Chapter 26
Carolyn Hildebrandt finally spoke, her voice bright with the prospect of several sales. “Well, I’d say this calls for some champagne!”
Bart’s arms flapped uselessly at his sides, like he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.
Sam felt a glow of satisfaction. With a well-known gallery owner behind the idea, he couldn’t very well back out. Now that the concept had been broached he would indeed appear to be completely selfish if he nixed it. On the other hand, Sam didn’t get the impression that the man had an altruistic bone in his body. He seemed like the type who, given unlimited money, would keep adding to his acquisitions—another house or two, a yacht or plane, world travel. She got a thrill out of watching him squirm.
“Rupert, I think we should cap off this lovely afternoon by examining the art. You shall have first selection of the piece you’d like for your own collection. Then, if everyone is in agreement, I shall choose the pieces that deserve to be hung at the new place.” Sam saw a panicky look go between Bart and Carolyn. Maybe she’d overstepped in her role as the rich woman who routinely got her way. “Of course, there will be time for all that.”
“The champagne!” said Carolyn Hildebrandt.
“Yes—let’s.” Bart recovered enough to realize that the whole thing had slipped out of his control. He stepped forward and ushered everyone away from the safe room and out of his study.
Sam found herself taking tiny sips of the sparkling wine, claiming that she had a long drive ahead. Rupert continued his role with ease, chatting on about the paintings and going so far as to walk back to the safe, move the canvases about until he could see them all, and proceed to choose one to buy. He even peeled a few hundred dollars off and handed it to Bart as a deposit.
What had just happened in there?
Walking out of the house, Sam felt as if she had nails in her clothing and tacks in her shoes. Acting was definitely not her forte, she decided as they rode back to the gallery with Carolyn Hildebrandt and said their goodbyes. She took a moment in Rupert’s vehicle, to write down the names of the paintings on which she’d seen the green residue, so she could report them accurately to Beau. The prickly feeling began to subside as they got away from Santa Fe.
By the time they cruised north through Velarde, she was dozing lightly in the car. She roused as they approached Taos, straightening in her seat and half wondering whether she’d dreamed Rupert’s dramatic little scene at Killington’s house. But the crumpled piece of paper in her hand reminded her that she still had to report her findings to Beau.
Kelly’s car was in the driveway when Rupert dropped Sam off at her house.
“How was your day with Iris?” Sam asked.
“It was good. Just getting used to being with one person all day.”
Sam looked over at her daughter, who was busy stirring cocoa powder into a mug. She didn’t detect anything wrong.
“Oh, Beau said to tell you to give him a call,” Kelly said. She gave a lopsided grin. “I think he’s going to ask you out.”
Sam caught herself blushing.
“Mom . . . what’s with the getup?”
Sam glanced down and remembered she was still dressed in the Mrs. Knightly gear. “Uh, Rupert and I went to this art thing.”
“Oh.”
Sam hurried to her room and changed into comfortable flannels and then returned Beau’s call. They made plans for dinner the following evening and he laughingly assured her that she wouldn’t have to wear hiking boots this time.
They met at the restaurant, a Mexican place just off Highway 64, convenient for her since she’d spent part of the afternoon checking on her ski-valley area property. She’d needed the physical exertion of chopping at underbrush to work off her frustration after the buyer of her truck called to say that he had to cancel. Just couldn’t put the money together. The pickup once again sported its For Sale sign and Rupert assured Sam there was no hurry in repaying him.
Beau had asked Kelly to do a little evening duty, to stay and give Iris dinner and get her settled in for the night. Sam found herself watching for clues as he talked, but everything Beau said about Kelly’s job performance sounded positive. Apparently she’d begun to form a solid friendship with Iris, and Beau seemed very happy with the arrangement.
A waiter brought margaritas and took their food orders.
Once they got all the chitchat out of the way, Sam broached the other subject that was on her mind.
“Rupert and I took a drive to Santa Fe yesterday. He’s trying to spearhead a move to set up a memorial to Cantone, out at the property where he lived. He thinks Bart should sell a painting or two to finance it.” She caught herself smiling at the memory. “Actually, he’s laying a pretty heavy guilt trip on Bart for the undignified burial.”
“Good. It really was a pretty crummy thing to do, seeing how well-loved Cantone was.”
Their plates arrived just then, chile rellenos for Sam and a huge cheese-smothered beef burrito for Beau. They spent a couple of minutes taking the first bites and exclaiming over the good, hot chile before Sam turned the conversation back to art.
“There are fourteen paintings at Bart’s house. I saw green smudges on six of them. Interesting that not all of them had it. And I watched the others carefully. No one else apparently saw any of it.”
“Remember that I told you we had a print expert trying to get something usable from Cantone’s body. He was able to get viable prints from the palm of one hand and some partial prints of two fingers.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but,’ ” Sam said.
“But nothing matched. Not one of those plant residue smudges matched with anything we got from Cantone.”
“They don’t match Cantone and they don’t match Bart?” Her fork clattered against the plate.
“Right.”
“So now what?”
“Someone else was in that house. Someone who handled both the poisonous plant and the paintings.” He paused for another bite of his burrito.
“Have you had the chance to question the neighbors yet?”
He shook his head. “I think I have some more questions for Mr. Bart Killington, though.”
Sam had a discouraging feeling that she knew how that would turn out. Maybe she would try to talk again with Betty McDonald, and perhaps Leonard Trujillo, herself.
They shared an apple cobbler for dessert, with a nice wine, and Beau began to get that certain look in his eye again. When he suggested, “your place?” she knew she was ready.
She gave the living room a critical look as they walked in, wishing she’d planned ahead, thought to neaten up the place, to have some candles ready, to chill some wine. But in the end, it didn’t matter. Beau took her into his arms and her insides went molten as they kissed.
She took him to her bedroom and switched on a small lamp. They undressed quickly and found a mutual rhythm of desire.
Later, as they lay together, he traced a line over her shoulder. “You’re magical,” he said.
She glanced past him, to the wooden box on the dresser. She hadn’t touched it all day. Any magic tonight had come strictly on her own.
Chapter 27
