Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Hearing this, Larry snapped out of his trance and greeted us, adding, “What took you so long?”

  Grant reminded Larry, “I don’t have the option of stopping traffic and running red lights when I’m late for a rendezvous.”

  “I would never do that.” The brothers shook hands.

  “Hi, Larry.” I gave the detective a hug.

  “Nice to see you again, Claire—under considerably more pleasant circumstances than yesterday.”

  I nodded. “The circumstances are different, but the topic’s the same.”

  Grant suggested, “Shall we continue this inside? I’ve booked a fabulous table.”

  Walking us to the entrance, Larry told his gay brother, “I’d expect nothing less than ‘fabulous’ from you, Grant.”

  Crossing the lobby toward the dining room, Grant was saying, “It pays to have pull—”

  “Claire!” someone interrupted. “Of all people.”

  Several guests milled nearby, so it took me a moment to spot Mark Manning striding toward us. He wore a crisp khaki business suit. “Mark!” I hailed, stopping under an expansive chandelier.

  “I was just on my way out. What a nice surprise.” He kissed my cheek.

  “I forgot you were staying here. Everything to your liking?”

  He made a gesture encompassing the graceful room. “What’s not to like?”

  Remembering my manners, I turned to introduce the brothers Knoll and saw at once that Grant had a hungry interest in Mark. So I saved that introduction—the better to tantalize my neighbor—telling Larry, “This is Mark Manning, a journalist from the Midwest. His nephew is my student Thad Quatrain, who was with me yesterday at the Chaffee home.”

  Larry shook hands. “He seems like a great kid, Mark. Sorry he had to witness something like that.” Then he explained, “I’m Larry Knoll, the detective in charge of the case.”

  I let them banter some, knowing that Grant was now all the more eager to meet my handsome, green-eyed friend. He was surely aware that Mark was not only a star journalist, but openly gay.

  “Grant,” I said at last, “do you know Mark Manning?”

  “By reputation, of course. My pleasure, Mark.” Grant beamed, shaking hands. “I’m Claire’s neighbor—and Larry’s brother.” When all the pleasantries had been dispatched, Grant added, “Won’t you join us for lunch? We’d love to have you.”

  At first, Grant’s suggestion struck me as ill timed, motivated by shallow attraction when we had a deeper matter, murder, to discuss. Then I recalled that Mark had solved many such crimes during his investigative career, so I hoped he would accept Grant’s invitation.

  “Thanks, but I have plans”—Mark checked his watch—“and I’m running late. I have a lunch meeting with the publisher of the Desert Sun. Then I’m touring their offices and printing plant.”

  I joshed, “A working vacation…”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Mark laughed. “The fourth estate—ever vigilant.” Then, after a quick round of farewells, he dashed out the front door.

  Grant turned to watch him leave.

  I said, “You’re almost ‘married,’ remember.”

  “And blissfully so. But I’ll never stop looking.”

  I singsonged, “Look but don’t touch.”

  “Gawd, you’re square.” He tisked, then abruptly changed gears, asking, “Lunchtime?” And he escorted us to the dining room.

  Grant had not exaggerated. His table was indeed “fabulous.” As we settled on the back terrace and unfurled our heavy linen napkins, I gazed across the Coachella Valley, which spread out beneath us and disappeared through the San Gorgonio Pass. Overhead, palms rustled in a languid breeze.

  A waiter offered drinks. Out of deference to Larry, who was on duty, we all opted for iced tea. “It’s quite delectable,” Grant told me, whirling a hand. “They infuse it with mango or … or some manner of exotic sapor.”

  Larry squinted. “‘Sapor’?”

  “Flavoring. Really, Larry.”

  “Sorry. Once a philistine…”

  Waiting for our tea to arrive, we moved quickly to our intended topic. “So,” asked Larry, “Chaffee left everything to the museum?”

  Grant lifted his briefcase from the limestone floor, set it in his lap, wedged it open, and peeped inside. “It was the damnedest thing. Merrit Lloyd had called me down to the bank because Stewart had left a turquoise ring to the museum, but I left with, in his words, ‘the whole shooting match.’” Grant plucked from his case the plastic sleeve that now held the old newspaper clipping. “If you ask me, this is a highly peculiar last will and testament, but Merrit thinks it’ll stand up.”

  I added, “The banker said it should qualify as a holographic will because of Stewart’s handwritten note in the margin.”

  Larry took the clipping from Grant and skimmed through it. “I’m no legal genius, but the intentions of the deceased do seem perfectly clear.” He set the printed interview aside.

  Our tea arrived just then, and we raised our glasses in a toast to the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts. Grant added, “And to Stewart Chaffee’s memory, of course.”

  “Of course.” We clinked glasses and sipped. Guava, perhaps.

  Pausing in thought, Grant then told Larry, “The odd thing is, from the museum’s standpoint, there’s very little to celebrate.”

  “Why not? It’s a windfall.”

  “That word keeps popping up.” Grant went on to explain the double irony: Chaffee’s art collection was largely inappropriate to DMSA’s artistic mission, and the museum was no longer in financial need, thanks to Glenn Yeats’s generosity in bringing it under the stewardship of Desert Arts College. “What’s more,” Grant noted, “we won’t be able to sell the collection, so we’ll be faced with the trouble—and expense—of storing it.”

  Menus were presented, which we perused briefly before ordering light lunches—twenty-dollar hotel salads. Grant reminded us, “This one’s on me.” He removed the newspaper clipping from the table and returned it to his briefcase on the floor.

  When our waiter had left, I leaned into the table, asking Larry, “Well? Anything to report?”

  Grant roared with laughter, drawing glances from several nearby tables.

  Larry asked me, “Do I detect an inordinate note of interest in this investigation? Don’t tell me you’ve developed an appetite for police work—again.”

  Grant cracked, “I thought you’d come to appreciate Claire’s ‘theatrical perspective’ on crime solving.”

  “Actually,” said Larry, sitting back, “I have. I admit, when Claire got involved in the case of the sculptor’s wife, I was skeptical. But I found that her years in the theater have indeed imbued her with a keen understanding of plotting, motivation, and character. Plus, I’ve rarely known anyone with a sharper memory for detail.”

  I suggested, “That’s because you’ve never memorized a three-hour Shakespearean script.” With a sharp nod, I added, “Verbatim.”

  “No, I’ve never done that, and I doubt that I could. Plus, I don’t have Claire’s firsthand knowledge of the interaction, prior to yesterday, between Stewart Chaffee, the victim; Bonnie Bahr, the nurse; and Pea Fertig, the houseman. I’m man enough to admit it—I could use Claire’s help.”

  I showed Grant the tip of my tongue, then turned to his brother. “I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”

  Grant reminded me, “You’ve got a show to put on.”

  “Yes,” I conceded, “that’s my top priority. But we’re into production week now, and the show has its own momentum. What’s more, my theatrical duties are at night.” Glancing at my watch, I grinned. “It’s barely past noon.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Grant sat back, crowing. “Milady’s a sidekick again.”

  Shushing him, I turned to Larry and repeated my original question. “Well? Anything to report?”

  The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket and opened it on the table. “Here’s where we are. First, as established yesterday at
the crime scene, the lack of fingerprints on the refrigerator handle points convincingly to foul play.”

  “Meaning,” I clarified, “murder.”

  “Yes. Further, when the refrigerator fell on Chaffee, crushing him, the door was splayed wide open.”

  “Right,” I recalled. “That’s why there was such a mess.”

  “Yes, but think about it. The logistics are inconsistent with how the refrigerator would have fallen if Chaffee himself had accidentally toppled it while trying to pull the door open. If the door had already opened wide enough to clear him, he would have stopped pulling. No, someone else opened the door, then easily overturned the refrigerator by using the leverage provided by the door. The culprit stayed only long enough to remove the fingerprints, then left Chaffee to die a horrible, painful death.”

  “Poor Stewart,” said Grant, ditching his glib manner. “I wasn’t aware of the details. What a vile way to kill a helpless old man.”

  Larry said, “The coroner has not ruled out the possibility that the ‘accident’ was staged to mask some other murder method, such as drug overdose or poisoning. Toxicology tests have been ordered, but those results can take days, even weeks, depending on the caseload.”

  Grant suggested, “If it turns out that Stewart did have a drug overdose, that would point to the nurse, wouldn’t it?”

  “On the surface,” I thought aloud. “But anyone with access to Stewart and his prescriptions might have given him an overdose to make it appear that Bonnie had done it.”

  “Someone like Pea?”

  I shrugged. “They seem to despise each other.” Turning to Larry, I said, “So toxicology is a big ‘if.’ Meanwhile, what has the coroner definitely established?”

  Larry tapped his notebook. “Time of death. The autopsy itself is complete, and the coroner has fixed the time of Chaffee’s death sometime between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty on Monday morning. I’d prefer a tighter window, of course, but the time can’t be fixed more precisely because it’s impossible to calculate the effect of the refrigerator upon the victim’s loss of body temperature.”

  “Still,” I noted, “that narrows it down to an hour. What about the security tape of cars entering the gate? That should tell you plenty.”

  “It does.”

  “Huh?” asked Grant, going pale.

  Had he choked on a guava seed? Concerned, I asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Security tape?”

  Larry explained to his brother, “The gate at Chaffee’s estate is equipped with a security system that shoots time-stamped photos of the rear bumper of every vehicle entering the grounds. There was a fair amount of traffic there yesterday morning. We had no trouble tracing all the plates.”

  Grant weighed this news before saying, awkwardly, “Then I guess I understand why you were so quick to meet us for lunch. You said there was something important you needed to discuss.”

  If there was caffeine in my tea, it hadn’t kicked in yet. Dense me. I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  Grant slumped forward, bracing himself on his elbows. “I drove out to the estate yesterday morning.” With a sigh, he added, “It was sometime after eleven. Yes, I was there.”

  I saved Larry the trouble of asking, “What for?”

  Grant told both of us, “I was driving through the vicinity on an errand, and I wanted to make sure that Stewart had gotten the desk key, as promised. That’s all there was to it. When I pulled up to the gate and used the intercom, no one answered, so I punched in the code, which Stewart himself had given me. I went to the front door, rang the bell several times, but no one answered. So I left.”

  Larry asked, “You were never inside the house?”

  “No, not yesterday. Since no one seemed to be home, I left within a minute or two after I arrived.” Grant’s face brightened with a thought. “I’m sure the tapes will verify that.”

  “I’m sure they would,” said the detective with a soft laugh, “but unfortunately, the system isn’t set up to record exiting vehicles.”

  “Peachy.” Grant grimaced. “As far as anyone knows, I was there for hours, engaged in all manner of devilry.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I patted his arm. “I arrived shortly after one o’clock with Tanner and Thad. You weren’t there then, so you couldn’t have been there for more than, say, an hour and a half.”

  “Thanks a heap.”

  Larry prompted his brother, “I assume you had lunch somewhere yesterday.”

  Grant sniffed haughtily. “Have you ever seen me brown-bag it? I always dine out, and I generally have witnesses. In fact, I was right here yesterday, with a client, at this very table.”

  Larry took notes. “What time?”

  Grant fudged, “Noonish.”

  I slid an accusing eye in his direction. “Which left you a whole hour for mischief.” I thought I’d better add, “Just kidding. Why would anyone suspect you, even remotely, of harboring motives to harm Stewart? You two were old friends.”

  Larry suggested, “What about the windfall for the museum?” Though I assumed he wasn’t serious, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Larry,” said Grant, “I’ve already told you—that ‘windfall’ is of very little use to DMSA, and it presents the museum with an enormous storage problem.”

  “Relax,” said the cop. “I don’t suspect you any more than Claire does, but you were there yesterday, so I need to get you crossed off my list.”

  “Good. How do we accomplish that?”

  “For starters”—Larry hesitated—“you could volunteer a set of your fingerprints.”

  Grant gasped. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Sorry, I am.”

  “Then you won’t need all ten, just the right index finger.” Grant displayed the digit. “The only thing I touched was the doorbell.”

  Larry explained, “It’s a process of elimination. It we can match prints found at the property with people known to be there, people whose presence we can explain, we then stand a chance of identifying any unaccountable set of prints.”

  “Mystery prints…,” I called them.

  “Killer’s prints,” said Larry.

  “Very well,” said Grant, sounding put-upon. “If you want my prints, you can certainly have them. What do I have to do—go down to the cop shop in shackles?”

  Larry allowed a laugh. “Of course not. When we leave here, I can take care of it at my car. It won’t take half a minute.”

  “Oh.” Grant lost his attitude. “Fine. No problem.”

  I asked Larry, “Yesterday at the crime scene, you instructed a deputy to check the exterior doors for prints. I take it you found some.”

  “Sure. Doorknobs are fingerprint magnets, so there were plenty. But because the refrigerator door handle had been wiped clean, I thought the killer might have cleaned the doorknobs as well.”

  “And?”

  The detective grinned. “Someone got sloppy—or rushed. They polished the inside knob of the front door before leaving, but neglected to clean the outside knob.”

  I suggested, “Maybe they pulled the door closed by handling its edge with a cloth.”

  “Entirely possible. But I doubt if they entered the house that way.”

  “Aha.”

  Grant leaned across the table, eyeing his brother’s notebook.

  “Yes?” asked Larry.

  “I believe you mentioned something about crossing me off your list.”

  With a comical flourish of his pen, Larry did so.

  Visibly relieved, Grant took a long swallow of his iced tea. Relieved for him, I did likewise. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Grant’s reason for visiting the estate—checking on the key—had been lame. His young partner, Kane, had taken responsibility for returning the key. Why would Grant have given a second thought to so simple a mission? Watching Larry scribble notes, I wondered if he had questioned this as well.

  Grant set down his glass. “You mentioned tracing the plates of quite a f
ew cars that visited the estate yesterday. Might I ask who else was there?”

  I seconded, “Good question.”

  “Sure,” said Larry, “let’s run through the list. Feel free to share your thoughts about any of this. The first car entering through the gate yesterday morning was a Mercedes-Benz belonging to Merrit Lloyd, the victim’s banker. It was early, about a quarter to eight.”

  I recalled, “When I first met Merrit at the estate on Saturday, he mentioned that he would return with some paperwork early Monday, on his way into the office, I presume. I got the impression his services extended well beyond the normal bounds of banking. He said, ‘Many days, I’m here more than once.’”

  “That checks out.” Larry tapped his pen on the pad. “Merrit showed up twice that morning.”

  Grant sighed. “Ah, the privileged lifestyle of the wealthy few.”

  I asked Larry, “Who arrived next?”

  “Kane Richter. The tape shows that he drove past the gate at eight-fifteen, exactly as he told me last night. He returned the key to Stewart and left immediately.”

  Grant added, “Kane said he didn’t see anyone else around, so Merrit Lloyd must have left by then, within a half hour after he arrived. He probably just needed a few signatures.”

  “I’ll check it out,” said Larry, “but sure, that would make sense.”

  I prodded, “Next?”

  “The nurse, Bonnie Bahr, entered the grounds at nine on the nose.”

  “Delivering the pink fluff,” I surmised.

  “Yeah, that’s what she told me when I reached her by phone last night. She sounded pretty distraught about Chaffee’s death, so I didn’t press for details. I’ve arranged to meet her after lunch.”

  “Not that I actively suspect Bonnie,” I said, “but that meeting should be informative. She was probably as close to Stewart as anyone was during his latter days, with total access to the house and complete knowledge of his various medical conditions. If she’s willing to open up, she could tell us plenty.”

  “Us?” asked Larry.

  “Well, I meant ‘us’ in the general sense of the investigation.” I sipped my tea.