Sweet Magic

by Connie Shelton

  She turned on her computer, determined to hold onto the joy.

  She took another chocolate and let it melt on her tongue. Below, her crew had begun to arrive. Benjie Lucero’s little car was the first to pull onto the gravel parking area, followed by Lisa Gurule and Dottie. They were good people, good at their jobs, Sam reminded herself. The most experienced could be put in charge of the newer, larger divisions as the big orders came in.

  She brought up her spreadsheet and rechecked her numbers, adding factors for the amount of output the kitchen currently achieved and multiplying by what would be needed. As long as she stuck with pure numbers, her mood remained level. Anxiety only crept in when she began to envision where the extra people and supplies would fit into the space which had once seemed large enough to swallow the entire operation with room to spare.

  She popped a third chocolate into her mouth.

  Chapter 15

  Beau sat at his desk, forehead on palm, running his fingers through his hair. What possible leads could they check next? Everything in the murder case seemed to be at a dead end or a standstill. The shoe that made the one footprint couldn’t be traced, the weapon was not a common one, but gun ownership was registered state-by-state and it could be a long process to track them all. So far, Marcus Fitch had not shown up as a gun owner, and certainly not of a high-power model such as the one they were seeking.

  Rico was currently contacting airlines, asking for information on their manifests, hoping Fitch had checked in for a flight under his own name. Finding anyone who’d checked a locked gun case would be a bonus. Evan was wading through the crowded records of the DC authorities to learn more about Fitch—did he have a record, could he provide an alibi for three days ago? It was slow going; cops in other jurisdictions had their own cases, and helping with a crime in faraway New Mexico was low on their list. Beau and Evan shared a rueful chuckle when Evan had to explain that New Mexico was actually one of the fifty states, not in a foreign country. It wasn’t an uncommon misconception, he’d learned over the years.

  Meanwhile, all he could do was wait for responses and hope they provided usable answers. He picked up his mug—empty—and decided to see if the coffee maker had been refreshed in recent hours. The dark sludge at the bottom of the pot told him it hadn’t. He needed to get out of here.

  He phoned Sam. “You free for lunch?” he asked.

  Her tone sounded more relaxed than in recent days. “I’d love that. I’m just leaving the chocolate factory and heading toward the bakery. Shall I pick you up or do you want to meet somewhere?”

  “We’d better meet. I never know when a call might come in.”

  “I’ll treat you to Lambert’s, if you’d like,” she said.

  “Feeling in a good mood, huh?”

  The menu was somewhat upscale, more their special-occasion date night place than for a quickie lunch. It was also only a couple of blocks from his office, so he readily agreed. By the time Sam walked in, he’d chosen a table outdoors under an old apple tree and was studying the lunch menu. A young waitress with the quick movements of a fox, and red hair to complete the impression, brought glasses of water. Beau chose a sandwich and Sam opted for something she’d never had before—tuna tacos.

  He caught himself studying Sam’s face. “You really are in a good mood today, way more relaxed than I’ve seen you in a while, even before …”

  Sam reached into her pack and brought out a little plastic sandwich bag. “Here—have a chocolate.”

  “Save it for me for dessert,” he said with a smile. In his wife’s world, chocolate solved everything.

  “How’s the case going?” she asked as she dropped the baggie back into a side pocket.

  “Slow. I don’t want to say ‘dead end’ but nothing’s coming together yet.” He told her about the frustrating lack of clues.

  Their food arrived and conversation lagged for a few minutes.

  “This Marcus Fitch you told me about—have you ever met him?” he asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

  Sam shook her head. “I got a glimpse once from a distance, but never face to face.”

  “Based on the shooter’s footprint, we think it’s someone about five-nine or shorter. Could that be Fitch?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Beau. I really couldn’t say for sure.”

  “It’s okay. Just clutching at straws.” He picked up the second half of his sandwich. “So far, we aren’t getting anything useful from car rental agencies or airlines, but Rico is still working all the angles we can think of.”

  “What about this OSM organization in Washington, DC?”

  “I feel like I’d need to go there, talk to someone face to face. If the group is actually behind this attack, I doubt anyone’s going to tell me anything on the phone. Even in person, it’s iffy as to whether someone would open up and speak against their own members.”

  “True. From what Isobel has told me, they’re very secretive.”

  “It would help if I had some idea about the motive. For all we know, it was some personal vendetta against Tony Robards himself.”

  “Someone followed him all the way to New Mexico to shoot him?” Sam’s skepticism showed. “The man lived in Virginia. It would have been so much easier to get him close to home.”

  “So you still think Isobel was the target, but wouldn’t the same hold true for her? She lives in Alexandria, doesn’t she? Someone coming after her … close to home would be easier in that case too.”

  Sam pushed her half-finished lunch aside and looked around. He followed her gaze. Only three other tables were occupied, but one couple was watching the sheriff and baker with a little too much interest.

  “All right,” Beau said. “there’s something more and you can’t say anything here. Let’s finish up and walk outside.”

  “Beau—”

  “You never really told me why this Isobel came to visit, Sam.”

  “I know and it’s—it’s complicated.”

  “I’m ready when you are.” He set aside the rest of his sandwich and swallowed the remains of his water, signaling to the waitress.

  Out in front of the restaurant, they strolled down Bent Street. “It’s a murder case, Sam. You need to tell me what you know.”

  “Isobel came to warn me about OSM.”

  “Right, so you said. Why? What’s their motive?”

  “It’s got to do with that wooden box, the one I used to keep my jewelry in.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “It’s an old chunk of wood. Why would it be important?”

  “Well, I’ve told you parts of it, about the box’s influence when I hold it … It’s just that Isobel … well, she’s convinced OSM is after the box.”

  “And would shoot a man because … why? What is Tony Robards’ connection?”

  “That’s harder to figure out,” Sam said.

  They had come to a clump of tourists gathered near the entrance to the Governor Bent Museum. Rather than push through, they turned around, crossed the street, and headed back to the lot where they’d both parked. Beau’s phone rang as they approached Sam’s truck. She got in and mouthed “See you later” as he pulled the phone from his belt.

  Still puzzling over her comments about this Isobel person and the connection with Sam’s jewelry box, he looked at the phone readout.

  “Yeah, Rico, what’s up?”

  “Got a hit from one of the airlines, boss. Air Italy.”

  Beau made him repeat it. A garbage truck pulled into the lot just then and began the noisy process of pulling beside a dumpster to pick it up.

  “I’m gonna head your way,” Beau said. “Can’t hear a thing out here.” He walked into the squad room six minutes later.

  “Air Italy,” Rico said. “Their manifest shows Marcus Fitch on a flight from Reagan National to Rome the night before our shooting happened here. Fitch definitely checked in for the flight and boarded the plane. They emailed me a copy of his passport. His immigration documents show him staying
at the Piazza della Sol Hotel, and according to their information he just checked out this morning.”

  “So there’s no way Fitch could have been our shooter.”

  Rico shook his head.

  “But it doesn’t mean he couldn’t have hired one.” Beau felt an odd mix of elation and defeat. Finding someone Fitch hired would be a lot more complicated than finding Fitch himself.

  He walked into his office and put in a call to the TSA.

  Chapter 16

  Kelly set the dining table with some interesting dishes and linens she found in the cottage. A small roast beef was in the oven for their dinner. Scott would be back from his day in Cambridge soon, although she’d been surprised he and the professor acquaintance had found an entire day’s worth to chat about.

  The oven timer went off at nearly the same moment she heard his key in the lock. He came in, smelling of fresh air with a faint undertone of railway station fumes, and dropped his messenger bag and umbrella on a chair near the door. Kelly set the roasting pan on a trivet and met him in the living room.

  “You’ll never guess—” They both said it at once, stopped, and laughed.

  “You first,” she said. “Come in the kitchen and make yourself a drink while I mash the potatoes, and you can tell me about your day.”

  “So, guess what I found deep in the library at King’s,” he said while he washed his hands at the kitchen sink.

  She shrugged, busily rummaging through the drawers for a knife to slice the roast.

  “A connection to Taos. And—more than just that—a connection with the house your mother bought for her chocolates.”

  “The Victorian?”

  “Exactly. Remember how we discovered that an eccentric writer used to live there?” He opened a bottle of wine. “Eliza Nalespar was her name.”

  “Oh yeah, there was a strange family history, something tragic …”

  “Yes! Her father died when he fell over the banister from the second story—some speculation as to whether it was an accident or not. Her mother went over the edge mentally. As Professor Midge says, ‘quite mad’ although I’m sure there are more politically correct terms for it now. All this happened before Eliza was nineteen.”

  Kelly was nodding while trying to concentrate on what she needed to do next to finish the meal preparation.

  “What I didn’t know about Eliza was that she actually left New Mexico for a time and came to Cambridge for her studies. According to the yearbooks, she was described variously as ‘the moody one’ and the ‘one with great hidden creative genius.’ And we know at least the creativity part was true because she did go on to write several books.”

  He carried the gravy boat to the table, dipping a finger and taking a taste.

  “Eliza’s most popular book, of course, was called The Box, which sold a few thousand copies in the US but which was enormously popular over here in the UK. Who knew, right? Professor Midge told me the college here adapted a course using Eliza’s book as part of the material. It was sort of a fact-or-fiction-style class about the occult. I’ve got to tell your mom about it when we get home.”

  She handed him bowls of potatoes, carrots, and peas to set on the table, checking the kitchen to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

  “Speaking of Mom and interesting things, after dinner I’ll show you what I found for her in one of the shops.”

  Forty minutes later, meal consumed and dishes done, Kelly showed him the odd box she’d bought. “She’ll be so surprised at this!”

  Scott, although normally a fan of old and dusty things, gave the box a sideways look. “No offense, my lovely bride, but why would your mom want that?”

  “She has a similar one—maybe they’d be a pair.”

  His skepticism didn’t dim.

  “Well, I’ll show it to her on our next Facetime chat. If she absolutely doesn’t like it, I’ll leave it behind, maybe as a house gift for Mr. and Mrs. Bookman.” She gave it a critical look. “I’d better clean it up first.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” he said with a laugh.

  She set the box aside and they turned on the TV in the living room, where they laughed over the nearly identical format to the US version of a house-hunting show, followed by one in which two guys traveled the country looking for antiques in people’s barns. Before long, they were bored with television. Scott spread his books and papers over the dining table, and Kelly took a novel to bed.

  Over scrambled eggs and toast the next morning, Scott announced that he wanted a day at the museum today—a guest speaker was presenting ‘Hidden Bury, Beneath the Surface,’ a lecture followed by a tour into the town’s ancient underground passageways.

  “Should be fascinating,” he told Kelly. “You’re sure you don’t want to come along? There’s lunch afterwards in an old crypt.”

  She swore he was beginning to adopt a slight British accent. She shook her head and passed the marmalade. “Narrow, dark spaces have never held much appeal for me,” she said with a tight smile. “Reminds me too much of the time Cassie Woodhouse and Mary Ann Sanchez talked me into creating a ‘clubhouse’ in a cave near the ski valley. We were on a Girl Scout outing, and nearly got stuck in there. The troop leaders were on the verge of calling search and rescue to find us.”

  He patted her hand. “I can pretty well promise you search and rescue won’t have to come get a guided tour out of the Bury St. Edmunds catacombs.”

  “That’s reassuring. I’m glad you’ll be perfectly safe. I had in mind spending the morning in the ladies clothing department at Debenhams, followed by Facetime with my mom this afternoon. You take your time and enjoy all the old, dusty things you can find.”

  Her glance went to the shelf where she’d set the box she’d bought yesterday, speaking of old dusty things. She would look through the cleaning supplies she’d spotted under the bathroom sink and see if the bucket included some furniture polish.

  By nine, Scott was happily on his way out the door, his messenger bag slung across his chest. Low clouds hung above the chimney tops, with a hint of drizzle in the air.

  Kelly washed the breakfast dishes and tidied the kitchen. She found a can of spray polish and a cloth. The layers of dust came off the old box readily enough, but the dark finish still was not very attractive. With a clean cloth she buffed it some more. Finally, deciding it was probably as clean as it would get, she set the box on the table. She ran her hands over the surface, feeling the smooth patina of wood that was, undoubtedly, decades old.

  “Oh well,” she said to the box as she set it back on the shelf. “I guess that’s as good as you’re going to get.”

  She washed her hands then hurried through a quick shower and shampoo, letting her curls air-dry. The sale at Debenhams began today and the store opened at ten.

  There was something fun and liberating about being on her own on a cloudy morning in a small town in a foreign country. She watched as a clerk unlocked the front door at Waterstone’s, a proprietor set up a window display in the candle shop, and the butcher cranked up his awning and set out a chalkboard easel announcing today’s special on pork tenderloin. The six-block walk to the department store invigorated her, being part of the local crowd as some people bustled toward their jobs and others were, as she was, beginning their day’s shopping and errands.

  She made her way to the ladies clothing department and browsed the racks. A chic little dress called out to her—she even tried it on—but had to remind herself that there wasn’t much call for chic little dresses in Taos. Dress-up occasions usually called for a clean version of her usual jeans and some kind of cute top. If she went all-out, it meant sparkles on the blouse and maybe a piece of jewelry. She put the dress aside. A couple of sweaters were appealing and she bought those. And there was a casual jacket made in a beautiful wool she could picture Sam wearing as autumn weather came on.

  Feeling happy with her purchases, she carried her shopping bag out to the street, where the earlier drizzle had turned to a steady patter
. With umbrella up she decided to stop at a little coffee place she had passed several times. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and cozy, with a fire in the grate and plush upholstered chairs to settle into. She ordered tea and a scone, which arrived on a small tray, set on the low table in front of her, complete with pitchers of sugar and milk and a tiny saucer with a pat of butter and a little pot of raspberry jam. All of it proved to be delicious, and she watched out the windows as people hurried past.

  When she was feeling thoroughly warmed and noticed the pedestrians no longer carried their umbrellas raised, she gathered her things for the walk home. She left a few coins on the table, although she’d been told tipping was not the mandatory practice here as at home, and picked up her bags. Water dripped from awnings and formed small puddles near the curbs. Kelly found herself walking, along with many others, in the middle of Abbeygate Street, which became pedestrian-only during business hours.

  She strolled along Buttermarket and passed the museum, wondering briefly whether Scott and the group might be immediately below her feet at this moment in their tour of the tunnels. As she made the short dogleg turn that would put her on the narrow Brackland Lane and home, a man stepped out in front of her.

  He wore loose-fitted clothing and a rough brown beret, much more Eastern European than British in style. His imposing height and width caused her to dodge to the opposite side of the passageway.

  “Wait,” he said. “Miss Kelly?”

  At the sound of her name she hesitated.

  “Miss Kelly, daughter of Miss Sam. Is correct?”

  “Do I know you?”

  He removed the hat and gave a funny little half-bow. “Bobul. I work at Miss Sam bakery.”

  “Bobul?” No one could fake both his appearance and his accent. Kelly remembered he had worked at Sweet’s Sweets one Christmas season. In fact, her mother had said he was the one who taught her the fantastic chocolate-making techniques which had led to expansion into the business of creating handmade chocolates for Book It Travel. Without that connection, Kelly and Scott would not be here in the UK, would not be staying in Mr. Bookman’s home here in Bury. It truly was a small world.