Sweet Masterpiece: The First Samantha Sweet Mystery

Anderson’s life. The only thing remotely menacing was a letter from an attorney. Dated nearly a year earlier, it addressed a claim by an adjoining property owner that Anderson’s fence was two feet over the boundary. The neighbor, Leonard Trujillo, was insisting that Anderson move the fence or pay him for the ‘stolen’ land. Sam’s guess was that if Anderson couldn’t pay his own mortgage, he sure couldn’t pay a neighbor the ridiculous amount the letter alleged that he owed for a tiny strip of land. She crammed all the papers into a shoebox, setting the attorney’s letter on top where the sheriff’s people would easily see it. Finally, she closed the drawers and wiped her dusty hands on her jeans.

Grabbing a duster Sam hit the door jambs and corners, swiping away the cobwebs that seemingly appeared overnight in this part of the country. She noticed quite a number of nails in the walls; there had once been a lot of pictures hung, and by the spacing she guessed that they were larger pieces of art, not just family photos. But they were gone now.

With the living, dining, kitchen and bathroom in good shape, she tackled the two bedrooms, starting with the smaller. Beau and the deputy had taken several items—clothes and bedding—that might provide DNA for matching with the body in the grave. Sam bagged the rest of the clothing for the trip to the thrift shop. Male, size medium, whose taste ran to rugby shirts and chinos. The bed in this room consisted of a mattress on the floor and it was lumpy looking and stained so it went out to her truck, added to the load for the dump.

The larger, master bedroom seemed to be where the law enforcement guys had concentrated so there wasn’t much left. They took all the bedding, the contents of the bedside stand, and some clothing from closet and dresser. Sam began going through the pockets of every remaining garment, as she’d promised Beau she would do, before tossing the item into the charity bag.

In the pocket of a pair of brown slacks, she came across a narrow slip of yellow paper, like a store receipt. Except it was written as a promissory note, with Anderson agreeing to pay someone named Harry Woodruff, the sum of four hundred dollars for “merchandise received.” That was all. No name of the store, no explanation of the purchase. Just someone who gave Anderson credit. It was dated two years ago, so the odds were that the debt had been paid or the man had forgotten about it, but Sam saved the slip for the sheriff’s investigators anyway.

Garments continued to fill the bag. All of the clothing was old, as its owner must have been. From the styles of the shirts, pants and shoes, he was a slight man who was probably in his seventies or so. Most everything was well worn, and many of the pieces had paint stains on them. When she reached the far corner of the closet shelf she discovered a box with brushes and paints which explained the condition of his things.

Sam immediately thought of her friend, Rupert Penrick, who probably had friends who might like the supplies. She set the box aside for him.

With the closet clear, she brought in the vacuum cleaner and started to work with the crevice tool. The far reaches were coated in dust balls and cobwebs and she quickly did away with them. Closets always sell a house, so she wanted this one to look as big and unencumbered as possible. She switched on the light and opened the bedroom drapes to see the space better. And then she noticed something strange.

The far wall of the closet was painted very crudely, almost as if someone had taken white shoe polish to it. They were clearly trying to cover up something else, because a design of some kind showed through in a few places. She grabbed a bottle of spray cleaner and decided to check it out.

As she rubbed at one corner of the area, the cheap white over-coat came away, revealing a scene underneath. The more she worked, the larger the hidden painting became. It was a mural, a rural scene done in an impressionistic style. Odd. What a strange place for a painted mural. She worked at it a little more until the entire scene was revealed. And in the lower corner was a signature. Pierre Cantone.

Her pulse quickened. The Pierre Cantone? No art expert, what little Sam knew had rubbed off from time spent around Rupert, but she knew the name Pierre Cantone. It was like saying have you heard of Renoir or Picasso. Everyone had heard of Cantone. What on earth was Riley Anderson up to? Copying a famous artist’s work, maybe for practice? Or . . . an even more astounding thought . . . could it be possible that the famous artist had once stayed at this house? Before Anderson bought it? Maybe the old man had unknowingly painted over a real masterpiece.

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed Rupert’s number.

“What are you doing?” she asked the second she heard his voice.

“I’m writing, Sam. It’s what I do. Every day. I’m two hundred pages into Love’s Velvet Hammer and you wouldn’t have caught me except that I just paused for a quick lunch break.” Rupert was an aging writer, former Little Theatre actor, and art aficionado who secretly wrote romance novels under the name of Victoria DeVane. He made a fantastic amount of money, as Victoria is always at the top of the bestseller lists, but only the closest of friends know his true identity because even his editor says that men can’t write romances.

“Good,” Sam said. “I’ve got something here that you have to see.”

“Where? Your house?”

“No, sorry. I’m at one of my break-ins. I may have just found an original Pierre Cantone.”

“Ohmygod! No way!”

“I’m pretty sure. Well, okay, I’m not at all sure. I don’t know this stuff, but there’s a mural on one wall, about two feet by three feet big, his style, and his signature.”

“Girl—” He breathed the word more than he said it.

“If you want to come out here . . .”

Very little will get Rupert to vary his writing schedule, but art was one thing and a find of this type would definitely do it. Sam gave him directions and he said he’d be there in ten minutes. That worried her a little, since the place was at least twenty minutes from town. But Rupert is known for driving his Mini-Cooper like a Formula-1 racer.

She began to have pangs the minute she hung up. She really should have told Beau Cardwell about this first. She dialed his direct number from the card he’d left with her and quickly explained the find.

“It’s painted right on the wall?” he said.

She confirmed.

“Well, then I guess it’s not going anywhere very soon. You got a camera with you?”

“Out in the truck.” She carried one for the occasional property where she might need to document something really unusual for her supervisor. “I’ll get some pictures.”

“Good. And don’t paint over it or anything. I may need to come back out there at some point and take a look.”

Paint over it? Like that would happen. She would, however, be lucky if Rupert didn’t bring a saw with him and want to take out the wall.

“Any word yet on the identity of the body in the grave?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Sam, it’s only been three hours since I was there.”

Really? She glanced at her watch. Holy cow. She’d blazed her way through the house in record time. The kitchen alone would have normally taken longer than that. And she didn’t even feel tired.

True to his word, Rupert showed up minutes later. They sat in front of the closet door, staring at the mural. He’d run his hands lovingly over the paint, verifying that it wasn’t just some kind of decal or trick of decoupage or something. No, it truly was an original, painted right there. But was it a Cantone?

“A skillful artist who loves Cantone’s style could have copied it, couldn’t he?” Sam asked, pointing out the box of paints and brushes she’d found. “Maybe Mr. Anderson just wanted to experiment—test his own talent?”

“An expert would have to authenticate it, of course,” Rupert said. “But the strange thing is that this scene is unknown. What would the other artist have copied from?”

“So, he made it up? Copied Cantone’s style and signature?”

He made a little grimacing move with his mouth. “Maybe. But why put it here? Someone wants to copy a famous artist they’re usually trying to make some money. And someone this good, sweetie, I can tell you. This guy could be making good money even if he admitted his work was a fake. Passing it off as real—he’d have a chance of pulling it off, selling to some rich dude who didn’t bother to verify, for a couple hundred thou.”

Whoa. Sam had no idea Cantone’s work was worth that.

She showed Rupert the digital photos she’d taken and he shot a couple more, zooming in on the signature and a few details.