Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery ssm-2

by Connie Shelton

  Sam tended to forget that these little girls were now in their thirties and it made perfect sense that they could be wives and mothers. She’d had a school-aged child at that time in her own life. By now she could very well be a grandmother, herself. She stifled that thought and asked Jen to write down Becky’s phone number for her.

  “Let me see when we’ll have our kitchen functioning before I make a commitment,” she said.

  She ducked into the back room again and saw that the men were putting their tools away. The new stainless steel baking ovens fit perfectly into the space where she’d envisioned them. And the big double-capacity sinks would be such a help when large bowls and all the utensils began to pile up. She gave Darryl a huge grin as he dismissed his crew.

  “What do I owe you?” she asked, looking around for his invoice.

  “Consider it a house-warming present. Or maybe that’s a shop-warming present.”

  “Oh, no, no, no. You can’t be giving away your services. You’ve got expenses,” she said, nodding toward the workers.

  “It was a slow afternoon. We’re waiting on an inspection on that house before we can go to the next phase.” He shook his head wryly.

  Sam laughed. “Call Gus’s brother-in-law again?”

  “I wish it was the same guy.” He set a toolbox near the back door. “Hey, I’ll tell you what I will let you do. Maybe a cup of coffee and a cookie or something while we wait for the inspector to show up? No doubt he’ll give you some kind of little punch list of things to fix, an excuse to delay you until he can come back again. There shouldn’t be much and I’ll hang around and fix it as he goes. That way we can hope to get you signed off yet today.”

  Sam grabbed his arm and led him into the front of the shop. “Your wish is my command. Take anything you want—everything you want! Jen, how fresh is that coffee?”

  “I just brewed a new pot. It’s that time of afternoon when a lot of people want a little break.”

  “Perfect. Pour the biggest mug we have for Darryl.”

  She watched the white-haired bear of a man settle at one of the tables with a slice of pumpkin cheesecake.

  “The place is looking great, Sam. Zoë better get over here to see it.”

  “Send her anytime. But it’ll be better later in the week.” She told him about the new awning that would go across the front of the shop, the large sign for the front of the building and the smaller, painted signs on the windows. “You guys are coming to the big gala on Saturday night aren’t you?”

  He mumbled through a mouthful of cheesecake, just as Sam looked up to see a man in dark slacks, white shirt, tie and leather jacket come through the front door. With a clipboard under his arm, this had to be the inspector. She smiled brightly.

  “That was worse than a GYN exam,” she complained to Kelly on the phone. Six o’clock and Sam felt dead on her feet. Mr. Hernandez was one of those self-important bureaucrats who couched his claws behind a smile. Every comment was, “This little thing doesn’t look quite right” or “You can understand why I’ll have to red-tag that.”

  All the while he put on a benevolent smile, as if he were presenting her with a gift. Which, in a way, she had to admit he was. He could have remained adamant about not even showing up for two more weeks.

  Thank heaven for Darryl. He’d played the game as well as she could imagine it being done. Jumping when the inspector said jump, fixing each small item as it was pointed out (turning the soap dispenser to face forward instead of to the right, for pete’s sake!); knowing when the guy was being plain unreasonable and putting up a polite argument; knowing when the man was flat-out wrong and pointing to the rule book when necessary. Sam could have never done it without the contractor’s help. She made a mental note to think of a suitable thank-you gift.

  “What can I do to help?” Kelly asked. “I could start something for dinner.”

  “That would be wonderful—something light. Just look in the freezer and pantry and see what’s there. I can’t think right now. Just remember the oven’s on the fritz.”

  Kelly assured her that she could find something. Sam hung up and then realized that she’d never gotten around to calling Becky Harper. At the moment she couldn’t imagine how she would manage to be open another day without some additional help. Jen had agreed, before leaving, to come in early again in the morning. But Sam just about despaired when she looked at the nearly empty display cases. She took a quick inventory and decided on the recipes she could make most quickly to assure that the store wasn’t bare by opening time at seven a.m.

  How would she do this every day and manage to throw a big party just five days from now?

  Chapter 11

  It was time for the box. Sam lay in the bathtub, soaking the ache from her muscles, barely remembering the dinner Kelly had prepared—grilled chicken and fresh veggies. Where had those come from? She couldn’t remember shopping for food in at least a week. She closed her eyes, breathing the herbal scent of the bubbles that floated up to her neck.

  I simply can not keep up at this pace without some help, she decided. Take it a day at a time, and you’ll get used to it, her other half said.

  Sometime between leaving the shop and arriving here in this bathtub she’d phoned Becky Harper. The timing was bad—Becky no doubt in the middle of making dinner for her family, kids screeching in the background, a job offer that she knew nothing about. Sam should have taken Jen up on her offer to call her friend and present the idea first. She’d gotten a somewhat hesitant promise that the younger woman could start work on Wednesday but only during the hours her kids were in school.

  I’ll use the energy from the box in the morning, Sam promised herself. Just this last time, no more. By mid-week I’ll have help. By the weekend the party will be done. By next week we’ll settle into a routine and it will all get easier. She really hoped it was true.

  She abandoned the tub once the water began to cool and headed straight for bed. The beside clock told her it was 8:47 but she couldn’t keep her eyes open one more minute.

  When the alarm went off at four-thirty Sam’s eyes flew open. She couldn’t remember setting it and wasn’t at all sure if it were morning or night. The bakery. If she didn’t get at least eight dozen things baked, she would have no product when the customers began to show up at seven. She sat up quickly, not allowing herself to get drowsy again. She might never get up if that happened.

  She turned her bedside lamp three clicks, to the brightest setting the bulb could offer. Slamming her eyes shut against the assault, she felt her way across the room to her dresser. The lumps of the carved wooden box felt familiar and comforting in her hands. She gradually opened her eyes, accepting the light in the room and the warmth from the box.

  Although the room was chilly with the household thermostats set low for the night, Sam felt quickly warmed by the glow from the box. As usual, energy traveled up her arms, through her body, to her core. When the tingle in her fingers became nearly painful she set the box back on the dresser.

  Changing from her nightshirt to the black slacks and white shirt she wore under her baker’s jacket, she checked herself in the mirror. Her skin looked fresh and young, her hair fell perfectly into its short layers. She dashed a bit of lipstick across her mouth and found her favorite gold hoop earrings.

  On the kitchen table lay a flyer announcing the gala party on Saturday and a note from Kelly: Bored last night after you went to bed, played around with design and came up with this. Let me know what you think. Oh, Beau called.

  Sam scrawled a big smiley-face at the bottom of Kelly’s note and the words: Love the design! Print out a couple dozen!

  By the time she’d loaded the heavy sacks of flour and sugar into the van, she was more than ready to fire up her new ovens and tackle the world.

  The plaza was eerily empty in the glow of old-fashioned street lamps when Sam cruised through. Thick frost coated everything and only a few brown leaves straggled on the trees. She cut across to the next block an
d again parked the van in front of her shop. Jen had left the sales room clean and neat; everything was ready for the baked goodies to fill the cases and for the coffee maker to infuse the air with that enticing early-morning scent. She sighed contentedly.

  An hour later four dozen muffins were ready and on display. Scones were in one oven, croissants in the other. She brought the remaining cheesecake slices out of the walk-in fridge and arranged them in paper cups, ready for individual sale. Once Jen arrived to handle the customers, Sam could continue to produce cookies, pies and a few cakes. She paged through her recipes—crumb cake, apple streusel, more cheesecake (the pumpkin had gone really well yesterday). She quickly wrote up a supply order and placed it online with her wholesaler for delivery by afternoon.

  Sam was just pulling the last of the scones from the oven when she heard the bell over the shop door.

  “Sam? What have you been doing?” Jen’s voice came through. “I thought I’d get here early to help, and look at this . . . the cases are nearly full.”

  Uh-oh. She hadn’t thought about how her unlimited energy would appear to someone who’d not seen her in action before.

  “Umm . . . well I couldn’t sleep,” she said as she placed the warm pastries onto the display trays. “You know, too excited I guess. Tossed and turned . . . So I gave up and came in.”

  “It’s barely six o’clock. That’s amazing.”

  Sam shrugged. “How about getting that coffee going and we’ll have ourselves a little breakfast before anyone else comes.”

  Bless her, Jen didn’t question. She put on an apron and started right in. Working by the half light of the back counter she efficiently measured water for the coffee and pressed all the right series of buttons.

  Sam stood by the windows, a blueberry scone in hand. “Winter’s coming on. The days are getting shorter, aren’t they?”

  Jen murmured something about snow flurries in the forecast.

  A tap at the window startled Sam and she nearly dropped her scone.

  “Beau! What are you doing out so early?” She closed the door behind him, shutting out the chilly air.

  “Once again, Padilla’s spending the day driving the far reaches of the county to campaign. Left me with two shifts. Is that coffee I smell?”

  Jen rushed to get him a mug and Sam told him to pick something to eat if he wanted. He chose a crumb-topped muffin and joined Sam at one of the tables.

  Jen quietly disappeared to the back, mumbling something about checking on the oven.

  “I got a warrant to search Bram Fenton’s office over on Paseo Montaño,” he said, taking a careful sip of the steaming coffee. “Now I just have to find the time to carry it out. We’re short staffed—again.”

  “I’m still curious about that,” Sam admitted. Even with the million and one things to think about at the shop, she couldn’t help but wonder about the connection between Cheryl Adams and the private investigator.

  Beau’s radio crackled and he set down his muffin to answer. Sam couldn’t make out much of the scratchy voice and hadn’t a clue about the code numbers but Beau told her it was a bad traffic accident out north of Questa.

  “Guess I’ll have to wrap this up to go,” he said. “I’ll try to stop by later, but this mess could take a few hours.”

  Sam sent him on his way carrying fresh coffee in a foam cup with travel lid. She’d not even closed the door behind him when a woman in a Lexus pulled into the spot nearest the front door. The car jolted to a stop.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re open,” the lady said breathlessly, stepping onto the curb. “I have a slight emergency.”

  “Well, uh—” Sam couldn’t very well afford to lose her first customer of the day by being picky about shop hours. “Certainly. Come on in. How can we help you?”

  The woman pulled her wool coat around her and sidestepped through the partially open door. Slender and blond, wearing a slim skirt and angora sweater with supple leather boots and gold jewelry, she had that willowy grace and way of wearing upscale clothing that said she had money. She smiled at Sam with genuine gratitude.

  “I’m afraid I’m in deep you-know-what if I don’t show up with pastries for the rally this morning.” She breezed over to the display cases and began perusing. After a moment she looked up. “You’re Samantha Sweet, aren’t you? We’ve spoken on the phone.”

  A light came on. “Mrs. Tafoya? I’m sorry, I should have recog—”

  “Elena. Please.” She held out her hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard such wonderful things about your pastries. My sister is conference coordinator at Casa de Tranquilidad in Santa Fe.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize—well it’s great to meet you. I’ve got everything planned for your husband’s victory cake next Tuesday. Would you like to see the sketches?”

  Elena glanced at her watch. “I don’t have time now. I’m so sorry. I’m supposed to be at that rally in five minutes.” She looked almost panicky as she said it. “I’ll need about fifty items, just mix them up.”

  Jen walked in with a tray of hot croissants that she’d just taken from the oven.

  “Oh, yes, those would be nice,” Elena said. “And muffins, and some of the scones, too.”

  Jen assembled boxes while Sam picked out the nicest of the pastries and began filling them. Elena Tafoya pulled out a credit card, signed the slip and Sam helped her carry her purchases to the Lexus.

  “Thank you so much for your business,” she said as she slipped the two purple boxes onto the back seat.

  “My pleasure. The shop is just delightful. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me.” She gave Sam a quick hug, got into the car and sped away.

  I hope so, thought Sam as she walked back into the warm, fragrant building. A customer like that could provide a real boost to the business. She glanced at the decimated supply of pastries. However . . . now she had to hustle to be ready for the rest of her patrons.

  “Rearrange everything so it doesn’t look so skimpy,” she told Jen. “I’m going to whip up some more muffins and scones real quick.”

  When the doors officially opened thirty minutes later, four dozen muffins were awaiting, still warm and Sam was just pulling blueberry-almond scones from the oven. She’d also mixed up the secret recipe for her amaretto cheesecake so it would have time to bake and cool for the after-lunch crowd.

  The next few hours disappeared, as Sam continued to mix and bake. She whipped up buttercream icing and decorated four trays of Halloween cookies and two dozen cupcakes for the holiday, now less than a week away. They brightened the display cases and quickly disappeared as parents remembered commitments to their kids’ classrooms.

  At some point the delivery of supplies arrived and Sam worked like a stevedore to unload and stow the new ingredients. It was such a joy to actually have places for everything and to see her new shelves fully stocked—far better than the old days when every corner of her kitchen would be piled with sacks of flour and tubs of butter and shortening.

  “You ought to take a break sometime, you know.” Jen appeared at the doorway, brushing her hands on her apron. “You were really tired yesterday. Don’t want to wear yourself out in the first two days.” She smiled to let Sam know she wasn’t being preachy.

  “I know.” Sam peeked into the sales area. All the cases looked full and appealing. She’d put a few finishing touches on the design for candidate Tafoya’s victory cake, and had even begun sketching out ideas for her own gala cake. It wouldn’t do for a pastry shop to hold a grand opening without a spectacular cake of their own.

  “What time is it, anyway?” she asked Jen.

  “After four.” The younger woman was clearly amazed at how much her boss had produced in a day but the front door chime saved Sam from having to come up with an explanation.

  “Yoohoo, it’s me again.” Elena Tafoya breezed in, much more relaxed now, dressed in a different outfit that managed to be both casual and chic.

  Sam grabbed up the drawings of the celebration c
ake and walked out to greet her.

  “You’ve been busy,” Elena remarked, turning in place to admire the shop.

  Sam looked down at her apron and noticed smudges of orange frosting. “Sorry.” She whipped off the apron and folded it so the marks didn’t show.

  “No apology, Samantha. The place is absolutely magical! I can only guess how much work this must be.”

  You probably can’t, thought Sam, but she smiled at the compliment. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee and maybe some cheesecake? I was just about to take a break myself.”

  “Thank you, Sam. That would be lovely.” Sam felt a rush of compassion toward the woman who seemed so grateful for the small act of kindness.

  While they sat at a table with their desserts, Sam spread out the design ideas for the victory cake. Elena made a couple of suggestions, clearly things that her husband might pick out. Sam wondered—was Elena Tafoya truly happy with money and prestige? Or was she simply rushing through her days, living to please an overly-particular man?

  Before she left, Elena bought a half-dozen Halloween cookies, “for my neighbor’s kids.” Sam detected a note of sadness but Elena made no further comment.

  She shook off the feeling when Elena left the shop.

  Jennifer locked up and left at five, as Sam was finishing the last of the cleanup in the kitchen. When she totaled her register she was thrilled to see that they’d had a second great day. Maybe this venture would be a success after all.

  She hung her baker’s jacket on a hook in the storage area and headed for the van, finding herself thinking of Beau. Throughout the day, their discussion of the dead private investigator kept coming back to her.

  Since Paseo Montaño was on her way home . . . on an impulse she made a couple of turns and cruised slowly down the street where the investigator’s office was. She didn’t know the exact address but it was a short road, and when she spotted Beau’s cruiser on the right, she pulled in beside it.