“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.
She shoved that thought aside as she went back inside and peeked into Kelly’s room.
“Yes, I’m interested in him. Yes, I believe he’s also interested in me. Get used to it. We’re going to his house for dinner tonight, where you and I will meet his mother. Get used to that, too. No attitude, okay?”
“Mom, why on earth would I have ‘attitude.’ He seems very nice.”
Sam’s suspicion meter jumped a few notches. During her growing-up years Kelly had done everything possible to chase off any man who came around. But she’s an adult now, Sam reminded herself as she walked through the house, with relationships of her own and maybe she’s come to realize that mom deserves the same. Even so, she knew she better brief Beau to expect anything.
No time to stress over it now. She tidied her room and looked for her watch in her jewelry box. The lumpy wood glared at her in sour yellow, until she picked up the box and moved it. Immediately, the wood warmed to her touch, the stones began to glow, and a feeling of energy surged through her. She quickly set it down and rubbed her hands together.
Bertha Martinez’s words came back: “You are to possess the secret . . . the box has special powers.”
She reached out and touched it again with the tip of her index finger. This was the third time she’d felt something strange from the box. When she’d first worked at Cantone’s—after handling the box that morning—she’d accomplished three days work in one. The time she’d started to massage Zoe’s tired foot and the astounding reaction to her touch . . . Magic?
She drew back from it. No.
Country girls from Texas did not believe in magical powers. They believed in practical things like baking cakes and raising kids to have responsible jobs. And speaking of responsible jobs, she had leaves to rake and mouse bait to check. She pushed the wooden box to the back of the dresser and grabbed up her backpack and keys.
Outside, she put a rake and some other garden tools into the back of Zoe’s Subaru and headed toward the Martinez place.
No yard had ever been raked so vigorously. She had a lot of energy to work off—thoughts of her conversation with Rupert last night, the sexual energy surrounding Beau, Kelly’s continued presence in her house, and the unexplained phenomenon of the wooden box. She shook off the images and scraped leaves into several piles. By the time she’d bagged them her shakiness began to subside. Practicality took over and she realized that she’d not eaten anything all day. Food would help.
She stacked the leaf bags beside the house, to be hauled away next time she came by with her truck. A chicken sandwich on the way home gave her a shot of energy. Back home, she quickly offloaded the tools and placed a clean sheet over the floor of the hatchback’s cargo area.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, she found Kelly, who gave her a hand with the wedding cake. They lifted off the top tier and made space for everything that went along with setup at the reception site. Sam draped a filmy sheet of plastic over the whole thing and was on her way.
There was something about having an almost-two hour road trip ahead. Her earlier good spirits after the morning encounter with Beau and the sense of accomplishment at finishing work at the Martinez house began to deflate as Sam thought more about what Rupert had told her last night about Cantone’s estate.
She couldn’t get past the idea that his nephew showed up so conveniently and that the great artist had died within such a short time. Now the nephew was living a life of riches. She just couldn’t think of a way to prove anything against him. At best he might have simply been a guy who was in the right place at the right time. At worst, he might be a murderer.
There. She’d said it.
Once the word got into her head it wasn’t leaving. She chided herself for focusing so exclusively on Bart Killington, though. According to Betty McDonald there were plenty of other people who didn’t much like Pierre Cantone. Money and territory were often at the root of conflicts, and she’d personally found two instances where Cantone had made someone angry. Leonard Trujillo, the neighbor who was ready to go to court over a few feet of land. What if the court had ruled against him and he decided to take out his anger on Cantone personally? Or the guy in town with that IOU for four hundred dollars—he too could have decided to take matters into his own hands. It was just that she couldn’t come up with a likely way that any of the three men could have given him the pneumonia that caused his death. And who else might be out there who had a grievance with the artist?
Sam thought about it until she pulled into the wide driveway of Casa de Tranquilidad. Opening the hatch on the car and looking again at the wedding cake reminded her what life was really about. The cake, frankly, turned out beautifully. She hoped it would be one of the memorable parts of someone’s wedding day. Baking and delivering beautiful things for people was the most positive part of her day, of her work in general. The minute she could get away from cleaning houses and repairing worn-down properties, she would do it. She fixed a picture of the storefront of Sweet’s Sweets in her head and resolved to hold onto it.
She walked into the big resort’s lobby, headed toward the ballroom, borrowed a wheeled cart from the kitchen staff and headed back to the car. A bellman helped lift the heavy lower tiers on their cake board and set it onto the cart. The smaller two tiers for the top fit nicely in place. She headed down the hall with it. The ballroom doors were closed again and she was just debating how to manage the doors and the cart when a voice piped up behind her.
“Hi again. Can I give you a hand with that?” It was the woman Sam had met on her last trip here, Charlie Parker. “Wow, beautiful cake!”
The maitre d’ appeared just then and held the doors while Sam steered the cart inside.
“Oh, there you are,” said a woman in a blue suit, the wedding planner no doubt.
“Where does this go?”
“Ah, well, the hotel staff haven’t set up the cake table yet. Let’s just park the cart off to the side and you can set it up after awhile.”
How long a while, Sam wondered. She stood around for twenty minutes but no one seemed very organized. So, what to do? Trust that someone else could set up the cake, secure the top tiers firmly, and not touch the wrong spot and ruin something? Grrr.
Finally, she snagged the wedding planner again but the woman was interrupted three times by phone calls coming into the little headset thing she wore, like some kind of rock star diva.
Sam stood around, staring at the pictures on the walls, for another fifteen minutes. Looking at impressionist-style art made her think again of Pierre Cantone and that led her to the fact that several of his paintings were hanging in his nephew’s house right now. He’d claimed there was a will but was content to bury his uncle in the backyard and leave him there. And if that young man had killed his uncle for the valuable art, it couldn’t be ignored. She felt her fingers start to twitch. What if she just took a peek?
The blue-lady bustled past her again and Sam practically stuck her foot out to stop her. “Don’t let anyone touch that cake,” she said. “I have an errand to do and I’ll be back to set it up in about a half hour.”
What was she thinking?
Halfway up the hill on Bart’s road she spotted a car coming toward her. The green Jag. Bart was heading toward the city. She turned her head slightly and raised a hand to scratch her nose, obscuring her face from his view. He didn’t even glance her way. She watched until he’d rounded a curve in the road.
Sam, it’s now or never.
She accelerated up the hill and debated what to do next. Actually, she gave herself over to very little debate. At this point the only thing that would accomplish her goal was rash action. She pulled up his steep driveway, circled the portico and faced the car outward. She hadn’t noticed a housekeeper or anyone else around the place the other day but her mind raced through a story that she would give if someone answered. She’d play the part of a secretary from the law firm handling the will and she needed a copy for their files, because the original had somehow become misplaced/damaged/shredded. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.
The front door chimes rang through a very hollow-sounding house. No response.
She placed a hand on the latch and gave it a try. It didn’t just magically swing open. She eyed the lockset. How easy that would be. But she’d brought no tools, no picks. It wasn’t going to happen.
Walking around the side of the house, Sam saw that landscapers had been hard at work, although they must have left for the day. A huge hole in the ground, criss-crossed with rebar strips, indicated that a pool was underway. Shovels stuck up out of dirt piles, boulders lay in haphazard stacks. She scanned the whole area and didn’t see anyone. But she did see a low window that didn’t appear securely latched.
With cupped hands she peered into the room beyond. A study, with a desk covered in papers. Right there. Just for the taking. Bart was a real fool, she decided. Without a second thought she raised the window and crawled through. No alarm sounded. A door opened into a long hall, and she took a quick peek just to be sure that there wasn’t some maid standing there with a hefty dustmop in her hands.
Nothing.
A ticking clock echoed from a faraway room.
Sam gently closed the door to the study. Took a deep breath. Realized that she didn’t have the luxury of taking her time. If Bart had not set the alarm he didn’t plan to be gone long. She rushed to the desk and riffled through the papers. What lay out in plain sight consisted of construction invoices, notices from the utility companies, a quote for the new swimming pool. She yanked open a drawer and found about a dozen hanging file folders.
Unfortunately none of them were labeled “Will.”
She flipped through them quickly. A flat tray contained incoming mail and a few other miscellaneous envelopes. It all seemed to be the average stuff that everyone gets in the mail. Drat. She’d gone through the whole stack when she came across a long, unmarked envelope at the very bottom. The flap had never been sealed; inside was a single sheet of paper. It was crisp and yet it looked worn. Odd.
It unfolded and lo-and-behold—the will.
At least it claimed to be a will. The words were there, just as Bart Killington had said, leaving the entire estate to him. There was even a shaky signature at the bottom. But the whole thing was off. No attorney had drafted this thing—they would fill at least a couple of pages with therefores and whereases before they got to the meat of any document. And the wear on the paper was superficial, like a document created recently and then buffed to look old. The date on the will purported to be twenty-five years ago, but Sam couldn’t believe this paper was that old.
She stared across the room, thinking. How could her theory be proven?
Two paintings leaned against the opposite wall. More of the Cantone legacy. She stepped over and looked at the first canvas. Cantone’s style, no doubt about it. She stared at them and felt renewed awe at the man’s genius with paint.
She glanced back at the will, still gripped in her left hand. The signature was similar to that on the paintings, but not exact. Okay, signing a sheet of smooth paper with a pen was a different thing than signing with paint on canvas. But still . . .
So, what to do about all this? She should report the existence of the will to Beau and let him notify the proper authorities. But once they began asking questions, would this little sheet still exist?
She was looking around the room for a copier when she heard the sound.
The distinct sound of a heavy door closing.
Someone had just come through the front door. Oh god.
She sneaked a quick peek by opening the study door a half inch. She couldn’t see anyone but heard a woman call out Bart’s name. Carolyn Hildebrandt. Sam knew the voice. It sounded like the she was standing in either the entry hall or the formal living room. Footsteps crossed the tile floor, becoming louder.
Without a thought Sam folded the envelope, stuffed it into her pocket and ran for the open window. She even remembered to close it behind her. Staying low, she crept along the back of the house. She’d passed French doors when she came in. This time she went the opposite direction, skirting the landscape boulders, aiming for the driveway and praying like crazy that she wouldn’t be spotted.
She heard the woman open a back door and call out again, just as she rounded the western side of the house. Not since she’d run track in high school had Sam moved quite so fast. She fished Zoe’s car keys from her pocket and jumped into the car, all in one motion. A silver Town Car was parked directly in front of one of the garage doors and she zipped around it.
There was no way Carolyn Hildebrandt didn’t see the Subaru. Sam had parked right in front of the door. The art rep would have the cops on her so fast—Sam’s heart raced at the thought.
She roared down the hill with little regard for the curves or oncoming traffic. After a quarter mile or so she began to realize how foolish that was. Wouldn’t do any good to escape Hildebrandt only to die in a head-on crash. She slowed to a safe speed and gripped the wheel. By the time she reached the highway her fingers ached and her wrists felt like they had steel rods in them. She pulled to the side and braked.
Three deep breaths and her thinking cleared a little. Hildebrandt had a key to Bart’s house. The greeting she’d called out had the tone of a “hi, honey, I’m home,” even though Sam had not heard the exact words. What was that all about?
Sam shook out the tightness in her wrists and pulled out into traffic. Belatedly, she wondered whether she left things on the desk the same way she’d found them. How much of a neatnik was Bart? Would he notice minor changes? There was no point in stressing over it. She couldn’t go back and fix it. Her mother always said, “Don’t borrow trouble.” Well, this went a little beyond that. Sam couldn’t predict the fallout from her rash move, so no point in worrying over it. However, she’d created her own mess of trouble and didn’t dare hope this was the last she’d hear of it.
By the time she’d returned to Casa de Tranquilidad her hands were steady again. Thank goodness. The wedding planner was in a snit because now that they had the table set up and decorated, Sam was expected to be right on the spot to set the cake in place. She did so, checked the details, and passed out business cards to a couple of hotel people who might send her some future business.
Out in the parking lot a small crowd had gathered around a Jeep and Sam immediately saw a woman down on the ground. It was Charlie, the one who’d helped with the doors earlier. She veered over to see what was wrong. Charlie was sitting up, rubbing at her head and conversing with one of
the women who appeared to be a doctor. She fidgeted, wanting to stand up, so Sam extended a hand to help her. Immediately, a surge of energy flowed down Sam’s arm. Charlie felt it—Sam could tell. But she didn’t say anything.
The group began to disperse and Charlie caught up with her on the way back to the Subaru.
“How did you do that?” she asked. “I had a bump on the back of my head and now it’s hardly there.”
Sam thought of what Zoe said about how much better her aching legs felt after she’d touched them. And what Darryl said about not broadcasting this . . . whatever it is.
“I guess it’s just a healing touch,” she said. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
She got into the car and waved at Charlie as she drove off.
Now she had something else to worry about. How would she continue to answer questions like this?
Chapter 20
The drive back to Taos went by in a blur. Sam basically had to make her mind a blank, except for watching the other traffic, in order not to go completely nuts. She couldn’t let herself dwell on the fact that she was now probably a felon for breaking into Bart’s house and taking the envelope. And she couldn’t begin to fathom what was going on with this whole ‘healing touch’ ability that she now seemed to possess, mainly on the days she handled the strange wooden box. All she wanted to do was bake and sell beautiful pastries to make people’s lives a little happier. She didn’t want to deal with a lot of mysterious stuff in her life.
She approached Taos in the middle of the town’s little rush hour. Since Zoe’s house was on her way home, it would be the perfect time to trade cars, if she was back from her own errands. Sam pulled into the drive that led to the back of the property, noting a couple of guest cars parked in the front. She could see Zoe, alone, through the lighted kitchen window so she tapped once and walked in, holding up her car keys.
“Hey there, you’re back,” Zoe said. They exchanged a few tidbits of catch-up news: she had two couples for the night but they’d walked down to the plaza for dinner at one of the nearby restaurants.
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