Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery (15 page)

“Kelly! What’s burning?”

She emerged from the living room where some
female gossip show on TV must have held her attention.

The cupcakes sat on the table, safe on their
cooling racks.

“Oh shit—the garlic bread!” Kelly dashed for
the oven but it was too late. The blackened bread was too far gone.
“Oh no, this would have been so perfect with the pasta.”

Sam opened a window and the back door,
fanning the air with a towel before the smoky smell could saturate
her baked goods.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We can live without
bread.”

“Oh, god, I can’t believe how stupid I am.”
Kelly flopped into a chair at the table, her head in her hands.

“Kell, it’s really okay.” Sam dumped the
burned toast into the trash and aimed a shot of air freshener
toward the center of the room. The tomato sauce was simmering
gently on the burner and it really did look good. And the pasta
seemed nearly ready. “Look, everything else is going to be just
perfect.”

Kelly raised a tearstained face.
“Really?”

“Really.” Sam started to pat her on the
shoulder but the phone rang just then. She wasn’t sure she could
handle another last-minute bakery order but it turned out to be
Zoe.

“Just the person I wanted to talk to,” Sam
told her. “I’ve been wondering if we might trade vehicles again
tomorrow. I have a large cake to deliver and I think yours would be
more steady than my big old truck.” Another expense she’d have to
consider, even before opening her shop, would be a better vehicle.
A small van was what she really needed.

“Sure, no problem. I’ll bring it over now. I
was just checking to see if you could use some zucchini from the
garden. I’ve got tons.”

Sam readily agreed because she’d just come
across a new recipe for zucchini bread and wanted to give it a try.
She could tweak it and turn it into a seasonal signature bakery
item.

Kelly’s pasta dish produced way more than the
two of them could possibly eat so she sent Zoe home with enough
dinner for herself and Darryl. By the time they sat down to eat Sam
was more than ready to be off her feet for awhile.

Darling daughter apparently sensed that her
old mom was worn out, so she offered to clean up the kitchen. Sam
sat at the table piping huge roses, chrysanthemums, hydrangeas and
lilies onto the red-velvet cupcake tops. Simple to do but very
showy—she felt sure the customer would be thrilled at having
something different than a traditional birthday cake. As she
finished with each of the decorating tips she tossed them into a
bowl of hot water; Kelly took them to the sink and washed
everything thoroughly.

“Mom,” she said. “Thanks for taking me in. I
really mean that.” She paused from wiping the counter tops and
fixed Sam with those aquamarine eyes.

Sam teared up and reached out to give her a
hug. Despite those frustrating times when she made rash decisions,
she still loved the kid.

Kelly went into her room where Sam could see
her picking up clothes and hanging them in the closet. What kind of
epiphany had she had this afternoon?

She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t too late
to call Rupert.

He answered on the first ring and said he’d
just gotten in from a reception at one of the more popular
galleries on the plaza.

“Girl, I tell you, Cantone is all the rage
right now.”

“Really?”

“It’s like a badge of honor for Taos that he
was living here. Everyone wants to put together a fund to have a
proper funeral for him. People were appalled—I mean, really
shocked—that he’d been living in poverty.”

“I’ve wondered about that too. Seeing what
the sale of just one painting netted for Bart—that car, the huge
house, new furnishings and everything . . . Why didn’t Cantone do
that? Sell one painting and buy himself a comfortable
lifestyle?”

“Well.”

Another of Rupert’s gossip-fests. Sam went
into the living room and snuggled into a corner of the sofa.

“Word is,” he paused, building the drama,
“that Cantone simply didn’t like people. He became more reclusive
with each passing year. I mean, no one had seen him at any public
function in twenty years or more. The old gala showings were gone.
The appearances at theatre opening nights, the charity
balls—Cantone simply wrote off all of the social life.”

“Was that because of his wife’s death?”

“Some of it, probably. But he really shut
down in the last ten years, I mean, just disappeared. Well, you
know that even
I
had no idea he was living so close to
Taos.”

“But surely the man needed an income. To
allow foreclosure on his home, when he had plenty of assets . . . I
just don’t get it.”

“Again, part of the legend. I’ve heard that
he got so attached to his paintings that he actually threw his
one-time manager out—this was years ago—when the man suggested that
Cantone sell something. He would not let go of anything.”

She thought about that. She’d heard of people
who began to hoard as they got older. In fact, she’d been assigned
a couple of caretaking properties where she’d actually had to get a
roll-off to haul away huge amounts of clutter. But Cantone’s house
had not been nearly that bad. Apparently his clingy tendencies
applied only to his art. And there seemed something more deliberate
about Cantone’s approach, she thought as she remembered the hidden
sketchbook she’d found in the wall.

“Well, Rupert, maybe it’s understandable. He
was getting older, maybe not producing a lot of new work, so he
didn’t want to let go of what he had.”

He mumbled an acknowledgement.

“Of course, the big gossip tonight was about
this nephew who suddenly showed up on the scene,” he said. “I mean,
no one’s heard of this kid and now all at once he’s the heir to
everything.”

Sam thought about what Beau had said about a
will and probate and estate taxes, but didn’t want to bring it up
with Rupert. As much as she loved the guy, he truly was a gossip of
the highest order. The legalities of the artist’s estate didn’t
need to become cocktail party prattle.

Besides, she still wanted to find out the
truth about the will, and if everyone in the art world began
talking about it the odds were good that word would get back to
Bart Killington. That might be the very thing to send him south of
the border.

They chatted on about nothing in particular
for another three minutes, then Rupert said he ought to get back to
his latest manuscript, which his editor had returned for some
changes. She hung up, still reflecting on the question of Cantone’s
last will and testament.

Sam’s alarm went off way too early the next
morning and she groaned at the intrusion. She’d set it because she
had far too many things on today’s calendar to indulge in her usual
leisurely wake-up routine. Much as she felt tempted to hit the
snooze button, she didn’t. She sat on the edge of the bed and
rubbed a little circulation into her face, thinking she was getting
too old for this.

Why am I chasing around, she wondered, trying
to start a business, taking jobs that send me running all over the
county, and then nosing around to check out the death of a man I
didn’t know much about less than a week ago?

Resisting the energy-drain of so much
analysis, she dragged herself to the bathroom and splashed cold
water on her face, which served only to give her a wet face—no
magical energizer. Patting dry, she brushed her teeth, gargled the
strongest mouthwash in the house, and brushed her hair until it
flew straight up in electric spikes. She still didn’t feel very
awake.

In the kitchen she started the coffee maker,
brewing the stuff with an extra scoop of dark roast. The birthday
cupcakes sat on the kitchen table, covered with a plastic shell.
She rummaged for her invoice book and wrote out a bill for the
customer, taping it to the plastic cover so she wouldn’t forget it.
The short-notice wedding cake also had to go out today.

While the coffee dripped she went back to her
room and searched for her black slacks and white blouse, her
quasi-uniform when she made deliveries to places like Casa de
Tranquilidad. She laid the clothes out on the bed. They needed to
stay clean until she was ready to drive to Santa Fe this
afternoon.

For the morning, her duties were to get back
to Bertha Martinez’s place and do some yard trimming. For that, she
could get by with jeans and an old shirt. She donned them quickly
and returned to the kitchen where she poured a large mug of the
strong black brew. Sitting at her dresser, she was rummaging
through a drawer in search of sunscreen when she heard a vehicle
pull into the driveway.

Beau’s cruiser stopped with a slight squeal
of brakes.

Oh god, she was in no shape to be seen by a
man that she didn’t want to scare away. She set the sunscreen aside
and gave her face a couple of swipes of blusher and a dash of
lipstick. Rubbing her lips together, she headed for the back door
and met him in the driveway.

“Hey there,” he said. “I was afraid I might
be too early. I was only going tap lightly on the door in case you
were still asleep.”

Sam worked up a bright smile, hoping that she
looked more alert than she felt.

“Coffee?”

He glanced at his watch. “Sure. A quick one.
I’m on duty in ten minutes.”

Before they’d quite reached the back door, he
grabbed her hand and turned her around. His kiss went right to her
center. She was glad she’d brushed her teeth first thing.

“Um . . . nice,” he said.

Her mood shot up at least twelve points. They
indulged in another kiss.

They stepped into the service porch and gave
themselves over to a full-fledged full-body hug and what was about
to become a real make-out session before she remembered that they
both had places to be, very soon. She pushed back reluctantly and
slid her hands over his muscular shoulders.

Beau straightened quickly, looking over Sam’s
head.

“Mom?”

Chapter 19

Sam felt her eyes go wide. Kelly was
never
awake this early. She tugged at the front of her shirt
and turned toward the open kitchen door.

“Sweetie.” How much had she seen? “I’d like
you to meet Beau Cardwell.”

He held out his hand to her pajama-clad
daughter. At least Kelly had the good grace to take it.

“Deputy Cardwell is investigating the death I
told you about—the artist who was buried on private land.”

“Uh-huh.” Kelly turned toward the coffee
carafe and Sam swore she saw a little smirk on her face. She filled
a mug and carried it to her room.

Sam poured a mug for Beau, topped off her own
and came up with a smile. “Well. That was a little awkward.”

He leaned against the counter beside the
sink, drinking from his mug. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . .
.”

“Hey, not your fault. I enjoyed it. Kelly’s a
big girl. She can’t pass judgment on me.”

“Well, we like to think they can’t. But kids
always do.”

“I’ll talk to her later.” She ran a finger
along the buttons on his shirt.

“So. I stopped to see if you’re available
tonight? I could make dinner for us at my place?”

“Meet-the-mom time?”

“Well, I just met your daughter. Looks like
the time is right.” He took another sip. “Hey, let’s make it a
family gathering. Bring Kelly and everyone can get to know each
other.”

Sam ran through the list of things she had to
accomplish today, including the fact that she probably wouldn’t get
back from Santa Fe until late afternoon. He didn’t seem to mind, so
they said seven o’clock and he gave her directions out to his
place.

They sneaked another quick kiss on the porch
and she watched him climb into the cruiser. No denying that despite
her early resistance she was suddenly lusting after this guy.

She shoved that thought aside as she went
back inside and peeked into Kelly’s room.

“Yes, I’m interested in him. Yes, I believe
he’s also interested in me. Get used to it. We’re going to his
house for dinner tonight, where you and I will meet his mother. Get
used to that, too. No attitude, okay?”

“Mom, why on earth would I have ‘attitude.’
He seems very nice.”

Sam’s suspicion meter jumped a few notches.
During her growing-up years Kelly had done everything possible to
chase off any man who came around. But she’s an adult now, Sam
reminded herself as she walked through the house, with
relationships of her own and maybe she’s come to realize that mom
deserves the same. Even so, she knew she better brief Beau to
expect anything.

No time to stress over it now. She tidied her
room and looked for her watch in her jewelry box. The lumpy wood
glared at her in sour yellow, until she picked up the box and moved
it. Immediately, the wood warmed to her touch, the stones began to
glow, and a feeling of energy surged through her. She quickly set
it down and rubbed her hands together.

Bertha Martinez’s words came back: “You are
to possess the secret . . . the box has special powers.”

She reached out and touched it again with the
tip of her index finger. This was the third time she’d felt
something strange from the box. When she’d first worked at
Cantone’s—after handling the box that morning—she’d accomplished
three days work in one. The time she’d started to massage Zoe’s
tired foot and the astounding reaction to her touch . . .
Magic?

She drew back from it. No.

Country girls from Texas did not believe in
magical powers. They believed in practical things like baking cakes
and raising kids to have responsible jobs. And speaking of
responsible jobs, she had leaves to rake and mouse bait to check.
She pushed the wooden box to the back of the dresser and grabbed up
her backpack and keys.