to get on with the day. By nine a.m. she was on her way to the landfill with the bags of trash from the Martinez place (never so glad to see something thrown away as when she tossed the snake bag over the edge). The few useful items went to the thrift shop on her way back into town and she popped back by her house to pick up the raspberry torte and deliver it to the Taos Heritage place just as the women were beginning to arrive for their luncheon.
Declining a half-hearted invitation to stay for their lunch and presentation (really, did they want her here fresh from the landfill?), she picked up a sack of tacos at Taco Bell and headed back home. They were going to the soggy side by the time she finished unloading the truck—no sense in cleaning herself up twice. She washed her hands of the dust and carefully placed Pierre Cantone’s sketchbook out of harm’s way on the kitchen table. Beside Bertha’s old wooden box, the two items looked like a pair of artifacts from another era.
Sam downed three tacos without blinking and chided herself for not being a more conscious eater. How was she ever going to lose the spare pounds? She crushed the paper sack with the two remaining tacos and threw them in the trash, like that would make any real difference before tonight’s dinner with Beau Cardwell. But as long as she was feeling a little bit virtuous she also poured out the soda she’d bought and drew a glass of fresh water from the tap.
The phone rang and she flinched. Zoe would be happy to lecture her on the evils of fast food and too much sugar, eating habits being the one source of contention between them, but a glance at the caller ID told her it was Rupert instead. Now there was a man who would never give you a hard time about calories. In his mind butter is one of the essential food groups.
“Hey Rupert, what’s up?”
“Honey, I got twenty-three pages written today, which is a real miracle because I can hardly concentrate on work. Esteban sent some photos of the mural to New York and they are
Considering that several famous artists and writers lived here over the years, it’s not like this one thing would put Taos on the map. But it would still be exciting news.
“I read up a little, this morning, but Cantone’s history gets blurry at the end. No one seems to know where he went or what he did. If he’s still alive, he should get the mural back, or get the money when it sells. And if he’s not living, I wonder if there are relatives. Maybe there’s a will.” Sam had to pause for a breath. “Do you know of any way to find out?”
“I’ll ask around in the art community. If Cantone lived here for awhile, maybe someone in town knew him.”
Sam hung up, feeling a little guilty that she’d not told Rupert about the sketchbook. It was certainly a treasure and further evidence that the mural was genuine. But somehow she didn’t want to talk about it quite yet. Meanwhile, she was still curious about the body buried on the property. Was it Anderson, the homeowner, or was it the younger man who’d lived with him? And how did he die? She shook off the thoughts. It might have been someone else entirely, and even though the grave looked fresh to Sam maybe it wasn’t; maybe the burial happened years ago.
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
