Sweet's Sweets: The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  Zoë loved people, Sam knew, but it had to be hard having strangers in your home all the time. Zoë’s upbringing in a hippie commune in the ’60s might have prepared her for a large extended-family lifestyle, but Sam noticed that her friend cherished the time alone that she spent in her garden during the summer months. With autumn in its full glory now, she would be bedding down her plants for winter and then giving the large adobe house a thorough cleaning before the next round of tourists began.

  They pulled up in front of the sign place and Sam nearly shouted. There sat her formerly plain white van, now covered in cakes, cookies and chocolates. Her logo and shop name, SWEET’S SWEETS, were perfectly framed in ovals on either side and across the back windows. She couldn’t have asked for a better traveling billboard to advertise her new business.

  “Wow,” said Zoë. “I had no idea a vehicle could look so tasty.” Not quite the sugar addict that Sam and her customers were, Zoë nevertheless raved over the van’s new look. She gave Sam a hug and got back into her Subaru while Sam went inside to pay her bill.

  Sam took the long way back through town, making a few extra turns and thrilling to the stares of people who were learning the name of her new shop for the first time. She noticed more than one person in nearby cars jotting notes as she sat beside them in traffic.

  The upside of a new business was the excitement of having people discover it. The downside, Sam found, was when they discovered it before you were ready. The phone was ringing when she walked in the door.

  Four dozen scones for a tea tomorrow? Sure, no problem. Two cheesecakes for a women’s Bunko group? Absolutely. Cider and cookies for the kids at the elementary school’s Halloween festival next week? Yikes—this was getting complicated.

  Sam had barely enough time to answer the phone and write down the orders, and the castle birthday cake was nowhere near ready. She set the answering machine to handle the calls for the next two hours while she set about assembling the layers and making stacks of cupcakes into turrets. The unicorn finished off the piece better than a pony would have, she told herself as she sprinkled edible glitter over the banks of flowers, giving a magical sparkle to the finished piece.

  She loaded the cake into the back of her van, securing the cake board with blocks she’d created for the purpose, and looked again at the address where she was to deliver it. With two minutes to spare, she pulled up at the house just off Kit Carson Road.

  Party guests were already arriving and several of the mothers stopped her to ask about doing fancy cakes for them. Jumping through hoops to produce the rush order was going to prove profitable, Sam realized, in addition to the premium price she’d charged the customer for the tight deadline. She set the castle cake on the party table in the backyard and made sure that she’d left business cards with everyone who asked for one.

  When Kelly walked in at eight p.m., Sam had just pulled a batch of cranberry-apple scones from the oven. She was pressing her lower back against the kitchen counter, seeking relief from the hours on her feet.

  “I have to get some help with this,” she said when Kelly gave her a quizzical look. She held up the stack of order forms. “Seven more messages when I got home from delivering that birthday cake.”

  Kelly put the tea kettle on and splashed a generous dollop of amaretto liqueur into Sam’s. “Be careful what you wish for?”

  “Definitely.” Sam groaned and sank into one of the chairs at the kitchen table while Kelly brewed the tea.

  “How soon can you open the shop, Mom?”

  Sam sipped the comforting warmth and thought about it. “It’s the kitchen fixtures I’m waiting on and that guy in Albuquerque—ugh—can’t promise any earlier than Monday.”

  “So, let’s see how we might organize this,” Kelly said, taking a seat across from Sam. She picked up the stack of order forms and began sorting them by due dates. “Looks like some of these aren’t needed until later next week anyway. We’ll put them at the back of the stack and start with the most urgent.”

  We? This was Sam’s first clue that Kelly cared to become involved.

  “Mom, I think if we can get past these next few days, it’s all going to level off to a reasonable workload. Plus, once you get the shop open, people will come pick up their orders. You won’t have to dash all over town like you’re doing now.”

  “True. Only the specialty cakes will actually need to be delivered and set up. I was thinking about that last night as I cleaned up the shop. The storefront is nearly ready now. But how will I fill it? I can’t open up shop with nothing in the cases.”

  “I have an idea—if you’re interested.”

  “Anything.”

  “I reconnected with a couple of old friends today. Told you I’d fill you in. Well, remember Jennifer Baca? She’s looking for a job right now.”

  Sam searched her memory, coming up with a skinny little girl that Kelly used to invite for sleepovers. She couldn’t think of any outstanding feature about the kid, but then how many middle schoolers really show a lot of impressive traits?

  “Does she have any experience?”

  “Not in a bakery, but she’s worked in retail a lot. Her current job, which she hates because whole days go by without a customer walking in the door, is at one of the galleries just off the plaza. Jen has all the right whatever-you-call-it to deal with a classy clientele.”

  Sam thought about it. With someone up front, ringing up sales, taking orders, it would free her up to do nothing but bake. And if she could find a second person, someone to mix the recipes and take things in and out of the oven, leaving Sam to simply create and decorate . . . This was getting a lot closer to the ideal that she’d envisioned.

  “If Jen and I pitched in, and you were able to keep baking at home until the ovens get there . . . think we might get the doors open by Monday?”

  Sam took a deep gulp.

  Chapter 7

  Little Jennifer Baca was no longer the scrawny twelve-year-old that Sam had remembered. She’d driven over to the gallery where Kelly said Jen worked, hoping to catch her with a little free time for an informal interview and finding the place as devoid of customers as Kelly described. At thirty, Jen stood tall, slender and elegant in a broomstick skirt and silk tunic top that hugged her youthful curves and set off spectacular examples of turquoise and gold jewelry.

  Briefed in advance, Jennifer greeted Sam warmly and laughed with her at the memory of the time the girls had tried to bake brownies at midnight and Sam awoke to the shriek of the smoke alarm.

  “I’m a lot better at baking now,” Jen assured her. “But Kelly says that’s not what you need at the moment?”

  “Actually, I can use help in just about any way. At first, a person behind the counter who knows the difference between an éclair and a scone will be helpful. Pitching in with the baking, eventually learning the decorating—all of it will be necessary as the business grows.”

  Sam knew by the way Jen’s eyes lit up that she loved the idea.

  “I don’t know how much I can afford to pay right now. I’m new at this employer thing.”

  Jennifer named a figure that would cover her basic needs and Sam readily agreed.

  “If the phone calls keep coming in as they have been, I feel certain I can raise that amount fairly soon.”

  Jennifer glanced around the dead-quiet gallery. “Really, I’d probably pay you just to get me out of here. I thought I would enjoy working with a wealthy clientele, but they can be a real pain. If they actually show up. The gallery has been just like this all summer, and I’ll be surprised if the owners don’t shut it down soon.”

  Sam nodded. How many high-class art stores could a town this size support anyway? She started to respond but her cell phone rang. She glanced at the readout and asked the caller to hold on just a second. “Is there any chance you could start Monday?”

  Jennifer nodded agreement and Sam gave a little wave as she left the quiet building.

  “Hey, Beau. Sorry about that. I was ri
ght in the middle of hiring my first employee.”

  “I won’t keep you. Just thought I’d let you know that the DNA results came back on that blood. No match in any of the databases. I have the lab cross-checking it against a couple of Cheryl Adams’s family members that we located in Colorado. They don’t know where Cheryl is now but it’s possible the blood comes from one of her sons. I should have some results later today or tomorrow.”

  Despite feeling as if she were standing in a whirlwind, Sam was still curious about whatever had happened at the property on the south side that was now officially under her care. She told Beau to let her know how the lab results turned out.

  “Meanwhile, I’m back to working the case of that body SAR pulled from the gorge last night,” he said. “When the Medical Investigator’s office got to taking a closer look they found a wound. I don’t know details yet, but have to keep the possibility open that the guy didn’t just jump off the bridge.”

  They made a tentative plan to have dinner together Saturday night, but both knew that everything was up in the air at this moment. Sam speed-walked back to her van, where she found a business card tucked under the wiper—‘call me re catering a banquet’ was penned on the back in a masculine hand. Oh god, what have I gotten myself into?

  She sank into the van’s comfortable cushions as she dialed the number on the card. She left a voice message telling the man that she would be most happy to provide the pastries but really wasn’t set up for full catering services yet. Yet? she thought as she ended the call. What the Sam Hill was she thinking? She sighed but resisted calling the man back and revising the message. Take each thing as it comes, Sam.

  Zoë and Darryl’s bed and breakfast was only a couple of blocks away so she headed that direction, hoping to catch them both at home. In her dreams, Zoë would offer a soothing cup of tea and Darryl would say that the cabinetry for her shop was ready. In reality she got half her wish. At least it was the more important half.

  “If we can meet him there right now, the guy’s ready to deliver,” Darryl said. “I can give you about fifteen minutes, myself, then I have to meet the crew at one of my other jobs. Just tell Mack how you want the stuff.” He had his cell phone out and was already giving orders.

  Sam drove along behind Darryl’s big pickup truck, parked her van at the back door of her place and unlocked everything for the workers. Ten minutes later a large panel truck showed up and took four parking spaces out front. Mack began shouting orders. Darryl watched long enough to be sure that the cabinetry was indeed what Sam had ordered and then he headed out to his other job. Sam watched in awe as four burly men hefted the huge pieces and got them through the front door and began setting them in place. The ways in which massive items were built and put into service had always mystified her.

  “Oh, Samantha, it’s brilliant!”

  Sam turned to see her neighbor Riki bustling over from her own shop. The petite Brit wore a plastic apron over bright pink capris and tank top, and she was in the process of wiping suds from her hands with a towel.

  “I absolutely love it!” Her wild, dark curls sprung from a stretchy ponytail band and her green eyes sparkled.

  Sam couldn’t deny the younger woman’s enthusiasm. “Thanks. They did a great job, didn’t they?”

  “And your old pieces really fit with the new stuff, don’t they?”

  It was the one part of the design that had Sam a little worried, blending old and new. How to do it without striving too hard to match the pieces or risk ending up with a hodge-podge. Somehow, though, it all came together and just worked.

  “Well, back to the pooches,” Riki said. “I’ve got a sheepdog in the dryer and an unhappy spaniel who’s next up for the bath. Ta!”

  She headed back to her shop with a perky step that Sam envied.

  “Ms. Sweet?”

  Sam turned to find Mack holding out an invoice. She gave a final appraisal of the arrangement of the cabinets and displays, making sure everything was as she wanted it before the muscle men got away. While she was writing the check, Ivan Petrenko wandered over from the bookshop.

  “Is nice,” he commented as the panel truck pulled away. “I am liking your place, Samantha. I will to be sending customers to your way, I am certain.”

  They’d talked about perhaps asking Victor Tafoya about the possibility of cutting a doorway to join their businesses, but hadn’t done so yet. Sam still felt a little intimidated by the crusty old landlord.

  “I’ll return the favor,” she told Ivan. “But only when the customers don’t have sticky sugar on their hands.”

  “Spaciba, this is being the best way, for sure.” He spotted a car pulling up in front of his shop and hurried off.

  Sam smiled at his quirky thank-you. She stood in her doorway, staring into the shop, fixing the customers’ first impressions in her mind. Now she couldn’t wait to fill in the gaps and then see their reactions. In the weeks since she’d come into the money to open the shop she’d been buying and stashing away the smaller items. Her home, being an older one, had a small living room which was now crammed with all these extras. Aside from Kelly’s nightly addiction to the talk shows she’d recorded during the afternoons, the room wasn’t used all that much. Now, however, she could earnestly begin to move the business from her home to the shop. Finally.

  Quickly locking up before anyone else might drop by, Sam hurried to her van and drove home. Her answering machine blinked furiously and she played the messages back, making notes, finding only a couple of calls that needed immediate attention.

  She still had the order of scones to deliver, and she carefully placed them on the passenger seat of the vehicle. Then she began with the items portable enough to handle on her own—the coffee and tea equipment, trays for the smaller pastries on their display shelves, napkins, tissue paper, bags, boxes . . . it felt like there were a million things.

  Soon the van was full enough. She delivered the scones, drove up to a nearby fast food window for some lunch, and headed back to the shop. By mid-afternoon she began questioning her decision not to harness some of the energy she invariably got from the wooden box. At five o’clock she admitted defeat and went home, tired and aching.

  “Mom, are you okay?” Kelly asked, the minute she walked in the back door. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am. But I’m hoping some of these yummy aspirin will help.”

  “Don’t overdo it. How will the shop get going if you’ve killed yourself in the process?”

  “I know.” Sam set down her water glass and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Do you mind if we just order a pizza for dinner tonight?”

  Kelly placed the call and went out a few minutes later to pick it up. When she came back with a bottle of decent wine, Sam knew things were looking up. She filled her daughter in on the day’s activities.

  “So, now that Jen works for you, get her to do some of this stuff.”

  “I will. I will.” If I can ever get over this attitude that I have to do everything myself.

  Kelly saw the crease in Sam’s forehead. “You won’t. So I’m calling her for you.”

  It took all of two minutes and it was arranged that Jennifer would come to the house in the morning and spend the weekend with Sam, baking. They could surely produce enough cookies, muffins, éclairs and cheesecake to make a respectable showing in the bakery cases by Monday morning. Jen would man the register and work out the kinks in the system while Sam supervised installation of the commercial ovens and other equipment. They would consider this first week a soft opening, then plan a gala, a real full-fledged “introduce us to the world” opening the following weekend.

  She told all of this to Beau over dinner the following night at a local place known for its hearty soups and generous sandwiches, after they’d stopped at the shop so he could see the progress.

  “You’re amazing, you know,” he said. “I can’t believe the amount of work you’ve accomplished already.”

  And I can’t rea
lly tell you how, she thought, knowing that much of the labor had happened under the influence of the box’s energy. She’d never mentioned to him that she thought Bertha Martinez was appearing in her dreams. It was just too woo-woo for this solid Southerner to believe.

  “Thanks. Will you be able to come to our grand opening next Saturday night?”

  “Absolutely. Nothing—” His phone interrupted with an insistent tone. He reached for it and shrugged. “Almost nothing . . . sorry, I have to take this.”

  The downside of dating a deputy at a time when the department was short-handed and the sheriff was running for re-election, she supposed. She dunked a torn corner of her herb bread into her potato-leek soup and nibbled at it.

  Beau’s side of the conversation consisted of yeses and no’s. At one point he pulled his small notebook from a pocket and began to scribble notes. Sam finished her soup and let the waiter take her bowl.

  “Well,” he said, finally. “That was an interesting little piece of news.”

  “Can you tell me?” She’d learned that while he usually didn’t mind discussing his cases, relying on her discretion, sometimes it was strictly off limits.

  “No harm, I guess.” He stuffed the cell phone back in his pocket and spooned up some of his green chile stew. “The crime lab came back with an ID on that body, the one I told you about.”

  “From the gorge?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced around at the thinning dinner crowd and lowered his voice. “It was a local private investigator, Bram Fenton. He retired from police work in Arizona. I knew him. Not real well, but we’d consulted a few times over the years. Seemed like a straight arrow. Mostly insurance work, that kind of thing.”