Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery (5 page)

“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.

“I’ll get these to an appraiser I know in
Santa Fe,” he said. “If he thinks there’s a chance this is real,
he’ll probably want to come out and see it.”

Sam cautioned him about trying to remove the
painting, that the sheriff still considered the property a crime
scene, which led to a whole explanation about finding the grave in
the backyard.

After Rupert left she finished tidying up the
bedroom and looked around. She’d never finished a cleanup job this
quickly. A little more work out in the yard, which at this rate she
could easily finish this afternoon, and the place would be ready to
list for sale. Sam debated. She really needed the money, and to get
paid she’d have to submit her report and allow access to the house
by others. On the other hand, it would kill her to let someone come
in here and paint over a potentially valuable work of art. The
first Realtor in the door would probably want to do that. For now,
she would hold off awhile.

The county landfill was on her way home so
Sam stopped there and dumped off the bags of trash and the stained
old mattress. Next stop was at the thrift shop on Paseo del Pueblo
Norte, where she left the clothing she’d collected and a couple
boxes of stuff that might have some value to them—books, a damaged
lamp that might be repaired, some kitchen utensils. She wanted to
get the book on plants to Zoe so, after she’d parked her truck and
trailer at home, she walked over to the B&B.

Zoe was pouring herself a glass of wine when
Sam walked into her kitchen and she accepted one too. Exclaiming
over the book Zoe carried it with her as they went out to the shady
patio to relax.

“You finished an entire property in one day?”
she asked, groaning as she sank into a wicker chair. “I barely got
my flower beds weeded and I’m aching all over.”

Sam murmured something about being a little
bundle of energy today.

“Hey, this is a great book,” Zoe said,
flipping through the pages. “Interesting . . . here’s a whole
section on deadly stuff.”

“Ha—you’ll be known as the queen of
mushrooms.”

Sam’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket just
then, making her jump. Rupert.

“Hey, girl. I heard from that appraiser? He
wants to come out and see the mural. Tomorrow?”

“That was fast.”

“Beauty of email,” he said. “So, you think it
will be okay for us to come up?”

“Just to take a look, sure. I can’t let you
take it away until the sheriff’s department gives the okay,
though.”

“Okay then. I’ll send a positive vibe out to
the universe that this is the real thing and that we get to bring
it back.”

She thought about that as he hung up. If it
truly was a valuable painting, the proceeds belonged to the owner’s
estate. If Anderson turned out to be the dead guy, by rights the
lien holder on the property could claim up to the value of their
unpaid balance against it. Seemed a shame but she really should
report the find to Delbert Crow. That prospect deflated her. She
stuck the phone back in her pocket and took a big swig of her
wine.

Zoe’s husband Darryl came out the back door,
carrying a bottled beer. “Hey, I wondered where you were. Hey,
Sam.”

“Just taking a break. My dogs were killing
me,” Zoe said, wiggling her bare toes. She’d kicked off her sandals
and put her feet up on a small wicker stool.

“Here,” he said, “let me give them a little
TLC.” He set his beer on the side table and rubbed his hands
together briskly before reaching for one of her feet. Darryl is a
teddy bear of a guy, burly, with gray hair that hangs below his
shoulders and a full white beard. He’s a plumbing contractor and
Sam had seen him at construction sites, hollering at his crew to
hurry it up. Then he came home and absolutely doted on Zoe, like
now, rubbing her feet when she was tired or volunteering to make
dinner at the end of a long day. He was a prize.

Zoe leaned back in the chair and let him
start a massage on her toes.

“I’ll take the other one,” Sam said. “We’ll
just pamper you a little.”

She set her glass down and knelt near the
footstool. When Sam touched Zoe’s bare foot she jerked it back.

“Sorry. Cold hands?”

“No,” she said. “Go ahead. It just startled
me.”

This time she reacted to the touch but didn’t
pull away. Sam felt warmth flow from her hands to her friend’s
foot.

Zoe sat up straight. “What
is
that?”

“I don’t know.” She was momentarily
speechless. Some energizing force had gone down her arms, out her
fingertips, and into Zoe’s foot. Without thinking, she drew both
hands from the back of Zoe’s heel, along the sides of her foot, out
the length of her toes. As she let go of the foot, Zoe let out a
pent-up breath. Darryl stopped and stared at her.

Sam stood up quickly and shook out her hands.
“That was weird.”

“Very weird.” Zoe stood on the tile patio,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“My left foot feels tingly and not at all
achy. The right one is about the same as it was before. Sorry,
honey. No offense to your massage skills.” She took a few steps
that turned into a little jig. “I cannot believe how much better it
feels. The aches and pains are completely gone.”

Whoa. Did this go along with the fact that
Sam had just cleaned a whole house and yard, with energy to
spare?

Darryl shook his head. “I can’t believe
this.”

Zoe was exuberant. “Do the other one, Sam.
Start at my knee and do my leg as well.”

She had no idea what to think but followed
her friend’s instruction. One stroke from knee to toes and Zoe was
practically dancing. She grabbed Sam in a big hug. But Sam noticed
that Darryl looked at her differently, suspiciously.

“I wouldn’t go around advertising this,” he
said.

Somehow, she knew he was right.

Chapter 7

Sam called Beau Cardwell when she got home,
explained Rupert’s interest in the mural and suggested that he
would probably want to get there before the art appraiser arrived.
Then she phoned Delbert Crow, interrupting his dinner, and told him
in vague terms that she’d found an item that was physically
attached to the house that should be removed before the home was
listed for sale. He didn’t seem to mind that they cut a hole in the
wall, as long as Sam patched it with fresh wallboard; he was more
disgruntled at her recommendation that the entire interior be
repainted. Probably ninety-percent of the reclaimed homes warranted
a fresh coat of paint before resale but Crow said to let it go; a
buyer at a foreclosure sale would expect to repaint the place
himself. Fine.

Sam gathered tools and a spare piece of
drywall that she knew she’d stashed out in the garage somewhere.
Luckily she’d helped her dad with enough construction projects when
she was a kid that she knew what to do. This wouldn’t be that big a
repair.

Everything went into the truck. She
microwaved a frozen dinner and ate it in front of the TV. She
studiously avoided handling the wooden box that still sat on her
kitchen table, or thinking too much about the strange experience at
Zoe’s house that afternoon.

By eight the next morning Sam was on the
familiar-feeling route to the Anderson place. Beau was waiting in
the driveway and she remembered that she had not left a key or
lockbox yet.

“Place is looking good,” he commented as they
walked through the living room.

“The painting is back here.” She showed him
the small mural hidden in the closet.

“Hold this tape measure up for reference,” he
said, pulling out a camera. He snapped a few shots. “I guess that’s
all we would need. Can’t think of any way this is going to change
our investigation. We don’t even know yet if there’s anything
suspicious about this death.”

Sam handed back the tape and his fingers
touched hers. The closet felt suddenly intimate, with the two of
them crowded in there. Beau leaned toward her, ever so slightly, as
if he wanted to say something. Sam bumped into the wall behind
her.

Heavy footfalls on the porch and a knock at
the door interrupted.

Beau sent her a searching look, which she
tried to ignore.

“Hellloooo . . . “ Rupert’s voice echoed
through the house.

She slipped past Beau and peered out the
bedroom door. “In here,” she called.

Rupert tended to float into a room, his
trademark purple scarves and full-sleeved tunic shirts billowing,
the gestures and number of scarves increasing in correlation to the
size of his audience. Considering that he was nearly six feet tall
and weighed over two hundred pounds, he was pretty hard to miss in
a crowd. He preceded the appraiser who introduced himself as
Esteban, a thin, dark-haired man in a business suit, that Sam
guessed to be in his mid-twenties.

She introduced Beau to the other two but it
was apparent that Rupert couldn’t wait to show off the mural, and
Beau seemed eager to get on the road. While the two art hounds
crowded in near the painting, she saw Beau out to the front
porch.

He got to the bottom step and turned. “I
started to ask if you would have dinner with me. Tomorrow
night?”

Sam almost blurted out,
why?
, but
stopped herself at the last second. Guys like Beau Cardwell—tall,
calendar material—did not date women like Samantha Sweet—average,
chunky, with strands of gray in their hair. It just did not
happen.

“A date?” she asked. It had been
way
too many years.

“Why not? You’re a beautiful lady.” He
actually sounded sincere.

“Beautiful? You’ve only seen me in jeans that
are coated in dust,” she countered. “Besides, I don’t really
date
much.”

“Okay, we’ll call it dinner for two friends
who want to get to know each other better.” This time, he really
sounded sincere.

She debated.

To question why a guy wants to share a meal
with you isn’t polite. And if there’s one thing she’d learned
growing up in west Texas, it’s that a lady is always polite. She
accepted.

She watched him climb into the department SUV
and drive away. Well. This would be interesting.

Excited voices inside the house caught her
attention. She walked into the living room where Rupert met her in
a flurry.

“Sam—” He was nearly breathless. “Esteban is
very encouraged.”