Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  “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.

  “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 thirt
y 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.