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

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Sweet Holidays: The Third Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 9

by Connie Shelton


  Sam smiled. “Our chocolates are good. I’m glad you liked it.”

  “That’s not the thing. See, my daughter and her husband were having problems. She came over to tell me she was leaving him. I was so afraid that they would break up and leave the children with terrible memories of Christmas without their mother.”

  Sam tried to figure out where this story was going.

  “Jake walked into the room just as we were finishing the chocolate. He and Christine took one look at each other and it was like it was their wedding day. They had such love in their eyes, they hugged, they kissed. They completely made up. They’re back together, as if nothing bad ever happened.”

  Power of suggestion? Sam worked to keep her expression neutral. “That’s wonderful news. I’m so happy to hear it.”

  “So now I need another one,” the woman said.

  “But the problem is fixed.”

  “Oh, the second box would be for my son. He’s so lonely. He needs a girlfriend but the right one hasn’t come along.”

  Oh boy. What if Sweet’s Sweets became known as a rescue place for the lovelorn? Sam took a look at the woman’s wistful expression. Oh, hell, what could it hurt? She took the lady’s elbow and steered her toward the sales counter.

  “All of our chocolates are made with the same ingredients. I’m sure you’ll find these varieties will also be to your liking.”

  As the lady chose a box and pulled out money to pay for it, Sam almost stopped her. What if she didn’t get the results she wanted? This was crazy. No chocolate box had saved someone’s marriage. It was purely coincidence. This lady’s family situation would turn out however it was meant to turn out.

  The cash register dinged and Jen handed over the boxed chocolates. “Have a magical day,” she said.

  Sam sent her a look, as the customer walked out the door.

  “What? I always say that,” Jen said.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s fine.” It better be fine, Sam thought as she wandered to the back, remembering that she still needed to call Montague’s insurance company.

  It took about thirty minutes to get the agent to understand who she was and why she cared about someone else’s home. It wasn’t until she glanced over the inventory list that she’d carried in her pack that morning and did the head-math to the tune of over a million dollars, that he got the idea that maybe it would be smart to have heat in the house. He agreed to work things out with the electric co-op and to get on it immediately.

  Sam pushed back in her chair and took a breath.

  Bobul continued to work his delicate magic with his chocolate. Racks of finished creams, truffles and molded holiday shapes sat all around him. Kelly was at work with plastic-gloved hands, choosing assortments and filling the boxes.

  “We’re nearly out of the first batches,” Sam said. “Take these out front as you get them ready.”

  She got to her feet and checked out the condition of the rugelach dough she’d left in the fridge. Perfect. As she rolled it out and cut it into wedges she found herself wondering if Beau was learning anything from Montague’s neighbors. Maybe they could chat tonight and catch up.

  She smeared half of the small dough triangles with apricot jam and began rolling them up like little crescent rolls. The other triangles got a treatment of cinnamon and sugar, with a sprinkling of finely chopped walnuts. Once they went into the oven, Sam popped out to the sales area to see how things were going. Several of the gift-boxed chocolates were already gone and Jen was ringing up a sale for two more. Hiring Bobul was turning out to be one of her better business decisions.

  Riki Davis-Jones, the next-door dog groomer, bustled in wearing her plastic apron over jeans and a bright red sweater. She dropped some bills on the counter and grabbed up the two boxes of chocolates.

  “A customer told me about these. Sam, you’ve been keeping secrets . . .”

  If she only knew.

  “If I can get these out to the post today, they might still make it to me mum in time. She’s a big fan of chocolate at Christmas.” She seemed to belatedly remember the apron, and began pulling it off as she headed out the door.

  She passed Rupert, who looked like a man with a purpose—a purple-clad man with a purpose—as he pushed his way into the store.

  “Girl, I want to know why I had to hear it on the street that you’ve got a chocolate wizard in your shop now,” he said, grabbing Sam in a hug before she had time to say hello.

  “He’s just been here a couple of days, Rupe. Sorry I forgot to mention it.”

  “So, let me in on the delectable secret. What’s he making today?”

  Sam held up the plate of samples and he promptly grabbed up one that featured a chocolate truffle base with a scattering of sugar snowflakes.

  He actually whimpered as he let the first bite dissolve on his tongue. “Must have. Must have,” he mumbled.

  “This maple cream with the burnt sugar base is amazing too,” Jen said, and Rupert immediately reached for a sample piece of that one as well.

  “Oh my, yes.” He eyed the boxes stacked near the register.

  “These contain assortments.” Jen raised the lid of one to reveal a dozen, each chocolate morsel elegantly decorated with winter and holiday motifs. “Or, we can make up full boxes of any flavor you would like.”

  Sam glanced toward the kitchen, hoping that Bobul and Kelly were keeping up.

  Rupert’s gaze went to the ceiling as he ticked off a checklist on his fingers. “I’ll need seven boxes for tonight—opera guild gathering, you know. The assorted ones will be excellent.”

  Jen pulled the five remaining boxes aside and picked up the intercom to request that Kelly bring more.

  “I really started out for a slice of your fabulous pumpkin cheesecake,” he told Sam. “Join me?”

  Traffic in the shop had slowed a bit, and Jen seemed to have everything under control. Kelly bustled through the doorway and set down ten more boxes of chocolates. Jen snagged the ones she needed to finish Rupert’s order, and another customer immediately took one for herself. Sam raised an eyebrow toward Kelly, which was meant to convey keep it coming!

  Rupert had poured two mugs of the Sweet’s Sweets house-blend coffee and took a seat at one of the bistro tables, lighting up when Sam put his pumpkin cheesecake in front of him. She’d noticed a damaged blueberry muffin in the display case. Not perfect enough for a customer, she decided, so she’d taken it for herself. It felt good to simply sit down for a few minutes.

  “Anything new with Will Montague’s big mystery?” Rupert asked, once he’d polished off two hefty bites of his dessert.

  Sam glanced around the shop. At least he’d waited to ask until there were no other customers.

  “Beau is looking into it. Things don’t look quite right there.”

  “I’ll say. That horrid mask!”

  “Rupe, you’re not telling anyone else about this are you? I mean, please don’t.”

  “Sam, I am the soul of discretion. Truly.”

  Yeah, but he was also a romance writer and a gossip, and who knew what stories might end up either in a book or as the latest tell-all at a dinner party.

  “The man obviously wanted to keep that particular collection hidden away, privately. We have to respect that,” she said, pulling bite-sized hunks off the muffin.

  He squirmed a little. “I know. I won’t say anything at all until I have the chance to clear it personally with Will.”

  Now Sam squirmed—she couldn’t very well tell Rupert about the blood they’d found in Montague’s bedroom. Or that there was a very good chance something awful had happened to his friend. He might not ever be coming back.

  She covered by taking a long sip from her coffee.

  “I know you and he hung out with the same group of art lovers,” she said. “Has anyone said anything about where he might have gone?”

  “Not a word. But I’ll tell you who we might talk to. Bunny Fitzhugh. They say she and Will go way back. Rumor was that at one ti
me—”

  “Rupert—” Sam tilted her head toward the sales counter, where two new customers were perusing the displays. Rupert finished off his cheesecake while they made their selections and left.

  “Maybe Ms Fitzhugh would know if Montague had travel plans,” she said as he sipped the last of his coffee. “Do you think it would be possible for me to ask her a few questions?”

  Rupert glanced at his Rolex, then pulled a phone from somewhere in the depths of the black and purple wool coat he’d draped over the back of his chair. He held the little instrument out at arm’s length and squinted as he thumbed down a list.

  When he started the conversation with “Bunny! Darling!” Sam got up to carry their cups and plates to the back. She lost track of the exchange as she scanned the kitchen to be sure everything was running smoothly. Her rugela were waiting in golden splendor on a cooling rack, Bobul hummed as he worked in his own little world, and Kelly had nearly finished boxing the finished chocolates.

  Before she left, Becky had baked the fruitcake as instructed, and a finished one now waited to be sampled. Sam cut a small slice and mulled the flavors around in her mouth. Plenty of nuts, fruit that was not at all bitter, and the dough melted in her mouth. A little adjustment to the spices, but this version was just about right.

  “Bunny can see us at three,” Rupert said, poking his head through the opening in the curtain.

  Sam nodded, although she noticed that he’d already hung up the phone. Apparently, the meeting would take place on Bunny-time or not at all.

  Chapter 14

  Three o’clock was only twenty minutes away and Sam wasn’t sure she would have time to change into something less sugar-dusted and still make it.

  “Not to worry,” Rupert said. “I told her that you are only the premier baker in all of Taos. She’d probably be disappointed if you didn’t show up in your white jacket.”

  Sam grabbed a small fruit tart that Becky had made this morning, and placed it in one of her purple boxes. A little gift never hurt when it came to asking for dishy gossip from a stranger. They walked out to Rupert’s Land Rover.

  The big vehicle wound its way up a steep road on the east side of town, where the society divorcee (who “took the bastard to the cleaners,” according to Rupert) lived in an adobe mansion that made the Montague place look positively tract-home. The sun was already midway down the western half of the sky, casting a pink-gold glow over the mountainside property and setting off the surrounding trees as if they were high-def. He parked and they stepped out into a bracing winter breeze.

  Sam followed Rupert past a tall wooden gate with hardware that looked as if it came from some European dungeon. Inside the gated courtyard, two men were in the process of hanging strings of blue lights on four enormous blue spruce trees. A wreath the size of a kid’s wading pool hung in a high archway above the front door.

  “Nice digs,” Sam mumbled.

  “Bunny’s little gift to herself after the divorce. She couldn’t stand living in Dallas. She came to Taos on an art trip and fell in love. With this house.” He lifted a brass knocker, which fell with a heavy thunk.

  A tiny woman opened the door. Despite its size the massive door swung inward for her, smoothly and silently.

  “Marietta, how are you dear?” Rupert asked.

  The maid wore black slacks and a white shirt, not too unlike Sam’s own bakery garb. She smiled shyly at Rupert and murmured a response with her head ducked. She stepped aside and Rupert breezed in, with Sam close behind.

  “The sun room?” he asked.

  Marietta nodded and indicated a door on their left. Rupert seemed to know the layout perfectly well, and Sam followed along as the maid withdrew silently.

  The southern exposure and floor-to-ceiling windows gave the sunroom its apt name. Long beams of late-afternoon light crossed at a steep angle and landed on a black grand piano. White overstuffed sofas flanked a fireplace of dark river stone, with a charcoal gray rug providing a soft counterpoint to the black marble flooring. A lavish pot of white poinsettias sat on a coffee table.

  Bunny herself provided the only spot of color in the monochrome room. Sam guessed her age at about thirty-five, as she rose from the white sofa. Her short orange hair fit her head like a cap, accentuating a sharp nose and strong jaw line. Her jumpsuit in shades of yellow and purple left the impression of a Cirque de Soleil performer—definitely someone who needed to be the most noticed item in the room.

  Sam watched as Bunny and Rupert did a whole bunch of darling-this and darling-that before they turned toward her. In her own black and white work clothing, she felt more like an invisible servant than ever when she handed over the bakery boxed tart.

  “Ah, Samantha, it’s so good to meet you. I understand that you have the most adorable shop. I must get in there.” Bunny lifted the lid of the box and breathed deeply. She dipped one of her French manicured fingers inside and came up with a small dollop of the filling. Sucking the creamy custard from her fingertip, she grinned like a naughty child. “Ooh, this is good!”

  Sam smiled. Maybe the woman wasn’t a complete snob.

  “I’m doing a little holiday gathering here next weekend,” Bunny said. “I do hope Pedro’s men are getting the outdoor trees done . . .” She glanced around, as if that would make a difference. “Anyway, I would love to have one of your fabulous pastries as the centerpiece of the dessert table, dear.”

  “I’m sure we can come up with just the right thing,” Sam said, making the mental shift from the real reason they’d come here. Her calendar was packed, with the two weddings and everything else, but how could she refuse the woman, right here in front of Rupert? Plus, she still wanted information.

  “Seventy or eighty people, winter theme, not especially Christmas . . . we’ve got all persuasions here, you know.”

  “Cake? Torte? Maybe some smaller, assorted pastries?”

  “Oh, a cake. I think that would be very special.”

  Sam began to envision possibilities.

  “You’ll be here, won’t you, Rupert dear? It’s the whole art crowd. I think a nephew of O’Keefe may even be able to make it—I do think you’ll like him.”

  “Do you think William Montague might be coming?” Sam asked.

  The momentary freeze on Bunny Fitzhugh’s face would have been comical in a movie. Here, it might have marked Sam’s social blunder of the season. Sam stared at Rupert. Help me out here, she telegraphed.

  “Ah, yes,” he piped up. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen Will. I do hope you’ve been in touch with him.”

  “Will? Actually, it’s been awhile.” Bunny busied herself for a minute, calling for Marietta from the doorway, handing off the bakery box.

  “Yes, but you two were quite the item for awhile, weren’t you?” Rupert’s teasing grin eased the tension and Bunny actually dimpled up.

  “A lady never tells,” she said, eyebrows arched.

  “I was under the impression that he was continuing the courtship . . .”

  Courtship? Did people really use words like that anymore? Sam turned away, occupying herself by looking at a collection of framed photos beside the fireplace.

  Rupert kept his tone light, continued the teasing until Bunny was actually blushing.

  “Oh, you know me too well, darling. But it was only a fun little flirtation. I was a married woman!”

  More than a few marriages have broken up on that basis, Sam thought. She made a mental note to ask Rupert more about it later. The conversation between the two chums took a different direction and Sam chewed at her lip, trying to figure out how to get back to the topic of William Montague and whether he might have divulged any travel plans to his friends.

  “Well, dears,” Bunny said, after about ten minutes of inane chatter. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself. Dinner plans, you know. My bath, nails, hair . . .”

  Sam couldn’t see a single thing that could be improved upon. Two minutes to slip the jumpsuit off and get into a dress and shoes .
. . But maybe that’s why she never got invited to any glamorous parties, except as the baker to deliver the dessert.

  Speaking of which, she reconfirmed the requirements and price for Bunny’s holiday cake as they were subtly being ushered toward the front door.

  “I’ll have it here for you next Sunday,” she promised.

  Bunny gave a distracted nod, her mind obviously already elsewhere.

  Aside from the cake order, that visit was certainly a waste of a good fruit tart, Sam thought as she climbed back into Rupert’s vehicle. No real information about William Montague, and now she’d loaded herself up with another job that she didn’t really have time to do. She sighed.

  Beside her, Rupert chuckled as he steered down the narrow lane leading into town. “I didn’t believe that married-woman excuse for a second, did you?” he said. “Bunny was so unhappy with Larry Lissano. No one faulted her a bit for her ‘little flirtations’. And no one was the least bit surprised when she and Larry split. Except maybe Larry.”

  “His name wasn’t Fitzhugh?”

  “Oh, heavens no. Bunny reverted back to her maiden name the very second they were divorced. Lissano was a name that only meant something to Larry’s crowd, and believe me, Bunny didn’t want to be associated with them any longer than she had to.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Ah, I guess you never heard.”

  And why would I? But she didn’t need to voice it. Rupert was well into another of his gossipy stories.

  “Larry had tons of money, certainly. I mean, why else would Bunny have been attracted to him in the first place? As I heard it her grandparents were poor Irish in New York and her parents barely made it a step above that. She never admits this to anyone, but there’s always somebody who can dig out the old garbage, you know? Well, Bonnie Fitzpatrick got a scholarship to Brown, dumped her family like a bunch of rotten potatoes, became Bunny Fitzhugh, and started hanging around with the Ivy League types.

  “That group accepted her marginally. I mean, they knew she wasn’t one of them. For her part, she used them as a finishing school. Learned how to speak well, do her hair, adopted the mannerisms.” He’d reached the traffic light near the plaza and turned toward Sweet’s Sweets.

 

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