“Apparently she thought the organizers provide everything or that somehow tables and booths can magically grow out of the floor,” Sam said to Kelly.
“Or, like nearly everyone, she just didn’t read the instructions.”
Julio arrived with a second display case. Sam had found the covered displays at a wholesale place. They weren’t nearly as nice as the antiques with curved glass in the shop, but she’d found them attractive enough for the times when she might sell her baked goods from another location. As if she would ever want to go through this again.
By the time she and Rupert had unfolded the table legs and righted them, Kelly came back with a box containing cloth table skirts in the shop’s signature purple tones. She quickly draped both tables, positioned them and the two women set the display cases in place. Rupert and Julio each carried in another carton—it seemed to require a hundred items, from pens to credit card processing machine to bags and tissue paper for handling the food.
“I better move the van, Sam,” Julio said. “Call us if we’ve forgotten anything.”
“That’s the most I’ve ever heard him say,” Kelly whispered after Julio walked away.
“He’s a man of few words, for sure. But he makes up for it with his knowledge in the kitchen.”
“I better get back to the dais,” Rupert said. “I’m trying to come up with chairs for the judges, something more comfortable than the standard-issue metal ones the hotel brought first.” He hurried away.
“And, I’ll bet he doesn’t want anyone getting into the chocolate samples,” Kelly said. “I sneaked one—they are amazing.”
“Speaking of chairs . . .” Sam jotted a note. “I hadn’t even thought of it, but there might be lulls when a chance to sit down will feel really good. We’ll bring a couple of the bistro chairs from the shop tomorrow.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by a female shriek. Sam stared around the area; the sounds of an argument rose from the far end of the room, near the kitchen door.
What now? she thought, hurrying toward what was quickly becoming a full-blown fight.
“—on the same aisle as her!” The speaker stood facing Carinda Carter with her arms folded tightly beneath an ample chest, her blue eyes flashing and blond hair standing up in spikes that may have been even more rigid than originally intended.
“Ms. Ferguson, please calm down. We can sort this out.” Carinda sounded, for once, like the voice of reason.
Sam recognized the chef from Chatsworth’s, a local restaurant that prided itself on high-end desserts that sold for as much as the entrees.
“Danielle, hi. What’s the problem?”
“Farrel O’Hearn. She’s always a problem. Had I known she would be here, well, I would have suggested to Chatsworth that we skip the whole tawdry event.”
“What’s the matter? Can’t handle the competition?”
Sam spun around to find that Farrel O’Hearn had walked up behind her.
“Ladies—keep it civil, all right?”
“I’m sure whatever Chatsworth Bingham has you cooking up, it won’t bring too much shame on this tawdry event. There’s no way it will beat my entry. I can promise you that.”
“Ladies—watch your words. We’re doing this festival for charity. Please keep that in mind.” Sam started to order Farrel back to her own booth but the redhead had turned away.
“Witch! I intend to win this thing—at all cost—and she’d better get used to the idea. Who assigned me this spot anyway?” Danielle demanded.
Carinda shot a triumphant look toward Sam. “She insisted on doing the booth assignments.”
As if Carinda herself would have known that these two women were arch rivals.
“Carinda . . . don’t you have some other duties at the moment?”
This time the look was a glare. Carinda muttered something about why was she bothering to put up with this bunch and stomped across the ballroom where she apparently thought she had an ally in one of the vendors whom she had admitted to the festival at the last minute.
Sam stared after her for a moment. Again, the reference to not being here long. With any luck, Carinda was one of those summer people who came for a few months and would leave Taos behind in the fall. Heaven forbid that she become a regular volunteer at every event in town. The rest of the populace would be ready to move away if they had to deal with her much longer.
Danielle Ferguson seemed to be waiting for an answer to her question.
“Where in the room would you like to be?” Sam asked, scanning the space for possibilities. Nearly all the other vendors were already here and at least partially set up. Moving one of them would not go over well. “My booth is over there, the one with the Sweet’s Sweets sign. I’ll switch with you if it makes a difference.”
Danielle’s eyes widened. “You’re practically right across the aisle from her—no way!”
“We’ll refund your fee if you want to withdraw—there’s a waiting list for spaces. Otherwise, I expect peace and quiet from everyone. You and Farrel are more than five booths apart, but you have to make nice.”
Danielle considered for a minute. Clearly, her boss at the restaurant would not be happy if his was the only high-class establishment in town not represented. She grumbled a bit but went back to the task of setting up her display. Sam turned toward Farrel’s end of the aisle. The redhead was laughing a bit too heartily at something Rupert must have said, showing off for Danielle that she wasn’t bothered in the least.
“Excuse me? Do you know where I might find Carinda Carter?” The tall, blonde woman looked somewhat familiar but she had spoken to Danielle so Sam started to walk away.
“Whoever that is,” said Danielle. “Sam?”
“She was just here a minute ago. Now she’s right over—” Sam started to point across the room but she didn’t see Carinda anywhere. “Hm. Well, she has to be around.”
The woman headed toward the row of booths by the windows, while Sam stewed. Most of the Sweet Somethings banners still needed to be hung, along with setting up the ticket table and making sure the pamphlets and ballots were in the right places. Why was it that when the real work began Carinda always seemed to dash out to do something more important?
Chapter 9
By six o’clock Sam felt dead on her feet. She never had caught up with Carinda Carter so she, Kelly and Rupert had hung all the banners and completed the final preparations. Danielle Ferguson was the last of the vendors to leave, still carping about the fact that Farrel O’Hearn was allowed in the competition—she wasn’t local, after all. Sam had the distinct feeling this all went to some desperate need on Danielle’s part to win the top prize. The blonde had as much as said so. Frankly, she was sick of the whole bunch of them and glad that she wouldn’t have an entry in the contest.
Beau was on his way out the door when she arrived at home.
“Hey you.” He pulled her close. “You look like a girl who doesn’t want to cook dinner.”
She nodded against his chest, her cheek scraping on his badge.
“If you want to ride along with me while I have a little talk with the hippie dude I’ll take you out for the dinner of your choice afterward.”
A shower would have felt good but not having to stress over the meal felt better. She followed him to his department cruiser. The ride out to the highway, taking the next turn and pulling in at the Mulvane property took all of four minutes, just long enough for Sam to begin feeling drowsy in the passenger seat.
Beau parked next to one of the blue buses, the one that had been there from the beginning.
“Want to come with me or wait here?” he asked.
She looked toward the bus and saw three kids with ratty yellow hair staring at her from the windows. No way would she fall asleep under their careful scrutiny.
“I’ll go along.” She unclipped her seatbelt and got out, watching as Beau asked at the bus door for someone named Moondoggie.
Seriously? Those nicknames hadn’t faded away a
fter the sixties?
The braless woman whose hair was identical to her kids’ pointed toward an open spot where a bunch of white-painted stones formed a circle about thirty feet in diameter. “He’s in the middle,” she said.
Moondoggie had a neatly trimmed beard and a fringe of dark hair surrounding a shiny bald pate. Without the white tunic, loose white pants and sandals he could have put on a business suit and fit in at nearly any corporate office in the country. Sam wondered if perhaps he did just that after his summer sojourn each year.
He watched as they approached, hands clasped together at his waist. When Beau said hello, Moondoggie pressed his palms together and gave a little bow.
“Greetings. Welcome to the Summer of Peace encampment.” His soft voice had a smooth quality that really did convey a tone of tranquility.
Beau nodded. “I’m touching base because Mr. Mulvane is concerned over the number of vehicles on his land. He says there are a lot more people in your group than he was led to believe.”
“The movement is an ever-changing thing. Those who follow our vision of peace upon the entire planet are a growing segment of the population. We welcome any and all who seek to live in accord with their fellow beings.”
Beau looked around. “Yeah, I get that. How long do you plan to stay?”
“The arrival of Midsommar—what you might call the summer solstice—portends many great earthly and heavenly events this year. Our gathering will focus on the auspicious confluence of the solstice, a lunar eclipse, and the juxtaposition of Scorpio and Taurus in the heavens. We intend to bring together the amazing energy of the universe with the global desire for harmony. With that sort of movement, we believe we can achieve world peace, if only during the moments of the eclipse.”
Beau’s right eyebrow went up. Sam had no idea whether Moondoggie knew what he was talking about but calculated that the answer to Beau’s question was that the group intended to stay at least a couple more weeks.
Beau took a different tack. “There’s a lot of trash blowing around on the ground and I don’t see any toilets. Plus, you do realize that your group is subject to the same fire restrictions that are in effect throughout the state and county? You’ve got to keep your campfires contained within dirt or stone pits and allow a minimum thirty feet of bare earth around each one.”
“Quite so. We want only the best for our Mother Earth.” Moondoggie’s beneficent expression took on a harder edge, just a touch. “We do have a contractual right to be here upon this place. Mr. Mulvane was quite agreeable.”
“He says he has not received the balance of payment that the contract calls for. Based on that fact, you would be in breach of contract and he can ask that you vacate.”
Moondoggie reached into a deep pocket within the folds of his loose pants and pulled out a wad of cash.
“The payment will be made this evening. We are completely legal.”
“I’m sure the landowner will appreciate that. Meanwhile, just be aware that my department will check back now and then, making sure the trash is contained and the sanitation situation has been addressed properly.”
“Properly . . .” Moondoggie’s gaze drifted skyward, a silent prayer for the obtuseness of the law, most likely.
Beau scanned the encampment. Nothing seemed to pose a threat at the moment so there wasn’t much else he could do. He reminded the hippie leader to be sure he paid Mulvane the money they owed, then he and Sam walked back to the cruiser.
“I hope the next three weeks go uneventfully,” Sam said as Beau pulled onto the highway.
“I didn’t get the impression they were necessarily leaving right after their big peace rally. They could end up staying the whole summer. Mulvane was a fool for not specifying a termination date to that contract. He’s basically given them access for as long as they want to stay.”
“Well, that makes my current headaches seem like nothing at all. At least this festival will be done and gone in three more days. End of story, and I won’t volunteer for another one, that’s for sure.”
Beau pointed toward their favorite pizza place, just ahead, and when Sam nodded he turned in. They took a table by the windows and ordered what seemed like the lightest thing on the menu.
“Don’t let me eat much tonight. I have a feeling I’ll be sampling chocolate everything for the next few days. You should at least come by and try some things, Beau. Each vendor will choose his or her best item and submit it anonymously to the judging panel. We’ve got a couple of prominent locals and one actual celebrity from Hollywood.”
“It almost sounds like fun,” he admitted, “but you’ve already told me too much about the battles between those women on your committee. Hyped up on chocolate . . . I can only imagine the carnage. I’d better stick with my usual, and hope that I don’t have anything much more serious than some speeding tickets to hand out.”
They finished their pizza and went home for an early bedtime. Although the doors for the festival wouldn’t open until ten the next morning, Sam knew there were still a hundred details to attend to. She set her alarm for her usual four-thirty.
* * *
Becky and Jen, both looking a little haggard at this extra-early hour, met her at Sweet’s Sweets at six o’clock. They would help her load the van and stock their booth, then Jen would return to make sales all day in the shop. Becky and Sam could run the booth and, with luck, take custom orders and add a lot of new customers to their regular clientele.
Sam had made two ambitious creations for display: a bathtub-shaped cake, complete with claw feet and gold trim, spilling over with edible gelatin ‘bubbles’ in pale pink and a traditional wedding cake covered in sleek, pale-lavender fondant with trim of rose-gold beading and delicate miniature garden flowers in all shades of purple. She had to admit that they were two of her finest examples. If someone wanted to buy either of them, she would insist they pick them up at the end of the event. A flashy ‘Sold’ sign would surely instill urgency in the minds of other customers.
“I think I pretty well sorted the festival goodies from what we normally need in the shop,” Becky said. “The top two shelves in the fridge are what we need to load into the van.”
“Check everything, though, just to be sure,” Sam suggested as she stepped into the big walk-in. “It would be a mess if we sold slices of someone’s birthday cake.”
They worked quickly to fill the van before the day began to warm up. Jen followed in her car as Sam led the way to the hotel. Already, two other vehicles were in the loading zone. Harvey Byron apologized for taking extra space but his ice cream was even more fragile than Sam’s frostings. At least the others were moving as quickly as possible and soon it was Sam’s turn.
The sun began to fully hit the parking lot as they were wheeling the last stack of boxes through the garden and into the corridor by the ballroom.
“I’ll move your van over by those trees,” Jen said, “then I’m on my way back to open the shop. Good luck—or is that break-a-leg or something?”
Sam laughed. “Let’s hope nothing gets broken. Call me if you need anything, although I’m sure you and Julio can handle it fine.”
“It’ll probably be slow. I think everyone in town will be over here.”
“We sold more than a thousand advance tickets, and people can still get theirs at the door.” Even as she said it, Sam began to feel a little overwhelmed.
Carinda Carter rushed toward her before Sam had gotten to the ballroom door.
“Bentley Day arrived last night! I offered to act as his assistant.” She was practically quivering with this news.
Sam noticed that she was wearing a blue dress that fit her slender body very well and her hair was freshly styled. How Carinda looked really didn’t matter, Sam decided; at least she seemed in a decent mood at the moment.
“I’ve checked in with our celebrity already this morning,” Carinda said, “to be sure he had a good night’s sleep.”
Poor guy.
“I suggested tha
t he come down soon to meet all the contestants, but he seemed a little out of sorts and wanted more time over his coffee.”
Sam couldn’t imagine anyone not being out of sorts if the first voice they heard in the early morning was Carinda’s. She merely nodded and headed into the ballroom.
“I got the impression he wants to primp a little and then make a grand entrance,” Carinda was saying, trotting along beside Sam. “But I did offer to bring his props downstairs ahead of time. See? Even his famous chef’s knife.”
She tugged at Sam’s sleeve and directed her attention to a box beneath the skirted table at the judging stand. A white cloth chef’s hat lay atop several other items—who knew what little egocentric things a reality TV star would carry with him? Probably photos he could hand out to fans and cards with his phone number for the extra pretty ones. While Carinda was absorbed in her own importance as Bentley Day’s assistant, Sam walked toward her own booth to help Becky finish setting out their products.
“Only a hour before the doors open to the crowds,” Becky said, shifting a tray of brownies forward in the display case to make room for the boxed chocolate pueblos. “Do you really think people will be gobbling down all this chocolate at ten in the morning?”
“Well, we sell a lot of it to the midmorning coffee crowd at the shop.”
“Coffee! We should have brought—”
“I think Java Joe has that covered,” Sam said. She had actually thought of bringing carafes of her signature blend, but the local coffee shop had a huge following so why not let him do all the work?
Voices rose near Farrel O’Hearn’s booth and Sam glanced up to see Danielle Ferguson standing there. Farrel had her back to Sam but the tension in her shoulders was evident and the way her head bobbed as she spoke emphasized that the words must be emotional. If I have to step in and separate you two again . . . Sam gritted her teeth.
In the booth next to Sam’s, Nancy Nash glanced up briefly but went back to pouring ice cream syrup from a bottle into a small crockery cooker. Sam felt her eyes go wide. Was this the super-special recipe Nancy’s family loved so much—strawberries dipped in plain bottled syrup? Nancy caught her looking and turned away to stash the bottle out of sight.
Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 8