decisions, she still loved the kid.
Kelly went into her room where Sam could see her picking up clothes and hanging them in the closet. What kind of epiphany had she had this afternoon?
She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t too late to call Rupert.
He answered on the first ring and said he’d just gotten in from a reception at one of the more popular galleries on the plaza.
“Girl, I tell you, Cantone is all the rage right now.”
“Really?”
“It’s like a badge of honor for Taos that he was living here. Everyone wants to put together a fund to have a proper funeral for him. People were appalled—I mean, really shocked—that he’d been living in poverty.”
“I’ve wondered about that too. Seeing what the sale of just one painting netted for Bart—that car, the huge house, new furnishings and everything . . . Why didn’t Cantone do that? Sell one painting and buy himself a comfortable lifestyle?”
“Well.”
Another of Rupert’s gossip-fests. Sam went into the living room and snuggled into a corner of the sofa.
“Word is,” he paused, building the drama, “that Cantone simply didn’t like people. He became more reclusive with each passing year. I mean, no one had seen him at any public function in twenty years or more. The old gala showings were gone. The appearances at theatre opening nights, the charity balls—Cantone simply wrote off all of the social life.”
“Was that because of his wife’s death?”
“Some of it, probably. But he really shut down in the last ten years, I mean, just disappeared. Well, you know that even
“But surely the man needed an income. To allow foreclosure on his home, when he had plenty of assets . . . I just don’t get it.”
“Again, part of the legend. I’ve heard that he got so attached to his paintings that he actually threw his one- time manager out—this was years ago—when the man suggested that Cantone sell something. He would not let go of anything.”
She thought about that. She’d heard of people who began to hoard as they got older. In fact, she’d been assigned a couple of caretaking properties where she’d actually had to get a roll-off to haul away huge amounts of clutter. But Cantone’s house had not been nearly that bad. Apparently his clingy tendencies applied only to his art. And there seemed something more deliberate about Cantone’s approach, she thought as she remembered the hidden sketchbook she’d found in the wall.
“Well, Rupert, maybe it’s understandable. He was getting older, maybe not producing a lot of new work, so he didn’t want to let go of what he had.”
He mumbled an acknowledgement.
“Of course, the big gossip tonight was about this nephew who suddenly showed up on the scene,” he said. “I mean, no one’s heard of this kid and now all at once he’s the heir to everything.”
Sam thought about what Beau had said about a will and probate and estate taxes, but didn’t want to bring it up with Rupert. As much as she loved the guy, he truly was a gossip of the highest order. The legalities of the artist’s estate didn’t need to become cocktail party prattle.
Besides, she still wanted to find out the truth about the will, and if everyone in the art world began talking about it the odds were good that word would get back to Bart Killington. That might be the very thing to send him south of the border.
They chatted on about nothing in particular for another three minutes, then Rupert said he ought to get back to his latest manuscript, which his editor had returned for some changes. She hung up, still reflecting on the question of Cantone’s last will and testament.
Sam’s alarm went off way too early the next morning and she groaned at the intrusion. She’d set it because she had far too many things on today’s calendar to indulge in her usual leisurely wake-up routine. Much as she felt tempted to hit the snooze button, she didn’t. She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a little circulation into her face, thinking she was getting too old for this.
Why am I chasing around, she wondered, trying to start a business, taking jobs that send me running all over the county, and then nosing around to check out the death of a man I didn’t know much about less than a week ago?
Resisting the energy-drain of so much analysis, she dragged herself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, which served only to give her a wet face—no magical energizer. Patting dry, she brushed her teeth, gargled the strongest mouthwash in the house, and brushed her hair until it flew straight up in electric spikes. She still didn’t feel very awake.
In the kitchen she started the coffee maker, brewing the stuff with an extra scoop of dark roast. The birthday cupcakes sat on the kitchen table, covered with a plastic shell. She rummaged for her invoice book and wrote out a bill for the customer, taping it to the plastic cover so she wouldn’t forget it. The short-notice wedding cake also had to go out today.
While the coffee dripped she went back to her room and searched for her black slacks and white blouse, her quasi-uniform when she made deliveries to places like Casa de Tranquilidad. She laid the clothes out on the bed. They needed to stay clean until she was ready to drive to Santa Fe this afternoon.
For the morning, her duties were to get back to Bertha Martinez’s place and do some yard trimming. For that, she could get by with jeans and an old shirt. She donned them quickly and returned to the kitchen where she poured a large mug of the strong black brew. Sitting at her dresser, she was rummaging through a drawer in search of sunscreen when she heard a vehicle pull into the driveway.
Beau’s cruiser stopped with a slight squeal of brakes.
Oh god, she was in no shape to be seen by a man that she didn’t want to scare away. She set the sunscreen aside and gave her face a couple of swipes of blusher and a dash of lipstick. Rubbing her lips together, she headed for the back door and met him in the driveway.
“Hey there,” he said. “I was afraid I might be too early. I was only going tap lightly on the door in case you were still asleep.”
Sam worked up a bright smile, hoping that she looked more alert than she felt.
“Coffee?”
He glanced at his watch. “Sure. A quick one. I’m on duty in ten minutes.”
Before they’d quite reached the back door, he grabbed her hand and turned her around. His kiss went right to her center. She was glad she’d brushed her teeth first thing.
“Um . . . nice,” he said.
Her mood shot up at least twelve points. They indulged in another kiss.
They stepped into the service porch and gave themselves over to a full-fledged full-body hug and what was about to become a real make-out session before she remembered that they both had places to be, very soon. She pushed back reluctantly and slid her hands over his muscular shoulders.
Beau straightened quickly, looking over Sam’s head.
“Mom?”
Chapter 19
Sam felt her eyes go wide. Kelly was
“Sweetie.” How much had she seen? “I’d like you to meet Beau Cardwell.”
He held out his hand to her pajama-clad daughter. At least Kelly had the good grace to take it.
