Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  Sam paused in front of the ice cream cart to pass along the news about Sarah to Harvey. He expressed sincere condolences, then became distracted by a woman signaling him across the room. In the Sweet’s Sweets booth Kelly finished ringing up a sale for a man with a cup of coffee in his hand and suggested the garden as a nice place to sit with his dessert. She and Jen both repeated Rupert’s sentiments when they heard about Sarah.

  Sam mindlessly flipped through the cash bag, in case they needed change, wishing she had someone to talk to about the fact that the older woman had died before they got the chance to talk about the one subject foremost on Sam’s mind, the mysterious wooden box. Maybe later at home with Beau. She picked up a broken cookie and ate half of it in one bite.

  “Boy, this is weird,” Kelly said, looking up from her copy of People, which she had opened to a random page. “Some wealthy woman threatened to leave forty billion dollars to her dog after all her other heirs pissed her off.”

  Jen glanced over Kelly’s shoulder. “Oh, yeah. Julia Joffrey. I heard about that. She died a few months ago, didn’t she?”

  As usual, when it came to celebrities and the surrounding gossip, Sam felt out of the loop.

  Jen eyed Bentley Day, now up on the dais making an announcement that the last three contestants should send their entries forward for judging.

  “I’ll bet he knew Julia Joffrey,” she said. “Remember that other show he starred in, before Killer Chef? It took place in Washington and there was always some socialite or famous person who would come to the restaurant for the meal he prepared.”

  “Yes!” Kelly lit up. “I think I actually remember that one. She was this society type from Maryland or someplace, seemed ancient—but she dressed really classy and Bentley teased her the whole time.”

  “He teased everyone the whole time. I think it’s how he tried out the semi-obnoxious personality he uses now.”

  Semi? Sam hid a smile.

  “Did he have the Australian accent back then?”

  “Hmm, I think so. Maybe not as strong as it is now.” Kelly tossed the magazine aside as two kids approached and held up a dollar bill. She saw to it that they got a decent-sized bag of cookies for their money.

  “Cute, huh.” She looked toward Sam. “Mom, do you realize that we need more cheesecake?”

  “Again?” Sam stared at the round cardboard base with one remaining slice. I called Julio earlier and asked him to bake more. Tomorrow’s only a half-day here and I’m sure things will be winding down early. We’ll have to make do with what we have and I’ll go by the shop on my way home tonight to get them.”

  As if they’d heard of a run on a failing bank, two people stepped up and split the final slice.

  Jen waited on them while Sam checked the other items in the display. She really did not want to spend the night baking, but there might not be any other time.

  “Sam, I’ve got Julio on the phone—he says he’s got one cheesecake already done. Do you want more than that?” Jen held the phone away from her ear while she waited for Sam’s answer.

  “Tell him yes, two more. I’ll go to the shop right now for the finished one and we’ll use the others for tomorrow.”

  Up on the dais, Rupert was calling out names of people whose tickets had been drawn for door prizes. The room had somehow filled up again.

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Anyone dying for cheesecake can have some then,” Sam said as she picked up her pack and headed for the parking lot. In the corridor she caught sight of the ice cream guy deep in conversation with the tall blonde who’d been at his booth earlier. A little festival romance? She smiled and hurried on.

  At Sweet’s Sweets Sam noted that the kitchen was clean and Julio already had the two extra cheesecakes in the oven. Becky sat at one of the bistro tables, chatting with three women who were taking their time over afternoon coffee and cake. She came to the register and gave Sam a quick rundown of the morning sales.

  With the spare amaretto cheesecake in hand, Sam went back out to her van. She’d hardly unlocked the door when a large form appeared beside her. Her heart raced into overdrive.

  “Bobul!” She gripped the bakery box. “What are you—?”

  “Good day, Miss Samantha. Sorry. Bobul not mean to scare.”

  Everything about him was the same as the last time she’d seen him—his hulking six-foot frame in rough clothing, thick facial features and delicate hands—even down to the heavy boots and long, dark coat that must feel oppressive in the June heat. She’d learned that he came from Romania as a child but could only guess how many other places he had traveled before showing up in almost this exact spot two Christmases ago and offering his help. His exquisite chocolate creations had helped launch her sales into the stratosphere during her first holiday season. She had no idea where he called home, certainly not the abandoned cabin in the canyon where he’d been staying while he worked for her; as far as she could tell, he lived nowhere in this county. The man seemed to arrive and disappear on the ether. Now, she could only guess that he had somehow heard of the chocolate festival.

  “Do you need a job?” Half hoping he would say yes and she would immediately put him to work on something that could become her grand finale for the event.

  He shook his head vigorously. “Bobul come to warn you.”

  “Warn me of wh—”

  He held up a hand. “We talk, long time ago, about bad people who want—” he glanced up and down the alley and stared at the closed door to her shop. “Carved box. Bad people want that box still.”

  Sam’s mind shifted gears. Her last mention of the box to anyone was to Sarah Williams.

  “Persons will come. They want box. Do not trust.”

  Sarah had not asked to have the box.

  “A good person will also come. This one not asking for box, only want to know it is safe. This person looking for other box, the evil one.”

  An evil person? Or an evil box? Sam started to open her mouth but he spoke again, quickly.

  “Bobul learn there is more than one box.”

  Sam knew that much. She had encountered the second one last fall in Ireland, in her uncle’s possession.

  “Bobul—I want to know the whole story. Can we meet somewhere later? Can you tell me all of it?”

  He shook his head and ignored her questions. “One is bad. One good. Good person will say these words to you.” He looked skyward, working to get it right. “Will say ‘lightning strikes once and makes three’.”

  Sam repeated the phrase, but there were so many thoughts coursing through her head at the moment that she doubted she would remember it exactly.

  “Bobul, please come back tomorrow—or even tonight. I need to ask more about this.”

  “Is all Bobul know. I must go now.”

  She watched him walk away, started to run after him but paused. He’d always been a man of few words and he probably wouldn’t tell her anything new even if she hounded him. She ran the odd phrase through her mind again as she set the boxed cheesecake on the passenger seat of her van.

  A deep sigh escaped her. Too many questions, not enough answers. Too many deaths. Too little sleep.

  That was it, she decided as she put the van in gear and pulled out into traffic. She was simply tired. Get through today; finish the festival tomorrow. Sleep for a week. It wouldn’t happen but it sounded so good that it buoyed her mood.

  She had lost her parking spot under the trees and had to settle for a less appealing one in full sun. Inside, the crowd seemed denser than ever and she realized it was nearly time for the announcement of the ‘final five’ as Rupert had been referring to the contestants who would make the cut today. Sam found that a small queue had formed, people waiting for the new cheesecake Kelly had promised. She set it down and Kelly began selling the slices; within minutes it was more than half gone.

  Sam moved about the booth on automatic, filling orders, shifting items in the display case, opening a new pack of napkins and setting more paper
bags near the register. For Jen, waiting on customers came as second nature and she efficiently kept the ranks of people moving happily along with their purchases. Kelly excused herself to go up to the dais; the announcement of the second-round contestants would be made soon. Rupert was nowhere to be seen, probably hidden away someplace, tallying the ballots.

  Sam barely gave any of this a passing thought, her mind still reliving the strange encounter with Bobul an hour ago.

  There was something unexplainable about that box, and each time Sam felt she was coming close to the answer it eluded her. Again today, Bobul dropped hints but didn’t give the full answers. Perhaps it was as he’d said—he simply didn’t know. But, lightning? Lightning strikes once and makes three—what did that mean? It sounded as if he was warning her of real danger. She shivered, staring for a moment at the elaborate ceiling in the ballroom; if only someone would come along who could tell her.

  That line of thinking led her back to Sarah Williams. The healer had been the last in a succession of people whom Sam had hoped could tell her what the mysterious gift was all about and now Sarah was gone. She’d lost the answers and she’d lost a friend.

  Rupert’s voice from the podium interrupted her downward-spiraling thoughts.

  “Welcome, everyone!” he called out. “The judges have tasted today’s scrumptious dessert entries, they’ve marked their ballots, the votes have been tallied . . . And now, to announce the names of the five finalists, here is our celebrity judge, Mr. Bentley Day, the host of Killer Chef!”

  Bentley came on full force again, striding across the tiny stage with arms upraised, slashing through the air with that repulsive knife to the calls of “Chop Chop!” from the crowd. Sam looked away, tired of the whole showmanship game.

  “G’day!” he shouted.

  The crowd poured toward the stage. If the ballroom had been a ship, the thing would have listed to that end. For one ridiculous moment Sam pictured all the booths and tables sliding to that part of the room. She caught herself chuckling at the image.

  “All right! Here are your finalists, based on the number of points given by the judges. In fifth place . . . Susan Sanchez with her Molten Lava Volcano Cake! Susan, come on up here.”

  The plump little woman seemed surprised but hurried to the dais.

  “In fourth place, Cynthia Freeman with Bitter Chocolate English Butter Toffee! Get over here, Cynthia.”

  Sam knew the lady as a customer of her shop, but never had an inkling that Cynthia was a pretty extraordinary cook.

  “And now, for the top three . . .”

  He dragged out the announcement and Sam saw that both Farrel O’Hearn and Danielle Ferguson seemed to be balancing on the balls of their feet.

  “In third place, Grace Maldonado with Dark Chocolate Raspberry Tarts!” He waved the lady toward him, to a huge cheer from the crowd. Apparently she’d brought along her own fan club.

  “And now . . . for the top two. Any guesses as to who they might be?”

  Oh, come on, Sam thought. They have to be Danielle and Farrel. Then the thought struck her—if the next name he called was not one of those two, there was likely to be another murder right here on the spot. This time it might be their grandstanding celebrity chef who went down.

  But, rather predictably, the top two were Farrel and Danielle—in that order. Farrel sent a triumphant little brushoff glance to Danielle as she took the number one spot on the stand. Danielle retaliated with a clenched jaw and icy smile. The war was definitely on.

  “All right, ladies,” Bentley said. “Remember that tomorrow’s entry must be something entirely new. And the judges will be looking not only at taste and presentation, but we shall be giving favor to the entry most stunning in the elaborately decorated department. Have at it, and may the best baker win!”

  You could charge batteries on the amount of electricity sparking between the two top rivals. The other women’s emotions ranged from stunned to nervous to exuberant as they descended the steps and were surrounded by their own friends in the crowd.

  The big announcement had capped the day’s events for most people and Sam noticed a steady flow out the doors. She left her booth in the capable hands of Kelly and Jen, while she made one last pass through the ballroom. Some of the vendors were obviously packing up their wares—the contest itself had been their only goal; others seemed to have taken Sam’s strategy—sell all you could in three days—whether it be for charity, as in her case, or just to make extra money and gain visibility in the community.

  Danielle Ferguson was back in her booth, sketching something on a pad which she set face down on the table as Sam approached. Her design for tomorrow’s grand finale?

  “Congratulations, Danielle. Good luck tomorrow,” Sam said.

  “So you think I’ll beat Farrel?”

  Sam shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t get a vote. I’m just thankful that we’re getting good crowds. It looks like we’ll have a decent donation for our charity.”

  Danielle made all the right sounds about the charity but still, underlying her thin attempts at good sportsmanship, her deep hunger to win showed through.

  Sam moved on, wishing again for Sarah’s steadying presence, sad that their friendship had ended so abruptly and that Sarah had missed the excitement of the festival, the fruits of all her hard work.

  Two other vendors interrupted Sam with questions which she answered absently, wondering where Beau was right now. Sweet’s Sweets had sold so much of their product that she realized she’d better plan on going back and baking some more. Sunday might be a slower sales day but she didn’t want her offerings to look skimpy. Kelly had done a good job of getting press coverage for the event and with the announcement of the prizes tomorrow, there would likely be a sizeable crowd.

  “Yeah, I knew the old bat,” Farrel O’Hearn was saying to someone at her booth, keeping her voice low as Sam passed by.

  Sam looked up to see Farrel toss something onto the back table in her booth, the same copy of People, open to the page Kelly had showed her earlier about the peculiar heiress who’d left a fortune to her dog. Was that who Farrel was talking about? Sam shrugged it off. Farrel made no secret of the fact that she’d gotten her training in some high-class east coast place. It was a little disconcerting to hear her talk of the society woman in such disparaging terms, but that seemed to be Farrel’s way. Sam could only imagine how she thought of the hicks from the Southwest.

  She headed toward the dais to remind Rupert and Bentley that tomorrow’s schedule would be tightened; rather than being open from ten in the morning to five p.m., it would close with the finale announcement of the prize winners at two o’clock. She had no sooner passed that info along than her phone rang. When she saw who it was she detoured to take the call at the quiet end of the corridor.

  “Hey, darlin’,” said Beau. “Just checking in. Are you getting out of there anytime soon?”

  “I’ll make it happen. I’m anxious to hear about the rest of your day.”

  “I left Ben to finish questioning witnesses. I’m still trying to locate next of kin for Carinda Carter and there hasn’t been a minute all day to break away and get by her apartment to look for names. So, what I was thinking is that if I can swing by and pick you up, we could do that together and I’ll take you out for your favorite enchiladas at the Taoseño.”

  It was too good an offer to pass up and Sam told him she could be ready in fifteen minutes. She scurried back to her booth, jotted quick notes about the products they’d run out of (telling Beau she would have to go to the shop and bake tonight was unwelcome news she would save for later), then she sent the girls home and was waiting in front of the hotel when Beau pulled up, right on time.

  Chapter 15

  “Hey there,” he said with a small romantic leer to his voice. “I am so ready to get this day finished and go home to relax.”

  She broke the news about having to bake some more; his hopeful expression faded.

  “Just one more d
ay of this,” she said, “and I promise—we will have some time together.”

  He put the cruiser in gear and steered around the small cul-de-sac hotel entrance.

  “It’s not your fault. I’ll still have this murder case to work on, not to mention keeping order among the children of love and brotherhood.”

  “They giving you fits?”

  “Only moderately. Today was some kind of big Peace In or something. My uniformed men reported that they all sat on the ground in a big circle and chanted most of the day. It was almost harmonic sounding. The thing that’s driving Mr. Mulvane to call us all the time is that there are just so many of them—more than a thousand at this point.”

  “So he’s getting a taste of what his generosity has brought him.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished, you know.” He turned onto Paseo del Pueblo and headed south.

  Sam didn’t have to wonder if that statement also pertained to volunteering for committees. She couldn’t wait for this long ordeal to be over.

  “You’ve been to Carinda’s apartment,” he said. “Let me know where to turn.”

  She spotted the turnoff about ten minutes later and directed him to the side of the building nearest Unit 6.

  “I’ll let the manager know what we’re doing here,” Beau said, scanning apartment numbers as they walked into the small courtyard. He handed Sam a set of keys, apparently from Carinda’s purse.

  Sam walked to Carinda’s front door and unlocked it, pausing before going inside. Beau returned a couple minutes later and handed her a pair of latex gloves. The unit felt hollow and stale, despite the fact that its occupant had been here only yesterday morning. A trash can in the kitchen held packaging from a boxed microwavable breakfast—scrambled eggs and sausage—and the one dirty fork and orange juice-crusted drinking glass in the sink attested to the fact that this had probably been her last meal.

  “The manager wants the place emptied by the end of the month. He’s got someone from a waiting list ready to take it on the first,” Beau said, glancing around at the cheap furnishings. “Doesn’t seem like a lot of personal stuff here, does there?”