Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (3 page)

“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.

She was halfway back to Sweet’s
Sweets, wondering when Taos had developed such a crush of rush-hour traffic,
when her phone rang. Her first thought was of Sarah but the readout showed
Rupert’s number.

“I may have just located a
celebrity judge for the festival,” he said immediately. “What would you think
about Bentley Day—huh?”

Sam’s mind went blank.

“Star of that California-based
reality show,
Killer Chef
?”

“Is that about killing or about
chefs?”

“You’ve never seen it? Samantha,
dear, what planet are you living on?”

The one that doesn’t have the TV on every second of the day.
“Sorry,”
she said. “Guess I’m not exactly up to date. How did you manage this?”

“Okay, so Bentley isn’t really
Australian. He’s just got a really good handle on the accent. He grew up in
Santa Fe and his mother is a dear friend from the art gallery crowd. I gave the
brat a ride once, all the way to L.A. He was in college, mind you, but mama
didn’t want him on a plane right after nine-eleven. So, now I’m calling in the
favor.”

“And people in Taos will know who
this guy is?”

“People across the
continent
already know who this guy is,
honey. He’ll be a big draw for ticket sales.”

The whole reason the Chamber of
Commerce had dreamed up this event in the first place was to donate the ticket
proceeds to a children’s cancer charity. No one could argue with any possible
means to sell more tickets.

“That sounds excellent, Rupert.
Thanks.”

“I need two more, Sam . . .”

“Sorry, it can’t be me. I’m chair
of the committee, and I’m there as a vendor. You’ve got to go for unbiased
candidates. Check with Harvey and see if he’s found anyone else.”

“Well, I’m determined to find a
couple more that will so
far
outshine
our argumentative Carinda that including her won’t even be an option.”

“I sincerely wish you well.” She
clicked off the call and pulled in behind the bakery.

Jen was in the process of closing
out the register; Becky had left a note about an unfinished cake, promising she
would come early in the morning to get it done; Julio was stacking clean baking
pans in readiness for the morning routine. He said goodnight and a moment later
she heard his Harley rumble away.

“You look tired,” Jen said when
Sam walked into the showroom. “I don’t know how you’re keeping up with all
this.”

Truthfully, Sam didn’t quite know
either. In times past, she’d occasionally called upon the powers of the wooden
box to energize her to get through holidays and other job stresses. Recently
she hadn’t touched it, until today. Apparently, all of its energy had passed
along to Sarah in the hospital just now.

Jen handed Sam a zippered bag with
the day’s receipts before circling the room to switch out lights and flip over
the Closed sign on the door. By the glow of soft night lighting they walked
through the shop and out the back door.

At home she found a note from Beau
with an arrow pointing to the refrigerator. Inside, a large bowl of salad,
covered in plastic wrap, had another note on it. “Had to run out, don’t wait on
me.” Cute. They texted each other so much these days that a handwritten note
felt something like an old-fashioned love letter.

She set the salad bowl on the
countertop and scooped half of it onto a dinner plate, added her favorite poppy
seed dressing and settled on the couch in the great room. The earlier
conversation with Rupert reminded her of something and she picked up the remote
control and switched on the TV. She could record an episode or two of
Killer Chef
to find out what the fuss
was all about.

As it turned out, according to the
guide, one of the channels was running a marathon and Sam got her first look at
Bentley Day the moment she clicked over to it. The diminutive man in kitchen
whites and a tall chef’s hat stood in the middle of a high-end kitchen full of
stainless steel and oversized kettles, with piles of colorful vegetables strewn
about the work surfaces. With a deep tan, possibly enhanced by makeup, and
shaggy blond hair he certainly fit the part of some rugged outbacker. He
boosted the image even further as soon as he opened his mouth, spewing a rant
of four-letter demands at the three young cooks in white hats who stared back
at him with varying degrees of animosity. Did the man not worry that all of
them held large knives as he berated them?

Sam stared in fascination.
Apparently the goal of the show was for each of the contestants to prepare an
outrageously complicated meal, while having their chopping and dicing
techniques critiqued by Bentley-the-expert. As he hovered over them, they shot
evil looks toward him and toward each other.