Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery (22 page)

“It’s no problem,” Rupert assured them. “I
don’t think we see anything of interest in this group. Would you
like for us to come with you to take a quick peek at the
others?”

Bart didn’t seem to like the idea of showing
them where his safe was, but he wasn’t thrilled at having to haul
all the paintings through the house either. Hildebrandt shot him a
look and he capitulated.

“Come this way,” he said.

They followed him down a long hall and into
his study. One of the bookcases along the wall had been pushed
aside to reveal a walk-in safe behind it. Sam eyed the mechanism
appreciatively. She’d had no idea this existed on her previous
visit.

The paintings which had been stacked against
the wall that day were now inside the safe. She stood in the
doorway while Bart stepped inside and shifted the canvases to
reveal each new one. Of the dozen paintings, four of them had
distinct green marks on them—six, including the two hanging in the
dining room.

“There’s something special about those,” Sam
said, pointing to the four with the marks.

Hildebrandt responded with all the usual
art-talk, comments on the artist’s techniques, his style. But no
one seemed to notice the smudges. Certainly, neither Bart nor
Carolyn made a move to wipe away what would have appeared to be
dust, if they could see it. Sam glanced at Rupert. He was clearly
enthralled at seeing so many works by his favorite artist, all in
one place. But he evidently didn’t see any unusual markings
either.

“Rupert,” Sam said, interrupting his reverie,
“wasn’t there something you specifically wanted to speak with Mr.
Killington about?” She sent a pointed stare his direction.

Comprehension dawned. Rupert drew himself up
straight. “Yes, there was.” He turned on Carolyn Hildebrandt. “I’m
shocked that you haven’t pressed this matter, as someone with
standing in the art world.”

Puzzlement from both Bart and Carolyn.

“A number of us are very upset that Pierre
Cantone received such a primitive burial, and even more distressed
that there was no memorial service for him. At the very least all
of Santa Fe and Taos should have been told of his death. We are
mourning deeply, nay, profoundly at the loss to the art world. And
nothing . . . nothing! . . . to memorialize such a great man.”

Okay, Rupe, Sam thought. Chill just a
little.

But the great man was not to be shushed.

“I’m prepared to purchase—for my own
collection—and I am not opposed to compensating you at full market
value. But there must be a suitable tribute to the immortal
Cantone.”

He turned to Sam, throwing the ball squarely
in her court.

“Absolutely,” she said, as adamantly as she
could muster. “Without a proper burial and suitable memorial . .
.”

Carolyn Hildebrandt recovered first. “But of
course.”

Bart seemed to be hanging on to his first
story. “My uncle’s wishes, though . . . He loved his land, the open
space.”

Sam stared him down. In full Mrs. Knightly
mode her voice dripped ice. “Surely, Mr. Killington. Surely there
is an appropriate open space that might be utilized. In fact,” she
paused as an idea hit her. “In fact, it seems that part of the
proceeds from the sale of Cantone’s work should be used to purchase
the property on which he lived. To recreate his studio, to hang
many of his works, and to lay out a proper grave site for him.”

The silence practically reverberated in the
small room.

Rupert stared at her for a good four seconds
before his mouth would work again. “Sa— Say, what an excellent
idea! I mean, surely the sale of just one or two paintings would
procure the site, cover the necessary upgrades for renovation and
security measures . . .. And of course a trust should be set up for
the ongoing care and maintenance of the place.” He faced the open
room and waved one hand in an arc. “I see it now, The Pierre
Cantone Foundation for the Furtherance of Art Studies.”

Bart’s face had gone white. Carolyn’s wheels
were clearly turning, figuring out how she could score commissions
on the whole plan.

Sam took in the whole tableau, enjoying the
drama.

After a good thirty seconds passed without a
word, Sam shook herself out of it. She’d come here to find evidence
of a murder and ended up starting an art foundation?

Chapter 26

Carolyn Hildebrandt finally spoke, her voice
bright with the prospect of several sales. “Well, I’d say this
calls for some champagne!”

Bart’s arms flapped uselessly at his sides,
like he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

Sam felt a glow of satisfaction. With a
well-known gallery owner behind the idea, he couldn’t very well
back out. Now that the concept had been broached he would indeed
appear to be completely selfish if he nixed it. On the other hand,
Sam didn’t get the impression that the man had an altruistic bone
in his body. He seemed like the type who, given unlimited money,
would keep adding to his acquisitions—another house or two, a yacht
or plane, world travel. She got a thrill out of watching him
squirm.

“Rupert, I think we should cap off this
lovely afternoon by examining the art. You shall have first
selection of the piece you’d like for your own collection. Then, if
everyone is in agreement, I shall choose the pieces that deserve to
be hung at the new place.” Sam saw a panicky look go between Bart
and Carolyn. Maybe she’d overstepped in her role as the rich woman
who routinely got her way. “Of course, there will be time for all
that.”

“The champagne!” said Carolyn
Hildebrandt.

“Yes—let’s.” Bart recovered enough to realize
that the whole thing had slipped out of his control. He stepped
forward and ushered everyone away from the safe room and out of his
study.

Sam found herself taking tiny sips of the
sparkling wine, claiming that she had a long drive ahead. Rupert
continued his role with ease, chatting on about the paintings and
going so far as to walk back to the safe, move the canvases about
until he could see them all, and proceed to choose one to buy. He
even peeled a few hundred dollars off and handed it to Bart as a
deposit.

What had just happened in there?

Walking out of the house, Sam felt as if she
had nails in her clothing and tacks in her shoes. Acting was
definitely not her forte, she decided as they rode back to the
gallery with Carolyn Hildebrandt and said their goodbyes. She took
a moment in Rupert’s vehicle, to write down the names of the
paintings on which she’d seen the green residue, so she could
report them accurately to Beau. The prickly feeling began to
subside as they got away from Santa Fe.

By the time they cruised north through
Velarde, she was dozing lightly in the car. She roused as they
approached Taos, straightening in her seat and half wondering
whether she’d dreamed Rupert’s dramatic little scene at
Killington’s house. But the crumpled piece of paper in her hand
reminded her that she still had to report her findings to Beau.

Kelly’s car was in the driveway when Rupert
dropped Sam off at her house.

“How was your day with Iris?” Sam asked.

“It was good. Just getting used to being with
one person all day.”

Sam looked over at her daughter, who was busy
stirring cocoa powder into a mug. She didn’t detect anything
wrong.

“Oh, Beau said to tell you to give him a
call,” Kelly said. She gave a lopsided grin. “I think he’s going to
ask you out.”

Sam caught herself blushing.

“Mom . . . what’s with the getup?”

Sam glanced down and remembered she was still
dressed in the Mrs. Knightly gear. “Uh, Rupert and I went to this
art thing.”

“Oh.”

Sam hurried to her room and changed into
comfortable flannels and then returned Beau’s call. They made plans
for dinner the following evening and he laughingly assured her that
she wouldn’t have to wear hiking boots this time.

They met at the restaurant, a Mexican place
just off Highway 64, convenient for her since she’d spent part of
the afternoon checking on her ski-valley area property. She’d
needed the physical exertion of chopping at underbrush to work off
her frustration after the buyer of her truck called to say that he
had to cancel. Just couldn’t put the money together. The pickup
once again sported its For Sale sign and Rupert assured Sam there
was no hurry in repaying him.

Beau had asked Kelly to do a little evening
duty, to stay and give Iris dinner and get her settled in for the
night. Sam found herself watching for clues as he talked, but
everything Beau said about Kelly’s job performance sounded
positive. Apparently she’d begun to form a solid friendship with
Iris, and Beau seemed very happy with the arrangement.

A waiter brought margaritas and took their
food orders.

Once they got all the chitchat out of the
way, Sam broached the other subject that was on her mind.

“Rupert and I took a drive to Santa Fe
yesterday. He’s trying to spearhead a move to set up a memorial to
Cantone, out at the property where he lived. He thinks Bart should
sell a painting or two to finance it.” She caught herself smiling
at the memory. “Actually, he’s laying a pretty heavy guilt trip on
Bart for the undignified burial.”

“Good. It really was a pretty crummy thing to
do, seeing how well-loved Cantone was.”

Their plates arrived just then, chile
rellenos for Sam and a huge cheese-smothered beef burrito for Beau.
They spent a couple of minutes taking the first bites and
exclaiming over the good, hot chile before Sam turned the
conversation back to art.

“There are fourteen paintings at Bart’s
house. I saw green smudges on six of them. Interesting that not all
of them had it. And I watched the others carefully. No one else
apparently saw any of it.”

“Remember that I told you we had a print
expert trying to get something usable from Cantone’s body. He was
able to get viable prints from the palm of one hand and some
partial prints of two fingers.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but,’ ” Sam said.

“But nothing matched. Not one of those plant
residue smudges matched with anything we got from Cantone.”

“They don’t match Cantone and they don’t
match Bart?” Her fork clattered against the plate.

“Right.”

“So now what?”

“Someone else was in that house. Someone who
handled both the poisonous plant and the paintings.” He paused for
another bite of his burrito.

“Have you had the chance to question the
neighbors yet?”

He shook his head. “I think I have some more
questions for Mr. Bart Killington, though.”

Sam had a discouraging feeling that she knew
how that would turn out. Maybe she would try to talk again with
Betty McDonald, and perhaps Leonard Trujillo, herself.

They shared an apple cobbler for dessert,
with a nice wine, and Beau began to get that certain look in his
eye again. When he suggested, “your place?” she knew she was
ready.

She gave the living room a critical look as
they walked in, wishing she’d planned ahead, thought to neaten up
the place, to have some candles ready, to chill some wine. But in
the end, it didn’t matter. Beau took her into his arms and her
insides went molten as they kissed.

She took him to her bedroom and switched on a
small lamp. They undressed quickly and found a mutual rhythm of
desire.

Later, as they lay together, he traced a line
over her shoulder. “You’re magical,” he said.

She glanced past him, to the wooden box on
the dresser. She hadn’t touched it all day. Any magic tonight had
come strictly on her own.

Chapter 27

Beau left around midnight and Sam snuggled
into her covers. Her body felt alive, sparkling with the
combination of great sex, the wine they’d shared after the first
time, then the second leisurely exploration of each other. She
savored the feeling. She had memories of younger times, other
lovers, but nothing like this. Beau satisfied more than her
physical needs—he gave emotionally, in a way she would treasure.
The years of self-enforced celibacy seemed a little silly now.

At some point she heard Kelly come in but she
registered the sound only as a vague fact, an event without the
power to intrude into her dreams. She fell into a deep, pleasant
sleep.

The faraway sound of the telephone woke Sam
and she rolled over to glance at her clock. It was well after nine.
Kelly had probably gotten up and left for work almost two hours
ago. Sam pulled on a robe and caught the phone just before the
answering machine took over.

“Hey you.” Beau’s tone indicated that he was
alone somewhere. “How are you this morning?”

“Completely luxuriating in a lazy
morning.”

“Good. You deserve it. That was amazing last
night.”

She agreed. “Are you at work?”

“Yeah, actually. Couldn’t get out of it.
Although I would’ve loved to.” Again, that ache in his voice.

Sam remembered that she had work she couldn’t
avoid either. The book cake for the Chocoholics was baked but not
decorated. She would have to get it to the store by this afternoon.
And she hadn’t worked on Cantone’s place in several days. With the
recent rains and warm weather, she ought to see if the yard needed
another mowing. She didn’t tell him about her idea of talking to
the neighbors out there.

“I’m having Bart Killington brought up here
for more questioning,” Beau was saying. “He may not be a suspect
anymore, but he knows more than he’s telling. Maybe I can find out
who the other person was, the one handling the deathcamas.”

“You don’t have to go to Santa Fe for
that?”

“If necessary, Sheriff Padilla can have the
Santa Fe County authorities pick him up and bring him here. I think
I’ve finally impressed upon him that we don’t have a simple
accidental death here. Getting Bart away from his own territory
might help throw a little fear into him. Make him more talkative.
Who knows? He may come willingly.” Some papers rustled in the
background. “I’ve got about a dozen reports to finish up, but maybe
we can get together later in the day, or this evening?”