touch that cake,” she said. “I have an errand to do and I’ll be back to set it up in about a half hour.”
What was she thinking?
Before she could talk too much sense into her own head, she rushed out to the car and took off. Bart Killington’s house wasn’t that far away. She remembered the turns they’d made the other day and followed them. She would simply ask him to show her his uncle’s will. Or, she might say that she’d been in contact with the Taos County Sheriff’s office and they had questions about the will. That sounded better. But what if he called up there to verify her story? She’d be in big doo-doo with Beau and not just on a personal basis. There was surely some law against what she was about to do. Still, she drove on.
Halfway up the hill on Bart’s road she spotted a car coming toward her. The green Jag. Bart was heading toward the city. She turned her head slightly and raised a hand to scratch her nose, obscuring her face from his view. He didn’t even glance her way. She watched until he’d rounded a curve in the road.
Sam, it’s now or never.
She accelerated up the hill and debated what to do next. Actually, she gave herself over to very little debate. At this point the only thing that would accomplish her goal was rash action. She pulled up his steep driveway, circled the portico and faced the car outward. She hadn’t noticed a housekeeper or anyone else around the place the other day but her mind raced through a story that she would give if someone answered. She’d play the part of a secretary from the law firm handling the will and she needed a copy for their files, because the original had somehow become misplaced/damaged/shredded. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.
The front door chimes rang through a very hollow-sounding house. No response.
She placed a hand on the latch and gave it a try. It didn’t just magically swing open. She eyed the lockset. How easy
Walking around the side of the house, Sam saw that landscapers had been hard at work, although they must have left for the day. A huge hole in the ground, criss-crossed with rebar strips, indicated that a pool was underway. Shovels stuck up out of dirt piles, boulders lay in haphazard stacks. She scanned the whole area and didn’t see anyone. But she did see a low window that didn’t appear securely latched.
With cupped hands she peered into the room beyond. A study, with a desk covered in papers. Right there. Just for the taking. Bart was a real fool, she decided. Without a second thought she raised the window and crawled through. No alarm sounded. A door opened into a long hall, and she took a quick peek just to be sure that there wasn’t some maid standing there with a hefty dustmop in her hands.
Nothing.
A ticking clock echoed from a faraway room.
Sam gently closed the door to the study. Took a deep breath. Realized that she didn’t have the luxury of taking her time. If Bart had not set the alarm he didn’t plan to be gone long. She rushed to the desk and riffled through the papers. What lay out in plain sight consisted of construction invoices, notices from the utility companies, a quote for the new swimming pool. She yanked open a drawer and found about a dozen hanging file folders.
Unfortunately none of them were labeled “Will.”
She flipped through them quickly. A flat tray contained incoming mail and a few other miscellaneous envelopes. It all seemed to be the average stuff that everyone gets in the mail. Drat. She’d gone through the whole stack when she came across a long, unmarked envelope at the very bottom. The flap had never been sealed; inside was a single sheet of paper. It was crisp and yet it looked worn. Odd.
It unfolded and lo-and-behold—the will.
At least it claimed to be a will. The words were there, just as Bart Killington had said, leaving the entire estate to him. There was even a shaky signature at the bottom. But the whole thing was off. No attorney had drafted this thing—they would fill at least a couple of pages with therefores and whereases before they got to the meat of any document. And the wear on the paper was superficial, like a document created recently and then buffed to look old. The date on the will purported to be twenty-five years ago, but Sam couldn’t believe this paper was that old.
She stared across the room, thinking. How could her theory be proven?
Two paintings leaned against the opposite wall. More of the Cantone legacy. She stepped over and looked at the first canvas. Cantone’s style, no doubt about it. She stared at them and felt renewed awe at the man’s genius with paint.
She glanced back at the will, still gripped in her left hand. The signature was similar to that on the paintings, but not exact. Okay, signing a sheet of smooth paper with a pen was a different thing than signing with paint on canvas. But still . . .
So, what to do about all this? She should report the existence of the will to Beau and let him notify the proper authorities. But once they began asking questions, would this little sheet still exist?
She was looking around the room for a copier when she heard the sound.
The distinct sound of a heavy door closing.
Someone had just come through the front door. Oh god.
She sneaked a quick peek by opening the study door a half inch. She couldn’t see anyone but heard a woman call out Bart’s name. Carolyn Hildebrandt. Sam knew the voice. It sounded like the she was standing in either the entry hall or the formal living room. Footsteps crossed the tile floor, becoming louder.
Without a thought Sam folded the envelope, stuffed it into her pocket and ran for the open window. She even remembered to close it behind her. Staying low, she crept along the back of the house. She’d passed French doors when she came in. This time she went the opposite direction, skirting the landscape boulders, aiming for the driveway and praying like crazy that she wouldn’t be spotted.
She heard the woman open a back door and call out again, just as she rounded the western side of the house. Not since she’d run track in high school had Sam moved quite so fast. She fished Zoe’s car keys from her pocket and jumped into the car, all in one motion. A silver Town Car was parked directly in front of one of the garage doors and she zipped around it.
There was no way Carolyn Hildebrandt didn’t see the Subaru. Sam had parked right in front of the door. The art rep would have the cops on her
She roared down the hill with little regard for the curves or oncoming traffic. After a quarter mile or so she began to realize how foolish that was. Wouldn’t do any good to escape Hildebrandt only to die in a head-on crash. She slowed to a safe speed and gripped the wheel. By the time she reached the highway her fingers ached and her wrists felt like they had steel rods in them. She pulled to the side and braked.
Three deep breaths and her thinking cleared a little. Hildebrandt had a key to Bart’s house. The greeting she’d called out had the tone of a “hi, honey, I’m home,” even though Sam had not heard the exact words. What was
Sam shook out the tightness in her wrists and pulled out into traffic. Belatedly, she wondered whether she left things on the desk the same way she’d found them. How much of a neatnik was Bart? Would he notice minor changes? There was no point in stressing over it. She couldn’t go back and fix it. Her mother always said, “Don’t borrow trouble.” Well, this went a little beyond that. Sam couldn’t predict the fallout from her rash move, so no point in worrying over it. However, she’d created her own mess of trouble and didn’t dare hope this was the last she’d hear of it.
By the time she’d returned to Casa de Tranquilidad her hands were steady again. Thank goodness. The wedding planner was in a snit because now that they had the table set up and decorated, Sam was expected to be right on the spot to set the cake in place. She did so, checked the details, and passed out business cards to a couple of hotel people who might send her some future business.
Out in the parking lot a small crowd had gathered around a Jeep and Sam immediately saw a woman down on the ground. It was Charlie, the one who’d helped with the doors earlier. She veered over to see what was wrong. Charlie was sitting up, rubbing at her head and conversing with one of the women who appeared to be a doctor. She fidgeted, wanting to stand up, so Sam extended a hand to help her. Immediately, a surge of energy flowed down Sam’s arm. Charlie felt it—Sam could tell. But she didn’t say anything.
The group began to disperse and Charlie caught up with her on the way back to the Subaru.
“How did you do that?” she asked. “I had a bump on the back of my head and now it’s hardly there.”
Sam thought of what Zoe said about how much better her aching legs felt after she’d touched them. And
