Sweet Hearts (23 page)

She busied herself with the
simple tasks of pre-mixing dry ingredients for tomorrow’s breakfast pastries;
the fact that she could grind away with a pastry blender as she cut shortening
into flour and imagine performing the same action on Felicia’s face was immensely
satisfying.

When her phone rang a few minutes
later and she saw the caller was Beau, she took it immediately.

“Just had a call from Felicia,”
he said. “She invited me to lunch and said you were coming.”

“Sheesh, I can’t believe that
woman. She stopped by here awhile ago, flaunted her next modeling job and
invited me to lunch too.”

“You’re not really going, are
you?”

“Definitely not!” She stopped in
mid-stride. “Not unless you are.”

His laugh came through, loudly.
“Not unless this weather gets even worse and you-know-where turns into an
iceberg.”

“That was
exactly
my
thought.” Sam brushed flour from the front of her jacket. “So, how are we going
to get rid of her? Can’t the sheriff run her out of town or something?”

“I think that only happened in
the Western movies, darlin’. And I think the bad guy actually had to commit a
crime.”

“Hmm. Well, I may just have to
work on that. I should be able to frame her for something.”

“I have to officially pretend I
never heard that.”

“Maybe like any other old pest,
we ignore it and it will just go away?” Even as she said it, Sam knew that
simply ignoring Felicia was easier said than done.

She turned back to her bakery
duties, deciding on a soccer-field theme for one of the birthday cakes; Jen had
made a note that the girl was a sports player in school. The other cake was for
a woman who loved gardening and she pictured shaping the cake like a flowerpot
and filling it with a variety of spring blossoms, something to take her
mind—and the customer’s—off the current cold-weather front. She made a few
sketches and looked around. Becky had left for the day and Cathy was in the
midst of washing up the pans and bowls from the morning’s projects so Sam got
Sandy started baking the layers.

“Once you put them into the oven,
just set the timer. I can take them out if you want to go on home,” Sam told
her.

It was a nearly six when Sandy
said goodbye and shortly after, Jen brought the receipts from the register.

“Don’t stay half the night,” her
assistant warned. “You’ve put in too many late nights and early mornings these
last couple of months.”

“I know. But I love the shop.”

“Yes, but you’ll wear yourself
out.” Jen looked at Sam a little intently. “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean,
with postponing the wedding and all?”

Sam nodded but wondered. Was she?
Wasn’t the sudden appearance of Felicia Black bothering her more than it
should? A twinge of guilty conscience for spending more time at the bakery than
with her fiancé?

Jen was running through a short
list, reassuring Sam that she’d cleaned the display cases and tables and that
the coffee bar was set up for the morning, and Sam tried to bring her attention
back to the work at hand.

“As soon as that oven timer goes
off, I’m going to set those cakes to cool and I’ll be out of here.” She paused.
“What about you, Jen? You have plans with Michael tonight?”

Her assistant shrugged. “Not til
the weekend. I’m not sure about that either. We’ll see.” She pulled on her coat
and said she would leave the night lights burning when she left.

Sam heard voices out front and
Kelly walked in as Jen walked out.

“I’m going home now,” Kelly said.
“Thought I’d see if you want me to pick up something for dinner.”

“Dinner at home? It’s been
awhile.”

Kelly smiled a little wistfully.
“Yeah. It’ll be nice though. So . . . I could grab a pork tenderloin and make a
salad?”

Sam couldn’t remember the last
home-cooked meal she’d made; Kelly’s suggestion sounded wonderful. She pulled
some cash out of her wallet and sent her daughter on her way.

A glance at the oven timer told her
the cakes had ten minutes to go. She leaned back in her chair. So much had
changed in the last week. If all had gone according to plan, she and Beau would
be married now and away on their honeymoon. Her crew would undoubtedly be
running the bakery just fine. She’d hired Sandy and Cathy as extra help through
the end of the month, and although she didn’t really need them now it would be
only fair to pay them for the agreed time.

Marla’s condition had gotten
worse, then better, and now possibly worse again. Her son had been located but
it wasn’t the happy homecoming Marla wanted. And what about Jolie? What would
become of the girl? Sam realized that, along with solving the mystery of who
killed Tito, it would be nice if she could help Marla locate someone who would
adopt his daughter in the event Marla never got well. She envisioned the jolt,
to both the child and the new parents, of bringing an almost-teen into a new
home. It would not be an easy adjustment for anyone.

Could Sam possibly cure Marla’s
cancer by applying the healing touch from the wooden box? The results seemed so
temporary. Her mood fell as she thought about it, but the beeping of the oven
timer interrupted her thoughts.

With the cakes safely stowed in
the fridge, Sam buttoned her coat and picked up her backpack. Out in the alley,
the darkness seemed unusually deep and she noticed that the streetlight at the
end was out.

As she fumbled through her pack
for her keys a tiny sound near the van made the hair on her neck rise. She
looked up and glimpsed motion, a shape. Her hand closed around the ring of
keys, spreading them between her fingers.

A man moved swiftly toward her
and Sam caught an impression of a bald head and a pattern—tattoos.

His voice came out low and
dangerous. “Leave panther alone.”

“What?” she squeaked.

But he kept moving and vanished
into the shadows.

Her heart raced as Sam debated
for a fraction of a second. Try to chase him down—or run? The fight-or-flight
choice zipped straight to the escape option. She punched the remote door opener
on her van and scurried inside, locking the door behind her before she had a
chance to think twice. She sat there in the dark for a full minute, watching.

No sign of movement in the alley.
The man had disappeared.

For a second, she thought of
calling Beau and reporting it but what would she say? Someone said something
scary to me in the dark. He didn’t touch me and he ran away but I couldn’t tell
you which way he went? Beau would feel obligated to file a report, which might
be fine if there weren’t hundreds of young men in this town with shaved heads
and tattoos. She had absolutely nothing else by which to identify him. And
Beau’s department was way too busy with real cases—it wouldn’t be right to add
this little non-crime to their workload.

After a couple of minutes she let
out her pent-up breath and started the van.

The kitchen was filled with the
scent of warm meat and homeyness, reminiscent of her childhood days when her
mother made real, actual Sunday dinners. Kelly stood at the stove, stirring
gravy in a small saucepan.

“It’s packaged, but it sounded
good anyway,” Kelly said, noticing Sam’s glance toward the range. “And the
tenderloin will be ready in five.”

Sam dropped her pack near the
back door and hung her coat on a hook.

“Mom? You okay? You look a little
shaky.”

“No, it’s nothing. Just a crazy
driver.” There was no point in scaring her daughter. Later, when she felt a
little more stable, she would caution Kelly not to park in the alley if she
were leaving work after dark.

She pulled flatware from a drawer
and set places at the kitchen table, then got plates from the cupboard. As they
ate, Kelly chatted freely, telling Sam about another of the daily mishaps in
the world of dog bathing and clipping at Puppy Chic. Sam laughed often enough
to pass for attentive but her mind raced along in a dozen other directions.

What had the whispered voice in
the dark said? Something about not disturbing the panther? No, that wasn’t
quite right. Leave panther alone. Where had she heard that term recently . . .
there was something she wasn’t quite remembering. She picked at her food.

Panther—a name for someone.
Jonathan Ernhart had used it. The catlike, stealthy name was . . . It was Tito
Fresques’s code name. She locked in on that. Yes, that was it. The code name
Tito used in his DEA work. Funny, Rick Wells hadn’t mentioned it. She’d heard
it somewhere else.

She worked it around in her head
as she put the dishes into the dishwasher. Kelly had taken a couple of cookies
from the stash of day-old ones that Sam always brought from the bakery and had
gone to the sofa, where raucous game show laughter filled the room.

Sam went into her room to change
clothes, thrusting aside all thoughts of the encounter in the alley. More
importantly, right now, was to check on Marla. As she emptied the pockets of
her work slacks she opened her cell phone and dialed the Fresques home.

An unfamiliar voice answered.

“Oh yes, Samantha. This is
Camille Gonzales. We met at Marla’s party awhile back.”

“I was there this morning when
she got the news about Tito,” Sam said. “How is she doing now?”

“She won’t eat and she won’t
sleep,” Camille said. “Neighbors have been bringing food all afternoon. All
Marla wants to do is plan Tito’s funeral.”

“I guess it’s understandable that
she wants to finalize things, after his being missing for so many years.” Her
eyes strayed to the lumpy wooden box on her dresser.

“I suppose so.” In the background
Sam heard someone ask Camille a question and she told the person to look in the
dining room.

“Look, I was thinking about
dropping by for a few minutes,” Sam said, instantly questioning herself. It had
been a long day and she really didn’t have a desire to go back out in the cold.

She eyed the box again. Perhaps
there was something good she could do for her friend.

“Marla is tired, Sam,” Camille
said. “But none of us can seem to convince her to go to sleep, including Father
Joe. So you might as well try.”

“I’ll be there in about thirty
minutes.” Sam ended the call and quickly donned jeans and a sweater.

As had become habitual, she held
the box on her lap and wrapped her hands around the sides of it, letting the
heat from the wood permeate her body. When she could no longer handle the
intensity of it, she set it into a drawer and quickly bundled up in her coat.

“I’m going out to Marla
Fresques’s place,” she called out to Kelly. “If I’m not back in two hours call
the cops.”

Kelly chuckled and went back to
her TV show.

What possessed me to say that?
Sam thought as she walked out the back door. When she caught herself
studying the shadows and opting to drive her pickup truck instead of the bakery
van, she realized that the tattooed guy was still on her mind.

The eerie ice-fog began to close
in around her truck once more when she approached the tiny crossroads of Arroyo
Seco. Sam slowed and found herself watching the sides of the road, half
expecting to see the chocolatier, Bobul, appear out of nowhere; half dreading
to see anyone else. She double-checked the locks on her doors, crept along, and
finally broke out of the fog as she came to Marla’s turnoff.

Two cars besides Marla’s sat out
front and Sam began to doubt her mission. Maybe it would be better to simply
leave the woman alone, to let her grieve in private for awhile and eventually
get some rest. The stimulation of constant company might be taking its toll on
the woman’s already fragile health. Sam parked the truck and walked toward the
front door. She was already here. She would sit with Marla for a short while,
try to impart whatever energy the box had given her, and then leave.
You can
only do what you can,
she decided.

Camille answered the door. Her
husband Jorge hovered near the kitchen door with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Come in, Samantha. It’s good to
see you again.”

Sam glanced into the living room
where she saw Father Joe sitting in a chair he’d pulled up alongside the sofa
where Marla sat. She looked animated in a tired way, gesturing with her hands,
sitting up straight, but with a weariness that dragged at her features.

The priest patted Marla’s arm and
then stood up. Compared to this morning, Marla’s energy level had definitely
waned. She started to stand up when she noticed Sam, but it seemed like an
effort.

“Don’t get up for me,” Sam said,
crossing the room. She draped her coat over the back of the sofa and took the
chair that still held warmth from the priest.

Marla’s hand, in contrast, felt
chilly.

“How are you doing?” Sam asked.

Marla nodded, her head wagging
side to side a little. “
Bien, mas o menos
. I’m okay.” Her smile faded at
the corners and her eyes were heavy lidded.

“I hear that no one can convince
you to get some sleep.”

“Soon. I will rest soon enough.”

Sam got the feeling she wasn’t
talking about going to sleep. “Let me warm your hands again.”

Marla talked as Sam took her right
hand, running her own warm fingers up and down the length of Marla’s arm.

“I spoke for a long time with
Father Joe,” she said. “We decided on the funeral arrangements.”

“That’s good.” Sam took a turn at
the left arm.

“He will talk to the authorities
and make them bring Tito home. Within a few days he thinks we can have a
service here in Taos and put my boy to rest.”

Sam concentrated on sending the
radiant warmth down her own arms, through her hands, and into Marla.

“Are your feet and legs also
cold?” she asked her friend.