A peek into the kitchen revealed Bobul at the work table, with a good sized pile of molded chocolates in front of him. He was in the process of dusting each one with a gossamer whiff of translucent white powder, something that looked as light as a single snowflake. On doily-covered servers, he’d accumulated a collection of truffles and hand-dipped little mounds that looked mighty enticing to Sam. A growl from her stomach reminded her that she’d had about a quarter of a muffin for breakfast and that it was well past lunch time now.
The chocolatier glanced up at Sam. “Must sample,” he said, noticing the way she was eyeing the tiny blocks of extra-dark.
“Thanks.” She reached to take one but Bobul eased the serving plate beyond her grasp.
“This,” he said, holding out one of the freshly dusted ones. “We offer this as Christmas specialty.”
She thought of reminding him that there was no ‘we’ at this point. She’d not even verbally hired him yet. But the glisten of the rich chocolate caught her attention. The piece was molded in the shape of a pinecone, perfect down to the sharp tips at the end of each precisely fluted bract. The cup-like inner depths were reddish, tinted somehow to give even more dimension to the piece. And at the outer tips, a faint hint of gold. Each was truly a miniature work of art.
“Taste,” he said, folding his arms and watching her.
She took a tentative nibble. The dark chocolate broke with the snap that perfectly tempered pieces should have. The blend of flavors that hit her palate were indescribable—the bite of dark chocolate, a hint of raspberry, a breath of pure sweet—but there was something else that she couldn’t quite name. The small bit dissolved on her tongue and she stared at the remainder of it in her fingers before popping it into her mouth. A moan of pure pleasure escaped.
“Is acceptable,” Bobul pronounced.
Sam was pretty sure her eyes rolled back in their sockets. When she focused again, she saw that Bobul was headed for the sales room with a server balanced on each hand. She trailed along, half wanting to stop him, with the wild idea that she could keep all the exquisite chocolates for herself.
By the time she reached the outer room, he was standing at the bistro table where Sam had left mousy Mira and the overwhelming Sylvia in intense conversation. Each of them held a piece of Bobul’s chocolate and Sam found herself holding her breath as they opened their mouths. Mira took a small nibble and Sam smiled as the girl’s reaction mirrored her own. Sylvia popped the miniature pinecone into her mouth whole, mulled it around a little and then swallowed. Her shoulders relaxed, her head lolled to one side, and she raised it with a smile.
Sam hustled over to them as Bobul circled the room and offered samples to each of the other customers. Within moments, the room filled with exclamations and delighted whispers. Bobul deposited the serving plates on top of the nearest display case and walked back to the kitchen without another word.
Jen gave Sam a frantic signal.
“How much are we selling them for?” she whispered. “People are already wanting to buy.”
“A dollar each for the large truffles? Fifty cents for the pinecones?”
Jen leaned closer to Sam’s ear. “Better triple that. Believe me, no one will complain.”
Sam gave a quick shrug and turned back to her bride and mom, hoping desperately to get some decisions made so she could get back to her other duties. And she really needed to talk to Mr. Bobul.
The pair of Southwells had their heads together and when they noticed Sam they both smiled widely.
“I love the truffles,” Mira said. “I want them made up as favors for the guests. Mother and I have decided that we—”
“We’re inviting the entire list. There’s no point in cutting back, darling. It’s your big day, after all.”
Sam stared back and forth between them. Where was momzilla? Who’d replaced the tense pair she’d been working with for the past hour?
“So, Ms. Sweet,” Sylvia continued. “Three hundred guest favors—I’m thinking four truffles to a box. Tied with a burgundy bow.”
“And we’ll repeat that same color on the cake. Burgundy and gold. Very holiday, very rich.” Mira spoke with such authority that Sam had to take a look back at the mother, just to be sure there weren’t about to be fireworks.
Within ten minutes Sam had the order written up for the four-tier cake and had sketched out the design as she imagined it, fondant draped, richly quilted, with gold beads and burgundy trim. And she’d collected the deposit check.
“It’s going to be so beautiful, isn’t it, Mom?” Mira was positively glowing as the pair walked out of the shop.
Sam watched them get into their Mercedes SUV. Okay, what just happened here? She marched into the kitchen, determined to find out what kind of nonsense this Bobul guy was up to.
Chapter 5
The chocolatier stood at the worktable, his small fingers working a sugary purple substance into the shape of petals, forming the most delicate violets Sam had ever seen. She stared for a few seconds before she remembered why she’d come back here.
“Mr. Bobul—”
He grunted but didn’t take his eyes off the tiny flower in his hand.
“Is there something . . . I mean . . . I’m trying to figure out what happened out there with Mrs. Southwell and her daughter. Those two were nearly at each others’ throats until they tasted your chocolates.”
He glanced at her, his eyebrows dipping together in front. “The chocolate. It having many special—how do you call it—properties.”
His attention went right back to his creations and Sam saw that he was not to be diverted. She turned back to the fruitcake recipe she’d decided to try, hoping to achieve something people wouldn’t consider using as a doorstop.
She’d no sooner located the card where she’d written it than Jen caught her attention with a psst—standing in the doorway to the sales area and signaling Sam to come speak to her.
“All the chocolates are gone, Sam. And now people are asking if we’ll have gift boxes for Christmas. And gift baskets. What shall I tell them?”
Sam debated for a fraction of a minute. “Tell them yes to the boxed chocolates. And take orders for baskets. Somehow, we’ll do this.”
She turned back to Bobul and noticed that he’d completed a tray of elegant white chocolate truffles, each decorated with a pair of the tiny violets he’d created a few minutes ago. Displayed on a silver plate with delicately fluted edges, they took her breath away.
“Wow.” She couldn’t seem to come up with anything else to say.
“Is nice choice for winter or for spring,” he answered, handing her the plate.
“May I?” She reached for one, practically drooling for a taste.
He held up the baking sheet on which he’d been working. “For tasting,” he said. “Those for customers.”
Good idea. Sam bit into the side of the white truffle, to discover that the center was a rich dark chocolate blend that literally melted the instant it touched her tongue.
“Oh my,” she mumbled. She nibbled one of the sugared violets from the top, then the other. Did she merely imagine that they actually tasted like flowers? Umm . . .
It wasn’t her imagination that her knees went a little weak.
Out in the sales area she heard the distinctive voice of Ivan Petrenko, the bookshop owner from next door. Uh-oh. This afternoon was his book group called Chocoholics Unanimous and Sam hadn’t even begun making the peppermint brownies she’d planned for them. She glanced at the tray of truffles.
“Stay right here,” she said to Gustav Bobul. “We need to talk.”
She slid through the opening in the curtained doorway and waltzed up to Ivan with the beautiful silver plate.
He stared at the truffles and his breath drew in with a gasp. “Samantha!”
“Dark chocolate truffle that, I can attest, is to die for. White chocolate, hand dipped. The violets aren’t technically made of choc—”
“No matter. I can promise y
ou . . . book group will be loving them.”
Two other customers looked longingly at the plate as Sam carried it to the back counter and gave it a quick cellophane wrap and signature purple bow along with a “Magical Delights” sticker. Ivan carried the prize out, as if they were the crown jewels of Russia. As he headed back to his bookshop, she murmured to the other customers, “Don’t worry, there are more.”
She quickly retrieved the remaining truffles from the tray in the kitchen and before she’d turned her back, Jen had sold half of them.
Back in the kitchen, Bobul was contemplating a pile of cocoa beans that he’d evidently roasted at home and brought with him.
“Only the nibs,” he said, noticing Sam’s puzzled expression. “I have already to taking off the chaff. Will now grind.”
Uh huh, whatever it takes.
“Look, Bobul . . . I’d like to make your employment situation permanent.” It didn’t take an Einstein to see that the man was good for business.
He shrugged, as if that weren’t important to him. But Sam really didn’t want to let this one get away. She named a figure that momentarily startled both of them.
“I’ll just need to get a little information for our records, and then you’ll be on the payroll.”
He shifted from one foot to the other.
“You know, full name, address, social security number?”
His glance slid to the left.
“Oh. Right. Well then, green card?”
He looked puzzled.
Oh boy. “No green card?”
He shrugged his huge shoulders.
Sam’s mind raced. There was no way she could duplicate the confections he’d produced. The customers were already completely hooked, Jen was out there taking orders for gift baskets and Sam couldn’t let them down.
“Cash,” she said. “And you can’t tell anyone.” Her stomach took a lurch. She could so be shut down for this. Dating the sheriff and hiring an illegal weren’t the safest combination.
But the chocolatier had visibly relaxed.
She forced all the negatives to the back of her mind as she outlined for him the hours she wanted him to work and explained the requirement to keep quiet about their arrangement. She took a deep breath as he went back to work with a mortar and pestle, grinding the cacao beans into powder.
The sound of a truck outside in the alley caught her attention. She couldn’t believe that it was already after two o’clock. She met the driver at the door and directed him where to put the new supplies while she reviewed the packing list and signed for the delivery.
A glimpse of the brilliant, clear sky reminded her about winterizing the house in Talpa which was now under her care. She really couldn’t afford to be away from the bakery at this moment but there was no choice. The power was to be cut off today and by tonight the temperatures would surely drop even lower.
She checked the sales room and found that the earlier crowd had cleared. Jen had enough cookies, cheesecake and scones in the displays to tide her over through the mid-afternoon coffee break rush. Bobul seemed content at the stove, adding cream and sugar to something in a double boiler.
She would have to be careful around Beau. He was pretty smitten with her, but he was also a man of principle and she couldn’t see him simply looking the other way if he figured out what was going on. And keeping secrets from him . . . it wouldn’t be easy.
She put those thoughts out of her mind while she went into the hardware store to purchase a new lockset for the Talpa house. How did it all get so complicated?
* * *
Away from the center of town Sam kept the truck in four wheel drive and took the turns cautiously. Out in Talpa, it appeared that lots of folks had opted to stay in for the day. One yard was filled with kids romping in the snow and trying to make snowballs from the scant piles of slush that remained in the shaded areas. Otherwise, the neighborhood was pretty quiet. She parked once more in front of the large gate, gathered her tools and the new lockset, and walked through the smaller gate.
Her tracks from the previous night had melted away and the red tag was gone from the front door, replaced by a notice of some kind. She ripped it down and glanced at it—an emergency phone number the owner could call in order to bring the account up to date and get electricity restored. Low income customers could make arrangements for a payment plan or apply for assistance. A glance around the sizeable house and costly landscaping told Sam lack of money was probably not the issue here.
She stared again at the expensive lock on the front door. Shame to ruin it with the drill. She trudged over the brown lawn toward the back of the house. Two sets of doors faced a wide flagstone terrace. A quick perusal revealed that one of those led to a bedroom, where an unmade bed dribbled blankets and sheets off the edge and onto the tile floor, as if the owner had just risen for his or her morning coffee and hadn’t yet returned to tidy the room. Thick Persian rugs gave the place a rich appearance.
Peering through the panes of the other doors she saw a great-room, obviously made for entertaining. Large leather couches faced an oversized kiva fireplace and two other groupings of chairs made up conversation areas. Paintings hung on the wide, expansive walls. A long dining table was surrounded by high-backed carved chairs, so many of them that they disappeared into the dark distance of the room. A granite bar marked the dividing point to a kitchen that Sam could barely see.
It was this door Sam decided to drill. The process took about ten minutes, including replacing the old lock with the newly purchased one, whose keys she jammed into her coat pocket. She pushed the door open.
The whole place felt like a walk-in refrigerator. What had Delbert Crow told her about it? The mortgage was ninety days in arrears. So it may have been early September when the owners left. She walked through the rooms, finding two thermostats, both at summertime settings. She shone her flashlight into the darker corners. The house must be three thousand square feet. A library held a large ornately carved desk and a pair of leather chairs, all surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Between the leather-bound books were bits of travel memorabilia and a few hammered silver frames with photos of smiling people in settings like ski lodges and white-sand beaches. The face that appeared in all of them was a man in his late forties with light brown hair, good looking in a breezy, almost European way. She also discovered three bedrooms—two neatly made up, formal feeling, guestrooms—the third and largest was the one she’d seen from the terrace. The one where it appeared that someone had just arisen for the day. Aside from that, nothing seemed out of place.
In the luxurious master bathroom, a man’s toiletries lay on the tile vanity top—electric razor, a comb with a couple of brown hairs stuck to it, two bottles of designer colognes. A surreptitious peek into the medicine cabinet revealed all the normal stuff, including toothbrush, deodorant and two prescription bottles. She recognized one as a blood-pressure medication. The name on both bottles was William J Montague. No sign of a female occupant.
Okay, Sam, snooping the contents of the medicine cabinet isn’t part of the job of winterizing the house. She quickly closed its carved wooden door. She went back to the kitchen for a gallon of the antifreeze she’d left there and poured a bit down each of the drains in the massive bathtub, separate tiled shower, sink and toilet. She repeated the action in each of the smaller, slightly less-glamorous bathrooms.
By the time she got back to the gourmet kitchen, with its granite counters and stainless appliances, she was into her second gallon of antifreeze. As she went to pour it, she saw that the kitchen sink contained a couple of knives with food encrusted on their blades. On the breakfast bar was a bowl with a scab of dried milk and about a dozen wizened old Cheerios embedded in it. A spoon was welded to the disgusting mixture. A glass with a half-inch of suspicious orange muck at the bottom further attested to the fact that Mr. Montague had left right in the middle of his meal.
Sam checked the double-wide refrigerator, finding it full of food that was way
past gone.
What on earth happened here?
Chapter 6
Sam had shoved the last of the rotten vegetables into a garbage bag when her phone rang. Fishing in her pocket for it, she saw the number of the bakery and flipped it open. She felt a guilty jolt—she hadn’t meant to be gone this long.
“Sorry, Sam, I know you’re busy,” Jen said. “But I’m really swamped here and the new guy is no help whatsoever.”
“Problems?”
“Not that so much.” Jen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s just that he keeps bringing out new stuff. All these chocolates that are just so beautiful. The customers are grabbing them up and I can barely keep up with that, plus the baked goods, plus the special orders. I hate to say it but help!”
“I’ll get right back. I’m probably fifteen minutes away.”
Jen breathed a relieved thanks and hung up. Sam called Kelly.
“Have you picked up your car yet?”
“Just now. Why? What’s up?”
Sam worked as she talked, carrying the trash bag out to the front porch. “Would it be possible for you to get over to the bakery and give Jen a hand until I can get there? She’s getting slammed right now.” Belatedly, she thought to ask, “Have you heard anything about Iris today?”
“I haven’t. I wasn’t sure if I should call Beau.”
“I’ll call him. I can let you know. Just please head toward the bakery now.”
“Yes, Mother.” Kelly’s jab was only half-teasing.
Sam didn’t take the time to stress over her daughter. She posted the USDA notices and put one of the keys into a lockbox before dashing to her truck. She speed-dialed Beau’s personal phone as she drove. His cell rang four times and went to voice mail. She left a message expressing her concern and told him to call anytime, that she’d probably be at Sweet’s Sweets at least until six or so.
Sweet Holidays: The Third Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 3
