“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.
They were standing in the checkout line at Smith’s when her cell rang. Beau.
“Would it be convenient for you to stop by my office on Civic Plaza at some point today?” he asked. “I’ve finished with Anderson’s personal papers and thought you might need to include them with the other contents of the home.”
Normally she didn’t keep papers from the homeowners, but in this case she could offer to hold onto or dispose of them, whatever was required.
“How about in five minutes? I’m nearly there now.”
Rupert decided to go inside with her. “If you’re dating this guy, I need to pay more attention.”
Sam bristled. “It was
They found parking right next to the building, which was some kind of miracle, and were directed to Beau’s cubicle down a narrow corridor. His desk was fairly neat, considering the amount of paperwork even the most minor case required these days. A number of file folders stood upright between the dividers in an organizer caddy. In the center of the desk one folder lay spread open and he was tamping some pages and stapling the corner of them as they walked up.
Beau handed her a rubber-banded stack of envelopes that she recognized as the bank statements she’d collected from the house. Their fingers touched briefly as she took them, and she got the feeling that his request for her to get these items was an excuse to see her.
She glanced toward the open folder on the desk. Clipped to the front was a DMV photo of a gray-haired man.
“Is that Mr. Anderson?”
Beau nodded and pulled the picture from the paperclip, handing it to her.
“Ohmygod—it’s him!” Rupert snatched the photo from Sam. His breath was coming hard.
“Him?”
“It’s Cantone! He’s older here, but I’d know that face anywhere.”
Beau stepped forward. “You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”
Sam looked at it more closely. The photos of the artist that she’d seen online were mostly taken in the 1960s and ’70s at the height of his career. He’d been dark haired then, with a pencil mustache and smooth face. In the DMV photo he was gray, no facial hair, with severe bags under the eyes. Cruel, what time did to everyone.
However, the more she looked, the more resemblance she could see. He wore his hair in essentially the same style, combed straight back, longish, touching his collar. Although the official photo was straight-on, whereas the publicity photos were generally posed at a more flattering angle, the bone structure was the same.
“I’m telling you . . .” Rupert said.
“Yes, I can see it too,” she told Beau. “Check online. There’s a lot of information about the artist. I think it’s him.”
She handed the photo back and Beau clipped it to the file.
“Well, this adds a new wrinkle. Surely there must be someone related . . . I mean, it wouldn’t be right to put him in a pauper’s grave now, would it?”
