Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery (24 page)

“But—Carolyn?”

“I never saw her. Got hung up with a
fender-bender in town, had to radio Taos police to handle it.” He
pulled Sam into his embrace. “I was pretty worried that I’d gotten
too far behind him.”

Sam leaned against his chest. His timing
couldn’t have been better.

“I’m going to have about a week’s worth of
paperwork to do,” Beau murmured, keeping an eye on his prisoner.
“But I want to see you this evening. If you’re up to some kind of
take-out dinner and a few drinks.”

She was more than up for it. A quiet evening
at home seemed like nirvana at that moment. She watched as Beau led
Killington to the cruiser and secured him in the back seat. The
backup officer continued to photograph the places where Carolyn’s
bullets left their mark, and to bag the gun and the smashed bullet
from the carport post.

The late-afternoon sun was already doing its
work at drying the road and droplets of water clinging to the newly
clipped grass provided only a small reminder of the ferocity of the
storm. In the flowerbeds beside the house a few late roses shed
beaten petals, their final act before winter. The head of one
deathcamas, however, bloomed as heartily as ever, protected by an
overhanging rosebush.

Sam locked the front door and watched Beau
drive away. A few minutes later, the other officer finished and
went on his way. Sam surveyed the property that had been under her
care for the past two weeks. It seemed lonelier than ever.

Chapter 30

Nine messages waited on Sam’s machine when
she got home, with another five on her cell phone, which she’d left
in the van all afternoon. Among them were Rupert (twice), Zoe, Ivan
Petrenko, and a couple other friends. Even Kelly and Iris had heard
the story on the news before Beau got the chance to call home and
reassure his mother. Some zealous reporter had caught the police
call on the scanner and was waiting with cameras rolling when Beau
led Bart Killington into the county jail for booking.

Exterior shots of the hospital at which “an
unknown woman with a gunshot wound” was admitted were what prompted
all the calls to Sam. Apparently Rupert, the only one who knew
enough of the story to put it together, had gone a little off the
deep end with worry and had begun calling around to see if Sam were
with friends. When she wasn’t, they all assumed the worst. Zoe and
Darryl had actually driven to the hospital, only to learn that the
injured woman was someone else.

Sam spent two hours returning calls and
explaining before she finally decided enough was enough. She wanted
a hot shower and a cup of tea.

Beau showed up an hour later, bringing Kelly
and Iris, and they sat down for pizza and beer. He told them that
Carolyn’s injury was only serious enough to warrant one night’s
hospital stay at county expense. She would be taken to jail the
next day and booked for first degree murder, grand theft and a
bunch more things.

Bart had apparently jabbered away all
afternoon, telling how Carolyn had begun gathering this plant that
she told Bart was an herbal remedy for insomnia, which the older
man had suffered for years. One of them would make him a cup of tea
with it each evening. Bart claimed that he never made the
connection between the plant and his uncle’s increasing
illness.

Sam remembered seeing books on botany on the
shelves in Carolyn’s gallery, during her first visit in Mrs.
Knightly mode. The woman knew exactly what she was doing.

“We’ll see what the jury believes,” Beau
said. “I have a feeling Carolyn is going to put a whole different
spin on the story.”

Chapter 31

Sam gave herself the luxury of doing
absolutely nothing the next day. She slept through Kelly’s leaving
for Beau’s house that morning, drank tea and read a book until Zoe
stopped by to see if she wanted to go out for lunch. They ate
quiche and salads at a little café on Bent Street, lingering at the
table until mid-afternoon. By four o’clock Sam began to feel
impatient with the unaccustomed leisure so she went home and sat at
the kitchen table, making a to-do list.

The quinceañera cake was the only large order
on the horizon, so she had some spare time for fall housecleaning
and smaller projects. She wrote down everything she wished to
accomplish, knowing that she’d be doing well to get half of it
done. Closets, drawers and pantry could all use cleanout and
organization. Bedding should be laundered. Windows washed. Garden
trimmed and mulched. Garage—she almost didn’t even want to go
there.

As she toured the house, remembering each
little task, her gaze fell on the wooden box. Would it hurt to call
upon its power? The extra energy she drew from it could be used to
her advantage . . . No. She stopped herself. Somehow it didn’t seem
wise to count on the box for every little thing. Starting to use
its power for mundane chores like housework didn’t feel right. She
turned her back on it.

Thursday morning Sam awoke full of vigor,
without the need for help from the wooden box. After a quick
breakfast she baked the tiers for the quinceañera cake and set them
to cool. While the cakes were in the oven she whipped up
buttercream frosting and tinted it in batches. Those set aside, she
went into her room, stripped the bedding and started a load of
laundry.

While I’m at it I might as well turn the
mattress, she decided. She’d upended the queen-size piece when she
realized there was something under it.

Cantone’s sketchbook. She’d forgotten all
about placing it there for safe keeping.

She took it out, rearranged the mattress and
sat down. The crisp pages contained small vignettes that she
recognized from some of his work. A gazebo that he’d rendered in
gray and white; a wicker chair, done in green and dappled with
sunlight in another painting. Sam flipped through the sketches,
admiring them with a new perspective. Who owned all this? she
wondered. Now that Carolyn had admitted to faking the will Sam
found at Bart’s house, and if Bart went to prison for his role . .
.

The answer fell, literally, into her lap.

The sheaf of legal-sized sheets were stapled
at the top with a blue cover sheet. Atop that, a business card. A
New York telephone number. She glanced at it quickly then lifted
the cover sheet.

The Last Will and Testament of Pierre Cantone
. . .

Sam read quickly, scanning back over
occasional passages couched in legalese. It was all here—legal and
airtight—dated ten years ago. Cantone had set up a trust, leaving
all his possessions to the Etheridge, a small New York museum. His
stated reason for the choice was that he felt his work would
receive the attention it deserved with the personal care of the
museum director, rather than being entrusted to one of the larger
places that vied for the works of great numbers of artists.

Sam remembered Rupert telling her that
Cantone’s reputation had been hard-won. Too many of the large
museums and the critics of his early years had been harsh with him.
Perhaps that was the real reason he shunned them at the end of his
life.

How close they’d come to never knowing this
will existed. Cantone must have hidden the sketchbook inside the
wall when he began to suspect that Bart was trying to raid the
estate. He could have simply called his attorney and made the
contents public in order to thwart his nephew, but who knew how
muddled his thinking might have become as he got sicker and
sicker.

She ran her hand over one of the small color
sketches in his book, feeling a connection with the man who’d
worked so hard to please the art world while remaining true to his
soul as an artist. She felt a prickle at her eyelids.

Now she needed to know what to do. With a
sigh she closed the sketchbook and carried the legal document to
the kitchen. She dialed the attorney’s number.

Chapter 32

October gold. With the first days of the new
month, chill New Mexico nights had turned the landscape to every
shade of amber, orange, yellow and ocher. Like a Cantone painting
come alive, the view from his property held the magical light that
gained the artist his reputation in life. Now, in death, the great
man would have his wish—to lie forever in the spot that held his
heart, to become a permanent part of the land he loved.

Sam stood at the edge of the gathering, among
friends. Reflecting on the man, the artist. It turned out that Bart
had not been too far off the mark in his choice for his uncle’s
remains. Cantone had, indeed, specified in his will that he wanted
to be buried on the land, here in New Mexico.

His attorney knew the artist’s wishes well.
He immediately contacted the Etheridge Museum and set the wheels in
motion. Their representatives arrived in Taos that morning.
Rupert’s friend, Esteban, had even flown in from New York—the man
who’d originally identified the mural as Cantone’s work which
started the whole investigation. He’d brought the mural with him
and it would soon be back in place in the closet wall where Cantone
painted it.

Sam glanced around at the assembled crowd.
Rupert, Zoe and Darryl, Beau, Iris and Kelly—they all hovered
around her, knowing that standing here at the graveside was
difficult. She would need to reassure them, again, that she was
fine. The burial site had been properly dug to the right depth this
time, the simple wooden coffin reflected the artist’s unadorned
lifestyle, and a marble tombstone would forever mark the spot.
After the service, wildflowers would be planted on the grave, an
assortment that would assure almost year-round blooms.

The museum director had been chosen to
officiate since Cantone was known to be non-religious. He clearly
would have been happy with the choice, as the man spoke in reverent
tones about the dedication that Cantone gave to his life’s work,
holding up the sketchbook to illustrate certain points. Few knew
that the artist had used money from the sales of his earliest works
to fund an art school in Provence, or that he’d regularly painted
small items which he donated to charity auctions. Sam felt a warm
glow as she realized how much the artist had contributed, knowing
that she had some part in seeing that he would be properly
remembered.

To her right, Rupert was weeping openly.
Across the open grave the other staffers from the Etheridge stood
with bowed heads, handkerchiefs in hand.

“. . . he will live in our memories forever.”
The director closed the book. Thus concluded, the mourners began to
drift away, toward the house. Sam’s final tribute to the artist—a
cake depicting the open sketchbook with a few of his unknown
drawings rendered in frosting—waited inside, where the guests would
share it, along with tea and memories.

“Sam, might I speak with you a moment?” the
museum director said as they walked toward the house.
“Privately.”

They stepped aside and let the others pass
by. A cool breeze glided over her arms as they stood in the shadow
of the house.

“I’ve been in touch with the authorities,” he
said, “and I’m assured that the large house Bart Killington bought
with money he illegally obtained from the estate is now ours. We
will place that house on the market immediately and use the
proceeds to pay the mortgage on this property. It should be
sufficient for most of the renovations, as well.”

“So you won’t need to sell paintings for
that?”

“Correct. As I understand it, Mr. Killington
will most likely be living in the care of the State for quite a few
years.”

He continued: “Cantone’s house will be
renovated for structural integrity and his simple furniture will
remain. The back bedroom can be redone as the great artist’s
studio, giving visitors a glimpse into the life and work of the
man. And of course, we will spare no expense to outfit the house
with the best security system possible and to provide staff so it
can be open as a visitor’s center year-round. The estate provides
money for that.”

“I’m so glad,” Sam told him. “From the moment
I stumbled upon the grave, and then learned who lived here, I felt
sad about there being such a depressing end for this talented
man.”

“As we become more familiar with the trust
Cantone created, and learn how much we have in the way of funds,”
he said, “we want to do more to promote the arts here. One of our
thoughts would be to build a secondary building on the site, a
place for an art school. I’m sure there will be adequate money for
it.”

Sam felt the tears threaten again. “That
would be so nice. Thank you.”

She started to turn toward the house.

“Samantha, there is one more thing.”

She stopped and faced him.

“The sketchbook. Without you, it would have
never been found.”

She waved off the praise. “A lucky find, for
sure.”

“We feel that it belongs to you. As a reward
for everything you’ve done.”

“But, I—I really didn’t do anything.”

“No, my dear. Think of it. You found the
mural. It led to the sketchbook. You contacted the right people to
identify the paintings and that became the beginning of our
learning where Cantone had been all these years. Not to mention
that you located the correct will. Without you, we might have never
learned what a benefactor he was to us. It was an immensely
important find.”

She smiled at him. “I suppose it was.”

“It’s yours.” He held up the sketchbook but
didn’t hand it over. “And now that I’ve given it, might I make a
suggestion?”

Puzzled, she cocked her head.

“We have already been contacted by a
collector, a woman who is probably the most avid fan of Cantone in
the world. She has heard word of the book and would like to buy
it.”