Sweet Hearts (15 page)

His lurking at Beau’s door
earlier was probably nothing, Sam thought, trying to shake off the jumpy
feeling. Chalking it up to general impatience, she resolved to calm down so she
asked the deputy if he thought the weather was going to get warmer again.
Luckily, Beau came out of his office before they’d completely worn out that
topic.

“Waters, don’t you have patrol
this morning?”

The deputy stammered something
about just finishing up a report. He tamped some papers together and abandoned
his coffee in favor of putting on his jacket and walking out the back door.

“Not a great self-starter, that
kid,” Beau grumbled. He glanced around to be sure they were alone. “Jonathan says
he’ll do some more checking on Tito’s status. Says there was absolutely nothing
in the file to indicate that Fresques had gone missing. So, if that’s the case,
I asked why no one raised the alarm when he quit reporting in. Jonathan
suggested that he could have begun reporting to someone else, been shifted to a
new division or something and the info in his file was allowed to go stagnant.”

“That just doesn’t seem
possible,” Sam said. “A guy working undercover, wouldn’t they expect updates?
Surely someone at Bellworth would have questioned. If they didn’t hear from him
for a long time, wouldn’t someone go looking?”

He gave her a firm look. “You
honestly think every department of government knows what the others are doing?
The left hand . . . the right hand . . . one federal office versus another . .
.”

She got the picture. And speaking
of reporting to a federal officer, Sam remembered that she’d promised Delbert
Crow that she would send an update on the two properties under her care. He was
one guy who didn’t care about her business or her personal life. First thing
Monday morning she would be hearing from him.

“I better go,” she said. “It’s my
one day off from the bakery and I’m not accomplishing much.”

He pulled her close, a reminder
that the day hadn’t started off badly at all. After a lingering kiss she broke
away reluctantly.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s my
day off too.” His eyes grew wistful. “Sure was hoping we would be moving your
stuff to my house today.”

“Let me get past this holiday on
Tuesday. Things will settle down a lot after that.” She gave him another quick
kiss and headed out.

Would life really settle down
anytime soon? The wind tunneled down the street as she rushed to her truck.
Slamming the door to block the chilly air, she sat in the sun-warmed cab for a
moment before turning the key. She wanted to get to the hospital to see Marla,
needed to handle her caretaker duties on the two properties and report to
Delbert Crow, plus she really should get serious about packing her things. Even
though they’d postponed the ceremony, she didn’t want Beau to think she was
backing out.

I’m not backing out. I’m just
waiting for a day, one whole day, in which I don’t have four thousand other
things to do.

And you’re stalling about
revealing your little secret, Sam,
a little voice said.
You know you
are.

She rested her forehead against
the steering wheel and tried to suppress the thought but it wouldn’t go away.
Until she could be completely open and honest with Beau about the powers of the
wooden box, she couldn’t make vows to him. She swallowed the lump that came
into her throat.

That damn box had been thrust
into her hands, had come into her life, completely against her will. She’d
tried more than once to get rid of it. Gustav Bobul, the chocolatier, had
hinted that the object had an evil history, while Bertha Martinez, the woman
who’d given it to her spoke of the many good things she could accomplish with
it. So far, her actual experiences had been for the positive. She would have to
stress that part of it if she told Beau.

When
she told Beau.

The top of the steering wheel
felt hot against her forehead. She raised her head, wondering how long she’d
been sitting there.

She cranked the ignition and
pulled away from the curb. Traffic was light and she drove with purpose toward
the hospital. Visits to sick and dying people were always difficult for her and
Sam knew that she could very well find excuses to stay away. But she also owed
Marla a report.

How much would she actually
reveal, Sam wondered as she got closer to her destination. Should she tell the
mother that her son’s good job with Bellworth was a façade? That he was working
undercover, probably consorting with drug dealers and traffickers in Mexico?
The knowledge certainly wouldn’t help a mother. Then again, maybe Marla had
already figured out some of it. She pulled into the visitor’s parking lot,
still debating.

The decision was made for her
when Sam walked into Marla’s room. Two of the neighbors she’d met at the
memorial were there, sitting by the bed, talking in low tones. Marla seemed
smaller and thinner than ever, shockingly pale, her color almost blending with
the hospital sheets. Her hair had gone completely white, and her eyes were
large chocolate orbs surrounded by slack muddied skin.

The other two women greeted Sam
quietly and used her arrival as a reason to leave.

“Samantha, I’m so happy to see
you.” Marla’s smile stretched her dry lips to the point that they looked
painful, but the happiness never reached her eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here
sooner,” Sam said, taking a hand that felt like bones inside a gauze bag.

“Is there news about Tito? Is he
coming?”

Sam’s throat clenched at the
desperation in her friend’s frail voice.

“Not yet,” she said. “We’re still
looking. I’ve got the sheriff’s office involved now, and there is even an
investigator in Albuquerque working on it.”

That scrap of news seemed to give
her a boost. Marla let go of Sam’s hand and used both arms to push herself a
little higher in the bed.

“I need something from the house,
Sam. I meant to ask Camille.” She glanced around. “I guess they are gone
already.”

Her hands fussed with the edge of
the sheet for a minute. “Could I ask you to get it for me?” Marla finally
asked.

“Certainly. Whatever I can do.”

“My purse is in this—” She waved
one hand toward the bedside stand. “I can’t reach it.”

“Don’t try,” Sam said, walking
around to the far side of the bed. She pulled open a drawer but it contained
only small items like a mini box of tissues and a paperback book. The larger
compartment below held a black leather purse and she pulled it out.

It took Marla almost a minute to
grasp the zipper pull and to work it along until the purse opened. Sam nearly
bit her nails at the delay, but finally out came a key ring with three keys on
it.

“This one works the front door.”
Marla said, selecting a silver-toned one. One of the others obviously belonged
to the car and the third one probably didn’t matter for Sam’s purposes today.

“I left my cards in the bedroom,”
Marla said. “The ones from Tito. I would like to look at them again, for
awhile.”

“Sure. I’ll go get them and bring
them back for you.”

“And Sam? When I’m gone would you
see that Jolie gets them? Don’t let the hospital people throw them out.”

“Oh, Marla, of course.”

She wanted to come up with
something encouraging, try to tell Marla that she would soon be going home and
that her granddaughter would be there with her. But the lie would be cruel.
Marla wouldn’t believe her anyway. Sam could see that in her eyes.

“Go now, dear. I’m a little sleepy.”
Marla’s hands let go of the purse and Sam placed it back in the nightstand.

When she turned to say that she
would be back this afternoon, Sam saw that Marla had already fallen asleep, her
head lolling to one side. Gently, she straightened the pillow and tucked the
blanket higher around the thin shoulders. So sad.

The new errand gave Sam a reason
and a method for organizing the rest of her day. One of the properties under
her care was located at this end of town, no more than five minutes from the
hospital. She backed out of her parking slot and steered that direction. The
other place was on the north side of town, and in the interest of killing two
birds and all that, she could run by there on her way to Marla’s.

Her duties as a property
caretaker under her USDA contract were straightforward: Get into the place and
see that it was cleaned and maintained in reasonable condition for sale.
Normally, the homes were abandoned by owners who couldn’t keep up with their
mortgage payments. If the government had guaranteed the loan, the department
had to eventually take possession and see that the property was auctioned off
or sold through a Realtor. Sam was usually the first person to appear after the
abandonment, and she’d found places in every sort of condition. A couple months
ago, she’d walked into an upscale home that looked as if the owner had walked
away in the middle of breakfast. Most often, she didn’t get that lucky. Some
places were hoarder’s nests, others had refrigerators full of rotten food. And
then there was the one where a body had been buried in the backyard, the day
she’d met Beau.

It took no more than fifteen
minutes at her first assignment to take the key from the lockbox, walk through
the house, check all doors and windows, and do a perimeter check outside as
well. All secure.

An hour later she’d completed the
same routine at the second place and was on the road toward Marla’s home.
Again, as she passed through the wide-spot called Arroyo Seco she caught
herself scanning the few buildings for a sign of Bobul the chocolatier, but of
course he wasn’t there.

Marla’s property already had an
air of desolation about it, that untended feeling that Sam always noticed first
when she took on a new caretaking job. She wondered about Marla’s financial state,
whether she’d written a will, how Jolie would be cared for, who would get the
house. She hoped that Marla had structured her legal documents on her
granddaughter’s behalf, not basing them on the belief that Tito would come
walking back into the picture anytime soon.

Sam pulled into the driveway and
squared her shoulders as she got out of the truck. She couldn’t take on
everyone else’s legal and financial matters. Whatever Marla had done, it was
her choice.

The key worked in the lock with
the familiarity of a mechanism that had operated thousands of times. Sam
stepped inside, noticing for the first time the faint air of sickness. Poor
Marla, trying to brave it alone in her home, hoping to recover or at least to
hang in there long enough for her son and granddaughter to put their little
family back together.

Sam stood in the dim living room,
eyes closed against the sadness, finally remembering her mission. She knew the
kitchen and dining areas of the house; now she walked toward the arched opening
that led to a short hallway. Three bedrooms opened onto the hall. Out of habit,
she peeked into each quickly to get the layout in her mind.

The back bedroom felt decidedly
masculine, had probably been Tito’s as a child, although now it contained a
double bed and the minimal furnishings of a guest room. Sam pulled open
drawers, glanced through the closet, in hopes of finding any little clue the
grown man might have left behind. Nothing. It appeared that when Tito left the
parental home he did it for real.

A bathroom linked this room to
the middle bedroom. The bath and second bedroom were very girly, with Jolie’s
hair ribbons and ponytail holders strewn about. Along the edge of the tub,
eight bottles of shampoos, conditioners and body washes jammed the small space,
testament to a girl with the luxury of often changing her mind about her
favorite fragrances. Her seven years of life at grandma’s looked to be very
comfortable indeed.

Sam exited Jolie’s bedroom into
the hall, making her way forward to the room obviously occupied by Marla. Even
as she’d probably waited for a neighbor to drive her to the hospital, she’d
attempted to make her bed. The spread lay in wrinkles, pulled up to cover the
pillows. A couple of empty pill bottles sat on a nightstand; most likely the full
ones had been gathered up and taken with her.

Across the room, a wide dresser
with a mirror above it held a dusty silk flower arrangement and a small jewelry
box with a crewel-work top. A cardigan sweater spilled over the edge, perhaps
something Marla removed as she dressed for the trip to the hospital. Standing
upright between the jewelry box and the mirror were the stack of envelopes
Marla had previously showed Sam, the cards from her son.

She picked them up.

Flipping through the stack, she
again noticed the neat handprinted addresses, the postmarks from so many
different places without return addresses. She pulled out one of the
untraceable cards. It was hard to imagine such a need for secrecy that he
hadn’t even signed them.

Sam pictured him, stealthily
approaching a mailbox, dropping an envelope inside, looking over his shoulder
in case someone should see him. Perhaps even dreading that he would be grabbed
off the street, the attacker snatching the card and opening it, knowing where
to find the family. A man would live in fear of such a thing.

She ran a finger over the stamps.
Without really thinking, she began to sort them in order by postmark date,
seeing the postage denominations climb by a couple of pennies every two or
three envelopes. When they all sat in a neat stack by date, she stared at the
one on top.

Sam flipped back through them,
glanced at the dresser to be sure she hadn’t somehow missed others. The last
card Tito Fresques mailed came more than two years ago.

Sam sensed the blood pounding in
her temples as she thought back over the conversations with Marla. The definite
impression was that the family continued to receive these cards all along. Sam
felt sure Marla had said so, but she couldn’t remember for sure.