Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Read online

  Chapter 1

  This festival will be the death of me yet, thought Samantha Sweet as she wrung the neck of a pastry bag full of chocolate icing. When she’d first heard of Taos’s Sweet Somethings chocolate festival she envisioned a lovely park-like atmosphere, with colorful booths displaying masses of delectable chocolates, maybe Willie Wonka music setting the tone—something no one from three counties would be able to resist. What she’d gotten was last-minute responsibility for a committee that was operating weeks behind schedule.

  An acquaintance of Sam’s had recommended that she become involved and Sarah Williams, the poor lady who’d let everything fall behind, had leaped at the suggestion with all the gusto a four-foot tall-woman with a bad hip could manage. Sarah was a dear older lady and they had become friends during the past few weeks—she was just not much of an organizer. When she practically begged Sam to take over, it hadn’t been the lure of the festival that persuaded Sam to do it; the real reason was something else entirely, Sarah’s connection to an old woman Sam had met only once and a carved wooden box with mystical powers. Sam had been trying for a long time to learn more.

  Now, with each tinkle of the front door bells in her bakery showroom, Sam could hear the volume of voices increase as her committee members arrived. Six p.m. but her day was far from finished. She cleared the last of her tools from the worktable and picked up the thick folder of notes from her desk. The folder flopped open and Sam scrambled to retrieve a half-dozen small scraps of paper that drifted to the floor, the tidbits that held the event together at this point. She shoved the notes back into the folder and fought back a wave of panic.

  How did I let myself get talked into this, especially on such short notice? She pushed through the curtain separating the kitchen from the showroom and willed the corners of her mouth upward.

  “Sam! Thank you. Can we get the meeting underway now?” Carinda Carter pushed forward through the group and met Sam with a challenge in her stare. It was the way Carinda approached everything, Sam had discovered—long on assertiveness and short on tact. ‘Thank you’ coming from Carinda implied ‘thank you for finally showing up.’

  “Is everyone here?” Sam scanned the faces in the room. In addition to herself, Carinda and Sarah, the committee consisted of Harvey Byron who owned a boutique ice cream shop on the Taos Plaza and two of Sam’s trusted friends, Rupert Penrick and Erica Davis-Jones. Riki, as she was known, owned the dog grooming business next door. Sam’s daughter, Kelly, worked for Riki and often pitched in with the committee work as well. Sam spotted Riki and Kelly through the front windows so she called the meeting to order.

  “Okay—reports,” she said. “Rupert?”

  “The venue is set—finally got the signed contract for the Bella Vista Hotel. I tell you, girl, it was a challenge to get the manager to sit down for two seconds.” He handed a few pages to Sam.

  She knew she would get an earful of details later but, truthfully, she didn’t care. The original plan to hold the chocolate festival at Kit Carson Park had fallen through, then the weather forecast called for temperatures in the nineties and it turned out the convention center was already booked. She’d pulled in every contact she could think of to find a place with the right ambiance and location. The Bella Vista Hotel was actually outside of town—located in a bucolic spot with the Rio Fernando running beside it—but at least it had a ballroom large enough to accommodate most of the vendors. The park-like setting could provide additional places for outdoor booths where non-meltable products might go. Now to entice the crowds to this somewhat out-of-the-way place.

  Carinda Carter was twitching in her seat at one of Sam’s bistro tables and had her hand in the air.

  “Yes, Carinda? Can you fill us in on how the designs are coming along?”

  The rail-thin woman stood up, sent Rupert a long look—as if the delay in securing the venue were all his fault—gave a toss of her chin-length auburn hair, and picked up a poster-sized sheet of paper. She held it up for all to admire.

  “The logo, as you can see, places whimsical hearts and swirls against a rich background of purple. I’ve shaded the lettering to represent all varieties of chocolate, from a creamy white to a deep brown. Details—here you see Sweet Somethings in large type.” She ran a finger across the face of the poster, like one of those super models who point out the prizes on TV game shows. “The dates—nice and large, just here. All I was waiting on was the name of the venue—” Another glare toward Rupert. “I will fill that in and get it to the printer in Santa Fe as soon as I can. Of course the tickets, the programs, banners and vendor ID badges will all follow the same theme. I only hope that our printer hasn’t booked so much other work that he can’t get to ours now that we’re running so late.”

  Carinda faced Rupert again and opened her mouth, but the large man was not known for taking guff from anyone. He met her challenge with a steely gaze.

  Sam swallowed a retort. “I’m sure there are many printers. We’ll find someone.” She cleared her throat and turned to Kelly. “How about the radio ads?”

  Kelly consulted a list. “We’ve booked five days of spots with KVSN during their ‘Taste of Taos’ show and their ‘Visions’ program. Since the festival benefits charity, I got them to double the number of ads at no additional cost. We’ll be running these the two days leading up to the festival and the three days during. And we’ve got Riki lined up to do interviews with stations in Santa Fe and Albuquerque.”

  Although Riki wasn’t directly involved as a vendor or participant, the British transplant had such a charming accent that people always listened. She would be excellent as the voice of the festival.

  “Good job.” Sam preened a little on her daughter’s behalf. “Rupert, I believe you have something else for us?”

  Never one to shy away from the limelight, the six-foot man in the purple tunic and soft beret stood up and sent another glare toward Carinda.

  “I do have some exciting news. Early this morning I received the letter of agreement—and, I might add, a check—from Qualitätsschokolade, the famed Swiss chocolate manufacturer, as the official sponsor of our festival, and the provider of prize money!”

  A murmur went through the group.

  “With what they sent we will be able to award two thousand dollars …”

  A ripple of wows.

  “… for third place. Three thousand for second place. And a stunning five thousand dollars for first place!”

  A collective gasp. Kelly, Riki and Carinda were scribbling notes.

  “Additionally, I pulled in a favor from the editor of the summer tour guide to do a cover spread and feature story on the winner of the People’s Choice award.”

  Carinda almost came out of her seat. “We never talked about—”

  Sam held up a hand. “It was an idea Rupert came up with after our last meeting. Letting the crowds vote on a favorite item—it encourages their participation. The magazine story—wow—an excellent prize.”

  Carinda gave a semi-gracious smile and leaned back in her chair.

  Rupert wasn’t finished. “I have also contacted the bestselling novelist Victoria DeVane, who has graciously consented to provide medals of gold, silver and bronze to go along with the prize money. And she says we may hold a raffle, with the prize winner’s name to be used in Victoria’s next book.” He sent a smug look toward Carinda. “That should bring in some extra money.”

  Sam covered her own smile by looking down at her folder of notes. She was the only one who knew that Rupert himself was the famed writer. It didn’t matter; the important thing was that finally it looked as if the festival really would come together and it would be
a prestigious one at that.

  Harvey Byron spoke up. “Will the prizes be limited to candy or pastries?”

  “Any item containing Qualitätsschokolade products will qualify.”

  Harvey’s wheels seemed to be turning. Sam imagined that his popular brownie nugget dark chocolate supreme ice cream would soon—if it didn’t already—contain chunks of the Swiss maker’s own delectable cacao bars. An award, especially if it came with a magazine write-up, might be the thing to launch Harv’s dream of expanding his ice cream shops statewide and eventually nationwide. The tall, slender man had confided this in his reticent manner once when Sam had stopped by Ice Cream Social for a cone. He was a nice guy, she’d decided, with soft brown eyes and sandy hair; she just didn’t see the hard-driving personality that would propel his business to the national level.

  Rupert hadn’t sat down yet. “Carinda, you’ll need to add the prize information to the poster. Oh, and change that background to royal blue, the sponsor’s color.”

  Carinda sputtered and put on her martyr face, making it clear that she felt saddled with the burden of last-minute changes. No one but Sam seemed to notice.

  Kelly spoke up. “Should we put out a call for entries, try to get more vendors?”

  Sam looked toward Rupert.

  “Ooh. Limited basis, okay? We’re already pushing our limits since the Bella Vista venue is a lot smaller than the places we originally considered.”

  “I’ll do one quick advance press release.”

  Carinda faced Kelly. “Can you handle that? I mean, I really have the experience.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Kelly’s voice came through clenched teeth.

  Sam looked back at Rupert again. “So, our vendor signups are coming in?”

  “Better than expected. Of course you’ll be there, right? Sweet’s Sweets is the best bakery for a hundred miles.”

  Sam had been working on a few new recipes, herself. “Becky and Julio have been baking up a storm. We will definitely have a booth.” Another aspect of this whole thing that she’d never done before—setting up displays and sales staff outside of her own bakery. “But I won’t enter the competition for the prizes. It doesn’t seem right since I chair the committee.”

  Did she only imagine a satisfied smirk on Carinda’s face? For someone new in town, the little whippet had certainly inserted herself quickly where she hadn’t been invited.

  The discussion turned to decorations, where Sarah Williams had agreed to take charge by forming her own little subcommittee of older ladies who enjoyed making garlands and flower arrangements and such. That group would also arrange for people to serve as ticket-takers at the gate when the show opened.

  When the conversation trailed off into specifics about what colors the flowers should be, Sam tapped her pen on the table top.

  “I’m sure everyone is eager to get home but there’s one more item for tonight.” She thought of her husband; recently, poor Beau had prepared his own dinner more nights than she wanted to admit.

  “Judges. Especially now that there is prize money on the line, this will be important.”

  She turned to Harvey, the committee member she had assigned to the task last week, but Carinda piped up first.

  “I’ll be happy to judge,” she said. “I was told by the chocolatier at Le Patisserie in Paris that I have an excellent palate.”

  “Thank you, Carinda, but if we can find outsiders I think that will give the necessary impartiality.”

  The woman sank back in her seat, her mouth once more forming a straight line. Sam turned to Harvey again.

  “Well, I’m still working on it,” he said, a nervous tic working at the corner of his mouth. “So far, I’ve asked two people but I don’t have commitments yet.”

  “Can you call me when you know for sure, Harv?” She looked up at the group as a whole. “It’s only a week, folks, and we have a lot to do. Feel free to call me with updates, and let’s plan to meet again on Thursday.”

  Chairs scraped and feet shuffled. Sarah Williams edged past Kelly and Riki and touched Sam’s arm.

  “I’m so sorry I flaked out. This has put a lot of work on your shoulders.”

  It had, but Sam didn’t see much point in acknowledging the fact.

  “Mary Raintree told me that you were hoping to talk with me about Bertha Martinez and I’m so sorry we haven’t found a minute to do that yet,” Sarah said. “I apprenticed under Bertha, you know, before I went to college and became a nurse. She was a wonderful healer and even in my practice of Western medicine I frequently used her techniques. Many of my older patients preferred the old ways.”

  A wistful look came over her face. “I’ve often wondered about an old box she had. She kept herbs in it. Bertha told me the box had made a great journey.”

  Sam felt a rush of excitement—this was the subject she’d really wanted to discuss. She had briefly met Mary Raintree a few weeks ago in her quest to learn more about the powers of a wooden box that had been given to her by a local woman believed to be a witch. Mary, herself a practitioner of Wicca, had pretty well convinced Sam that Bertha Martinez was actually a curandera in the old Hispanic tradition. Now she was beginning to understand why Mary thought it would be a good idea for her to speak with Sarah.

  “I can see that you know of it,” Sarah said.

  Sam glanced sideways; the other committee members were too near.

  “We will talk about it later.” Sarah patted Sam’s arm then turned to leave.

  “Yes, I definitely want to.” Sam watched the older woman walk out the door. Finally—she would get the answers she had been seeking.

  Chapter 2

  Sam drove home, her thoughts leaping every direction. With the hundreds of unfinished tasks for the chocolate festival and Sarah’s enticing statement about having known Bertha Martinez so well, her mind wouldn’t settle on one thing. She picked up a pen and tried to jot a note when the name of another possible contest judge came to mind, but the flash of oncoming headlights warned her that writing and driving do not mix. She tossed the pen onto the passenger seat and concentrated on watching for the turnoff to the ranch home she shared with Sheriff Beau Cardwell, her spouse of eight months.

  “Hey, darlin’,” he greeted her at the front door, “you look whupped.”

  Their border collie and Lab rushed out to nuzzle her hands, seeking out the sugary essence that followed her everywhere after a day at the bakery. Beau pulled her into his arms and stroked her back as she melted into his chest.

  “I’m so sick of working with this committee,” she mumbled into his soft plaid shirt. “I thought a couple of them would come to blows awhile ago.”

  “Come inside. I’ll get you something to eat while you shower.”

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything more substantial than a muffin—probably breakfast, fourteen hours ago. No wonder she looked and felt like a limp rag. So, why was it that she could never seem to shed these extra twenty pounds?

  Beau handed her a wine glass. “Relax, sweetheart.”

  She dropped her backpack purse onto the sofa in their big log-walled greatroom and headed upstairs, sipping the cabernet.

  Ten minutes later she descended to find a TV tray set up in front of her favorite chair, a sandwich and bowl of soup waiting.

  “It’s nothing fancy,” he said, holding up the wine bottle with an offer of a refill.

  “It’s fantastic just to sit down and eat,” she said. “I used to stand in front of the fridge and snack on cheese and pickles before I met you.”

  He settled in the corner of the sofa nearest her. “So . . . festival planning getting you down?”

  “We’re just so far behind. And then there’s this one woman who wants to micro-manage everyone else. She’s criticized Kelly’s choice of radio ads, Harvey’s choice of contest judges, and started to give Rupert a little flack. He withered her with one of his famous stares.”

  “How’d you get stuck with her anyway? She som
ebody important in town?”

  “No—that’s the thing. Nobody knows her. She just showed up. I get the impression she just moved here, she’s traveled a lot—or gives that impression—and wants us Taos locals to be in awe of her sophistication.” She took a huge bite of her turkey sandwich.

  “Maybe she’s just lonely—new in town and all that. She wants to pitch in and get involved.”

  “Yeah, probably. Just pure luck that I’m the one she gets to drive crazy.”

  “Hey, it can’t be as bad as dealing with the Flower People. We got word that they’ve chosen Taos County as the rendezvous point for their summer love-in or whatever they call it.”

  Sam pictured the number of aging hippies who had settled in the area after the ’60s, most of them now with grey hair and crusty, sandal-clad feet. They shopped at the health food store and plastered their cars with bumper stickers protesting everything but were generally good citizens.

  “I assume you aren’t talking about the locals,” she said between sips of her soup.

  “I should be so lucky. What I hear, this bunch numbers in the thousands and they show up to camp out and salute the sun or pray toward the moon, or some such thing.”

  “That sounds harmless enough.”

  “Probably is, except they don’t exactly respect fences or bring their own bathroom facilities or park their vans in designated areas. In Idaho, where they camped one year, the town spent thousands of dollars cleaning up after them—trash by the truckloads, human waste in open pits and trampled crops didn’t exactly endear them to anyone nearby.”

  “Can’t you just chase them out?”

  “Me and four deputies? If they choose public land I can probably get some help from the Forest Service. Problem is, those agencies usually issue them a permit when they’re told it will be a ‘family reunion’ of twenty people. By the time they figure out how many have really arrived, they’re overwhelmed too. And, of course, all it takes is one landowner to give them permission to use private property. The ranchers love the offer of money—we hear that the group usually puts up a deposit of a thousand dollars or so with a promise to pay more when they arrive—then the guy figures out what a mess will be left behind, and the little bit he collects doesn’t begin to cover the cleanup.”