Spooky Sweet

by Connie Shelton

  “Sara, I have to say I’m more than a little worried about you.” The teacher’s expression softened and her mouth formed that half-smile I’m-so-concerned shape half the adults in her life were using on her right now. “I know your home situation is, well, with your mother’s medical needs …”

  “Yeah, well, there’s nothing we can do about that,” Sara said.

  “I know, hon, and I’m so sorry.” She sat up a bit straighter. “What is worrisome here at school, though, is the way your grades are falling and the way you keep dozing off in class. Is there a possibility of getting additional help at home so you can get a full night’s sleep? It’s really important.”

  Sara would have laughed if she weren’t on the verge of crying. She merely shook her head and glanced toward the hallway full of students heading for their next class. She caught chatter about a Halloween party at Hannah Byrne’s house, one Sara had not been invited to.

  “Would it help if I spoke to your mother about it?”

  She snapped her attention back to the teacher. “No! I mean, don’t bother her with my school problems. I’ll do better.”

  “Okay. You can go now.” Kids were filing into the room and Sara carefully avoided their eyes as she edged past them.

  Out in the hall she let out a harsh chuckle. Extra help at home—right. And her lack of sleep had nothing to do with her mother’s condition. The fight between Matt and the angry guy the other day replayed through her head all night, every night. The moment they’d mentioned a bag of money, Sara knew exactly what they were talking about. She should have left that black bag on the ground where she found it. At the very least she could have brought it home instead of freaking out and leaving it in the café. Stupid, stupid.

  She still hadn’t exactly figured out Matt’s involvement, only that her brother was somehow tied in with the robbery of that armored car and the woman the newspapers said was most likely going to die. The chicken burrito from lunch began to rise in her throat and she barely made it to the girls’ restroom in time.

  The bell rang again. She should be in English class but there didn’t seem any point. The same worries flooded over her now in the bathroom stall as those which consumed her in the middle of the night: Matt would go to prison, her mother would die, and Sara would end up in some foster care place until she turned eighteen and there she’d be on the street with no skills and no money. Two years ago the family plan included a vacation to Disney World and Sara’s applying to colleges before she finished high school. With her marks, Dad always said, she could get into any school of her choosing.

  Then the car crash when Dad fell asleep at the wheel driving alone on the interstate, Mom’s diagnosis a month later, losing their home because neither parent believed in insurance … and here she was. No Disney, no college. Without a miracle, very soon she would have no mother.

  Her thoughts spiraled downward once more, and she sat on the reeking commode and cried into the folds of her sweater.

  Chapter 22

  Sam left the hospital and walked toward her van. The visit with Tansy Montoya felt futile, although Sam had handled the wooden box before she came this morning. Beau was right—the poor woman seemed to be in a perpetually restless sleep. At one point her unbandaged eye fluttered a little when Sam spoke to her, but the nurse said that happened quite a lot. It still didn’t mean Tansy was out of danger or that she would have any memory of her traumatic experience.

  Still, Sam hoped she might have done some good. Her mind shifted to the day ahead as she started the van and drove toward Sweet’s Sweets.

  Once she checked in at the bakery and made sure everyone was ready for tomorrow’s Halloween deliveries and there were plenty of goodies to hand out, she would head for the new location. In her head, she’d tried thinking of the place as her factory, even though she still had a hard time reconciling the assembly-line image that came to mind. She had finally settled on a name for the new portion of her business: Sweet’s Traditional Handmade Chocolates. She wanted the promise of craftsmanship to let people know this was not Hershey’s.

  Darryl had promised extra crew today for the arrival of the appliances, his goal to get everything installed, tested and an inspection scheduled for this afternoon or early tomorrow. When Sam thought of actually working in the spacious new kitchen her pulse quickened. At the very least, by this afternoon the extra worktable, storage racks and all the candy-making gear would leave the bakery. Julio and Becky would surely perk up once they had their separate work areas back.

  She pulled into the alley behind Sweet’s Sweets and picked up her baker’s jacket from the seat beside her. Inside, the kitchen was suspiciously neat and tidy. Becky’s orders covered the original worktable but the second one sat empty.

  “Is this your way of saying it’s time to get this table out of here?” Sam joked.

  Becky smiled as she looked up from a pack of black cat cookies with arched backs. She’d piped yellow eyes and whiskers onto about half of them. “I suppose it could go.”

  Julio was more direct. “Sure would be nice to have the Hobart back in its usual spot.” He edged sideways to pour a sack of flour into the big mixer bowl. “Just saying.”

  Sam rechecked her orders. The week had been so crazy, she didn’t want to forget something major at this point. “I think we’re ready. If the three of us can get the table into the back of the van, I’ll take it away today.”

  No one protested the plan at all. They did end up having to call on Kelly to take the fourth corner, and there were some grunts and groans as they hefted the bulky table.

  “At least there’s a whole gang of burly construction dudes to unload this at the other end, right?” Kelly asked, breathing hard.

  The van door didn’t quite close but Julio found a length of rope and secured everything for the ride. Sam made a quick trip through the sales room, verifying the display case was filled with scrumptious goodies and the coffee, tea and cocoa supplies were adequate. It was another thing to keep in mind as she spread her attention between two locales—staying on top of materials so their reputation for quality of service never lagged.

  The counter behind the displays and cash register was stacked with boxed orders.

  “The party cakes and all the cupcakes for the school carnivals are in the walk-in,” she told Jen. “Becky’s finishing more cookies now, and I think she said she had a birthday cake or two.”

  “Sam, don’t stress. I know—give out cookies to the kids who come in costume tomorrow afternoon.” Jen reached out and squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “We’ll handle it all just fine.”

  Sam let her muscles relax for a moment. “I know you will.”

  “Plus, we can always call you if we can’t locate something.”

  “You’re telling me to go ahead and get out of here, aren’t you? To quit dithering.”

  “Yes, mama hen.”

  They both laughed. Sam headed toward the back door at the same moment two ladies came in the front, snagging Jen’s attention.

  Kelly popped out the back door of Puppy Chic when Sam’s engine started.

  “I forgot to mention it earlier—would you and Beau like to come over for dinner tonight? Simple, casual, come in your work clothes. Scott’s coming. He keeps talking about the history of your new—old—house. He’d love to visit with you again. And, you don’t have to cook.”

  “I think we could manage that,” Sam said. “Subject to whatever happens that might interrupt Beau’s dinner hour.”

  Kelly sent her a dimpled smile and dashed back inside. Sam tapped Beau’s cell number, was sent to voicemail and left a message. At least with two of them keeping an eye on the time, maybe she wouldn’t get carried away and work half the night again.

  She drove carefully along the back roads, very aware of the heavy table strapped into her van, relieved when she arrived at the Victorian and pulled up outside. Within a few minutes, she’d rounded up enough men to do the heavy lifting and the gleaming metal table sat in the m
iddle of the kitchen floor.

  “Gus almost has the gas line connected to the stove,” Darryl told her. “Plumbing’s all done down here. Ray is upstairs making sure you have a functional bathroom up there.”

  “So we’re really close, right?” she asked, eyeing the space.

  “Your fridges are revving up cold, as we speak. At this point, I’ve got the inspector scheduled for tomorrow morning, but he said he’d try to get by before quitting time tonight if he could.”

  “Would a box of cookies be considered a bribe?” she asked. “I have some out in the van.”

  “Is the bribe for me or for him?” Darryl’s natural smile widened. “Either way, it couldn’t hurt.”

  She fetched the cookies then began the task of removing protective plastic from the new appliances and finding a spot for the slew of instruction manuals. She found herself imagining her new workday and moving through the kitchen to decide placement of supplies and work spaces.

  I’ll heat the chocolate in here at the stove and temper it, she thought. Fillings, molds and decoration will be done here on the big table. There was plenty of workspace for two or three people. It would be simple to wheel carts of finished chocolates into the dining room for packing in the decorative boxes. For that matter, until the volume grew dramatically, they could pack the fancy boxes into cartons and ready them for shipping in the same room. As the business grew, packing and shipping would happen across the foyer in the parlor.

  A vision flashed through Sam’s mind—these rooms filled with workers making and boxing chocolates all day, the upstairs rooms having banks of computers and customer service people taking orders online and over the phone, the space in the butler’s pantry and maid’s quarters being quickly outgrown and the shipping department moving into the carriage house out back. Trucks with the Sweet’s Traditional Handmade Chocolates logo backed up and were filled with cartons going out all over the world.

  She shook her head and the images flew away. Where had that come from?

  The wooden box. She’d handled it this morning before visiting Tansy Montoya. Although the mysterious artifact had shown her some strange things in its time—invisible fingerprints, auras and such—she’d never witnessed such a full-fledged, three-dimensional experience as this. It was as if she’d been standing in the middle of a bustling place and watching the workers move about their jobs. A real factory. Her factory.

  Did she dare tell Beau about it? If this came about, it could mean a major lifestyle change for them.

  Chapter 23

  By the time she arrived at Kelly’s place for dinner, Sam had put aside the idea of telling everyone about her vision of the busy chocolate factory. For one thing, the whole concept was a little outrageous for Beau—he already thought this project was moving forward at lightning speed. For another, Sam wasn’t at all sure she believed it herself.

  During the drive, she’d convinced herself to come back to reality: She had a one-year contract to provide products for a travel business. A large and influential agency, yes. But nothing more. For now, she needed to concentrate on doing a superb job for Bookman, making enough money to cover all these renovations, and pleasing the client enough that he’d want to extend their arrangement for another year or two. Or more.

  A girl can dream, can’t she?

  She savored the idea for a moment but put it aside when Beau’s cruiser pulled into the driveway beside her van. Kelly had apparently seen the vehicles. She came to the back door wearing an apron and looking very domestic.

  Another vision flashed through Sam’s head—Kelly in the kitchen, Scott coming home from work, a baby in a highchair at the table and a toddler playing on the living room rug. She shook this one aside as well.

  “Hey, you guys,” Kelly greeted. “Everybody hungry?”

  “I definitely need food,” Sam said as she gave her daughter a hug.

  “It’s spaghetti,” Kelly said as they walked into the fragrant kitchen. “Simple but plentiful.”

  Scott stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. “Hey, give credit where credit is due. The sauce is my recipe.”

  “The sauce is Scott’s recipe,” Kelly said. “Let me take your coats.”

  It was cute to watch them together, Sam thought. Fun to see Kelly playing hostess here in the kitchen where she’d once been a kid, in the home where Sam had lived until her marriage to Beau. Again, the image of a young mother, with children nearby, came to her. Probably some hormonal thing, the post-menopausal urge for grandchildren.

  Nah, not on my list for a good long while yet.

  “So, I hear the move into the new place is coming along pretty well,” Scott said as he poured wine for everyone.

  “It is.” She told them about the progress of Darryl’s crew. “You’ll have to come by and check it out. Kelly says you’ve been thinking about the place quite a lot.”

  “Well, I’ve found out some very interesting things,” he said.

  Kelly set out a huge bowl of pasta, and Sam had to admit the sauce looked and smelled heavenly. Salad and garlic bread were already on the table.

  “I’m sure Sam wants to hear all about it,” Beau said as they took their seats.

  “I do, too,” Kelly said. “He’s been throwing all these enticing hints but I don’t know the whole story.”

  “I’m not sure anyone knows the whole story,” Scott said. “You remember I mentioned the writer, Eliza Nalespar? Well, I’ve found some wonderful resources, including her biography which was written by one of the preeminent historians at the university. It turns out she lived and wrote in that house for quite a long time. She was born in 1907 here in Taos, in fact, grew up in that house. It was known as Nalespar House in her father’s time. The man had made a fortune in land deals back east, but he loved the west and brought his money out here when he started his family. The Victorian architecture must have been his wife’s idea, since you don’t normally see a whole lot of it here in New Mexico.”

  “I wonder why we’ve never heard the house called by that name?”

  “Probably because of the tragedy.” He paused—for dramatic effect or simply to wind pasta around his fork.

  Sam felt a chill on the back of her neck.

  “Okay, you have to tell us what happened,” Kelly said.

  Scott made them wait while he washed down pasta with a sip of wine. “Eliza’s father died in the house. A section of stair rail gave way and he fell from the second floor to his death. The official verdict was an accident, but the rumors flew and people speculated—as people are known to do—that it could have been murder. Only Eliza and her mother were home with him at the time. The mother, being a frail, timid sort didn’t seem a likely suspect, but then neither did Eliza. She was fourteen at the time and had always been a bookish girl who spent her time reading, writing little wisps of poetry and doing embroidery. The lack of physical strength from either woman, plus no known motive, gave credence to the accidental-fall scenario.”

  “Was it ever discounted, proven to be some other cause?”

  “No. But as time went by, other things happened. The wife went mad, unable to cope with the loss of her husband, everyone supposed. Except for those who’d thought her somehow guilty of his death. They held firm to the idea she was being haunted by her deeds. Some swore the husband’s ghost was actually haunting her. Within five years she had to be taken to the state mental hospital. She never left.”

  “Wow.” This time Beau was the one enthralled.

  “Yeah.” Scott offered seconds on garlic bread all around.

  “What about Eliza? She would have lived with this increasing insanity and she’s, what, nineteen or so by now?” Sam asked.

  “Eliza had become quieter, more introverted, according to friends who were interviewed for the book. With the help of household staff, she’d been isolated from her mother’s ravings. She kept to herself—the second floor turret room was hers—and became devoted to her writing. She worked at her craft by writing light, dre
amy romantic stories along the lines of the Brontë sisters, although not with their skill, and since she came along eighty or so years later, was no serious competition for their popularity. Still, she managed to have several unmemorable novels published in the genre.

  “When the servants could no longer keep the mother’s condition secret, Eliza was forced to a decision and it was she who signed the papers to have her mother committed. Once mother was out of the house, Eliza’s writing began to take a darker turn.”

  Sam glanced around the table. Kelly was wide-eyed, Beau spellbound, Scott in his element as a storyteller.

  “Her novels became about family themes, parents and their children in dysfunctional relationships. Not surprisingly, there were crazy women and longsuffering husbands, raving men and timid wives, almost always a misused but stalwart daughter whose own happiness came only after the parents had run off or died. The books were moderately popular in their day, I suppose because they were rather different from everything else published at the time.”

  “Are they still in print?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, heavens no. There were four or five, but none ever went into a second printing. I’d be surprised if many copies exist at all today.”

  Kelly’s brow wrinkled. “But I’ve heard of this Eliza Nalespar. Even though she was way before my time.”

  “Most likely because her most famous book—written, I believe, in 1942—became something of a paranormal cult classic. The Box, it was called. I read it as a young teen. A lot of us went through a phase where we were fascinated with the occult and supernatural. I suppose it’s natural. Kids have always been enchanted with the unexplained. I don’t remember the exact storyline, but it included this magical wooden box that supposedly could effect anyone who possessed it.”

  Sam felt the chill on her arms again. She rubbed the back of her neck and hoped her face looked neutral.

  “Yes! That’s it,” Kelly said. “I remember reading that book too. The box would kind of target someone and could move itself around. It picked this one kid and showed up in his room, and then it turned him against his parents. But that was okay because the parents were these really horrible people.”