Sweet Masterpiece - The First Sweet’s Sweets Bakery Mystery

by Connie Shelton

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.”