Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery Page 2

  A bell tinkled over the bookshop door when she entered, balancing the tray of cupcakes and squeezing past a display rack of jigsaw puzzles.

  “Madame Samantha!” The bookshop owner, Ivan Petrenko, spread his arms wide and stepped from behind the counter. “Is looking most fabulous today!”

  When he made statements like that, Sam was never sure if the flirtatious man was talking about the cupcakes or her.

  She held up the tray. “Dogs. To go with this week’s theme.”

  “Da, how tres bien!” Ivan’s curious mixture of English, French and Russian came—according to local legend—from the fact that he’d defected from the Soviet Union with his wife’s ballet troupe on a trip to Paris. The more outrageous versions of the story held that he’d worked in a diamond mine, apprenticed with a Cordon Bleu chef, waited tables in New York and finally come to New Mexico where he’d opened the bookshop ten years ago. As far as a timeframe for all this, Sam had no idea. He looked about forty, but that was a lot of living to cram into those few years. Although skeptical about a lot of Ivan’s story, she had to admit that he was a colorful guy.

  “Thanks, Ivan,” she said as he handed her the check for the cupcakes. “Another treat for next week?”

  “Absolutement. Using your judgment, please.”

  She left the shop, careful to hide the fact that she was nearly laughing aloud.

  Next on her list was a property north and west of town, somewhere off Highway 64 toward the little crossroads town of Tres Piedras. Her paperwork mentioned that the place might need mowing, so she stopped back by her house and hitched up her utility trailer with lawn mower and the assortment of rakes, hoes and other gardening tools that were a requirement for a lot of these abandoned properties. She cruised through town and found the place about twenty minutes later, where a collection of a half-dozen small homes sat on plots of scrubby land, no more than an acre apiece.

  A short drive led to the weathered wood frame house, which she entered by drilling the lock. No messing with picks on this one—she had a spare lockset in the trailer and it was a lot quicker this way. Replacing the damaged lock took only a few minutes.

  This place was clearly abandoned, for which she was glad, after this morning’s surprise. Although some pieces of furniture remained and there were papers and junk everywhere, the rooms had that hollow feel and neutral smell of a place that hadn’t seen human habitation in awhile. Lucky me, she thought. Sometimes the first thing that hit when she walked in the door was eau de rotten meat, especially in a place where the fridge was full and the power had been cut off.

  Although the kitchen was messy, the power was still on—probably an oversight by the rural co-op—and a glance in the fridge revealed that it was empty but for a ketchup bottle and a chunk of fuzzy blue-green cheese.

  Sam put the requisite sign-in sheet in the kitchen and spent a few minutes making a list of projects: gather trash, sort possessions, then start cleaning. She could probably fit the trash in her truck and trailer, avoiding the need to hire a rolloff. At the back door she scanned the yard. The half-acre property had mainly been left wild, native sage dominating. But someone had gone to the trouble of planting grass around the house, and there were flower beds against the walls, a garden of sorts. An ancient swing set, rusty and obviously unused, sat in the middle of the grassy area, and she could tell that one of her first duties would be to mow. The stuff was a foot tall in places.

  A glance at the sky revealed clouds towering in the distance, over Taos Mountain. The area would likely be in for a shower, which might vary from a few sprinkles to a full-fledged downpour. Since lightning could also be a factor it would be smart to attend to the mowing first.

  Back at the pickup truck and utility trailer that she’d left out front, Sam unloaded the lawn mower, topped off the gas, and rolled it to the back. Bless it, the mower started on the first pull and she worked her way across the yard, finding her zone, taking pleasure in the neat rows of cut grass in her wake. It wasn’t until she reached the far north edge of the grassy area that she realized part of the lawn was missing. Bare earth rose in a hump. A glint of white paint caught her eye and she stopped the mower. At one end of the mounded earth stood a small wooden cross with no markings. She walked over to it. A grave.

  Chapter 3

  The hair on her arms rose. Curious. And spooky.

  According to the paperwork the owner, Mr. Riley Anderson, had abandoned the house less than six months ago. To Sam, the grave didn’t look much older than that. What sad or morbid secrets had Anderson left behind?

  Lightning cracked, no more than a mile away and Sam scurried to steer the mower under the protective cover of the carport beside the house. A thousand thoughts crowded her head, not the least of which was: What the hell! She had no idea whether a grave on private property was legal or not but figured she better report it.

  As the first large raindrops splatted on the driveway, she pulled her cell phone from her jeans pocket and dialed.

  “Delbert? Sam, again. You’re not going to believe this.”

  He clearly didn’t want to deal with any more dramatics. After listening to several longsuffering sighs, she suggested that he not worry about it—she would call the authorities, herself. Again.

  The 911 operator, after hearing her fuzzy description of what she’d found, didn’t seem to consider it a true emergency—as in the lights-and-sirens variety—but she did connect Sam with Sheriff Orlando Padilla’s office.

  Sam repeated her explanation about the gravesite and asked whether the sheriff might want to take a look.

  “Sorry, he’s out on a call,” the dispatcher said. “Can you hold for a minute?”

  Sam held, watching fat raindrops as they picked up speed, plopping off the hood of her truck, filling the air with the scent of wet dust.

  The dispatcher’s voice came back on the line. “I tried both radio and his cell phone, but he’s up in the ski valley, probably out of range. I left a voice message.” She paused. “It might take awhile for him to get back to me.”

  Sam gave her cell and home numbers—didn’t mention that the sheriff’s department had already responded to one call from her today. She debated waiting for him but it could be hours. She didn’t want to stand around in the pouring rain, staring at the grave but from this morning’s instructions by Deputy Beau she figured she better not work indoors either. She tapped an impatient toe as heavy raindrops saturated the freshly cut lawn. It seemed to be tapering off. She dashed for the front door, gathered her tools and locked the newly installed lock.

  The strange events of the day were wearing her down; she thought of her friend Zoe, who operated a homey B&B with her husband Darryl. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and blue sky began to show in the west. This was usually how New Mexico rainstorms went. Sam pushed her mower up into the utility trailer, backed the little rig around and headed into town, envisioning a cup of tea and some good conversation to smooth over the afternoon.

  She’d just reached the intersection of Highway 64, when her cell rang.

  “Samantha Sweet? This is Beau Cardwell. Two bodies in one day? I have to say, that might be some kind of record.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was irritated or joking so she quickly explained about finding the grave and how she’d quit mowing the minute she found it. “Is it legal to bury someone on private property?”

  “With a permit, usually it’s fine,” he said. “But since the place was abandoned, it might be smart for me to check it out. Don’t touch anything until I can get some answers.”

  She told him about her plans for Zoe’s, clicked off the call and drove on. The Chartrain’s B&B was right in the middle of Taos, a hundred-year-old house sitting on a winding lane amid picturesque adobe neighbors. Maneuvering Sam’s truck and trailer in there would be iffy, so she drove to her own house on Elmwood Lane, two blocks away. A narrow drive led to the back of the property, where she had a good, wide turnaround spot. She parked there and walked over to the
B&B. The rain shower, which had drenched the county west of the Rio Grande, apparently hadn’t touched this part of town at all.

  Zoe was out front, knee deep in a bed of wildflowers, rose bushes and zinnias. Hollyhocks in full pink and burgundy bloom towered behind her and a graceful weeping willow draped its slim branches over a pond on the northwest corner of the lot. Zoe wiped a wisp of stray hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

  “Hey,” she greeted in her soft voice. Wearing a gauzy skirt and tank top, with leather sandals on not-quite-clean feet, she looked every bit the child of the commune in which she’d been raised. Her parents were some of the true free-love hippies of the ’60s and Zoe never gave up her roots. It wasn’t until she met Darryl ten years ago, that she settled into married life at thirty. The B&B came about as a result of their love of people and the fact that Darryl had inherited the six-bedroom house when his father passed away. Sam had the feeling that Zoe would rather simply tend the huge organic garden out back, but rave reviews on both the accommodations and their bountiful table kept her interested in the business.

  “What’s going on?” Zoe said, dusting soil from her hands. She gave Sam an intent look and her pale brows pulled together. “Something’s happened, Sam. You look upset.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do.” She picked up a watering can and tipped it to rinse her left hand, switched and rinsed the right, while Sam gave a quick recap of both of the day’s strange events.

  “The sheriff will check on the grave, but they don’t want me out there right now. I was thinking . . .”

  “. . . about a cup of tea.”

  “Chai, if you have it.”

  Zoe kicked a bunch of clippings into a little pile and then led the way around the side of the low adobe, to the kitchen door. Just inside, she kicked off the Birkenstocks, wiped her bare feet on the mat, and headed toward the kitchen sink, giving her hands a good scrubbing before reaching for the cookie jar.

  “Here—I still have a couple of your brownies that the guests didn’t get.”

  Sam stepped up to the sink and washed off the dust, rust and weird feeling that she seemed to have picked up during her morning labors. Zoe’s kitchen was a cheerful place, painted in soft terra cotta with lots of bright Mexican tile, large copper pots hanging from ceiling hooks, and a round table with fuschia and yellow placemats and cloth napkins. It always smelled of Mexican vanilla. Darryl remodeled it about two years ago, bringing in the latest professional appliances and knocking out a divider wall so there was plenty of room around the island counter for guests to have their first cup of coffee as the muffins were coming out of the oven. They loved that homey atmosphere.

  Zoe brought chai mix out of the pantry and put the kettle on to boil.

  “It’s the first time I’ve found anything like . . . death . . . at my properties, and now twice in one day.”

  “You don’t find it kind of spooky going out to those houses and sneaking in?” She pulled a colorfully painted plate from the cabinet and put brownies on it. “I mean, there has to be some strange energy in those abandoned places.” She set the plate on the counter near the barstools.

  “So far, in the months I’ve been doing this, it’s been pretty tame,” Sam said. “Usually just a lot of junk that has to be hauled off before the authorities can consider holding an auction. I had one place where the trash filled a whole roll-off Dumpster. Once the clutter is out, most places clean up pretty well.” She didn’t mention the time she’d come across the earmarks of a meth lab. That one had been in the middle of town and local police came right in and handled it. Since it was only her second property after taking the job, Delbert Crow had taken over and she’d been out of the picture quickly.

  The kettle whistled and Zoe poured, stirring in the chai. She joined Sam at the counter and Sam was well into her second brownie when her phone rang.

  She swallowed a hunk of the brownie and saw the caller was Deputy Cardwell.

  “Sam? Are you still at that property where you found the grave?”

  “No. I left after the rain shower.”

  “Things are pretty well stacked up this afternoon and I can’t get there until tomorrow. But I’d like to have you meet us there—say eight in the morning?”

  Sam wasn’t eager to visit the grave again. There had been such an eerie feeling around it. But she had to finish cleaning the house and tending the yard, and it would be easier to approach it for the second time with the authorities there.

  “If you get there first, don’t touch anything,” he said. “It’s potentially a crime scene.”

  Chapter 4

  Sam left Zoe’s place with a brief sugar high but it quickly faded when she got home. Too much excitement. She briefly considered sitting in on the mystery book discussion at Mysterious Happenings that evening but it seemed like an effort. The peace and quiet of her own home, enjoyed in solitude, were much more appealing.

  As she got out of the truck she spotted Bertha Martinez’s little wooden box on the back seat. Why had the woman insisted that Sam, a total stranger, was meant to have it? Maybe she was just a lonely old woman with no friends or family. The box might have been her only prized possession. Maybe she just wanted to hand it over to someone, rather than letting it get shucked off to the thrift shop. Her final words, though, hovered in Sam’s head.

  She set the box on her kitchen table and dumped her pack and keys beside it. A chunk of cheddar, an apple and a few plain saltines were going to suffice for dinner. The box pulled her attention as she nibbled at them.

  In the late-afternoon light of her kitchen, Sam noticed details that had escaped her in the flurried moments at Bertha Martinez’s house as she grabbed the box from the dresser, rushed to place it in the safety of the truck, and then dashed back inside to try to summon help for the dying woman.

  The piece was made of wood, carved with deep criss-crossed grooves, like something thickly quilted. At each X where the lines crossed, a small cabochon stone was mounted, held in place by tiny metal prongs. Sam flipped on overhead track lights to get a better look. The stones appeared to be malachite, lapis and coral. The greens, blues and reds winked with unexpected brightness under the lights. A metal hasp with a simple twist mechanism held the lid closed.

  It might have been an attractive piece but for the fact that it was crudely done. The cuts were uneven and the puffed areas not uniform in size or depth. Not childish, exactly, but not the work of a craftsman either. The finish was garish, the stain too yellow, the recesses too dark. Maybe she could take some polish to it.

  She pushed her plate aside and sat down again with the box before her. It was heavy for its size, maybe eight inches by six and no more than four inches deep. She twisted the clasp and tried to raise the lid but it seemed stuck.

  The knife she’d used to slice the cheese worked. Something old and sticky crackled and the lid creaked upward, hinged at the back.

  A wisp of smoke rose out of it—a thin curl of red, green and blue. It dissipated so quickly that within three seconds Sam swore she must have imagined it.

  But she didn’t. The box suddenly felt warm to the touch and she set it down with a clatter.

  It sat there on the woven placemat on the table. Staring at her.

  She reached out a tentative finger and touched it. Cool again. Not a scrap of warmth there.

  Was this what Bertha Martinez meant? Maybe it was made of some particular wood that warmed to a human touch.

  Sam grasped the edges of the lid and rocked it closed and open again, twice more, feeling the old hinges loosen. The surface still felt cool to the touch. Pulling the box a little closer, she peered inside. Empty. The wood inside was plain, stained the same sour yellow as the outside, not finely sanded or varnished. She ran her index finger around the inner edges, feeling for any little clue—something carved, anything. The moment her finger completed the circuit of the fourth side, a jolt—nearly electrical—zapped up her arm, clear to the shoulder.


  She fell out of her chair, hit with a wave of dizziness that nearly blinded her.

  Chapter 5

  Sam awoke in her bed, with no recollection of getting there. Bright sunlight came through the east-facing windows. She started—was she late to meet the sheriff’s people at eight? She rolled toward her bedside clock and found that it was only six-thirty. Normally with that kind of time to spare she would roll over and let herself drift off again. But she felt curiously wide awake.

  She sat up and took stock. She was fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes. The last time that happened was twenty years ago after a bad encounter with several shots of tequila. She was not obsessive about routines, but she did at least brush her teeth, wash her face, and put on a nightshirt before falling into bed. Always.

  Wandering into the living room she noticed that she’d not locked her front deadbolt; two lamps were burning; and on the kitchen table sat that wooden box.

  It has special powers. The box holds many truths.

  Bertha Martinez’s final words buzzed in her head.

  Too weird. Sam shook off the feeling. She’d just been overtired, loaded with sugar from her stopover at Zoe’s, and she had some kind of strange . . . episode. She didn’t know what. She’d probably just dozed off at the kitchen table and then automatically wandered off to bed. That made the most sense.