“I saw her here the other day, too, kind of arguing with Carinda.”
Who didn’t argue with Carinda?
“It was something about money, is all I really got from it. They were standing in the alcove right by the ladies room and when I came around the corner they shut up really fast, like it was none of my business.” She speared a strawberry and it dangled from her fork while she talked. “Which it wasn’t. But it was funny to see the look on Carinda’s face when she recognized me. I just ducked into the bathroom and ignored her. They were gone when I came out, but it was the last time I ever saw her—Carinda, I mean.”
Thinking of seeing someone for the last time reminded Sam of Sarah Williams. She made a mental note to call the nephew after breakfast and find out what time the funeral would be.
“Good omelet, Mom. You should get one.” Kelly had taken the time to have the buffet’s chef make one fresh, while Sam had piled the pre-made scrambled eggs on her own plate.
“It looks good. But I’m getting full and I really should get back to Becky. Take your time to finish. I’ll catch the tab up front.”
“No, you don’t. This was my treat.”
Sam smiled at her daughter. It wasn’t that long ago when Kelly had showed up after ten years away from home, jobless and in debt trouble. She’d done a great job of turning all that around.
“Okay, next time it’s mine,” Sam said.
Outside the restaurant she remembered to phone Marc Williams. He sounded busy, the sounds of voices in the background, but he told her that Sarah’s funeral would be at two o’clock Tuesday. She stuffed her phone into her pocket and strolled slowly to the ballroom. No sign of the woman Kelly had tried to point out. If she spotted that turquoise blouse, Sam would try to speak to her. This would be someone else that Beau’s men should question.
Booth sales seemed a bit slow, not only at the Sweet’s Sweets location. Sam offered Becky a break if she wanted it.
“Nah, I’m fine. Today’s hot item seems to be the torte you brought this morning. Not as much cheesecake.”
It was always a guessing game, trying to figure out what to prepare the most of. At least cheesecake could go into the fridge and would last another day. Cookies and brownies were always welcomed at the homeless shelter and Sam could easily make a run by there at the end of the festival.
The next two hours dragged by. It was far easier to have the booth surrounded by impatient crowds and to be rushing around filling orders than to sit idly by and deal with a trickle of business. Sam signaled to Rupert when he stopped at Harvey’s booth for ice cream.
“Do you suppose we could liven things up a bit?” she whispered to him. “Even Bentley Day yelling ‘chop-chop’ would be better than standing here twiddling our thumbs.”
“Hang on to your hat, honey. Kelly scheduled a series of radio spots that started at twelve. We want this thing to go out with a bang, so the raffle drawings are going to begin in another fifteen minutes. I’ll space them out to keep people around until the judges make the big announcement at a quarter of two. When the prizes are announced, KVSN will be here to cover it live and a reporter and photographer from the Gazette are coming for it too.”
“I truly did not mean to doubt you,” she said, squeezing his arm. He seemed to have forgiven her for yesterday’s law enforcement questioning.
Ask and you will receive, Sam thought as she looked up to see that the corridor outside the ballroom was already more crowded than just a few minutes ago.
Rupert picked up the microphone and gave a toss of his silver hair.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome to the final day of Sweet Somethings, the day when these five beautiful cakes now on display at the judges’ table face the test of taste and beauty. Three prizes will be awarded, three of our fabulous bakers will go home with prize money and the acclaim of being winners in the First Sweet Somethings Chocolate Festival!”
Applause rose from the audience, even though only a handful had actually gravitated to the front of the dais at this point.
Sam couldn’t believe she had walked right past the five finalists’ cakes without really taking note of them; she nearly always checked out other bakers’ creations. From her position in the booth, though, she could only see a yellow daisy sticking up from the top of one cake and a complicated-looking tangle of chocolate shapes on another. Just as she started to step out of the booth to take a look, four customers approached at once.
“Our judges will be announcing the winners in a little over an hour,” Rupert continued. “For now, don’t forget to come forward and take a good look at the five cakes then cast your ballot for the People’s Choice Award. The cake with the most votes from our festival audience wins a special prize.”
Sam wouldn’t have minded competing for that one. In her quest for publicity for the festival, Kelly had convinced the local newspaper publisher to feature the People’s Choice winner on the cover of their summer tourist magazine, along with a story about the winning baker. Sam couldn’t have afforded to pay for that kind of advertising for Sweet’s Sweets—the free publicity could have been invaluable. Alas, for appearance’s sake, as head of the festival committee she had disqualified herself. Darn it.
Rupert picked up the fishbowl of ticket stubs and drew someone’s name for a door prize. The throng continued to grow and Sam and Becky began madly bagging orders. She had no idea how much time had passed when she became aware that Bentley Day had taken over the MC duties.
“G’day, Taoseños!” he announced, giving away his New Mexico heritage by actually pronouncing the word correctly. “The time is here! We judges have made our decision. If you’ve not cast your ballot for the People’s Choice, you have five minutes to bring it up here and put it in this.” He held up a box which had been wrapped in Qualitätsschokolade logo paper.
Customers who had been scattered throughout the large room now began to migrate toward the dais, blocking access to others who were trying to get to the nearest booths.
“And now . . . what all of our contestants and all of our visitors have been waiting for . . .” Bentley Day put on his biggest showman smile. “In third place—”
A man in front had been waving his arms wildly and now caught Bentley’s attention.
“Vait!”
Sam could see his profile from where she stood—his stocky build, the round face with pink-apple cheeks, the cottony white hair. He wore a rather formal-looking three-piece suit and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. His right hand was in the air, index finger pointing toward the ceiling.
“Vait!” he said again. “Dis is not correct!”
Rupert and Bentley both leaned forward to hear him.
“You cannot avard the prize in this manner.”
Rupert whispered, but unfortunately Bentley had not switched off the microphone so everyone in the large hall got every word.
“And you are?”
“I am Wilhelm Schott, president of Qualitätsschokolade. It is I who has given this prize!”
Everyone on the dais seemed momentarily stunned. Rupert looked toward Sam with help in his expression. She pushed through the crowd. At the very least she could insist he turn off the microphone until they solved the problem. She climbed the steps and took it from him.
“Folks, we will have this sorted out in a few minutes. Meanwhile, continue browsing and be sure to pick up those last minute gift items.” She flicked the switch and set the microphone down.
“Mr. Schott, how nice to meet you. We are honored and so pleased that you could come to the festival.”
The vivid blue eyes glared from under spiky white brows.
Sam took a breath. “Obviously, we missed something in your communication to us. I am—we all are—glad you came today so we can do this according to your wishes.”
“One prize,” he reiterated. “Goes to top baker only.”
“Yes, yes. We will do that.” She shot Rupert and Bentley a look that said Work this out! before she took Schott by the arm.
“While the judges evaluate their decision, let me treat you to a coffee,” she said, leading him to the booth where she knew that Java Joe had created a superb brew using a hint of the sponsor’s chocolate to make it the rave of the show.
Less than two minutes later, Rupert switched the mike on again. “All right! Sorry for that little delay. Since the judges had already made their first-place choice, that decision will stand.” His eyes found Sam in the crowd and she nodded.
“All of our bakers have put enormous effort, many hours, and unbelievable creativity into their entries and now to honor them, we shall describe all five cakes before announcing our grand prize winner.”
Sam’s stomach settled a little; Mr. Schott seemed to be savoring his coffee. In the booth beside the coffee place, Danielle Ferguson was sending balls of imaginary hellfire toward Farrel O’Hearn.
“The first cake on our table,” Rupert began, “is an elegant wedding cake from the kitchen of pastry chef Farrel O’Hearn. Each of the four dark chocolate cake tiers is shaped as a perfect globe, covered in shimmering ivory fondant. Tiers one and three are draped in swags of matching fondant, while the middle tier features hand-piped beaded frames around tiny cherubs. Between each tier are clusters of pink, coral and blush-rose gumpaste flowers. This romantic cake is an absolute show-stopper.”
A wave of applause for Farrel’s cake.
“Is schokolade?” asked Mr. Schott. “I do not see it.”
Sam ushered him to one of the tables where he could see the stage and yet relax with his coffee.
“Second in presentation is another wedding cake, this from local home baker Grace Maldonado. Square tiers of red velvet cake are draped in alternating white chocolate and dark chocolate fondant, smoothed to perfection. Cascading from the top, dark chocolate roses adorn the white chocolate tiers, while white roses offset the dark tier. The gorgeous flowers swirl around the cake and end in a trail of blossoms at the base. The black and white theme continues ‘over the top’ so to speak with a lush bouquet that any bride would love.”
“Ah, now this one . . . she is schokolade.” The Swiss visitor drained his cup and leaned back in his seat.
“Third on our table is a romantic pink confection from Susan Sanchez.” Rupert moved to stand behind the cake in the center. “The dome-shaped chocolate mocha cake is covered in hundreds of delicate pink ruffle flowers made of molded white chocolate. Whether for a bride, a new mother, or your own little princess, this delicate creation will delight that special lady and all her guests.”
The descriptions were beginning to sound like fashion show fare, and Sam spotted Rupert’s writing flair in the narrative. Careful, she thought, someone’s going to figure out your nom de plume.
“From the kitchen of Taos resident Cynthia Freeman,” he continued, “comes this whimsical two-tier design of milk chocolate with dark chocolate chips in the cake itself. The rolled fondant decorations say Spring, with bright yellow daisies punctuating the chocolate and white stripes and a big yellow bow gives it an old-fashioned hatbox feel. On the top tier a sweet-faced honeybee rests his wings and we can only imagine that after his little nap he will be buzzing around the rest of the abundant yellow daisies in this beautiful little garden.”
Cynthia must have brought family with her today; a cheer rose from one corner of the ballroom when Rupert finished describing the cake.
“Last, but most certainly not least,” Rupert said, “we have Danielle Ferguson’s entry, an all-chocolate wedding cake of four tiers. Each tall level of cocoa supreme cake is iced with chocolate ganache which is then covered in a smooth chocolate wall. Crisp chocolate ‘lace’ was molded to fit every surface of those walls, giving the overall effect of a delicate castle with ethereal parapets where the occasional white-chocolate flower peers out to the ordinary world below.”
Sam had to hand it to him—he’d come up with more ways to describe chocolate cake than she would have ever imagined. And the contestants had displayed amazingly creative talent. She wondered if any of them was looking for a job—just in case Sweet’s Sweets became even busier than at present.
Rupert handed the microphone to Bentley Day who, unable to be out of the limelight for more than a few minutes, had been providing boyish distractions at the back of the stage.
“Thank you for those lovely descriptions, Rupert. We have tallied the ballots that all of you, chocolate lovers of Taos, turned in, and I am pleased to announce that the winner of the People’s Choice Award goes to . . . Cynthia Freeman for Honey Bee!”
Cheers erupted and applause came from all corners of the ballroom.
Cynthia blushed and slowly made her way from her booth at the very back of the room up to the front, where Bentley placed a ribbon with a medal around her neck. The photographer from the newspaper hustled forward for pictures. Apparently he suggested that the cake be moved to a separate area where he could set up the proper lighting because Cynthia picked it up and the little procession that included the reporter assigned to the story made their way, smiling and waving, out of the ballroom.
“Now, shall we find out who won the top prize?” Bentley Day teased the crowd.
No, let’s just bag it and go home. What did he think? Sam tamped down her impatience for the day to be finished.
“In the judges’ estimation,” he began, “based on flavor of the cake, use of the Qualitätsschokolade product, and creativity of design . . . the top honor, and ten thousand dollar prize . . . goes to . . . Danielle Ferguson for her all-chocolate wedding cake!”
Next to Sam, Danielle shrieked and began to push through to the front. Farrel O’Hearn must have stepped aside for the cute little bee cake to pass by; she walked back into the ballroom at the moment Danielle’s name was announced. Her face went stony, then red.
For a split second Sam thought she was seeing Carinda—Farrel’s hair today fell in the same shape Carinda had always worn and her dress was the same blue color that the murdered woman had worn on her final day.
Danielle turned to her with a look of shock. She recovered quickly, however, and shot her rival a smile of smug triumph.
It was too much for Farrel, having the loss rubbed in her face that way. She lunged toward Danielle with a roar. The two women gripped forearms, snarling and clawing, pinwheeling out of control toward the table full of cakes.
Chapter 17
Several hundred people held their collective breath as the inevitable unfolded. Farrel’s momentum propelled the two women directly toward the dais. The table holding the remaining four cakes teetered. The two female judges saw it coming and leaped to the very back of the platform just before the tallest of the cakes, Farrel’s three-tiered creation of ivory fondant globes tilted forward and crashed onto her head. The wobbling table dispensed the other three cakes on top of the fighting women—splat! Cake, fondant, frosting and chocolate lacy bits shot out, covering a five-yard swath of the audience and nearby booths. Harvey Byron picked bits of cake out of his ice cream vats and in Sam’s booth Becky and Kelly stared at each other in horror before they began to laugh at the sight of the pink and chocolate goo on their faces.
Sam turned to catch Herr Schott’s reaction—dignified Swiss repulsion—right before he stomped out of the ballroom. Well. So much for any hope of another year’s sponsorship.
As chair of the event she should probably be horrified at the battle between Danielle and Farrel, but the two women had been giving each other—and everyone else—grief since day one. The melee was almost inevitable. Danielle could have handled it better. A gracious winner is always more beloved than an arrogant one, and Danielle had been about as snotty toward Farrel as humanly possible. All in all, though, it really was pretty funny to watch the two of them rolling around in the wreckage of chocolate and icing on the floor.
Half the audience reacted similarly to the Swiss chocolate maker; a bunch of the others simply leaped in and began gobbling up hunks of broken cake and frosting flowers.
Auguste Handler
showed up, alerted by shrieks from the room full of spectators and as soon as the two sugar-coated women were pulled apart he promptly presented them with a bill for cleanup. By this time all the other vendors were well into the process of breaking down their booths and hustling their belongings out the back door. It was more than an hour before Sam got away.
She pulled her van near the back door of the homeless shelter where she often donated spare baked goodies, hoping to give a lift in spirits to those who needed one. Her own mood had been strangely buoyed since the breakup of the fight that signaled the grand finale of the chocolate festival. Turning off her engine she walked to the back of the van to pull out three large bakery boxes filled with cookies, muffins, cake and cheesecake.
“Whoa, what’s this? On a Sunday afternoon?” Greta Ortiz, who ran the shelter, greeted Sam at the door with a big smile and a hug.
Sam carried the boxes into the facility’s kitchen and set them on the table.
“Mid-afternoon snack, dessert tonight, breakfast tomorrow . . . whatever you want it to be.”
“I hear things got kind of exciting at the festival awhile ago,” Greta said, taking a peek into the box on top.
“Uh-oh, this didn’t get on the radio, did it?” Bad publicity, after all their hard work to make the festival a positive, upbeat event for the community?
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. In fact, the radio guy talked it up real big. The way your announcer described those cakes . . . made me want to run right down there and have some.” Greta reached into the box, picked up a cookie and began nibbling the edges. “I got the skinny on the big fight from my gal who comes in to clean. Her sister was there and I’ll tell you, she’s no fan of Danielle Ferguson. She just had to call Sissy and pass along the word. Ooh, these chocolate cookies with all the nuts are really good!”
Including the word that Danielle had baked the winning entry? Sam closed her eyes for a moment and willed the whole scene out of her head. She was bone tired and ready to be done with everyone associated with the festival.
Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 15