Chapter 6

 

Half the dining table was covered in paperwork, and Sam couldn’t seem to get her mind in the right place to deal with it. She tamped a group of invoices into a neat stack, thankful they were all paid now. Her checking account balance was looking pretty good, too, since Bookman’s check had arrived to cover his first month’s orders. She stared at the figures in her checkbook, made little sense of them, and decided she was simply hungry.

Beau’s headlights flared across the wall as he pulled into the driveway and turned his cruiser around, ready for tomorrow morning’s departure. The deli chicken Sam had put in the oven to keep warm was emitting a fantastic aroma. All she had to do was bring out the salad and potatoes and set the table. She glanced at the clutter again. They could eat in the kitchen tonight.

“Hey,” said Beau, stomping his boots on the rug at the front door, dusting some invisible thing from his Stetson before hanging it on the bentwood rack. Their dogs, a black Lab called Ranger and border collie named Nellie, came in with him.

“Hey, yourself. Crazy afternoon?” She waited until he’d draped his coat over the rack and then wrapped her arms around him. His chest radiated warmth and his skin smelled of the frosty outdoors.

He nodded and kissed her. They let the embrace and the kiss linger awhile—then the oven timer went off.

“Mind if we eat at the small table tonight?” she asked, taking a step back and nodding toward the kitchen. “The dining table is a little—”

“Messy?” He laughed. “How about if I make us a drink? What would you like?”

“I’d better not. I still have accounts to finish after dinner, and I’m trying to find inspiration for kitchen designs. I wish I knew exactly what I needed. Darryl can’t very well quote something if I don’t tell him what I want.”

“Sounds like a problem I’m glad isn’t mine,” he said, grabbing a beer from the fridge for himself.

While Sam pulled the chicken and potatoes from the oven, he set out flatware and plates, complimenting her on the heavenly scent. The rest of the meal came together quickly and Sam found herself sinking gratefully into her chair. Her energy began to return after a few bites.

“Well, the bag of money has a crime attached to it,” Beau said.

“What happened?”

He filled her in on the origin of the sequentially numbered bills and the armored truck robbery.

“How did the robbers get away with the money but manage to lose it again?” she asked, passing the salad bowl to him.

“That’s the thing. What we retrieved was only a portion of what they took. They got away with five locked canvas bags. Somehow, between that stretch of highway and the café this morning, at least part of the money got out of the bank bags and into a cheap travel duffle, a brand they sell at Walmart.”

“They robbed the truck somewhere along the road?”

He described the crime scene as Tim Beason had told him earlier.

“Pretty ingenious, actually, posing as a construction crew and keeping the traffic out of sight while they plundered the vehicle.” He reached for his napkin. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make light of it. The driver was seriously injured. A woman named Tansy Montoya with two kids at home. She’s in critical condition.”

“Oh, god, Beau, that’s horrible.”

“It is. Her elderly mother watches the kids while Tansy is at work. It’s gonna be tough if she doesn’t make it.”

Sam felt her appetite wane. She wondered if there was anything she could do for the poor woman. She envisioned the carved wooden box upstairs and the healing properties it sometimes gave her. She had never attempted to heal anything as serious as a gunshot wound—bruises and sprains were more her speed.

Beau seemed to read her mind. “Just leave it to the doctors, sweetheart. They’re doing all they can.”

He was right, of course.

“Not a word about this, you know. Not even to Rupert—he’s probably going to grill you for details.”

“I know, honey. I respect my sworn duties as one of your deputies.” Even though she rarely acted in an official capacity, the fact that she’d aided him on several cases did carry legal obligations. Her silence was the only reason he confided in her.

“Help yourself to a cookie or some ice cream,” she said as she cleared dishes from the table. “I’ve gotta get back to those kitchen ideas.”

He settled in his favorite chair with a detective show on TV, and Sam went back to the pad of graph paper at the dining table where she’d begun trying to figure out a layout for her dream workspace. Within minutes, the lines blurred and she found herself dozing with her head propped on one hand. Next thing she knew Beau took her by the shoulders and gently led her to the stairs.

“All that paperwork can wait until tomorrow,” he said gently. “Go on up, enjoy an early night of it.”

She barely remembered climbing the stairs, brushing her teeth or falling into bed. The next thing she knew her alarm was reminding her it was four-thirty in the morning.

She stretched and actually felt pretty good. Carefully getting up so as not to disturb Beau, she reveled in a hot shower and shampoo then toweled off and put on her bakery clothes. The carved box sat on the vanity. For months she’d kept it locked away in Beau’s gun safe. Back in June she’d had a scare when someone had tried to steal the box, following Sam and even attacking a woman who had come to tell Sam about its history. The tale of two rival organizations with interests in the box had definitely spooked her. But with the passage of time she’d relaxed her guard. She’d missed having the box at her disposal every day. As a jewelry box it was handy; as a quick energy provider, well, she had to admit she’d used it often in recent weeks.

She picked it up and cradled it in her arms, feeling the warmth suffuse her hands and body as the dark wood began to glow with a golden hue. The small inset stones brightened. Energy flowed through her and she felt as if she’d slept a week, not merely eight hours. She set it back on the vanity, fluffed her hair into place and made her way quietly downstairs.

Gathering the files and sketches she’d brought home, she gave each of the dogs a pat on the head and went out to her van. Frost covered the windshield. She tried to remember if there was a scraper in the glovebox, couldn’t recall, ended up placing one warm hand on the icy surface. Immediately the crystals retreated, clearing the window in a rapid-moving fan shape.

“Ha—thank you!” she said out loud. She allowed herself a grin as she got in and started the van.

By the time Julio arrived to start the regular breakfast pastries, Sam had already melted enough chocolate, cooking and tempering it, to make her first batch of molded candies. At the final stage of cooking she always added pinches of the special powders—one from the blue pouch, one from the red, one from the green—given to her by a mysterious chocolatier who had shown up at her back door the first Christmas after she opened Sweet’s Sweets. Bobul, the quirky Romanian had taught her much about making chocolate, and he’d left her with a thousand questions about how he imbued his pieces with a certain magical touch.

Now, as she worked on truffles, she thought again of him and wondered where he was now. With the influx of orders, she’d run through much of her supply of Bobul’s secret ingredients. Within the next few weeks—along with everything else on her mind right now—she would either need to get more or figure out how to make her chocolates just as good without them. She caught Julio giving her a quizzical look and turned her thoughts elsewhere.

She added glitter powder to a small bowl of glaze and began painting decorative effects onto the dark chocolate pumpkin shapes, letting her creative mind take over.

Before tonight’s dinner with Zoë and Darryl, Sam wanted to have a kitchen wish list to discuss with him. Her ideal place for candy making would include a big spotless kitchen where several workers could move about and each have his or her own work space, separate rooms for storage and for boxing the chocolates. A shipping area would be wonderful.

Julio edged past her with a hot tray of apple scones just out of the oven. When Sam stepped aside, one foot landed on the wheel of her desk chair sending her skittering backward. The bowl of glaze landed on the file of paid invoices she’d not put away in the drawer. She watched the slow-motion pour as it drizzled across important papers and dripped to the floor.

“Oh, god,” she shrieked, grabbing for the bowl. She missed and it tipped completely upside down.

“Sam—so sorry,” Julio said. He’d narrowly avoided dropping his tray into the sticky mess.

“Not your fault. I’ll get this if you can just take the scones out of harm’s way.”

He backed toward the curtained doorway into the sales room while Sam made her way to the supply closet and retrieved bucket and mop.

So, another thing for my wish list—separate office space so my desk isn’t right in the midst of the action. She mopped as she envisioned it. And plenty of helpers so I can quit wearing myself completely ragged.

By the time Becky arrived and began decorating cakes, most of the sticky evidence was gone. Hours flew by as Sam breezed through six dozen pumpkin cookies, trays of sugar cookie ghosts and more cupcakes than she could count, until she had no choice but to quit if she wanted to make it on time to Zoë’s dinner.