Sweet Somethings (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (24 page)

“Did either of them admit to being
the one who used the knife against Carinda?”

“No. In fact, they kind of started
a blame game. It wouldn’t surprise me if, under questioning, they end up
turning against each other. I mean, having a lot of cash is one thing, being
convicted of murder is something else. I don’t see Harvey hanging around for
that.”

Beau chewed thoughtfully.

“I just got this feeling around
Kaycee,” Sam said. “She’s not going to admit anything and she’ll get herself
the best criminal defense attorney money can buy.”

“Do you want to be there when I
question them?” he asked.

Sam thought of the mountain of
work awaiting her at the bakery—the backdrops and displays from her booth that
needed to be cleaned and put into storage, the phone calls to organize a
meeting of the committee, and the business-as-usual amount of work at Sweet’s
Sweets as they ran headlong into the wedding season. Plus, it would probably be
more interesting to see what story the two suspects gave Beau if they didn’t
know she had already briefed him on what to expect.

They cleared the dishes and
neatened the kitchen together, then parted in the driveway.

“Remember, Sarah Williams’s
funeral is at two o’clock today,” she said. “Join me if you can.” She held up
the hanger with the dressier clothing she’d decided to take into town with her.

He didn’t sound too optimistic
about his chances of breaking away. If he did put together enough evidence to
arrest Kaycee or Harvey—or get lucky enough to extract a confession—his day
would become filled with paperwork and formal procedures.

By 1:45, Sam was more than ready
to get out of the bakery for awhile. True to her prediction, it seemed every
bride in town had realized that June was here and they’d better get their cakes
ordered. She had been training Jen to take orders for specialty cakes, but
there was still a lot her assistant didn’t know so Sam had been continually
called away from the kitchen to answer questions or give ideas. More than one
of the brides had been at the chocolate festival and demand was high for
designs similar to Danielle Ferguson’s winner.

At five minutes to two, she
escaped out the back door, fanning the flush from her face as she started her
van and headed toward the mortuary. Parking was nonexistent, the dash of more
than a block left her face red and sweaty again, and the dolorous organ music
automatically set off a rush of emotions as Sam found a seat near the back of
the small room.

In the front row sat a few people
who could be Sarah’s relatives, although Sam didn’t immediately spot Marc
Williams among them. Odd. The next four rows contained an assortment of people,
mostly older, mostly the simple country type who had probably consulted
Sarah—and perhaps Bertha Martinez—for cures. A minister stepped forward when
the music stopped, and it occurred to Sam that she had never heard Sarah
mention a religious affiliation. Not that it really mattered now.

Words. Emotions. Memories. Wishes
that she’d had more time with her friend. Tears dripped from her chin and Sam
grappled in a pocket for a tissue. Questions in her mind about whether she
could have learned more about Bertha Martinez or the history of the wooden box
if Sarah had only lived longer. Perhaps the pace of the festival and her
committee work had proved to be too much, and Sam wished she could rewrite the
last few weeks to make better use of the time. Regret washed over her. But
then, she supposed everyone must feel that way about someone who had died. We
seldom leave every question answered or every situation resolved.

Thinking of unresolved situations
took her mind back to the reasons Carinda Carter had died. At least Sam’s
relationship with Sarah had ended on a friendly note. Carinda’s distant
relatives were likely to be battling out their little war for years to come.

People began to stand and Sam
realized the service must be over. She hung back, having little desire to stand
in a line of strangers and shake hands with a lot of other strangers. Sarah was
the only person in this room that she knew. She started to duck quietly out the
rear door when she became aware of someone standing at her side.

“Are you Samantha Sweet?” a female
voice asked.

Sam turned and nodded, taking in a
woman of about forty, a bit taller than herself, with dark hair to her
shoulders and honest green eyes. She wore black jeans and boots, a silky shirt
in vivid jewel tones and a black hip-length jacket that looked expensive.

“You look just the way Sarah
described you.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Isobel St. Clair.”

Sam’s expression must have given
away her complete lack of recognition.

“I’m a historian, with The Vongraf
Foundation.” She studied Sam for a half-second. “We study historical artifacts,
particularly items that have—shall we say—an element of the unexplained.”

Sam felt herself backing away.
Bobul’s warning came back, about people who would take an interest in the
carved box, people who would want to take it from her and use it for their own
purposes.

“Are you certain that Sarah never
mentioned me? She said she would get word to you.”

Had she? Sam vaguely remembered Marc
Williams mentioning someone when he told her of Sarah’s final lucid minutes,
back in the midst of the festival when Sam’s mind hadn’t focused on anything
for more than a few seconds.

“Sarah’s last days were—”

“I need to talk with you, Ms.
Sweet, maybe now? Over coffee?” Isobel St. Clair chewed at her lower lip for a
second, then she leaned close and whispered. “Lightning strikes once, makes
three.”

 
Bobul’s words. Sam felt the blood drain from
her face.

Chapter
21

Sam’s hands shook as she inserted
her key into the van’s ignition. Now that it seemed she was on the brink of
learning something about the wooden box she felt inexplicably terrified. She
watched Isobel St. Clair pull out of the mortuary parking lot in a nondescript grey
sedan that was undoubtedly a rental, heading the right direction for Java Joe’s
Joint where Sam had agreed to sit long enough for a coffee together.

Before putting the van in gear she
dialed Beau’s cell number.

“Hey, darlin’. Sorry I didn’t make
it to the service. But I’ve got good news—the Flower People cleared out. Middle
of the night. I guess that’s a good-news, bad-news situation. They didn’t pay
their fines and they left Mulvane’s place a mess—”

“Sorry, honey, but I have an odd
situation here. I’m about to have coffee with a woman and I’m not sure whether
to trust her.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No.” The sight of a uniform might
undo everything Sam had hoped to learn. “But could you run a quick background
check for me? See if a place called The Vongraf Foundation really exists. If so,
does it look like legitimate historical research? And is there an Isobel St.
Clair associated with it? If there’s a chance to see a picture of her, is she
about five-nine, in her forties, long dark hair and green eyes?”

“Okay . . . sure. Is there something
I should know?”

“Just send me a quick text, let me
know whether she’s legit or not. I’ll fill you in on the rest later.” At the
last second, she remembered to tell him where she was meeting the woman.

Isobel St. Clair was standing
under the green awning in front of Java Joe’s when Sam pulled into the tiny
parking lot.

“Sorry, I had parked a block away
from the funeral home,” Sam explained.

Isobel regarded her with that
direct gaze and suggested they might prefer an outdoor table at the far corner
of the patio. They ordered at the indoor granite-topped counter and carried
their beverages outside. The bistro-sized tables were wire mesh with matching
chairs, not the most comfortable, but the attached umbrella kept the sun off.
Sam selected the one chair with its back to the wall, wondering as she sat down
if this would turn out to be another false or frustrating lead.

Isobel sat next to her, facing the
back door of the coffee house, watching the other two patrons as she reached
into her small bag, brought out a leather case and pulled out a business card.
Passing it to Sam she drew out a white envelope. Its battered corners and worn
flap attested to the fact that the woman had carried it with her for some time.
She handed it to Sam, as well.

The card had a logo—triangular,
with a complex pattern that reminded Sam of Celtic knots—alongside The Vongraf
Foundation. Isobel St. Clair’s title was shown as Director. The telephone
number was a Washington DC area code; address was a post office box in Alexandria,
Virginia. Sam slipped the card into her pocket and placed her hand on the
envelope.

Ms. St. Clair gave her a warning
look as a young couple dressed in chinos and cotton sweaters came out to the
patio. Sam vaguely recognized the girl as someone from Kelly’s school days but
neither of them gave her a second glance. She slid the envelope into her lap
and lifted the flap. It contained a single photograph, very old by the look of
it—of her wooden box.

“Ms. St. Clair, where did you get
this?” Sam asked, leaving the picture in the envelope.

Her companion smiled. “You can
call me Isobel. Let me give you a little history.” She leaned back in her seat
and began to speak softly.

“The Vongraf Foundation has been
in existence almost since the founding of America. It is said that Benjamin
Franklin, with his insatiable curiosity about everything—particularly about
unexplained phenomena—was among the group of men who decided to take on the
formal study of odd artifacts. Not that our research involves only physical
items. Today, the foundation has branches that investigate everything from
happenings in Egyptian tombs to celestial sightings over the plains of Peru.”

“Sounds like the History Channel.”
Sam couldn’t keep the note of skepticism out of her voice.

Isobel laughed. “I suppose it
does. However, unlike television programs that tend to use words such as
could, would
,
might hav
e and
possibl
y
in their so-called fact finding, we deal in hard, verifiable facts. If an
artifact comes to us, it is put through carbon-dating tests first, then it
undergoes a battery of tests to ascertain whether any so-called ‘magical’
properties that its owners or local legend claim can be verified. The majority
of the assertions involve contact with the afterlife or with extraterrestrials,
along with a great number who say their item has healing properties or can cast
‘spells’ of some sort.”

“And you have a huge warehouse
somewhere in an underground bunker with all these mystical items stored in
huge, dusty crates?”

“Hardly. Over ninety-five percent
of the items we have ever examined prove to be either hoaxes or the test
results are inconclusive. A small percentage actually do prove themselves to a
degree, although oftentimes the evidence of healing or contact outside the
earthly experience cannot be reliably duplicated. In other words, we see the
unexplained action happen once or twice but it isn’t as if the owner can replicate
the action over and over.”

Sam worked to keep her expression
neutral. She had never experienced difficulty in getting the box in her
possession to work its magic, any time she picked it up. She glanced again at
the photo.

“And this?” she asked.

“There is more to this item than a
simple case of ‘does it or doesn’t it work’. We know for a fact that it does.
The photo was taken during the foundation’s testing of the item and
documentation of its properties.” She caught Sam’s expression. “Way before my
time, I will admit. Testing on this artifact was done in 1910. It was
conclusively proven to be among the one-half of one percent—the items we see
whose properties can be verified beyond a doubt.”

“And now it’s in one of those
warehouses.”

Isobel let out a little sigh. “You
know it isn’t. You know where it is.”

Sam dropped the envelope on the
table and started to rise.

“Wait! Sam, I don’t want to take
it. We have done our tests. We don’t keep the artifacts; they stay with their
owners. I was told you wanted to know about its history.”

 
Sam’s phone chimed with an incoming text
message. She glanced at the readout quickly as she shuffled her pack and
resettled in her seat. A single word from Beau—legit. She put the phone back,
sent another fleeting look toward Isobel St. Clair. It was true. From the
moment she had discovered that the wooden box gave her the power to heal, the
power to see auras and fingerprints and things that others simply did not see,
she had wanted—needed—answers. This might be her only chance to get them.

She nodded toward Isobel who had
paused a moment to sip at her latte.

“Our archives show that the
foundation has actually tested two boxes, nearly identical. Both showed
remarkable power, in both cases we repeatedly duplicated the results.” She set
her cup down. “You know, I really should give you a bit more of the
background.”

Sam nodded.

“History suggests that at one time
there were three boxes—hence the password I gave earlier, the mention of three
. . .” She only mouthed the last word. “According to our tests, they were made
from a single alder tree, a tree that had been struck by lightning. The
molecular structure of the wood makes this point incontrovertible. The carving
is not really
typical
, but I can say
that it’s in a
similar
style used by
woodworkers in fifteenth century northern Europe, probably what today is
Ireland.”

Sam thought of her uncle who had
lived in Galway and her pulse quickened a little.

“It would make sense, in those
rather superstitious times, that a man who witnessed a lightning strike might
believe the remaining wood to be . . . perhaps enchanted, or charmed in some
way. He might gather the remains of the affected tree and take them home to
make something from the wood.”