Sweet Holidays: The Third Samantha Sweet Mystery (The Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  None of his concern anyway, she thought, grabbing large packages of cold butter from the fridge and slapping them onto the work table. So what if she’d worked all night. It was her shop; she was boss of the whole place. And if she was willing to do whatever it took to make the business successful, well, so much the better.

  She looked up, taking in the two elaborately finished wedding cakes. One was five tiers of lemon-poppyseed cake, covered in buttercream, with flowers cascading from one level to the other, lilies and primroses and scatterings of tiny violets. She’d created rippled bunting along the edges of the larger tiers, string work around the smaller ones. A cake like that would have normally taken two full days to complete. It would go into the cooler until the florist brought the fresh flowers.

  The Southwell cake sat beside it—four tiers draped in ivory quilt-textured fondant, with burgundy flowers and tiny edible gold beads catching the light.

  And then there was the sheet cake for Thursday’s gallery opening. She’d created easels and canvases from butter-cookie dough, assembled them and then, on her special printer, reproduced three miniatures of the featured artist’s better-known works. The cake itself had been frosted and trimmed in the gallery’s colors, with their Woodwind Gallery logo reproduced on shields of fondant on each of the four sides. It was those little surprise elements that kept customers coming back. She carried it to the refrigerator, daring anyone to question her work.

  She glanced again at Bobul, wondering if he could divine her thoughts, but he seemed busily content with his chocolate. She wouldn’t have been behind in her bakery orders anyway, Sam reasoned, if she’d not taken so much time worrying over William Montague. Now that, that was really someone else’s job.

  Becky came in at six. Her eyes went wide and she exclaimed at the sight of the wedding cakes, but Sam didn’t go into a detailed explanation. She asked for a hand in getting them to the fridge, then sent Becky to begin the standard breakfast pastries. By the time Kelly and Jen arrived just before seven the shop was ready for the daily crowd, Sam had already placed her order online for more supplies, and she was well into the assembly of a dozen cookie trays that a local cosmetics saleslady wanted as gifts for her team members. As long as she was at it, she started an extra tray, which she would give Zoë as a thank-you for sharing her grandmother’s recipes.

  “Mom?” Sam caught Kelly staring at her. “You okay?”

  “Yeah . . . why?” Sam looked in the mirror over the sink and saw that her face had the reddish cast of someone who’d been running a marathon and her hair stuck out at all angles.

  “Did you actually sleep last night? I didn’t hear you get up this morning.”

  Sam fudged. “Well, I just had all this stuff . . . you were probably sound asleep when I left.”

  “Hmm. Okay.” Kelly gave her a hug. “Just don’t overdo it. You’ve been at this for hours.”

  Sam noticed that the clock above the sink showed 7:49. Wow. Nearly twelve hours since she’d handled the wooden box. That was about the limit of its energy, from what she’d discovered in the past. No wonder she was looking a little peaked.

  Her cell phone buzzed down in her pocket and she set aside the roll of red cellophane she’d picked up for the cookie trays. Delbert Crow.

  “What’s the status of the property in Talpa?” he asked. No niceties with this guy.

  “It’s winterized and secured. What’s the status supposed to be?”

  “I had an odd call late last night,” he said. “A woman who claimed to be Mr. Montague’s niece. She chewed me a new one because our sign is in the front yard.”

  “A niece? I don’t know anything about that. The sign is there. I posted it like we always do.”

  “But this lady . . . let’s see . . . her name was Tiffany Wright. She’s on her way to Taos. When she gets there, can you talk to her? Find out if she plans to get the payments up to date.” He rattled off a phone number which she scribbled in frosting on the surface of the table.

  Why didn’t you talk to her? Sam thought. But Crow was in no mood, after being awakened in the night. He’d already hung up.

  “Like I need one more thing to do today,” Sam muttered, shoving the phone back into her pocket. “Kelly, could you take over these cookie trays? Red cellophane, green satin bow. The Hanukkah ones get blue wrap, silver ribbon—”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  “I’ll take the first one with me. I’m going out anyway and I want to give it to Zoë. The others are for . . . let’s see . . . the order form is here somewhere.” Already Sam felt her energy slipping away as she fumbled through the pages.

  “It’s okay. See Zoë, get some rest. We can handle things here,” Kelly said. “I’ll spend the rest of the day helping Bobul finish the wedding truffles.” She indicated the special boxes Sam had bought for them. Cases of completed wedding favors were stacked against one wall.

  Sam copied the phone number for Tiffany Wright and wiped up the smudged frosting. It was an unfamiliar area code. So, how had Ms. Wright learned of the sign on the Montague property?

  One way to find out. She dialed the number.

  It took a little explaining for Tiffany Wright to understand who Sam was and why she was calling.

  “I got a call from some sheriff’s deputy in Taos and it kind of freaked me out.” The woman sounded young and flustered. “I’m at the airport now. I should be in Albuquerque this afternoon and I’ll drive up. I just can’t believe Uncle William’s house is in some kind of trouble.”

  Again, Sam wondered why Delbert Crow hadn’t simply handled this himself. He was the one with the procedures manual, all the rules about who to contact and how to get a delinquent homeowner to pay up. Sam was only supposed to be the keeper of keys and mower of lawns. She gritted her teeth.

  Meanwhile, the woman requested that they meet at her hotel, the Cottonwood Inn, tomorrow morning. Fine. But Sam really hoped she could hand this off to either Delbert Crow or Beau well before that.

  She took a deep breath and stared at herself again in the mirror. Bags under her eyes, a feverish sheen to her skin. Kelly was right—she was exhausted. She picked up a blue-wrapped tray of cookies for Zoë and headed out the back door.

  Driving home, Sam stayed on auto-pilot. This was stupid, and dangerous. What was the point of staying up all night, working at a frantic pitch, only to be completely zonked before noon the next day? Granted, she’d accomplished two days’ work by herself, but at what price? She walked into the quiet house, lifted the phone off the hook and switched off her cell, then fell into bed.

  When she awoke the angle of the sun told her it was mid-afternoon. With a luxurious stretch she wondered what it would be like to pull the covers over her head and stay there for about a week. But she felt wide awake, not at all dreading the fact that she still had a number of things to finish today. She took a quick shower and dressed, for the first time in a week, in something other than her bake shop attire.

  The tray of cookies in their classy blue and silver wrapping waited on the kitchen counter. Sam smiled, reminding herself that the holiday season was one of joy, of fun surprises like taking a sumptuous array of treats to a friend. Just because it was a lot of work didn’t mean that she couldn’t enjoy herself as well.

  Zoë and Darryl’s bed and breakfast was decked out in full regalia. They didn’t especially celebrate the religious significance of the season but it didn’t mean that they weren’t really into the ambiance. Darryl had hung evergreen swags around the entire porch railing. Bright red bows added punch, and Sam saw that tiny white lights in all the shrubs would sparkle after dark. She noticed a car in the guest parking area out front, so she pulled around back and entered through the kitchen.

  “Hey there!” Zoë greeted. “Merry Christmas or Happy Hanukkah or whatever you want it to be. I love your sweater!”

  Sam had grabbed one of her whimsical tops, a white sweater with a reindeer knitted into it, the nose done in red spangles. She handed the cookie tray to Zoë
. “Your recipes. I hope they turned out right.”

  “They look beautiful! Here, I’d like you to meet one of our guests. Magda Hernandez, meet Samantha Sweet.” The rather large woman had a tangle of dark hair, gathered back from her face and held at the crown with a silver clip. She wore a silky broomstick skirt in shades of turquoise and purple and a long-sleeved tunic that picked up the purple tones. Sam admired the strands of her turquoise heishi necklace as she stepped forward to shake Magda’s hand.

  “Just Sam,” she said.

  “Magda is here in Taos for a break from her studies. She’s recently completed a Master’s Degree in New Mexico tradition, with a specialty in folklore,” Zoë said. “And since you’re here, Sam, do you mind if we break into the cookies? I’ve got hot cider on the stove.”

  The offer was too good to pass up and Sam found plates and napkins while Zoë happily untied the bow from Sam’s gift. Zoë placed the tray of cookies in the middle of her round kitchen table and brought mugs of cider while the others sat down.

  Magda bit into one of the dreidl-shaped butter cookies. “Oh, this is good.”

  “I can second that,” Zoë said. “Just like grandma’s.” She and Sam both chuckled.

  “Magda, I heard a strange bit of folklore a couple of days ago,” Sam said. “Not to make you talk shop when you’re on vacation, but I wonder—”

  “I don’t mind a bit,” Magda said. “I love my subject, or I wouldn’t have spent all these years working on it. What was the story?”

  Sam wasn’t quite sure where to start so she began with Bobul’s story of the witch Lorena he claimed to have seen as a child.

  “This man swears he saw her die in Romania, and that she was a young woman at the time. Then, he says he saw the witch Lorena again in New Mexico. She was very, very old, even though not that many years had passed.”

  “Did he refer to her as a witch, a bruja, or a curandera?” Magda asked.

  “In the childhood part of his story, he definitely used the word witch. I don’t remember his using either of the Spanish words. Is there a difference?”

  “In Spain, and later in the Southwestern United States, the common term is bruja.”

  Sam nodded. “I’ve heard that associated with, uh, someone.”

  “But one of the misconceptions to some people is that the name bruja conveys magic used for evil. The curandera might also use some techniques considered to be magical, but hers are always done for healing or for good.”

  Sam helped herself to a second macaroon. “Makes sense. Kind of.”

  Both Magda and Zoë were watching her closely. “Well, it’s just that this person, a local woman who died awhile back—everyone called her a bruja. But from what I can tell, her powers were used for healing.”

  Sam met Zoë’s gaze. Her friend had experienced the healing power of Sam’s encounters with the wooden box, but Sam had never explained how it worked. Zoë sipped at her cider and didn’t say anything.

  “Well, it’s certainly possible that rumors got started and those who spread them really didn’t know what the old woman did. There have been cases of women being tormented, even killed, for practicing what is basically just a form of natural healing. In my research I came across several cases of the so-called witch’s property being stolen. She might have a book of cures, some special herbs, or even an object—maybe a container that she kept the herbs in—and people who didn’t really understand how her abilities worked would go to great lengths to get their hands on these items.”

  An item like a box, Sam thought. She swallowed too fast and got a crumb stuck in her throat. As she sputtered and took some cider to dislodge it, Magda went on.

  “Sam, you mentioned that this man called the witch in the old country Lorena. Are you familiar with the New Mexico legend of La Llorona?” Magda picked up a pencil and wrote the name on her napkin.

  The double L was, of course, pronounced as a Y—Yoh-rohna, but even though the pronunciation was very different, Sam was struck by the similarities in the names.

  “So . . . they’re related?”

  Magda sighed. “It’s very possible. Folk legends tend to cross cultures and continents with a lot of their elements intact. There are several versions of the New Mexico legend, but most involve a widowed woman whose children drowned—whether by her hand or her husband’s—and she wanders the lakes and rivers of the area, looking for them. Her cry is supposedly one of the most pitiful and awful things a person can hear. La Llorona is more of a ghost than a witch, but you can see how the notions of spooky things become somewhat muddled over the years.”

  Sam nodded. “You know, there’s one other thing. This man who told me of the Lorena legend in Romania said that the witch had a wooden box that contained her spells—you mentioned something like that. He gave this particular box a name. Facinor. Have you heard of that?”

  The other woman’s eyebrows crinkled in concentration. “Not that particular name. However, it’s a strange one. The word facinorous is a rather obsolete adjective used to describe something atrociously wicked. Like the extreme of evil.” She raised one shoulder in a little shrug. “It could be that the villagers back there used such archaic terms. Maybe they heard it from an English speaker who traveled through . . . someone picked up on it, started using it in relation to the woman they burned as a witch? Hard to say exactly.”

  Or maybe they had a real reason to think of the box and its owner as evil. Sam put the macaroon down. She suddenly had no appetite.

  Chapter 19

  I don’t believe it’s true. I really don’t believe it’s true. It isn’t true. The words ran through Sam’s head all the way home from Zoë’s house.

  Fact: she’d owned the box for nearly three months now. Fact: nothing bad had happened to her. Fact: each time she’d handled the box she’d been suddenly able to do things that could best be described as unusual. Okay, weird. Fact: most of those things were actually good things—a more youthful appearance, extra energy, more strength, a healing touch with others. She’d met Beau. She’d come into the money to open her pastry shop. Her relationship with her daughter had improved vastly.

  Okay, there were some things that might be classified as weird-but-good—seeing fingerprints that were invisible to other people, likewise with auras and reading other people’s emotions.

  But evil? No. She’d helped Beau solve two murders because of those special abilities.

  Magda Hernandez’s words came back: People would often go to great lengths to get their hands on these items.

  Obviously, William Montague had an interest in the box. When a collector of bizarre objects has a photo of something you own, and then that person disappears . . .

  A cold chill enveloped her.

  She parked in her driveway, jumped out of the van and dashed inside. Without even thinking about it she turned on a light in every room and double-checked the locks on all the doors. Rushing into her bedroom she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. The box sat exactly where she’d left it, the wood now faded back to its customary dull yellowish-brown. The colored stones were so dim it was hard to distinguish them.

  Okay, this is getting ridiculous, she told herself. She slammed the drawer. I’ll be careful. I can keep the box hidden away and be cautious about letting anyone know about it. So far, only Kelly and Beau had even seen the box. Only Beau knew any details.

  In the kitchen her message light blinked. Beau’s voice came on when she pressed the button. “Hey there, guess your cell phone is turned off. Call me.” It reassured her to hear the normalcy of him.

  She rummaged in her pack for her cell phone. He was right. She’d somehow left it turned off. He’d left an identical message on the voice mail.

  “Hey you,” she said when he answered. “Busy?”

  “One sec.” She heard some muffled noises and then he came back on. “Lucky speeder. I let him go with a warning. I’d rather talk to you.”

  “Any news on the Montague case?” she asked.

/>   She heard a car door close and the background noise dropped immediately. “Not a whole lot. Several fingerprints but other than yours and Montague’s, there were no matches in the database. The vehicles in the garage are registered to him. No warrants on him or his cars. Getting into his bank accounts would take a court order and I can already tell you that no judge is going to give us one. There’s just not enough evidence of any crime.”

  “I got an interesting call. I’m not sure if you want me to follow it up alone, though.” She told him about Delbert Crow’s passing along the midnight call from Tiffany Wright. “When I called her back this morning, she was in an airport, on her way to Albuquerque, then planning to drive up here. I forgot to ask where she lives, but she and I are supposed to meet at the Cottonwood Inn in the morning.”

  “I don’t recognize the name, right off hand. She’s a niece, huh?”

  “Yeah. Said your deputy called her and she got scared that something has happened to Uncle William.” She stared into the refrigerator, half thinking about dinner. “So, do you want to be in on the meeting with her tomorrow? Or would you rather that I didn’t even talk to her?”

  “I can’t make it but you go ahead, if you’re willing. See what you can find out. Maybe she knows some way to get in touch with him. Obviously, his friends here in town don’t have much of a clue.”

  “I’ll let you know what she has to say. Maybe we could meet for lunch tomorrow?”

  With the normal disclaimers about last minute disasters, Sam pinned him down to time and place. Belatedly and with a stab of guilt, Sam remembered to ask about Iris and learned that Beau’s mother was making slight improvements each day. Basically, he was dashing from work to hospital to home all the time; she almost suggested canceling lunch plans. Both of them had lots on their plates. But when he turned the conversation toward the romantic and she heard the hunger in his voice, she knew they needed to find any spare minutes that they could.

  When Kelly walked in the door, a little after six, Sam had put together a hearty green chile stew, cornbread, and salad.