It was a princess cake, where the flounced skirt was cake and the head and shoulders basically a Barbie doll. Assembly went quickly, and Sam alternated pink and lavender buttercream for the ruffles on the skirt and bodice. One little girl would be thrilled and happy.
“That helps a bunch,” Becky said. “Now, if you want to do some string work on this one ...?” Becky hated making strings.
They shuffled around each other a bit as Sam draped spaghetti-like strings around the middle tier, while Becky placed white roses at the base of the big cake.
“Do you have time for it to set up a bit before you deliver it?” Becky asked, eyeing the piece critically to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Sam glanced at the clock, feeling the pressure to get back to her batches of chocolate. But she couldn’t let the bakery business slide while she went off on a different tangent.
“Let’s get it into the walk-in. While it chills, I’ll help with some of this other.”
It’ll mean another all-nighter but at least I have the box with me.
She sliced strawberries, mango and kiwi for two fruit tarts. Julio had already baked the crusts and the cream filling wouldn’t take long to whip up. Becky boxed the birthday cakes and carried them out front where customers would pick them up. Julio kept a steady supply of cheesecake and streusel coming from the oven, although Sam swore he was keeping one eye on her as he worked.
“Everything okay?” she finally asked him when Becky left the room.
“Just fine here,” he said. “How about at the new shop? No problems out there?”
Well, noises in the night and trying to work at a breakneck pace by myself. But none of that was his concern.
“It’s getting up to speed gradually. Once I get a few people trained it’ll take the pressure off. And as long as you keep that oven busy here, we’re rocking.”
He gave one of his quick smiles and turned on the mixer he’d just loaded with the ingredients for devil’s food cake.
By five o’clock, Sam had delivered Becky’s lavish wedding creation and stopped by home for a few tools. With a sub sandwich for her dinner, plus stepladder, drill, hammer and bits, she settled in at the Victorian to hang curtains before going back to chocolate-making. The new curtains held wrinkles from their packages but Sam was too tired to even consider going back home for an iron. Screw it—the wrinkles would eventually go away, or she could think about ironing another day.
By the time she’d covered the two windows in the boxing room weariness began to settle over her. Was it only this morning she’d welcomed her newest employee and begun training her? It felt as if a week had passed and she still had, realistically, two days of work she should finish before tomorrow’s work day could begin. She dragged the stepladder to the kitchen and set her tools on the floor. Enough of being a hero. Time for the box.
She’d left her pack on the kitchen counter and she reached in and took out the mystical object. As always, she felt the warmth in her hands as the dark, ugly wood transformed and began to glow a golden hue. The inset stones of red, blue and green began to sparkle. Sam held the box close to her, letting the warmth travel up her arms, across her shoulders and into her center. When the heat began to make her hands uncomfortably hot, she set the artifact back into her pack and zipped the bag shut. No strange whistling sounds this time.
Stretching her arms over her head, reaching for the ceiling, she felt the magical energy travel throughout her body. Now she was ready to work!
She finished hanging the kitchen curtains and went on to do the parlor before stopping to eat her sandwich. The darkness outside didn’t bother her nearly as much now that the windows didn’t reveal her presence to the rest of the county. She chided herself for skittishness as she stowed the tools near the back door and washed up to begin chocolate production.
She was reaching for the candy thermometer when she heard a loud clunk! As before, it sounded as if someone was in the basement.
Well, I’m not being scared away from my own place, she thought, grabbing the hammer and heading for the butler’s pantry, where a door led to the downward stairs. She twisted the deadbolt lock, flung it open and hit the light switch.
“However you got in here, you’d better leave the same way—right now!”
Not a sound.
“I’ve already called the sheriff,” she called out, wishing she’d actually done so. “He’ll be here any minute.”
Complete quiet.
Okay, so it’s just my imagination.
She took the steps one at a time, picking up the huge flashlight Darryl had suggested she keep near the top of the stairs to lead her to the breaker box in case of a power outage. Aiming the light into every corner, she saw nothing out of place. The big boiler was running quietly, sending hot water through the pipes to warm the house; an old workbench still wore a coat of dust but its surface was clear, the dust undisturbed; miscellaneous pieces of furniture including a Victorian sofa and carved chest of drawers sat where she’d seen them before. Even the stone floor showed no signs of footprints. She spotted a window above what had once been a coal bin, before the house had been converted to propane heat. But when she checked it, the latch held firm. No one could have opened it from the outside.
All right, Sam, admit it. You’ve just got a case of the heebies. Most likely some critter outside had made those noises. Put it out of mind, play some music for company, and get on with work.
She flashed the light around once more for good measure, climbed the stairs and stashed the flashlight back in place. She even laughed a little at herself when she bolted and rechecked the door to the basement twice.
Back in the kitchen, she decided to find something upbeat on her playlist. There was a lot of work to do yet tonight and she might as well have lively company for it. She unzipped her pack to look for her phone and felt warmth.
The box seemed alive. The wood glowed with an intense light and the colored stones pulsed like an ominous heartbeat.
Chapter 32
Her breath came in short, panting bursts as Sam zipped the pack to close out the sight of the box and its weird reaction. What’s going on here?
Everything about the day had felt entirely normal. The basement, just now, was undisturbed. She looked around the kitchen. Her canister of cacao sat exactly where she’d left it. The double boiler was on the stove, waiting for her to add ingredients and turn on the burner. She nearly left everything and walked out the door but remembered how quickly tomorrow’s deadline was racing toward her.
“I must finish a couple more batches tonight,” she said aloud, letting the sound of her own voice reassure her. “I will do them. I’m measuring the cocoa and the sugar …”
She talked and followed her own instructions, and soon she found herself getting back into the familiar routine. Energized, still, from handling the box earlier, she worked quickly and the chocolate behaved as she wanted. Rows and rows of neatly molded pieces lined up, ready for Lisa to box up in the morning. She made truffles in her most popular flavors, hand-dipping them and watching the perfect mounds accumulate. Dark chocolates came out of the molds, milk chocolate poured in. She added the flourishes for which her line of candy was becoming known.
Moving quickly from kitchen to boxing room, she set the finished pieces in place for packing. When she looked at the time, she was surprised to discover she’d finished everything and it was only nine p.m. She was delighted at making such progress, thrilled to go home early enough to spend some time with Beau.
She put on her jacket and a frisson of trepidation passed through her as she reached for her pack to retrieve her keys. But this time the box looked quiet and benign. Okay. Not sure what that earlier bit was about. She locked up and drove away.
The television was broadcasting a football game when she walked into the house but Beau didn’t seem very involved with it.
“You feeling okay?” he asked when he looked at Sam. “You look a little flushed.”
“The kitchen g
ot pretty warm while I was cooking.” It was true, although it wasn’t the whole story.
Sam was pretty sure it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell him about the strange behavior of the box. Listen to yourself—behavior of an inanimate object? One thing about Beau—he was a no-nonsense, show-me-the-proof kind of guy. She needed to sort this out in her own mind before she tried to explain. She still wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to hear all of it.
“I thought I might catch a break today,” he said, leaving his recliner chair and helping Sam with her coat. “I went to the hospital to check on Tansy Montoya.”
“Oh? How’s she doing?”
“No change in her condition, sadly. But as I was leaving I spotted a teenager dressed all in black. From the witnesses at the café, I thought it might be the one who found the stolen money. I really want to talk to that kid, see what the story is.”
“But … you’re saying all this as if it didn’t work out.” Sam set her pack aside and headed for the kitchen.
Beau followed and turned on the burner under the tea kettle. “Unfortunately, no. She, or he, just vanished.”
“What I’m wondering is what this kid was doing in the ICU at the hospital. Knowing the robbery victim is there, the robbers might be looking to eliminate the only witness against them.”
“Scary.”
“Yeah.”
“Did this kid seem threatening? Was he close to getting in Tansy’s room?”
“Not really—on either count.” Beau took mugs from a cupboard. “But he sure scooted out of there quickly after he spotted me.”
Sam put a teabag in her mug, half listening, mostly thinking about the box.
“I cautioned hospital security to be on watch for the kid again, especially in the intensive care unit.” He looked at Sam. “Darlin’, you’ve dunked that teabag about fifty times now. It’s probably ready.”
She looked at the dark brew, smiled up at him. “Thanks.” Strong tea wouldn’t be the only thing keeping her awake tonight.
* * *
By morning, Sam had come to one conclusion. There was someone she could talk to about the box, a woman who might actually have answers. She went to Beau’s gun safe in the hall closet, opened it and rummaged for a business card. The events of last summer had spooked Sam enough that she’d hidden the box and everything connected with it in the safe for months.
The card reminded Sam of the woman’s name: Isobel St. Clair, Director, The Vongraf Foundation. With an eye on the time, wanting to arrive at the chocolate factory before her new assistant, Sam dialed the number on the card.
“I’m sorry, Ms. St. Clair has taken a leave of absence,” said the professional-sounding voice.
“Oh. She told me about that but I had forgotten,” Sam said. “Is there another number where I might reach her. It’s important.”
“What was your name again?”
Sam gave it and waited while the line went quiet. When the receptionist came back her tone was entirely different.
“Ms. Sweet, I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting. I’m told I can pass along your message. I shall do so immediately and Ms. St. Clair will get back to you as soon as possible. It may be at an odd hour, I’m afraid. For security reasons, I cannot reveal her location.”
There wasn’t a whole lot Sam could say in response, other than to leave her mobile number and thank the woman. She dropped her phone into her pocket rather than her backpack purse, then headed for the Victorian.
Lisa came biking up to the front within moments after Sam arrived. They spent a few minutes going over employment paperwork, the normal government-required stuff which Sam hated, and the new non-compete agreement. Lisa provided all the right information and signed everything without question. She seemed eager to get to work.
“Wow, you got a lot of candy made yesterday afternoon, didn’t you?” she said, eyeing the loaded worktable.
“It was a productive day,” Sam said with a smile. “We’ll need a productive morning, too. All this needs to be boxed and ready to go to the airport before noon. If you’ll fill the boxes, I’ll add lids and tie ribbons. It should go a little faster than yesterday.”
Lisa immediately put on her plastic gloves and began picking the assortments, just as Sam had instructed the previous day.
“I’m going to run out to the storage room for more boxes,” Sam told her. “Be back in a minute.”
Darryl’s men had installed a new deadbolt lock and performed a quickie cleaning inside the carriage house so Sam could store cartons and tape and other shipping supplies out there, but she noticed there were lots of dusty tracks across the concrete floor. Her stuff was stacked in the middle of the floor, keeping it separated from possessions left behind by the owner. Sam needed to make time to get out here and do a better cleanup job.
Now that she knew a little history about the property’s owner, she wondered what intriguing little finds might be discovered among the old tires, scraps of lumber and unmarked cardboard boxes. It could be amazing to come across old manuscripts or an ancient typewriter or some other evidence of the writer at work. She had to remind herself anything of value belonged to the granddaughter. Still, it could be a fun search—if such a thing as spare time ever came along again.
She hefted a big carton containing her satin candy boxes onto one hip and was reaching for another roll of purple ribbon when her cell phone rang. Fishing it from her pocket she saw a number she didn’t recognize. She almost ignored it—they were nearly always some stupid survey or gimmick—but something told her to take this one.
“Samantha? It’s Isobel St. Clair. My office said you’d called. Is everything all right?”
Sam set the carton down. “Yes, well, I think it is.”
“Something’s happened. I knew it from the way our receptionist described your voice. It’s not Marcus Fitch again, is it? I do hope you’re keeping the, um, artifact safe from OSM’s reach.”
Marcus Fitch and OSM. It was a long time since Sam had heard the names of Vongraf Foundation’s archrivals in the worldwide search for genuine magical artifacts. On the two occasions Sam had met with Isobel, the Vongraf director had warned her strongly about keeping the carved box away from the reach of these evil men. And now, here was Sam, carrying the box around with her as if no one else in the world would have a care about it. She forced her mind away from that direction, back to the events happening here and now.
She gave Isobel the condensed version of finding and leasing the old house and the two occasions when the box had reacted.
“Is it possible for an object like the box to dislike a place?” she asked. “I know, just phrasing the question makes it seem silly.”
Isobel was quiet for a moment. “There are no silly questions when dealing with items like these. There’s so much we simply do not know.”
In the background an atonal sound blared, like a horn somehow badly out of tune trying to play a simple melody. Voices chattered in a foreign tongue.
“Where are you calling from?” Sam asked.
“Istanbul. I can’t talk long. I’ll just say, it could be the box is somehow warning you, trying to protect you. From what, I have no idea. Keep your eyes and ears open, Sam. If you receive any hint of the OSM’s presence, protect yourself. Just because Marcus Fitch disappeared after his last attempt, it doesn’t mean he’s gone for good.” The off-key sound resounded once more. “I must go. Take care, Sam.”
Chapter 33
Sara trudged along the sidewalk to their apartment and dug in her pocket for her key, thinking Mom would be asleep. She should do homework but frankly she’d been so worried the lawman in the big cowboy hat and sheepskin jacket might show up at school she’d forgotten to write down the assignments for English and math.
She was a thousand percent sure he’d seen her yesterday at the hospital, and now it felt like his eyes were everywhere, watching for her. She hadn’t slept last night and made sure she took the way home along ditch banks and through open fields. She f
umbled the key and let herself into the apartment.
“—so pissed he’s gonna blow a gasket, I tell you.” Matthew and his friend Wolfe stood in the kitchen, Cokes in hand.
“Kurt won’t—” Matt spotted Sara and quit talking. He sent some kind of warning look toward his buddy.
Wolfe glanced over his shoulder and set down his soda can. “I gotta go.” He muttered something Sara didn’t catch and brushed past her on his way out.
She set her backpack on the table and stared at her brother. “Is Mom asleep?”
He nodded and downed the last of his Coke. She blocked the way, cornering him in the kitchen.
“Tell me what this is about, Matt, all the tense conversations between you and Wolfe these days. And who’s this Kurt guy?”
“Nobody you want to know,” he said.
“I don’t want to know any of it, but ever since I found that money, I’m in the middle—like it or not.”
Matt went stock still, his face hard. “You found what money?”
Uh-oh. She’d blurted it out without thinking.
“I don’t have it.” She backed up a step. “Some lawman guy—the sheriff, I think—he took it. You’re messed up in this thing, Matt, the robbery where that lady was shot. I know that much.”
He raked his fingers through his hair and dragged his palms down the sides of his face. “The sheriff took the money—where? Did you hand it over?”
“No. It was … in a public place. Other people saw the bag and I couldn’t go back for it. Next thing I knew, some old gray-haired dude had called and the sheriff showed right up.”
Matt said something under his breath that probably included a bunch of swearing.
“Just tell this Kurt-whoever he won’t get the money back. Tell him to forget it.”
The look on Matt’s face conveyed what a stupid suggestion it was. She remembered the fight a few days ago when the men hadn’t known she was home. The crash of somebody being thrown against the wall and how she suspected Kurt was the violent one.
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