Chapter 13
Knowing that Beau was probably right now standing over the body of Lee Rodarte, and wondering how this would spark the tinderbox situation in Sembramos, Sam knew her mind would never settle down enough to concentrate on decorating cakes this morning. Nor did she think her husband would be pleased if she headed toward the big white house, having to drive right into the powder-keg up north. She stared into the bathroom mirror, feeling that there was so much work she needed to do, yet stymied as to what to prioritize.
Coffee. That would help.
The temptation to stay in pajamas and robe, nursing endless cups of warm comfort, tugged at her; simply letting her mind and body take a break would feel so nice. Good in theory, impossible in real life. She dressed in jeans and a work shirt. If she could get the go-ahead to finish her caretaking project, that would be a big relief and would keep her from having to make that drive ever again. All of this went through her head while the coffee dripped into the carafe.
She poured a mug of the black brew and dumped in plenty of sugar. Pacing the living room, hoping a plan would present itself, her gaze fell to the notes she’d been writing the night before. She debated continuing, but decided her thoughts wouldn’t settle down enough. Some important detail would get away from her.
Her cell phone sat on top of one stack of paper, reminding her of her mother’s call last night. Sam picked up the remote control and switched on the television, scrolling to a news channel. Tornadoes across the plains dominated the first story—and Nina Rae thought Sam lived in danger. She turned her back on the images and picked up the witness list she’d written. Beau would probably recognize the names; he’d been interviewing the citizens of Sembramos for a couple of days now.
Sam thought a few sounded familiar, probably because he’d mentioned them. For some reason, the thought of the big white house came into her mind, and the unanswered question of why its owner had abandoned it. Another thing added to her to-do list was to find someone associated with LG Properties. It was always possible they hadn’t received the notices and weren’t aware of the impending auction.
The television interrupted her thoughts. “The violence continues to escalate in Taos County, New Mexico, with yet another murder. Lee Rodarte was released from the state prison less than a week ago, one of two men convicted in the murder of a young woman in that small northern town. We go live to the scene in Taos, New Mexico.”
A reporter holding a microphone stood shivering on a street corner, one Sam recognized. It was only about four blocks from her old house. A chill went through her, realizing that Kelly might have passed the very spot where Lee died if she’d been out last night. Sam missed some of the reporter’s words, and when the phone rang she missed the rest of it.
“Sammy?” Her father’s voice came through. “Your mama wanted me to check on you this morning. Everything okay?”
“Fine, Daddy. I suppose you guys are watching the news again.” It had to be the reason for the call. She could hear her mother’s voice in the background and a moment of shuffling as the phone was handed over.
“Samantha Jane, I’m worried.”
Sam glanced at the TV screen but the coverage had moved on to something in Washington.
“I know, Mother. But, believe me, the trouble isn’t nearly as widespread as the news people are making it sound. It’s a very small town about a half hour away from us. The people are upset, yes, and Beau’s men are there to keep the peace.”
“But this news lady this morning, she said a murder happened in Taos. I don’t like it that you’re living there so close to all this.”
Sam sighed. “We don’t know what happened with that one yet, Mother. Beau’s checking it out.”
She wanted to point out that murders happened everywhere but that seemed callous. A death was always personal to someone. But it didn’t have to mean that everyone nearby was in danger. There had to be connections between Lee and Jessie and Angela, although it certainly didn’t seem as straightforward as Sheriff Padilla’s original theories made it out to be. She realized that her mother was still talking. Sam’s head began to hurt.
“I need to go now, Mother. I’ll talk to you again soon. Don’t worry.” Sam clicked off the call before Nina Rae could repeat her worries for the umpteenth time.
She rubbed her temples, forcing herself to relax. Her parents were getting older; of course they would worry. The coffee in her mug had gone cold and the smell of it suddenly turned her stomach. She switched off the TV and went looking for something more nutritious.
An apple and a bowl of yogurt later, she decided she had to get out of the house. If she couldn’t go to Sembramos she could at least check in at the bakery.
She drove through the outskirts of Taos, slowing as she approached the plaza, watching the side streets to her left. A block away, down San Fernando, she could see Beau’s cruiser and a few other vehicles, along with a strand of yellow tape cordoning off the alley behind The Rooster, a small bar that Sam had never been to. The team seemed to be working quietly, and most motorists on the main drag went on by without even noticing. She itched to go over there and find out what happened, but this wasn’t the time. Beau would call her when he finished at the scene.
Sam made a right-hand turn and circled a block to enter the alley behind Sweet’s Sweets. The familiar scents of sugar and cinnamon filled the kitchen and she breathed it in, realizing she’d really missed her business the past couple of days.
“Hey, you’re back,” Becky said, looking up from a tray of brownies onto which she was piping small milk chocolate roses. Becky noticed Sam looking at them. “It’s for the Chocoholics book group. Do you think this will be okay? Ivan didn’t say what he wanted.”
“He never does. We just make up whatever we want to, as long as it’s chocolate. He’ll love these—they all will.” Sam wiped up a smudge of the frosting from the table and tasted it. “Ooh, nice. What did you do? Let me guess . . . a touch of coffee?”
“It’s okay?”
“Yummy.” Sam looked toward the basket of order sheets on the corner of her desk. A satisfying stack of pages sat there, enough to say that business was good, not so many that it would overwhelm her crew if she didn’t put in a lot of hours this week. Julio was in front of the big bake oven, waiting for the timer to ring so he could take out a large pan of muffins. He nodded toward Sam and smiled.
“Hey, Sam, I thought I heard your voice.” Jen stood in the doorway to the sales area. With a glance to be sure no customers awaited, she asked, “So what’s all this on the news about some trouble up in Sembramos?”
“Yeah, well, there’s been some conflict among the residents. I’m really surprised that the national media picked up on it.”
“My uncle used to live up there,” Becky said. “When I was a kid he would bring us the best peaches from his orchard. I guess it’s a hard life though, farming. He got too old to handle it and none of his kids wanted to do it. I wonder what ever happened to that orchard.”
The front door bells tinkled and Jen left to serve the customer. Sam looked through the order sheets; they seemed like standard items the others could handle. She walked into the sales room to check it just about the time Jen had bagged three scones and rung up the sale for the lady who had come in. When the woman left, Jen asked about Sam’s newest caretaking project.
“Strangest thing I’ve seen,” Sam said. “It’s a brand-new house—huge—and no one has ever moved into it.”
“Seriously?”
Sam described the site, the layout and the rooms. “It would have been an amazing place, furnished, with some art and decoration. I could imagine it as a place where you could host fabulous parties. Well, if you were into that sort of thing.” Personally, she’d never hosted anything larger than the grand opening for the shop.
“Wait a minute,” Jen said. “Is it a big white place, like you might see around the Mediterranean?”
“Yeah—you’ve seen it?”
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�Only in pictures. When I worked at the gallery, there was this man who would come in to look at art. Sometimes his wife was with him. I can’t think of his name . . .
“Whenever he came in, the gallery owner would rush out of her little office and insist on waiting on him herself. He only looked at the most expensive stuff, so of course she didn’t want to share a commission with me. Didn’t matter. I never really liked talking with those snotty rich types anyway.” She wiped a crumb from the top of the glass display. “But, wait . . . you were assigned that house because—?”
“Back taxes. I guess things went downhill for Mr. Important.”
“Wow. I guess. I mean, that’s one guy I would have never expected for that.”
“Yeah? Well, I have no idea what happened.” Sam looked at the beverage bar and saw that everything was in order.
“You know, I did overhear some gossip. Now that I’m thinking about the guy. He’d asked Lily to hold several expensive pieces for him and said he would come pick them up in a few weeks, once the house was done. He never came back and my boss was telling another client that if he didn’t take it soon the painting she wanted would be available. So anyway, the other lady was saying ‘don’t hold your breath.’ She went on and on about how his real estate deals had fallen through. Something about the guy’s family falling apart, his wife died or left, or something like that.”
“It must have been a long time ago. The taxes haven’t been paid in four years.”
“Oh yeah, longer than that. I don’t remember exactly. I worked for Lily seven years—can’t believe I did that—and I’ve forgotten the details.”
Sam nodded. It was a puzzle indeed. She complimented Jen on the display cases, offered to carry the brownies next door to Ivan at the bookshop, and left her crew to handle the rest of the day. She got into her truck and let it idle while she decided what to do next.
Two other things hovered at the edge of her awareness. One, she’d told Cora the librarian that she would stop by for the information the woman had taken the trouble to gather. Since the old Harwood Library wasn’t far from the shop, it would be easy to do that now. The other thing was to track down the owner of LG Properties, just to be sure he knew about the tax situation. Maybe Jen’s bit of gossip was true, but it didn’t feel right that the man would lose the house he’d worked so hard for and cared so much about. At least Sam would feel better if she knew that he was aware of the problem and was letting go of the place willingly.
During the drive of two blocks, Sam tried to focus her thoughts on what she’d wanted from Cora Abernathy. Her goal was to learn something about her wooden box and where it had come from. As far as she knew, Bertha Martinez was the only connection to it here in Taos but maybe Bertha had friends who might know something. It was a tenuous connection. From what Beau had told Sam when they first met, the old woman had been a loner. But it was worth a little of her time to find out.
Cora Abernathy looked much the way Sam had pictured from her voice. The gray-haired woman was of medium height and reed-thin, with arthritic hands and the sort of peachy complexion that meant she’d always been careful to wear hats outdoors. She greeted Sam enthusiastically and thanked her for the pink-frosted cupcake Sam had brought in one of her bakery bags.
“Here is the information I found for you,” Cora said, turning to a bookcase behind her desk. Neat stacks of books and papers filled two shelves and the woman knew just which one to reach for.
“These two books are on witchcraft, with emphasis on beliefs in New Mexico. In modern-day practice, there are many types of witches. Wicca, for instance, is actually recognized as a religion. Some practitioners study very seriously and even acquire degrees in wiccan studies. There are some covens in our area.” She picked up a sheet of typing paper upon which she’d written notes. Pointing at the page she said, “This first one is pretty easy to find. They don’t seem to be secretive and they even hold a festival each year, sometime around the feast of Beltane.”
Sam assumed that reading the material would give her a clue as to what that meant. The coven names looked familiar, probably the same ones she’d found online.
“I’ve also included a list of books that could give more in-depth information. I’m sorry we didn’t have all of them in our collection.”
Sam couldn’t see herself becoming interested in a study of the craft; she really only wanted to know whether Bertha Martinez had ever mentioned the origin of the wooden box to anyone. She tamped down her impatience and smiled at Cora.
“Here’s another thing I found interesting,” said Cora, “The covens usually use a place in the woods for ceremonies. I’d had that impression, you know. But one of the women I spoke to, she told me that for the winter solstice ceremonies, if it’s too cold outside they are allowed to find a place indoors. But it has to be a place with the right ambiance.”
“I wonder what she meant by that?”
“She didn’t really say. But the way she said it—ambiance—I guess the mood and setting have to be just right. You know, for the magic to work.” A cute little sparkle showed in her eyes.
Sam picked up the books, thanked Cora for the information, and walked out to her truck. She remembered a certain room at Bertha Martinez’s home, a room with white symbols painted on red walls. Maybe that was the sort of setting the witches wanted.
Chapter 14
Discouragement settled over Beau like a heavy garment as he watched the bag containing Lee Rodarte’s lifeless body slide into the medical investigator’s vehicle. There would be an autopsy but it seemed pretty clear that the man had been beaten to death. Dammit—just when he thought things might cool down.
Lee had followed instruction, come here away from Sembramos. Seemingly, the curfew had held; his men had reported no trouble. So why this? Why now?
He hoped to have the answers to those questions soon. He’d sent his deputies to round up all of the Starkeys and anyone else in Sembramos with attitude. The department would be pandemonium; Beau wasn’t looking forward to wading into it. He watched Lisa, his crime scene tech, as she packed up her kit full of samples and snapped a couple of final pictures.
“Anything else, Sheriff?” she asked, opening her SUV’s door.
“Just process it quickly. I’ll be in after I question some folks here.” He would also need to find out where Lee’s parents had moved and contact the authorities there to notify them, then get up to Sembramos and inform Sophie Garcia. Her son was Lee’s closest kin around here. Poor little kid—meeting and losing his father too many times.
The bartender sat inside at the bar, nursing a cup of coffee and not looking happy about it. Beau didn’t blame him. The guy probably hadn’t gone home until the wee hours and had been called back at six. Daylight coming in the front windows and overhead lights glaring down revealed every beer stain, every dingy patch on the thin carpet, the fact that the walls hadn’t seen fresh paint in years, everything easily concealed by neon and soft lighting at night. At least the wood surface of the bar itself was gleaming and the glassware on the shelves behind was spotless.
Toby Quintana introduced himself and offered Beau some of the coffee. It was actually quite good.
“I can’t believe this,” Toby said, wiping a droplet off the bar. “We’ve never had trouble here. My place is a family hangout. We don’t get the rough crowd or the druggies. Mostly it’s, you know, guys who’ll stop by for a beer after work. They go home for dinner, maybe bring the wife by later for some dancing. Saturday nights we got a local Western band that plays and everybody lets loose a little. Most nights we’re empty by eleven, I clean up, get home at a reasonable hour.
“Last night. Do you remember this guy?” Beau pulled out Lee’s official mug shot. The crime scene photos were too gruesome to show around.
“Sure,” said Quintana. “First time here, as far as I know. He sat at that end of the bar, alone, looking sad. Had a beer. Added a shot of tequila, then another.”
“Was he drunk when he left?�
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“Didn’t seem like it. I mean, he was walking okay. Exchanged a few quiet words with me when he paid his tab.”
“Did he talk to anyone else? Start up a conversation?”
“Nah. Just sat there. Well, wait a second. At one point, two guys came in. They wore leathers, ’do-rags. Walked right over to your guy and talked a minute. Seemed like they were all friends. By the time I got around to them, asked if they wanted anything, the conversation seemed to be over. They said no, thanks, to the offer of a drink and walked back out.” He seemed more surprised by the ‘thanks’ than any other part of it.
“What time was this?”
“Oh, gosh. I lose track, you know, get busy. I’m guessing maybe around ten? Could have been earlier.”
Beau glanced toward the small front windows. “Did you see what they were driving?”
“Nah, man. After dark, I hardly get a chance to look up. Way they were dressed, I would guess bikes.”
“And the victim—what time did he leave?”
Toby blew out a puff of air. “Maybe half-hour after the others were here?”
Beau thanked him, handed over a business card, and asked Toby to call him if he remembered anyone else who might have talked to Lee Rodarte or followed him out of the bar. He walked out into the bright sunshine and surveyed the area for a minute. There was a residential neighborhood one street over, but it seemed pretty far away for anyone inside their home to hear a beating taking place. Especially what had happened to Lee.
The MI had surmised that Lee had gone down with one blow to the back of the head. After that, they’d kicked him repeatedly, all over his body. The whole thing could have happened fairly quietly, especially with traffic noises less than a block away. And Beau didn’t yet know whether this was one assailant or many. He would try to get the word out, ask citizens to come forward if they’d seen anything. You never knew—sometimes a guy was out late, walking the dog or something.
He climbed into his cruiser and drove toward his office, parking in the department lot at the back of the building. Two deputies who’d been on patrol in Sembramos last night were sitting at desks in the squad room. Beau signaled them to come into his office and close the door.
8 Sweet Payback Page 11