Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery (21 page)

She picked him up ten minutes later and they
drove east on Kit Carson Road. The winding drive put her in a
bucolic mood and she gave herself over to enjoying the brilliant
yellow black-eyed Susans and purple asters that lined the pavement.
Elm trees cast dappled shadows over the occasional adobe cottages
and log cabins that appeared along the winding Rio Fernando.

Rupert was in a chatty mood and he kept Sam
entertained with stories about the celebrities who’d attended an
art academy fund raiser the night before. She laughed at the right
places, embarrassed to admit that she didn’t recognize half the
names and wouldn’t have known any of the faces. She probably hadn’t
looked at an issue of
People
in five years, and her days of
avidly following who was who had waned soon after the Beatles broke
up. But Rupert was in his element in that environment.

They crested Palo Flechado Pass at more than
9200 feet and started down the opposite side of the mountain, the
ski runs of Angel Fire visible in the distance. Ten miles through a
wide green valley took them past Eagle Nest Lake, which sparkled in
the midday light, and into the little town of Eagle Nest. Sam
always marveled at how different this terrain was than her side of
the mountain, only a few miles away. They cruised the main street
with its quaint western-styled shops and restaurants, and then
found the turnoff the man had described. In a plain little
residential neighborhood sat a white van parked beside a house with
wood siding, which was painted tan and green.

“This looks like the place,” she said,
pulling in behind the van. Her eyes sparkled. The vehicle looked
like exactly what she wanted.

“Honey, you better tone down the enthusiasm.
The guy’s going to double the price.”

“Ah, but he already quoted it in his ad,” she
pointed out.

Rupert shrugged and got out of the truck.

An older man came out of the house, hitching
up his jeans and making tucking motions at a red plaid shirt that
was already tightly tucked in.

“Howdy. Bill Hutchins.” His voice immediately
reminded Sam of her father. She greeted him in the same tone. They
went back and forth with a little where-are-you-from chat and
learned that they’d grown up less than fifty miles apart. He’d
bought the small van because his wife loved antiquing and wanted to
open a shop. They’d planned to make buying trips all over the area
but then she’d broken her hip last winter and it soon became clear
that the business would never get off the ground. He’d decided to
sell the van since it was a painful reminder to his wife that her
dream wasn’t going to happen.

“I want to take her on a cruise,” he said.
“Them ships got ever’thing now. She’ll like that, gettin treated
like a queen.”

Sam circled the van while he talked. It truly
was perfect for her needs. There were back seats but they folded
down to create a large cargo area. A remote opener gave hands-free
access to the back, a huge help when she was loaded down with a big
cake. It even had a trailer hitch already mounted, which would
allow her to hook up her utility trailer and continue with her
caretaking job. And it still smelled new.

“I like it a lot. I just have to work out the
money part,” she told Hutchins, waving toward the big red
Silverado. “I brought cash for a deposit but then I have to sell my
truck.”

He gave a little frown. “It’s just that I got
her listed online, you know?”

Sam caught a glimpse of Rupert, signaling her
from the front of the van. She excused herself and walked over to
him.

“Sam, how much are you short?”

“I need ten thousand, and it really has to
come from selling the truck.”

“Why? You might need the truck sometimes too.
Let me give you the money. You can use two vehicles.”

“Absolutely not! You can’t do that.”

“Honey, Victoria makes more money than I can
spend. I’ve got money with me . . .”

She looked again at the van and at Bill
Hutchins. “I can’t really ask him to hold it for me, can I?”

“No. And it’s perfect for you.” Rupert’s
enthusiasm tugged like a tidal wave. “I’m seeing your Sweet’s Sweet
logo, done in that technique that covers the whole vehicle.”

“Oh, no. Something small and tasteful,” she
insisted. Here she was, planning a paint scheme already?

Rupert nudged her. “Tell him you want
it.”

Sam wavered. Technically, she could take the
money from her savings but she would lose interest on it and she’d
promised herself that money would go toward equipping her bakery
kitchen. Her truck was in good shape and it should sell quickly.
“Only if we call it a loan. I’ll pay you the minute I sell the
truck.”

“Fine.” He looked like he really didn’t care
how long it took.

They consummated the deal and Hutchins signed
over the title. Sam nearly choked when Rupert pulled out a wad of
hundreds but she didn’t say anything in front of the other man.
Hutchins pocketed the cash, shook hands and went back in his
house.

“I saw a cute burger place on the main drag,”
Sam told Rupert as they were about to get into the two vehicles.
“Let me buy you lunch.”

Rupert was never one to pass up a hearty
meal, she’d noticed, and he grinned at the suggestion. He climbed
into the Silverado and she took the wheel of her new van. They
parked in front of the ’50s-themed burger place a few minutes
later.

“So, Rupe, don’t tell me that you always
carry that kind of cash on you.”

He shrugged. “Actually, never. I just went
prepared to the art fundraiser last night and then I didn’t buy
anything.”

“Thank you.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him
a long hug. “You’re a wonderful friend.”

Sam found herself in a mellow mood driving
back over the mountain, after devouring thick, juicy burgers and
freshly cut fries. They parked both vehicles at her house and she
gave Rupert a lift home in her new van, hugging him again before he
got out.

Beau had left a message on her machine at
home and she called him back. He let her go on for a minute or so
about the great vehicle find before she remembered to ask him what
he’d called about.

“I spent the morning in Santa Fe, questioning
Bart Killington.”

“Really? And?” She held her breath in hopes
that the case had been neatly wrapped up.

“And not much,” he said. “He swears he knows
nothing about any poisonous plant, that he never harmed his
uncle.”

“Bull! I just don’t believe it.”

“I don’t know, Sam. I’ve questioned a lot of
people over the years. This guy’s whole demeanor just seemed
truthful.”

“You’re kidding! He admits he was living in
the house with Cantone. Residue of the plant is all over his
bedroom. The kitchen fairly reeked of the stuff. That had to be the
place where he ground up the plant and added it to the old man’s
food or drink or whatever.”

“Sam, he was even willing to give
fingerprints so we could check for a match.”

“Really?” She felt a flicker of uncertainty.
“And?”

“The prints of plant residue that we lifted
don’t match Bart Killington.”

Chapter 25

Sam felt an almost physical shock. “Did you
say they
don’t
match?”

“Don’t. Do not. The prints aren’t
Bart’s.”

What could that mean? Maybe the prints
belonged to the artist himself and maybe he really had picked the
plants and eaten them. What other explanation could there be?

“. . . and should have an answer in the next
day or two,” Beau was saying.

“Sorry. I didn’t catch all of that.”

“Prints from Cantone’s body. We’ve got an
expert coming in, a guy who knows more about getting partial prints
from other places—wrists, palms of hands, and such.” His voice
softened. “Sam, you can’t let this get to you so much. It’s
probably the hardest thing in law enforcement, not to force the
evidence to fit the outcome we want. But we can’t do that. You may
not like the answers but whatever they are, they’ll be the
truth.”

She forced herself to breathe slowly and
counted three beats before she responded.

“I know, Beau. I know.”

“We can re-examine the motives of those other
suspects, the neighbors Cantone didn’t get along with. They’d all
have access to the plants, and maybe one of them was a whole lot
angrier than we realized. But frankly, Sam, those possibilities
seem thin. I’m thinking the old guy probably accidentally ingested
the stuff.”

She hung up feeling a huge letdown, puzzling
over the new twist. Just when she was about to call Beau back to
ask more questions, she noticed that a car had pulled up out front
and a man was walking toward her truck. She gave him a minute to
circle it and when he stayed she went out to greet him.

“I’ve been wanting a truck like this ever
since we moved here,” he said. “We’re up on a dirt road in the
hills and that sedan just doesn’t make the climb whenever it’s wet
out.”

“She’s good in snow, too,” Sam said,
wondering whether she’d miss her old 4x4 when it was gone.

She opened the door for him and he sat
inside, clearly enjoying himself. Then he looked under the hood and
prodded the tires to see how much tread they had left. Twenty
minutes later they’d worked it out that he would give her a check
for the full amount now and leave the truck with her. Monday they’d
meet at the bank, cash the check, she’d sign over the title.

She took the For Sale sign off the truck then
called Rupert to let him know that she could repay his loan by
Monday afternoon.

“I don’t know what to think now about Pierre
Cantone’s death,” she said, after telling him what Beau had said
about the non-matching fingerprints. “Maybe I completely misjudged
Bart.”

“Well, I still think he’s one cold fish,”
Rupert said. “I mean, anyone who could stick a relative into a
grave in the backyard and then go off and start spending his
fortune. The man’s dirt. At least he could have sprung for a decent
funeral.”

“Maybe you should be saying that to him.”

“Maybe I will.”

A lightbulb came on. What if . . . “I’m
thinking we should pay Bart Killington a little social visit. If he
knew that people in the art world are upset about Cantone’s
unseemly gravesite, maybe he actually would feel some remorse.
Maybe he’d feel honor bound to do a nice memorial.” And maybe she
could find some other evidence to nail the sick little creep, if
she could just get inside his house again.

“Mrs. Knightley . . . you have standing in
the art world. A leisurely Sunday drive tomorrow, my dear?”

“Bring me something to wear again.”

This time Sam’s outfit was a chic pantsuit in
autumn gold, with strappy sandals and again the Patek Philippe. As
she bent to buckle the sandals she eyed Rupert’s feet. What size .
. .? nah—she refused to think about it.

Before he arrived she’d prepared by holding
the wooden box in her arms, and again she felt an almost tingly
sensation in her hands when she set it down. Her hair behaved
perfectly when she brushed it and, again, she swore her skin looked
fresher and younger. She pushed the box to the back of her dresser.
She could not let herself get in the habit of relying on its
power.

Rupert had called ahead to Carolyn
Hildebrandt and set an appointment, saying that Mrs. Knightly
wanted to view more of Cantone’s work. The plan was to find nothing
of interest at the gallery and insist on being shown more.
Hildebrandt would be their ticket into Bart’s home. And Sam would
keep her eyes open for anything with that odd shade of green powder
on it.

The plan worked like a charm, right up to the
moment Bart Killington opened his door to them.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” he said, staring
hard at Rupert.

Sam gulped. They hadn’t planned on his being
there.

“Why, my goodness, I think we have. The day
my Land Rover broke down on this road. You were so kind as to let
me use your phone.”

Bart was giving Sam the stare now but she
could tell he seemed puzzled. “Do you have an older sister?”

“Yes!” Rupert jumped in. “Yes, Mrs.
Knightly’s sister. I was giving her a ride to the airport that day.
You have an excellent memory, Mr. Killington.” He sounded almost
flirtatious and Sam wanted to nudge him in the ribs.

Instead, she turned to Carolyn Hildebrandt.
“The paintings?”

“Bart?” Hildebrandt clearly wanted to get to
the bottom line as quickly as possible. She’d had to lock up her
gallery for this.

“Oh yes. Well. Most of them aren’t hanging
yet. As I think I mentioned before, I’ve just moved in.”

“Show Mrs. Knightly the two in the dining
room,” Rupert said, sticking with the cover story.

Bart led the way and Sam reverted to script
with lots of ‘interesting’ and ‘I must consider this one’ thrown
in. She hardly noticed the paintings themselves. Both frames had
faint smudges of green on the edges.

“There are more in my safe. If you’ll take
seats in the living room, I think Ms. Hildebrandt and I can carry
them in for you.” They bustled away.

Once the other two were out of sight, Sam
began to wander the room, looking for any signs of the green
residue. There didn’t seem to be any. Not surprising. Bart had
moved to this house a couple of months after his uncle’s death.
Only items that had previously been in Cantone’s home were likely
to yield any clues. She scurried back to the couch when she heard
voices in the hall.

Hildebrandt entered, carrying a fairly large
landscape, gripping the heavy wood frame by its edges. Behind her,
Bart held two smaller pieces by the wires on the backs. They
propped the three paintings against a wall, apologizing again that
they weren’t properly hung for viewing. Sam gave Rupert a subtle
shake of her head.