While I’m at it I might as well turn the mattress, she decided. She’d upended the queen-size piece when she realized there was something under it.
Cantone’s sketchbook. She’d forgotten all about placing it there for safe keeping.
She took it out, rearranged the mattress and sat down. The crisp pages contained small vignettes that she recognized from some of his work. A gazebo that he’d rendered in gray and white; a wicker chair, done in green and dappled with sunlight in another painting. Sam flipped through the sketches, admiring them with a new perspective. Who owned all this? she wondered. Now that Carolyn had admitted to faking the will Sam found at Bart’s house, and if Bart went to prison for his role . . .
The answer fell, literally, into her lap.
The sheaf of legal-sized sheets were stapled at the top with a blue cover sheet. Atop that, a business card. A New York telephone number. She glanced at it quickly then lifted the cover sheet.
The Last Will and Testament of Pierre Cantone . . .
Sam read quickly, scanning back over occasional passages couched in legalese. It was all here—legal and airtight—dated ten years ago. Cantone had set up a trust, leaving all his possessions to the Etheridge, a small New York museum. His stated reason for the choice was that he felt his work would receive the attention it deserved with the personal care of the museum director, rather than being entrusted to one of the larger places that vied for the works of great numbers of artists.
Sam remembered Rupert telling her that Cantone’s reputation had been hard-won. Too many of the large museums and the critics of his early years had been harsh with him. Perhaps that was the real reason he shunned them at the end of his life.
How close they’d come to never knowing this will existed. Cantone must have hidden the sketchbook inside the wall when he began to suspect that Bart was trying to raid the estate. He could have simply called his attorney and made the contents public in order to thwart his nephew, but who knew how muddled his thinking might have become as he got sicker and sicker.
She ran her hand over one of the small color sketches in his book, feeling a connection with the man who’d worked so hard to please the art world while remaining true to his soul as an artist. She felt a prickle at her eyelids.
Now she needed to know what to do. With a sigh she closed the sketchbook and carried the legal document to the kitchen. She dialed the attorney’s number.
Chapter 32
October gold. With the first days of the new month, chill New Mexico nights had turned the landscape to every shade of amber, orange, yellow and ocher. Like a Cantone painting come alive, the view from his property held the magical light that gained the artist his reputation in life. Now, in death, the great man would have his wish—to lie forever in the spot that held his heart, to become a permanent part of the land he loved.
Sam stood at the edge of the gathering, among friends. Reflecting on the man, the artist. It turned out that Bart had not been too far off the mark in his choice for his uncle’s remains. Cantone had, indeed, specified in his will that he wanted to be buried on the land, here in New Mexico.
His attorney knew the artist’s wishes well. He immediately contacted the Etheridge Museum and set the wheels in motion. Their representatives arrived in Taos that morning. Rupert’s friend, Esteban, had even flown in from New York—the man who’d originally identified the mural as Cantone’s work which started the whole investigation. He’d brought the mural with him and it would soon be back in place in the closet wall where Cantone painted it.
Sam glanced around at the assembled crowd. Rupert, Zoe and Darryl, Beau, Iris and Kelly—they all hovered around her, knowing that standing here at the graveside was difficult. She would need to reassure them, again, that she was fine. The burial site had been properly dug to the right depth this time, the simple wooden coffin reflected the artist’s unadorned lifestyle, and a marble tombstone would forever mark the spot. After the service, wildflowers would be planted on the grave, an assortment that would assure almost year-round blooms.
The museum director had been chosen to officiate since Cantone was known to be non-religious. He clearly would have been happy with the choice, as the man spoke in reverent tones about the dedication that Cantone gave to his life’s work, holding up the sketchbook to illustrate certain points. Few knew that the artist had used money from the sales of his earliest works to fund an art school in Provence, or that he’d regularly painted small items which he donated to charity auctions. Sam felt a warm glow as she realized how much the artist had contributed, knowing that she had some part in seeing that he would be properly remembered.
To her right, Rupert was weeping openly. Across the open grave the other staffers from the Etheridge stood with bowed heads, handkerchiefs in hand.
“. . . he will live in our memories forever.” The director closed the book. Thus concluded, the mourners began to drift away, toward the house. Sam’s final tribute to the artist—a cake depicting the open sketchbook with a few of his unknown drawings rendered in frosting—waited inside, where the guests would share it, along with tea and memories.
“Sam, might I speak with you a moment?” the museum director said as they walked toward the house. “Privately.”
They stepped aside and let the others pass by. A cool breeze glided over her arms as they stood in the shadow of the house.
“I’ve been in touch with the authorities,” he said, “and I’m assured that the large house Bart Killington bought with money he illegally obtained from the estate is now ours. We will place that house on the market immediately and use the proceeds to pay the mortgage on this property. It should be sufficient for most of the renovations, as well.”
“So you won’t need to sell paintings for that?”
“Correct. As I understand it, Mr. Killington will most likely be living in the care of the State for quite a few years.”
He continued: “Cantone’s house will be renovated for structural integrity and his simple furniture will remain. The back bedroom can be redone as the great artist’s studio, giving visitors a glimpse into the life and work of the man. And of course, we will spare no expense to outfit the house with the best security system possible and to provide staff so it can be open as a visitor’s center year-round. The estate provides money for that.”
“I’m so glad,” Sam told him. “From the moment I stumbled upon the grave, and then learned who lived here, I felt sad about there being such a depressing end for this talented man.”
“As we become more familiar with the trust Cantone created, and learn how much we have in the way of funds,” he said, “we want to do more to promote the arts here. One of our thoughts would be to build a secondary building on the site, a place for an art school. I’m sure there will be adequate money for it.”
Sam felt the tears threaten again. “That would be so nice. Thank you.”
She started to turn toward the house.
“Samantha, there is one more thing.”
She stopped and faced him.
“The sketchbook. Without you, it would have never been found.”
She waved off the praise. “A lucky find, for sure.”
“We feel that it belongs to you. As a reward for everything you’ve done.”
“But, I—I really didn’t do anything.”
“No, my dear. Think of it. You found the mural. It led to the sketchbook. You contacted the right people to identify the paintings and that became the beginning of our learning where Cantone had been all these years. Not to mention that you located the correct will. Without you, we might have never learned what a benefactor he was to us. It was an immensely important find.”