Samantha Sweet Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

Chapter 1

Chocolate icing shot out of the pastry bag as Samantha Sweet tested the consistency of her newest batch. The ridges held shape. Perfect. She picked up a triple-chocolate Kahlua cupcake and proceeded to pipe a thick base of chocolate buttercream on it. On top of that, a smaller cone, which she built up then tapered to form a snout. Two perky ears. Switching to a small round tip she quickly added short fur and watched as the cupcake became a shaggy puppy’s head. White chocolate eyes with dark chocolate irises. White chocolate tinted pink for its tiny tongue.

Sam smiled at the happy little face she had created. Set him down and started another. The order was for the Tuesday night book group and local chapter of Chocoholics Unanimous. Every detail, right down to the dogs’ collars, had to be chocolate, and Sam enjoyed matching the theme of the weekly treats to that of the book they were reading, in this case a story featuring a dog walker. Unlike typical ‘anonymous’ twelve-step groups, this bunch celebrated their addiction. They reveled in the utter enjoyment of all things chocolate. There was absolutely no intention of overcoming their mutual habit. Sam wasn’t complaining—the weekly order gave a nice boost to her fledgling little home business. And someday ... a shop ... Sweet’s Sweets.

She added the final touches to a schnauzer, then covered the bowl of chocolate cream and put it in the fridge. Chided herself as she licked a gob of the frosting from her finger—where did she think those extra pounds came from? She ran hot water and detergent into a bowl and tossed all the implements into it to soak until she could get back.

She had to break into a house and she was running late.

* * *

Sam rechecked the address, debated hitching up her utility trailer and decided against it. This wasn’t supposed to be that big a job. The pickup should handle it fine.

The house turned out to be a flat-roofed adobe with traditional two-foot-thick walls, on the south side of Taos. She backed into the driveway, a long one that led to the back of the place. Getting out, she circled the whole house, checking doors and windows for anything inadvertently left open. She couldn’t remember how many times she’d gone to a huge effort to pick a lock or drill a deadbolt, just to find out that the back door was unlocked all along. Talk about frustrating.

No such luck this time. The traditional blue-painted doors were all buttoned up tight. She pulled out her tool bag and analyzed the lock on the back door. They were almost always less beefy than front doors, for some stupid reason. And that held true at this place. Rather than drill the lock, which then required that she replace it before leaving, she decided to see if she could pick this one. One of these days she would see about getting one of those little triggered pick guns, but at the moment all she could afford were standard picks, which take two hands and a lot of patience to operate. It was nothing like it looked in the movies, she quickly discovered when she began this line of work.

She worked the picks for close to five minutes before feeling the telltale release of the tumblers. Blew out a breath. That was another part of success at this—seemed like you had to be holding your breath to make it work. She grabbed the doorknob and got that tweaky feeling in the gut, that uncertain what-lies-behind-this-door question, each time she entered a strange house.

She’d envisioned a recalcitrant homeowner, refusing to leave, shotgun in hand, or maybe a wall-high stack of newspapers ready to topple onto her. Everyone’s read about some weird old man who had a house full of them. But none of that had happened to her, yet.

Breaking into houses for a living—all perfectly legal and sanctioned by the U.S. government. The USDA hired folks like Samantha to clean and maintain abandoned properties where the homeowner defaulted on their loans. Sadly, there were a lot of them these days.

She noticed that a thin crust of dirt covered the door and all the glass panes on this side of the house, remnants of New Mexico’s famous mud storms where blowing dirt and a small amount of rain combined to coat every surface with a haze of brown. Sam actually liked this part of the job, assessing the situation and imagining how good it would look after she’d applied Windex and hot water. The knob twisted in her hand and the door swung open with a hellish creak. A little oil would take care of that. She brushed her hands on her jeans and stuffed the lock tools back into her canvas bag, leaving it sitting just inside the back door. Flipped on the lights. At least the power had not been cut yet.

Here’s where the surprises usually showed up. In this case the kitchen was remarkably untrashed—sometimes kitchens were a nightmare. A few crusted dishes sat in the sink but the table was clear, trashcan still had its top firmly in place, and no roaches scurried away. No noxious odors from the fridge. She would come back to that.

She walked through a doorway into a living/dining L and saw that the home still contained furniture. Three doors opened off a short hallway—a little pink bathroom was visible but the other two doors were closed. A starter home for a young family, certainly adequate for a retired couple. She’d seen quite a few similar, and it wasn’t a whole lot smaller than her own place on Elmwood Lane.

In the living room an ancient sofa looked like prime real estate for dust mites and a round coffee table held several red pillar candles with hard wax drips down their sides. Dusty-looking bundles of dried herbs lay among the candles, and an open book sat on the sofa, as if the reader had simply gotten up in mid-chapter and planned to return. The rest of the room was cluttered with a lifetime’s accumulation—shelves held stacks of magazines and cheaply framed photos of children in 1940s attire. An old fashioned wooden radio had cobwebs lacing its speaker and trailing between the knobs.

Sam wandered through the room, trailing her fingers across the fringe on the shade of an old floor lamp. Then she heard a thump.

The hair on her neck rose. I’m getting too old for this.

She searched for a weapon of any kind. The floor lamp looked heavy but completely unwieldy. She edged back to the kitchen and pulled the biggest wrench, a crescent only ten inches long, from her tool kit.

Hello? she called out.

The thump came a tiny bit louder this time.

Hello? USDA caretaker. Anyone here? She tiptoed into the hallway, her steps silent on the worn Saltillo tile.

This time she swore she heard a moan. No way this could be a good thing. She should call 911, she thought, even as she reached out to the first closed bedroom door and turned the knob.

The smell of illness and old-person emanated from the room as soon as the door opened. Sam held her breath for a moment. The place was so dim she had a hard time finding the source of the sound. A wooden bed took up most of the space, while a high dresser on the far wall and a nightstand cluttered with bottles, drinking glasses and wadded tissues filled the rest of the space. Crumpled blankets created waves on the surface of the bed and it took her a moment to realize that a tiny, shriveled woman lay under them.

Another moan, barely above a whisper.

Ma’am?

A thin hand fluttered upward. Sam stepped closer to the bedside.

I’m sent here by the USDA, she said. I’m supposed to clean up the house, but I’m sure they didn’t realize anyone was living here.

The toothless mouth opened and a sound emerged, something like a piece of cellophane being crushed and then ripped. The old woman wiped at her forehead and made some more throat-clearing noises. Finally, words emerged. Not ... for ... long.

What? Can I do something for you? Sam reached for one of the water glasses on the nightstand but the claw-like hand waved her away.

I have ... something ...

Sam leaned in a little closer, and the woman cleared her throat noisily. She jammed a tissue at the scrawny fingers and stepped back. When the woman spoke again her voice was noticeably stronger.

I have something for you, she said.

I don’t think you even know me, ma’am.

The birdlike woman raised up on one elbow and her tiny eyes lost their blurry look for a moment. I know ... you were meant to come here ... today. You are to possess the secret.

What on earth did that mean?

She fell back against her pillows, clearly tired from the effort.

Quickly, girl. The bottom ... drawer ... in the dresser.

You need something from the dresser. Sam turned toward it.

A wooden box. Bottom drawer ... look ... under ...

Sam went over to the dresser, stooped clumsily, and fumbled at the cheap brass handles, pulling it open. It seemed to be stuffed full of cloth—bedding, knitted items and such.

Get ... the ... box. Under— The words caught in her throat.

Sam glanced up at the sick woman. She lay against the pillow, eyes closed, breathing shallowly through her mouth. Sam dug through the fabric, feeling for anything that might be the box she wanted. In the back left corner she felt a hard surface and pulled at it.

It was about the size of a cigar box, with a crude metal clasp and a lumpy, carved surface. She picked it up and went back to the old woman’s side.

Here you go. Here’s your box.

The eyelids fluttered but didn’t really open. No ... for you.

Me? Are you sure?

From somewhere deep inside, the ancient woman called up the strength to raise her head again. The box has ... special powers. It holds ... many truths.

Sam stared at the ugly, lumpy thing. What’s in it?

The old head fell back to the pillow. Quickly ... take it. Put it in a safe place.

Sam stood there, uncertainly, wondering what the woman was telling her.

Now, girl. Take it. A labored breath. No one must know.

The lady needed medical attention but the poor thing wouldn’t be satisfied until she thought Sam had taken the box to a safe place.

I’m going to call an ambulance for you. I’ll put this in my truck for safe keeping. Sam’s voice shook, worried that the woman would go into cardiac arrest at any second.

The pained expression on the old woman’s face relaxed. The answer seemed to satisfy her.

Okay, just rest. I’ll have some help here for you soon. Sam patted the woman’s shoulder, shocked to feel sharp bones under the papery skin. She rushed outside.

But by the time she’d put the box on the backseat of her truck and returned to make the 911 call, the old woman was dead.

Chapter 2

In her fifty-two years, Sam had never been alone with someone recently deceased, and standing by the bed gave her the willies. She stepped outside and dialed her USDA contracting officer’s number. She’d never met Delbert Crow in person but she imagined a gray-haired fussy bureaucrat who was a year or two from retirement. At times he was so by-the-book that he drove her crazy with details; other times she got the impression he didn’t want to be bothered, that he couldn’t wait to be out on his fishing boat on a lake a hundred miles from nowhere. Somehow she had a feeling that finding a dying woman at one of her properties would be something he’d want to know about.

Have you called the police? he asked.

The Sheriff’s Department, actually. We’re just outside the town limits here. Well, I just dialed 911 and—

Fine, fine. She heard papers rustling, as if he were looking in the procedures manual for an answer. What could this be listed under—discovery of dead body on premises? Ms. Sweet, it will be all right. Just wait there until the authorities arrive. I’m sure they can handle it. If the sheriff needs to speak to me, I’m at my office all day.

Sam paced the front porch, unable to make herself go back into the house with the dead woman. A Sheriff’s Department SUV, an ambulance and a private car arrived within minutes of each other. The man in the private car introduced himself as the county’s Field Deputy Medical Investigator before he bustled into the house.

The lean guy who unfolded himself out of the SUV walked over to her. Ms. Sweet? Deputy Sheriff Beau Cardwell. There was definite Southern in the accent and the way he said her name made it sound like an invitation to dance a waltz. The last guy she knew named Beau was way back in her teen years in Texas, but that was a whole other story involving a girl with lusty hormones and a football player whose kiss would send any good girl off the deep end. She firmly shut that image out of her head.

The deputy was staring at her.

Awkward moment. Uh, yes. I’m Samantha Sweet. Just call me Sam.

He sent a lopsided grin her way, as if he’d just read her mind.

Okay. Sam. He cleared his throat and flipped open a small notebook.

At the back of the ambulance, two EMTs snapped on latex gloves and yanked out a gurney, which they wheeled toward the house.

The mortgage on the house was government guaranteed and was in foreclosure, Sam told the deputy. She gave the basics of how she’d gotten inside. She told him the old woman had spoken to her very briefly and died while she’d stepped outside to summon medical help. Remembering the woman’s warning, she didn’t mention the wooden box although she felt a little funny about that.

Do you know who she was? Sam asked.

Bertha Martinez. She lived alone. He scratched notes as he talked. We think there’s a grandson in Albuquerque. He may have been the one who talked her into signing a mortgage to get some cash out of the property. Can’t imagine why she would have done it otherwise. Place has been in her family for a couple hundred years. She refused to go to a care home when her neighbors recommended it. I’d been out here several times, but never could convince her. Last five years or so she used to chase me off. Met me on the porch with a shotgun a couple times.

Really?

Yeah. A real sad thing. Local stories ran wild. Some say she was a witch, some just held that she was crazy. Got old and sick but never would see a doctor. Just wanted to be left alone, I guess.

USDA sends me to clean out abandoned places so they can be sold. I’ve never had one where anyone was still living in the house. I’m sure they thought she’d moved away or already died.

He wrote on his forms, filling out the address of the property and noting what she’d just told him.

The M.I. came out of the house, stuffing his stethoscope into the black bag he carried. Natural causes, old age, he said. Albuquerque OMI will confirm that and issue the death certificate at the morgue. He got into his vehicle and drove away.

So, what should I do? Sam asked Deputy Cardwell. Ordinarily, the owners have taken away whatever they want and I just clean the place up.

Can it wait a day or two? Give us time to remove the body, do a quick check of the house to be sure nothing’s out of order. Make one more run at finding the grandson. Maybe you could come back on Thursday?

Sure, no problem. I’ll leave a sign-in sheet on the kitchen counter. Anyone who comes in is supposed to sign it and state what they’re doing here. She hoped following that bit of protocol would satisfy Delbert Crow.

Cardwell didn’t look especially happy about complying but he nodded.

She retrieved her tool kit from the kitchen, found a house key in a dish near the front door and, after verifying that it worked in the lock, placed it in a lockbox and went out to her red Silverado.

The day was still young—not quite noon. Sam drove through town, past Walmart and the movie theater and turned right on Kit Carson Road, at the plaza. Zigzagged a couple of blocks south and east to her little lane. Her house felt cool under the shade of the huge cottonwoods that grew everywhere in this part of Taos. She went into the bathroom and washed her face and hands thoroughly, eager to rid herself of the morning’s disturbing experience. A brush taken to her hair only made the graying, short layers stick out in all directions with static electricity. Giving up on that, she went to the kitchen and made a quick sandwich from leftover ham and decided she could still earn a little money today, even though one of her jobs was on hold.

She grabbed the wide platter of chocolate puppy-dog cupcakes she’d made earlier and headed out to Mysterious Happenings, the bookstore where the Chocoholics group met to solve mysteries, and gorge. They liked to choose a mystery novel, read up to the final chapter, and then meet to guess at the ending. They read the ending of the book together and then there was some kind of prize for whoever came closest to figuring it out. One of the members, a British born little slip of a thing, always seemed to come away with either the prize for eating the biggest quantity of the evening’s chocolate treats or for figuring out the mystery. As a female who had always carried about thirty pounds more than she wanted, Sam had no idea how Riki managed to stay barely above the weight of a Doberman.

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 très 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 had 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 roll-off. 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’d 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 shouldn’t 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 fuchsia 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 crisscrossed 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.

A shower and fresh clothes were the answer. She bustled into the bathroom and rushed through her routine, feeling an eagerness to get on with the day. Normally a slow riser and groggy morning person, she knew this energy was proof positive that all was right with the world. Grooming consisted of finger-combing her shaggy, graying hair and touching on a little lip gloss. She donned a pair of jeans and one of her work shirts, ready to face the cleanup job at the county property once Beau Cardwell got whatever formalities out of the way.

She didn’t want to waste any time. As it was, her arrival would probably coincide with the deputy’s. She packed a little cooler with a peanut butter sandwich, two apples and a half-empty bag of corn chips, plus a granola bar that she was going to call breakfast. Two diet Cokes rounded out her stash of lunch and snack food to last the day.

By the time she pulled up in front of the property, still known to her as #23 County Road 4, a cruiser and another county vehicle were already there. Beau Cardwell stood at the open door of the cruiser in his crisp dark uniform and Stetson, speaking into the mike on his shoulder. Sam approached, pocketing the key to her truck. He made some kind of over-and-out remark to the microphone. When he turned, he sent a smile her way—impersonal at first but then it became a long, assessing look.

For the first time she noticed that he had incredible shoulders and Sam guessed him to be a bit younger than herself, probably in his late forties. Dark hair with sprinkles of gray and sideburns nearly white. Blue eyes, the color of deep ocean, distracted her as he pulled out a clipboard with some forms on it.

Stop it, she admonished herself, you are not interested. She tugged her shirttails down and turned her attention away from Beau.

Two men, both in uniform, were approaching. The one in charge was about her height, maybe five-five or –six, Hispanic, forty-ish, with a solid paunch. Cardwell quickly introduced him as Sheriff Orlando Padilla.

There’s no permit on record for that grave, Padilla said to Sam. We also checked county death records for the past six months and cross referenced them with burial records. We don’t have any death certificates without records of where burial took place. That’s why we’re treating this as a potential crime scene. We’ll need to take a look inside the house.

The grave is actually out at the back edge of the lawn, Sam said.

Cardwell sent her a wry grin. Let’s take a look out there first, then you can unlock the house. He gestured toward the backyard. Show us what you found.

She led the way, noticing how she’d cut the grass yesterday. Nice clean rows near the house, one trail toward the back, an abrupt stop. The mound of dirt was still mainly surrounded by tall grass but she stood aside and pointed toward it. While the three men poked around in the tall grass Sam went back and unlocked the front door, crossed through the living room and kitchen and came out the back.

Padilla stood with hands on hips, glanced at the ground, looked at Beau. Sam stood by, wishing she could just get on with her job.

Do you know when Anderson vacated the place? It took Sam a second to realize Beau was talking to her.

I think our records indicated that the owner left sometime in March or April.

Padilla turned to him. Well, no permit, we have to dig. He stared at the younger deputy, a stout kid in his twenties, who grimaced and headed for his patrol car. He came back a minute later with a shovel. Sam got the feeling the pudgy young guy would rather that the more physically fit Beau do the digging but he didn’t say anything.

Start on this, Padilla told him. Cardwell, you take a look in the house. I have to get back to town.

Beau touched Sam’s elbow in a gentlemanly way. She looked up at him, but he’d turned back to be sure the other deputy was shoveling. She headed toward the house and let him in the back door.

It led directly into the kitchen. People who skipped out didn’t seem to feel the need to wash dishes or clean up. A trash can in one corner overflowed, primarily with fast food wrappers, pizza boxes and paper plates. All the real dishes were stacked in the sink and on counters. Sam didn’t even want to guess at the guck that had dried onto them.

She felt a little embarrassed by the mess, as if she’d invited a guest into her own home and they’d found it in this condition. But Beau didn’t seem to care. He gave the kitchen a glance, ignoring the trash and the table, which she’d just noticed was covered in beer cans with a half eaten pizza dried to a crisp in its box. He’d walked into the living room.

Almost on autopilot, Sam went to the sink and tested to see if there was hot water. After a minute the cold stream became warm, then hot, then steamy. She found a nearly empty bottle of dish detergent under the sink and squirted it liberally over the haphazard stack. Stoppering the basin, she let the whole thing fill with hot water.

Sam? The deputy’s voice came from another room. You’re not moving anything, are you?

Oh shit. In her haste to make the place presentable, she’d forgotten that the whole house might be considered part of the crime scene.

He strode in from the other room. Don’t tell me you’re washing away our evidence. Please don’t tell me that.

She’d turned off the faucet but the sudsy basin gave her away. Deputy, I ... should I let the water out?

He stared down at her from his six and a half feet, eyes dark beneath the Stetson. No, it’s okay.

She felt like a complete idiot. Hadn’t she watched enough episodes of CSI to know that you didn’t touch a thing at a crime scene?

He glanced out the back window, noticing that the younger deputy had quit digging. He opened the back door. Relax. And just call me Beau. He seemed about to say something more but turned away instead.

She watched him walk to the back of the property. Suppressing the urge to bag the trash, she jammed her hands into her pockets and stepped out to the back porch. She could see that the deputies had found something. The shovel stuck up from the ground and the young guy was squatting at the edge of the hole, tugging at something. Beau, too, hunkered down examining the object. Curiosity piqued her interest but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the details, close up. After a minute or two Beau stood and spoke into his shoulder mike. He brushed dirt off his hands and walked back toward the house.

From the porch step Sam was exactly eye level with him as he stopped to speak.

There’s a body, all right, he said. It’s wrapped in blankets, not exactly a funeral director’s style. We’re going to need to exhume and identify it.

Exhume, as in dig up and bring out into the open. Sam really didn’t want to know too much about that.

It would take me probably another week to get a team of crime lab folks out here from Santa Fe, and this isn’t exactly a fresh scene. It’s just that Padilla and myself will be the only qualified ones in the office the rest of the week—

Could I help in some way? Is that what you’re trying to say?

Well, yeah. He actually scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. It would just be to go through things in the house and try to get more information about the owner.

She shrugged. It’s what I do. As long as she didn’t have to get a good up-close look at a decomposing body, she was happy with any other little task. Plus, the sooner this whole thing was resolved, the sooner she’d finish her real job here and be able to submit her invoice. And that meant a check. And that meant groceries.

Damn Kelly, Sam thought. It’s an awful way to feel about my own daughter, but cleaning out my checking account was a shitty thing.

She suppressed that line of thought and stepped back into the messy kitchen.

What kind of information do you want me to look for? she asked. Anderson’s relatives, that kind of thing?

He grinned at her. You’re getting the idea. You’ll make a great assistant deputy.

Isn’t a deputy already an assistant?

Yeah, but we’re kind of winging it here. Unless you want to go out there and help pull the body out of the grave, you’ll have to be content without an official swearing in. Was he flirting?

Trust me, I’m very content not to be sworn in. Just tell me what I have to do to get on with cleaning this place up.

Okay. We need papers, bills, checks—anything that might let us know more about Anderson. How long ago since anyone last heard from him. That sort of thing.

There’s a desk in a corner of the living room. I can start with that. He handed her a pair of surgical gloves and she cut through the kitchen, refusing to look at the heaping trashcan and piles of food-encrusted dishes. Beau followed, poking at the bathroom door, using a ballpoint pen to pull drawers open, scanning the rooms quickly to get a general feel for the layout.

He must have had someone else living here, Sam observed. Both bedrooms look lived in. I mean, one guy living here alone—even a husband and wife—there’s going to be one bedroom used and the other as a spare, right?

Good observation, assistant. He was flirting! Sam noticed how there was the tiniest gap near one of his incisors; he had a habit of smiling slightly wider on that side of his mouth. It had the effect of making him human, dimming slightly the otherwise near perfect looks. Stop thinking about that!

Both beds are rumpled, there are clothes in both closets, he said, stepping back into the hallway. I’ll canvass a few of the neighbors later. The medical investigator should be getting here soon.

Like a prophecy coming true, they heard a vehicle pull up to the house. Beau went out the front door while Sam turned back to her work. Through the open drapes at the back bedroom window she could see him showing a man in a suit out to the gravesite, the same guy who’d been at Bertha Martinez’s yesterday. The men were standing over a bundle of cloth, the blankets Beau had mentioned. The bundle hardly looked large enough to contain a person, she thought with a pang.

She pulled open the first of the desk drawers. So, Mr. Riley Anderson, who were you? Are you the sad little heap out there in the yard now, or did you put someone else there?

Chapter 6

Beau and the younger deputy loaded the blanketed bundle into the back of the OMI vehicle to be taken to Albuquerque for autopsy, and saw the man off before coming back into the house. They worked with Sam for a couple of hours side by side, until the men pretty well decided that they weren’t going to find blood stains, bullet holes or signs of violent death. The goal now was to identify the body, so Beau took fingerprints from several surfaces. Two radio calls had come in while they worked and they were beginning to feel the squeeze to attend to other cases. Sam agreed to box up whatever bills or personal papers she came across and turn them over. Otherwise, she was free to clean the place to her heart’s content.

She filled four garbage bags in the kitchen, threw them into her truck. Scrubbed the appliances, put away dishes, sanitized countertops and floors. In the other rooms, she gathered books and trinkets and boxed them for her favorite thrift shop. There was a book on plants that she thought Zoe would like, and a couple of mysteries that Ivan might be able to sell in his shop. The rules allowed her to distribute the household furnishings in the way she saw fit, so she tried to make the best use of everything. Furniture stayed with the house, those pieces in decent condition. Sometimes they weren’t, and the trashed-out things would be hauled to the dump.

She spent some time at the desk in the living room, gathering statements from the local bank, unpaid utility bills with progressively harsh warnings and scraps of anything that might provide the sheriff with clues about Anderson’s life. The only thing remotely menacing was a letter from an attorney. Dated nearly a year earlier, it addressed a claim by an adjoining property owner that Anderson’s fence was two feet over the boundary. The neighbor, Leonard Trujillo, was insisting that Anderson move the fence or pay him for the ‘stolen’ land. Sam’s guess was that if Anderson couldn’t pay his own mortgage, he sure couldn’t pay a neighbor the ridiculous amount the letter alleged that he owed for a tiny strip of land. She crammed all the papers into a shoebox, setting the attorney’s letter on top where the sheriff’s people would easily see it. Finally, she closed the drawers and wiped her dusty hands on her jeans.

Grabbing a duster, Sam hit the door jambs and corners, swiping away the cobwebs that seemingly appeared overnight in this part of the country. She noticed quite a number of nails in the walls; there had once been a lot of pictures hung, and by the spacing she guessed that they were larger pieces of art, not just family photos. But they were gone now.

With the living, dining, kitchen and bathroom in good shape, she tackled the two bedrooms, starting with the smaller. Beau and the deputy had taken several items—clothes and bedding—that might provide DNA for matching with the body in the grave. Sam bagged the rest of the clothing for the trip to the thrift shop. Male, size medium, whose taste ran to rugby shirts and chinos. The bed in this room consisted of a mattress on the floor and it was lumpy looking and stained so it went out to her truck, added to the load for the dump.

The larger, master bedroom seemed to be where the law enforcement guys had concentrated so there wasn’t much left. They took all the bedding, the contents of the bedside stand, and some clothing from closet and dresser. Sam began going through the pockets of every remaining garment, as she’d promised Beau she would do, before tossing the item into the charity bag.

In the pocket of a pair of brown slacks, she came across a narrow slip of yellow paper, like a store receipt. Except it was written as a promissory note, with Anderson agreeing to pay someone named Harry Woodruff, the sum of four hundred dollars for merchandise received. That was all. No name of the store, no explanation of the purchase. Just someone who gave Anderson credit. It was dated two years ago, so the odds were that the debt had been paid or the man had forgotten about it, but Sam saved the slip for the sheriff’s investigators anyway.

Garments continued to fill the bag. All of the clothing was old, as its owner must have been. From the styles of the shirts, pants and shoes, he was a slight man who was probably in his seventies or so. Most everything was well worn, and many of the pieces had paint stains on them. When she reached the far corner of the closet shelf she discovered a box with brushes and paints which explained the condition of his things.

Sam immediately thought of her friend, Rupert Penrick, who probably had friends who might like the supplies. She set the box aside for him.

With the closet clear, she brought in the vacuum cleaner and started to work with the crevice tool. The far reaches were coated in dust balls and cobwebs and she quickly did away with them. Closets always sell a house, so she wanted this one to look as big and unencumbered as possible. She switched on the light and opened the bedroom drapes to see the space better. And then she noticed something strange.

The far wall of the closet was painted very crudely, almost as if someone had taken white shoe polish to it. They were clearly trying to cover up something else, because a design of some kind showed through in a few places. She grabbed a bottle of spray cleaner and decided to check it out.

As she rubbed at one corner of the area, the cheap white coating came away, revealing a scene underneath. The more she worked, the larger the hidden painting became. It was a mural, a rural scene done in an impressionistic style. Odd. What a strange place for a painted mural. She worked at it a little more until the entire scene was revealed. And in the lower corner was a signature. Pierre Cantone.

Her pulse quickened. The Pierre Cantone? No art expert, what little Sam knew had rubbed off from time spent around Rupert, but she knew the name Pierre Cantone. It was like saying have you heard of Renoir or Picasso. Everyone had heard of Cantone. What on earth was Riley Anderson up to? Copying a famous artist’s work, maybe for practice? Or ... an even more astounding thought ... could it be possible that the famous artist had once stayed at this house? Before Anderson bought it? Maybe the old man had unknowingly painted over a real masterpiece.

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed Rupert’s number.

What are you doing? she asked the second she heard his voice.

"I’m writing, Sam. It’s what I do. Every day. I’m two hundred pages into Love’s Velvet Hammer and you wouldn’t have caught me except that I just paused for a quick lunch break." Rupert was an aging writer, former Little Theatre actor, and art aficionado who secretly wrote romance novels under the name of Victoria DeVane. He made a fantastic amount of money, as Victoria was always at the top of the bestseller lists, but only the closest of friends knew his true identity because even his editor says that men can’t write romances.

Good, Sam said. I’ve got something here that you have to see.

Where? Your house?

No, sorry. I’m at one of my break-ins. I may have just found an original Pierre Cantone.

Ohmygod! No way!

I’m pretty sure. Well, okay, I’m not at all sure. I don’t know this stuff, but there’s a mural on one wall, about two feet by three feet big, his style, and his signature.

Girl— He breathed the word more than he said it.

If you want to come out here …

Very little would get Rupert to vary his writing schedule, but art was one thing and a find of this type would definitely do it. Sam gave him directions and he said he’d be there in ten minutes. That worried her a little, since the place was at least twenty minutes from town. But Rupert was known for driving his Mini-Cooper like a Formula-1 racer.

She began to have pangs the minute she hung up. She really should have told Beau Cardwell about this first. She dialed his direct number from the card he’d left with her and quickly explained the find.

It’s painted right on the wall? he said.

She confirmed.

Well, then I guess it’s not going anywhere very soon. You got a camera with you?

Out in the truck. She carried one for the occasional property where she might need to document something really unusual for her supervisor. I’ll get some pictures.

Good. And don’t paint over it or anything. I may need to come back out there at some point and take a look.

Paint over it? Like that would happen. She would, however, be lucky if Rupert didn’t bring a saw with him and want to take out the wall.

Any word yet on the identity of the body in the grave? she asked.

He chuckled. Sam, it’s only been three hours since I was there.

Really? She glanced at her watch. Holy cow. She’d blazed her way through the house in record time. The kitchen alone would have normally taken longer than that. And she didn’t even feel tired.

True to his word, Rupert showed up minutes later. They sat in front of the closet door, staring at the mural. He’d run his hands lovingly over the paint, verifying that it wasn’t just some kind of decal or trick of decoupage or something. No, it truly was an original, painted right there. But was it a Cantone?

A skillful artist who loves Cantone’s style could have copied it, couldn’t he? Sam asked, pointing out the box of paints and brushes she’d found. Maybe Mr. Anderson just wanted to experiment—test his own talent?

An expert would have to authenticate it, of course, Rupert said. But the strange thing is that this scene is unknown. What would the other artist have copied from?

So, he made it up? Copied Cantone’s style and signature?

He made a little grimacing move with his mouth. "Maybe. But why put it here? Someone wants to copy a famous artist they’re usually trying to make some money. And someone this good, sweetie, I can tell you. This guy could be making good money even if he admitted his work was a fake. Passing it off as real—he’d have a chance of pulling it off, selling to some rich dude who didn’t bother to verify, for a couple hundred thou."

Whoa. Sam had no idea Cantone’s work was worth that.

She showed Rupert the digital photos she’d taken and