Connie Shelton - Sweet's Sweets - The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery

By the time she’d finished slicing the breads and arranging everything on disposable platters, her delivery deadline was quickly approaching. At some point Kelly drifted through the kitchen, grabbed a mug of coffee and headed out for her job at the Cardwell’s. Sam felt a small flash of envy toward her daughter. Most likely Iris would still be in bed when she arrived, giving Kelly the luxury of time for another cup of caffeine. They would eat breakfast together at Beau’s sunny dining table which faced out over open pasture land, and it wouldn’t matter if the elderly lady wasn’t dressed and ready to face the world until well after mid-morning.

Sam loaded all the platters into her van and drove to the conference center where the breakfast was being hosted. Parking, as usual, was non-existent and she found herself in a red zone, hoping that she could get away with it. Luckily, the woman who had placed the last-minute order was waiting there for her and Sam informed the customer that she could use some help. Three volunteers stepped up and soon all the goodies were carried inside. Once Sam had the check in hand she was on her way.

She arrived at Hickory Lane to find Gus, Phillip and Troy already at work and looking far more chipper than she felt. She wandered inside, sipping from her travel mug of coffee and nibbling at the one slice of pumpkin bread she’d saved for herself.

The cleaning effort was going well. The living room was down to the furniture, a threadbare natty brown sofa, two end tables of peeling laminate and a recliner that wouldn’t go upright. She started to instruct the guys to toss everything, but decided to wait. Those might be the very things Beau would want to look at.

In the dining area, they’d revealed a table that was probably once a fine piece of furniture—someone might be able to refinish it—but the chairs were a mismatched conglomeration. Sam brushed pumpkin crumbs from her hands and braced herself for the kitchen.

It was exactly as she’d left it—darn it. No kindly gnomes had appeared in the night to finish off the work. The spoiled-food smell had begun to dissipate, at least until she opened the refrigerator door. She slammed it quickly and debated. An older model, not worth much, saturated with that odor. She called a man who’d previously disposed of used appliances for her and asked him to come get it. He knew, far better than she, all the rules and regulations. She’d just hung up when she heard Beau’s voice at the front of the house. She met him in the entry and directed Troy and his men to start clearing the kitchen.

“You aren’t having them throw away anything that might be evidence, are you?” he asked, first thing.

Sam bristled. “Good morning to you too.” She turned to go inside.

“Sorry. But seriously . . .”

“How would I know?” She led him toward the two untouched bedrooms and waved her arms wide to indicate the clutter in the children’s room. “This is how the whole house looked. Worse, in the living room and entryway. I literally could not open the front door when I first got here. And I didn’t have a clue that there might have been a crime until Rose took a close look at that coat.”

“You’re right. I didn’t mean to— Could we just start this conversation over?” He smiled at her, removed his Stetson and held it across his chest. “Good morning, Samantha Sweet, the light of my life. May I offer you a kiss first thing on this lovely day?”

She raised her eyebrows. “That might be taking it a little too far the other direction. But yes, a kiss would be nice.” She glanced toward the living room and, satisfied that the worker-guys were not nearby, went into Beau’s arms.

“Umm. Now I think I’m ready to show you the closet where the coat came from.”

He followed her into the master bedroom and peered into the now-empty closet.

“See? No sign of blood,” she said.

“I’ll bring in the lab kit and spray some Luminol around. Maybe we can dump some of the stuff off the bedding, and maybe clear the carpet too?”

“Let me get the helpers right on that. You just tell them what you want moved, and where.” She found the guys and told them to leave the kitchen for the moment and do whatever Beau asked.

Hey, this felt pretty good, having minions to order about. She wished she could get used to it, but the truth was that she did the majority of the labor on most of these properties herself. She took a sip from her coffee but discovered it had gone cold. She’d just come back inside after putting her travel mug in her truck when Beau caught her attention.

“No blood is showing up yet,” he said. “But do you want to see what I’m dealing with?” Without waiting for an answer he headed out to his cruiser.

Sam followed and watched as he retrieved a paper bag from the back seat. From that, he pulled a dark green trench coat and held it up by the shoulders. When he spread the lapels she saw what the fuss was about. The lining, which had originally been a tan plaid fabric was now stained a dark rust-brown over almost the entire torso area.

“That is a lot of blood,” she said, feeling a little queasy.

“Enough that the wearer probably bled out. This isn’t a little cut.”

“And yet there’s no real damage to the coat. No bullet holes, no rips or tears.”

“The waterproof fabric probably kept all the blood on the inside, and the dark color obscured whatever seeped to the outside. It will go to the state lab to see if we can get some answers.” He refolded it and placed it carefully back into the paper sack. “Who knows? It could be animal blood. Or maybe someone was hurt and grabbed this to wrap around a wound. That’s why I needed to see what additional evidence might be in the house.”

“But, geez, Beau. If it’s enough blood loss to kill a person . . .”

“Exactly. I don’t think they died inside this house. There would have to be spillage outside the coat.”

“So . . . where does that leave us with the house? I need to get the place cleared and ready for sale pretty quickly.”

“I know. I’d say it’s okay to keep removing the small stuff. Leave the furniture for now—beds, sofas and such might be places that a murder could occur. Once we’ve got a few test results from the lab, I’ll know whether I need to come back.”

Sam fumed. Getting this place finished up would free her to work on her shop and the delay chafed at her.

He seemed to sense her irritation. “I know. Just a few days. Meanwhile, maybe I can get some information on the homeowners? Names, current place of residence?”

“From my semi-experienced observation,” —she looked up and grinned at him—“it looks to me like there was a woman and three or four kids here.” She pointed to the crib and three smaller beds, along with the lack of male clothing and personal items, as her reasoning. “As for names, I wasn’t given any. Do you want to speak directly with my contracting officer, or shall I give him a call?”

Truthfully, she didn’t expect a lot of cooperation from the crusty old bureaucrat and her instincts proved correct. But he did provide a number for someone else, which led to a series of call transfers until she got a person who would talk. That man furnished the name and past employer of Cheryl Adams. Her loan application stated that she’d moved to New Mexico from Nevada. Place of birth was Connecticut, and she’d held jobs in Washington state, Colorado, and Kansas. She had three children at the time she applied for her home loan, but that was four years ago and Sam guessed that the occupant of the crib came along during her stay in Taos. The USDA had no records of Cheryl Adams’s current whereabouts, and he somewhat snidely reminded Sam that they would probably be pursuing Adams for past-due payments if they had a clue where she was or a prayer of getting the money. They had no record of a male co-owner and her minor children, he said, were not the concern of his department. Whomever Adams might have chosen to co-habit with didn’t show up on their radar.