Sam wiped her mouth with a napkin and stood to carry her dishes to the kitchen. Suddenly, Carinda Carter didn’t seem like such a bad deal.
Beau took over kitchen duty, suggesting that Sam go on to bed. Upstairs on the master bath vanity sat the carved wooden box Sarah Williams had mentioned as belonging to the old curandera. Sam thought back to the day it had come into her possession, the day she had unsuspectingly broken into Bertha Martinez’s supposedly abandoned house to find the old woman there, dying. She’d hesitantly accepted the odd, ugly box as a gift from the old woman and brought it home.
The first time she opened its lid and ran her fingers across the interior edges an electric-like shock zapped through her body. That night was still a blur, but the strange artifact had changed her life forever.
Now, her thoughts turned again to Sarah Williams and the older woman’s comment about the box. Should she admit to Sarah that the old curandera had given it to her? She snuggled under the quilt and fell asleep contemplating the question.
* * *
When her alarm went off at four-thirty, Sam suppressed a groan, sorely tempted to roll over and let Julio handle the bakery. The baker she’d hired last fall, despite his arms full of tattoos and the deafeningly loud Harley he roared up on each morning, had a key to Sweet’s Sweets and could certainly handle the pre-dawn duties. He’d quickly mastered all of her standard pastry recipes and could turn out enough muffins, scones, coffee cake and croissants to satisfy the breakfast crowd, giving Sam the chance to sleep in until Beau awoke. Never an early riser, Sam appreciated the extra couple of hours.
However, these last four weeks had become so full of festival duties that the only hours of the day in which Sam managed to decorate cakes and test new recipes were those early mornings before her phone began to ring incessantly. Today, she wanted to work on a batch of chocolates with a Taos motif—flavored with chile and shaped like miniatures of the famed Taos Pueblo, she hoped they would appeal to locals and visitors alike. The challenge had been to tweak the recipe so that the bitter-dark chocolate wouldn’t melt in the early June heat. Each time she thought of it, she wanted to snarl at the Chamber of Commerce genius who’d chosen the date for the event. Clearly, the person was no chocolatier.
She splashed cold water on her face and finger-combed her short, graying hair, grabbed an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table and patted each of the dogs on the head before starting her van and heading for town.
In the alley behind her shop she found Julio’s motorcycle in its usual spot and the scent of cinnamon and sugar wafting out the back door. He greeted her with his usual quiet “morning” and went on inserting trays of blueberry and cranberry scones into the bake oven. Sam slipped into her baker’s jacket and grabbed ingredients from the shelf above the stove, along with her favorite saucepan.
Within a few minutes the cacao, sugar and butter were bubbling softly. Sam kept one eye on the candy thermometer as she reached for a small tin box on the upper shelf. In it she had stashed three small cloth pouches—secret ingredients given to her a year ago by the quirky Romanian chocolatier who had shown up one Christmas and vanished just as mysteriously. She had no idea what the mysterious translucent powders contained, only that they made her chocolates irresistible to the palate. When Julio walked to the showroom with a tray of apple muffins, she quickly took a pinch from each pouch and stirred it into the mixture on the stove. A moment later the chocolate was ready for tempering, that all-important process of rebinding the fats in the cocoa butter, the reason good chocolate is resistant to the whitish bloom that can mar its appearance. She poured the molten mixture onto the cold surface of her tempering stone on the worktable just as the back door opened and her daughter’s face appeared.
“Hi, Mom. Just thought I’d check in and see if it’s okay if I smash the face of that Carinda Carter?”
“Not until after the festival, Kelly,” Sam said without missing a beat. She smoothed the cooling mass of chocolate with her spatula. “What’s the problem?”
“Last night I was assigned the radio spots, right? Coordinating and approving the ads?”
Sam nodded, not taking her eyes off the chocolate.
“So, this morning I call the station and find out that Carinda was there yesterday. She’s changed everything I did! And she never mentioned this at the meeting, at all.”
“Did you change it back? Or did she have some valid ideas?”
“Well, some of her stuff wasn’t so bad . . . it’s just so . . . so frustrating and embarrassing to have her override me like that.”
Sam judged that the chocolate was ready to rest. She turned toward Kelly.
“I know. Carinda comes across as a little sharp in her manner.”
Kelly’s mouth opened.
“But—maybe she just wants to fit in here in town. I gather that she hasn’t been here long and she’s probably just wanting to join in, to help.”
Kelly gave a little growl. “Maybe.”
“If the ads don’t contain any actual errors, we could let them ride. There’s enough new work to be done that it’s a waste of time to go back and re-do other tasks, right?”
“Okay, okay. But I’m keeping an eye on that woman.”
Becky Harper, Sam’s chief decorator, arrived just as Kelly stomped out the back door with an expression that didn’t exactly indicate the Carinda matter was closed.
“What was that about?” Becky asked as she hung her purse on one of the wall hooks and slipped into her white baker’s jacket with the Sweet’s Sweets logo embroidered on it in purple.
“More chocolate festival dramatics,” Sam said. “Why is it that doing anything by committee is such a pain in the neck?”
She handed Becky a stack of pages, the bakery’s normal orders for the next couple of days, then reached for her candy molds. While she gently poured the newly tempered chocolate into small pueblo-shaped molds, Becky organized the written order sheets.
“Looks like we have two weddings this weekend and a birthday cake for a guy whose hobby is competitive shooting,” Becky said, spreading the pages on the worktable.
“Julio has already baked the layers for one of the weddings—the square ones. He’ll bake the other cake once the stock breakfast items are done. You’ll need two dozen sugar daisies and a bunch of full-blown pink roses for the first one. The other requires a lot of string piping—you want to give it a try?”
Becky sent her an uncertain look. “Strings? They’re so tricky.”
“It’s okay. I can do those if you’ll just pre-make all the flowers and get them into the fridge to set up.”
Becky sent her a grateful smile and arranged the order sheets in the sequence they would be completed. “For the competitive shooter, his wife brought those photographs that Jen copied and attached to the back. The lady didn’t really have any idea what she wanted, but Jen and I talked about it. I think I could make the shapes of the metal targets they use in his competitions. They’re just outlines of simple animal shapes—a chicken, a pig, a turkey and a ram. We could make them out of chocolate and put them up on a stand on top of the cake. Unless you think some type of a bulls eye target is better? And, of course, his name and all that.”
“I like your idea of the silhouette targets,” Sam said, carrying her tray of molds to a cooling rack to set up.
Down in her pocket her phone rang before she had turned around.
“Sam, hi, it’s Carinda Carter.”
Goody. Sam felt her smile go a little frosty.
“Just wanted to report that I made all of Rupert’s changes and I’ve sent the art files off to the printer in Albuquerque. They’ll have our finished posters, the tickets, the badges—the whole works—done by the end of the week.”
“That’s great, Carinda, but weren’t you going to send them to me first? Just to double check everything?”
“I didn’t see much need for that. These guys have a great reputation and said they could get right on the job if they had the mat
erials this morning.”
Sam took a deep breath. “Okay, then.” It’s not as if I need the extra tasks on my own list.
“I just need to know where to have the invoices sent.”
As far as Sam remembered, they had not yet discussed the budget for the printing; this question should have been asked way before Carinda took it upon herself to give the job to a printer. She took another deep breath. They were so far behind schedule that details such as costs would have to work themselves out. She gave Carinda the name and address of the Chamber’s treasurer.
Stuffing her phone back into her pocket, she had to agree that Kelly had a valid point about Carinda’s pushy ways. A shriek from the kitchen grabbed her attention. A large tub of buttercream icing lay splattered all over the floor and Becky stood with a look of shock on her face.
“It slipped right out of my hands,” she said with a moan.
“Let’s get it cleaned up. Just be careful where you step—the stuff is slippery as all get-out.”
Before they’d finished mopping the floor with degreaser, Sam’s phone rang three more times. Why had she asked the committee members to report their questions and problems?
Lunch time came and went; she’d been half-hoping to hear from Beau and escape the kitchen for an hour or so, but he was probably running a dozen directions as well. Last night he’d sounded none too happy about the potential invasion by the Flower People. She hoped his day was going all right.
By four o’clock she and Becky had finished the two wedding cakes, which were now safely stored in the fridge until their delivery times; the sportsman’s cake was looking like a cute little miniature target range under Becky’s capable hands; and Sam found a moment to check the sales room where a glance at the register totals showed that her assistant Jen had been busily ringing up sales all day. She’d heard from nearly every one of the Sweet Somethings committee members and dispensed advice the best she could. The only one of them who had not contacted her was Sarah—the one she most wanted to speak with after their abbreviated conversation the night before.
She found a moment to step into the shade in the back alley, where she pulled out her phone and dialed the older woman’s number. It rang several times and she was mentally composing the words to leave a message when a strange male voice answered.
“Who is this?” Sam asked. “I may have gotten the wrong number.”
“Were you calling Sarah Williams?”
“Yes, is she home?”
“I’m her nephew. Marc Williams. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Sam’s gut did a twist.
“She’s in the hospital,” Marc said. “She collapsed at home this morning and called my father. I came rushing over and called the ambulance. I came back by her house now for her insurance information and such.”
“I just spoke with her last evening and she seemed fine,” Sam said. “What do the doctors say? Will she be okay?”
“At this point they’re still running tests. Her heart seems strong and she says she’s always been really healthy, except for that flu last winter. But I have to let you know—she’s not doing too well right now.”
Sarah had never mentioned a nephew; maybe she would feel more secure if a friend were also at her side.
“Could I go by and see her?”
“Um, sure. I suppose that would be okay.”
She told Marc Williams she would get there right away. A dozen images flashed through Sam’s mind after she hung up—the conversation last night, the wooden box, old Bertha Martinez. Months of looking for answers about the box and its origins, and Sarah seemed like her first firm lead. If something happened to Sarah now, Sam would never get those answers.
Chapter 3
Sam got into her van and pulled to the end of the alley behind the bakery, debating. The hospital was to the south, but if she took an extra fifteen minutes she could dash home first and get the box. She turned left and made her way along back roads until she came to the turnoff for her driveway.
From the bathroom vanity she retrieved the box and held it between her hands until she felt warmth begin to suffuse her skin. The normally dull wood took on a golden glow, the usual sign that it was sending its healing power to her. She dumped out her bits of costume jewelry and carried the box to the kitchen where she retrieved one of her canvas shopping bags and set it inside.
At the hospital she followed the directions Marc Williams had given her, down a corridor to room 278 on the left. In bed, Sarah looked even smaller than normal. The lump under the blanket was more than two feet from the end of the bed, and her stocky body had melded into the mattress. Even her round face seemed slack, her mouth in an unaccustomed downturn and her eyes closed. A man in his forties stood over the bed, speaking earnestly to Sarah.
“You must be Samantha,” he said when he spotted her in the doorway. “I’m Marc.”
Sam shook his hand but glanced nervously at the inert form. “How’s she doing?”
Sarah stirred and mumbled something. Giving it another try, she cleared her throat. “I . . . fine.”
“Hey, Sarah. It’s Samantha.”
The older woman’s mouth tried to form a smile. Watching the effort, Sam felt her heart tug.
“The doctors say she had a stroke,” Marc said. “It’s good that she’s speaking a bit now, but they have more tests to run.”
“I won’t stay long,” Sam assured him.
“Go ’way, who you are.” Sarah didn’t lift her head but the meaning in her slurred words was clear enough. “Tha man. Who?”
“Aunt Sarah, it’s me, your nephew. Just take it easy.”
“It’s fine,” Sam told him. “Grab some coffee or something. I’ll stay until you get back.”
“Darn thing, Sam,” Sarah muttered. “Ba timing.”
“I brought something,” Sam said, setting the canvas bag on the floor near the bed. She reached for Sarah’s hands with her own and squeezed them. One squeezed back, the other remained limp. As she ran her hands along Sarah’s arms, she felt her own warmth travel to the other woman. Sarah’s right fingers twitched a little.
Sam pulled the carved box from the bag and set it on Sarah’s abdomen, then placed each of her hands on top of it. The box showed no reaction. She picked it up and held it close to her own body and the golden glow returned to the wood.
Sarah gasped and turned her head toward Sam. “It’s Bertha’s! The box did the same thing when she handled it.” This time her speech was perfectly clear.
“I don’t know how long the effects of it will last, Sarah. Can you tell me more about it?” Sam set the box beside Sarah and used the bed’s controls to raise her head a bit. Already, the older woman’s eyes seemed sharper, her face more alert.
“Bertha told me she’d had this box since she was a young child. A favorite uncle sent it.” She paused, thinking. “She studied the curandera ways from her grandmother. Abuela, she always called the old woman.” Her eyes took on a faraway look and Sam felt a pang of impatience.
“She was a wonderful teacher . . . I learned so many things that modern nursing school didn’t teach.”
“Why didn’t she leave the box with you? I only happened to show up at her house on the day she died. She insisted that I take it.”
Sarah had not taken her eyes off the box.
“It needed the right person. Bertha told me that. I handled it many times but it never did the same things for me.”
“I wonder how she knew it would be me?” Sam didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until Sarah responded.
“She believed in the power of the mind, even though hers slipped in her final years. She probably wished that the right person would come to her. You did.”
As part of a contract Sam had with the Department of Agriculture to clean and maintain abandoned houses, she had been assigned to the home of Bertha Martinez. No one realized the old woman, barely alive at that point, still occupied the place. When she discovered the dying woman Sam had been
nearly frightened out of her wits. But in retrospect, Bertha had seemed to expect her arrival. After insisting that Sam take the box, she had passed on within minutes. Had the power of her mind engineered those events?
“I was traveling at the time,” Sarah said with a glance toward the door. “When I got back Bertha was gone, her house empty.”
“I’m so sorry. We tried to locate friends and relatives but couldn’t find anyone.”
“She became reclusive. Kids would tease her. People were sometimes afraid of her.”
Sam nodded, remembering what she had heard at the time about the rumors of Bertha being a witch.
Sarah gave another quick look toward the open door, then lowered her voice. “There were two boxes, you know. My father saw one . . . many years earlier . . . during the war.”
“I want to know about that one, too,” Sam said eagerly.
She’d come across one in Ireland last fall—could it be the same? She wanted to ask more questions, but noticed that Sarah’s eyes were closed once more.
“You should rest,” Sam said. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling better.”
She ran her hands across Sarah’s shoulders and along her arms and the older woman settled down with a relaxed look on her face. She’d just set the box back into her canvas tote bag when she looked up and saw the nephew standing at the doorway. How much had he observed?
“I just spoke to the doctor,” he said. “They’ll be taking Aunt Sarah downstairs for some type of a scan fairly soon. What did she say to you?”
Sam brushed aside the question, gave him her phone number and asked him to stay in touch, especially if anything about Sarah’s condition changed.
She drove away from the hospital pondering the improbability that Bertha had somehow willed her to walk into the house at exactly the right moment to receive the magical box. Evidently Sarah, the one person who had been aware of its power, was fine with the idea that Sam had become its keeper.
Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 2
