A center drawer, the one her father always called the ‘belly drawer’ in his own desk, finally yielded an address book. She flipped through a few pages but found no listings on the M page where she might have found additional Montagues. With the light fading fast, she decided to take it home for further study.
Technically, she should enter the item on her sign-in sheet to notify the USDA that she’d removed property from the house, but she only intended to keep it overnight. She tucked the small book into the pocket of her coat and started to close the drawer when something else caught her eye.
Shining the flashlight into the dark rear corner of the drawer, Sam felt her breath catch. A photograph with slightly curled corners sat on top of a pair of scissors. She stared at it. The object in the picture was all too familiar to her. It was her own wooden box, the one given to her by Bertha Martinez—reputed witch.
Chapter 9
Sam’s fingers trembled as she plucked the photograph from the drawer, dropping it on the desk top as if it were on fire. Her heart pounded as she stared at it.
It had to be the same box—that hand carved piece with the quilted pattern, the cabochon stones mounted at the criss-crossed lines, the ugly yellowish color of the varnish. How many of them could possibly exist?
She studied the picture until the sun abruptly dipped behind the western horizon, leaving the room in deep gloom. Suddenly the house felt too remote, too abandoned and Sam herself felt too vulnerable. She grabbed up the picture and stuck it into her pocket alongside the address book. Her legs felt a little shaky when she stood up but she pushed herself to get moving.
Abandoning the plan to circuit the place and close all the drapes, she headed through the great room and out to the back yard, took the shortest route to the road and unlocked her truck with trembling hands. Inside, she locked the doors again and told herself to get out—now. The truck roared a little too heartily when she put it in gear, but it felt good to be in motion.
Half a mile later, Sam began to feel a little foolish. After all, it was apparent that no one had been in that house for months. Why would somebody show up now, at just the moment she’d helped herself to a couple of items? And what made her so sure the photo was really of the same box that she now owned? Really, she chided herself, there could be a zillion of them—probably made in India by the hundreds.
By the time she pulled into her own driveway she’d almost convinced herself.
* * *
All evening, the address book and photograph were practically steaming their way out of her coat pocket, but she didn’t trust herself to simply bring them out into the light, to share the items with Kelly. Her daughter would undoubtedly think she was crazy, and the one thing of which Sam felt certain—she wasn’t crazy. At least not yet.
Finally, Kelly went to bed, commenting that she planned to sleep “forever” because it was Sunday morning. Alone at last, Sam took the book and photo from her coat and carried them to the kitchen table where she turned the overhead light to the brightest setting.
The picture was an old one. That much was evident by the slightly fuzzy edges of the images, the lack of color brilliance that marked modern digital photography. But the box shown in the image was definitely hers—or its identical twin. It had been shot in what Sam thought of as the box’s ‘quiet’ mode, the way it looked before she touched it, without the glow that took over the wood and the stones—the ‘live’ mode.
In the photo the box sat on a table. The indoor background was dark. Not black, but very muted. She turned the photo, letting the light hit it at different angles. Small figures of some kind showed up on the wall behind the object. Sam got up and rummaged in a kitchen drawer for the magnifying glass she remembered stashing there.
Under its amplification she caught her breath. The images were white figures painted on dark red walls. Walls that Sam knew.
The picture was taken in a room at the home of Bertha Martinez. When the old woman had thrust the box into Sam’s hands, just before she died, her home was one of the properties temporarily under Sam’s care through her USDA contract. After the dead woman’s body was removed, Sam’s job was to clean and empty the house so it could be sold. She vividly remembered the red room, the window covered in opaque drapes, the occult objects, the pentagram of white stones on the floor.
Sam’s inquiries about Bertha Martinez revealed that the elderly woman had been considered by many to be a bruja, a witch of sorts. Brujas were reputed to be able to cast spells, and to be shape shifters. According to the legends a bruja would often assume the shape of an owl, taking to the air on moonlit nights, spying on mortals below. Beau had laughed it off, and Sam’s natural skepticism put the whole story in the league with fairy tales, a sort of Southwestern version of something the Brothers Grimm would have thought up.
All Sam knew for certain was that from the moment she’d opened that box, while sitting right here at this kitchen table, strange things had happened to her. From the powerful, almost electrical jolt that overwhelmed her when she first touched the inner edges of the box, to the healing touch she’d inadvertently used on her best friend Zoë, to the vivid auras she’d seen surrounding people a few weeks ago after a friend died—the box contained immense power. Bertha’s dying words left Sam feeling that she’d been instilled with a sacred trust to care for the box and use its power wisely.
She wished she knew something more of its history. Was it carved by an artisan here in Taos? Or had it come from some faraway place?
Now it appeared that others knew about the box. To what lengths would someone go to possess it? Far enough to kill William Montague because he had a picture of it? Could Bertha herself have been the target of some plot? Something had to account for her insistence that Sam take the box and safeguard it.
Sam dropped the photo back on the table and picked up the address book. Was Montague acquainted with Bertha Martinez? She had a feeling about the answer, but looked anyway. No listing under the letter M. Earlier, at his house, she’d glanced at that page in search of Montague relatives; Bertha’s name would have sprung out at her.
Starting at the beginning of the book, which had small tabs for the letters of the alphabet and places for multiple entries on the sheets behind each tab, Sam paged through, looking for any familiar name. Montague was apparently well-connected in Taos—the book contained addresses for a former mayor and several people Sam recognized as the ubiquitous chairs of committees, charities and fundraisers. Not one of them seemed likely to be connected to an old bruja or a wooden box with magical powers.
The neat printing and ruled lines began to swim before her eyes and Sam realized that she’d been awake for twenty hours now and that her brain was only capable of absorbing so much. She closed the book, sticking the photograph inside the front cover, and carried it to her room.
She barely remembered brushing her teeth and falling into bed. With her puffy comforter pulled close to her chin she drifted in and out of dreams about Bertha Martinez, the occult red room, and a scene at a party in which all the important people of Taos got into an argument over the wooden box and which of them would own Sam’s soul if they were to win possession of the box.
When she fought her way back to consciousness and looked at her bedside clock it was only 2:14. She worked at clearing her mind of the ridiculous dreams but her thoughts remained unsettled. The harder she concentrated, the more wakeful she became. Finally, when the numerals informed her that it was 3:29 she gave up on the pretense of sleep. She pulled on her thickest robe and fuzzy slippers and trudged toward the kitchen, switching on a living room lamp and picking up the novel she’d been wanting to read.
A cup of hot chocolate and some non-threatening literary fiction should take her mind off everything else, she decided. The kettle began to steam and the words on the first page of the book made no sense at all. She poured hot water over the powdered cocoa mix in her mug and gave it an absent stir. Back in the living room, her roiling thoughts refused to rece
de and she laid the book aside. With her cup of cocoa and a woolen coverlet over her legs, she nestled into the sofa’s deep cushions.
She’d just begun to feel drowsy when a tap at the front window threw her heartbeat into overdrive. Every ominous portent from her earlier dreams rushed in at her. She whipped aside the coverlet and grabbed up the length of pipe that she kept near the door.
“Sam? Are you up?” The whispered voice came through the crack at the doorjamb, right where she’d pressed her ear.
She switched on the porch light and looked through the peephole. Rupert Penrick, her insomniac writer friend, stood on the porch, shivering in a flowing purple garment of some kind.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she asked as she flung the door open, realizing that was sort of an ungracious question.
“Couldn’t sleep, saw your lights.” He floated into the room, all two-hundred-plus pounds of him, his collar-length gray hair looking as impeccable as always. “I got to page 399 and I’m simply stumped for an ending.”
“Come on in,” Sam said. “I’m a little sleepless myself tonight. Hot chocolate?”
He eyed the dregs in her mug, figured out that it was the instant kind, and declined. What was she thinking?—Rupert was one of those gourmet types who made everything from scratch. Rumor was that he’d never eaten a fast-food meal.
“I have tea . . .”
“Lovely.” He followed her into the kitchen and picked through her assortment of teas while she relit the flame under the kettle. “So . . . I’ve got my heroine up in the high turret of a castle, with one of her lovers drowning in the moat and the other locked in mortal combat with the dark knight. Can’t decide which one she’ll choose, and how to get rid of the other one.”
Sam knew from experience that Rupert didn’t truly want an answer to the question. His own preference might be to send the two lovers away together and let the poor woman in the tower fend for herself.
“And you were out walking on a sub-freezing night, looking for the solution to that?”
“Walking? Surely you jest, girl. I’d just jumped in the Land Rover to see if the all-night market had any decent Rocky Road in stock. Don’t know why, but I took your street as a shortcut.”
She poured water into a china teapot and searched for the silver tea strainer she’d not seen since Rupert’s last visit. While he spooned a generous amount of India Passionfruit into the pot, she handed him the matching china cup and saucer and then dumped another packet of powdered cocoa mix into her mug. She located a tray, loaded it with the beverages and a plate of her own bakery cookies, and carried it to the living room.
“So, Samantha, what is it that’s keeping you awake this early Sunday morning? I know for a fact that you aren’t one for early rising and that this is your only day off from the lovely bake shop.”
Sam picked up her cocoa and sank back into her corner of the sofa with a sigh, while Rupert poured his tea and doctored it with milk.
“It seems I’m smack in the middle of another mysterious . . . thing . . . at one of my properties.”
“Thing. Does that mean love, murder or some other complexity of the human condition?”
“I actually don’t know.” She told him about the new property, embellishing a bit of detail about the gourmet kitchen, the high-end furnishings and even the expensive personal articles the owner had left behind in the bathroom—because she knew Rupert’s taste for the lavish, but mainly because she knew he would question her for specifics anyway. “Aside from the broken vase in the bedroom, the refrigerator full of spoiled food, and the fact that the man has let his bills go unpaid for months . . . I don’t really know that there is any mystery to it.”
Rupert’s mouth twisted to one side.
“Okay, there is a little more to it. In his desk, I found a photograph of an object that belongs to me.”
“Ah, now you’ve got my attention. I do believe that qualifies as a genuine mystery. And what were you doing going through his desk?”
“Looking for some kind of contacts to locate the man. Sheesh, you don’t think I routinely snoop through people’s private things?” She blushed, just a little. “Well, okay, I guess I do. It’s part of my job.”
“You don’t have to defend it to me. I’m a big advocate of being informed. That’s what you were doing, right? Looking for information.”
Well . . . that might be stretching it a little bit. Sam squirmed in her seat. She’d never told Rupert about the powers of the wooden box, although he’d witnessed the results a couple of times.
“So, are you going back?” His surgically unlined face looked eager.
“I don’t know.”
His expression drooped.
“Well, eventually, I’ll have to. The Montague place is still under my care.”
“Montague? It wouldn’t be Will Montague?”
Of course. Rupert would know William Montague if the man were wealthy and involved with the elites whose names Sam had spotted in his address book. She nodded.
“Oh, this explains a lot,” Rupert said. “Will is one of the premier supporters of the arts here in Taos. He’s not attended a single opening or gallery reception in absolutely ages. Very unlike him. Very odd.”
“You don’t happen to know if he’s got relatives, do you—where they might be? The USDA is trying to make contact with someone who might handle his business, to see if they can get him up to date on the mortgage before they have to foreclose.”
Rupert took a long sip of his tea, contemplating. “Off hand, I can’t say. But let me give it some thought.” He set the cup down. “It would be a colossal shame for the place to go up for auction—oh, Sam, is that what would happen?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Different procedures, I think, depending on the circumstances.”
“Could I go with you? Out to his house? Oh, please, Sam. I’ve never been there but the man’s art collection is legendary. I’d give anything just to gaze, to admire . . .”
“Art collection?” Sam searched her mental pictures of the house to remember the artworks. There’d been a lot of paintings, quite a few figurines and pieces that she’d thought of as knick-knacks.
If they were actually valuable art, she really ought to photograph the place and inventory the contents, in case there were any question as the foreclosure proceeded. She’d never been assigned to a house where there was anything of true value, but she had a sneaking suspicion that she might be held responsible. Yikes. This could suddenly get sticky.
Rupert was staring and Sam realized that her face must have gone pale.
“You okay, sweetie?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah. Just thinking about all those valuable things out there. I guess I really should go back today.” Her one day off and here she was, giving it away. “I could use your help.”
Two people taking photos and writing descriptions—the work would move along that much faster. And Rupert’s expertise would certainly be handy.
“I’m ready now,” he said. “I wouldn’t have gotten that lady out of the tower this morning anyway.”
Sam smiled at his enthusiasm but gestured to her attire. A nightshirt and robe weren’t exactly the right garb. “Let me get dressed. What time is it anyway?”
He tipped his wrist to get a look at the gold Rolex there. “Quarter past five.”
“There’s no electricity in that house,” she said. “We at least have to wait until daylight. You can hang around here or I can get dressed and pick you up on my way. If you’re up for a New Mexican breakfast we could stop at the Taoseño on the way?”
She knew he couldn’t resist the breakfast burritos at the popular local restaurant.
“Pick me up at six-thirty.” His voice sounded eager and his eyes sparkled. “I might even have my final chapter plotted by the time you get there.” He reached for the purple greatcoat that he’d shed when he arrived and swooped out the door in customary Rupert fashion.
Chapter 10
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nbsp; Sam cleared the tea tray and put the used cups into the dishwasher as quietly as possible. No sense in disturbing Kelly’s one morning of rest. She left a note on the table and made sure that she stuck the photograph and address book into her backpack, along with her digital camera and a legal pad.
Promptly on time, she pulled up at Rupert’s house. He’d dressed down slightly for their sleuthing operation—soft gray knit pants and a blousy purple wool tunic, under a gray hip-length down jacket.
“Good thing you put on warm clothes,” she said. “There’s no heat out there, either.”
The sun crested Taos Mountain as they came out of the restaurant, and the sleepy town was beginning to show signs of movement. Sam headed south along the main drag, Paseo del Pueblo Sur, and made the turns eastward to the now-familiar lane. Rupert’s eyes focused on the house as Sam slowed to a stop.
“Maybe I should take his mail inside,” she commented as they got out of the truck. “Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind. It’s already pretty evident that I’ve broken in.”
Rupert clearly itched to flip through the mail to see what the wealthy man might have received, but Sam kept the stack neatly tucked under her arm while she worked the key in the back door lock.
The greatroom with its leather sofas and chairs and large fireplace, looked just as she’d left it, except that the early morning sun came through the windows from the opposite direction. Rupert immediately began to admire a pair of bronzes—cowboys on horses. He named the sculptor but Sam wasn’t familiar with the work.
Sweet Holidays: The Third Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 6
