The parking lot at Holy Cross was packed with early evening visitors. Sam cruised through it twice and ended up parking on the street a half-block away. Inside, people hovered around the doorways of rooms that were too small to accommodate the large families who believed lots of bedside company was the cure for anything. The space around Sarah’s room at the end of the hall was noticeably quiet. Sam peered inside to find the bed empty. Oh, no. She spun around to see a nurse walking toward her.
“Sarah Williams? Where is she?” Hoping like crazy she’d gone home.
“I’m afraid Ms. Williams slipped into a coma this afternoon. We’ve moved her to ICU.” Seeing Sam’s stricken expression, the nurse gave directions. Sam made her way to the wing with the glass-fronted rooms full of beeping equipment.
Marc Williams stood looking down at Sarah, who seemed even smaller and more defenseless than ever. Sam walked in, ignoring a nurse at the desk who seemed ready to ask questions.
“It happened pretty suddenly while I was gone to get some lunch,” Marc told her. “There is some bleeding in the brain and the doctors are deciding when to do surgery.”
“Can I hold her hand for a minute?” she asked with a lump in her throat.
“I’m sure that would be all right.” He moved aside and Sam stepped to the side of the bed that had fewer wires and tubes.
She took Sarah’s hand and willed some of her excess energy through the connection between them. Please get better, Sarah. Please come back. It seemed selfish to end the thought by begging for the story of the other wooden box, the one in Ireland, but the idea did flash through her head for a split second.
Sarah stirred slightly but didn’t blink or make a sound. After a couple of minutes Sam set her hand gently down on the blanket. She gave Marc her phone number and asked him to call if there was any change.
All the way to her shop, Sam thought of Sarah. They’d grown close during their work on the committee, laughing at Carinda’s hysterics. Already she was missing Sarah’s contributions to the meetings. And, she’d learned a lot about the wooden box and its previous owner from the older woman, but there was still so much more. What Sam knew must be only a fraction of the artifact’s history; plus, the second box still intrigued her. She’d had the chance to hold it briefly, when she and Beau honeymooned in Ireland last year. She’d gotten no reaction from that one, nothing like she experienced every time she picked up hers. But still . . . there were so many unknowns. Her uncle Terry had promised to tell her the story—then he died. Now Sarah, who had hinted that Bertha might have said more about it. If Sarah died now, without saying anything more, did it mean that the second box carried some kind of curse? Something that prevented its secrets from being revealed?
No! Sam shook her head to clear this line of thought. Granted, Uncle Terry had owned and handled the other box, but she had learned nothing to suggest that either Bertha or Sarah ever actually came in contact with it. She had to stop this thinking and put her energy into something practical, such as replacing the ruined chocolates.
She parked behind the shop and let herself into the quiet kitchen. Her supply of dark cacao was running low and she had to do some quick adjustments to the recipe. How much simpler this would be if Bobul, that oddball chocolatier, were to show up and take over. The large man in the heavy brown coat, with his bag of mysterious ingredients and tools, always made the entire chocolate-making process seem so effortless.
She pulled out her largest kettle, feeling brave about tackling one large batch rather than making smaller ones as she’d been doing. She carefully weighed the sugar and butter and began stirring the mixture over a low flame on the stovetop.
Within minutes the familiar motions of stirring and watching the ingredients blend calmed her. She sent her remaining energy through the handle of the spoon and into the bubbling pot. The chocolate took on a creamy quality the moment she added pinches of those little powders Bobul had given her. Whatever was in those pouches, it was the thing that made her chocolates special, gave them qualities unlike any other. When the mixture was perfect she poured it out for tempering, working automatically and quickly.
Filling the pueblo molds didn’t use nearly all of the dark mixture, so she pulled out every other mold she owned. Any shape that didn’t specifically scream ‘Christmas’ got put to use, as Sam turned out flowers, stars, shells and generic shapes. She placed the molds on trays in the cooling racks and looked around, feeling the last of her residual energy drain away.
The chocolate-coated kettle sat in the sink; sticky spoons and spatulas lay about, but it was only ten o’clock. She had fully expected to work through the night. She gathered the tools and dumped them all into the large pot, squirted detergent on top and filled the thing with hot water. The actual scrubbing could wait until morning, she decided, turning out the lights and locking the back door.
The ranch looked so good, the porch light glowing softly to welcome her home, the dogs sitting expectantly on the porch unable to settle down until their ‘pack’ was complete. She pulled the van into her normal spot and greeted Ranger and Nellie, who herded her toward the front door. Beau greeted them and led Sam to the kitchen where he brewed a cup of her favorite tea.
“Long day, huh?”
“I swear that eighty percent of my day goes toward this dumb festival right now. One more week and I plan to give myself an extra day or two off.”
His eyes wandered upward. “You must have been tired when you stopped in earlier. You forgot your phone. I think you have a few messages.”
“Oh, god. Not tonight.”
Upstairs, she found the phone on the bed where she had changed shoes at some point in the afternoon. No way was she going to make calls this late at night, and she knew better than to listen to the voicemail messages because something on there would surely rob her of her sleep. Better to find out in the morning. She turned off the ringer and stowed the phone deep inside her pack before heading to the shower.
By five a.m. Sam had brewed coffee when Beau came downstairs, ready for his day in uniform.
“Well, the Flower People have started to show up,” he said, pouring the hot brew into his favorite mug.
“Oh, honey, last night I was so tired I completely forgot to ask how your day went. I’m sorry.” Sam put her arms around him. “How’s it going with them?”
“As of dusk yesterday, there were two old converted school buses, painted blue, with about a dozen occupants. They passed me on the road and I watched them turn off at Mulvane’s place.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and that’s all there will be.”
He snorted. “I really doubt that but I will try to hold on to your positive attitude.”
“And meanwhile I bet you are cruising by there all day long to keep an eye on things.”
“The old ‘trust but verify’? Except in this case I have very little trust.” He seemed restless. “Can I take you out to breakfast?”
Sam thought of the eight voicemail messages she was avoiding, all from festival committee members. “Absolutely. Anything to delay leaping into the fray.”
“How about that little burrito place out by the ski valley turnoff? You can ride with me and then I’ll bring you back here to get your van.”
“And this choice would have nothing to do with the fact that we’ll drive right by Mulvane’s place on the way.”
“Okay, you got me.” He plucked his Stetson off the bentwood rack near the front door.
Sam stuffed her phone into her pocket, leaving her backpack and the folder of festival notes on the kitchen table.
Beau steered down their long driveway in the department cruiser and made a right turn at the road, away from town. A quarter mile farther, the narrow lane leading to the neighboring ranch showed fresh tracks in the dusty earth. Two rural mailboxes sat on posts near the turnoff, one being Mulvane’s and the other belonging to Max Rodriguez whose land was accessed by this same dirt road. Beau made the turn, moving slowly.
The Mulvane house, a faux-
adobe structure, sat beyond a wide green metal gate of the county-issue variety, accessed by a skinny driveway that led directly to the attached garage. In the opposite direction, following the fence line, new tracks went westbound. A fallow dirt field now sported four buses.
“Looks like more of them arrived after dark,” Beau commented.
Sam noticed two campfires where women in long skirts hunkered down to stir something in pots. Three naked children ran by, shrieking at each other, undeterred by the chill in the morning air. A bearded man outside one of the buses ran his fingers through long hair, stretched mightily, and turned his back on Beau’s SUV.
Beau drove past the encampment and used a wide spot in the lane beyond Mulvane’s house to turn around.
“I count at least twenty people now,” he said as they passed the buses again.
Sam kept quiet but before they reached the highway a small procession led by a battered VW van met them head-on. She felt Beau’s tension edge up three notches.
Chapter 6
The breakfast burrito lay heavily in her stomach as Beau drove away and Sam let herself into the house. Beau had spent the time dispatching a couple of deputies to cruise the area a few times a day. Meanwhile, her phone had vibrated twice during their meal and she knew there was no escaping the obligation; it would be best to deal with the calls before her workday at the bakery began. She sat at the table with a notepad and started listening to messages.
Auguste Handler: “Ms. Sweet, I understood that your group planned to use only the ballroom? Your associate now informs me that you also need the garden area. The fee will be different, you understand. Call me, please.”
Harvey Byron: “Sam, what’s this all about? I’m supposed to sell ice cream outdoors, with no access to electricity to keep my refrigeration running? Call me ASAP.”
An unknown female voice: “Ms. Sweet, this is Farrel O’Hearn in Santa Fe. My assigned vendor location at Sweet Somethings simply will not do. Please call me with a reassignment.”
Marc Williams: “Sam, sorry to bother you. You asked for updates on Aunt Sarah’s condition, and I just wanted to let you know they’ve taken her into surgery. No need to call back. I’m going to my hotel for some sleep. I would like to speak with you later, if possible.”
Auguste Handler: “Ms. Sweet, I haven’t heard from you yet. A wedding party wants the garden. Since our contract calls for only your use of the ballroom . . . Please call me. Soon.”
Rupert: “Sam . . .? Where are you? Pick up? Carinda Carter is driving me nuts!”
Carinda: “Sam, hi. Just wanted to let you know that I’ve got everything under control. No worries whatsoever. Talk to you soon. Bye.”
Sam dropped her pen and held her head in her hands.
“I hate dealing with people!” She moaned it so loudly that Nellie the border collie came over and laid her chin on Sam’s thigh. It’s okay, the dog seemed to say.
“Nellie, it’s not okay. This stupid chocolate fair is going to drive me insane.”
She glanced over the names again. There had to be a way to prioritize them. Since Auguste Handler had the power to completely shut them down, she hit the redial button beside his name.
“Ms. Carter said she was on your committee and that she was in charge of organizing the vendor booths,” he said after Sam basically asked what the hell was going on. “She came by, probably a half-hour after you left. Sketched out both the garden and ballroom layouts and said the festival would be needing both locations after all. To accommodate that I will require another five hundred dollars.”
Sam willed her voice to stay calm. “Okay, first, Carinda Carter was not put in charge of the vendor booths.”
“But—”
“I don’t care what she said. We’re taking the ballroom, that’s it.”
“So I can let this wedding party use the garden on Sunday?”
“Yes. And if you should hear from Carinda Carter again, don’t discuss anything with her. Refer her back to me. Please.”
He seemed a little put out about all the extra communication, but he wasn’t the only one. She dialed Harvey, who seemed among the least antagonistic in his message.
“Check your email, Sam. She drew up a diagram of the hotel, marked off spaces and told each of us where our booths would be. I didn’t know she was supposed to do that. I specifically said on my application that I would need to be near an electrical outlet.”
“I know, Harvey. I had no idea Carinda was doing this. I have another map and you are definitely near a wall plug.”
Relief was evident in his voice when he thanked her and hung up. She dialed Rupert next—might as well leap right back into the drama.
“What’s going on?” she asked innocently enough.
“Didn’t the committee meet only two days ago? How is it that Hurricane Carinda managed so much damage so quickly?” From the high tone in his voice, Sam could picture him striding around his writing room.
“I’m getting calls from all over. Farrel O’Hearn, who thinks her you-know-what doesn’t stink has expressly forbid Carinda from contacting her, for any reason. And I’m the one who got the earful.”
“What’s she done?”
“In Farrel’s words, ‘I’ll bring this festival down if my booth isn’t the first one people see as they walk through the door. I studied at Ecole au Chocolat, the finest school in Paris. There is no one who will either make or break your little county fair the way I will’.”
Sam had to laugh at the way Rupert captured the accent and intonation of the voice she’d heard in O’Hearn’s high-toned message.
“Is she really that important?” she asked.
“I’d say she’s semi-important. She’s a Santa Fe snob and could probably badmouth us among that crowd. However, I know a lot of that same group and, believe me, I can play tit-for-tat with the best of them.”
“Okay, well, let’s don’t go there yet. I can do something to appease her, I’m sure.”
“You don’t have to suck up, Sammy. I can deal with Farrel O’Hearn.”
“For now, don’t do anything. Please, Rupe, you don’t know how full my hands are at this moment.”
He grumbled a little but agreed to let it go. Sam looked at her diagram, shuffled a couple of things and penciled Farrel O’Hearn into one of the center spaces. When she called, the woman tried the high-handed approach and Sam let her rant for a good three minutes before informing her that the site diagram had been sent by mistake. When O’Hearn heard the booth number of her new spot she gave a grudging thanks, as if the prime location was her due all along, and hung up. Sam scratched a heavy line through her name on the phone call list.
Her next call wouldn’t be fun but it was important to address quickly. Carinda sounded a little surprised by Sam’s abrupt tone and agreed to meet her at Sweet’s Sweets at one o’clock.
“Do not contact any vendor or committee member until we’ve talked,” Sam said. She punctuated the request by hanging up.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this! Managing people and coordinating an event were definitely not her forte. For a moment she thought fondly back to the days when all she had to do was bake the occasional birthday cake for a kid’s party and then go break into a house or two, easy work that she could perform by herself.
She dialed Kelly next. “I’ll be at the bakery in about twenty minutes. Can you set aside some time to meet me there and help with something?”
Another flash from the past, the time not that many years ago when she could measure her daughter’s reliability in nanometers. Thankfully, they had come a long way since.
Kelly apparently heard the van drive up because she stepped out the back door of Puppy Chic before Sam got out of her vehicle.
“Hey, thanks. Riki was okay with your taking a few minutes off?”
“No prob. She’s bathing an Irish Setter, which will take her longer than this job will take us.”
Sam led the way directly to her desk and pulled up an extra chair.
“Okay, here’s my diagram of the floor plan. I’ve marked the ones I’ve assigned already. If you can take this stack of applications and find the ones with special requests—like if they require electricity or can’t be near the windows or something like that. We’ll assign them first and then fit everyone else in. Try not to put similar products right next to each other. We’ll have battles if all the cookies are in one section and all the cakes in another. Space them out.”
“Got it.”
Within twenty minutes they had a workable plan that included the promises she’d made earlier.
“Now, Kel, if you can scan this and email it out to all the vendors, I will be eternally grateful. If none of them get back in my face we’ll officially deem it a miracle and your place in heaven is assured.”
Kelly laughed and took over at the computer keyboard.
Sam took a moment to check in with each of her employees and assure herself that there were no bakery disasters lurking unseen. Her molded chocolates from last night were waiting safely in the cooling racks; she got out the last of the small decorative boxes and began creating assortments. The remaining ones could be sold individually.
“All done,” Kelly said a few minutes later, on her way out the back door. She snagged a brownie from a tray that Julio was about to carry to the front.
Sam smiled. “Thanks.”
“Oh! I meant to tell you, Mom, I met up with Sarah Williams’s next door neighbor—one of the ladies who was helping with the decorations? We went to Sarah’s, where they’d been working together and I loaded everything into my car. I’ll take it all to the hotel when we get ready to set up.”
“You’re a peach.”
Kelly’s eyebrows pulled together. “I have to say, the place was pretty messy. For Sarah, I mean. That time I stopped by to give her a ride—I tell you, the lady could have won some kind of good housekeeping award. This time there were drawers and cabinet drawers hanging open . . . not at all tidy.”
Hm. Sam agreed with Kelly’s assessment of Sarah’s housekeeping style and this was not normal. Marc must have had a hard time locating those insurance documents. She waved Kelly out the back and went back to work.
Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 5
