Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  The green fingerprints, Sam realized. Carolyn’s.

  Beau was out of his vehicle now and Sam saw him slowly approach. She was the only one who could see him, and it took a force of will not to stare, not to let her relief show on her face.

  Sam’s attention went back to Carolyn. The art dealer’s expression was pure rage. The woman clearly had gone over the edge and Sam suddenly realized that she had no intention of letting Bart or Sam out of here alive. Again, she raised the pistol, her finger firmly on the trigger. The only minuscule bit of hesitation seemed to come from the decision about which of them to shoot first. Her eyes darted from one to the other.

  Make an impossible target, Sam told herself. She spun toward Bart and shoved him to the left, while she dove for the ground in the opposite direction. She hit, rolled, and came up at the edge of the carport as the shot reverberated.

  Bart lay huddled in a ball against the wall of the house but Sam couldn’t see any blood. Carolyn’s shot had gone wild, the bullet smacking into one of the carport’s wooden supports.

  The woman had a wild look in her eyes as she spun toward Bart, taking aim once more.

  “Freeze!” Beau shouted. His own pistol was out now, his two-handed grip looking very firm.

  Carolyn fired again. Sam heard the ricochet and chips of concrete sprayed near Bart. Then Carolyn turned on Beau.

  His shot went unhesitatingly, right into her shoulder. She dropped her own gun and slumped to the ground. He kicked her gun aside and kept his aimed at her.

  “Stay right there,” he said. He keyed his shoulder mike and called for backup and an ambulance.

  Sam felt relief rush through her body. She met Beau’s gaze and sent him a tentative smile. He winked. It was going to be okay.

  Chapter 29

  The thunderstorm cleared as quickly as it had come on, typical of early autumn storms near the mountains. Beau’s backup officer arrived about ten minutes later. As the ambulance made its way back toward town with Carolyn Hildebrandt strapped to a gurney inside, Sam went into Cantone’s house and found some old towels. Blotting much of the residual wetness from her own hair and clothing, she offered another towel to Beau.

  “How did you know I was in trouble?” she asked.

  He pulled a blanket from his cruiser and draped it over Bart Killington’s shoulders. Handcuffs bound Bart’s hands. He sat with his back to the wall of the house, white-faced and shaking, unmoving since Beau had read him his rights and placed him under arrest for grand theft, conspiracy to commit murder, and fraud.

  Beau stared hard at the prisoner. “I didn’t. I just happened to look out the window after I’d questioned this jerk. Saw him rush out to his car. Something about the look on his face. During the interview he’d begun raging about how much trouble all this had caused him. I got a bad feeling. I planned on following him to the south end of Taos, just to make sure he left town, but when he headed this direction and I knew you were here . . .”

  “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.”

  Sam hesitated. She loved the book, loved looking at the artist’s sketches.

  “This woman, you must understand, knew Cantone in his younger years. She . . . how do I say this delicately? . . . she probably was his lover, lived with him, in those dark times after his wife died. Most likely, she watched him with pencil in hand as he made many of those sketches.”

  “Oh. Then you are absolutely right. She should have it.” Sam took a step back.

  “I had a feeling you might say that.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. “That’s why I accepted this on your behalf.”

  He pulled out a long white envelope and handed it to Sam.

  “What’s this?” She pried up the flap. Inside was a check with so many zeros in the figure that it took her breath away.

  “It—it’s too much. I can’t take this.” She started to hand it back but he raised his palm.

  “But— How can it be—”

  “The book is worth it to her. And she’s a woman who can afford it. Trust me.”

  “But—what about the visitor’s center, the art school? Wouldn’t it be better spent there?”

  “I’ve already told you, we have plenty for those projects. We want you to have this. Surely there’s something you can use the money for?”

  Her eyes welled up. “Yes, there is something I’ve dreamed of for a very long time.” And she knew the perfect location. The tears spilled, dripping off her chin. “I’ll put it to good use.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her face while she stood there helplessly. “Come, my dear. Let’s have some of that beautiful cake you made.”

  What’s Next For Samantha Sweet?