Connie Shelton - Sweet Masterpiece - The First Samantha Sweet Mystery

“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.