger to get this?”

  She waggled her hand back and forth. “Not too much.”

  His ocean blue eyes held her gaze firmly.

  “Well, maybe a little. I’d found the documents and was about ready to get out of the apartment when they came walking in. Things are starting to make sense, though. Kaycee kept trying to find Carinda before the festival started, then there were a few times I spotted Harvey and Kaycee talking. Silly me, I thought he had some kind of new romance going on. Maybe that’s part of it.” She stood up. “Oh—not to mention that Harvey would have had easy access to that knife. His booth was very near the dais.”

  “Okay. I guess that’ll be my job tomorrow, questioning the two of them. Unless they gave confessions when the cops showed up?”

  “Unfortunately, no. By the time you get there, I wouldn’t be surprised if they turn on each other. Harvey sure wanted that money. I don’t know who charmed who or what started the two of them working together, but I doubt he’s willing to let Kaycee send him to prison over it.”

  He reached for her hand. “I’m just glad you’re safe. Let’s go home.”

  The night air felt clear and cool after the heat and smoke from recent days. In Beau’s cruiser, remnants of the scent lingered and he immediately lowered all the windows as they began to move through the quiet streets. At the first stoplight he turned and reached to the floor behind Sam’s seat.

  “Here. Something for you,” he said, lifting her jewelry box and setting it in her lap.

  Sam hugged the box to her chest, immediately feeling its calming effects and absorbing the warmth it transmitted into her arms. Her mood dipped, however, as she thought of Sarah Williams and the funeral tomorrow.

  Chapter 20

  Sam coaxed Nellie and Ranger into the backseat of her pickup truck. The dogs seemed a little unsure of the surroundings—the parking lot of a convenience store where Sam and Kelly had agreed to meet before Kelly headed to Puppy Chic for the day—but they were typical canines, up for whatever adventure the moment presented. Beau had driven to another ranch a few miles away where he’d left the horses overnight. At last, their little family unit would be back home.

  By the time Sam pulled through the stone gateway and down the long drive to the log house, Beau was leading Old Boy out of the horse trailer and through the gate into open pasture.

  “Everything go okay?” Sam asked as she walked over to him.

  “Just fine once they got over the idea that it might have been a trip to the vet.”

  She laughed. “I think the dogs felt the same way. Notice how they’re hanging close to the front door.”

  “If you don’t need to get to the bakery early, could you go through those documents with me? The ones you brought home last night. I’m having Kaycee Archer and Harvey Byron transferred to my office later this morning for questioning. It’s a little complicated since the murder happened in the county, but they were arrested by the town PD.”

  “How about if I add a pancake breakfast to the deal?”

  “Give me thirty minutes. I want to ride the fence line and make sure nothing along the east boundary was breached in all the hoopla yesterday.”

  By the time he came inside, Sam had two plates of hotcakes warming in the oven plus a bowl of fresh fruit and two flavors of syrup at the ready. While Beau washed his hands at the kitchen sink and assured her the property seemed relatively unscathed, she set everything on the table.

  “So, what I found out is that there were about a hundred billion reasons someone would want Carinda Carter dead,” she said once they doused their pancakes with syrup and began eating. “I didn’t get far enough into reading the will, before they walked in on me, to know what Kaycee Archer’s position is among all those half-siblings and cousins, but she seemed to think she would end up with a share that would provide Harvey Byron with the money he needs to get himself out of debt and to start a nationwide chain of ice cream shops. He made no secret that it had been his lifelong dream. I’m still not sure when he and Kaycee hooked up, although it does sort of explain her hanging around the fringes of the festival and his long absences from his booth.”

  “Did either of them admit to being the one who used the knife against Carinda?”

  “No. In fact, they kind of started a blame game. It wouldn’t surprise me if, under questioning, they end up turning against each other. I mean, having a lot of cash is one thing, being convicted of murder is something else. I don’t see Harvey hanging around for that.”

  Beau chewed thoughtfully.

  “I just got this feeling around Kaycee,” Sam said. “She’s not going to admit anything and she’ll get herself the best criminal defense attorney money can buy.”

  “Do you want to be there when I question them?” he asked.

  Sam thought of the mountain of work awaiting her at the bakery—the backdrops and displays from her booth that needed to be cleaned and put into storage, the phone calls to organize a meeting of the committee, and the business-as-usual amount of work at Sweet’s Sweets as they ran headlong into the wedding season. Plus, it would probably be more interesting to see what story the two suspects gave Beau if they didn’t know she had already briefed him on what to expect.

  They cleared the dishes and neatened the kitchen together, then parted in the driveway.

  “Remember, Sarah Williams’s funeral is at two o’clock today,” she said. “Join me if you can.” She held up the hanger with the dressier clothing she’d decided to take into town with her.

  He didn’t sound too optimistic about his chances of breaking away. If he did put together enough evidence to arrest Kaycee or Harvey—or get lucky enough to extract a confession—his day would become filled with paperwork and formal procedures.

  By 1:45, Sam was more than ready to get out of the bakery for awhile. True to her prediction, it seemed every bride in town had realized that June was here and they’d better get their cakes ordered. She had been training Jen to take orders for specialty cakes, but there was still a lot her assistant didn’t know so Sam had been continually called away from the kitchen to answer questions or give ideas. More than one of the brides had been at the ch
ocolate festival and demand was high for designs similar to Danielle Ferguson’s winner.

  At five minutes to two, she escaped out the back door, fanning the flush from her face as she started her van and headed toward the mortuary. Parking was nonexistent, the dash of more than a block left her face red and sweaty again, and the dolorous organ music automatically set off a rush of emotions as Sam found a seat near the back of the small room.

  In the front row sat a few people who could be Sarah’s relatives, although Sam didn’t immediately spot Marc Williams among them. Odd. The next four rows contained an assortment of people, mostly older, mostly the simple country type who had probably consulted Sarah—and perhaps Bertha Martinez—for cures. A minister stepped forward when the music stopped, and it occurred to Sam that she had never heard Sarah mention a religious affiliation. Not that it really mattered now.

  Words. Emotions. Memories. Wishes that she’d had more time with her friend. Tears dripped from her chin and Sam grappled in a pocket for a tissue. Questions in her mind about whether she could have learned more about Bertha Martinez or the history of the wooden box if Sarah had only lived longer. Perhaps the pace of the festival and her committee work had proved to be too much, and Sam wished she could rewrite the last few weeks to make better use of the time. Regret washed over her. But then, she supposed everyone must feel that way about someone who had died. We seldom leave every question answered or every situation resolved.

  Thinking of unresolved situations took her mind back to the reasons Carinda Carter had died. At least Sam’s relationship with Sarah had ended on a friendly note. Carinda’s distant relatives were likely to be battling out their little war for years to come.

  People began to stand and Sam realized the service must be over. She hung back, having little desire to stand in a line of strangers and shake hands with a lot of other strangers. Sarah was the only person in this room that she knew. She started to duck quietly out the rear door when she became aware of someone standing at her side.

  “Are you Samantha Sweet?” a female voice asked.

  Sam turned and nodded, taking in a woman of about forty, a bit taller than herself, with dark hair to her shoulders and honest green eyes. She wore black jeans and boots, a silky shirt in vivid jewel tones and a black hip-length jacket that looked expensive.

  “You look just the way Sarah described you.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Isobel St. Clair.”

  Sam’s expression must have given away her complete lack of recognition.

  “I’m a historian, with The Vongraf Foundation.” She studied Sam for a half-second. “We study historical artifacts, particularly items that have—shall we say—an element of the unexplained.”

  Sam felt herself backing away. Bobul’s warning came back, about people who would take an interest in the carved box, people who would want to take it from her and use it for their own purposes.

  “Are you certain that Sarah never mentioned me? She said she would get word to you.”

  Had she? Sam vaguely remembered Marc Williams mentioning someone when he told her of Sarah’s final lucid minutes, back in the midst of the festival when Sam’s mind hadn’t focused on anything for more than a few seconds.

  “Sarah’s last days were—”

  “I need to talk with you, Ms. Sweet, maybe now? Over coffee?” Isobel St. Clair chewed at her lower lip for a second, then she leaned close and whispered. “Lightning strikes once, makes three.”

  Bobul’s words. Sam felt the blood drain from her face.

  Chapter 21

  Sam’s hands shook as she inserted her key into the van’s ignition. Now that it seemed she was on the brink of learning something about the wooden box she felt inexplicably terrified. She watched Isobel St. Clair pull out of the mortuary parking lot in a nondescript grey sedan that was undoubtedly a rental, heading the right direction for Java Joe’s Joint where Sam had agreed to sit long enough for a coffee together.

  Before putting the van in gear she dialed Beau’s cell number.

  “Hey, darlin’. Sorry I didn’t make it to the service. But I’ve got good news—the Flower People cleared out. Middle of the night. I guess that’s a good-news, bad-news situation. They didn’t pay their fines and they left Mulvane’s place a mess—”

  “Sorry, honey, but I have an odd situation here. I’m about to have coffee with a woman and I’m not sure whether to trust her.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  “No.” The sight of a uniform might undo everything Sam had hoped to learn. “But could you run a quick background check for me? See if a place called The Vongraf Foundation really exists. If so, does it look like legitimate historical research? And is there an Isobel St. Clair associated with it? If there’s a chance to see a picture of her, is she about five-nine, in her forties, long dark hair and green eyes?”

  “Okay . . . sure. Is there something I should know?”

  “Just send me a quick text, let me know whether she’s legit or not. I’ll fill you in on the rest later.” At the last second, she remembered to tell him where she was meeting the woman.

  Isobel St. Clair was standing under the green awning in front of Java Joe’s when Sam pulled into the tiny parking lot.

  “Sorry, I had parked a block away from the funeral home,” Sam explained.

  Isobel regarded her with that direct gaze and suggested they might prefer an outdoor table at the far corner of the patio. They ordered at the indoor granite-topped counter and carried their beverages outside. The bistro-sized tables were wire mesh with matching chairs, not the most comfortable, but the attached umbrella kept the sun off. Sam selected the one chair with its back to the wall, wondering as she sat down if this would turn out to be another false or frustrating lead.

  Isobel sat next to her, facing the back door of the coffee house, watching the other two patrons as she reached into her small bag, brought out a leather case and pulled out a business card. Passing it to Sam she drew out a white envelope. Its battered corners and worn flap attested to the fact that the woman had carried it with her for some time. She handed it to Sam, as well.

  The card had a logo—triangular, with a complex pattern that reminded Sam of Celtic knots—alongside The Vongraf Foundation. Isobel St. Clair’s title was shown as Director. The telephone number was a Washington DC area code; address was a post office box in Alexandria, Virginia. Sam slipped the card into her pocket and placed her hand on the envelope.

  Ms. St. Clair gave her a warning look as a young couple dressed in chinos and cotton sweaters came out to the patio. Sam vaguely recognized the girl as someone from Kelly’s school days but neither of them gave her a second glance. She slid the envelope into her lap and lifted the flap. It contained a single photograph, very old by the look of it—of her wooden box.

  “Ms. St. Clair, where did you get this?” Sam asked, leaving the picture in the envelope.

  Her companion smiled. “You can call me Isobel. Let me give you a little history.” She leaned back in her seat and began to speak softly.

  “The Vongraf Foundation has been in existence almost since the founding of America. It is said that Benjamin Franklin, with his insatiable curiosity about everything—particularly about unexplained phenomena—was among the group of men who decided to take on the formal study of odd artifacts. Not that our research involves only physical items. Today, the foundation has branches that investigate everything from happenings in Egyptian tombs to celestial sightings over the plains of Peru.”

  “Sounds like the History Channel.” Sam couldn’t keep the note of skepticism out of her voice.

  Isobel laughed. “I suppose it does. However, unlike television programs that tend to use words such as could, would, might have and possibly in their so-called fact finding, we deal in hard, verifiable facts. If an artifact comes to us, it is put through carbon-dating tests first, then it undergoes a battery of tests to ascertain whether any so-called ‘magical’ properties that its owners or local legend claim can
be verified. The majority of the assertions involve contact with the afterlife or with extraterrestrials, along with a great number who say their item has healing properties or can cast ‘spells’ of some sort.”

  “And you have a huge warehouse somewhere in an underground bunker with all these mystical items stored in huge, dusty crates?”

  “Hardly. Over ninety-five percent of the items we have ever examined prove to be either hoaxes or the test results are inconclusive. A small percentage actually do prove themselves to a degree, although oftentimes the evidence of healing or contact outside the earthly experience cannot be reliably duplicated. In other words, we see the unexplained action happen once or twice but it isn’t as if the owner can replicate the action over and over.”

  Sam worked to keep her expression neutral. She had never experienced difficulty in getting the box in her possession to work its magic, any time she picked it up. She glanced again at the photo.

  “And this?” she asked.

  “There is more to this item than a simple case of ‘does it or doesn’t it work’. We know for a fact that it does. The photo was taken during the foundation’s testing of the item and documentation of its properties.” She caught Sam’s expression. “Way before my time, I will admit. Testing on this artifact was done in 1910. It was conclusively proven to be among the one-half of one percent—the items we see whose properties can be verified beyond a doubt.”

  “And now it’s in one of those warehouses.”

  Isobel let out a little sigh. “You know it isn’t. You know where it is.”

  Sam dropped the envelope on the table and started to rise.

  “Wait! Sam, I don’t want to take it. We have done our tests. We don’t keep the artifacts; they stay with their owners. I was told you wanted to know about its history.”