Sweet Holidays: The Third Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  “Just checking to see if you got that new property winterized,” Crow said after she greeted him.

  She assured him that she’d done her duties and described the mysterious things she’d noticed—the crusty dishes, the unmade bed and other signs of a hasty exit.

  “I don’t know, Sam. I’m only going by my paperwork, and it only tells me that the mortgage wasn’t paid.” Mr. Friendly, as usual.

  Sam went to bed that night with a hundred questions plaguing her.

  Chapter 8

  Despite the rocky start to her night’s rest, Sam must have fallen into a deep sleep because she woke to the beeping of her alarm, feeling as if she’d only put her head on the pillow minutes earlier. She stretched luxuriously and sat up. For a moment she felt completely at ease, but then she remembered it all—the new chocolatier, the stack of holiday orders, the fact that Kelly would now be working for her, and the nagging questions about that large, luxurious adobe house, abandoned.

  She gave one more indulgent stretch, rolled her shoulders and headed for the bathroom. A steaming shower and a few extra minutes to massage conditioner into her hair made her wish she had the luxury of bundling into a robe and spending the morning with a good book. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in that particular favorite pastime. The pastry shop was closed on Sundays, and she promised herself she would truly take the time off this weekend—away from all other concerns.

  She dressed by the soft lamplight in her bedroom, taking a few extra minutes with the blow dryer so her hair wouldn’t be damp when she went out into the frigid outdoors. Her mother’s words always came back, the oft-repeated caution about catching your death of cold if you went out with wet hair. Silly, she thought, flipping the soft layers with her brush. Any scientist or doctor would tell you that colds were caused by viruses, not the weather. But she dried it anyway—old habit.

  Her wooden jewelry box sat on the dresser, dark and cold now. Sam almost felt guilty, as if she’d not paid enough attention to it recently, as if the strange carved box had a personality. She lifted the lid and took out her favorite earrings. The box didn’t react. She picked it up, holding it at arm’s length, with both hands. Heat began to seep into her hands, almost like holding them out to the fireplace to take the chill off. When she tucked it into the crook of her arm, the wood took on a golden glow and the warmth immediately suffused her entire upper body.

  “Enough of that.” She set the box back on the dresser, noticing that the stones of green, blue and red that were mounted in its surface were taking on a glow of their own.

  She rubbed her hands against her pant legs and shook them. “You are not some kind of a pet. You are not my friend. You are not going to affect me this way.”

  The box’s glow wavered, dimmer and brighter.

  She’d experienced unimaginable things since taking possession of this object—the ability to see things other people couldn’t, some kind of strange healing touch, intuitive observations of people’s emotions, energy almost inhuman.

  It unnerved her.

  She opened a drawer in the dresser and set the box inside, closing it away from her view. Forcing her attention back to the present, Sam walked into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. Although she normally grabbed her first cup at the bake shop, her daughter would probably want a caffeine jolt the minute she woke up. They’d agreed that Kelly would come in for work when Sweet’s Sweets opened at seven. Meanwhile, Sam knew that the shop couldn’t open until she provided something for the customers to buy.

  The frozen ground crunched under her feet as she walked out to her truck. The big Silverado cranked to life immediately. Sam had come close to selling it last summer; now she was glad she hadn’t.

  The alley behind Sweet’s Sweets sat in darkness, dimly illuminated by the glow of the one streetlamp at the end of the block. Sam fumbled her key into the ice-cold lock and didn’t see Gustav Bobul until he spoke.

  “Good morning, Miss Sam.”

  “Bobul! You startled me!” She patted at her thumping heart.

  He didn’t respond, merely waited patiently with that bulging canvas bag across his chest until she got the door open and the lights switched on. She covered her irritation at his silent appearance by bustling through her startup routine—turning on the bake oven, pulling butter from the refrigerator to soften, putting on her baker’s jacket. When she turned back toward him, she noticed a faint smile on his face.

  “Is gift for you, Miss Sam,” he said. He pointed with one of his delicate hands at an object he’d set on the work table.

  Crafted in chocolate, it was a rectangular box about three inches on the longest side. The surface was covered with criss-crossed diagonal lines, giving it a quilted appearance. Uncannily like her wooden box at home.

  “What’s this, Bobul?”

  “Is gift. See? Lid come off.” He reached out and opened the little box. Inside were some tiny objects.

  “No, I mean what is this? This shape, the pattern on it, the lid. What did you base it on?”

  He shrugged, clearly not understanding the question.

  Oh, never mind. He watched expectantly. “It’s lovely, Bobul. A very pretty chocolate creation.”

  “Bobul can make these for shop. Customers will like. Can put things in.”

  Sam peered into the hollow interior of the chocolate box. The items he’d placed inside were fashioned of chocolate. Painted with edible gold dust, they resembled jewelry.

  She stared at him but he only seemed eager that she appreciate the gift.

  “It’s nice, Bobul, and I’ll think about adding them to the shop. But for now, we need more of the types of chocolates you made yesterday. I’m going to order gift boxes so we can sell assortments of your pieces.”

  He gave a quick nod and placed his bag beside the table then hurried to retrieve the molded chocolates he’d made the previous afternoon. By the time Sam got her first batches of muffins and scones into the oven, he’d covered the table top with bowls and paraphernalia and was happily melting a new pot of chocolate at the stove.

  The tiny chocolate box sat out of harm’s way on her desk. She sat down to order the gift boxes they would need for the new chocolate assortments but her eyes kept drifting from her computer screen to the little box. Could it be pure coincidence that it looked so much like the wooden box with the strange powers? The box given to her by a supposed witch?

  Sam discreetly laid a sheet of paper over the distracting object and got back to her order. With a couple of online searches beyond her normal packaging suppliers she came up with two sizes of containers, estimating that one would accommodate a half-pound of assorted chocolates and the other would work for a one-pound selection. The boxes were covered in an icy pink iridescent paper that would coordinate beautifully with her signature purple embossed labels. Or, a red holiday bow would really set off the special look. She spotted deeper boxes with unique fold-down tops, which would be perfect for the sets of four truffles for Mira Southwell’s wedding, Sam double checked her shopping cart and placed the order.

  At some point while she’d been engrossed with the computer order, the muffins had come out of the oven. Bobul must have removed them and set the pans into the cooling racks. Sam brought them out and drizzled vanilla glaze over the tops of cranberry-orange muffins, then gave a shake of snowy powdered sugar to the apple-cinnamon ones and carried them out to the display cases in the sales room. A tap on the front window caught her attention.

  “Riki, hi!” she said, letting the owner of the neighboring business inside. The curly-haired British woman who hardly outweighed some of the dogs she groomed, scooted in and gave Sam a hug.

  “I’m so glad I spotted you,” she said. “I’ve been dying for a scone to go with my breakfast tea. Are there any?”

  “One minute. I just finished blueberry and some cherry-amaretto. Of course you can also just get a plain one.”

  “Ooh, the cherry-amaretto would be brilliant!”

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nbsp; “Sorry the coffee isn’t on yet. Kelly and Jen should be here any time, to really get everything set up.”

  “No problem. My pot of tea is ready. I’ve got twenty minutes before my first poodle comes in this morning. Wait, you said Kelly is working here now?”

  That led to the whole explanation about Beau and his mother’s situation as Sam carried a tray of scones to the front. Upon seeing them Riki couldn’t narrow down her choice and ended up taking one of each flavor. Sam had just closed the door behind her when she heard voices from the back. Evidently the whole staff was here.

  Jen and Kelly chattered away as they put on their shop aprons and bustled to the front, setting up the coffee service, turning on lights, making sure they were ready for customers. Bobul already had a good-sized plate of finished truffles—these dipped in dark chocolate and decorated with tiny winter designs—detailed crystalline snowflakes, striped candy canes and Christmas trees fashioned of chocolate. How did the large man create such captivating miniatures?

  “These are amazing, Bobul. Are they ready for the customers?”

  “Da, Miss Sam. And here are some more.” He held out the molded chocolates he’d begun the night before. A marbled red vein swirled across the top of each piece, making the firm squares look as if they’d been chiseled from a block of dark stone.

  Sam hustled the delicacies out to the sales area. “Cut a couple of these truffles into small pieces for samples.”

  She caught Kelly eyeing the candy with a greedy eye. “Samples for the customers,” she reminded firmly. “Jen, you keep an eye on her.”

  Back in the kitchen, Sam checked her stack of custom orders for the day. As soon as Becky came in, she could start baking cake layers and creating some of the simpler frosting decorations like roses. Meanwhile, Sam stirred up two of their more popular coffee cake recipes and got them into the oven for the morning crowd. As they baked, she consulted the folder Zoë had given her and performed calculations to triple some of the Jewish cookie recipes.

  “Is a good kitchen you have here,” Bobul said, watching as Sam took the spice-filled coffee cakes from the oven.

  “It’s nice working with good equipment, that’s for sure,” she answered.

  “No . . . not what I mean. Is good how fast Miss Sam work. Turn out the best . . . what is word? . . . quality. Top quality in fast time. Almost like magic.”

  She looked up, searching for a hint of knowledge in his face. But he had turned away, his back to her as he stirred a pan of chocolate on the stove. What was it about this guy? Could it be purely coincidental that he’d made a chocolate box that was nearly an exact miniature of her own, and then the little hints . . .? No, she had to chalk it up to being overly sensitive about his presence.

  The back door opened before she had a chance to say anything more. Her baking assistant, Becky came in on a gust of chill air.

  “Good morning. Sam. Sorry that I couldn’t come in yesterday. I’ll get right to—” Her voice broke off when she noticed Bobul at the stove and she turned to Sam with an expression full of questions.

  “Becky, meet Gustav Bobul, our new chocolatier.”

  He gave her a quick nod and turned back to his work.

  “I . . . uh . . . Nice to meet you.”

  “Jen convinced me that our customers were interested in chocolates and if yesterday’s sales were any indication . . . well, I’d say she was right.” Sam ushered Becky through the connecting curtain.

  A quick look at the new offerings and Sam brought Becky’s attention back to the cake and pastry orders for the day. Two children’s birthday cakes needed to be finished before noon, then she wanted to experiment with the new Hanukkah recipes in addition to filling the displays with a solid assortment of Santas, wreaths and trees. The best thing, Sam had discovered, about hiring Becky was that she worked efficiently, with a minimum of direction. Soon, the scent of cake layers filled the kitchen.

  Sam was in the midst of cutting poinsettia leaves from red-tinted chocolate when Jen’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Sheriff Cardwell is here, Sam. Would you like to come out, or should I send him back?”

  She glanced at Bobul. “I’ll be right there.”

  Beau in uniform always took her breath away. She still had a hard time getting over the fact that this man who could easily be posing for sexy cologne ads would be interested in her, the chubby baker with no makeup, whose hair always seemed to be in need of a trim. It was probably the most endearing thing about him, the fact that he saw through most people’s superficiality and was more interested in a genuine relationship. His smile lit up when he spotted her and she resisted the urge to check her clothing for flour smudges and dabs of frosting.

  “How is Iris this morning?”

  “I was just telling Kelly, she’s better. There is movement now on her left side and she’s starting to work at talking. The doctor is very encouraged.” Beau squeezed Sam’s hand. “And me, at least I’m back at work now.”

  “I need to go by and see her.”

  “She’s not real perky yet, but we’ll take a day at a time. Look, I wanted to let you know that I did a little background on that Montague guy you were asking about.” They walked to a quiet corner and sat at one of the tables. “There’s not much. He’s got no criminal record. Bought that house about fifteen years ago. As far as I could tell, he’s never filed a complaint and no one has filed one against him. I’d have to go deeper to find out anything about his credit rating or any of that. And you’d need more than simple curiosity to get into those records anyway.”

  “Sure. I understand.” Sam fiddled with a wooden stir stick. “I need to just let go of this. It’s really none of my business why he left abruptly. Worrying that something might have happened to him isn’t really my department, is it? I’m only supposed to take care of the house.”

  “That’s right,” he said, standing up. “Meanwhile, I need to get back to w—” He stopped in front of the display of Bobul’s chocolates. “Wow, these are nice. I didn’t know you made chocolates too.”

  Sam felt the blood rush to her face. “We’re having someone else do them.” That much was true.

  But Beau had turned toward the door. With a quick wave to the girls, he walked out to his cruiser.

  Sam gave a sigh of relief and completely immersed herself in her work after Beau left. Cakes left for birthday parties, cookies and biscotti met up with afternoon shoppers looking for a short break in their perusal of the galleries, and two batches of cookie dough chilled in the fridge, waiting to be rolled out and cut into holiday shapes.

  By the time Sam took a deep breath and looked up, it was nearing four o’clock and she could already sense the sky darkening and the night chill returning.

  “I better run by that house in Talpa and be sure all the pipes held last night,” she told Kelly.

  “Is this for sale?” Kelly asked, holding up the little chocolate box Bobul had given Sam that morning. The chocolatier had his back turned as he worked at the sink.

  Sam glanced at her daughter. “Mmm . . . sure.” She slipped on her warm coat. “Can you help Jen close up, then bring the bank bag home for me?”

  “It already looks like a good day,” Kelly said, placing the little chocolate box into a bag. She pointed out that all the chocolates were once again gone, along with a good portion of the baked goods.

  “Excellent.” Sam reiterated with Bobul that the bakery would be closed on Sunday but that he should come in early Monday morning.

  She drove through town with her truck window halfway down, the frigid air bracing her after the long hours near the warmth of the bake ovens. The sun had been out all day leaving only a trickle of brownish water heading toward the storm drains. At the big adobe house in Talpa, the front lawn was completely clear. Surprisingly green blades of grass poked through the brown. Another cold night and they, too, would surely retreat for the winter.

  Remembering her flashlight, Sam let herself in the back door with her new ke
y. She aimed the light at the pipes under the kitchen sink and was relieved to find no wet spots. The two guest bathrooms were similarly clear and she headed for the master bedroom and bath. Plumbing seemed intact there as well. Maybe she could just ignore the place now and let the wheels of procedure take over. There would be foreclosure papers and probably more—she wasn’t exactly sure what all would happen.

  The thought that no one might be in the house for months gave rise to the idea that maybe she should close all the drapes, prevent curious types from being able to see inside quite so easily. She crossed the bedroom toward the French doors. Then something crunched under her foot.

  She looked down. Broken glass. Blue. She shined the flashlight at the shards. Some kind of small object—maybe a vase—must have fallen from the end table on this side of the bed and crashed to the tile floor, missing the edge of the rug at the bedside. She squatted and poked at them with her index finger. The blankets and sheets still trailed to the floor, and Sam got a weird feeling that someone had held onto them, dragging them away forcefully. Could there have been a struggle of some sort?

  She closed her eyes and calmed her mind, then opened them again and tried to let images come to her. Sometimes it worked, especially after she’d handled the wooden box. But not today. She’d picked it up this morning, but that was hours ago and she got no clear impressions now.

  Still, something wasn’t right. Maybe if she could just find someone related to the owner, let them know that the house was empty and that a family member should take care of it. She gave up, gathered the broken shards, and dropped them into a nearby wastebasket.

  The late afternoon sun came at the house from the opposite side now, leaving the bedroom feeling shadowed and gloomy. She used her flashlight to get a quick peek into each of the nightstand drawers but didn’t come across an address book or anything helpful. There’d been a study down the hall, she remembered, so she headed that direction.

  The large desk stood in a bright shaft of light, the western window providing the day’s final illumination. A printer sat on a small table beside it, cables dangling to the floor, no computer in sight. Had it been that way on her previous visit? Sam took a seat in the large leather-covered chair and started with the top drawer. Pens, paperclips and a host of little office junk filled that one. The second drawer contained hanging file folders but it would take awhile in the gloomy light to page through all of them. None were conveniently labeled “Names and Addresses of Family Members” so she went on.