While Kelly pecked away at the keys Sam showered and changed into soft flannel pj’s. She got out her calendar and marked check-back dates for each of her properties. She would need to keep the yards maintained until winter set in, plus go back to each and make sure they were tidy and mouse-free until they sold. The cabin she’d visited today would require snow removal by December, and she would have to contract that out to someone else. Most places sold within a month or two, but even their small rural counties weren’t immune to the real estate problems that were hitting other parts of the country. Sam might have more long-term jobs than she’d reckoned on.
Kelly was still happily tapping away at the computer keys so Sam took a moment to call Beau and fill him in on the situation, given that she’d left him pretty bewildered last night. Once she’d covered her daughter’s circumstances, she remembered the earlier call.
“Rupert told me today that two Cantone paintings came up for auction in New York,” she told him. “Remember those blank spots and the nails on the walls in his house? I have the strangest feeling that millions of dollars in art might have been hanging in that little place at one time.”
His question was the same as hers—why hadn’t Cantone sold something and afforded himself a better lifestyle.
“Maybe he just wanted a simple life,” she said. “Nothing wrong with that. But I still get a weird feeling about that situation, the guy who was living with him. It would have been so easy for some unscrupulous bum to take advantage of the artist, maybe even kill him.”
“Murder by pneumonia?” he said. “It wouldn’t be the most efficient way to off someone.”
“Still—I wonder where the other guy went. You know, it’s entirely possible that someone else came along— someone who knew the value of the art—and maybe the roommate was also a victim of foul play.” She remembered Betty McDonald’s gossip about neighbors who didn’t like Cantone. When she mentioned it to Beau he said there hadn’t been time for him to get out there and question anyone else. Other cases were beginning to take precedence.
“Sam, we don’t know that Cantone was a victim of anything. Probably he was old and simply got sick and died.”
Still, she just couldn’t let go of the idea that the roommate was out there somewhere, dead or alive. She realized that Kelly’s attention seemed to have wandered toward her conversation. She lowered her voice to say goodbye to Beau. As soon as she clicked off the call she turned to her daughter
“Any luck?”
Kelly quickly turned back to the screen. “Mom, it doesn’t quite work that way.”
Sam paced the kitchen for a minute but doing nothing wasn’t her style. Remembering that the Chocoholics Unanimous group would be meeting again tomorrow, she whipped up a batch of brownies and called Ivan at the bookstore to confirm that she could deliver them in the morning. Then, knowing that Rupert was a night owl, she phoned him to see if he’d learned anything new about the origin of those paintings.
“Well.”
Another of his long stories. She checked the timer on the oven and sat down.
“I called the art rep at her office. Then I got to thinking, what was I going to say? Just blurt it out that we knew where Cantone had been living and demand to know where she got the man’s art? No. I remembered how I handled something like that when I wrote
Sam found herself twirling her hand in mid-air, as if that would hurry him up.
“So I told the lady that I represent a wealthy woman who is interested in Cantone’s work, and I set up an appointment for tomorrow.”
“What wealthy woman?”
“You, my dear. You will be the wealthy client, and that will get us into her office.”
Sam howled out loud. Kelly stared at her through the doorway.
“Rupert, how on earth am I going to convince this lady who works with wealthy clients all the time that I’m one of them? There’s not a thing in my closet that came from better than JC Penney.”
He hmmm’d for a second. “I’ll work on that. I probably have something I can loan you. If all else fails, we’ll go for the grunge look.”
He said he’d be over in the morning and they’d take it from there.
Chapter 15
Sam had to admit that she didn’t sleep a lot that night. She had one nightmare in which she was about ninety and Kelly, in her seventies, was trying to convince her that she should go into a nursing home. Kelly still occupied the spare bedroom in Sam’s house and by the look of it hadn’t left in forty years. She woke from that one in a sweat.
Then she began obsessing over how she’d ever pull off Rupert’s little deception with the art dealer. An actress, she was not. There was simply no way he could pack her chunky body into anything designer. Her brain raced through the contents of her closet, the supply of jeans, stretch pants and work shirts, with the nicest thing she owned being a black crepe dress she’d bought for a funeral three or four years ago. And shoes—forget that. She owned three pair of sneakers, the black patent leather pumps to go with the black dress, and some Birkenstock knock-offs from Wal-Mart. Surely Rupert was fashion savvy enough to know that he’d never seen her wearing anything that could remotely fit the role.
By three a.m. she’d slid into delirium, considering whether the costume shops would be open this far in advance of Halloween. By five, she gave up on sleep and got up. A lengthy reconnoiter of her closet revealed exactly what she already knew. Nothing.
She brewed some coffee, then went into the bathroom and studied the mirror. This idea was becoming laughable. That face had too many bags and pouches, not to mention years of sunshine without benefit of weekly facials. Any fool could see that no spa had ever spent a day on this wreck. Sam had nearly sunk into despair when Rupert appeared at her back door at eight.
“Rupe, I . . .”
“Not to fear, dear lady. I thought about this all night.”
Please let him say he’s changed his mind, she silently begged. We’re backing out of this idiotic scheme.
He held up a garment bag. “I have
He bustled into her bedroom, tossed the bag on the bed and unzipped it. “Now, as I recall, you have a nice little basic black dress.”
How would he remember that? Gay men and fashion sense, she supposed. She pulled it from the closet, checking the tag to be sure it wasn’t left over from two sizes ago.
“Put it on,” he prompted.
He busied himself with the contents of the garment bag while Sam shed her robe and stepped into the dress.
“Now, to top it off . . .” He held up a jacket in vivid turquoise silk, sewn in concentric panels so that the nap created a sunrise effect. She slipped her arms into it and discovered that it fit perfectly.
“It was a little small on me,” he said. He noticed her expression. “Hey, I had to describe it accurately when I wrote Helena Deveau wearing it in
Sam hadn’t read that one, and suddenly was glad of that omission. He cleared his throat and turned back to the bag. From a small silk pouch he produced a white gold Patek Philippe watch with diamonds lining the face (another research expense?) and a tasteful string of pearls.
“Rupe, this must have cost thousands!”
“Twenty-five seven. Put it on.”
