Free Sweets Forgotten (Samantha Sweet Mysteries Book 10) by Connie Shelton Page A

less
model-like today, with her long, dark hair, high cheekbones and porcelain
complexion. Beau noticed Kent Taylor subtly straightening his tie as she
greeted them.
    “We have a few more questions,”
Beau said after introducing Taylor.
    Her deep brown eyes widened slightly.
“Um, Mr. Lane isn’t here today.”
    “I know. He’s at the trade show.
We really only need to speak with the rest of the staff today. Can you give me
a list of all the company employees?”
    “There are only six of us,
besides the two owners. Two sales reps—they went to Vegas with Mr. Lane—two
programmers, myself and the bookkeeper. Mrs. Robinet handles taxes so she has
the official records in her files. But I don’t think I can let you see her
stuff while she’s gone.”
    Kent Taylor touched the badge at
his belt, a subtle reminder that answering their questions was not optional.
“Let’s start with whoever’s here now.”
    Amber picked up the intercom.
“I’ll page the programmers to the conference room for you.”
    “How about just taking us back to
their offices? I’d like to get a better feel for the whole business.”
    She seemed unsure about that.
Obviously, Chandler and Zack required fairly strict security for such a small
business. Again, Kent Taylor touched his badge.
    “We can get warrants and
subpoenas,” he said. “It won’t be hard to do, considering one of the partners
was murdered.”
    Amber’s face went a little paler.
She got up and led them toward the inner sanctum, using her own thumb image to
open the door. Once past that, the rest of the offices had a fairly open-door
policy, it seemed. They passed a very standard-looking office with desk,
credenza, file cabinets and a couple of potted plants.
    “Helen Melrose’s office,” Amber
said. “She’s probably down at the copy machine or making herself a cup of tea
in the kitchen. She drinks a lot of tea.”
    Across the hall, a closed door
listed Ed Archuleta and Jamie Phillips on little plaques. An oblong window set
into the door showed that the lights inside were off. “The sales team,” Amber
explained. “Mostly what they have in their office is the artwork for the big ad
campaigns. Until they packed everything up for Vegas, their room was
practically overflowing with that stuff.”
    The two programmers shared a
large office with dim overhead lighting and, not surprisingly, looked about fifteen
years old. The room was full of computer monitors showing everything from
incredibly realistic depictions of warriors and battle scenes to full screen
images of cartoonish avatars. One screen was full of complex lines of letters
and numbers that must have been computer code. All of it was completely outside
Beau’s realm.
    Both young men looked up with
somewhat glazed eyes, like moles who had poked their heads out of the ground
for the first time in months.
    “This is Mike and that’s J.B.,”
Amber said before turning to go back to her own desk.
    “Michael,” said the tall, plump
one. “I prefer Michael.”
    Kent Taylor wrote down the
basics: Michael Anderson, senior programmer. John Bryan Bonds, who went by J.B.
Michael had worked for the company four years; J.B. came along two years ago.
    “We’re investigating the death of
Mr. Robinet,” Beau told them, wondering whether the tendency for their eyes to
dart around to various objects in the room had to do with their work, an
aversion to the lawmen, or if it was some inherent trait of nerdy types. “Does
either of you know if he had any enemies?”
    “Whoa. You think someone did that
to him? We heard it was a drug overdose.” This from Michael.
    Beau realized he had started at
the wrong place with the questions. “Okay, what about that? Do you know if he
used drugs?”
    “Zack? I don’t think so. He was a
pretty straight up kind of guy,” Michael said. “Plus, we all have to get random
pee tests. Something about qualifying for the insurance plan or something? You
could ask Helen, but I’m pretty