“Have you owned this place a long time?” Sam asked.
“No own.” He moved his hand toward the door handle as Sam brought the van to a stop.
“Wait, Bobul. I really need to know where this box came from. Can you tell me more about the witch? Did you know her here, in Taos?”
He squirmed in his seat for a minute, then sighed. “Come inside. Is long story.”
Sam glanced at the dark cabin. Was this a good idea?
But Bobul was already halfway up the steps to the porch and would soon disappear inside. And it was doubtful that she would get him to talk about this subject during their workday at the bakery—assuming he came back now that she’d questioned him about such an uncomfortable subject. She grabbed up her pack and the photograph and followed him.
By the time she stepped into the cabin, he’d lit a kerosene lamp, revealing the one-room arrangement, with a rock fireplace against one wall, an overstuffed chair in front of it and a bed across the room. A wood-burning cookstove filled another corner—together with a shelf containing a few dishes and canned goods, and a work table with a plastic wash basin, this comprised the kitchen.
Bobul moved to the fireplace and struck a match to kindling and logs that were already in place. Within minutes, their glow began to spread and the small room turned from dark and cold to warm and friendly. She saw homey touches like a homemade quilt on the bed and a few colorful dishes on the shelves. As rustic rentals went, it was cozy.
He lit a second kerosene lamp and indicated that Sam should sit in the upholstered chair. Then he pulled a straight wooden chair up to the fire and sat down.
“The witch,” he said. “Where to start story . . .”
“Did you see her here, in Taos? With the box?”
He shook his head. “I was small boy, in Romania—home country. They call the witch Lorena. Lorena young and beautiful with light hair, but her children they have died and Lorena have many bad powers—how you say . . . evil. She have wood box where she keep evil spells. She make spells to kill farm animals and make crops die. If a person try to stop her, she kill them.”
“Did you see her perform one of these acts?” Sam felt her skepticism rise.
“My mother see her. Many times. She tell me. She tell me about wooden box where Lorena keep her spells. In my country, box known as Facinor. Mother make me sleep with charm under pillow, keep me safe from Lorena.”
“But Lorena never really tried to hurt you, did she?”
“Village men finally go after her. One night, a full moon and very cold, much snow on mountains . . . village men kill her. I see her body when they bring her to village square. I see the wooden box, Facinor, she hold in her cold fingers.”
Sam swallowed hard. A lot of women were killed after being accused of witchcraft. But in this century?
“What happened then?”
“They burn her body. Mother not let me watch. I hide in bed and listen to others cheer that witch is dead.”
“And the box?” Sam asked. “If they burned it up, why does it scare you now?”
Bobul’s eyes grew wide again. “Facinor survive. I see it again, in Taos. In hands of new Lorena.”
“New Lorena?”
His eyes narrowed. “Legend is true. When old Lorena die, she come back as new Lorena. She come back in a new place, so her killers do not find her. Bobul see this. Bobul see her in Taos. This time she is old and wrinkle and very tiny. But she still have the box.”
Bertha Martinez. Bobul believed that Bertha had come back, somehow, as the new version of a woman killed in Romania at least thirty years ago. Sam tried to wrap her mind around the story. Of course, it was impossible.
“And now this Lorena also die. Bobul know this.”
He could have seen Bertha’s obituary. There must be logical explanations for all of this. An old clock near the bed chimed midnight, startling her. How had the hours crept away?
“Is dangerous time in year, Miss Sam,” Bobul said. “In the long nights, many spirits roam, many rituals observed. The new Lorena will appear. She will look for Facinor, to possess the box is most important. Is a . . . how do you say, a sure thing. Burn picture of box and it go away.”
Whatever part of Sam might have considered telling Bobul that she knew about the wooden box, that she in fact owned it, that idea flew out the window. In his simple way of thinking, Sam herself could be the next new Lorena. Whether it was simply the effect of the early darkness, the remote cabin, the man’s childhood fears . . . there was no way she wanted to attract his superstitions into her realm.
The fire glowed, low red embers that were nearly gone.
Bobul stood and poked at them, tossing on another log and watching the flames spark up again. When he turned back to her his face seemed free of all worry.
“Now Bobul sleep. Tomorrow much chocolate to make.”
Sam shook off the uneasy remnants of the story and stood. Her coat was draped over the back of the cushy chair and she snuggled deeply into it, wanting to carry the cabin’s warmth with her, out into the cold night.
Chapter 17
An icy fog had settled in the depths of the canyon during the evening and Sam found herself creeping along in the van, more than a little spooked. At last she turned into her own Elmwood Lane and parked, scurrying into the house and double checking the locks. Kelly’s door was closed and she’d left one lamp on in the living room for Sam. The normalcy of it should have reassured Sam. She washed her face and put on her nightshirt, repeating to herself, it’s only a silly story. There was no way that burning a photograph would make a real object go away.
But in her bedroom she found herself pulling opening the lower drawer of her dresser, checking to be sure the box was still there, benign and empty of everything except Sam’s own jewelry. She laid a scarf over it and closed the drawer.
Falling into bed, she chided herself for staying out so late and for listening to the chocolatier’s wild tales. She’d forfeited four hours of valuable sleep, and having to appear at the bakery at five o’clock held no appeal right now. She closed her eyes. It had been a very long day.
But her sleep was sporadic and filled with odd images. In one dream, the young blond Lorena appeared, wanting to hand Sam the wooden box and asking her to take over Lorena’s job as village witch. When Sam refused the box, she turned around to find Bertha Martinez on her deathbed, making the same request. She woke with a start and sat up in bed. That last scene was a little too real, since it had actually happened back in September.
Sam turned on the lamp and fiddled with her clock radio. Finding a station with soft music she turned the volume low and tried to settle back and let it lull her to sleep. It worked for about an hour, until the station format changed and jangled her nerves with a program devoted to salsa music. She slapped the radio, hard, and rolled over with the pillow over her head. She woke in that position to the persistent beep of her alarm, at four-thirty.
* * *
In the cold light of day, Bobul’s story of the witch Lorena faded. Sam told herself that she’d spent many a dark night by a campfire, swapping stories designed to scare the bejesus out of kids. She didn’t believe in witches, no matter what country they supposedly came from. And for the moment she had her hands full depicting the Taos Plaza in intricate detail in cake.
Becky came in late and grumpy but at least she was there.
While Becky worked to get the breakfast assortment baked and on display, Sam iced the buildings on the plaza cake with buttercream tinted the perfect shade of adobe brown. She piped details—windows and doors and even cracks in the sidewalks.
Kelly and Becky began forming little cars out of moldable chocolate and Bobul added his own expertise in shaping people for the walkways, Christmas wreaths on lamp poles, and tiny luminarias—those traditional decorations that in real life were made from paper sacks with sand and a candle in each one. The chocolatier had given Sam a cautious look when he arrived, but when she didn’t ask any more questions
about the witch, he lapsed back into his usual quiet mode of concentration on his work.
By noon, the plaza cake was looking good and Becky’s moodiness had passed. Sam kept thinking of small details to add, but realized that she couldn’t really afford to keep four people working on it when there were other projects nearly as urgent. She sent Bobul back to his chocolate creations and asked Kelly to check the status of the sales counter.
When she reported back that they had no decorated cakes, no cheesecake, and only four dozen cookies, Sam’s orders began to fly.
“Becky, get cheesecakes into the oven. At minimum, we better have the amaretto, the pumpkin and a plain one. If there’s time, a praline and a blueberry would be good too. And a few of the new fruitcakes. They went well. While those bake—do cookies. You know how we go through those in the afternoons. Start with the simple pressed butter varieties. Kelly can help decorate. I’ll pull some of those cake layers from the fridge and get holiday designs on them. Let’s work like mad-women until two, then we better get the plaza cake delivered. I’ll need at least one of you to go with me.”
By the time she needed to load the large cake into the van, Sam had turned out a dozen smaller, decorated ones. She carried square and rectangular cakes, done up with fondant bows in reds and greens, red velvet cakes with snowy frosting and piped green wreaths, and winter wonderland white cakes with sugar cone pine trees and glitter dustings of snow. With this being the last week of school, scores of parties and dozens of teacher gifts were needed. Of course, that reminded her that she better also fill the cases with cupcakes.
She told Becky to get a few dozen into the oven, while Sam commandeered Kelly to help with the delivery of the plaza cake.
When they returned, a half-hour later, there was an air of exhaustion in the kitchen. Except from Bobul. The man seemed to work like a machine—an exceptionally talented machine. He’d turned out three dozen more of those tiny, exquisite pinecones.
“Let’s take a little breather,” Sam said to the group.
Becky and Kelly helped themselves to an unfrosted chocolate cupcake each from the cooling racks and walked to the front to see if there was any coffee left. While they filled mugs and invited Jen to join them at one of the bistro tables, Sam pulled out her order sheets for the week.
Somehow they’d gotten out of sequence and she realized that there was a bachelorette party tonight, the Southwell wedding in three days with its twelve-hundred truffles, and a gallery opening on Thursday. All that in addition to the normal load of birthdays and dinner parties that crowded the December calendar. She rubbed at the pain that was beginning to form at her temples.
“Mom, you look like you need a break,” Kelly said, wiping chocolate crumbs from her lap.
“Not happening this month, I’m afraid,” Sam said. She let out a pent-up breath. “Thank goodness you were available. I don’t know how we’d handle it with just three of us.”
Becky looked a little uncomfortable. Once her kids were out of school for the holiday break, technically she wasn’t supposed to be on duty. The realization must have showed on Sam’s face.
“I’ll see what I can do about putting in more hours,” Becky said, “but I don’t know . . .”
Sam turned away, disappointed.
Bobul appeared from the kitchen, balancing a dozen one-pound boxes of his chocolates. Good thing, Sam thought, noticing that their supply from this morning was already gone. She got a momentary wilting sensation when she realized that the next two weeks would only get busier. How many people waited until a few days before Christmas, hoping to simply pop in and pick up their pastries? This first year in business was proving to be a real test.
For the next two hours, Becky baked and Sam decorated in silence. She took an otherwise-plain half-sheet cake and added a few risqué details for the bachelorette cake, going by the requests the woman’s maid of honor had suggested. It was ready five minutes before the customer came in to pick it up. But five minutes was enough.
Kelly learned how to form truffles and Bobul dipped them as quickly as they could work. Despite the fact that he’d already created a sizeable stash of them, tomorrow they would have to work double-time to fill the rest of the wedding order. By closing time, Sam had finished trays of cupcake Santas, snowmen, and Christmas trees. Some went into the display cases out front, while others sat in cold storage in the walk-in refrigerator.
“I feel like a marathon runner,” Jen said, breathing hard as she brought back an empty tray.
“Well, you’ve been dashing back and forth to keep everything stocked, all afternoon,” Sam said with a smile. “Thanks.”
She faced the others. “Thanks, everyone. I couldn’t do it without you.” She received tired smiles in return. “Let’s knock off and get some rest so we can hit it again tomorrow.”
No one argued. Even Bobul seemed ready to quit for the day. His work area was neat and he’d put the little packets of spices back into his tote bag.
“Mom? You’re not staying late, are you?” Kelly asked. “I heard you come in last night and I know you got up early this morning. You can’t wear yourself so thin that you get sick.”
Sam chuckled and looked down at herself. “I’m not in much danger of wearing myself thin.”
Kelly huffed and rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“In answer to your question, I’m walking out the door the same time you do. Want to pick up some fast food on the way home?”
“I’ll do it. You go home. Shall it be pizza, burgers or chicken?”
“Pizza.”
Kelly speed dialed a number on her cell phone and rapped out quick instructions, “See ya in twenty.”
Sam watched the three younger women head out toward their cars. Bobul had disappeared into the early evening gloom, as he always did. That neighbor must be pretty accommodating, giving him a ride out to the canyon every day. She locked the front door, smiled as she passed the neat cases of goodies, then walked out to her van. Her shoulders ached and her lower back felt as if she’d been kicked by a horse. But she couldn’t admit that she was feeling her age—and she darn sure wasn’t going to allow the thought that the bakery was proving to be a lot of work. It was still work that she loved.
She drove straight home, wondering if she might have time for a hot bath before Kelly got there with the pizza. Decided that a few ibuprofen and a glass of wine would work more quickly, so she did that instead. By the time Kelly walked in, Sam had tossed together a few salad ingredients and they sat down to their simple feast.
“Better!” Kelly declared after polishing off two slices and a plate of salad. “I feel like I might actually make it to morning.”
They put away the leftovers and Kelly announced that she was going to watch one—and only one—episode of her favorite reality show, then she was going to bed.
Sam had brought home the order sheets for all their custom work for the coming week, so she sat at the kitchen table calculating to see whether she would need additional supplies of butter, sugar and flour, and what special items would be required for the two upcoming wedding cakes. The first one required fresh flowers for the top and the bride’s florist was supposed to bring those over the day of the wedding, still a few days away.
The more urgent was Mira Southwell’s cake, the timid bride with the ferocious mom. At least the ingredients were all standard items. Kelly trudged by, giving a little wave and a yawn on the way to her bedroom, and Sam realized that her own energy was lagging as well.
She stared, unseeing, at the piles of paperwork around her. How was she going to get all this done?
Well, there was one sure way.
She discarded the idea of using it even though Bobul’s stories were ludicrous. Facinor, indeed. Lorena—ridiculous!
But the pile of work just seemed overwhelming. She stood up and stretched. Her limbs still ached. She should go to bed. She switched out the kitchen lights and headed for her bedroom with the idea that a hot bath and her c
ozy nighty would be just what she needed. The bath did relax her, but her mind wouldn’t slow down and she couldn’t let go of the idea that if she could only have the energy she used to . . .
Without thinking, she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. The scarf over the wooden box had slipped aside and one of the red stones on the box winked at her in the lamplight.
“You don’t really have a name,” Sam said. “and you have never been to Romania, have you?” She picked it up.
When Bertha Martinez had handed Sam the box, the old woman told her that the box held power. That Sam could accomplish good things with it. And so far that prediction had come true. Sam held the box to her chest, feeling the warmth travel from the wood into her body. Her arms began to tingle. She dropped it back into the drawer. What was she thinking?
This box . . . this thing that both attracted and repulsed her . . .
She stared at the wood, which was glowing golden now. The red, green and blue stones were brilliant. And she felt like a twenty-year-old who’d just awakened from a great night’s sleep. She shook her arms. The feeling didn’t go away.
Well, there would be no sleep now.
She edged the drawer closed with her toe, then pulled on fresh clothing and tiptoed through the house. Gathering the papers from the kitchen table, she stuffed them into her pack, put on her coat and quietly left the house.
Chapter 18
Bobul was the first to arrive at the bakery in the morning. His silent gaze traveled the room.
“Have been busy, Miss Sam,” he said. “Almost like magic.”
Sam opened her mouth to protest, but there wasn’t much she could say without giving away her possession of the box he called Facinor. And there was no way she could do that.
“I, um, just woke up early.”
He shrugged his beefy shoulders and slipped out of his big brown coat. When Sam looked again, he was shaving chocolate from a rough block into a double boiler.
Sweet Holidays: The Third Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 11
