“Of course, his work immediately tripled in value,” Hildebrandt said. “We’ve placed two pieces with Sotheby’s and another privately, just in the last week.”
Quick work. Sam wondered exactly when Carolyn Hildebrandt had become aware of Cantone’s demise. Certainly before the discovery of the grave last Tuesday.
“I wasn’t aware that there were any Cantones that weren’t already in private hands,” Rupert said. “I wonder who is offering theirs for sale.”
“Well, of course I can’t give details. But there are family members.”
Sam soaked all this up while feigning interest in another piece on the shelves, a crystal globe with a miniature flower garden of glass inside. Family members. Rupert had uncovered only the one sister.
“Ah, Sophie’s young son,” Rupert said, with just the right amount of sorrow in his voice. If she hadn’t known better, Sam might have believed that he was best of friends with the mother and her offspring. Hildebrandt fell for it.
“Yes. Hobart. I understand that was a family name on the Killington side of the family.”
“It was,” Rupert said. His acting was better than Sam ever imagined. “What’s Bart up to these days?”
“Actually, he’s recently moved here to Santa Fe. He’ll be stopping by here later.”
“And he is the seller.”
A slight nod. “Well, I know you must be eager to see the piece.” Ms. Hildebrandt stepped to the side and pulled a hidden cord. The drapes slid back to reveal a painting about eighteen inches wide, framed in a dark wood that brought out the deep colors in the pastoral scene. Sam immediately recognized the style.
Rupert actually gasped. He recovered quickly, though. “They never fail to impress, do they?”
Hildebrandt looked at Sam.
“Interesting piece.”
Rupert gave her a look. Maybe she should have gushed a little more, but she was following his coaching.
“You have an excellent eye,” Carolyn Hildebrandt said. “It truly is one of Cantone’s more interesting pieces.” She walked over to it and Sam sent Rupert a ‘ha-ha’ look behind her back. “Note the use of cadmium red right here. No other artist of his time would have thought of such a move. It just pulls the eye to that particular section of the tree, doesn’t it?”
“Brilliant,” Sam said, picking up a new word for her art vocabulary.
The art dealer smiled at her. “It truly was a brilliant move on his part. The very thing that turned Cantone into a legend.”
Sam nodded as if she had a clue.
“This piece will go to New York on Thursday unless I have a buyer for it here in New Mexico.”
Sam stared at the painting for what seemed like the right amount of time. “I’m considering it. Very seriously.”
Rupert stepped in. “Mrs. Knightly is only in town on business for two days. We’ll have a decision for you soon.”
He turned to Sam. “My dear, shall we?”
She took his arm and nodded to the dealer. Out on the sidewalk he raised her fingertips and kissed them. “Well done, Sam.”
They walked to the lot where he’d parked and it was all she could do not to kick up her heels. She’d pulled off her first acting job.
“So, we know we’re looking for Hobart Killington, but I’m guessing he’s not going to have a listed phone number,” she said, once they’d settled into the car.
“True, but did you catch Carolyn’s comment that Bart would be coming to the gallery this afternoon?”
“But she clearly didn’t intend that we meet Hobart, and we don’t even know what he looks like.”
He pulled a laptop computer from the backseat. “We will pretty soon.”
They parked outside a café that boasted free wi-fi and within five minutes had found a web page for one of the major auction houses, recently updated with a photo showing the nephew who had re-introduced the great Cantone’s work to the world. Bart Killington could pass for any age from twenty to forty. Based on her previous research Sam guessed that he must be in his mid-thirties. A high forehead, dark brows, thin face with a prominent nose. He wore his dark hair combed straight back, a trim dark goatee, a tuxedo.
“The only problem is, talking to him without the nosy art dealer right there,” Rupert said.
Sam had been thinking about what to say when they got the chance to speak with the nephew. And the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to see him in his element, at home. She had some suspicions that needed to be confirmed.
Chapter 16
Sam was getting hungry and the whole Mrs. Knightly outfit was beginning to make her itch—she didn’t do dresses very often. Luckily, she’d thought of that and brought a change of clothes. She suggested to Rupert that they go inside the café for some lunch. While he ordered her a Reuben sandwich she slipped into the ladies room where she traded the dress and silk jacket for jeans and a soft pullover from her roomy shoulder bag.
“Better,” she told him when she came back to the table. “I’m glad I could fool Carolyn Hildebrandt with the Mrs. Knightly getup, but it’s better that I talk to Bart Killington as myself.”
They devoured their sandwiches and headed back toward Hildebrandt’s gallery. Parking was at a premium on the narrow street but they found a spot that gave a decent view of the front door from about a half-block away. Then came the wait. They had no idea what time Bart would be coming, provided he didn’t change his mind and not show at all. Two hours dragged by.
“What if he came and went while we were eating?” Sam said.
“Patience, my dear. The lady said he was coming this afternoon. We were back here at twelve-thirty, so the odds are in our favor.”
Sam wasn’t very tolerant with this kind of thing, but resisted twitching in her seat. There were so many other things she could be doing this afternoon—checking on her properties, pre-making more decorations for that wedding cake, nagging her daughter about getting a job.
To amuse herself she pulled an old receipt out of her bag, smoothed the eight-and-a-half by eleven page, and began sketching ideas for her pastry shop on the back. Someday Sweet’s Sweets would become a reality, not merely a sideline business run from a cramped kitchen, represented by a name on a business card.
“Sam, look up. I think that’s him,” Rupert said.
The dark-haired man was a block away, walking toward them, on the shady side of the street. Just before he reached the gallery he passed through a shaft of sunlight and Sam got a clear look.
“You’re right.” They both sat straighter in their seats.
Bart stayed inside for nearly thirty minutes and Sam was starting to get impatient again but Rupert told her stories from some of his more memorable book signings to keep her from jumping out of the car and invading the gallery. Before he got to the one about the male cover model and the romance writers convention of 2004, Sam spotted Bart on the sidewalk.
“There he is—be ready!”
He cranked up the Land Rover and started a slow maneuver out of the tight parking spot. Bart got into a dark green Jaguar with the dealer sticker still on it.
“Don’t let him see us,” she said.
“Honey, I’ve written enough stalker scenes to know how to handle it.”
She had no choice but to believe him. They stayed back a few car lengths but she still worried that only a blind guy wouldn’t notice the hulking SUV.
Apparently Bart didn’t. He drove through the city without making any sort of evasive moves. By the time they got on Highway 285 northbound, she began to wonder just how far away he really lived. But then he exited near the opera and wound his way through one of those exclusive neighborhoods where each house has its own little hilltop, some game of king-of-the-mountain, Santa Fe style. At least the Land Rover wasn’t out of place here, as Sam’s big red pickup truck might have been.
Rupert did a good job of maneuvering—staying just one curve behind the Jag, but catching up in time that they didn’t lose him on an obscure lane o
r something. When the Jag slowed she realized he was about to turn in at a driveway on the right. Rupert let the SUV coast nearly to a stop until the car began the climb up the steep drive. A territorial style adobe sat at the top of the rise, a massive thing with a few gables and some stained glass thrown in for good measure.
Sam hadn’t thought about what their actual approach would be. Rupert handled it by bringing the Land Rover up to the driveway entrance and simply letting it coast to a stop. By the time Bart was out of his car in front of the huge house, Rupert had slammed his door, stalked to the front of his vehicle and raised the hood.
“Damn it all!” he shouted.
Bart fell for it. He came to the top of the drive, peering curiously down at the stalled vehicle.
Sam got out and joined Rupert at the front of his car. He pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open and then made a gesture of disgust and jammed it back into his pocket. “Follow my lead,” he said through clenched teeth.
Pretending to have just noticed his surroundings he glanced up the driveway and feigned surprise at seeing Bart standing there.
Maybe Rupert should have stayed with the theater.
Sam stood there like she didn’t have a clue what to do, which wasn’t far off the mark.
“Oh, say—” Rupert began walking up the driveway and she followed along. “Might we borrow your telephone? My cell seems to be dead.”
With the big SUV blocking his driveway, Bart didn’t have much choice. Rupert kept up the chat as they crossed a wide circular drive. “I just don’t know about these maintenance shops anymore. Just had the thing worked on. Here we are, down from Taos for the day, supposed to have tea with the Rutledges—” He waved vaguely up the road.
“Sure, no problem,” Bart said. “Come on in.”
Piles of dirt and several large landscaping boulders sat beside the driveway and nearby front entry.
“Pardon the mess,” he said. “I’ve just moved in and there’s a ton of stuff to do.”
He opened the heavy, carved front door and ushered them inside. Pride of new ownership was evident. He couldn’t resist pointing out a few features of the home as he showed them into the kitchen (which Sam would have killed for), all granite tops and stainless appliances.
Rupert made a show of punching in some numbers and demanding to speak to the service manager. Sam sent a weak smile toward Bart.
“Samantha Sweet. Sorry, we should have introduced ourselves sooner. My friend is Rupert Penrick.” She glanced through an archway into a dining room. “Oh my, is that a Cantone?”
She walked toward it without exactly waiting for Bart to offer.
“We heard that Cantone recently passed away. In Taos. The whole town is in shock.”
From the kitchen Rupert called out. “What’s your number, Mr . . .?”
“Killington.” He rattled off the number without a pause.
How naïve was this guy? Inviting total strangers in and then giving his number?
Before he had the chance to realize his blunder, Sam pulled at his arm. “Is that another one?” She pointed to a second framed painting on the opposite wall.
“Rupert, you won’t believe this,” she said as he came walking in from the kitchen, muttering about how the shop would need to call him back in a few minutes.
“Mr. Killington has two of Cantone’s paintings. I was just telling him . . .”
Rupert reached out and touched her arm. “Sam, hold it. Killington? Are you— No, couldn’t be. Sophie Cantone—Killington’s son? You are Cantone’s nephew?”
They couldn’t flat-out interrogate the guy, but there were other ways to get information.
“But we heard— Didn’t you live near Taos with your uncle?” Sam turned to Rupert. “Isn’t that what we heard? That the artist had a nephew caring for him?”
Bart looked a little uncomfortable but apparently she’d given him the opening he needed.
“I actually had lost contact with my uncle for a number of years. The whole family had. After Mother died, I didn’t quite know where to turn. Then I discovered where he was.”
“In that tiny house, practically living in poverty.” She shook her head sadly.
“Well, uh, yes.”
“And you offered to bring him here, to your beautiful home?”
“Uh, actually, I hadn’t found this place yet. I wanted to take him in, to have him come to my place in California, but he was just too ill to travel. And he didn’t want to leave New Mexico. He always loved it here. All I could do was to move in with him and care for him, in his own house.”
Uh-huh.
But before she could ask any more questions, Rupert’s cell phone rang. He jumped.
“Oh my, I guess I have a signal again.”
Chapter 17
Rupert took the call, stepping into the kitchen for privacy. While he um-hmm’d a couple of times, Sam turned back to Bart.
“You know, the Sheriff in Taos County had a lot of questions about Mr. Cantone’s death. It looked like a lot of art was missing from the house.” Those blank spots—nails without pictures—had been bothering her from day one. “And the fact that he was buried in the back yard in a practically unmarked grave . . .”
“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t especially care what some small town sheriff thinks. I am Pierre Cantone’s sole heir. He was buried according to his wishes and his will left me everything.”
“And you went from living in the spare room in a house that was barely more than a shack, to . . . this. All in just a few months’ time?”
Bart’s tone became defensive. “I sold one painting. It went quickly because no new Cantone works had appeared on the market in years. So, yes, I bought myself a nicer lifestyle with the proceeds. I have nothing to apologize for.”
A tap on the shoulder got her attention. “Sweetie,” Rupert said. “I think we can be on our way. The service manager suggested something I might try, to get the car started.” He glanced at Bart. “If it doesn’t work, they’ll send a tow truck. We’ll be out of your way shortly.”
He took her elbow and steered her out the front door.
“What was that all about?” she said as they walked down the drive. “Did you actually call a service shop?”
“Oh no. I just made that up. It was time to get you out of there.” He caught her look. “Honey, what more were you going to learn? And you were just pissing him off.”
Well, that was probably true.
“He claims that Cantone left him the entire estate.”
“And that might very well be true.”
“But then why—?”
“Why did Cantone live in near-squalor? Why did this nephew happen to show up at just the right moment? Honey, I don’t think we’re ever going to know that.”
Sam fumed while Rupert did some little thing under the hood. The Land Rover started right up. Rupert looked up toward the house and gave a little wave to Bart, who stood on the wide front steps.
“I just don’t like all the coincidences,” she muttered as they drove away.
By the time they got to Taos she’d cooled slightly. She would ask Beau how they might find out about the artist’s will. And she would damn sure give him a thorough description of the massive new house, the art on the walls, and—thanks to Rupert’s quick thinking—the nephew’s phone number.
Wednesday morning Sam hit the floor running. She mixed batter for the wedding cake, and put the first layers in to bake. A pain with a normal home-sized oven—they’d have to be done two at a time until she had enough to form the tiers. She’d had her eye on a good commercial baking oven for a long time, but there was simply no way to adapt her little kitchen for it. While she waited for the timer, she whipped up a batch of royal icing and created lace insets that would dry hard and could then be placed around the sides of the largest tier. She would pipe dots and swirls for the traditional look that the bride wanted.
Kelly wandered out of her room around ten, eyed the production in
the kitchen—cakes on cooling racks, trays of lace and roses, the smell of cake baking in the oven—and opted for coffee and a muffin. When asked about the job search, she shrugged and walked away.
Sam resisted the urge to say something more, to make suggestions of places in town where she might apply. Truthfully, it wasn’t so much wanting to give motherly advice as it was to nag her daughter until she got her privacy back.
She pulled the final layers from the oven, tucked the decorative elements back into the fridge to harden, and left the cakes to cool thoroughly before she could touch them again. According to her calendar, this was the day to make another run by the Martinez place, and she figured she could work that in before starting the assembly on the cake. She wanted to have it completely decorated today, so it could firm up and be ready for delivery tomorrow.
Bertha Martinez’s little place needed some yard work, but Sam wasn’t prepared to devote the time today. She swept dry leaves from the porch, then went inside and checked the places she thought of as hot-spots. This time of year, as the nights started to get cold, mice were likely to come looking for food and warm winter beds so she checked their usual favorite haunts—under sinks, in cabinets and pantries. Sometimes the little critters looked for a vulnerable spot in upholstered furniture where they could rip out some padding and make themselves a cozy nest. She found one suspicious little hole in the sofa and couldn’t remember if it had been there before. She kept a few packages of yummy poison in the truck, so she set out a few in inconspicuous corners. She’d check them again in a few more days.
She was almost ready to lock up when her cell phone rang and she saw that it was Beau.
“How are things going with Kelly?” he asked. “I notice she’s still at your place.”
She filled him in on their little talk the other night, Kelly’s financial problems and the fact that she’d left her job in a snit. She could tell he was trying hard not to offer advice. She changed the subject by letting him know what she and Rupert had done yesterday.
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