Sweet Masterpiece - The First Sweet’s Sweets Bakery Mystery

by Connie Shelton

Sam snatched up a robe and dashed for the kitchen.

  “Kelly! What’s burning?”

  She emerged from the living room where some female gossip show on TV must have held her attention.

  The cupcakes sat on the table, safe on their cooling racks.

  “Oh shit—the garlic bread!” Kelly dashed for the oven but it was too late. The blackened bread was too far gone. “Oh no, this would have been so perfect with the pasta.”

  Sam opened a window and the back door, fanning the air with a towel before the smoky smell could saturate her baked goods.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “We can live without bread.”

  “Oh, god, I can’t believe how stupid I am.” Kelly flopped into a chair at the table, her head in her hands.

  “Kell, it’s really okay.” Sam dumped the burned toast into the trash and aimed a shot of air freshener toward the center of the room. The tomato sauce was simmering gently on the burner and it really did look good. And the pasta seemed nearly ready. “Look, everything else is going to be just perfect.”

  Kelly raised a tearstained face. “Really?”

  “Really.” Sam started to pat her on the shoulder but the phone rang just then. She wasn’t sure she could handle another last-minute bakery order but it turned out to be Zoe.

  “Just the person I wanted to talk to,” Sam told her. “I’ve been wondering if we might trade vehicles again tomorrow. I have a large cake to deliver and I think yours would be more steady than my big old truck.” Another expense she’d have to consider, even before opening her shop, would be a better vehicle. A small van was what she really needed.

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll bring it over now. I was just checking to see if you could use some zucchini from the garden. I’ve got tons.”

  Sam readily agreed because she’d just come across a new recipe for zucchini bread and wanted to give it a try. She could tweak it and turn it into a seasonal signature bakery item.

  Kelly’s pasta dish produced way more than the two of them could possibly eat so she sent Zoe home with enough dinner for herself and Darryl. By the time they sat down to eat Sam was more than ready to be off her feet for awhile.

  Darling daughter apparently sensed that her old mom was worn out, so she offered to clean up the kitchen. Sam sat at the table piping huge roses, chrysanthemums, hydrangeas and lilies onto the red-velvet cupcake tops. Simple to do but very showy—she felt sure the customer would be thrilled at having something different than a traditional birthday cake. As she finished with each of the decorating tips she tossed them into a bowl of hot water; Kelly took them to the sink and washed everything thoroughly.

  “Mom,” she said. “Thanks for taking me in. I really mean that.” She paused from wiping the counter tops and fixed Sam with those aquamarine eyes.

  Sam teared up and reached out to give her a hug. Despite those frustrating times when she made rash decisions, she still loved the kid.

  Kelly went into her room where Sam could see her picking up clothes and hanging them in the closet. What kind of epiphany had she had this afternoon?

  She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t too late to call Rupert.

  He answered on the first ring and said he’d just gotten in from a reception at one of the more popular galleries on the plaza.

  “Girl, I tell you, Cantone is all the rage right now.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s like a badge of honor for Taos that he was living here. Everyone wants to put together a fund to have a proper funeral for him. People were appalled—I mean, really shocked—that he’d been living in poverty.”

  “I’ve wondered about that too. Seeing what the sale of just one painting netted for Bart—that car, the huge house, new furnishings and everything . . . Why didn’t Cantone do that? Sell one painting and buy himself a comfortable lifestyle?”

  “Well.”

  Another of Rupert’s gossip-fests. Sam went into the living room and snuggled into a corner of the sofa.

  “Word is,” he paused, building the drama, “that Cantone simply didn’t like people. He became more reclusive with each passing year. I mean, no one had seen him at any public function in twenty years or more. The old gala showings were gone. The appearances at theatre opening nights, the charity balls—Cantone simply wrote off all of the social life.”

  “Was that because of his wife’s death?”

  “Some of it, probably. But he really shut down in the last ten years, I mean, just disappeared. Well, you know that even I had no idea he was living so close to Taos.”

  “But surely the man needed an income. To allow foreclosure on his home, when he had plenty of assets . . . I just don’t get it.”

  “Again, part of the legend. I’ve heard that he got so attached to his paintings that he actually threw his one-time manager out—this was years ago—when the man suggested that Cantone sell something. He would not let go of anything.”

  She thought about that. She’d heard of people who began to hoard as they got older. In fact, she’d been assigned a couple of caretaking properties where she’d actually had to get a roll-off to haul away huge amounts of clutter. But Cantone’s house had not been nearly that bad. Apparently his clingy tendencies applied only to his art. And there seemed something more deliberate about Cantone’s approach, she thought as she remembered the hidden sketchbook she’d found in the wall.

  “Well, Rupert, maybe it’s understandable. He was getting older, maybe not producing a lot of new work, so he didn’t want to let go of what he had.”

  He mumbled an acknowledgement.

  “Of course, the big gossip tonight was about this nephew who suddenly showed up on the scene,” he said. “I mean, no one’s heard of this kid and now all at once he’s the heir to everything.”

  Sam thought about what Beau had said about a will and probate and estate taxes, but didn’t want to bring it up with Rupert. As much as she loved the guy, he truly was a gossip of the highest order. The legalities of the artist’s estate didn’t need to become cocktail party prattle.

  Besides, she still wanted to find out the truth about the will, and if everyone in the art world began talking about it the odds were good that word would get back to Bart Killington. That might be the very thing to send him south of the border.

  They chatted on about nothing in particular for another three minutes, then Rupert said he ought to get back to his latest manuscript, which his editor had returned for some changes. She hung up, still reflecting on the question of Cantone’s last will and testament.