Sam’s phone chimed with an incoming text message. She glanced at the readout quickly as she shuffled her pack and resettled in her seat. A single word from Beau—legit. She put the phone back, sent another fleeting look toward Isobel St. Clair. It was true. From the moment she had discovered that the wooden box gave her the power to heal, the power to see auras and fingerprints and things that others simply did not see, she had wanted—needed—answers. This might be her only chance to get them.
She nodded toward Isobel who had paused a moment to sip at her latte.
“Our archives show that the foundation has actually tested two boxes, nearly identical. Both showed remarkable power, in both cases we repeatedly duplicated the results.” She set her cup down. “You know, I really should give you a bit more of the background.”
Sam nodded.
“History suggests that at one time there were three boxes—hence the password I gave earlier, the mention of three . . .” She only mouthed the last word. “According to our tests, they were made from a single alder tree, a tree that had been struck by lightning. The molecular structure of the wood makes this point incontrovertible. The carving is not really typical, but I can say that it’s in a similar style used by woodworkers in fifteenth century northern Europe, probably what today is Ireland.”
Sam thought of her uncle who had lived in Galway and her pulse quickened a little.
“It would make sense, in those rather superstitious times, that a man who witnessed a lightning strike might believe the remaining wood to be . . . perhaps enchanted, or charmed in some way. He might gather the remains of the affected tree and take them home to make something from the wood.”
From her own trip to Ireland, Sam could attest that the Irish were still a fairly superstitious lot.
“I mentioned that we found and tested two boxes.”
Sam waited silently.
Isobel took a deep breath. “I don’t like to use words like good and evil. They are subjective terms, and my background teaches me to deal in hard facts. Science. History. Things that can be documented.”
She toyed with the plastic stirrer that came with the coffee.
“In this case, I think I can use those words. Partly based on historical data, partly on my own observations.”
Evil? What was the woman talking about?
“I mentioned that your box was tested in 1910? Well, the second one came to us in the 1970s. I’m still working on piecing together the history of it, but rumor says it may have been connected with Adolf Hitler.” She held up a hand. “At this point, I cannot verify that and I hesitate to even mention it. It’s just—”
Isobel stopped and took a long pull on her beverage, which had probably gone lukewarm by now.
“While the box was in our lab, one of the technicians had a very peculiar reaction to it. He was a man who tended to be a somewhat flamboyant personality anyway—artistic but driven— I don’t know how to explain it, and I guess the reason Hitler’s name came to me was that this technician’s co-workers described him in similar terms. I don’t know—I wasn’t there, of course. But during the filming of our tests—films I have watched—this technician did become a little . . . I have to say crazed after he handled the box. Sorry, that’s not a scientific term but that’s the best way I can describe it. He walked around the lab with the box hugged to his chest and he began spouting all kinds of political-speak, things about how the power was in the wrong hands and if he were in charge of the country all those dissidents and protestors would be silenced.”
She stopped and made a waving motion, as if scattering the thoughts to the wind.
“Well, you don’t need all the details. Just suffice to say that it went a lot further than that, his hate-speech. Mainly, it was the look in his eye—that’s where the word evil comes to mind.”
“Did he keep the box?”
“Oh, no. The files show that it was locked away, out of his reach, and he was dismissed from the foundation. It is also carefully documented that no one else who came in contact with it had the same reaction.”
“What ever happened to it?”
“After the testing was complete, it was returned to the family of the man who had submitted it, in Germany. This is where my interest as a historian comes in. I’ve made several trips there. The box was sold at an estate sale after the German man grew old and died. The person who bought it was named Terrance O’Shaughnessy.”
Sam’s uncle. She had already seen where the story was leading. When Uncle Terry died last fall, she had been given permission by his attorney to keep his box. She’d had it in her possession—that evil box—except that it had disappeared before she ever left Ireland.
“Do you know where it is now?” she asked.
Isobel shook her head. “I don’t.”
“And what about the third one? You said there were probably three?”
“The Vongraf’s early research suggests that the third one was quite likely destroyed at some point in time. There are old books and diaries—witnesses who describe it being burned.”
Bobul had once told Sam he’d witnessed the burning of a witch when he was a child in Romania, that the witch held a wooden box in her hands as she burned. He’d told Sam the box’s magic powers had caused it to survive the fire.
“I’m making this my life’s work, Sam. The historian in me is battling the scientist inside, well, at least wanting to break away and just do an old-fashioned hunt. A quest, I suppose you would say. I’m taking a leave of absence from my office duties at The Vongraf for awhile. I just want to see and verify the existence of each of the boxes. I don’t want to take them away from their current owners; I don’t want to own them myself. Just to see, to hold, to document.”
The green eyes held Sam’s for a long moment.
“I traced the one box—the one I’m calling the good one—as far as Bertha Martinez here in Taos. She received it as a child, from an uncle who fought in World War One. I knew she had passed it along to someone, not a relative, and when I found Sarah Williams . . . well, she told me that you had it. I’m asking you to trust me long enough to let me see and touch it.”
“I’d like to think about it,” Sam said. The more she was learning about the box, the more she realized that it could have a significance beyond anything she had ever imagined. She wanted to know more of the specifics of Beau’s background investigation of Isobel St. Clair before agreeing to anything.
“That’s wise,” Isobel said. “I am not the only one with an interest.”
She turned to stare at their surroundings. The other four people on the patio had left. Isobel sighed.
“There is a rival institution known as OSM. We think it might stand for something like Office for the Study of Mysticism, but no one says that. Their research goes more toward the occult and mystical than that of The Vongraf. Their science is faulty, but their interest is real. And potentially deadly. There are ties to high government officials—not only in this country, mind you—who want the power of these boxes out of private hands. It has happened in the past; during the Spanish Inquisition we believe one box was taken from its owner and stored deep within the Vatican for centuries. These days, who knows what would happen to them, particularly if these same officials should get hold of both the good box and the evil one. It’s a vital reason why I want to study the power behind the boxes—to see if there is a way to test for the ramifications if the two boxes should ever come together. It’s possible that the result could be cataclysmic.”
Government powers? Good and evil? Sam struggled to get her mind around it.
“Use great caution, Sam. Seriously. I know that someone from the other facility has been here in Taos recently, digging for information. Marcus Fitch. He got very close to Sarah Williams by posing as her long-lost nephew.”
“Marc Williams?” Sam’s head spun with the news. “But he seemed so nice, so sincere.”
“He would. He was an undercover agent before he left the CIA to join OSM. He
can act out nearly any role. But his motives are frightening. Do not trust the man.”
Sam thought of Sarah’s early confusion when admitted to the hospital under the watchful eye of her ‘nephew.’ Had Sarah’s illness and death been engineered by this man? Perhaps to draw Sam into admitting she owned the box?
“I hate to say this, but I’m beginning not to trust anyone.” Sam picked up her pack and stood. “I want to check this out. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you. That’s very wise of you.” Isobel rose from her chair. “You have my card. I’m staying at the Taos Inn for two more days.”
Sam followed the historian back through the coffee shop and watched her get into the grey rental car. In her van, she phoned Beau.
“Yeah, I’m on my way home now,” he said. “Kaycee Archer and Harvey Byron spent the afternoon squabbling and then she promptly lawyered up. He’s swearing she planned everything. She says he provided the knife. In the midst of all the ‘he-said, she-said’ I gather that they confronted Carinda together in the garden and when Carinda laughed at Kaycee’s demand for a share of the Joffrey estate Kaycee went berserk, snatched the knife and stabbed her. We know it was one blow, just unlucky for Carinda that it went straight into her heart. Harvey, away from Kaycee, admitted it shocked him so badly that he rushed inside and threw up before he could go back to his booth.”
Amazing, Sam thought, that Harvey had managed to work at all, to keep up the pretense for two more days. The man clearly had a hard streak she’d never witnessed.
Beau continued, “Other than organizing all the evidence we gathered and handing it over to the DA, looks like I’m done with this case.”
“Harvey Byron. I have to admit I never saw that coming,” she said as she started her van. “I’m leaving Java Joe’s now. Kind of eager to hear what else you learned about Isobel St. Clair when I get home.”
He met her at the door with a kiss and they settled into chairs on their back deck, overlooking open fields and the pasture where the horses grazed contentedly. The recent fire had taken only their easternmost field with the corn crop but Sam still cringed at how easily it could have passed the barbed wire fence between there and the barn.
“So, The Vongraf Foundation does indeed do historical research,” he said, popping the top on a beer can. He continued, verifying everything Isobel had told Sam. “She’s been with the foundation for fifteen years, basically from the moment she graduated from the University of Virginia. Still lives within twenty miles of where she grew up, although she has traveled quite a bit in Europe and the Mediterranean countries, a few times to Mexico. Never married but there was a fiancé a few years back. I’ve got the report and her picture in the house.”
Sam popped up to get the information. The photo was definitely the woman she’d spoken with and the story seemed to check out. She remembered Isobel’s warnings about the rival institution.
“Can I ask another favor?” she said to Beau, putting a little flirtation in her voice.
“You know you can.” One blue eye winked.
“A man named Marcus Fitch at a place called OSM, also located in the DC area. Isobel said it stands for Office for the Study of Mysticism but might have another, more government-sounding name.
He jotted a note and promised to find out what he could.
They watched the sunset, grilled some burgers and found themselves yawning in front of a TV comedy when they decided to go to bed early. Although Sam had nearly dozed on the sofa, once the light went out upstairs she found her mind zipping over the day’s events and the new information about the box. She’d wondered about the odd artifact for nearly two years—now that she knew a bit of its history she wondered if she should fear for its safety. Or her own.
The hour on the clock turned to single digits before she drifted to sleep.
Chapter 22
Isobel St. Clair thanked Sam when she called the next day. She invited the researcher out to the ranch, purposely choosing a time when Beau planned to be working on the property. Isobel showed up in jeans and a short-sleeved green cotton sweater that highlighted her eyes. She carried a bulky manila folder.
“I guess my résumé checked out,” Isobel said with a tilt of her head toward the department cruiser parked beside the house.
“As you cautioned me yesterday, a person can’t be too careful.” Sam showed her into the sunny living room and offered tea, which Isobel declined, before bringing the wooden box out of the china hutch where she had temporarily stashed it.
“Ooh. I’ve read so much about this. It’s amazing to be able to touch it.” Isobel set her folder on the dining table and took the box from Sam, handling it with a gentle touch. “I’d like to compare it to the notes—”
“Certainly. I would be interested in seeing them.”
Isobel opened the lid. “The hinges were replaced at some point. These are not original. But look at the faint markings along the inside of the lid. They are unreadable now but we can see that they were here. According to the records, the other boxes also had words inscribed in this location. The stones—most likely they weren’t put here by the carver; people in those times tended to have specialized trades and a woodworker probably didn’t have the tools or expertise to grind, polish and mount these. But they are of the same period. Perhaps he took the box to someone else for the ornamentation.”
She looked up. “It’s definitely the same one The Vongraf studied, over a hundred years ago.”
“The other box—the one in Ireland—” Sam hesitated for a moment. “It also had stones.”
“Ah, I thought you may have seen it,” Isobel said. “I had already discovered that Mr. O’Shaughnessy was your uncle.”
Sam almost laughed. “You probably knew that before I did. A year ago, I had never heard of him. But he was a kind man. Beau and I went to Galway on our honeymoon and I was able to visit Terry’s home.”
“And to see the other box?”
“Actually, I handled it a little.”
“But the box isn’t still in your uncle’s home. I was contacted by the estate attorney because he left some papers to the foundation. I asked about the box.”
“Uncle Terry gave it to me. It disappeared from the back seat of our car there in Galway. I would swear there was no one around when it happened, and Beau and I were never very far from the car. I have no idea who took it. I almost believed the box had somehow vanished under its own power.”
Isobel didn’t laugh or denigrate the idea. She merely stared down at the box in her hands now. Sam watched the way Isobel touched the box with reverence before handing it back. The box was cool to the touch when Sam took it. She had learned a lot about this thing, but to know more she knew she needed to trust someone. This was probably the person.
“Isobel? You’re right about the boxes. They do have some type of magic, and it only works with certain people. Bertha Martinez told me I was meant to have this one, but it was long after her death that I figured out what she meant.” Sam held the box between her hands, in front, where Isobel could see. “Watch what happens.”
The dull wood began to warm and brighten, becoming a soft golden brown as Sam held it.
“Touch.”
Isobel reached out and laid her palm against the top, pulling it back quickly. “It’s hot!”
“Not yet. But it will get that way.”
The smooth stones began to glow red, green and blue—brighter and brighter.
“How—?” Isobel backed slightly away, her eyes wide.
“Don’t worry. This is the good one, remember? I don’t feel like I have an evil gleam in my eye or anything.” Sam set the box on the table. “Usually, once I’ve done this, I seem to have some degree of healing ability. I think it’s the same thing that made Bertha Martinez such a renowned healer in her day. Sarah Williams confirmed that she’d seen Bertha do some pretty unexplainable things.”
Isobel seemed fascinated. “I woke up this morning with a crick in my neck—hotel pillow. Do you
think—?”
Sam stepped toward her. “Let me touch the spot.” She held both hands gently against the sides of the younger woman’s neck.
“Warm! I can’t believe it.” Isobel stood perfectly still. When Sam removed her hands, Isobel turned her head side to side. “There is absolutely no pain! I could hardly look over my left shoulder this morning.”
She reached up and touched her neck in amazement.
“I’m not a healer,” Sam said, “I’m a baker. I have no idea how this thing works or why Bertha wanted me to have it.”
Isobel fixed a serious stare on her. “Take great care, Sam. I am still learning about these things, but from what I gather these boxes come into the possession of the right person at the right time. There is a reason you are supposed to have this one. Be careful that the wrong people do not get it.”
Sam felt the weight of her mission.
“But the other one? If it’s supposedly evil, why did my uncle have it? He seemed to be a gentle and happy man. I never heard that he did anything bad. He was certainly kind and generous with those who knew him.”
Isobel chewed at her lower lip for a moment. “We don’t know that yet, do we? Perhaps the third box still exists and it’s the one he owned. Or maybe, as we’ve discovered just now—your box worked no magic when I touched it—maybe the evil box has no effect unless an otherwise evil person gets it.”
She laid a hand on Sam’s forearm. “Just be careful. I can’t warn you enough. Don’t ever forget that there are others who would love to get hold of this.”
“The institute known as OSM?”
“And perhaps others. I need to go now,” Isobel said, picking up her file. “Keep that artifact in a safe place. One day, the answer will come to you—the name of the person who is meant to own it next.”
Sam watched the grey sedan drive toward the road, feeling a little shaky inside with this new knowledge. It seemed the box’s days of sitting on her vanity in the bathroom, filled with costume jewelry, were over. She shoved aside the coats in the hall closet, opened the wooden panel at the back, and twirled the dial on Beau’s safe. The box seemed a little forlorn when she set it inside and closed the door.
Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 19
