She forced herself to breathe slowly and counted three beats before she responded.
“I know, Beau. I know.”
“We can re-examine the motives of those other suspects, the neighbors Cantone didn’t get along with. They’d all have access to the plants, and maybe one of them was a whole lot angrier than we realized. But frankly, Sam, those possibilities seem thin. I’m thinking the old guy probably accidentally ingested the stuff.”
She hung up feeling a huge letdown, puzzling over the new twist. Just when she was about to call Beau back to ask more questions, she noticed that a car had pulled up out front and a man was walking toward her truck. She gave him a minute to circle it and when he stayed she went out to greet him.
“I’ve been wanting a truck like this ever since we moved here,” he said. “We’re up on a dirt road in the hills and that sedan just doesn’t make the climb whenever it’s wet out.”
“She’s good in snow, too,” Sam said, wondering whether she’d miss her old 4x4 when it was gone.
She opened the door for him and he sat inside, clearly enjoying himself. Then he looked under the hood and prodded the tires to see how much tread they had left. Twenty minutes later they’d worked it out that he would give her a check for the full amount now and leave the truck with her. Monday they’d meet at the bank, cash the check, she’d sign over the title.
She took the For Sale sign off the truck then called Rupert to let him know that she could repay his loan by Monday afternoon.
“I don’t know what to think now about Pierre Cantone’s death,” she said, after telling him what Beau had said about the non-matching fingerprints. “Maybe I completely misjudged Bart.”
“Well, I still think he’s one cold fish,” Rupert said. “I mean, anyone who could stick a relative into a grave in the backyard and then go off and start spending his fortune. The man’s dirt. At least he could have sprung for a decent funeral.”
“Maybe you should be saying that to him.”
“Maybe I will.”
A lightbulb came on. What if . . . “I’m thinking we should pay Bart Killington a little social visit. If he knew that people in the art world are upset about Cantone’s unseemly gravesite, maybe he actually would feel some remorse. Maybe he’d feel honor bound to do a nice memorial.” And maybe she could find some other evidence to nail the sick little creep, if she could just get inside his house again.
“Mrs. Knightley . . . you have standing in the art world. A leisurely Sunday drive tomorrow, my dear?”
“Bring me something to wear again.”
This time Sam’s outfit was a chic pantsuit in autumn gold, with strappy sandals and again the Patek Philippe. As she bent to buckle the sandals she eyed Rupert’s feet. What size . . .? nah—she refused to think about it.
Before he arrived she’d prepared by holding the wooden box in her arms, and again she felt an almost tingly sensation in her hands when she set it down. Her hair behaved perfectly when she brushed it and, again, she swore her skin looked fresher and younger. She pushed the box to the back of her dresser. She could not let herself get in the habit of relying on its power.
Rupert had called ahead to Carolyn Hildebrandt and set an appointment, saying that Mrs. Knightly wanted to view more of Cantone’s work. The plan was to find nothing of interest at the gallery and insist on being shown more. Hildebrandt would be their ticket into Bart’s home. And Sam would keep her eyes open for anything with that odd shade of green powder on it.
The plan worked like a charm, right up to the moment Bart Killington opened his door to them.
“We’ve met, haven’t we?” he said, staring hard at Rupert.
Sam gulped. They hadn’t planned on his being there.
“Why, my goodness, I think we have. The day my Land Rover broke down on this road. You were so kind as to let me use your phone.”
Bart was giving Sam the stare now but she could tell he seemed puzzled. “Do you have an older sister?”
“Yes!” Rupert jumped in. “Yes, Mrs. Knightly’s sister. I was giving her a ride to the airport that day. You have an excellent memory, Mr. Killington.” He sounded almost flirtatious and Sam wanted to nudge him in the ribs.
Instead, she turned to Carolyn Hildebrandt. “The paintings?”
“Bart?” Hildebrandt clearly wanted to get to the bottom line as quickly as possible. She’d had to lock up her gallery for this.
“Oh yes. Well. Most of them aren’t hanging yet. As I think I mentioned before, I’ve just moved in.”
“Show Mrs. Knightly the two in the dining room,” Rupert said, sticking with the cover story.
Bart led the way and Sam reverted to script with lots of ‘interesting’ and ‘I must consider this one’ thrown in. She hardly noticed the paintings themselves. Both frames had faint smudges of green on the edges.
“There are more in my safe. If you’ll take seats in the living room, I think Ms. Hildebrandt and I can carry them in for you.” They bustled away.
Once the other two were out of sight, Sam began to wander the room, looking for any signs of the green residue. There didn’t seem to be any. Not surprising. Bart had moved to this house a couple of months after his uncle’s death. Only items that had previously been in Cantone’s home were likely to yield any clues. She scurried back to the couch when she heard voices in the hall.
Hildebrandt entered, carrying a fairly large landscape, gripping the heavy wood frame by its edges. Behind her, Bart held two smaller pieces by the wires on the backs. They propped the three paintings against a wall, apologizing again that they weren’t properly hung for viewing. Sam gave Rupert a subtle shake of her head.
“It’s no problem,” Rupert assured them. “I don’t think we see anything of interest in this group. Would you like for us to come with you to take a quick peek at the others?”
Bart didn’t seem to like the idea of showing them where his safe was, but he wasn’t thrilled at having to haul all the paintings through the house either. Hildebrandt shot him a look and he capitulated.
“Come this way,” he said.
They followed him down a long hall and into his study. One of the bookcases along the wall had been pushed aside to reveal a walk-in safe behind it. Sam eyed the mechanism appreciatively. She’d had no idea this existed on her previous visit.
The paintings which had been stacked against the wall that day were now inside the safe. She stood in the doorway while Bart stepped inside and shifted the canvases to reveal each new one. Of the dozen paintings, four of them had distinct green marks on them—six, including the two hanging in the dining room.
“There’s something special about those,” Sam said, pointing to the four with the marks.
Hildebrandt responded with all the usual art-talk, comments on the artist’s techniques, his style. But no one seemed to notice the smudges. Certainly, neither Bart nor Carolyn made a move to wipe away what would have appeared to be dust, if they could see it. Sam glanced at Rupert. He was clearly enthralled at seeing so many works by his favorite artist, all in one place. But he evidently didn’t see any unusual markings either.
“Rupert,” Sam said, interrupting his reverie, “wasn’t there something you specifically wanted to speak with Mr. Killington about?” She sent a pointed stare his direction.
Comprehension dawned. Rupert drew himself up straight. “Yes, there was.” He turned on Carolyn Hildebrandt. “I’m shocked that you haven’t pressed this matter, as someone with standing in the art world.”