the backyard and then go off and start spending his fortune. The man’s dirt. At least he could have sprung for a decent funeral.”
“Maybe you should be saying that to him.”
“Maybe I will.”
A lightbulb came on. What if . . . “I’m thinking we should pay Bart Killington a little social visit. If he knew that people in the art world are upset about Cantone’s unseemly gravesite, maybe he actually would feel some remorse. Maybe he’d feel honor bound to do a nice memorial.” And maybe she could find some other evidence to nail the sick little creep, if she could just get inside his house again.
“Mrs. Knightley . . . you have standing in the art world. A leisurely Sunday drive tomorrow, my dear?”
“Bring me something to wear again.”
This time Sam’s outfit was a chic pantsuit in autumn gold, with strappy sandals and again the Patek Philippe. As she bent to buckle the sandals she eyed Rupert’s feet. What size . . .? nah—she refused to think about it.
Before he arrived she’d prepared by holding the wooden box in her arms, and again she felt an almost tingly sensation in her hands when she set it down. Her hair behaved perfectly when she brushed it and, again, she swore her skin looked fresher and younger. She pushed the box to the back of her dresser. She could not let herself get in the habit of relying on its power.
Rupert had called ahead to Carolyn Hildebrandt and set an appointment, saying that Mrs. Knightly wanted to view more of Cantone’s work. The plan was to find nothing of interest at the gallery and insist on being shown more. Hildebrandt would be their ticket into Bart’s home. And Sam would keep her eyes open for anything with that odd shade of green powder on it.
The plan worked like a charm, right up to the moment Bart Killington opened his door to them.
“We’ve met, haven’t we?” he said, staring hard at Rupert.
Sam gulped. They hadn’t planned on his being there.
“Why, my goodness, I think we have. The day my Land Rover broke down on this road. You were so kind as to let me use your phone.”
Bart was giving Sam the stare now but she could tell he seemed puzzled. “Do you have an older sister?”
“Yes!” Rupert jumped in. “Yes, Mrs. Knightly’s sister. I was giving her a ride to the airport that day. You have an excellent memory, Mr. Killington.” He sounded almost flirtatious and Sam wanted to nudge him in the ribs.
Instead, she turned to Carolyn Hildebrandt. “The paintings?”
“Bart?” Hildebrandt clearly wanted to get to the bottom line as quickly as possible. She’d had to lock up her gallery for this.
“Oh yes. Well. Most of them aren’t hanging yet. As I think I mentioned before, I’ve just moved in.”
“Show Mrs. Knightly the two in the dining room,” Rupert said, sticking with the cover story.
Bart led the way and Sam reverted to script with lots of ‘interesting’ and ‘I must consider this one’ thrown in. She hardly noticed the paintings themselves. Both frames had faint smudges of green on the edges.
“There are more in my safe. If you’ll take seats in the living room, I think Ms. Hildebrandt and I can carry them in for you.” They bustled away.
Once the other two were out of sight, Sam began to wander the room, looking for any signs of the green residue. There didn’t seem to be any. Not surprising. Bart had moved to this house a couple of months after his uncle’s death. Only items that had previously been in Cantone’s home were likely to yield any clues. She scurried back to the couch when she heard voices in the hall.
Hildebrandt entered, carrying a fairly large landscape, gripping the heavy wood frame by its edges. Behind her, Bart held two smaller pieces by the wires on the backs. They propped the three paintings against a wall, apologizing again that they weren’t properly hung for viewing. Sam gave Rupert a subtle shake of her head.
“It’s no problem,” Rupert assured them. “I don’t think we see anything of interest in this group. Would you like for us to come with you to take a quick peek at the others?”
Bart didn’t seem to like the idea of showing them where his safe was, but he wasn’t thrilled at having to haul all the paintings through the house either. Hildebrandt shot him a look and he capitulated.
“Come this way,” he said.
They followed him down a long hall and into his study. One of the bookcases along the wall had been pushed aside to reveal a walk-in safe behind it. Sam eyed the mechanism appreciatively. She’d had no idea this existed on her previous visit.
The paintings which had been stacked against the wall that day were now inside the safe. She stood in the doorway while Bart stepped inside and shifted the canvases to reveal each new one. Of the dozen paintings, four of them had distinct green marks on them—six, including the two hanging in the dining room.
“There’s something special about those,” Sam said, pointing to the four with the marks.
Hildebrandt responded with all the usual art-talk, comments on the artist’s techniques, his style. But no one seemed to notice the smudges. Certainly, neither Bart nor Carolyn made a move to wipe away what would have appeared to be dust, if they could see it. Sam glanced at Rupert. He was clearly enthralled at seeing so many works by his favorite artist, all in one place. But he evidently didn’t see any unusual markings either.
“Rupert,” Sam said, interrupting his reverie, “wasn’t there something you specifically wanted to speak with Mr. Killington about?” She sent a pointed stare his direction.
Comprehension dawned. Rupert drew himself up straight. “Yes, there was.” He turned on Carolyn Hildebrandt. “I’m shocked that you haven’t pressed this matter, as someone with standing in the art world.”
Puzzlement from both Bart and Carolyn.
“A number of us are very upset that Pierre Cantone received such a primitive burial, and even more distressed that there was no memorial service for him. At the very least all of Santa Fe and Taos should have been told of his death. We are mourning deeply, nay, profoundly at the loss to the art world. And nothing . . . nothing! . . . to memorialize such a great man.”
Okay, Rupe, Sam thought. Chill just a little.
But the great man was not to be shushed.
“I’m prepared to purchase—for my own collection—and I am not opposed to compensating you at full market value. But there must be a suitable tribute to the immortal Cantone.”
He turned to Sam, throwing the ball squarely in her court.
“Absolutely,” she said, as adamantly as she could muster. “Without a proper burial and suitable memorial . . .”
Carolyn Hildebrandt recovered first. “But of course.”
Bart seemed to be hanging on to his first story. “My uncle’s wishes, though . . . He loved his land, the open space.”
Sam stared him down. In full Mrs. Knightly mode her voice dripped ice. “Surely, Mr. Killington. Surely there is an appropriate open space that might be utilized. In fact,” she paused as an idea hit her. “In fact, it seems that part of the proceeds from the sale of Cantone’s work should be used to purchase the property on which he lived. To recreate his studio, to hang many of his works, and to lay out a proper grave site for him.”
The silence practically reverberated in the small room.
Rupert stared at her for a good four seconds before his mouth would work again. “Sa— Say, what an excellent idea! I mean, surely the sale of just one or two paintings would procure the site, cover the necessary upgrades for renovation and security measures . . .. And of course a trust should be set up for the ongoing care and maintenance of the place.” He faced the open room and waved one hand in an arc. “I see it now, The Pierre Cantone Foundation for the Furtherance of Art Studies.”
Bart’s face had gone white. Carolyn’s wheels were clearly turning, figuring out how she could score commissions on the whole plan.
Sam took in the whole tableau, enjoying the drama.
After a good thirty seconds passed without a word, Sam shook herself out of it. She’d come here to find evidence of a murder and ended up starting an art foundation?
