Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  “Please appreciate the fact that I have taken away from my sacrosanct writing time this morning for this project,” he said, grazing her cheek with a kiss.

  “I do, Rupe. You’re the best.”

  “So, what’s first, lady-boss?”

  She stared around the cavernous ballroom. “Here’s my sketch. We need to measure off the booth spaces and put masking tape on the floor so everyone knows the boundaries.”

  “Good idea. Never trust people to agree over territory.”

  They began near the corner door that led to the kitchen, measuring and marking their way down the north wall, then the west. Kelly showed up at some point, explaining that Riki needed to keep her shop open and wouldn’t be coming.

  “At least she gave me the whole morning off. Just let me know what to do.”

  “Take Rupert’s end of the tape measure,” Sam said. “He’s going to bring in some displays from my truck and start setting up the judging area.”

  “Ooh, the judges!” Kelly said. “Is Bentley Day here yet?”

  “He’s supposed to arrive this afternoon. We got a room comp’d for him here at the hotel.”

  Harvey Byron arrived, followed soon after by Carinda who fluttered around like an annoying moth, mainly in the way, talking nonstop so she seemed busy. Sam handed her roll of masking tape over to Harvey and took Carinda out to the corridor.

  “Are you doing all right today?” she asked.

  Carinda’s eyebrows pulled together in puzzlement. “Sure, just fine.”

  “I just . . . Look, before the festival really gets underway, I want to apologize for letting things get a bit ugly yesterday. I shouldn’t have been so sharp in my tone.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, you seemed really upset. I didn’t intend to do that.”

  Again, the blank look. Did Carinda truly not remember acting as if she might do away with herself? Or was she such a drama queen that those types of moves were simply part of her normal repertoire? The word ‘crazy’ popped into Sam’s head again.

  “All right. Whatever.” Carinda shrugged. “I’d like to start putting up the bunting and signs?”

  “Let’s get the booths numbered first, in case vendors start showing up early.” She handed Carinda a stack of white pages on which she had printed large numbers, one through twenty-five. “Just follow Kelly and Harvey around and stick the numbers to the corresponding spaces they’ve taped off.”

  Sam didn’t miss the resentful look Carinda sent her for being given the lowly task. We’re oil and water, that’s all it is. We will never be friends but at least we can get through this weekend without a battle. She repeated it to herself a couple more times.

  At the south end of the room, two hotel employees had wheeled in sections of a portable platform and were in the process of noisily erecting it. Rupert looked a little impatient at the time it was taking to accomplish the task, but there was no point in putting up any of the decorative touches until the dais was in place. Sam walked over to be sure the men knew exactly where to place the heavy platform and accompanying access steps, then she took Rupert aside.

  “Can I help you bring the rest of those promotional goodies inside?” she offered. “I could use a break from the racket.”

  The garden was a blanket of calm after the clamor of voices and assembly noise from the workmen indoors. They followed a walkway toward the parking lot.

  “Slow down a little,” Sam said, trying to keep up with Rupert’s long stride. “These may be the last moments of calm that I get for the next three days.”

  He laughed and adjusted his pace to a saunter. They’d barely cleared the small rose garden when Sam’s phone rang.

  “Argh—even in a garden there’s no peace,” she said, reaching for it.

  The number on the readout was unfamiliar, a local one.

  “Hello?”

  “Sam, it’s Marc Williams.” His tone was not upbeat.

  Her heart thudded, dreading bad news.

  “My aunt has slightly come around. She spoke your name. Can you come to the hospital? Is this a good time?”

  Well, the answer was that there would not be a good time all weekend, but for Sarah she would go anytime. She assured him she would get there as soon as possible.

  Rupert caught the gist of it. “I’ll handle the decorations, the committee, and all catastrophes. You go.”

  She left him in the parking lot and urged her truck toward the hospital at the other end of town, a sense of unease creeping over her.

  Chapter 8

  Behind the glass of the ICU room Sam could see activity, a nurse in a bright pink scrub top hovering around the bed. Marc Williams stood out in the hall, staring toward the monitors above his aunt’s bed.

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked. “Is she still awake?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. She wasn’t talking by the time I arrived but she raised her hand a little when I touched it. Then some kind of beeping thing went off and the nurse rushed in.”

  That didn’t sound good. Sam stood beside him and watched, without knowing what she was seeing.

  The nurse tucked Sarah’s arm under the blanket and adjusted a dial on one of the machines before turning toward the door. She shook her head as she stepped out.

  “Sorry, she’s gone under again. I doubt she’ll be talking anytime soon, but you can certainly stay as long as you’d like.”

  Sam envisioned a long, silent wait by a bedside while all her other obligations piled up on her. She introduced herself to the nurse.

  “Marc told me that Sarah spoke my name. Were you the nurse who was with her when she did that?”

  The young woman nodded.

  “Did she say anything at all, other than my name?”

  “I’m afraid it was just ‘Sam—is Sam here?’ Her eyes were open and it came out clearly. She also asked who Marc was.” The nurse shifted her gaze to the nephew. “I’m sorry it happened before you arrived. She might have responded better if she had seen you, but that’s not always the case either.”

  She excused herself and walked toward her station.

  Sam looked at Marc. Could there be reason for hope based on Sarah’s brief revival?

  “I know you are super busy right now,” Marc said. “Aunt Sarah had told me about the festival and all. She was so excited about it. I wish she could be there.”

  “Me too. She really got us off to a good start.” Sam felt the weight of sadness when she saw Sarah lying helplessly in the bed.

  “Look, you don’t have to hang around,” he offered. “I’ll stay awhile. I can call you right away if she wakes up again. If you want me to tell her anything about that box—?”

  Sam was a little ashamed of the relief she felt but there really was no point in sitting here. She wasn’t family and it was a wonder the medical staff had gone to so much trouble to accommodate her already.

  “That’s okay. Thanks. I really am swamped with this event right now, but please do call me if there’s a change. I would love to have another conversation with her. I’m going to keep positive thoughts in that direction. She’ll recover and we will have lots of great talks.”

  Marc tried to look as if he believed that and Sam appreciated the brave face. She squeezed his hand and walked back out into the bright sunshine.

  The big photographic panels for the Qualitätsschokolade booth were still in the back of her truck, she realized, protected only by their cardboard carton. Rupert had probably already missed them but refrained from interrupting her. She called him to say that she was on the way back then checked in with Beau to make sure he still had his sanity over the neighborhood situation. They agreed to try to meet for lunch, but no promises.

  Sam arrived at the hotel to find that the makeup of the parking lot had changed entirely. Gone were the rental sedans and minivans with luggage carriers on top. Their spaces were now filled with trucks piled high with anonymous cardboard boxes, the spindly metal legs of trade
show displays and sturdy folding tables. The vendors had arrived.

  She called Rupert, suggesting that he grab a couple of able bodies and get outside. If they could meet her immediately she would triple park while they unloaded the photo displays. Otherwise, they were in for a long carry across the entire lot. She came to a stop near the garden walkway and Rupert, Kelly and Harvey appeared a few moments later.

  “I probably need to assign someone to direct traffic out here,” she said as they quickly pulled the large panels out of her truck. “Everyone who shows up this afternoon will have the same problem, and I can see Loading Zone issues if there isn’t some kind of plan.”

  “Maybe the hotel can provide someone. I’ll talk to the classy Mr. Handler,” said Kelly.

  “Thanks. It’s okay if you bat those lashes at him a little.” Sam drove away to park on the far side of the lot while the others maneuvered their load inside.

  In a matter of under two hours the ballroom had changed from a spacious art-deco chamber to a chaos of clutter. Almost a third of the vendor spaces showed activity. Battered utility tables held boxes and bags; aluminum-framed structures marked delineations of territory and would eventually carry signage for the various businesses and individual exhibitors who planned to make their mark. Hard to believe that by tomorrow morning the huge room would be transformed to a magical world of chocolate. At the moment it had a long way to go.

  The dais had been covered in blue carpeting, the front draped in a royal blue fabric skirt, and Rupert was standing back while Harvey and another man shifted the tall photographic panels into alignment. Throughout the room, conversations were punctuated by the occasional clatter of metal chairs or thump of heavy cartons.

  “Bring that fourth one a little closer in. To your left,” Rupert said as Sam approached. He turned to her. “What do you think? Do those look straight?”

  “They’re great.”

  With the panels in place, Rupert turned to the big carton of banners he’d brought. Kelly walked up as he began pawing through them.

  “Mr. Handler has sent a couple of maintenance men to oversee the parking situation,” she said. “What else can I do?”

  “If you and Harvey can set up that folding table,” Rupert said, “we’ll use these banners as draping. It’s where the judges will be sitting while they taste the entries.”

  “I’ll leave you to this,” Sam told them, eyeing the spot where her own booth would be, next to Harvey’s ice cream stand. Her space still held nothing but a numbered tag on the floor.

  She pulled out her phone, intending to call the shop and make sure someone could break away soon to bring her display materials and help her get it organized. The actual baked products would come tomorrow morning in the van. She had tapped the first two digits of the number when she heard a familiar voice.

  Ivan Petrenko, owner of the neighboring bookshop, stood beside her looking a little bewildered. “Good morning, Miss Samantha. Is good to be seeing you here.”

  Cute, how formally he always greeted her even though they had known each other for years.

  “I am having some small problem, please. Where is to be finding my place?”

  It always took Sam a second to figure out his curious mix of English and Russian phrasing. “Your booth? Let me check.”

  She consulted the clipboard that was beginning to feel like her third hand, and located the chart.

  “You are in the center section, right next to Farrel O’Hearn, the master chocolatier from Santa Fe. I’ll show you.”

  She led the way and saw that Farrel was already well into the complicated setup she’d brought. Apparently, the woman planned some sort of demonstration since her equipment included two small vats and a stack of utensils. Her slender frame was already decked out in a flame-orange baker’s jacket and black slacks, and her reddish hair sported a fresh cut that didn’t look as if it could possibly wilt in the heat of a kitchen. Sam introduced her to Ivan and noticed that Farrel gave him the suspicious eye until it became clear that he only planned to sell books.

  “I assume you have mine. It was a New York Times bestseller in 2002,” Farrel said, gazing down her sharp nose at the open carton of cookbooks Ivan set on the floor. “Of course, if you run out I’ve brought my own supply.”

  Ivan looked at her as if she’d stepped off another planet. Among his rumored talents was a stint at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and some high-end restaurant experience in a few major cities. He might appear to be a simple guy in bookseller mode but there was a lot the average person never knew about him. Surely he knew of Farrel O’Hearn’s reputation and would carry her book if it was likely to sell locally.

  Sam gave him a surreptitious wink and turned away, trying to remember what she’d been about to do before the distraction.

  Raised voices near the doors to the corridor caught her attention. Carinda Carter stood just inside the ballroom, staring at the dais. She’d apparently just made some comment to Rupert because he stood with a pair of large shears in hand and Sam swore that he subtly shifted them so they would make an easy weapon. She hurried over.

  “Rupert? What’s—?”

  “I thought I was to decorate the dais,” Carinda shouted.

  Sam glanced at Rupert, whose eyes begged her not to suggest that they do it together. Sam straightened her shoulders.

  “Nope, Carinda. That’s Rupert’s job. I had you on the list for . . .” she thought frantically “uh . . . for coordinating vendor services.” She had no idea what that meant but had to come up with some sort of title. “For their comfort, we want to be sure each vendor has bottled water and, if they wish, sodas or coffee. If you can go around and ask each of them what they would like, and then see that Mr. Handler gets a list, that would be a huge help. Once everyone is set up, probably later this afternoon, we have goodie bags to hand out and I would love it if you could take on that responsibility.”

  Rupert, having taken over nearly everything to do with their Swiss sponsor, looked a little miffed but once Carinda set out to take drink orders Sam pacified him with the reminder that at least now she wasn’t right in his face. He grumbled a little but soon became distracted again as he and Kelly hung bunting across the front of the judges’ table. Sam remembered that she’d been about to call Sweet’s Sweets so she stepped out to the corridor where it was marginally quieter.

  Near the garden door there was a steady stream of foot traffic, people whose arms were laden with boxes as they came indoors, empty as they went back for more. She edged closer to the less-crowded lobby, ducking aside as Harvey rushed past as if he didn’t see her standing there.

  “Julio has everything loaded into the van,” Becky told Sam. “He can break away from here as soon as his cinnamon rolls come out of the oven.”

  “Perfect.” Sam remembered that she and Beau had tentatively talked about getting together for lunch, but there was no way she was getting out of here now.

  She gave him a quick call, declining his generous offer to bring her a sandwich. She’d barely had time to make the phone call—when would she manage a chance to eat?

  “I hope to be out of here close to six o’clock,” she said. “All vendors were instructed to have their setup done by then.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said with a little chuckle. “When does everyone in a group of people actually follow what they’re told?”

  She let out a sigh; he was so right.

  She wandered back into the ballroom, spotting Harvey Byron’s portable freezer bin with the striped awning above and logo for his shop, Ice Cream Social. A woman with long blonde hair stood near it, her back toward Sam at the moment. She apparently spotted Carinda across the room because she called out her name and headed toward the east end of the room, but when Sam scanned the crowd, Carinda had vanished again.

  Just as well. Sam really hoped to avoid the prickly woman for the rest of the day, if possible. Sweet’s Sweets was right next to Harvey’s Ice Cream Social booth and she headed that direction.
On the other side of her spot, a woman stood in the open space looking a little lost.

  “I’m Nancy Nash,” the woman said after Sam introduced herself. “I didn’t realize we had to bring everything. Everyone else has such nice decorations and stuff.”

  “Well, you don’t have to go fancy with it, but it was explained in the instruction sheet we sent out when your application was approved. I’m sorry, I don’t remember what your product is.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t have a shop or anything. I decided to enter my famous chocolate-covered strawberries.”

  “Ooh, that sounds really good.”

  “Well, my family loves them. I never tell the kids how really easy they are to make.” Nancy raised both hands to her temples, pressing with her fingertips and squeezing her eyes shut. “Ow.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “The hum. It’s so loud right now.” She opened one eye. “You don’t hear it?”

  The Taos Hum. Sam had heard of it for years—she’d never actually heard the sound itself. Despite the efforts of scientists to capture it, no definitive proof had surfaced to their satisfaction. Meanwhile, those who claimed to hear the sound described it, variously, as a swarm of bees, a low diesel engine or a faraway locomotive. At the moment, all Sam could hear was the clamor of voices in the crowded room.

  She gave a rueful smile and shook her head. “I guess I’m not one of the sensitive ones.”

  “It can be anything from annoying to excruciating. Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy, like I want to hit something,” Nancy said, lowering her hands. “There, it’s fading now.”

  Sam’s phone rang before she was forced to comment. Julio had arrived in the unloading zone and needed help to get the van cleared in his allocated fifteen minutes. Sam hurried away to round up Kelly and Rupert and they rushed out through the garden.

  When they arrived back at the booth with their first load—two tables carried by Rupert and a Plexiglas display case, which Sam and Kelly managed between them—Nancy Nash gave their setup a critical eye, said “oh, my” and left.