Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery (14 page)

“Mr. Killington has two of Cantone’s
paintings. I was just telling him . . .”

Rupert reached out and touched her arm. “Sam,
hold it. Killington? Are you— No, couldn’t be. Sophie
Cantone—Killington’s son? You are Cantone’s nephew?”

They couldn’t flat-out interrogate the guy,
but there were other ways to get information.

“But we heard— Didn’t you live near Taos with
your uncle?” Sam turned to Rupert. “Isn’t that what we heard? That
the artist had a nephew caring for him?”

Bart looked a little uncomfortable but
apparently she’d given him the opening he needed.

“I actually had lost contact with my uncle
for a number of years. The whole family had. After Mother died, I
didn’t quite know where to turn. Then I discovered where he
was.”

“In that tiny house, practically living in
poverty.” She shook her head sadly.

“Well, uh, yes.”

“And you offered to bring him here, to your
beautiful home?”

“Uh, actually, I hadn’t found this place yet.
I wanted to take him in, to have him come to my place in
California, but he was just too ill to travel. And he didn’t want
to leave New Mexico. He always loved it here. All I could do was to
move in with him and care for him, in his own house.”

Uh-huh.

But before she could ask any more questions,
Rupert’s cell phone rang. He jumped.

“Oh my, I guess I have a signal again.”

Chapter 17

Rupert took the call, stepping into the
kitchen for privacy. While he um-hmm’d a couple of times, Sam
turned back to Bart.

“You know, the Sheriff in Taos County had a
lot of questions about Mr. Cantone’s death. It looked like a lot of
art was missing from the house.” Those blank spots—nails without
pictures—had been bothering her from day one. “And the fact that he
was buried in the back yard in a practically unmarked grave . .
.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t
especially care what some small town sheriff thinks. I am Pierre
Cantone’s sole heir. He was buried according to his wishes and his
will left me everything.”

“And you went from living in the spare room
in a house that was barely more than a shack, to . . . this. All in
just a few months’ time?”

Bart’s tone became defensive. “I sold one
painting. It went quickly because no new Cantone works had appeared
on the market in years. So, yes, I bought myself a nicer lifestyle
with the proceeds. I have nothing to apologize for.”

A tap on the shoulder got her attention.
“Sweetie,” Rupert said. “I think we can be on our way. The service
manager suggested something I might try, to get the car started.”
He glanced at Bart. “If it doesn’t work, they’ll send a tow truck.
We’ll be out of your way shortly.”

He took her elbow and steered her out the
front door.

“What was that all about?” she said as they
walked down the drive. “Did you actually call a service shop?”

“Oh no. I just made that up. It was time to
get you out of there.” He caught her look. “Honey, what more were
you going to learn? And you were just pissing him off.”

Well, that was probably true.

“He claims that Cantone left him the entire
estate.”

“And that might very well be true.”

“But then why—?”

“Why did Cantone live in near-squalor? Why
did this nephew happen to show up at just the right moment? Honey,
I don’t think we’re ever going to know that.”

Sam fumed while Rupert did some little thing
under the hood. The Land Rover started right up. Rupert looked up
toward the house and gave a little wave to Bart, who stood on the
wide front steps.

“I just don’t like all the coincidences,” she
muttered as they drove away.

By the time they got to Taos she’d cooled
slightly. She would ask Beau how they might find out about the
artist’s will. And she would damn sure give him a thorough
description of the massive new house, the art on the walls,
and—thanks to Rupert’s quick thinking—the nephew’s phone
number.

Wednesday morning Sam hit the floor running.
She mixed batter for the wedding cake, and put the first layers in
to bake. A pain with a normal home-sized oven—they’d have to be
done two at a time until she had enough to form the tiers. She’d
had her eye on a good commercial baking oven for a long time, but
there was simply no way to adapt her little kitchen for it. While
she waited for the timer, she whipped up a batch of royal icing and
created lace insets that would dry hard and could then be placed
around the sides of the largest tier. She would pipe dots and
swirls for the traditional look that the bride wanted.

Kelly wandered out of her room around ten,
eyed the production in the kitchen—cakes on cooling racks, trays of
lace and roses, the smell of cake baking in the oven—and opted for
coffee and a muffin. When asked about the job search, she shrugged
and walked away.

Sam resisted the urge to say something more,
to make suggestions of places in town where she might apply.
Truthfully, it wasn’t so much wanting to give motherly advice as it
was to nag her daughter until she got her privacy back.

She pulled the final layers from the oven,
tucked the decorative elements back into the fridge to harden, and
left the cakes to cool thoroughly before she could touch them
again. According to her calendar, this was the day to make another
run by the Martinez place, and she figured she could work that in
before starting the assembly on the cake. She wanted to have it
completely decorated today, so it could firm up and be ready for
delivery tomorrow.

Bertha Martinez’s little place needed some
yard work, but Sam wasn’t prepared to devote the time today. She
swept dry leaves from the porch, then went inside and checked the
places she thought of as hot-spots. This time of year, as the
nights started to get cold, mice were likely to come looking for
food and warm winter beds so she checked their usual favorite
haunts—under sinks, in cabinets and pantries. Sometimes the little
critters looked for a vulnerable spot in upholstered furniture
where they could rip out some padding and make themselves a cozy
nest. She found one suspicious little hole in the sofa and couldn’t
remember if it had been there before. She kept a few packages of
yummy poison in the truck, so she set out a few in inconspicuous
corners. She’d check them again in a few more days.

She was almost ready to lock up when her cell
phone rang and she saw that it was Beau.

“How are things going with Kelly?” he asked.
“I notice she’s still at your place.”

She filled him in on their little talk the
other night, Kelly’s financial problems and the fact that she’d
left her job in a snit. She could tell he was trying hard not to
offer advice. She changed the subject by letting him know what she
and Rupert had done yesterday.

“Sam . . .”

“I know. It probably wasn’t the smartest
thing.”

“That nephew could have gotten violent with
you. You know nothing about him.”

“He didn’t seem the type. Plus, I had Rupert
there.”

Beau huffed to let her know how much
protection he thought Rupert might provide.

“Anyway, it was uneventful and I got some
good information. Bart readily admitted that he’d been living in
the house with Cantone and that he’d buried him in the
backyard.”

“He volunteered that?”

“Well, I asked him. But he didn’t deny it.
Said it was in accordance with his uncle’s wishes.” She locked
Bertha’s front door and walked toward her truck as she talked. “He
said his uncle left him everything, including a bunch of
paintings.”

“Hmm . . . I have a hard time believing
there’s been time to probate the will and distribute the
estate.”

“Me too. I don’t know how that stuff
works.”

“I’m not up on all of it either, but I’m
fairly certain that he can’t just be selling paintings and spending
the money. Not until the state gets its hefty share of inheritance
taxes. On the other hand, without a death certificate or public
burial, until you reported the grave to me the state probably had
no knowledge of the death at all.”

“And that would be just the way Bart
Killington would want it, don’t you think? I’m just surprised that
he stayed so close by. He could have easily headed back to
California or skipped the country.”

“He might not have known any better. Just
assumed he could take everything and go on his merry way.”

“But, Beau, what if there’s more? I can’t get
over the feeling that Cantone was young to die. What if his nephew
saw a great opportunity and took it?”

“No one says that criminals don’t do dumb
things.”

“I still have a lot of Cantone’s papers.
Something told me not to just throw them out. Maybe I’ll go through
them and see if there’s a copy of a will. It would be interesting
to know if we’re getting the full story from Bart.”

“If you do find one, there will probably be
an attorney’s name with it, or somewhere in his papers. The
attorney would be the best one to follow up with. It’s outside the
jurisdiction of my department unless a judge orders us to serve
papers.”

“The other thing that’s bugging me is the
question of reburying Cantone. Now that we know there is a living
relative, shouldn’t he be involved?”

“Yeah, and I guess I need to check that out
and probably pay a visit to him. The property no longer belongs to
Cantone, unless Bart wants to step in and pay the mortgage and back
taxes.” Beau didn’t sound happy about getting this involved.

Sam gave him Bart’s phone number and drove
back home.

Kelly was gone when she got there. A glance
into her room showed an unmade bed and an explosion of clothing on
every surface. No hints about where she’d gone, but it wasn’t back
to L.A.

She began the assembly of the wedding cake
for tomorrow’s delivery—icing each tier in ivory buttercream, then
stacking the tiers on dowels with separators between.

While letting the smooth icing set, she
dragged out the box of papers she’d brought from Cantone’s place.
Aside from the bank statements there were really only a couple of
folders that looked like they contained anything important. Most
were paid bills dating back a year or so. She carefully paged
through every sheet but there was no will and nothing with an
attorney’s name. If there had been a will, as Bart Killington
claimed, chances were good that he had the only copy. The knowledge
chafed at her.

She washed her hands thoroughly and went back
to the cake. Her favorite part was the actual decorating. She
pulled bowls of buttercream that she’d made earlier from the
refrigerator and began filling pastry bags. Scrolls and fluted
ribbons flowed from the tip of the bag, and her royal-icing lace
blended in with the soft frosting beautifully. Two hours slipped by
as she became completely immersed in the work. Finally, she took
the mauve roses from the fridge and placed them, piping a few
leaves around them for authenticity. Tiny pearlized dots completed
the look.

Out on the service porch was a separate
refrigerator with most of the shelves removed, which she used for
cake storage until the actual delivery. She opened the door to it,
hefted the forty pounds of cake and ornate frosting, and placed it
gently inside. Done. At least for today.

She heard Kelly’s car in the driveway as she
headed back to the kitchen. Maybe she should threaten to put Kelly
to work as her clean-up assistant. That would certainly get her out
there pushing harder to find a desk job.

“Hey, Mom,” Kelly said, her brown curls
bouncing as she came into the kitchen. “Did you see the message I
left on the counter?”

Sam looked around but every surface in the
kitchen was filled with baking and decorating utensils.

“Near the microwave,” Kelly said.

Wedged into the narrow space between the oven
and the wall Sam got a glimpse of yellow paper. She picked it out
and saw that someone wanted an order of cupcakes for a birthday
party tomorrow afternoon. Suddenly, a week with more business than
she could handle. When it rains it pours, as her mother used to
say. As long as the kitchen was a mess anyway, she might as well
get with it now.

She called the customer to verify
details—suggested buttercream frosting, since there was a lot of it
left—and then mixed up a batch of batter and started baking the
two-dozen cupcakes. While they were in the oven she searched out
her largest decorating tips. Huge flowers were quick and easy to
make with the oversized tips, and she thought they’d go over well
with the birthday girl, a thirty-something who’d heard about Sam
through her friend Erica. She quickly tinted frosting in a variety
of colors and placed it aside in the fridge.

“How about if I make dinner tonight?” Kelly
offered, coming in from her room. “I learned a quick pasta dish
awhile back, if you’ve got some small tomatoes and linguine.”

Sam took back most of the negative thoughts
she’d had about her daughter in the last twenty-four hours. At
times she could be so thoughtful. Seeing mom up to her chin in
dirty dishes and frosting must have triggered her cooperative-gene.
Or not.

“I’m starving!” she said. “Is it okay if I
get started on the pasta now?”

Sam filled the dishwasher, dumped the rest of
the buttery items into hot water to soak, and gladly turned the
kitchen over.

“I’m going to get a quick shower,” Sam told
her. “When the timer on the oven goes off, just take the cupcakes
out and set them on these racks.”

When she stepped out of the shower ten
minutes later she got the distinctive whiff of smoke.

Chapter 18

Sam snatched up a robe and dashed for the
kitchen.