She ran her hand over one of the small color sketches in his book, feeling a connection with the man who’d worked so hard to please the art world while remaining true to his soul as an artist. She felt a prickle at her eyelids.
Now she needed to know what to do. With a sigh she closed the sketchbook and carried the legal document to the kitchen. She dialed the attorney’s number.
Chapter 32
October gold. With the first days of the new month, chill New Mexico nights had turned the landscape to every shade of amber, orange, yellow and ocher. Like a Cantone painting come alive, the view from his property held the magical light that gained the artist his reputation in life. Now, in death, the great man would have his wish—to lie forever in the spot that held his heart, to become a permanent part of the land he loved.
Sam stood at the edge of the gathering, among friends. Reflecting on the man, the artist. It turned out that Bart had not been too far off the mark in his choice for his uncle’s remains. Cantone had, indeed, specified in his will that he wanted to be buried on the land, here in New Mexico.
His attorney knew the artist’s wishes well. He immediately contacted the Etheridge Museum and set the wheels in motion. Their representatives arrived in Taos that morning. Rupert’s friend, Esteban, had even flown in from New York—the man who’d originally identified the mural as Cantone’s work which started the whole investigation. He’d brought the mural with him and it would soon be back in place in the closet wall where Cantone painted it.
Sam glanced around at the assembled crowd. Rupert, Zoe and Darryl, Beau, Iris and Kelly—they all hovered around her, knowing that standing here at the graveside was difficult. She would need to reassure them, again, that she was fine. The burial site had been properly dug to the right depth this time, the simple wooden coffin reflected the artist’s unadorned lifestyle, and a marble tombstone would forever mark the spot. After the service, wildflowers would be planted on the grave, an assortment that would assure almost year-round blooms.
The museum director had been chosen to officiate since Cantone was known to be non-religious. He clearly would have been happy with the choice, as the man spoke in reverent tones about the dedication that Cantone gave to his life’s work, holding up the sketchbook to illustrate certain points. Few knew that the artist had used money from the sales of his earliest works to fund an art school in Provence, or that he’d regularly painted small items which he donated to charity auctions. Sam felt a warm glow as she realized how much the artist had contributed, knowing that she had some part in seeing that he would be properly remembered.
To her right, Rupert was weeping openly. Across the open grave the other staffers from the Etheridge stood with bowed heads, handkerchiefs in hand.
“. . . he will live in our memories forever.” The director closed the book. Thus concluded, the mourners began to drift away, toward the house. Sam’s final tribute to the artist—a cake depicting the open sketchbook with a few of his unknown drawings rendered in frosting—waited inside, where the guests would share it, along with tea and memories.
“Sam, might I speak with you a moment?” the museum director said as they walked toward the house. “Privately.”
They stepped aside and let the others pass by. A cool breeze glided over her arms as they stood in the shadow of the house.
“I’ve been in touch with the authorities,” he said, “and I’m assured that the large house Bart Killington bought with money he illegally obtained from the estate is now ours. We will place that house on the market immediately and use the proceeds to pay the mortgage on this property. It should be sufficient for most of the renovations, as well.”
“So you won’t need to sell paintings for that?”
“Correct. As I understand it, Mr. Killington will most likely be living in the care of the State for quite a few years.”
He continued: “Cantone’s house will be renovated for structural integrity and his simple furniture will remain. The back bedroom can be redone as the great artist’s studio, giving visitors a glimpse into the life and work of the man. And of course, we will spare no expense to outfit the house with the best security system possible and to provide staff so it can be open as a visitor’s center year-round. The estate provides money for that.”
“I’m so glad,” Sam told him. “From the moment I stumbled upon the grave, and then learned who lived here, I felt sad about there being such a depressing end for this talented man.”
“As we become more familiar with the trust Cantone created, and learn how much we have in the way of funds,” he said, “we want to do more to promote the arts here. One of our thoughts would be to build a secondary building on the site, a place for an art school. I’m sure there will be adequate money for it.”
Sam felt the tears threaten again. “That would be so nice. Thank you.”
She started to turn toward the house.
“Samantha, there is one more thing.”
She stopped and faced him.
“The sketchbook. Without you, it would have never been found.”
She waved off the praise. “A lucky find, for sure.”
“We feel that it belongs to you. As a reward for everything you’ve done.”
“But, I—I really didn’t do anything.”
“No, my dear. Think of it. You found the mural. It led to the sketchbook. You contacted the right people to identify the paintings and that became the beginning of our learning where Cantone had been all these years. Not to mention that you located the correct will. Without you, we might have never learned what a benefactor he was to us. It was an immensely important find.”
She smiled at him. “I suppose it was.”
“It’s yours.” He held up the sketchbook but didn’t hand it over. “And now that I’ve given it, might I make a suggestion?”
Puzzled, she cocked her head.
“We have already been contacted by a collector, a woman who is probably the most avid fan of Cantone in the world. She has heard word of the book and would like to buy it.”
Sam hesitated. She loved the book, loved looking at the artist’s sketches.
“This woman, you must understand, knew Cantone in his younger years. She . . . how do I say this delicately? . . . she probably was his lover, lived with him, in those dark times after his wife died. Most likely, she watched him with pencil in hand as he made many of those sketches.”
“Oh. Then you are absolutely right. She should have it.” Sam took a step back.
“I had a feeling you might say that.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. “That’s why I accepted this on your behalf.”
He pulled out a long white envelope and handed it to Sam.
“What’s this?” She pried up the flap. Inside was a check with so many zeros in the figure that it took her breath away.
“It—it’s too much. I can’t take this.” She started to hand it back but he raised his palm.
“But— How can it be—”
“The book is worth it to her. And she’s a woman who can afford it. Trust me.”
“But—what about the visitor’s center, the art school? Wouldn’t it be better spent there?”
“I’ve already told you, we have plenty for those projects. We want you to have this. Surely there’s something you can use the money for?”
Her eyes welled up. “Yes, there is something I’ve dreamed of for a very long time.” And she knew the perfect location. The tears spilled, dripping off her chin. “I’ll put it to good use.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her face while she stood there helplessly. “Come, my dear. Let’s have some of that beautiful cake you made.”
