8 Sweet Payback

by Connie Shelton

  At the ranch, Ranger and Nellie came off the porch to greet her and she invited them inside. Maybe Beau was right. Her truck had been seen in town several times now—big and red, it wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. She’d parked at the side of the house, out of view from the road, but still—having two large dogs at her side felt comforting.

  The upside of Beau’s working tonight was that Sam had the whole evening to pursue her own interests. She booted up her computer and prepared a small salad. An Internet search for Linden Gisner didn’t net much. Who on the face of the earth wasn’t on Facebook these days? She found one piece, a reprint of a five-year-old article where he’d bought a big commercial property outside Santa Fe and signed a deal with a developer who wanted to create yet another shopping mall. In it, Gisner was referred to as “a prominent northern New Mexico land developer” which didn’t exactly tell her anything she didn’t already know. And it didn’t include any possible leads on where to find him now.

  She was about to turn her attention to the books on witchcraft when her phone rang.

  “Hey, Mom. Everything okay? Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

  With Sam’s bakery right next door to Kelly’s job at Puppy Chic, it was rare that they didn’t touch base almost daily.

  “I guess you’ve heard on the news about Beau’s current case, the killings related to those two Sembramos men? That’s eating up most of his time. Me, I’m just trying to locate the owner of one of my properties.” She briefly described the huge house.

  “You gotta get a smarter phone, Mom. There’s an app for that.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I don’t know. What’s the name?”

  Sam told her.

  “And he’s in New Mexico?”

  “That, I’m not sure about.”

  “Hang on, let’s see.” Kelly’s voice went into musing mode, with a couple of da-dum, da-dums while she did something. “There’s a Linden Gisner right in Taos.”

  “Seriously? It was that easy? I checked online and the phone book.”

  “He probably doesn’t have a land line, but maybe this info comes from his cell phone contract or something. I don’t know.”

  Or some sneaky government agency out to track the moves of everyone on the planet. Sheesh, Sam wondered. How much do they know about me?

  “Mom? You want the address or not?”

  “Yes! Definitely.” She grabbed a pen and wrote down what Kelly told her.

  “You want directions? The map’s right here.”

  Oh god, that was invasive. But she wrote it all down. Then she walked around the house and closed all the shades.

  Chapter 16

  Sam carried her salad plate to the dishwasher, wanting to erase the disturbing feeling that had settled over her. What if that creepy Starkey guy had one of those gadgets and looked up Beau’s home address? What if any of the many lowlifes and villains he came across did the same thing? She double-checked the locks all around. Took a deep breath. This voice in her head was sounding too much like her mother’s.

  Settling on the sofa with a cup of tea and the books Cora Abernathy had given her, Sam flipped one of them open. Maybe plain old-fashioned witchcraft wasn’t as scary as other things these days. But the words didn’t hold her attention and she decided maybe it was better use of her time to make some phone calls.

  Cora’s notes had given information on two covens. The one that held an annual festival seemed a little too New-Age and public for Bertha Martinez’s style, so Sam called the other contact person, listed only as Mary.

  She had a little difficulty explaining exactly what she wanted. Mary kept letting Sam talk without actually answering anything.

  Finally, she said, “We take oaths of silence, you must understand. Few of us would give out our names, much less discuss what goes on in our rituals.”

  “I’m sorry—” Sam stammered. “I don’t want personal information. What I have is more of an artifact, I guess you might say. All I know about it is the name of the woman who gave it to me.”

  “Perhaps this woman—you said her name was Bertha Martinez? It could be that she was a solitary practitioner. Many witches do not care to work with others.”

  “I don’t even know that Bertha considered herself a witch, but I have a feeling you might be right about a solitary practice. Do you have any ideas how I might learn more about this item?”

  The woman at the other end of the line paused for a long time, considering. “I can take a look at it. It might have something to say for itself.”

  Sam was beginning to wonder if this was the right track for her at all, but she agreed to meet Mary at a local coffee shop the following afternoon. She tried to formulate questions to ask of the witch when they met, but by this time her attention refused to focus. She let the dogs out the back door, stepping outside, herself, to stare into the black sky. The long, brilliant tail of a meteor turned her thoughts from the troubling forces of man to the more soothing forces of nature.

  When Ranger and Nellie returned, with a chill on their fur and happy smiles on their faces, Sam settled them into their crates for the night, rechecked the locks and went upstairs. Snuggled into the lonely king-sized bed, she called Beau to make sure all was going well on his nighttime patrol and to tell him goodnight. He sent her a kiss—clearly, he was alone in his car—and told her to sleep well. She did, for awhile.

  In the dream she was back in Ireland, in the very masculine study at her uncle’s home. Terrance O’Shaughnessy came into the room, wearing the nightshirt from the last time she’d seen him, with a striped robe of rich fabric and leather slippers. He greeted her familiarly, joy lighting his lined face.

  “Uncle Terry, you promised to tell me the story behind this,” Sam said, holding up the carved wooden box she’d found in his bookcase. The twin box to her own.

  “Ah, yes child, I did. And I shall.” He moved to the fireplace in the corner and bent to strike a long match to the stack of kindling and logs. “Come, sit,” he said, pointing to the pair of armchairs near the comforting glow.

  Sam carried the box with her and walked toward him.

  “You know, Samantha, that I traveled the world while I was alive,” he said, settling into his chair. “I had the opportunity to visit many interesting places. I collected many fine pieces of art, many fascinating items. This one—it does things. Things that I cannot explain, things no one else would believe.”

  Sam felt her pulse quicken. Yes! She wanted to tell him how well she understood what he was saying. But she woke up.

  No—no, no.

  She stared around the bedroom, seeing only faint outlines in the near-perfect darkness. For the second time, she felt robbed of the truth. Terry had been ready to share this story with her last fall. And then he died. She sat up and raised the comforter to her face, burying the urge to cry out.

  With a sigh, she got up and made her way to the bathroom, finding her carved box on the vanity by the glow of the tiny nightlight in the corner. She pressed her palms against the top of it and closed her eyes, hoping for a vision of her uncle, for some words from him. But nothing came. After a time, she gently patted the box and went back to bed.

  The dream never returned and Sam was surprised to wake at daylight, refreshed by an uninterrupted sleep. By the time she had brushed her teeth and dressed she began to wonder if she had imagined the episode. Was it possible to dream that you’d had a dream?

  She dumped out her jewelry and carried the box downstairs, reviewing her plans for the day as she tended the dogs and gathered the witchcraft books and papers. Finish the windows at the big house—and yes, she would call upon the energy from the box; her muscles still felt the effects of yesterday’s labor—then back to town for her meeting with Mary. She debated whether to tell the woman about the Irish connection or last night’s dream.

  That decision could be made later; right now she wondered how the night had gone for Beau. She dialed his cell.

  “It s
tayed pretty quiet here,” he said, his voice sounding weary enough that Sam almost felt guilty for her night of solid sleep.

  “Can I buy you breakfast?” she asked. “If the café there is open?”

  “It is and you may. If I don’t get a lot of coffee in me soon, I’ll be asleep in this car.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She made space in her pack for the wooden box, then headed out the door.

  She could smell the coffee almost the minute she got out of her truck, which she parked beside Beau’s cruiser in front of the building with its Old West wooden façade. Toward the back of the single room she spotted Beau at a table.

  “Long night, huh,” she said, rubbing his shoulder as she stepped over to take the chair across from his.

  “Too long. I don’t know which is worse—trouble flaring up or sitting around with nothing to do but make myself stay awake.” He nodded at the offer of a refill from the teen waitress who approached.

  “So, no new leads about Lee or about Jessie?” Sam asked as she studied the menu.

  He glanced around the near-empty room and lowered his voice. “Can’t remember if I told you, I had an angry call from Angela Cayne’s father yesterday. Guy sounded mad enough to have come after both men. At first I assumed he was calling from his home, in Houston, but then I got to wondering. I’m waiting for word from Houston PD on whether they can confirm that. Story of my job—waiting.”

  “Beau, do you think there could be some sort of avenger up here, somebody local who truly believes he’s doing everyone a favor by getting rid of both Starkey and Rodarte?”

  He turned thoughtful, considering the idea, but then the waitress came back, looking fresh and perky. Beau ordered bacon and eggs.

  “You need some rest,” Sam told him after ordering French toast and watching the girl head for the kitchen. “Can someone relieve you for a few hours?”

  “That’s the plan. We’ll keep one man in town today while the night crew gets a little time off. I’ll probably go home and crash. For later, we’ll see how the day goes before we decide whether to keep patrols here another night.”

  “Well, I’d offer to trade you a day of washing windows for a night of sitting in the car, but I have a feeling that, really truly, neither of us would take that deal.”

  He smiled, the dimpled grin and those ocean blue eyes sending a pang right to her heart. Their meals arrived, along with a table full of diners—locals who were dressed like construction workers—so their conversation waned. Twenty minutes later, they parted outside by their vehicles, Beau promising to keep her posted as the day went on, Sam saying she wouldn’t wake him up to ask.

  Her squeegee and Windex waited on the kitchen counter at the big house, right where she’d left them. If the place were haunted, it sure would be nice if the spirits would come in at night and do some of this work. But they hadn’t.

  Sam unzipped her pack and took out the box, closing her eyes for a moment and then holding it close to her body. Immediately, the wood began to glow and warmth traveled up her arms. She felt the suffusion of energy more quickly than usual—was it because she hadn’t used these powers in a long time? As the small red, green and blue stones on the box began to glow Sam set it down. She rubbed her hands together to diffuse the tingle, then put the box back into her pack. When she looked up, the kitchen was filled with sunny yellow light.

  It was almost tangible and Sam reached out a hand, testing to see if it was real, like smoke. No, it was more as if someone had turned on theatrical lights with a yellow filter. She walked toward the large windows that overlooked the valley and when she turned, the great room also had an aura, this one a disturbing, murky orange. Sam’s heart began to race.

  She opened the door to the terrace and stepped outside. She backed away from the house; she’d seen auras around people before, and they often conveyed feelings, such as love or fear, sometimes motivations, like dishonesty. But a house? How could a building have emotions? She stared out over the open meadows below and breathed deeply twice. Three times.

  When she turned toward the house again, the windows revealed only clear air and the normal appearance of the place.

  Okay, that was weird.

  She went back inside, a little tentatively, feeling hyper-aware. The room felt cold, much colder than when she’d arrived. She stared at the doorways to the other rooms. The place was hollow and deadly quiet. Up the stairs, the same. She walked through every room and looked inside every closet. No one was here with her.

  All right, Sam, you gotta shake this off and get to work.

  After fast-walking out to her truck and back she shook her arms, rotated her shoulders, and went back inside. No colors, no chills.

  She cursed her too-vivid imagination, picked up her cleaning supplies and marched up the stairs. Two hours later, every window on the second floor sparkled to within an inch of its life. Sam rechecked that entire level and decided it would pass muster.

  Downstairs, the kitchen and great room still looked normal and Sam began to question whether she’d really seen any colors at all. Maybe with all this talk of witches and magic her imagination had simply been working overtime. That had to be it.

  She started to take her cleaning supplies to the truck but remembered that she hadn’t yet done windows in the smaller rooms in the other ground-level wing. She picked up clean towels and headed that direction. She would start with the rooms nearest the back, the guest suites, and work her way toward the front door.

  The first guestroom door was closed and when she opened it, the entire room filled with a hot, red haze.

  “Whoa!” She backed away, slamming the door, feeling her eyes go wide. Her breath came in short huffs.

  Down the corridor, near the home’s front door, she glanced into the wine cellar. The air in here was clear but the moment Sam stepped into the chamber, it began to take on a purplish tint and before she could back out, the air had become murky with the stuff.

  “Okay, this is ridiculous. I do not need to be here this badly.” She deposited her cleaning gear back in the kitchen, picked up her pack and left.

  Out in her truck, logic prevailed. What had just happened in that house? Evidently, there was some type of reaction to each room as soon as Sam entered it. The colored fog and variations in temperature vanished once she left the space. But it didn’t happen everywhere; she’d spent time upstairs with no bad effects. Not to mention that she’d been here multiple times in recent days and perceived nothing out of the ordinary aside from warm and cold. Unless one counted an abandoned multi-million dollar house as typical. So, what was different?

  She glanced at the seat beside her. The box. Even deep in her pack, in the kitchen, that house could sense the box’s presence. Sam did a quick little snap-out-of-it head shake. The whole notion was crazy, impossible, preposterous. Utterly ridiculous. She unzipped the pack and took a look. The box sat there, ugly but benign. Minding its own business.

  Oh, Sam, Sam . . . what are you doing trying to imagine the box’s thoughts? Instead of meeting up with a witch this afternoon you need to get yourself to a psychiatrist.

  No, you need to get yourself away from this house. The place was flat-out weird. She stuck her key in the ignition and started the truck. Normalcy—that’s all she wanted right now.

  She headed toward home but partway there remembered that Beau was trying to catch up on a missed night of sleep. She had far too much pent-up energy to sit quietly around the house for several hours. So—the bakery was the one place where excess energy could always be put to good use.

  Sweet’s Sweets looked like a happy little oasis of normal as Sam drove past the front, with its purple awnings and cheerful displays of cakes and pastries in the windows that faced the sidewalk. She parked at the back and entered her world of sugar and spice, happy to be away from things that couldn’t be fixed with an extra teaspoon of vanilla extract.

  “Hey, Sam,” greeted Julio.

  “Can’t stay away, huh?�
�� Becky teased.

  Sam rolled her eyes, getting off with the explanation that after washing windows all morning she was ready for something that tasted good. “I’ve got a couple hours before I have to get to an appointment. Who needs my help?”

  Becky held up a wedding cake sketch on an order form. “I’ve got the flowers made for this one, but it calls for a whole lot of traditional piping and you know how nervous I get doing the string work.”

  Piping parallel swags of thin icing strings was a technique that took a lot of practice and an extremely steady hand. Sam ran a few practice rows of them on a cardboard form, amazed that her hands were a whole lot steadier than her gut felt. Then she tackled the actual cake.

  “Oh my gosh,” said Becky, an hour later. “I am so glad you came in when you did.”

  Sam stepped back. The four tiers were gracefully draped with triple rows of perfect swags. She breathed a sigh of satisfaction. This was her real calling, not going into strange houses and encountering oddball, unexplainable things. Maybe she should drop the idea of investigating anything magical.

  Becky brought the flowers for the cake from the fridge and Sam set them in place, forming cascades of peach and ivory, adding a spritz of pearlescent powder with the airbrush. She compared it with Jen’s sketch to be sure she hadn’t left out anything the bride wanted.

  “Good to go?” she asked Becky.

  “It is gorgeous. I’m supposed to deliver it at three.”

  Sam thanked Becky for taking the initiative, then walked out to the sales area to check on the displays. Jen reported a decent morning’s sales, which reminded Sam to review her supplies and place an order with her wholesaler. That done, she realized it was time to go meet Mary the witch.

  Chapter 17

  Whatever Sam expected of a witch—somewhere along the spectrum between the curvy young creatures on Charmed and a black-clothed crone with pointy hat and warts—Mary was none of those. The woman who approached Sam on the sidewalk outside Java Joe’s Joint was nearing sixty and wore a soft cotton pastel yellow skirt, blue top and earthy sandals. She carried a cloth drawstring bag. Her all-gray hair hung in waves to her shoulders, with a strand on either side pinned back from her face with glittery tiny clips. She looked more earth-child than conjurer. Mary seemed a little more wary of Sam than Sam was of her. They decided on a booth at the back of the room.