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reached him.
    Although tea and pastries weren’t
exactly an unusual thing for a bakery owner, she mainly wanted to spend a
little time with a friend and see what she could learn. Rupert suggested a
quaint place that only women or a gay man would know of, Miss Rose’s Lovely Tea
House. Despite her reservations over whether it would be open on a holiday
afternoon, true to Rupert’s prediction, it was. They walked past shelves
displaying delicate English cups and saucers, tea spoons, tea balls, and
finally a case full of delectable sweets. Sam studied them, as always, thinking
of ideas she could ‘borrow.’ Their hostess arrived and showed them to a table.
She eyed the delicate chair legs a little apprehensively as Rupert cast aside
his flowing purple scarf and lowered his two-hundred-plus pounds onto the seat.
    He recommended the Darjeeling so
they ordered a pot of that and an assortment of miniature pastries and
sandwiches. After some minutes of chit-chat, catching up on each others’ lives,
what their mutual friends were up to and pouring the tea, Sam brought up her
true reason for the visit.
    “You remember my jewelry box,” she
began, “the funky carved one with the little stones mounted on it?” She went into
a short version of how she had discovered that her uncle in Ireland had one
nearly identical, only a bit larger.
    Rupert nodded as she talked,
plucking a crustless sandwich triangle from the
serving plate and finishing it off in two bites.
    “Well, knowing there was another
such box out there in the world has made me wonder where mine came from. And
you are always doing research for your books . . . so I wondered if you might
have some ideas where I might find out more.”
    “Honey, the Internet. It’s where I
look up historical data for my purposes. Have you tried that?”
    Sam had to admit that she hadn’t,
but she had a feeling its place in history was only a small part of what made
her box unique. She debated—Rupert had entrusted her with a major secret about
his identity as a writer. Surely she could trust him with some of the unrevealed
aspects of the box and its powers. On the other hand, he might very well turn
around and use the information in a future story. She waited until he’d
finished his third sandwich.
    “What I’m looking for is more
about where this one came from before I got it. I told you that an old woman
named Bertha Martinez gave it to me?”
    He nodded vaguely.
    “Well, according to Beau, people
here in town thought Bertha was a bruja .
When I cleaned out her house I found some curious artifacts.” A dried up old snake and bunches of odd
herbs and candles. “I wonder if there’s anyone else around who might have
known her.”
    “Did you look for her relatives?”
    “We checked that when she died. There
were none that she had regular contact with.”
    Rupert reached for one of the
small éclairs, his mouth pursed in thought. After he’d chewed on it for a
minute his expression brightened. “There’s a reference librarian at the Harwood
who has helped me out several times. Cora . . . Cora . . . Well, I can’t think
of her last name at the moment. It’s probably in my address book at home. For Shaman’s Love I had to do some rather specialized research on New Mexico
traditions along those lines. This lady knew what books to point me to.”
    It didn’t sound exactly like what
Sam needed, but it was worth a try. She thanked him and picked up the last
sandwich. With a bit of free time coming up, this could be the perfect time to
pursue leads on the mysterious box.
    She said goodbye in the parking
lot and wished Rupert luck with his book, then started her truck. Her hand was
on the gearshift when her phone rang. She shoved it back in Park and picked up.
Delbert Crow’s name showed on the readout. Darn.
    Unfortunately, if she ignored it
he would only call back so she answered.
    “Got another job for you,” he
said. No greeting, no niceties, no Happy Easter.
    “Hold