Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery (8 page)

“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 fluttery?

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.