“Bobul, what are you doing here?”
“Bobul come to say, Miss Sam be wary or will be alone. And Miss Kelly, take great care with wooden box.”
“Box? What are—?”
“Box you buy from small shop. Bring to your mother. She take care of it. But use great care to show no one. Tell no one.”
“Why? What is special about it?”
“Hide it. Tell no one.” He turned toward a narrow alley. “Tomorrow I tell more.”
With that, he disappeared around a bend in the alley and the shadows swallowed him. Kelly stared, debating whether to follow. High brick walls hemmed in the constricted space and the shadows were deep. The light rain had suddenly become a downpour, and a man bumped into her, not watching where he was going.
“Sorry,” he said, hurrying on with his collar turned high.
A shiver ran along her arms. She brought out her umbrella again and stared into the alley where water was now rushing over the cobbles. Bobul had said tomorrow he would tell more. Could she believe that? And how would he find her? How had he found her just now?
Chapter 17
Sam piped huge, full-blown buttercream roses onto small waxed paper squares, a task she could perform in her sleep. She’d chosen an easy one because the conversation with Beau still hung in her mind—the one at lunch and the one they would have later. She had to decide how much to tell of the rivalry between OSM and Vongraf, and how to break the news of the box’s origins.
She didn’t know all of it herself, not by any means, and he certainly didn’t need to hear all of it either. But he had a real need to know the extent to which someone—most likely Marcus Fitch—would go to get the box from her. A murder had happened, right at their own front doorstep, and she couldn’t take the chance the killer would realize the mistake and come back.
From her desk on the other side of the bakery kitchen, her cell phone chimed with the Facetime sound. It would have to be Kelly; they’d made a plan to chat today. She quickly set down her pastry bag and wiped her hands.
“Hey, Mom. How’s things?” Kelly was in the living room of their cottage in England.
“Great. Busy.” Sam had purposely held back details of the shooting. Knowing it would only upset her daughter, she’d merely said that Beau was working a murder case.
“Looks like you’re at the bakery. I see a tall cake there behind you.”
Sam took a moment to pan the camera around the room. Becky and Julio each gave Kelly a small wave and hello.
“Um, Mom, is there a quiet place you can talk?” Kelly asked.
Sam walked to the back door and slipped out to the small porch. No telling what it was, but Kelly obviously didn’t want Sam’s employees to overhear.
“I ran into someone you know this afternoon. A total surprise that he recognized me. Bobul—that chocolate maker.”
Sam felt her heart begin to pound. Bobul’s appearances never seemed to be coincidental. “What did he say?”
“It was weird, Mom, and I wasn’t sure what to say to him.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Um, well, yesterday I was browsing in one of the charity shops, and—”
Sam felt her mouth draw into a pinched shape.
“Sorry. I picked up a wooden box that looks a lot like that old jewelry box of yours. It was really inexpensive and I thought you might get a kick out of having a pair of them.”
“Oh, god, Kel.” Sam’s heart was in race car territory now.
“What?”
“Go ahead, about Bobul.”
“Well, he knew about it. Truthfully, I got a little freaked. It means he’s been watching me around town and he somehow knew I bought that box. He told me to take great care with it and not to tell anyone about it. That I should bring it to you.” Kelly paused for a breath. “Do you think he’s following me? Maybe peeping in our windows here at the house or something?”
Sam’s own encounters with the quirky Romanian chocolatier had followed similar patterns. The man seemed to know where she was and what she needed at certain points in her life. For instance, just as she was nearly out of the special powders for her chocolates last Halloween, he’d appeared at the Victorian and brought more. He’d taught her everything she knew about making special chocolates that seemed to change people’s lives. But she’d never got the feeling that his interest was anything akin to stalking or peeping. His knowledge went more to the mystical, something beyond.
“I think he’s fine, Kel. I mean, always watch your back—any woman should. But as long as you see him out in the open, I don’t think he means any harm at all.”
“And you think I should bring the box back with me? I could just return it to the charity shop or dump it in a bin somewhere.”
“No! Don’t do that.” Better to know the whereabouts of the boxes than to have them on the loose, out in the world. “Bring it home. But Bobul’s right—don’t show it to anyone. Wrap it in something and stash it in a hidden place. When you come back, keep it in your luggage and make light of it if Customs should ask.”
Kelly’s mouth had formed a crooked little smile. “Okayyy … sounds very clandestine.”
“It’s a long story. We’ll talk more when you’re back home. I’d rather you didn’t even discuss it with Scott until you know the whole story.”
“He has seen it. Thought I definitely should not take it as a gift to you. It’s pretty rough.”
“That’s fine. Rough is okay.” Sam had another thought. “Kel, does the box have any colored stones on it?”
“No. Just plain wood. Well, it’s carved kind of … I don’t know … quilted-looking or something. That’s what caught my attention, that it looks a lot like your jewelry box.”
Sam hoped her expression didn’t give away the shocking nature of this news. She thanked Kelly and changed the subject. They talked another five minutes before Kelly cursed the fact that her phone battery was dying.
Sam walked back into the bakery in a daze. The other box had just come back into her family. It must be the one Terrance O’Shaughnessy had in Ireland. No stones but otherwise just like Sam’s. She had a feeling she might be about to learn what her great-uncle was going to tell her right before he died.
Would she be able to figure out where the box had been in the meantime? She’d believed the Travellers who hung around Galway had been behind the theft from the back of her rental car. Now she wondered. If it had, indeed, been taken by the gypsy-like Irish nomads why had they let it out of their possession, and how had it ended up in a charity shop in a small English town?
Chapter 18
Sitting on hold while a string of TSA agents passed him around like a virus they wanted to be rid of was getting on Beau’s nerves. So far, he’d spent nearly an hour being shuffled between various offices and mired in government bureaucracy.
When a Colleen McWhittle came on the line he explained, for the eleventh time, that a wanted man, Marcus Fitch, was booked on Air Italy flight 23 from Rome, and he wanted him held at the DC airport for questioning in a murder case.
“Are you here in the District yourself, Sheriff … I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Cardwell. Sheriff Beau Cardwell. I’m in Taos, New Mexico.”
“Oh! I visited New Mexico a couple of years ago,” Ms. McWhittle exclaimed. “It’s such a beautiful place.”
He wanted to get impatient with her, but this was the friendliest greeting he’d received yet. He went along with a minute of small talk—what towns did you visit? Did you like the food?—before bringing her attention back to his request.
“Yes, so this Marcus Fitch you’re looking for—will you be questioning him yourself?”
Beau had already thought it out. His department didn’t have the budget for him to go buzzing off to the capital, especially since he already felt doubtful Fitch himself was the killer. This was an information-gathering interview, at best. He needed to enlist the help of the FBI, but pictured another hour of phone tag. He d
odged the question.
“At this point, I need to know when he arrives back on US soil, and I’d like him available to answer questions.”
“Let me check the flight manifest for you,” she offered.
He thanked her a little too profusely.
“Hm, it seems Mr. Fitch was booked on the flight, and he did pick up his boarding pass and actually passed through security. No checked luggage, only a carry-on bag. But when the flight attendants did the head-count he was not aboard.”
“How does that happen?”
“I wouldn’t know. Most likely he just changed his mind. Or maybe there was a family emergency and he left the airport.”
“Or boarded another flight. Can you check that? Find out whether he’s coming on a different airline?”
“Sheriff, there are nearly three thousand flights a day between Europe and America. It’s a huge number of people.”
“You have computers. Can’t a computer tell us what I need to know—please, Colleen?” He was suddenly glad for the budget shortage and that he wasn’t sitting somewhere at Reagan National waiting for a plane load of Italians and no Fitch.
She’d been about to cut him off but the politely worded request caused her to pause just long enough.
“I don’t expect some impossibly instant information, but if you could call me back I’d really appreciate it.”
“All right. I can do that.”
He gave his number and set down the phone with a thump. He held little hope she would follow through, but he had things to do in the meantime. A call to the Italian airline’s main office in New York got him an English-speaking agent who first resisted giving information but relented when Beau gave his law enforcement credentials. Mr. Fitch checked in for his Rome to DC flight, used his boarding pass to clear security, but never showed for the flight. They did not show him on a later flight, nor was he booked on any other Air Italy flight.
“So he must have booked something on another airline?” Beau posited.
“If he left Rome, that would appear to be the case,” said the agent.
Why would an innocent man make such a sudden and complicated change, Beau had to wonder once he’d hung up from the call. Unless the TSA agent called him back, he realized he was in way over his head. This wasn’t the level of investigation for a small town sheriff’s department.
It was time to call in the big guns. He dialed the FBI field office in Albuquerque.
Chapter 19
By the next day Kelly found herself peering out the windows, both toward the lane and into the back garden, multiple times. She hadn’t told Scott about the mysterious man who’d approached her. Men tended to go all protective and she didn’t want trouble. Bobul wasn’t exactly a mystery. She’d met him before; he knew her mother. But she knew her carefree days of strolling the lanes and shops here in Bury would now be tempered by watching for his next surprise appearance.
She looked at the carved box she’d casually set on a shelf in the dining room. Mom had said to keep it concealed. She picked it up and carried it to the bedroom. Now that it was no longer coated in grimy dust, she figured the logical thing would be to wrap it in some item of clothing and carry it back to the States inside her luggage. She picked up the cashmere scarf she’d purchased for Rupert. It wound several times around the box, the perfect wrap.
Sticking the parcel into one of the dresser drawers she realized how many things she’d purchased already—clothing for herself, small gifts for friends at home, and she definitely planned to get more tea and cakes to take back. Not to mention all the books and documents Scott had already collected for his studies. She might need to make another stop at one of the thrift shops to pick up a spare tote bag to fit it all.
And that reminded her she ought to be touching base with Mr. Bookman to find out when they needed to leave. Week one of their two weeks had already flown by, and she felt a pang of sadness. She and Scott had lain in bed talking, and both agreed they couldn’t very well visit England without a few days in London. Once they knew when their plane would be heading back stateside, they could make a hotel reservation and arrange for Graham to drive them to the city. She picked up her phone and sent a text.
“Hey there,” Scott said, emerging from the shower. “What’s the plan for today? Looks like we have clear and sunny weather again.”
“I want to drop back by M&S for a few things. I’m taking one of those fabulous Battenberg cakes back to Mom. Wouldn’t it be great if she could figure out the recipe and start making them at Sweet’s Sweets?”
“And the sticky toffee one—that thing is addictive.”
She laughed. “Absolutely. I’ll get some of each for us, as well. So, anyway, what’s your pleasure today?”
He ogled her. “Aside from the predawn pleasure we already had … one thing on my list has been to see the Abbey, and the sign out front said there’s a guided tour at ten this morning. Want to come?”
“I peeked inside a couple of days ago when I was just killing time, so I think I’ve got the gist of what it looks like. You go ahead and hear what the tour guide has to say. I know you’ll be taking notes like crazy.” She playfully tweaked his beard. “Why don’t we plan to meet afterward in the Abbey Gardens, and we could walk somewhere for lunch?”
“Great idea.” He reached for his messenger bag, which lay on the chair in the corner. “I will see you then, Mrs. Porter.”
Her phone pinged with a text: I’m in NY this week but have a flight arranged for you next Tues. London to Denver. Denver to Taos. He gave the phone number of his secretary in Houston and said she would be sending specifics.
With that information in hand, Kelly called Graham and set it up so they would drive back to London to spend the weekend. She booked a room at the hotel he recommended on The Strand, ‘quite convenient’ to Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, the theaters and the Thames. Making the plans—getting train passes and tickets for events—sent a bittersweet pang through her. Although she missed her mother and friends, she didn’t want their time here to be over so quickly.
By the time she’d handled all those details, it was nearing eleven o’clock. The food shopping could wait—she hurried out the door and made her way to the Abbey Gardens. Walking under the massive Abbey Gate across from the Angel Hotel once again brought a sense of awe. A sign said the gate had been burned by the villagers in 1327 and rebuilt twenty years later. The stone version with its heavy steel portcullis was certainly impervious to fire now.
She walked the familiar route into the garden, admiring the way today’s sunshine brought out the vibrancy of the neatly planted flowerbeds around the circular main pathway. Scott would surely be along soon, so she didn’t take time for the luxury of walking on into the rose garden or herb gardens on the other side. She chose one of the benches facing the path and sat there, enjoying the sun on her arms.
Less than five minutes into her wait a shadow passed over her feet and the bench vibrated slightly as someone sat down at the other end. She glanced up. Bobul.
“Miss Kelly Sweet. Bobul have something.” He reached into the pouch that hung from a strap over his shoulder.
Considering the rather warm day, he was still wearing his baggy clothing with the thick cloth jacket and the hat that made Kelly think of horsehair. From the pouch he pulled a book, about eight or nine inches square and perhaps three inches thick, bound in leather with worn places at the corners. The deckle-edged pages seemed warped and thick. He handed it to her.
She saw no title or other markings on either front or back cover as she turned it over. The leather felt soft, the way a favorite old jacket would become after a generation of wear.
“What’s this?” She looked into his deep brown eyes as she asked.
“From Romania, my home.” He touched the front cover of the book. “Very old woman used it, great-great-grandmother to … woman burned for sins.”
Goosebumps broke out over her entire body. The placard in the museum c
ame back to her, the one about getting rid of awkward neighbors by reporting them for witchcraft. Could this be some kind of spell book? She started to lift the cover to look inside.
“Wait. Take book to Miss Samantha. You read together.”
She looked up and saw Scott coming through the Abbey Gate, walking toward the flower garden. Bobul noticed her reaction.
“Like the box, hide book. Tell no one until you show Miss Sam.”
“But, what—?”
“Important knowledge. You will need to destroy Facinor.” He stood and began to move away.
“Wait! What’s Facin— What was that word?”
But he had moved on, cutting over on a narrow dirt trail past the bird cages.
Scott’s footsteps left the paved main pathway and became muted on the grass. “Hey there,” he said. “Who was the old guy?”
“I—I’m really not sure. Weird.”
“You mean, like a pervert?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.” She had slipped the book into the canvas shopping bag she’d brought along for later. “Nice enough man, but he just said some weird stuff about an old Romanian woman. And the really strange thing is, he seemed to know Mom. I definitely have to tell her about that when we get home.”
He held out a hand to help her up. “Hungry? I’m starving, and I spotted a pub about two blocks down on Crown Street, near St. Mary’s. We could grab something and then take a walk through the cemetery.”
“Ooh, fun,” she teased.
The outing did turn out to be fun, from her steak-and-ale pie at The Wooden Duck to the stroll through the cemetery which boasted some revealing tombstones with inscriptions such as: “Here Lies Interred the Body of a Young Maiden of this Town, born of Roman Catholic parents and virtuously Brought up, Who being in the Act of Prayer … was instantaneously killed by a flash of Lightning – Aged 9 Yrs.”
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