Sweet Masterpiece

by Connie Shelton

  “Anyway, it was uneventful and I got some good information. Bart readily admitted that he’d been living in the house with Cantone and that he’d buried him in the backyard.”

  “He volunteered that?”

  “Well, I asked him. But he didn’t deny it. Said it was in accordance with his uncle’s wishes.” She locked Bertha’s front door and walked toward her truck as she talked. “He said his uncle left him everything, including a bunch of paintings.”

  “Hmm . . . I have a hard time believing there’s been time to probate the will and distribute the estate.”

  “Me too. I don’t know how that stuff works.”

  “I’m not up on all of it either, but I’m fairly certain that he can’t just be selling paintings and spending the money. Not until the state gets its hefty share of inheritance taxes. On the other hand, without a death certificate or public burial, until you reported the grave to me the state probably had no knowledge of the death at all.”

  “And that would be just the way Bart Killington would want it, don’t you think? I’m just surprised that he stayed so close by. He could have easily headed back to California or skipped the country.”

  “He might not have known any better. Just assumed he could take everything and go on his merry way.”

  “But, Beau, what if there’s more? I can’t get over the feeling that Cantone was young to die. What if his nephew saw a great opportunity and took it?”

  “No one says that criminals don’t do dumb things.”

  “I still have a lot of Cantone’s papers. Something told me not to just throw them out. Maybe I’ll go through them and see if there’s a copy of a will. It would be interesting to know if we’re getting the full story from Bart.”

  “If you do find one, there will probably be an attorney’s name with it, or somewhere in his papers. The attorney would be the best one to follow up with. It’s outside the jurisdiction of my department unless a judge orders us to serve papers.”

  “The other thing that’s bugging me is the question of reburying Cantone. Now that we know there is a living relative, shouldn’t he be involved?”

  “Yeah, and I guess I need to check that out and probably pay a visit to him. The property no longer belongs to Cantone, unless Bart wants to step in and pay the mortgage and back taxes.” Beau didn’t sound happy about getting this involved.

  Sam gave him Bart’s phone number and drove back home.

  Kelly was gone when she got there. A glance into her room showed an unmade bed and an explosion of clothing on every surface. No hints about where she’d gone, but it wasn’t back to L.A.

  She began the assembly of the wedding cake for tomorrow’s delivery—icing each tier in ivory buttercream, then stacking the tiers on dowels with separators between.

  While letting the smooth icing set, she dragged out the box of papers she’d brought from Cantone’s place. Aside from the bank statements there were really only a couple of folders that looked like they contained anything important. Most were paid bills dating back a year or so. She carefully paged through every sheet but there was no will and nothing with an attorney’s name. If there had been a will, as Bart Killington claimed, chances were good that he had the only copy. The knowledge chafed at her.

  She washed her hands thoroughly and went back to the cake. Her favorite part was the actual decorating. She pulled bowls of buttercream that she’d made earlier from the refrigerator and began filling pastry bags. Scrolls and fluted ribbons flowed from the tip of the bag, and her royal-icing lace blended in with the soft frosting beautifully. Two hours slipped by as she became completely immersed in the work. Finally, she took the mauve roses from the fridge and placed them, piping a few leaves around them for authenticity. Tiny pearlized dots completed the look.

  Out on the service porch was a separate refrigerator with most of the shelves removed, which she used for cake storage until the actual delivery. She opened the door to it, hefted the forty pounds of cake and ornate frosting, and placed it gently inside. Done. At least for today.

  She heard Kelly’s car in the driveway as she headed back to the kitchen. Maybe she should threaten to put Kelly to work as her clean-up assistant. That would certainly get her out there pushing harder to find a desk job.

  “Hey, Mom,” Kelly said, her brown curls bouncing as she came into the kitchen. “Did you see the message I left on the counter?”

  Sam looked around but every surface in the kitchen was filled with baking and decorating utensils.

  “Near the microwave,” Kelly said.

  Wedged into the narrow space between the oven and the wall Sam got a glimpse of yellow paper. She picked it out and saw that someone wanted an order of cupcakes for a birthday party tomorrow afternoon. Suddenly, a week with more business than she could handle. When it rains it pours, as her mother used to say. As long as the kitchen was a mess anyway, she might as well get with it now.

  She called the customer to verify details—suggested buttercream frosting, since there was a lot of it left—and then mixed up a batch of batter and started baking the two-dozen cupcakes. While they were in the oven she searched out her largest decorating tips. Huge flowers were quick and easy to make with the oversized tips, and she thought they’d go over well with the birthday girl, a thirty-something who’d heard about Sam through her friend Erica. She quickly tinted frosting in a variety of colors and placed it aside in the fridge.

  “How about if I make dinner tonight?” Kelly offered, coming in from her room. “I learned a quick pasta dish awhile back, if you’ve got some small tomatoes and linguine.”

  Sam took back most of the negative thoughts she’d had about her daughter in the last twenty-four hours. At times she could be so thoughtful. Seeing mom up to her chin in dirty dishes and frosting must have triggered her cooperative-gene. Or not.

  “I’m starving!” she said. “Is it okay if I get started on the pasta now?”

  Sam filled the dishwasher, dumped the rest of the buttery items into hot water to soak, and gladly turned the kitchen over.

  “I’m going to get a quick shower,” Sam told her. “When the timer on the oven goes off, just take the cupcakes out and set them on these racks.”

  When she stepped out of the shower ten minutes later she got the distinctive whiff of smoke.

  Chapter 18

  Sam snatched up a robe and dashed for the kitchen.

  “Kelly! What’s burning?”

  She emerged from the living room where some female gossip show on TV must have held her attention.

  The cupcakes sat on the table, safe on their cooling racks.

  “Oh shit—the garlic bread!” Kelly dashed for the oven but it was too late. The blackened bread was too far gone. “Oh no, this would have been so perfect with the pasta.”

  Sam opened a window and the back door, fanning the air with a towel before the smoky smell could saturate her baked goods.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “We can live without bread.”

  “Oh, god, I can’t believe how stupid I am.” Kelly flopped into a chair at the table, her head in her hands.

  “Kell, it’s really okay.” Sam dumped the burned toast into the trash and aimed a shot of air freshener toward the center of the room. The tomato sauce was simmering gently on the burner and it really did look good. And the pasta seemed nearly ready. “Look, everything else is going to be just perfect.”

  Kelly raised a tearstained face. “Really?”

  “Really.” Sam started to pat her on the shoulder but the phone rang just then. She wasn’t sure she could handle another last-minute bakery order but it turned out to be Zoe.

  “Just the person I wanted to talk to,” Sam told her. “I’ve been wondering if we might trade vehicles again tomorrow. I have a large cake to deliver and I think yours would be more steady than my big old truck.” Another expense she’d have to consider, even before opening her shop, would be a better vehicle. A small van was what she really needed.

  “Su
re, no problem. I’ll bring it over now. I was just checking to see if you could use some zucchini from the garden. I’ve got tons.”

  Sam readily agreed because she’d just come across a new recipe for zucchini bread and wanted to give it a try. She could tweak it and turn it into a seasonal signature bakery item.

  Kelly’s pasta dish produced way more than the two of them could possibly eat so she sent Zoe home with enough dinner for herself and Darryl. By the time they sat down to eat Sam was more than ready to be off her feet for awhile.

  Darling daughter apparently sensed that her old mom was worn out, so she offered to clean up the kitchen. Sam sat at the table piping huge roses, chrysanthemums, hydrangeas and lilies onto the red-velvet cupcake tops. Simple to do but very showy—she felt sure the customer would be thrilled at having something different than a traditional birthday cake. As she finished with each of the decorating tips she tossed them into a bowl of hot water; Kelly took them to the sink and washed everything thoroughly.

  “Mom,” she said. “Thanks for taking me in. I really mean that.” She paused from wiping the counter tops and fixed Sam with those aquamarine eyes.

  Sam teared up and reached out to give her a hug. Despite those frustrating times when she made rash decisions, she still loved the kid.

  Kelly went into her room where Sam could see her picking up clothes and hanging them in the closet. What kind of epiphany had she had this afternoon?

  She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t too late to call Rupert.

  He answered on the first ring and said he’d just gotten in from a reception at one of the more popular galleries on the plaza.

  “Girl, I tell you, Cantone is all the rage right now.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s like a badge of honor for Taos that he was living here. Everyone wants to put together a fund to have a proper funeral for him. People were appalled—I mean, really shocked—that he’d been living in poverty.”

  “I’ve wondered about that too. Seeing what the sale of just one painting netted for Bart—that car, the huge house, new furnishings and everything . . . Why didn’t Cantone do that? Sell one painting and buy himself a comfortable lifestyle?”

  “Well.”

  Another of Rupert’s gossip-fests. Sam went into the living room and snuggled into a corner of the sofa.

  “Word is,” he paused, building the drama, “that Cantone simply didn’t like people. He became more reclusive with each passing year. I mean, no one had seen him at any public function in twenty years or more. The old gala showings were gone. The appearances at theatre opening nights, the charity balls—Cantone simply wrote off all of the social life.”

  “Was that because of his wife’s death?”

  “Some of it, probably. But he really shut down in the last ten years, I mean, just disappeared. Well, you know that even I had no idea he was living so close to Taos.”

  “But surely the man needed an income. To allow foreclosure on his home, when he had plenty of assets . . . I just don’t get it.”

  “Again, part of the legend. I’ve heard that he got so attached to his paintings that he actually threw his one-time manager out—this was years ago—when the man suggested that Cantone sell something. He would not let go of anything.”

  She thought about that. She’d heard of people who began to hoard as they got older. In fact, she’d been assigned a couple of caretaking properties where she’d actually had to get a roll-off to haul away huge amounts of clutter. But Cantone’s house had not been nearly that bad. Apparently his clingy tendencies applied only to his art. And there seemed something more deliberate about Cantone’s approach, she thought as she remembered the hidden sketchbook she’d found in the wall.

  “Well, Rupert, maybe it’s understandable. He was getting older, maybe not producing a lot of new work, so he didn’t want to let go of what he had.”

  He mumbled an acknowledgement.

  “Of course, the big gossip tonight was about this nephew who suddenly showed up on the scene,” he said. “I mean, no one’s heard of this kid and now all at once he’s the heir to everything.”

  Sam thought about what Beau had said about a will and probate and estate taxes, but didn’t want to bring it up with Rupert. As much as she loved the guy, he truly was a gossip of the highest order. The legalities of the artist’s estate didn’t need to become cocktail party prattle.

  Besides, she still wanted to find out the truth about the will, and if everyone in the art world began talking about it the odds were good that word would get back to Bart Killington. That might be the very thing to send him south of the border.

  They chatted on about nothing in particular for another three minutes, then Rupert said he ought to get back to his latest manuscript, which his editor had returned for some changes. She hung up, still reflecting on the question of Cantone’s last will and testament.

  Sam’s alarm went off way too early the next morning and she groaned at the intrusion. She’d set it because she had far too many things on today’s calendar to indulge in her usual leisurely wake-up routine. Much as she felt tempted to hit the snooze button, she didn’t. She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a little circulation into her face, thinking she was getting too old for this.

  Why am I chasing around, she wondered, trying to start a business, taking jobs that send me running all over the county, and then nosing around to check out the death of a man I didn’t know much about less than a week ago?

  Resisting the energy-drain of so much analysis, she dragged herself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, which served only to give her a wet face—no magical energizer. Patting dry, she brushed her teeth, gargled the strongest mouthwash in the house, and brushed her hair until it flew straight up in electric spikes. She still didn’t feel very awake.

  In the kitchen she started the coffee maker, brewing the stuff with an extra scoop of dark roast. The birthday cupcakes sat on the kitchen table, covered with a plastic shell. She rummaged for her invoice book and wrote out a bill for the customer, taping it to the plastic cover so she wouldn’t forget it. The short-notice wedding cake also had to go out today.

  While the coffee dripped she went back to her room and searched for her black slacks and white blouse, her quasi-uniform when she made deliveries to places like Casa de Tranquilidad. She laid the clothes out on the bed. They needed to stay clean until she was ready to drive to Santa Fe this afternoon.

  For the morning, her duties were to get back to Bertha Martinez’s place and do some yard trimming. For that, she could get by with jeans and an old shirt. She donned them quickly and returned to the kitchen where she poured a large mug of the strong black brew. Sitting at her dresser, she was rummaging through a drawer in search of sunscreen when she heard a vehicle pull into the driveway.

  Beau’s cruiser stopped with a slight squeal of brakes.

  Oh god, she was in no shape to be seen by a man that she didn’t want to scare away. She set the sunscreen aside and gave her face a couple of swipes of blusher and a dash of lipstick. Rubbing her lips together, she headed for the back door and met him in the driveway.

  “Hey there,” he said. “I was afraid I might be too early. I was only going tap lightly on the door in case you were still asleep.”

  Sam worked up a bright smile, hoping that she looked more alert than she felt.

  “Coffee?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Sure. A quick one. I’m on duty in ten minutes.”

  Before they’d quite reached the back door, he grabbed her hand and turned her around. His kiss went right to her center. She was glad she’d brushed her teeth first thing.

  “Um . . . nice,” he said.

  Her mood shot up at least twelve points. They indulged in another kiss.

  They stepped into the service porch and gave themselves over to a full-fledged full-body hug and what was about to become a real make-out session before she remembered that they both had places to be, very soon. She pushed
back reluctantly and slid her hands over his muscular shoulders.

  Beau straightened quickly, looking over Sam’s head.

  “Mom?”

  Chapter 19

  Sam felt her eyes go wide. Kelly was never awake this early. She tugged at the front of her shirt and turned toward the open kitchen door.

  “Sweetie.” How much had she seen? “I’d like you to meet Beau Cardwell.”

  He held out his hand to her pajama-clad daughter. At least Kelly had the good grace to take it.

  “Deputy Cardwell is investigating the death I told you about—the artist who was buried on private land.”

  “Uh-huh.” Kelly turned toward the coffee carafe and Sam swore she saw a little smirk on her face. She filled a mug and carried it to her room.

  Sam poured a mug for Beau, topped off her own and came up with a smile. “Well. That was a little awkward.”

  He leaned against the counter beside the sink, drinking from his mug. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “Hey, not your fault. I enjoyed it. Kelly’s a big girl. She can’t pass judgment on me.”

  “Well, we like to think they can’t. But kids always do.”

  “I’ll talk to her later.” She ran a finger along the buttons on his shirt.

  “So. I stopped to see if you’re available tonight? I could make dinner for us at my place?”

  “Meet-the-mom time?”

  “Well, I just met your daughter. Looks like the time is right.” He took another sip. “Hey, let’s make it a family gathering. Bring Kelly and everyone can get to know each other.”

  Sam ran through the list of things she had to accomplish today, including the fact that she probably wouldn’t get back from Santa Fe until late afternoon. He didn’t seem to mind, so they said seven o’clock and he gave her directions out to his place.

  They sneaked another quick kiss on the porch and she watched him climb into the cruiser. No denying that despite her early resistance she was suddenly lusting after this guy.