She was halfway back to Sweet’s Sweets, wondering when Taos had developed such a crush of rush-hour traffic, when her phone rang. Her first thought was of Sarah but the readout showed Rupert’s number.
“I may have just located a celebrity judge for the festival,” he said immediately. “What would you think about Bentley Day—huh?”
Sam’s mind went blank.
“Star of that California-based reality show, Killer Chef?”
“Is that about killing or about chefs?”
“You’ve never seen it? Samantha, dear, what planet are you living on?”
The one that doesn’t have the TV on every second of the day. “Sorry,” she said. “Guess I’m not exactly up to date. How did you manage this?”
“Okay, so Bentley isn’t really Australian. He’s just got a really good handle on the accent. He grew up in Santa Fe and his mother is a dear friend from the art gallery crowd. I gave the brat a ride once, all the way to L.A. He was in college, mind you, but mama didn’t want him on a plane right after nine-eleven. So, now I’m calling in the favor.”
“And people in Taos will know who this guy is?”
“People across the continent already know who this guy is, honey. He’ll be a big draw for ticket sales.”
The whole reason the Chamber of Commerce had dreamed up this event in the first place was to donate the ticket proceeds to a children’s cancer charity. No one could argue with any possible means to sell more tickets.
“That sounds excellent, Rupert. Thanks.”
“I need two more, Sam . . .”
“Sorry, it can’t be me. I’m chair of the committee, and I’m there as a vendor. You’ve got to go for unbiased candidates. Check with Harvey and see if he’s found anyone else.”
“Well, I’m determined to find a couple more that will so far outshine our argumentative Carinda that including her won’t even be an option.”
“I sincerely wish you well.” She clicked off the call and pulled in behind the bakery.
Jen was in the process of closing out the register; Becky had left a note about an unfinished cake, promising she would come early in the morning to get it done; Julio was stacking clean baking pans in readiness for the morning routine. He said goodnight and a moment later she heard his Harley rumble away.
“You look tired,” Jen said when Sam walked into the showroom. “I don’t know how you’re keeping up with all this.”
Truthfully, Sam didn’t quite know either. In times past, she’d occasionally called upon the powers of the wooden box to energize her to get through holidays and other job stresses. Recently she hadn’t touched it, until today. Apparently, all of its energy had passed along to Sarah in the hospital just now.
Jen handed Sam a zippered bag with the day’s receipts before circling the room to switch out lights and flip over the Closed sign on the door. By the glow of soft night lighting they walked through the shop and out the back door.
At home she found a note from Beau with an arrow pointing to the refrigerator. Inside, a large bowl of salad, covered in plastic wrap, had another note on it. “Had to run out, don’t wait on me.” Cute. They texted each other so much these days that a handwritten note felt something like an old-fashioned love letter.
She set the salad bowl on the countertop and scooped half of it onto a dinner plate, added her favorite poppy seed dressing and settled on the couch in the great room. The earlier conversation with Rupert reminded her of something and she picked up the remote control and switched on the TV. She could record an episode or two of Killer Chef to find out what the fuss was all about.
As it turned out, according to the guide, one of the channels was running a marathon and Sam got her first look at Bentley Day the moment she clicked over to it. The diminutive man in kitchen whites and a tall chef’s hat stood in the middle of a high-end kitchen full of stainless steel and oversized kettles, with piles of colorful vegetables strewn about the work surfaces. With a deep tan, possibly enhanced by makeup, and shaggy blond hair he certainly fit the part of some rugged outbacker. He boosted the image even further as soon as he opened his mouth, spewing a rant of four-letter demands at the three young cooks in white hats who stared back at him with varying degrees of animosity. Did the man not worry that all of them held large knives as he berated them?
Sam stared in fascination. Apparently the goal of the show was for each of the contestants to prepare an outrageously complicated meal, while having their chopping and dicing techniques critiqued by Bentley-the-expert. As he hovered over them, they shot evil looks toward him and toward each other.
At a commercial break halfway through, Sam set her salad aside and called Rupert.
“Seriously? This Bentley Day person is obnoxious and foul-mouthed. We can’t have him at the chocolate festival. We’re hopelessly small-town polite here. He’d never fit in.”
“Samantha, dear, all that stuff on TV is scripted. The accent, the language . . . it’s all written down and he’s merely acting the part.”
“Yeah, but if the point is to bring a celebrity chef here as one of our judges, won’t people expect him to be the same character they see on his show?”
“We’ll write him a script that leaves out the f-words, okay? With the Aussie accent and wearing his Killer Chef white coat, he’ll still be a big hit. Besides, I’ve already gotten his mother to tell him that he will do this.”
“If you say so . . .” Sam didn’t even try to keep the skepticism out of her voice.
“Trust me, dear heart.”
He hung up and she went back to the show. Muting the volume helped some, and the segment where a food fight began in the kitchen only moments before the dishes were to be judged actually added enough tension to keep her eyes firmly on the screen. When the next episode began, Sam turned off the set. She knew how this worked. If she watched three of them she would begin to feel for one of the contestants—probably the young girl who seemed so browbeaten by Bentley—then in another episode or two this girl would become the villain as she took up gossiping about her competition. Eventually, one would begin to emerge as the ‘nice’ one and—ooh, surprise—by the end of the season that person would be the winner and everyone in the land would end up happy. Really. She’d watched Kelly sucker in for way too many of these setups.
She called Rupert again as she walked into the kitchen. “In addition to striking our celebrity’s colorful language, please be sure that he understands there are to be no food fights and no pretending to get sick on any of the entries. He has to behave himself, start to finish.”
She put her dinner plate into the dishwasher.
Rupert started to say he would handle it but Sam found herself distracted by the sound of tires on gravel out front. A moment later the front door opened, closed sharply, and Beau’s boots stomped across the room. She told Rupert goodbye and walked into the living room.
“What’s up?” Sam asked when she saw Beau standing by the wide French doors that faced the back deck.
“I can’t believe it!” He stared into the deepening dusk. “Old man Mulvane is letting them in—just like that!”
“Them?” Sam’s mind hadn’t quite left the Killer Chef scene.
“And he wasn’t even going to tell me! I found out because Max Rodriguez called awhile ago, when I was making the salad for dinner.”
“I’m afraid I’m not really putting all this together,” she said, standing beside him and leaning into his field of view.
“Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, you know that the property bordering us on the west is Max’s. The sixty acres to the east belongs to old man—uh, Bruce—Mulvane.”
She nodded, although she’d barely met either of the ranchers.
“So, Mulvane just gave permission to the Flower People to use his land this year. Last year, up near Del Norte, Colorado, over a thousand of them showed up and stayed two months; they overran several neighboring farms and did so much damage that the landowners are still trying to get r
estitution. That will never happen—these are the free-love, free-everything types who don’t think anything should cost money. It’ll be a miracle if they don’t cut our fences and ruin the grazing land the horses need.”
“Why on earth would Mulvane agree to this?”
Beau shook his head and paced across the room. “I was over there just now . . . I’ve been hearing that he’s slipping a little.” He tapped the side of his head. “Thought I could talk him out of it, but he had a contract.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, they may be anti-establishment, but somebody in that group knows a bit about legalities.”
“What can you do about it?”
“I don’t know, but they’ll probably start showing up this weekend.”
Chapter 4
Sam had no trouble waking up Thursday morning at four-thirty. Beau had tossed and turned all night long. She spent the morning at Sweet’s Sweets, going into high gear. While she cooked, tempered and molded chocolate pueblos and flavored creams, Becky and Julio worked to stock the shop for the next two days. Next week they would be baking triple batches of cakes, brownies, cookies and cheesecakes.
“If the festival doesn’t bring in huge crowds, we’ll have inventory to last until Christmas,” Becky said as she helped Sam box up the chocolates.
“I sure hope not. I won’t exactly be able to sell these as fresh beyond next week. We might have to brace ourselves for an all-time big sale.”
“It’ll work out. Don’t worry. Everyone in town loves your recipes. They will turn out in droves.”
Speaking of droves, Sam thought of Beau’s concern over cattle getting into his alfalfa fields if the invading hippies should break down the fences. She knew he’d planned to go to the courthouse this morning to see what he could legally do to keep them out. And as long as her mind was on the subject of out-of-control situations, she remembered that her unharmonious committee was set to meet at Carinda Carter’s apartment this afternoon. She let out a sigh and tried to envision a day, somewhere in the future, where all this drama would be a thing of the past.
Carinda had emailed her address to everyone—a small set of duplexes on a quiet side street not far from Sam’s old house where she’d lived for nearly thirty years before marrying Beau and moving out to his ranch. Sam parked in one of the outer slots marked for visitors, noting a few other familiar vehicles. She tucked her burgeoning file folder under one arm and picked up the bakery box of sugar cookies she’d brought along in hopes of keeping everyone happy.
The eight units formed a square around a neatly landscaped patch of ground with colored lava rock for ground cover and xeriscape plantings, some of the few things that were doing well in the current drought. The back windows of each apartment faced the parking area, while the front doors were accessed by walkways at each of the four corners of the square. Sam found Carinda’s place by following the sounds of loud chatter.
“We should wait until Sam arrives before we get into all this,” came Riki’s voice through the screen of the open front door.
“Sam is here,” she announced, holding out the box of cookies.
She stepped into a tiny living room where Carinda had placed dining chairs and two plastic ones from her front porch in order to accommodate everyone. So far, in addition to their hostess, the group consisted of Riki and Kelly, Harvey Byron, and herself. Sam gave a quick version of the reason Sarah would not be attending, an unsubtle way of letting them know they would each need to absorb a few extra duties.
Rupert arrived with apologies for being late, giving the tiny apartment and its rental-grade furnishings a critical eye. Sam shot him a look and hoped Carinda didn’t notice. Not everyone lived on the scale that Rupert indulged in.
“Okay, everyone, let’s get started so we can all get home at a reasonable hour,” Sam began. “I understand that the advertising materials have been sent to the printer?”
Carinda nodded. “I’ll have them tomorrow. I can use some help to get them put up around town.” Without waiting for volunteers she called upon Riki, with a withering look which hinted that the groomer had done precious little so far.
Sam spoke up. “All of us have businesses to run and our time is limited.” Except for you, Carinda. She didn’t say it. “Let’s divide the posters equally and each of us can be responsible for a few. Put them up in your own shops and whatever other public places where they’re allowed.”
Riki sent Carinda a triumphant little look. Sam went to the next item on her agenda.
“Harvey? Anything new with the judges?”
“I’m happy to say that I’ve confirmed two—the police chief’s sister and the mayor’s wife. They both seem very excited about it, but I’m afraid I’m stumped for a third. But worst case, I know I could get my brother to do it.” He blushed deeply. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that would be the worst case at all—”
“It’s okay, Harvey. None of us took it that way.” Sam glanced toward Rupert. “We actually have a lead on someone—something of a nationally known face—that we might be able to get. Rupert? Do we know anything more about that yet?”
“We’re all set.” He stood up to make the announcement, having never forgotten his roots in theatre. “We, dear committee members, will be graced by the presence of none other than Bentley Day, star of Killer Chef.”
A couple of gasps went up, but Sam was pleased to see Harv’s blank expression too. At least she wasn’t the only person in town out of touch with reality TV.
Naturally, Kelly was one who reacted. “Oh my gosh, Bentley Day! I wonder if he’ll bring that huge chef knife he always carries around.”
Riki spoke up. “Oh, can’t you just see him whacking into the cakes and pies with that thing—cutting out slices for the judges to taste?”
“Oh, man, this will be great!” Kelly said.
Riki, Rupert and Kelly, all fans of the show, began trading best episode quips. Carinda, no longer the center of attention, sat with her mouth clamped firmly shut, while Harvey and Sam seemed to be the outsiders. Sam gave them a minute and then called everyone back to attention.
“I need someone to contact Sarah’s friends who were making decorations and find out how that’s coming along. The deadline is next Thursday, and there should be a place where one of us can pick up everything. I can use my bakery van for that, but I won’t have time to run around to a dozen different women’s homes.”
Kelly looked up from her notepad. “I’ll do it. Somewhere in my notes I think I jotted the names of those ladies.” She flipped pages and Sam mentally checked one item off her list.
“The other thing is the venue. Sometime in the next couple of days I’ll get out there and look over the layout, sketch out a floor plan and figure out how the booths will be laid out. I’m hoping vendors can begin setting up Thursday afternoon, since the gates open at ten o’clock Friday morning. But I’ll go over all that with the hotel manager. Does anyone else have questions or something to report that we haven’t covered?”
Carinda, to no one’s surprise, spoke up. “If Bentley Day backs out, my offer still stands to be a judge.”
Rupert took a deep breath, ready to rebut the insinuation that he’d chosen a flaky judge, but Sam beat him to it. “Thank you, Carinda. We will certainly keep that in mind.”
“In fact, maybe it would be better to have four judges anyway,” the woman went on.
“Carinda, what are you thinking?” Rupert said. “Everyone knows that a judging must have an odd number, in case there are ties. Bentley Day will be the perfect person to act as tie breaker between two local, female judges. It’s all settled.” The way he crossed his arms over his chest, along with the fact that several others were nodding, left no room for discussion.
Carinda’s expression froze somewhere between embarrassment and hatred as she stared at Rupert. Sam sent her a faltering smile before glancing around the room and adjourning the meeting.
“I’ll catch you later, Mom,” Kelly said under her breath.
She turned to Riki, who must have been her ride over here from work.
Rupert swished one of his signature purple scarves across his left shoulder, looked down his nose at Carinda, and walked out.
Why does he have to do that? He can be such a diva sometimes.
Sam gathered her pages of notes and looked up to see that everyone had cleared out quickly. Carinda clattered dishes in the small kitchen alcove just off the living room.
“Sorry about that last bit,” Sam said. “Here, why don’t you keep the rest of the cookies?” The box still felt nearly as heavy as when she’d brought it, a testament to the tension among those in the room. Rupert and Kelly alone would have normally polished off more than half of them.
“No one appreciates my work, do they?” Carinda said with a catch in her voice. “I try so hard and they really don’t care.”
“It’s not that,” Sam said without much conviction in her voice. “They just don’t know you.”
Nor did they want to, she realized.
She heard a loud sniff and saw tears trail down beside Carinda’s beak-like nose. Oh boy.
“I never seem to fit in, no matter where I go. It was the same way in my own family—nobody really wanted me there.”
Sam restrained a long sigh. She so badly did not want to be this woman’s therapist.
“Carinda, your designs for all the printed materials were wonderful. I’m sure you’ll impress the hell out of the group when they see the finished product.” She spotted a box of tissues on an end table and handed one over. “Don’t let Rupert’s attitude get to you. He’s not usually that way . . . probably just having a bad day.”
“You think so?” Carinda blew her nose loudly. The tears seemed to be waning.
“You’ll see. Planning things is always a little tense but once the festival starts, it’ll be so much fun that everyone will forget these little squabbles.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Sam knew this was her exit line. Otherwise, Carinda would start to see them as all chummy and might do something drastic like asking her to stay for dinner.
Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 3