Sweet Magic

by Connie Shelton

  Kelly shivered when she read that one, and quickly moved on to another, this one about an elderly man commonly agreed to be a curmudgeon.

  As they strolled back to the cottage, she told Scott about their reservations for London. “I’m sad to be leaving Bury in a few more days, but it’ll be fun to ‘do’ the city too.”

  The reminder of their short time here seemed to send Scott into action. He said he planned another stop at the nearby Visitor Center to pick up more historical information, and Kelly had thought of a stop she wanted to make, as well. They would meet back at the cottage and have a light supper, considering their substantial pub lunch.

  She crossed Angel Hill road and took the familiar route past the hotel to Abbeygate Street, popping in at the Cancer Research shop. Gwen, the woman who’d helped her the last time, was there again, placing some designer purses on a shelf.

  Kelly said hello and reminded Gwen that she had purchased an old wooden box a couple of days ago.

  Gwen remembered. “Ah yes, from that dusty lot that were under the worktable in the back.”

  “Exactly. Do you, by any chance, have a record of who donated it?” She’d already formed a story to go with the request. “My husband is a historian and he seems to think it might be very old. We’d love to know more about where it came from.”

  Gwen smiled indulgently. “Dearie, everything in this town is very old, myself included.”

  “Do the volunteers keep records of what is brought in?”

  “Only so far as writing up a receipt for the donor, for tax purposes. But we rarely itemize each piece. A receipt would likely say something like ‘one bag ladies clothing’ or ‘assorted kitchen appliances, 4 pieces.’”

  “So there’s no way to know who owned the box before it came here?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Kelly swallowed her disappointment. After Bobul’s initial cautionary words about the box, and now his gift of the book and the same advice, she’d become curious. She thanked the woman and left the shop, walking slowly until she came to Buttermarket and turned right toward Marks & Spencer.

  She filled her basket with boxes of teas and several of the small cakes to take home as gifts, adding two premade salads for tonight’s dinner. The encounter with Bobul remained strong in her mind, his warnings, but also the underlying implication that both the box and the book were meant to come into her hands. And, for some reason, they were intended for her now, at this time in her life.

  The clerk rang her purchases and Kelly removed the old book from her tote bag, tucking it under her arm while she arranged the groceries in the bag, then sticking the book in alongside them. With her attention diverted in several directions, she handed over a twenty-pound note and received some change and a polite thank you from the clerk.

  Had she remembered to tell her mother that Bobul intended today’s second meeting? She couldn’t remember. Along the way to the cottage she pondered whether to mention the book or to simply show up with it when she and Sam might look through it together.

  Her pace increased. She was eager to get inside, lock the doors, and bring out the book and see what it was all about. Bobul’s hint that the old woman who owned it might have been a witch—it was enticing and scary at the same time.

  Chapter 20

  Sam parked in one of the park-and-shuttle lots at the Albuquerque Airport and caught her ride to the terminal, knowing this was probably the simplest portion of the next few days. Check-in and security went smoothly enough, although the queues of people and the relentless PA announcements reminded her to be grateful for her quiet and (mostly) peaceful existence at home.

  She sat in the waiting area for her gate, constantly aware of each new person who jostled their way into the row, the noise of their whining children, the impersonal way people stared at screens and didn’t speak to each other. It was just as well. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Her mind buzzed with anticipation over the upcoming meetings tomorrow.

  Stan Bookman was flying into New York from Stockholm or some such place. He’d insisted on meeting her flight at JFK and providing a car to take them into Manhattan where he’d booked rooms at the Carlisle. He had enthusiastically told her he’d secured a reservation at the city’s hottest new restaurant for tonight’s dinner.

  Her boarding group was called and she picked up her bag and looked at the crush of people who seemed to think their reserved seat would somehow go away unless they forced the gate agent into letting them onto the plane more quickly. She sighed and hung back. The flight wasn’t going to leave without her. She might as well brace herself. She was heading into a city where fast and pushy were the norm.

  Another woman held back, standing near Sam. Dressed in a broomstick skirt and T-shirt, with a strand of turquoise heishi around her neck, she radiated calm.

  “Are you from Santa Fe or Taos?” Sam asked as they bided their time.

  “Santa Fe.” The woman, who Sam guessed was in her early forties despite the tendrils of gray showing at her hairline, gave a nod toward the crowd. “Crazy, huh?”

  “I’m not used to it, that’s for sure,” Sam said. She caught sight of the other woman’s boarding pass, then glanced at her own. “Looks like we’re sitting together.”

  “I’m Amanda. Nice to meet you.”

  “Samantha—Sam. From Taos.”

  The tide moved forward and their conversation stopped until they were tucked into Row 21 and the crew had gone through the standard spiel that no one listened to because they could quite easily recite it verbatim themselves.

  “So, what takes you to New York?” Amanda asked.

  “Business. I thought I’d be excited about it—a huge new opportunity for my company—but I’m kind of dreading it.”

  Amanda nodded slowly. “Want to talk about it? Not the business deal, but whatever it is you’re feeling.”

  “It’s just moving along much faster than I anticipated and growing alarmingly.” Sam smiled as she said it, trying to make light of the stress.

  “So, a little overwhelmed …”

  “Exactly. Plus, there’s some other stuff right now.”

  “Can you put all this ‘stuff’ into separate compartments? Spread it out a little so it’s not all in your face at once?”

  Sam considered. It was good advice. “Yeah, some of it. I think so.”

  “Does it feel a little less pressing, even just thinking of it that way?”

  Sam nodded. “A bit. Thanks. I guess the thing that’s kind of bowling me over today is the way my largest client is taking charge, ramrodding the whole thing. He’s a nice man, but he’s built his business by dealing with high-power, important people. Then he steps into my life and just starts making plans for me. Like tonight. I arrive at the airport—he’ll meet me. That’s nice. I don’t know my way around New York very well.”

  Amanda listened without saying anything.

  “We’re staying at his choice of hotel, going to his choice of restaurant, and all day tomorrow will be filled with meetings with his high-profile corporate client—although because of his connections they are now my corporate client too. Stan has meetings and events booked for two solid days and then I go back home.”

  “It’s bothering you.”

  “Half of me is looking forward to the growth and the challenge. The other half is terrified and resentful. What if I wanted to add a side trip to this one? What if I’d planned to take in a couple of shows, walk through Greenwich Village, shop on 5th Avenue?” She looked down at her clothing and thought of what she’d packed, the few pieces of businesslike attire she owned. A chuckle escaped. “Okay, not shopping on 5th Avenue. But taking time to gaze in the windows would have been fun.”

  A flight attendant came along and asked what they wanted to drink. Both Sam and Amanda said “Just water” at the same moment. Their eyes met and they laughed. The lighter mood felt good.

  “So,” Amanda said. “Recognizing that you’re feeling stressed over this itinerary
and this client, what can you do to reduce the tension? Perhaps say ‘no’ to some of the activities or meetings?”

  “I doubt it’s possible to cut back on the meetings, and I don’t dare let my attention wander too far. I could sign on for a lot more than I want to if I’m not careful.”

  “Then remind yourself to be careful. With every suggestion, it’s okay to say that you need a little time to think about it.”

  More good advice.

  “It’s also perfectly fine to say ‘no’ in the most polite way. ‘I’m not quite feeling up to a big dinner tonight’ is an acceptable answer. Choose the essential things and pass on the rest. Trust me, you’ll find that a big portion of the things people ask you to do are non-essential.”

  Sam pondered that while she tore into her little bag of freebie pretzels.

  “Are you a therapist or counselor or something?” Sam asked.

  Amanda smiled and shook her head. “I’m an ex-overdoer. I know I look like a laid-back hippie type right now, but believe it or not I was married to the king of push-for-success for fifteen years. Practically every moment of every day was scheduled. If it wasn’t travel, it was business meetings. If it was a vacation, we had to hit every amusement park and sightseeing spot within a hundred-mile radius. We’d drive a day out of the way just to be sure we didn’t miss some famous rock or forest. We’d no sooner get there than it became ‘okay, that was great, let’s try to make the next spot by nightfall.’”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. With youth and ambition on my side, I did it all, went everywhere. I’m a person who absorbs the energy around me, so I kept up with him. Until I landed in the hospital.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yeah. My parents stepped in and they were shocked. I was down to a hundred five pounds, looked like a refugee and had aches and pains in every part of my body. The doctors gave it a name that I don’t even remember now. My dad called it nervous exhaustion. That pretty well described it.”

  “How did you get over it? I have to say, you look great now.”

  “I learned to say ‘no.’ Hubby didn’t like it a bit. He was used to being fully in charge. A therapist taught me how to prioritize and how to make time for the things I needed—time to read a book for a whole day, to walk in the garden, to meditate and mainly just to think. I never realized how little control I had over my life because there was never the time to think about it. I ran full-throttle from before daylight until I fell into bed exhausted every single night. My family and my therapist stepped in and said that had to stop. When I came out of the convalescent center where they sent me, I’d learned a whole new way to live.”

  “And how did your husband react to that?”

  “We split—within two months. It actually happened on many levels. Mainly, he couldn’t handle not being in control of me. It’s something I should have seen much earlier, even back when we met. I didn’t, and I paid the price. But I came back from the experience as a stronger person.”

  “Good for you. I’m impressed.”

  Amanda reached for her bag beneath the seat. “I’ve learned to watch for signs. The things you really need will come into your life at exactly the right time. Everything else is the non-essential fluff. It takes some practice to limit intrusions into your time, but you can get the hang of it.”

  She pulled out a book—a real print-on-paper book—and leaned her seat back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m needing some ‘me’ time.”

  Sam thanked her and leaned against the window with her eyes closed. She knew the truth and wisdom in Amanda’s words. She could learn to say ‘no’—couldn’t she? She pictured Stan Bookman waiting at the airport gate in just a couple of hours. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Chapter 21

  Beau had worked with FBI agents from Albuquerque in the past, but it turned out his favorite contact there had been transferred. He felt as if he was starting from scratch and hoped he would get hold of somebody who didn’t have an ego the size of the planet. Sometimes these Feds were the sort who wanted to insert themselves into a case without paying the slightest bit of attention to the evidence that had already been collected.

  When a Rick Gonzales came on the line, Beau went through the basics about the shooting—how remote the location was, the skill of the shooter and use of a high-power rifle. He told about Isobel St. Clair’s conviction that Marcus Fitch was behind it, although he’d already discovered that Fitch had an alibi, traveling to Rome on the day of the shooting.

  “The biggest anomaly I’ve hit in the past twelve hours is this sudden change Fitch made in his return travel plans. He actually checked in and got a boarding pass from Rome to DC, then suddenly went off in some other direction,” he told Gonzales. “Question is, why? It’s devious behavior, almost as if he knows we’re closing in.”

  “You think Fitch hired the killer.”

  “It’s the best theory we’ve come up with yet. We’d just like to talk to him. There may be an innocent explanation, but if so I need to eliminate him as a suspect.” Beau stared at the evidence bag containing the fatal bullet. “I was seriously trying to think of a way to drag money from my budget for a trip to DC to question Fitch, but we’re a very small department. I can’t go chasing all over the country.”

  “No, don’t do that. It’ll eat you up.” Rick chuckled. “Not that we’ve got unlimited money either, but I can come up there and take a look at what you’ve got. We should be able to pull some of our resources together and see if we can help.”

  It took twenty-four hours, but Beau was glad to see Special Agent Rick Gonzales and Special Agent Patricia Draper arrive from Albuquerque the next morning. Gonzales was a seasoned agent, a fit and trim fifty, with generous gray in his black hair, a firm handshake and a ready smile. Patricia Draper looked as though she was straight out of college, petite, with dark hair in a sleek bun at the back of her head. She took in the layout of the squad room with interest; it might have been her first time in a small-town sheriff’s department.

  Beau invited them into his office and offered coffee, which both accepted. Once Rico had brought the mugs, they settled in and went through the evidence.

  “It’s not much, is it?” Gonzales said, looking at the bullet.

  Draper took a long look at the mold of the shoe print.

  “Probably the skimpiest crime scene I’ve ever worked. And I know the place well.” He’d already informed them the shooting had taken place on his own land.

  “If I may …” Patricia Draper spoke up. “I think we need to look at the motive behind the killing, not strictly at who pulled the trigger. It definitely sounds like a hired assassin, from everything you’re telling us. But what was the reason for that shooter to be out there in the first place?”

  Beau shook his head. “My wife had two visitors at the house that morning. One, Isobel St. Clair, is someone known to her.”

  “A friend? Business associate?” Draper asked.

  “Neither, exactly. The woman works at some kind of foundation that studies antiquities, according to what I know. My wife has some old object that was of interest. I’m afraid I don’t know anything very specific about it. Just that Ms. St. Clair and her assistant came out to Taos and spent a day or two.” Beau realized how inadequate his explanation sounded. He’d been concentrating on the actual killing and not asking enough questions about the reasons behind it.

  “I believe you said it was this Ms. St. Clair who named Marcus Fitch as being behind the crime?” Gonzales asked. “Does your wife know anything about him?”

  “Very little. She’s never met him, but she agreed that he may have been watching her, waiting for an opportunity to steal this wooden box that seems to be the thing they’re all interested in.”

  “Can we talk to your wife?” Draper asked. “She may be able to tell us more.”

  “Well, not at the moment. She’s in New York for a couple days, some business meeting.”

  “I’d like to see that box.”
>
  Beau considered. Sam had always been very protective of the box and any information about it. And frankly, he’d never been curious enough to ask more. But he couldn’t very well bring up the matter of the box and then refuse to let them see it. He knew Sam was keeping it in his gun safe now. “Sure. It’s at home. We’ll want to go out there anyway, so you can see the crime scene for yourselves.”

  What could be the harm?

  Chapter 22

  Sam had been to New York once in her life and never felt compelled to return because to her it felt noisy, dirty, and crowded. This time was a somewhat different experience, beginning when Stan Bookman met her just outside the security gates.

  “Sam! Good to see you again so soon,” he exclaimed.

  Her reservations began to dim somewhat. He really did exude a vibrant energy that became contagious.

  Don’t let people push you into situations you aren’t comfortable with. Amanda’s words came back to her. She looked around, seeing several people from her flight, but there was no sign of the woman who had befriended her. Funny. Broomstick skirts and turquoise jewelry weren’t exactly commonplace here. And Amanda’s hair was fairly distinctive. But Sam didn’t spot her.

  “This is all you brought?” Stan asked.

  “Just the one carry-on bag and my computer.”

  “Perfect.” He sent a quick text on his phone. “Our car will be at the curb in two minutes.”

  He took the handle of her wheeled bag and pressed forward, Sam quickening her pace to keep up. She scanned the crowd but didn’t catch any glimpse of Amanda. She’d wanted to thank the woman for her wise words. There was something almost beyond coincidence about her showing up in Sam’s life just when the advice was most needed.

  Bookman glanced at his watch as they walked out to the area where hired cars could pull in for pick-ups. “Great timing. We should be at the hotel by six, freshen up, and our dinner reservation’s at seven. It’s about a five-block walk from the hotel, or we can get a car.”