Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery

Then Sam remembered the trench coat. The picture confused her—where was Elena’s car parked? Where did the knife incident take place? “Did he follow you out to the gorge bridge?” Sam asked.

Elena’s sob turned into a hiccup and she stared at Sam. “No . . . why would you think that?”

“Never mind. What did you do next?”

Elena took a breath, blew her nose on the napkin. “I panicked. All I could think of was getting away . . . I ran.”

Tears continued to run down Elena’s cheeks and she looked drained.

“Elena, you need to tell the authorities about this. I’m sure they’ll see that it was self-defense. An accident that the cut was fatal.”

Her red-rimmed eyes went wide. “No! Sam, that’s not an option. I—Carlos—the election is everything to him. He would—”

She reached for her purse and scarf. “I have to get going.”

“Elena, calm down. We’ll give it some thought. Meanwhile, you’re not driving. You’ve had a lot to drink and you are way too upset.” Sam pulled Elena’s keys from her pocket. “I’ll drive you home and give these back to you when we get there. You can come back for your car tomorrow.”

Elena looked like she wanted to argue the point but she submitted. She gave Sam her address.

During the drive, Elena sat slumped in the passenger seat. The ordeal of telling her awful secret had clearly drained every ounce of her energy. Sam concentrated on the drive, on getting Elena into her house. Her mind couldn’t yet wrap itself around the deed and the implications for her friend.

“Please don’t tell Deputy Cardwell,” Elena whispered to Sam. “It won’t solve anything.”

“Get some sleep,” Sam said. “We’ll decide what to do, later.”

Fine advice Sam thought as she fought for sleep, hours later. Elena, a killer? The woman’s distraught face appeared to Sam at every turn. She would roll over in bed, there would be Elena. She puzzled over the logistics. Elena, walking toward her car parked on a side street in town. It must have been fairly near one of the hotels. Nowhere near the isolated gorge bridge, miles outside town on the west side. The only question with an answer was the part about how Fenton’s trench coat had become saturated with his blood. But how had that coat ended up in Cheryl Adams’s closet? Did Cheryl and Elena know each other? The elegant mayor’s wife, acquaintance of the young trailer park mother? If Cheryl Adams had offered to hide the bloody evidence, she’d certainly pulled a good bluff on Beau when they interviewed her.

Sam rolled over in bed for the hundredth time, wrestling with the dilemma about how much to tell Beau versus leaving it up to Elena. When she looked at her bedside clock, it showed four-fifty in the morning and she didn’t feel like she’d had a wink of sleep.

I could at least be doing something with my time, she decided, fumbling about in the dark room for some clothes. The mess from the party still needed to be dealt with, and even though Sweet’s Sweets would be closed today, Sunday, there was plenty of work to be done.

By nine o’clock Sam had managed to put much of last night’s drama behind her. Amazing what a few hours of vigorous cleaning will do for an unsettled mind. She’d tossed out the scraps of snacks, which didn’t look nearly as appetizing in the pre-dawn as they had last night, trashed paper plates and plastic wine glasses, washed platters and coffee makers and reassembled the remains of the gala cake—the square tier replica of the shop itself— presenting it on a fresh cake board and putting it on display in the front window.

The half-sheet cake for tonight’s catered dinner was simple to whip up and she felt herself relaxing as the scent filled the bakery. Mopping floors to the accompaniment of warm cake batter offered a soothing respite. After stashing the cleaning gear and decorating the sheetcake, Sam headed home.

“Hey, Mom.” Kelly was busy in the kitchen. “How about if I make us a nice breakfast in honor of the first time we’ve both had a day off in ages? Eggs benedict?”

“I’d love that,” Sam said. “Is there time for me to grab a quick shower?”

She emerged from the steamy bathroom ten minutes later, cogitating on the idea of eating Kelly’s nice breakfast and then sleeping the day away. She could do it as long as she awoke in time to deliver the cake for the senate candidate’s dinner that night.

“Nearly ready,” Kelly said. Eighties music came from the radio on the counter and she swayed in time to it as she topped the poached eggs with hollandaise sauce.

Sam found silverware and napkins and hastily set the table. Aside from two pilfered cookies at her shop, she’d eaten nothing since the previous night—and very little then. Thinking of the evening brought back her dilemma about how much of Elena’s confession to tell Beau.

“Here we go,” Kelly said, setting their plates on the table and pulling out her chair. Belatedly, she remembered the salt and pepper and as she was rising to get them, the music stopped and the voice of the news announcer came on.

Sam paid little attention until a familiar name grabbed her. “. . . Elena Tafoya, wife of the former mayor and gubernatorial candidate Carlos Tafoya, found dead in the couple’s home this morning, an apparent suicide.”

Her fork dropped with a clatter. She felt the blood drain from her face.

“Mom? What’s the matter?” Kelly mumbled through a mouthful of egg.

“Shh, I need to hear this.” Sam leaned toward the radio, but the announcer had already gone on to other stories.

“No, no, no . . . I can’t believe it—”

“What, Mom?” Kelly had set aside her own fork and was staring at Sam.

“Elena—I think you met her last night. Pretty blond, wearing a turquoise silk blouse . . . the wife of Carlos Tafoya. They just said that she’s died.”

“Mom, ohmygod, how awful.”

Sam’s head buzzed, like a swarm of insects drilling at her brain with a terrible drone. Impossible. She’d just seen Elena, just talked with her. She’d been upset but not suicidal. Surely not. There had to be a mistake.

The ringing in her head began to coalesce, and Sam realized it was the phone. Kelly had already jumped up to answer it.

“We just heard,” she was saying.

Sam waited, numb, not wanting to talk to anyone.

“Sure. No problem. Twenty minutes? You’re sure?” Kelly’s side of the conversation made no sense until she handed the phone out to Sam.

“It’s Beau,” she told her mother. “He’s been called out to the Tafoya’s home and wants to know if I can come over and stay with Iris. I told him I would. Now he wants to speak with you.”

He gave her the bare facts—yes, it was true that Elena was dead. Until he got to the scene he wouldn’t know for sure, but the call indicated that she’d hung herself with a long piece of woven material.

“Beau, I need to talk to you about this. Can you call me the minute you are finished at the scene?”

“What do you know, Sam?”

What did she know? Nothing, really. And everything. At least protecting Elena’s privacy over the affair and the death of Bram Fenton were no longer a priority. It was all bound to come out now. “I don’t think she killed herself,” Sam told Beau.

“Darlin, everyone feels that way when it’s a friend or relative. It’s just so hard to accept. Eventually you’ll get used to the idea.”

“Elena and I had a long talk last night, after the rest of the guests left the shop. I need to tell you about it.”

“Okay . . .” The word dragged out as he considered the possibilities. “I can’t let you near the scene.”

“I couldn’t handle it.”

“Good. I mean, it’s good that you aren’t going to fight me on that. I’ll call you when I can get away.”

“Beau? Take good care of her. She was just so—” Sam choked on a sob.

“I will, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” She hung onto the phone long after his call clicked off and the dial tone began buzzing in her ear.

Kelly hurriedly jammed down a few more bites of her breakfast. “Sorry that I need to leave so fast,” she said. “Would you like to come with me out to the Cardwell’s? It might be better if you didn’t stay here alone.”

Sam took a deep breath and forced a weak smile. “No, no, I’ll be fine. I could really use some sleep.”