Sweet Masterpiece: The First Samantha Sweet Mystery ssm-1

by Connie Shelton

  So, what to do with the sketchbook in the meantime? She gathered it, and the wooden box, and carried them to her bedroom. Since no one knew of the existence of the sketches, she decided she could get by with stashing the book between her mattress and foundation. That wasn’t going to be good enough for the long term and she would probably have to end up either turning it over to the authorities or renting a safe deposit box at the bank. But for now, it would do.

  The puff-textured wooden box sat on the bedspread, staring at her. She placed her hands on the sides of it. The wood was cool to the touch, the cabochon stones dull in color. She closed her eyes and ran her hands over the smoothly rounded mounds of the quilted sections. The surface immediately warmed. Whoa. Her eyes popped open; her fingers tingled.

  Did she imagine it, or were the stones brighter? The blue, red and green pieces were nearly glowing. The wood surface also seemed different, with a golden patina to it, a softer, nicer color than the previous sickly yellow. When Sam brought it home she thought she would work on it with some polish, but now it shone as if she’d already done that. She looked at her hands. Did body oils have the ability to polish wood? Nah. Not like this.

  She wiped her hands on the tail of her shirt and picked up the box. Maybe it would look nice on the dresser. She could use it as a jewelry box. She set it in place and stepped back to admire it. Yes. That was a good spot for it. She lifted the lid. The stiff hinges creaked, as before, but as she closed and reopened it a couple of times they loosened considerably. Soon, the lid was operating as smoothly as if she’d just applied oil.

  “You’re a strange little thing,” she said. “What is your secret?”

  Chapter 10

  The phone rang, startling Sam, and she set the box back in place on the dresser.

  “Hi Sam,” said Beau. “I, uh . . . this sounds weird but I just had the strongest urge to call you.”

  She stared at the wooden box, its colors dimming now.

  “What I meant was, I thought I’d check to see if we’re still on for dinner tonight?”

  “Sure.” She grimaced. No matter what he said, it felt like that awkward first-date stuff. What shall I wear? Where are we going? And of course, the other awkward question—where might this lead? Her past was checkered with too many first dates, too many one-night stands. The past few years had brought a certain freedom from that as she’d steered away from dating and concentrated on building her business and enjoying her solitude.

  “Are you afraid of heights?” he asked, pulling her back to the present.

  She laughed out loud at the unexpected question. “No, actually, I’m not.”

  “I know this spot at the Rio Grande Gorge. Away from the bridge where all the tourists stop. We can drive to this pullout I know and then walk a little way, and there’s a flat rock ledge that is a great place to watch a sunset. If that sounds good to you, I can pick you up around six?”

  “Perfect.” She hung up, completely relieved that he hadn’t suggested some romantic dress-up place, not that Taos had a lot of those anyway. Wherever they ate dinner, walking around on rocky terrain ahead of time was going to require comfortable shoes and casual clothing. She surveyed her closet and pulled out her best-fitting pair of jeans and a top that concealed the bulges she wanted concealed. She chided herself for trying to think ahead about any relationship with Beau. How silly. He undoubtedly had every hungry woman in town under fifty chasing after him. Sam knew she had to be at least five years older than he, and not a prize in the looks department. This was a friendship thing, a shared interest in a couple of abandoned houses. That’s all. That’s all she wanted.

  She repeated it to herself three times.

  Nevertheless, when she started to dress for the evening she found herself applying fresh eye makeup and adding a touch of gloss over the rose colored lipstick that was her normal shade. She even debated polishing her nails, but the past two days of scrubbing and hauling trash had taken their toll in ragged, broken ones so she opted for filing them down smooth and massaging in a lot of cuticle cream.

  He showed up promptly, driving a blue Ford Explorer rather than the department vehicle. Gentlemanly to the core, he removed his Stetson as he approached her door and rang the bell. She knew this because she watched through the sheer drapes at the living room window. She chided herself for doing it, and let a full ten seconds go by before opening the door.

  The ride through town and out to the gorge was filled with that inane ‘how was your day’ chitchat which seems to mark the beginning of new friendships that don’t yet have enough momentum to simply pick up where the last conversation ended. Sam told Beau about Rupert’s excitement over the mural’s being sent to New York for authentication. And this time she mentioned the sketchbook.

  “How would that work?” she asked. “Does the book go with the house, or does it belong to Cantone?”

  “Depends. If Cantone accidentally left it behind, I imagine he or his heirs might make a case for it belonging to him. On the other hand, Anderson—or his heirs—might make an equally good case for abandonment of the book. Or they might say that Cantone gifted the book to Anderson. Most likely it would end up belonging to the current home owner, Anderson.”

  “He might be forced to sell assets to satisfy the mortgage too.”

  “There’s that,” he agreed. “I’ll probably have autopsy results by tomorrow. If the body turns out to be Anderson, then we have to start looking in that direction for next of kin.”

  Sam sat silently, contemplating that, while Beau pulled off the road and steered toward a little clear spot where he parked the SUV.

  “This is it.”

  She stood beside the vehicle, letting the breeze ruffle the short layers of her hair, while he got something from the back.

  “Dinner,” he said, holding up a picnic basket. He handed it to her, while he carried a folded quilt and an industrial-sized flashlight. “Once that sun goes down it’s going to get pretty dark out here.”

  She followed him down a narrow path that obviously didn’t see much traffic, to a rock ledge which was only about ten feet square. From the edge of it the earth fell away, a rocky field that went straight down eight hundred feet. The Rio Grande Gorge is a deep cut through volcanic rock, maybe a half-mile wide at the top, with the silvery ribbon of the Rio Grande River coursing through the bottom. Sam stood near enough to the edge to peer down at it and took a deep breath of sage and piñon, pungent from the afternoon rain.

  “I like this spot because the wind isn’t so fierce here,” Beau said. “Out on the bridge you sometimes feel like you’ll get carried away.”

  It was true. The way the surrounding cliff walls rose, they were in a sheltered spot and yet the western view was clear and she could see that the sun would dip to the level of the distant volcanoes in another hour or so.

  “It’s so beautiful. And quiet!”

  “Get this.” He faced the drop-off and let out a cowboy whoop. It echoed back, crossed the distance again, and reverberated off the rocky walls to fill the air with sound.

  “I love it!” Her shriek rang back in triplicate.

  He sent a musical Laaaaa . . . out over the chasm. As it began to echo back Sam gave a strong harmonic note of her own. He raised it. She raised him again. The music that filled the air sounded like a choir of hundreds. She felt her eyes widen at the magic of it. When she looked at him, his reaction was the same. He held her gaze as the sound faded.

  “Wow.” It came out in a whisper. “Do musicians come out here and do this all the time?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s our secret.” He reached out and raised her chin and gave her a very soft kiss.

  She blinked a couple of times. What the—

  He stepped back. “Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend that—I don’t mean to push you—”

  She shook her head, dismissing the apology. “It’s . . . it’s okay. It was a special moment.” It meant nothing. But why were her insides all flutte
ry?

  He flashed her a killer smile. “Hungry?”

  Oh boy. She wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Yes. In every possible way.

  But she saw that he’d turned to the picnic basket and was pulling out a bottle of wine and a little plastic container. Keep it light, Sam.

  “I’m afraid I’m no gourmet cook,” he said. “This is just your basic cowboy dinner.”

  Well, hardly, she thought. The plastic tub contained guacamole dip and he pointed to a bag of corn chips. “Hold this,” he said, handing her the items while he whipped the quilt out and brought it to rest on the rocky ground. Then he rummaged in the basket and came up with a corkscrew. She watched him study it for a minute and then offered to open the wine if he would find glasses.

  “Oops. I knew I would forget something.”

  “Hey, I’ve drunk almost as much wine directly from the bottle as from a glass,” She said. Memories of cheap Thunderbird and Boone’s Farm.

  To prove it, she tossed the cork onto the blanket and took a swig. A macho wipe across the lips with the back of her hand and she offered the bottle over to him. They passed it back and forth a few times, watching the sun on its downward course.

  “What else is in that basket?”

  He pulled out an insulated container about a gallon in size. “Chile—my specialty. Uh, I think I forgot bowls, though. But there are spoons.” He held them up with a grin that gave her an excellent picture of what he’d looked like as an eight year old.

  Sam ripped open the bag of corn chips, took one and scooped up guacamole with it. “Did you make this? It’s really good.”

  He blushed a little. “Should I admit that I found the recipe on the internet? It was the only one that used two ingredients so I thought I could handle it.”

  “It’s great!”

  “Now the chile—that’s my own recipe. Sorta. My mama used to make it. She doesn’t cook anymore, so I make it for her. After I moved to New Mexico I started adding green chile to it. I mean, you really can’t live here and not eat green chile, right?”

  They sat cross legged on the quilt with the Thermos between them, spoons at the ready as he unscrewed the lid and released a bouquet of meaty, tomatoey, spicy goodness into the air. They dipped their spoons at the same moment.

  “Ohmygod, that’s good.” Sam had to admit she’d never had chile that tasty—either in New Mexico or back home in Texas. A moan escaped her.

  He grinned and went for a second spoonful. She did the same.

  “Try it this way,” he said. He grabbed a few corn chips and tossed them onto the chile, then spooned up a big bite that included a couple of them. Sam did the same and agreed. Heaven.

  “You could cook for me any time,” she said, once she got the chance to take a breath.

  “You’d have to like chile a whole lot. This and grilled cheese sandwiches are about the only things I can make.”

  The idea of this chile and a grilled cheese sandwich nearly made her swoon. The sun dropped below the horizon, leaving the silhouettes of black volcanic cones and turning the few clouds into every shade of flame. Cicadas droned their metallic stridulation in the soft dusk.

  “I could die this very minute and be happy,” she told him.

  “Well, we’ll hope that doesn’t happen.”

  “You know what I mean.” She took another hit from the wine bottle and passed it over. “I feel so lucky right now. What a spectacular evening.”

  “I’m glad you like the spot. I was afraid you might have been hoping for a restaurant dinner, some fancy place. Course I worried about it a little too late, after I already had the basket loaded up.”

  “Beau, it’s just right. Absolutely perfect.” And it was. She couldn’t think of a more relaxed, fun way to get to know him better. She would not call it a date, and she would do her best to ignore that kiss.

  They finished off the chips and dip, made a good-sized dent in the quantity of chile, and were sipping at the last of the wine when his phone rang. Okay, an almost perfect evening.

  He glanced at the readout. “OMI’s office. I better take this.”

  Sam leaned back on her elbows and stretched her legs out as he conversed quietly. The first star showed in the east and soon there were a dozen of them.

  “Sorry. I knew Archie was hustling to get the autopsy finished tonight so he could take the whole weekend off. He wanted to let me know the gist of it.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  “It’s Riley Anderson. Hair from a brush in the master bedroom matches the body’s DNA. Archie is ruling natural causes. There was lots of lung congestion, no wounds or trauma. Probably untreated pneumonia, which he says is consistent with an age-related death.”

  “So, now what? Do you find relatives of Mr. Anderson? Bury him back on the property or what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Since he was in default on his mortgage, the USDA has the power to auction off the property, so someone else will soon own it. Are they going to want a stranger’s body buried in their back yard?”

  “Probably not. I guess the answer is to find him a spot in the public cemetery. Technically, a pauper’s grave. Unless someone comes along who can claim kinship and then they can make their own arrangements.”

  “What about the guy who was living with him?” Sam asked. “The neighbor hinted that they might have had a relationship.”

  “You talked to the neighbors?” He gave her a firm stare.

  “The last time I was there a lady named Betty McDonald came walking up. I just kind of let her ramble on.”

  “I’ll run some background on Anderson,” he said. “See if we can track down someone.”

  The sky was completely dark now and at least a billion stars were visible, out here away from town. Sam felt she could be content to stare up at them all night but could tell that Beau was getting restless. It was time to call it a night and go home. They used the big flashlight to be sure they’d left nothing behind, then stowed the picnic gear in the Explorer.

  “I sure didn’t want to cut the evening short,” he said as he turned into her drive. “But I’m on duty early tomorrow and I’d like to stop off and get that autopsy report they faxed over so I can look at it yet tonight.”

  “Hey, duty calls. I understand.” She, too, had work planned for the morning.

  Chapter 11

  Sam awoke Saturday morning feeling lazy. At the suggestion of Delbert Crow, she’d planned to dash over to Bertha Martinez’s place one last time and apply a couple coats of neutral paint to the walls in the red room. He was right, the house would stand a better chance of selling quickly without strange symbols painted on red walls. She’d have probably done it in the first place but needed an okay to lay out money for refurbishment on a property.

  Now, she lounged in bed for an extra thirty minutes reliving the picnic dinner and last night’s beautiful setting. Maybe the extra wine was making her lazy today. Maybe the niggling thought that a fling with Beau Cardwell might not be such a bad thing . . . just maybe, that was the source of her unaccustomed languor.

  After awhile she couldn’t postpone getting to work. She rummaged in the closet for her painting jeans, the ones that had already met with the touch of a brush, and an old shirt. Her hair was too short to gather into a ponytail but she decided a bandana over it might help keep it out of her face during the job. She stashed her watch and the favorite opal ring that she usually wore into her new jewelry box. Again, she swore that the stones on it glowed more brightly after she’d touched the box.

  A quick stop at the hardware store for two gallons of paint and she was headed out to the Martinez place. The red bedroom felt less ominous this time, with sun shining in the window and all the weird artifacts gone. In no time at all, she’d pulled down the heavy drapes and hardware and began rolling paint onto the dark walls. As expected, it would need at least two coats, but the stuff dried quickly and by the time she finished the fourth wall the first was about dry enough. She stopped
for a granola bar and cup of coffee from the Thermos she’d brought. The second coat went on even more quickly and the trim work was minimal. She glanced at her wrist but remembered that she’d left her watch at home. Not that it mattered.

  She bagged up the throwaway paint roller set and the empty cans and set them out for garbage collection, locked the house and was on her way.

  Back at home a message on the machine told Sam that the Casa de Tranquilidad spa near Santa Fe wanted eight dozen specialty cookies for a reception. She’d worked with them before, supplying cakes and pastries for different events. Driving down there to deliver was a little bit of a hassle but they paid well and it was a way to get her business name out in front of a whole new clientele. She returned the call, got the details, and inventoried her supply of ingredients. Wrote up a little shopping list. Before she quite made it to the door the phone rang again.

  “Hey, Rupert, what’s up?”

  “Girl, I can’t write a word today. I’m just in such a whirl over the big find.”

  “You haven’t heard back from the appraiser in New York already, have you?”

  “Oh, no. They’ve probably just received the piece. They’ll need a few days at least.”

  “I’m just on my way out to the store. Can we chat a little later?” Sam explained about the big cookie order.

  “Can I come with you?” He sounded so eager that she couldn’t say no. And he might actually be of help. Rupert was pretty efficient in the kitchen. Maybe she could get him to operate the cookie press while she decorated or something like that. His place was right on the way so she told him she’d pick him up in ten minutes.