Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (9 page)

She stared around the cavernous
ballroom. “Here’s my sketch. We need to measure off the booth spaces and put
masking tape on the floor so everyone knows the boundaries.”

“Good idea. Never trust people to
agree over territory.”

They began near the corner door
that led to the kitchen, measuring and marking their way down the north wall,
then the west. Kelly showed up at some point, explaining that Riki needed to
keep her shop open and wouldn’t be coming.

“At least she gave me the whole
morning off. Just let me know what to do.”

“Take Rupert’s end of the tape
measure,” Sam said. “He’s going to bring in some displays from my truck and
start setting up the judging area.”

“Ooh, the judges!” Kelly said. “Is
Bentley Day here yet?”

“He’s supposed to arrive this
afternoon. We got a room comp’d for him here at the hotel.”

Harvey Byron arrived, followed
soon after by Carinda who fluttered around like an annoying moth, mainly in the
way, talking nonstop so she seemed busy. Sam handed her roll of masking tape
over to Harvey and took Carinda out to the corridor.

“Are you doing all right today?”
she asked.

Carinda’s eyebrows pulled together
in puzzlement. “Sure, just fine.”

“I just . . . Look, before the
festival really gets underway, I want to apologize for letting things get a bit
ugly yesterday. I shouldn’t have been so sharp in my tone.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, you seemed really upset. I
didn’t intend to do that.”

Again, the blank look. Did Carinda
truly not remember acting as if she might do away with herself? Or was she such
a drama queen that those types of moves were simply part of her normal
repertoire? The word ‘crazy’ popped into Sam’s head again.

“All right. Whatever.” Carinda
shrugged. “I’d like to start putting up the bunting and signs?”

“Let’s get the booths numbered
first, in case vendors start showing up early.” She handed Carinda a stack of
white pages on which she had printed large numbers, one through twenty-five.
“Just follow Kelly and Harvey around and stick the numbers to the corresponding
spaces they’ve taped off.”

Sam didn’t miss the resentful look
Carinda sent her for being given the lowly task.
We’re oil and water, that’s all it is. We will never be friends but at
least we can get through this weekend without a battle
. She repeated it to
herself a couple more times.

At the south end of the room, two
hotel employees had wheeled in sections of a portable platform and were in the
process of noisily erecting it. Rupert looked a little impatient at the time it
was taking to accomplish the task, but there was no point in putting up any of
the decorative touches until the dais was in place. Sam walked over to be sure
the men knew exactly where to place the heavy platform and accompanying access
steps, then she took Rupert aside.

“Can I help you bring the rest of
those promotional goodies inside?” she offered. “I could use a break from the
racket.”

The garden was a blanket of calm
after the clamor of voices and assembly noise from the workmen indoors. They
followed a walkway toward the parking lot.

“Slow down a little,” Sam said,
trying to keep up with Rupert’s long stride. “These may be the last moments of
calm that I get for the next three days.”

He laughed and adjusted his pace
to a saunter. They’d barely cleared the small rose garden when Sam’s phone
rang.

“Argh—even in a garden there’s no
peace,” she said, reaching for it.

The number on the readout was
unfamiliar, a local one.

“Hello?”

“Sam, it’s Marc Williams.” His
tone was not upbeat.

Her heart thudded, dreading bad
news.

“My aunt has slightly come around.
She spoke your name. Can you come to the hospital? Is this a good time?”

Well, the answer was that there
would not be a good time all weekend, but for Sarah she would go anytime. She
assured him she would get there as soon as possible.

Rupert caught the gist of it.
“I’ll handle the decorations, the committee, and all catastrophes. You go.”

She left him in the parking lot
and urged her truck toward the hospital at the other end of town, a sense of
unease creeping over her.

Chapter
8

Behind the glass of the ICU room
Sam could see activity, a nurse in a bright pink scrub top hovering around the
bed. Marc Williams stood out in the hall, staring toward the monitors above his
aunt’s bed.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked. “Is
she still awake?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.
She wasn’t talking by the time I arrived but she raised her hand a little when
I touched it. Then some kind of beeping thing went off and the nurse rushed
in.”

That didn’t sound good. Sam stood
beside him and watched, without knowing what she was seeing.

The nurse tucked Sarah’s arm under
the blanket and adjusted a dial on one of the machines before turning toward
the door. She shook her head as she stepped out.

“Sorry, she’s gone under again. I
doubt she’ll be talking anytime soon, but you can certainly stay as long as
you’d like.”

Sam envisioned a long, silent wait
by a bedside while all her other obligations piled up on her. She introduced
herself to the nurse.

“Marc told me that Sarah spoke my
name. Were you the nurse who was with her when she did that?”

The young woman nodded.

“Did she say anything at all,
other than my name?”

“I’m afraid it was just ‘Sam—is
Sam here?’ Her eyes were open and it came out clearly. She also asked who Marc
was.” The nurse shifted her gaze to the nephew. “I’m sorry it happened before
you arrived. She might have responded better if she had seen you, but that’s
not always the case either.”

She excused herself and walked
toward her station.

Sam looked at Marc. Could there be
reason for hope based on Sarah’s brief revival?

“I know you are super busy right
now,” Marc said. “Aunt Sarah had told me about the festival and all. She was so
excited about it. I wish she could be there.”

“Me too. She really got us off to
a good start.” Sam felt the weight of sadness when she saw Sarah lying
helplessly in the bed.

“Look, you don’t have to hang
around,” he offered. “I’ll stay awhile. I can call you right away if she wakes
up again. If you want me to tell her anything about that box—?”

Sam was a little ashamed of the
relief she felt but there really was no point in sitting here. She wasn’t
family and it was a wonder the medical staff had gone to so much trouble to
accommodate her already.

“That’s okay. Thanks. I really am
swamped with this event right now, but please do call me if there’s a change. I
would love to have another conversation with her. I’m going to keep positive
thoughts in that direction. She’ll recover and we will have lots of great
talks.”

Marc tried to look as if he
believed that and Sam appreciated the brave face. She squeezed his hand and
walked back out into the bright sunshine.

The big photographic panels for
the
Qualitätsschokolade
booth were
still in the back of her truck, she realized, protected only by their cardboard
carton. Rupert had probably already missed them but refrained from interrupting
her. She called him to say that she was on the way back then checked in with
Beau to make sure he still had his sanity over the neighborhood situation. They
agreed to try to meet for lunch, but no promises.

Sam arrived at the hotel to find
that the makeup of the parking lot had changed entirely. Gone were the rental
sedans and minivans with luggage carriers on top. Their spaces were now filled
with trucks piled high with anonymous cardboard boxes, the spindly metal legs
of trade show displays and sturdy folding tables. The vendors had arrived.

She called Rupert, suggesting that
he grab a couple of able bodies and get outside. If they could meet her
immediately she would triple park while they unloaded the photo displays.
Otherwise, they were in for a long carry across the entire lot. She came to a
stop near the garden walkway and Rupert, Kelly and Harvey appeared a few
moments later.

“I probably need to assign someone
to direct traffic out here,” she said as they quickly pulled the large panels
out of her truck. “Everyone who shows up this afternoon will have the same
problem, and I can see Loading Zone issues if there isn’t some kind of plan.”

“Maybe the hotel can provide
someone. I’ll talk to the classy Mr. Handler,” said Kelly.

“Thanks. It’s okay if you bat
those lashes at him a little.” Sam drove away to park on the far side of the
lot while the others maneuvered their load inside.

In a matter of under two hours the
ballroom had changed from a spacious art-deco chamber to a chaos of clutter.
Almost a third of the vendor spaces showed activity. Battered utility tables
held boxes and bags; aluminum-framed structures marked delineations of
territory and would eventually carry signage for the various businesses and
individual exhibitors who planned to make their mark. Hard to believe that by
tomorrow morning the huge room would be transformed to a magical world of chocolate.
At the moment it had a
long
way to
go.

The dais had been covered in blue
carpeting, the front draped in a royal blue fabric skirt, and Rupert was
standing back while Harvey and another man shifted the tall photographic panels
into alignment. Throughout the room, conversations were punctuated by the
occasional clatter of metal chairs or thump of heavy cartons.

“Bring that fourth one a little
closer in. To your left,” Rupert said as Sam approached. He turned to her.
“What do you think? Do those look straight?”

“They’re great.”

With the panels in place, Rupert
turned to the big carton of banners he’d brought. Kelly walked up as he began
pawing through them.

“Mr. Handler has sent a couple of
maintenance men to oversee the parking situation,” she said. “What else can I
do?”

“If you and Harvey can set up that
folding table,” Rupert said, “we’ll use these banners as draping. It’s where
the judges will be sitting while they taste the entries.”

“I’ll leave you to this,” Sam told
them, eyeing the spot where her own booth would be, next to Harvey’s ice cream
stand. Her space still held nothing but a numbered tag on the floor.

She pulled out her phone,
intending to call the shop and make sure someone could break away soon to bring
her display materials and help her get it organized. The actual baked products
would come tomorrow morning in the van. She had tapped the first two digits of
the number when she heard a familiar voice.

Ivan Petrenko, owner of the
neighboring bookshop, stood beside her looking a little bewildered. “Good
morning, Miss Samantha. Is good to be seeing you here.”

Cute, how formally he always
greeted her even though they had known each other for years.

“I am having some small problem,
please. Where is to be finding my place?”

It always took Sam a second to
figure out his curious mix of English and Russian phrasing. “Your booth? Let me
check.”

She consulted the clipboard that
was beginning to feel like her third hand, and located the chart.

“You are in the center section,
right next to Farrel O’Hearn, the master chocolatier from Santa Fe. I’ll show
you.”

She led the way and saw that
Farrel was already well into the complicated setup she’d brought. Apparently,
the woman planned some sort of demonstration since her equipment included two
small vats and a stack of utensils. Her slender frame was already decked out in
a flame-orange baker’s jacket and black slacks, and her reddish hair sported a
fresh cut that didn’t look as if it could possibly wilt in the heat of a
kitchen. Sam introduced her to Ivan and noticed that Farrel gave him the
suspicious eye until it became clear that he only planned to sell books.

“I assume you have mine. It was a
New York Times
bestseller in 2002,” Farrel
said, gazing down her sharp nose at the open carton of cookbooks Ivan set on
the floor. “Of course, if you run out I’ve brought my own supply.”

Ivan looked at her as if she’d
stepped off another planet. Among his rumored talents was a stint at Le Cordon
Bleu in Paris and some high-end restaurant experience in a few major cities. He
might appear to be a simple guy in bookseller mode but there was a lot the
average person never knew about him. Surely he knew of Farrel O’Hearn’s
reputation and would carry her book if it was likely to sell locally.

Sam gave him a surreptitious wink
and turned away, trying to remember what she’d been about to do before the
distraction.

Raised voices near the doors to
the corridor caught her attention. Carinda Carter stood just inside the
ballroom, staring at the dais. She’d apparently just made some comment to
Rupert because he stood with a pair of large shears in hand and Sam swore that
he subtly shifted them so they would make an easy weapon. She hurried over.

“Rupert? What’s—?”

“I thought
I
was to decorate the dais,” Carinda shouted.

Sam glanced at Rupert, whose eyes
begged her not to suggest that they do it together. Sam straightened her
shoulders.

“Nope, Carinda. That’s Rupert’s
job. I had you on the list for . . .” she thought frantically “uh . . . for
coordinating vendor services.” She had no idea what that meant but had to come
up with some sort of title. “For their comfort, we want to be sure each vendor
has bottled water and, if they wish, sodas or coffee. If you can go around and
ask each of them what they would like, and then see that Mr. Handler gets a
list, that would be a huge help. Once everyone is set up, probably later this
afternoon, we have goodie bags to hand out and I would love it if you could
take on that responsibility.”