Sweets Galore: The Sixth Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (17 page)

“I wanted you to know,” Sam said,
“that no matter what might happen after this, including a trial if they take it
that far, I didn’t harm Jake. It had been a lot of years, and I didn’t
particularly have feelings for him when he showed up, but I would never wish
him harm. He was my daughter’s father.”

A variety of reactions flickered
across Tom’s face but all he said was, “Okay.”

“So.” Sam let out a pent-up
breath. “We need to find out who really did kill him, and why.”

Beau set his menu aside.
“Oftentimes things follow a person around. We wondered if there was anything
back in California, a person or situation, Jake might have been involved with,
something that gave somebody a reason to come after him?”

Tom shook his head slowly. “I
wouldn’t know. Jake and me—we’re brothers but we’re not much alike. He always
wanted adventure. Me, I’m a school teacher—eighth grade math. He loved the
ladies, flirted a lot—three marriages. I’ve been married more than twenty years
to the same woman, got two kids. Jake liked things flashy, went to Vegas a lot
. . .” He spread his arms and looked down at the simple plaid shirt he wore
under the windbreaker.

Three marriages?
Jake had kind of glossed over that little fact.
“Did you stay in touch?” Sam asked.

“Sort of. We only lived an hour’s drive
from each other. We’d call now and then. He’d send me a text, I’d email him
pictures of the kids.” He shrugged. “That’s about it. No big, cozy Christmas
dinners or any of that.”

“He’d recently become involved in
a television project, a reality show called
You’re
The Star
. Did he talk about that?”

“No, never heard of it.”

“Back when I knew Jake before, he
played guitar. Did he still have that interest in music? It might be what drew
him to get involved in this type of talent search program.”

“Yeah, he never gave up the
guitar, although I doubt he ever learned more than a dozen chords. Volume over
detail—that was more his style.”

Their enchiladas arrived and they
paused until the waitress had walked away.

“At one point, Jake formed a
little band that he said would go big-time,” Tom said. “He always had a group
he played with—guys came and went all the time. But this once, they’d stayed
together long enough to get pretty good. Did some bar gigs, even recorded an
album. I always suspected that they paid for the studio time and bought all
those tapes themselves. But Jake liked to make it out like they’d really
impressed some music producer and that there’d be a contract coming along any
day.”

Tom ripped a tortilla in half and
swabbed it in the red sauce on his plate.

“But that was Jake. He could sure
tell a tale. Anything to put himself in the limelight. He wanted so much to be
a star of something. That was kind of the sad part.” His eyes grew distant. “He
thought living in Hollywood would make him one of them.”

* *
*

By the time Sam dropped Tom
Calendar off at the
Econolodge
it was almost time for
the press conference Tustin Deor had told her about. She parked her truck
behind Sweet’s Sweets and walked the two blocks to the plaza.

A table was set up under the roof
of the bandstand, with a row of chairs and a couple of microphones. A backdrop
with repeats of a logo—a flying gold star with electric blue lettering
proclaiming “You’re The Star”—ran like wallpaper so that it would appear in any
photograph that might conceivably be snapped. Outside the little fencing around
the raised platform stood a gaggle of reporters with long lenses and big fuzzy
microphones to keep the wind from messing up their sound-bites.

Parked along the sides of the
plaza were at least a half-dozen vans, one for each of the network stations
from Albuquerque and a few from cable news channels, the ones that spent their
energy on covering the publicity-hungry world of personalities, those familiar
faces that were famous for nothing more than the fact that they were famous.
Sam was surprised at the level of media interest.

Near the edge of the group a
couple of rough-looking men in polyester shirts stood out among those who were
obviously reporters. A picture of Tony Soprano flashed through Sam’s head.

She scanned the crowd for familiar
faces, wondering if Pete Sanchez would station officers around the crowd
because of the connection to Jake Calendar. She spotted a few business
acquaintances and some of her customers.

A little rustle passed through the
crowd, like aspen leaves on a windy day, and Sam looked to see that the stir
originated near the front of the La Fonda. Tustin
Deor’s
gelled hair showed above the little entourage that accompanied him and she
caught a glimpse of his all-black clothing as he crossed the street. Evie
Madsen clung to his arm, trying to stay up with his long stride in a pair of
very awkward and clunky platform heels. He marched to the bandstand, paused and
looked busy with his phone long enough to be sure that everyone within a block
would notice him.

Evie with Tustin. Wow, that girl gets around
, Sam thought, watching
Evie give Tustin the same dewy eyed admiration that only days ago had been
aimed at Jake Calendar. The girl’s instant switch in affections could explain
why she wasn’t registered at the hotel. She’d merely moved in with a different
guy. Tustin walked up the steps, flanked by Evie and the young gofer Sam had
seen with him earlier at the bakery. They stood by the chairs at the table on
stage. Another man quickly followed, apparently someone tied to a local radio
station—he had that sort of voice—who stood by Tustin and greeted the crowd.
They all smiled and waved, giving the audience time to ogle the star producer.

Eventually the murmur dwindled and
Radio Voice introduced Tustin Deor with a flourish.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he said,
working to appear loveably humble yet great.

He read a thirty-second statement
about how excited they were to be almost ready to launch season one of
You’re The Star,
stating that auditions
were already being organized in five major cities, and that the judges had been
chosen. He announced each of the three personalities—with major pauses
between—names that Sam had no clue about. She should have brought Kelly with
her; that girl read
People
nearly
every week.

Once he’d finished the dramatic
announcement, Tustin opened it up for questions and the reporters surged
forward. Sam realized that a lot of early publicity must have gone out to
attract this crowd and this kind of excitement. No wonder Jake and Tustin were
so desperate for the money to come in.

She spotted a uniformed officer at
the edge of the crowd, one of Sanchez’s men. Nearby, the chief himself watched,
his thin lips a slash across the hard lines of his face, his coal black eyes
barely moving. Like a feral cat, though, he probably saw everything.

Sam edged farther back in the
crowd, getting a glance over the shoulder of a young female journalist who was
reading down a list of pre-answered questions.

“One of your colleagues was killed
a few days ago. What’s happening with the investigation?” a reporter shouted
from somewhere in the middle of the group.

Sam’s neck-hairs prickled.

“We heard that a woman has been
arrested,” another man said.

Tustin Deor gave some platitudes—the
old “we are assisting the local police in every way possible” kind of thing. A
flat smile crossed Sanchez’s face. Sam knew
Deor’s
statement to be complete
b.s.
, since he’d only been
in town less than a day and had been standing in her bakery this very morning
asking for money. Nonetheless, she didn’t want to hang out until Sanchez
noticed her and someone put it together. She backed to the edge of the
gathering. Near the entrance to the La Fonda, half a block away, she spotted
Vic Valentino. She hoped he hadn’t seen her. The two mobster types were nowhere
to be seen now.

She turned and ducked into one of
the narrow alleyways that would take her out to the street and the safety of
her shop. No way could she afford for one of those reporters to connect Sweet’s
Sweets to this awful thing and broadcast it with their usual endless
speculation.

In the kitchen she called a quick
meeting.

“If
anyone
comes in here asking about me, just say that I’m out. If
they mention Jake Calendar’s name, you know nothing. Don’t even admit that he
ever came in here—nothing.” She glanced at Jen. “I have faith in you, hon. Be
my gatekeeper.”

“I can do it.”

Julio spoke up. “I can get some
guys. Like, if you want a security team.”

“Uh, that’s okay. Thank you, but
I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m just going to get out and ask some questions. If
it’s urgent, call me. Otherwise, I don’t plan on being either here or at home
until all the reporters leave town.”

Sam went out the back door, got in
her truck and took off, unsure exactly what she would do the rest of the
afternoon. She made a left and eased her way down Camino de la
Placita
, traffic from the press conference slowing things
down. When she passed the side street where Beau’s office was located she gazed
toward it; a news van sat nearby. She cruised on.

Tom Calendar had said that Jake’s
desire was to become one of the elite Hollywood crowd. Sam wondered if she
could find out whether he’d actually ever come close. He drove that expensive
truck and dressed as a Tustin Deor lookalike. But that didn’t mean anything.
The vehicle could be financed for years to come and his clothes certainly
weren’t designer labels. He talked the talk—that might be the extent of his
success.

She came to the entrance to Kit
Carson Park where the lure of golden trees and shady walkways beckoned. She
pulled the truck well away from view of the street, choosing a parking spot
near the performing arts theater. With the windows down and the warm September
air to calm her she began thinking of her list of suspects.

Evie, Tustin or one of his
flunkies? Seeing those Vegas types at the news conference she was reminded of
the hard-looking blond man who’d approached Jake near the plaza. Then there was
still Vic Valentino, and there could also be someone else associated with the
start-up production. Even Tom Calendar’s face went through her mind. He seemed
genuine enough, but Beau had taught her that no one could be above suspicion
until the facts had ruled them out. She’d run through that much of the list
when her phone rang.

“Hey,
darlin
’
where are you?”

“The park. How about you?”

“I guess I just missed you at that
press conference,” he said. “I showed up about the time they started grilling
him about Jake.”

“I left about then. How did it
go?”

“The entertainment news channels
lost interest pretty quick. Jake’s name must not be big news out there in
California. The Albuquerque reporters got a little more mileage out of it. The
Hollywood-underdog-gets-eaten-alive angle, questions that made it sound like
Jake must have gotten involved in the show only to be dropped, his memory
ignored, the minute he was gone.”

“That could be pretty close to the
truth. How did Deor handle those questions?”

“Went all solemn, worked up a
couple tears, said his people wanted answers even more than the police did.”

“Did he mention me?”

“Funny thing there. Somebody asked
about the local woman they heard was arrested—Deor acted like he knew nothing
about that.”

“Maybe he hadn’t heard.”

“He’s heard, if he’s really
working with the police as he claimed. My guess, he still wants money from you.
Thinks maybe he can get it before you go on trial.”

Well that was a happy thought.

Chapter
15

Sam closed her eyes and pictured
the odd cast of characters in this whole thing. Evie Madsen’s face kept coming
up. She’d never actually talked with the girl but Evie had certainly given Sam
the eye when she spoke to Jake. Jealousy? It was crazy to think that Jake would
go back to his chubby, over-fifty ex when he had a girl like Evie. But crazy
people were capable of doing crazy things.

Beau had said he was back at his
office, doing some more background checks. At least he was accomplishing
something. Sam’s impatience rose; she felt like her life was on hold and there
was nothing she could do about it. She put the truck in gear and drove back to
her neighborhood.

A news van sat in front of Sweet’s
Sweets. Sam’s gut tightened. She could trust her crew not to talk; she wasn’t
sure she could trust herself not to rant about the injustice of it. Her
attorney would have a fit if she appeared in front of a news camera. She kept
rolling.

Surely these vultures would leave
town soon and she could feel free to move about. She cruised past her old house,
noting that it looked empty and quiet. She parked her truck around the corner
and walked back, letting herself in the back door.

She turned on the computer. While
it booted up she put the kettle on and found a mug and teabag.

With steaming mug beside her she
sat at the desk, squared her shoulders and flexed her fingers. A quick visit to
Netflix, where she searched Tustin
Deor’s
name.
Nothing. Wikipedia had a biography, which gave brief mention of one television
production credit. The show sounded like a flash in the pan that aired six
episodes before being canceled. She copied the name of the production company
and pasted it into her browser, coming up with a glossy website that played up
their single accomplishment as being far more successful than it was.
Similarly, Tustin’s personal website portrayed him as a cross between a
corporate mogul and America’s hottest bachelor.