Sweet Masterpiece - The First Sweet’s Sweets Bakery Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Chapter 15

  Sam had to admit that she didn’t sleep a lot that night. She had one nightmare in which she was about ninety and Kelly, in her seventies, was trying to convince her that she should go into a nursing home. Kelly still occupied the spare bedroom in Sam’s house and by the look of it hadn’t left in forty years. She woke from that one in a sweat.

  Then she began obsessing over how she’d ever pull off Rupert’s little deception with the art dealer. An actress, she was not. There was simply no way he could pack her chunky body into anything designer. Her brain raced through the contents of her closet, the supply of jeans, stretch pants and work shirts, with the nicest thing she owned being a black crepe dress she’d bought for a funeral three or four years ago. And shoes—forget that. She owned three pair of sneakers, the black patent leather pumps to go with the black dress, and some Birkenstock knock-offs from Wal-Mart. Surely Rupert was fashion savvy enough to know that he’d never seen her wearing anything that could remotely fit the role.

  By three a.m. she’d slid into delirium, considering whether the costume shops would be open this far in advance of Halloween. By five, she gave up on sleep and got up. A lengthy reconnoiter of her closet revealed exactly what she already knew. Nothing.

  She brewed some coffee, then went into the bathroom and studied the mirror. This idea was becoming laughable. That face had too many bags and pouches, not to mention years of sunshine without benefit of weekly facials. Any fool could see that no spa had ever spent a day on this wreck. Sam had nearly sunk into despair when Rupert appeared at her back door at eight.

  “Rupe, I . . .”

  “Not to fear, dear lady. I thought about this all night.”

  Please let him say he’s changed his mind, she silently begged. We’re backing out of this idiotic scheme.

  He held up a garment bag. “I have the perfect thing.”

  He bustled into her bedroom, tossed the bag on the bed and unzipped it. “Now, as I recall, you have a nice little basic black dress.”

  How would he remember that? Gay men and fashion sense, she supposed. She pulled it from the closet, checking the tag to be sure it wasn’t left over from two sizes ago.

  “Put it on,” he prompted.

  He busied himself with the contents of the garment bag while Sam shed her robe and stepped into the dress.

  “Now, to top it off . . .” He held up a jacket in vivid turquoise silk, sewn in concentric panels so that the nap created a sunrise effect. She slipped her arms into it and discovered that it fit perfectly.

  “It was a little small on me,” he said. He noticed her expression. “Hey, I had to describe it accurately when I wrote Helena Deveau wearing it in Passion’s Glory. The rogue, Max Everhard, cast it into the river right before he took her, there in the forest.”

  Sam hadn’t read that one, and suddenly was glad of that omission. He cleared his throat and turned back to the bag. From a small silk pouch he produced a white gold Patek Philippe watch with diamonds lining the face (another research expense?) and a tasteful string of pearls.

  “Rupe, this must have cost thousands!”

  “Twenty-five seven. Put it on.”

  Yikes, what if something happened to the thing. Sam double-checked the clasp.

  “The shoes,” he announced. “I seem to remember that you wear a nine.”

  “How do you—?” Never mind. She rummaged in a drawer and came up with hosiery in a new package. No way were her legs in shape to go bare. She re-checked the expensive watch clasp and put her plain-jane digital one into her new jewelry box.

  “What time are we meeting this woman?” Sam sat at her dresser, stroking the lumpy surface of the box. It warmed her chilled fingers.

  He stared at the back of his wrist. “In fifteen minutes. Not to worry, my dear. The wealthy are always fashionably late. If we’re there by ten she won’t worry. In fact, let her worry. She thinks we’re going to spend a shitload of money this morning.”

  “So I have time to drop off a platter of brownies at the bookstore?”

  “Absolutely. Now let’s decide about your makeup.” He walked over to stand behind Sam and looked at her face in the mirror. “Girl, I don’t know what you’ve been doing but your skin is absolutely radiant. Is that new deputy sheriff making your eyes sparkle like that?”

  “No. there is no sparkle between us.” She blushed when he caught the fib in the mirror.

  She didn’t want to admit that she’d scarcely thought of Beau in the last twelve hours, with everything else on her mind. And she certainly didn’t tell Rupert that only an hour ago she’d felt hopeless over her looks. He was right. The woman staring back at her now was a younger, slimmer version of herself. Glowing. He picked up her hairbrush and with a couple of deft flips, got the shaggy strands to behave perfectly.

  Sam stared at the little wooden box and swore that the colored stones were more brilliant than she’d ever seen them.