“And you offered to bring him here, to your beautiful home?”
“Uh, actually, I hadn’t found this place yet. I wanted to take him in, to have him come to my place in California, but he was just too ill to travel. And he didn’t want to leave New Mexico. He always loved it here. All I could do was to move in with him and care for him, in his own house.”
Uh-huh.
But before she could ask any more questions, Rupert’s cell phone rang. He jumped.
“Oh my, I guess I have a signal again.”
Chapter 17
Rupert took the call, stepping into the kitchen for privacy. While he um-hmm’d a couple of times, Sam turned back to Bart.
“You know, the Sheriff in Taos County had a lot of questions about Mr. Cantone’s death. It looked like a lot of art was missing from the house.” Those blank spots—nails without pictures—had been bothering her from day one. “And the fact that he was buried in the back yard in a practically unmarked grave . . .”
“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t especially care what some small town sheriff thinks. I am Pierre Cantone’s sole heir. He was buried according to his wishes and his will left me everything.”
“And you went from living in the spare room in a house that was barely more than a shack, to . . . this. All in just a few months’ time?”
Bart’s tone became defensive. “I sold one painting. It went quickly because no new Cantone works had appeared on the market in years. So, yes, I bought myself a nicer lifestyle with the proceeds. I have nothing to apologize for.”
A tap on the shoulder got her attention. “Sweetie,” Rupert said. “I think we can be on our way. The service manager suggested something I might try, to get the car started.” He glanced at Bart. “If it doesn’t work, they’ll send a tow truck. We’ll be out of your way shortly.”
He took her elbow and steered her out the front door.
“What was that all about?” she said as they walked down the drive. “Did you actually call a service shop?”
“Oh no. I just made that up. It was time to get you out of there.” He caught her look. “Honey, what more were you going to learn? And you were just pissing him off.”
Well, that was probably true.
“He claims that Cantone left him the entire estate.”
“And that might very well be true.”
“But then why—?”
“Why did Cantone live in near-squalor? Why did this nephew happen to show up at just the right moment? Honey, I don’t think we’re ever going to know that.”
Sam fumed while Rupert did some little thing under the hood. The Land Rover started right up. Rupert looked up toward the house and gave a little wave to Bart, who stood on the wide front steps.
“I just don’t like all the coincidences,” she muttered as they drove away.
By the time they got to Taos she’d cooled slightly. She would ask Beau how they might find out about the artist’s will. And she would damn sure give him a thorough description of the massive new house, the art on the walls, and—thanks to Rupert’s quick thinking—the nephew’s phone number.
Wednesday morning Sam hit the floor running. She mixed batter for the wedding cake, and put the first layers in to bake. A pain with a normal home-sized oven—they’d have to be done two at a time until she had enough to form the tiers. She’d had her eye on a good commercial baking oven for a long time, but there was simply no way to adapt her little kitchen for it. While she waited for the timer, she whipped up a batch of royal icing and created lace insets that would dry hard and could then be placed around the sides of the largest tier. She would pipe dots and swirls for the traditional look that the bride wanted.
Kelly wandered out of her room around ten, eyed the production in the kitchen—cakes on cooling racks, trays of lace and roses, the smell of cake baking in the oven—and opted for coffee and a muffin. When asked about the job search, she shrugged and walked away.
Sam resisted the urge to say something more, to make suggestions of places in town where she might apply. Truthfully, it wasn’t so much wanting to give motherly advice as it was to nag her daughter until she got her privacy back.
She pulled the final layers from the oven, tucked the decorative elements back into the fridge to harden, and left the cakes to cool thoroughly before she could touch them again. According to her calendar, this was the day to make another run by the Martinez place, and she figured she could work that in before starting the assembly on the cake. She wanted to have it completely decorated today, so it could firm up and be ready for delivery tomorrow.
Bertha Martinez’s little place needed some yard work, but Sam wasn’t prepared to devote the time today. She swept dry leaves from the porch, then went inside and checked the places she thought of as hot-spots. This time of year, as the nights started to get cold, mice were likely to come looking for food and warm winter beds so she checked their usual favorite haunts—under sinks, in cabinets and pantries. Sometimes the little critters looked for a vulnerable spot in upholstered furniture where they could rip out some padding and make themselves a cozy nest. She found one suspicious little hole in the sofa and couldn’t remember if it had been there before. She kept a few packages of yummy poison in the truck, so she set out a few in inconspicuous corners. She’d check them again in a few more days.
She was almost ready to lock up when her cell phone rang and she saw that it was Beau.
“How are things going with Kelly?” he asked. “I notice she’s still at your place.”
She filled him in on their little talk the other night, Kelly’s financial problems and the fact that she’d left her job in a snit. She could tell he was trying hard not to offer advice. She changed the subject by letting him know what she and Rupert had done yesterday.
“Sam . . .”
“I know. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing.”
“That nephew could have gotten violent with you. You know nothing about him.”
“He didn’t seem the type. Plus, I had Rupert there.”
Beau huffed to let her know how much protection he thought Rupert might provide.
“Anyway, it was uneventful and I got some good information. Bart readily admitted that he’d been living in the house with Cantone and that he’d buried him in the backyard.”
“He volunteered that?”
“Well, I asked him. But he didn’t deny it. Said it was in accordance with his uncle’s wishes.” She locked Bertha’s front door and walked toward her truck as she talked. “He said his uncle left him everything, including a bunch of paintings.”
“Hmm . . . I have a hard time believing there’s been time to probate the will and distribute the estate.”
“Me too. I don’t know how that stuff works.”
“I’m not up on all of it either, but I’m fairly certain that he can’t just be selling paintings and spending the money. Not until the state gets its hefty share of inheritance taxes. On the other hand, without a death certificate or public burial, until you reported the grave to me the state probably had no knowledge of the death at all.”
“And that would be just the way Bart Killington would want it, don’t you think? I’m just surprised that he stayed so close by. He could have easily headed back to California or skipped the country.”
“He might not have known any better. Just assumed he could take everything and go on his merry way.”
“But, Beau, what if there’s more? I can’t get over the feeling that Cantone was young to die. What if his nephew saw a great opportunity and took it?”
“No one says that criminals don’t do dumb things.”
