Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery

later in the week.”

Sam hopped out of the cruiser, patted the roof of it and headed toward her pickup truck. As Beau backed expertly down her long driveway, she found her mind returning to business. With a quick call she verified that the roll-off was being delivered to Hickory Lane this morning. Next, she dialed Darryl’s number.

“We’re at the final stage of roofing-in on the current job,” he shouted, trying to combat the blasts of nail guns in the background. “Should be done around noon. Want me to send the guys over there for the afternoon?”

“Perfect.” She gave directions and told Darryl she would meet the crew to get them started. Truthfully, she thought she could probably just instruct them to clear the place completely, but who knew how a construction crew would interpret that. She might come back to find that the house no longer had windows or doors. “Call me when you’re ready to let them go.”

Truthfully, her heart was nowhere near Hickory Lane.

Ten minutes later Sam unlocked the back door of her new place. Although she saw the shelves full of old dusty merchandise and the piles of brochures the previous tenant had left behind, her mind’s eye adjusted it, showing her how it would look when she was finished.

The wire racks would hold clean stacks of mixing bowls and her collection of specially shaped cake pans. A stainless steel work table would occupy the middle of the room, and Sam sighed contentedly at the vision of working here with ample room to roll out pastry and fondant, to have several cakes on turntables at once, awaiting her decorative touches. She’d ordered a new computer to be dedicated to design work and a printer that could replicate photos or graphics in edible ink on edible paper. She would have so much fun with this!

Energy surged through her as she propped the back door open and began hefting the first armloads of trash into the back of her truck. She’d carried two loads when she felt her cell phone vibrating inside her pocket.

“Sam? This is Rose at the thrift shop? Did I interrupt anything?”

Well, yeah. About two million things. “No, it’s fine. What can I do for you?” She wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her sweaty forehead, imagining that her short hair was probably now standing on end.

“Do you remember a dark green trench coat that you brought in yesterday? With all the other clothing?”

One item of hundreds? “Not specifically.”

“Um, I’m not sure what to do with this,” Rose said.

Sam rolled her hand in the air, as if that would speed the woman along with her question.

“It’s got a dark stain, like blood.”

“Well, would it just wash out if you used some pre-soak or something?”

“Uh . . . it’s more than that. I mean covered.”

“It should probably just be thrown away, then.”

“Sam, obviously you didn’t see this when you gathered up the clothes. This is a lot. It’s soaked.”

She gulped. “Rose, I think you better turn it over to the authorities.”

“I just didn’t know who to call.”

Sam debated for a second. “Here’s a direct number for Deputy Beau Cardwell. He’d be the best one to talk to.”

“Oh thank you, Sam.” Relief was evident in the older woman’s voice. “I was just so shocked about this. I didn’t know what to do first, and then I got worried about how something like this happened—”

“I understand, Rose. Just call Deputy Cardwell. He’ll take care of everything.”

Despite her outward calm Sam’s thoughts zipped all over the place. What on earth had happened out at that little house?

She couldn’t get the image of a blood-soaked trench coat out of her head as she stacked boxes and carried them out back. When Darryl called to say that his men were ready to meet her, Sam decided it was for the best. She needed to give the shop her full attention and it just wasn’t happening. She gave directions to the small white house on the south side then locked up her shop and headed there.

This time when she entered the forlorn little house the idea that something violent may have happened to the owner made the shadows seem deeper, the smells more pungent. She tiptoed through the tunnel of papers in the front hall and made her way to the larger of the two bedrooms. About the time she reached the closet where she assumed the stained trench coat had been, she heard a vehicle out front.

Three beefy young guys were climbing out of an old white pickup truck and eyeing the roll-off in the front yard when Sam reached the tiny porch.

“Hi,” she called out.

The guy in the lead introduced himself as Troy and the other two as Phillip and Gus. He addressed her as Miss Samantha. She smiled at the old-fashioned courtesy.

“I guess the simplest thing is to start at the front door and work your way back, she said, showing them inside. “Start with all these newspapers and magazines—toss them straight into the roll-off. If you come to any furniture, I’ll take a look and see if anything is worth leaving with the house. Any question about an item, save it for me to look at.”

The three men each grabbed an armload of stacked papers and headed out the door. Sam watched them for a couple minutes and then headed back into the master bedroom. The closet, which had held all the adult-sized clothing, was still cluttered with shoe boxes, hats, a bowling ball, three tennis racquets and a few wadded t-shirts and tangled belts that she’d not bothered to gather for the thrift shop. She began pulling things from the upper shelf and raking it all out into the center of the room.

In a far corner on the floor, a pair of men’s boots were crushed under the weight of a duffle bag that turned out to contain a collection of paperback romance novels. A pair of sneakers, old and stained, also looked to be the same male size. Otherwise, just about everything was for a female.

As she worked her way through the clutter she kept an eye open for any other bloodstained items, for any sign of blood on the walls or floor. She found absolutely no trace.

Chapter 4

“Miss Samantha?” Troy stuck his head around the doorjamb. “Want to take a look at the hall and tell us what to do next?”

That was quick. Maybe not. Sam glanced at her watch and saw that more than forty-five minutes had passed while she was buried in the closet clutter.

The home’s small entryway felt amazingly larger now. With the walls visible, Sam realized that the place might actually clean up pretty well.

She pointed the three workers toward the living room. “This room next, I guess. Strip out everything but the furniture and we’ll see how that goes. Then do the same in the dining area.”

She stepped into the kitchen, belatedly remembering what a disaster it was. Grabbing a box of extra-strength trash bags she dispensed with the disgusting contents of the fridge as well as the crusted dishes and pans. There were times Sam went to the effort to clean up a place and leave some of the household items for the new owner, but this wasn’t one of them. She opened the back door and a window to the fresh October air, and surveyed the room in hopes that she’d gotten most of the smelliest junk out of there.

The light was fading fast, and without power in the house they wouldn’t be able to work much longer, which was fine with Sam. Her body ached all over. She flopped onto one of the kitchen chairs, from which she’d just cleared a kid’s booster seat and a nasty-looking baby doll.

“It’s almost five, Miss Samantha.”

She glanced at her watch. “You’re right, Troy. What time do you guys normally knock off?”

“Just whenever.”

“Good enough for me.” She forced herself not to groan as she stood up.

The three guys had made good progress through the living room and partway into the dining area.

“Tomorrow, eight o’clock?” She directed the question at Troy.

What am I thinking. Do I want to be back here at eight? “Just a sec.” She pulled a new lockset from the toolbox in her truck, took one of the keys from the package and handed it to Troy. “This will open the front door. Do not lose