Sweet Magic Page 3

  Beau thanked Isobel and asked Rico to accompany him. He took a compass reading where Lisa indicated, and the two men set off across the pasture of green alfalfa, following a straight line toward the likely spot where the shooter had waited. Sam stared out in that direction, searching her memory for a clue but she couldn’t remember seeing a vehicle or movement of a person. She’d been far too absorbed in the information Isobel and Tony had just shared with her.

  Why? Why hadn’t she been more observant? She might have saved his life.

  A bleak feeling overtook her. This whole thing about the boxes and the two rival organizations had returned to haunt her.

  She shook off the vision of the field and trees. Regret, she decided, would not serve any purpose. All she could do was move forward from right now, so she headed into the kitchen to finish her mission of feeding the crowd. Isobel wandered in and unwrapped packages of sliced ham and turkey. Little conversation passed between them. Sam knew Isobel was still wrapped up in thoughts of facing Tony’s parents with the horrible news.

  By the time she carried the platter outside, the OMI’s vehicle had already left but Lisa and the deputies were more than ready for some lunch. They dug into the cooler of sodas Sam had brought home from the wedding—was it only yesterday?—and helped themselves to chips and sandwiches. They sat on the sturdy wooden chairs on the shady porch, talking about plans for bowling tonight, the small traveling carnival some were taking their kids to, anything but the crime that had happened way too close to home.

  In the distance, Sam saw Beau and Rico studying the ground at the base of one particular tree. They didn’t seem ready to come back to the house right away, so she covered the remaining sandwiches with plastic wrap.

  Isobel looked up from her seat on the top porch step. “I was—well, Tony and I were—booked on a flight out of Albuquerque late this afternoon, Sam. If I leave here soon, I could still make it. Guess I’m feeling the pressure to get back and make the visit to his parents. I suppose I’d better clear it with Beau, though, before I take off?”

  Sam set aside her plate and joined her. “Yeah, he’ll need to know your plans. Are you sure you’re okay to drive? Should someone go with you?” She was thinking of the fact that the killer was still out there. If it was Fitch himself, he was especially dangerous.

  “I’ve thought about it. I’m going to turn in this rental car here in Taos and get another one—something of a different make, model and color. I’ll be okay, and once I get to the airport in Albuquerque, I’ll be surrounded by security.”

  “Do you think it was Marcus Fitch himself?”

  “I don’t have any idea. I don’t know much about him, apart from OSM. And things have changed. I wouldn’t put it past the organization to be behind this.”

  Sam would discuss it with Beau. To her way of thinking, it seemed this killer had the skills of a trained sniper.

  “Isobel, I want you to take the box with you. Store it away someplace at The Vongraf Foundation where it won’t put anyone else in danger.”

  The woman shook her head and strands of dark hair loosed themselves from her ponytail. “I can’t do that, Sam. The foundation doesn’t keep artifacts—you know that. Our mission is only to—”

  “Study them. I know. But this has gotten bigger than all of us. I don’t know what to do.”

  “The law will take care of Marcus Fitch, especially now that he’s become violent. You should remember back to your original purpose when the box came into your hands. Bertha Martinez wanted you to take it and use it for good, to help people.”

  And she had been doing that, Sam realized. Helping Beau to solve crimes, helping people with illnesses and injuries. She felt her resolve weaken, to be rid of the box. But she didn’t remind Isobel that Fitch had already been violent in the past, when he ran her car off the road during her last visit to Taos, and the law hadn’t been able to catch him then. Would they get him this time?

  She walked with Isobel back into the house. While the visitor gathered her belongings, Sam called Beau’s cell and made certain it was all right for Isobel to leave. He told Sam to be sure he had contact information but okayed the trip. Sam wrote down several numbers for Isobel and saw her out to the rental car.

  Tony’s suitcase lay on the back seat, another reminder of the sad nature of the trip and a heartbreaking thing to take back to his parents at home. Sam didn’t envy Isobel the task.

  Chapter 5

  Marcus Fitch strode past the signs pointing to the baggage claim area in Reagan National. He prided himself on traveling light, leaving nonessentials behind. Even on international flights he rarely took more than a carry-on bag. As with his trip to Italy back in January, he’d managed to be productive in a very few days. Staying on track with a mission went way back to his CIA days, training that served him well even now.

  He thumbed the app on his phone to order a car, and by the time he reached the pickup area at the curb his ride was waiting. True, he could have requested an OSM Towncar, which would have delivered him to his condo in finer style than this pale blue Prius, but then his movements would be known to someone. And right now he didn’t want the board members knowing exactly when he’d arrived back in the capital.

  His eyelid twitched as he contemplated arriving at the office in the morning. He hadn’t quite worked out how he would explain the fact he hadn’t come back with the one item he’d promised he could deliver. But the risk at the other end had suddenly amplified, and if there was one thing Marcus put first and foremost it was his own skin.

  Doesn’t matter, he told himself. I’ll have plenty of chances.

  He tamped down the impatience that hovered just beneath his every conscious thought. Isobel St. Clair and her staff at The Vongraf Foundation continued to frustrate him. He’d tried confronting her directly outside her office once, only to be grabbed by the security guards. That had involved long explanations to the local cops to assure them he’d only wanted to talk with Ms. St. Clair—he’d meant her no harm. Really. And that Samantha Sweet woman out in New Mexico—he would have to deal with her at some point. He caught himself grinding his teeth.

  “Here we are, sir,” said the driver over his shoulder.

  They’d arrived at his Georgetown condo and Marcus got out without a word.

  “Have a nice evening,” the driver called out.

  Yeah, sure.

  Marcus walked inside, switching on lights and requesting soft jazz on the music system. Shedding his jacket, he wheeled his small suitcase to the laundry room where he tossed all the clothing, including what he wore, into the machine and started it. Nude, he walked to the bathroom and started the shower, a huge rainfall fixture he’d installed to replace the inadequate one that came with the place.

  Twenty minutes later he toweled off and stepped into soft black sweats and a black T-shirt. He smiled at the memory of a woman he’d dated five years ago. Clarice. She’d told him how great he looked in black, how it complimented his raven hair and brought out the vivid pale blue of his eyes. Black was the only color he bought now.

  Twilight Time was playing through the speakers when he went into the kitchen, a marvel of stainless steel and granite designed and installed by a decorator, although Marcus didn’t cook and rarely brought anyone here who did. A sandwich and a drink would fill the bill for tonight. He would transfer his clean clothes to the dryer, and once done, would fold and repack them into his same carry-on bag.

  He piled sliced ham on bread and sighed with his first warming sip of the Glenlivet 18. Basically, all he had to face in the morning was giving his report to the board at OSM, then he would be out on another plane tomorrow night.

  He pictured the discreet doorway on the stone building just off Dupont Circle, the brass plaque with only three letters: OSM. No explanation, no address numbers. Anyone passing the place would assume it was some government office—everything in this city had something to do with the government, after all. The door was always locked and the thumbprint and
retinal scanners, which gained one entrance, were so subtly mounted most would never notice them.

  Marcus would pass the eye scan and fingerprint without a hitch and make his way from the tiny marble vestibule, up the elevator behind the brass doors, through the warren of offices until he came to his own. The narrow profile of the building at street level was deceiving. Inside were more than twenty private offices, a conference room where the fifteen-member board met, a dining room and kitchen. Not to mention the cubicles where staff operated and the little-known “secure room,” a magnetically shielded space where computers operated in completely untraceable ways and the most private of conversations took place.

  He debated calling the Director, Elias Swift, and setting up one of those private conversations for the morning. He’d prefer a one-on-one with the irascible old man than to be grilled by the entire board. But such a step would only call attention to his dilemma. Better to treat it as inconsequential, brush past the report as if it were nothing.

  The washer buzzed its end-of-cycle alert. Yes, that’s what he would do. Breeze through tomorrow’s meeting, grab his things, and catch his flight.

  Chapter 6

  The London airport was huge and crazy and would have been entirely intimidating without the guiding hand of Stan Bookman, who saw them through customs and immigration with barely a blink. Kelly felt like a minnow fending for itself in the ocean as she tried to adjust her ear and respond to the various English accents from each official who addressed her. Scott seemed only slightly less in awe—he had been to the UK once during his post-grad studies. The famous singer and athlete had been met by a kid with turquoise and purple hair who whisked them away to a private section of the airport, apparently for those who would be recognized in a crowd.

  “I travel internationally quite a lot,” Bookman said, as they walked past the last of the customs officials. “And I have to say, arriving in your own jet makes a huge difference. Now let’s see … where’s our ride?”

  A dozen or more uniformed drivers waited in the greeting area, holding up signs with various names on them. Nowhere did Kelly spot anything with Bookman or Book It Travel, but she realized looking for one marked her as a newbie when Stan called out, “Graham! Good to see you again.”

  “How was the flight, sir?” asked a tall man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and narrow tie. “Better than the last one?”

  “We ran into a terrible storm two weeks ago when I came in,” Stan explained to Kelly and Scott. “Graham waited hours while we were rerouted.” He introduced them all around. “Graham lives in Bury and he’ll be at your disposal while you’re here, unless, of course, he has to dash back to London to pick me up.”

  That led to a discussion between the men about Bookman’s upcoming schedule. Meanwhile, Graham had taken the handles of their wheeled bags in each hand and was striding purposefully through the exit toward a multi-level parking garage.

  “Right, then,” he said after unlocking the Mercedes, which must have set someone back a hundred grand, at least. “Mr. B likes to ride up front, so you’ve the back seats to yourselves. TV on the screens in front of you, bottled drinks in this little—” He stretched over to reveal a compartment between the two seats. “Snacks in the pockets just there—but if I recall, you’ve been well fed aboard your flight.”

  They had, indeed. Champagne and hors d’oeuvres immediately after take-off, a sumptuous dinner of lobster and filet mignon with fresh veggies, and waking up to eggs Benedict and fruit for breakfast right before landing. Kelly thanked him but indicated she couldn’t hold another bite.

  Bookman had told them the drive would take between two and three hours, and she couldn’t imagine a better way to make the trip. This treatment was certainly going to spoil them for anything involving economy class planes or crowded trains in the future. She burrowed into the deep leather seat and reached over to take Scott’s hand. Married at last. He smiled at her and planted a tender kiss on the back of her hand.

  Although she’d slept well on the plane—with those heavenly reclining seats, who wouldn’t?—she caught herself dozing in the car, lulled by the soft conversation from the front seat and the view of softly rolling green hills outside the windows as they traveled the motorway. A peculiar scent caught her attention and she looked up to see that they were passing a factory of some kind on the outskirts of a town.

  Graham noticed the direction she was looking. “Sugar mill,” he said. “Wherever you go, they have a distinctive odor, don’t they?”

  Stan Bookman spoke up. “Take me by my place first, would you, Graham? That way Mr. and Mrs. Porter can see where the house is that they’ll be staying. Then you can take them to the Angel and see that they get settled.”

  Mrs. Porter. Kelly smiled.

  “Very good, sir. Have you told them much about the Angel Hotel?”

  “Not a lot. Figured they’d love to discover it for themselves.”

  Kelly and Scott exchanged a look. He’d been reading up on the history of the famous hotel that dated back to 1452 and during their flight had given Kelly the condensed version of the parts he knew. Of course, he’d told her, there’s bound to be more.

  The car wove through curving narrow streets lined with redbrick row houses whose doors opened immediately onto the sidewalks. They passed the Green King Brewery (as an aside, Scott told her it had been there since 1799) then made a right turn onto a lane of well maintained homes with leafy trees in front.

  “I’d say we’re in luck on the parking,” Graham said, pulling to the curb where he expertly angled the Mercedes between two smaller vehicles. Technically, it didn’t seem like a legal spot, as he was blocking the entrance to someone’s garage door, but likely he would only be here a few minutes.

  Stan understood the need to move quickly. Either that or, Kelly guessed, the man always moved at a fast pace. He was out his door and standing near the back of the car before she or Scott had realized this was the place.

  “I’ll just grab his bag,” Graham said. “Mind the traffic—cars will come opposite to what you’re used to. Watch to the right.”

  They followed through a high gate, which Stan unlocked, through a tiny garden that held two English dogwood trees and two flowering butterfly bushes which flanked the front door.

  “Here we are,” Stan said, “your home away from home. As I said, stay the full month if you’d like. Or simply call this number and my secretary can tell you when our next plane will be heading stateside.” He handed Scott a business card.

  They were standing in a living room, smallish but impeccably furnished with a comfortable sectional sofa, two side chairs, a bookcase filled with novels, and a small gas fireplace. The lounge, Bookman told them.

  “And through here is the kitchen and dining area, fully equipped. Just pop out to the shops for some food and you’re all set, if you like to cook. If you don’t, there are at least a dozen very fine restaurants within ten minutes’ walk.”

  The rest of the home consisted of two spacious bedrooms and a bath. French doors led outside beyond the dining area and master bedroom, to a cute garden where plants grew in profusion, and a brick patio with two lounge chairs looked like the perfect place to share a bottle of wine on a summer evening.

  “It’s not large,” Stan said. “None of the homes here are large compared to American suburbs, but the wife and I feel it’s the ideal little English getaway when we don’t want the world intruding. A honeymoon place, in other words.”

  “It’s perfect,” Kelly assured him. Already she was in love with the town and the little house, an ideal setting to begin their life together.

  Near the front door, Graham discreetly cleared his throat.

  “Ah, yes,” said Stan. “The car. Graham will take you now to your hotel. Explore and have fun. I’m out of here Tuesday morning, and Graham will be happy to bring you and your luggage here to settle in.”

  “Of course,” Graham said with a smile. “You may call me at any time d
uring your stay in Bury.”

  The newlyweds climbed back into the car and, with Graham at the wheel following a series of winding turns, they were pulling up in front of a very old building five minutes later. Three stories of windows faced the street, their flower boxes overflowing with bright purple petunias, and the rock façade was covered in ivy that encroached upon the white-painted window trim. Beyond the parking lot, cars whizzed by on the two-lane street. Kelly gaped, taking it all in.

  “It seems a bit confusing at first,” Graham said, holding the door for her, “but you’ll get the feel of the town straightaway. We’re right at the center of things. That’s the Abbey across the road, and the Abbey Gate just there. Walk over and stroll the gardens if you fancy stretching your legs. The flowers are glorious this time of year.”

  He pointed to the right. “Walk that direction and you’ll see the streets with all the shops just there, directly behind the hotel. And, well … you’ll sort it out as you spend time. And for anyplace you’d want to go beyond walking distance, you have my card.”

  A dark-skinned porter in white jacket with gold trim met them and carried their bags up the three stone steps to the front entrance. They quickly said goodbye to Graham and followed the man, past a restaurant, to the reception desk. True to his word, Stan Bookman had arranged a room for them and the check-in process went quickly.

  “Breakfast is included from six to ten in the morning,” said the slight girl with long blond hair done up in a clip. She handed over a metal key attached by a ring to a rectangular slice of wood. No magnetic keycards here, Kelly noted. “Sanjay will show you to your room, and we hope you’ll have a lovely stay with us.”

  With a quick nod toward them, the porter grabbed both bags and headed up a staircase to their right. They climbed creaking wooden stairs, made a sharp left turn and realized Sanjay had already covered the length of a short corridor and was out of sight. Going the only direction available, they figured out he’d gone down three small steps and was waiting at the bottom.