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.
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.
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.
