Kiki’s bracelets jangled as she primped. “I mean, dare we drink before rehearsal?” Turning to me, she raised a single, inquiring brow.
“Our work is done. The show is now in the hands of cast and crew. They’re on the wagon till curtain call. If you care to imbibe this evening—within moderation, of course—I’ll doubtless join you.”
“Within moderation, of course,” she repeated with a wink in her voice. Then her tone turned serious. “Tanner will be here tonight, I assume.”
“Later, yes.”
“Claire, darling,” she gasped, “don’t you find it a bit awkward, juggling two suitors in the same room?”
“They’re not ‘suitors,’” I demurred. “You make it sound so Victorian.”
“Victorian? Hardly. I think it’s terribly modern, even commendable—if you can get away with it.” She gave me an envious scowl.
I was tempted to defend myself, but I found it difficult to argue with her. This reticence, I realized, was itself a point that bore discussing. Now, though, was simply not the time to analyze my romantic exploits or my deeper attitudes toward them. I had a play to open. And a murder to solve.
The Beetle groaned as I steered it up the sharp incline of Glenn’s driveway, which led to an entry court behind the house. Several other cars had already arrived, and a pair of valets scurried to greet guests, whisking their vehicles to some hidden parking facility. When Kiki and I got out of the car, it sputtered in the cool evening air like a puppy left whimpering in the night.
We crossed the courtyard to the house, its walls of stone and glass washed by soft lighting that seemed to emanate from nowhere. Following a granite walkway, edged on one side by precious sago palms and on the other by a shallow, black reflecting pool, we passed under a huge cantilever extending from the house in utter defiance of gravity. No apparent doorway separated outside from in; the transition to interior space was subtle and artful. Yet, there we were, in a sprawling lobby that dwarfed the mingling crowd, reverberating with party chat and the bouncy strains of a distant piano.
“Ms. Gray, Ms. Jasper-Plunkett,” said Tide Arden, Glenn’s executive secretary, stalking toward us on those long, muscular legs, “so happy to have you with us.” She made two check marks on a list attached to her acrylic clipboard. “Mr. Yeats was asking if you’d arrived.” Her wispy voice and pleasant words flowed in stark contrast to her fierce appearance. “Can we get you a drink?”
Before Kiki or I could answer, Tide snapped her strong black fingers—a sound that could crack glass—at a passing tuxedoed waiter, who froze. “These ladies need drinks,” she informed him, somehow managing to glare at him while smiling at us.
A bone-dry martini, brimming with shaved ice, would have suited both my uncertain mood and the sophisticated surroundings to a tee, but I had a working evening ahead of me, so I opted for something less potent, ordering kir. Kiki, who generally marches to a different drum, its beat heard only by herself, surprised me by telling the young man, “Make it two.”
“Claire! There you are!” Glenn Yeats, the amiable billionaire himself, bustled through the shifting crowd to greet me under the daggerlike prisms of a modern, asymmetrical chandelier. Like everything in his home, the fixture was of heroic scale. Though it appeared ephemeral, a mere bauble in the soaring heights beneath the distant ceiling, it surely weighed tons.
“Glenn”—I leaned to kiss his cheek—“you’ve outdone yourself, as usual.”
With a modest shrug, he reminded me, “I have help.”
“I thought we’d be early, but things seem to be rolling already.”
“With so many of you due at the theater by seven, there seemed to be little interest in arriving fashionably late.” He gestured toward a buffet table at the far end of the hall, where a goodly number of my troupe already grazed on chilled shrimp and rare tenderloin, juggling their plates with glasses of amber-colored bubbly that I hoped was ginger ale. Among them was Thad Quatrain.
I asked, “Has our guest of honor arrived?”
“Indeed, just minutes ago, with his nephew. Mark is on the terrace, I believe. Grant zipped him outdoors to catch the view by twilight.”
“I’ll bet he did,” I mused with a dry chortle.
Kiki had a taste for meat, so she excused herself as Glenn escorted me through the living room toward the open wall to the terrace. Along the way, we stopped to chat briefly here and there. Guests drifted back and forth from the living room to the terrace, which was getting chilly in the night air. A pair of gargantuan fireplaces, festooned with pine swags, were ablaze for warmth and for seasonal effect—indoors and out.
Near the gleaming grand piano, I noticed Atticus, the painter, and Lance Caldwell, the composer, huddled in animated conversation, thumping their chests and gesticulating broadly. Like most of the faculty present, they both wore basic, arty black. The firelight picked out and magnified the red in Atticus’s graying hair, giving the little man a tempestuous look that matched the bravado of his body language. Caldwell, lean and catlike, arched his spine, hissing something about music theory. Iesha Birch, the museum director, joined them and sided with Atticus, launching into a defense of the “plastic and graphic arts.”
“Let’s find Mark,” I told Glenn, winking—meaning, Get me out of here.
With easy affection, he looped an arm through mine and guided me through the invisible wall. Again, the transition from indoors to out was subtle and seamless. In an instant, the air turned cooler, the light dimmed, and the party noise seemed quiet and distant, overlaid now by the echo of a coyote’s howl. Across the pool, at the far side of the terrace, clumps of guests gathered near a stone parapet, gazing out over craggy arroyos to the valley floor some thousand feet below. The day’s last light defined peaks of a western mountain range. The purple horizon faded to black in a riot of stars overhead.
Even in the twilight, I had no difficulty spotting Mark Manning, whose crisp tan suit defined a striking silhouette against the encroaching night. Grant Knoll stood beside him, pointing across the valley toward the lights of the main runway at the airport. Glenn and I stepped up behind them. I asked, “Does it remind you of December in Wisconsin?”
Mark laughed, still facing the serene, dusky vista. “Not even remotely.” Then he turned to greet me with a kiss. “Good evening, Claire.”
I returned the kiss. “Grant, I see, is giving you the grand tour.”
“He’s been an attentive guide. Thank you. Grant.”
“My pleasure.” Grant’s eyes slid to mine. He twitched his brows.
I couldn’t resist asking him, “Where’s Kane tonight?”
“Nose to the grindstone, working on the program for tomorrow’s event at the museum.”
Mark turned to tell our host, “I’m at a loss for words, Glenn—everything’s spectacular. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me up tonight.”
Dismissing the flattery and thanks, Glenn gestured toward our rarefied surroundings. “If it can’t be shared, it’s worth very little.”
Continuing in this gracious vein, we were soon interrupted by the arrival of a waiter with a tray who, serving double duty, also escorted Detective Larry Knoll to the terrace.
Glenn stepped forward, extending his hand. “Good evening, Detective. Welcome.”
“Thanks for asking me. Nice to be back.” The last time Larry had visited Nirvana, he’d capped the evening with an arrest.
“Since you’re not working tonight,” said Glenn, “won’t you have a drink?”
Larry hesitated. “Maybe I will.” And he asked the waiter for bourbon, neat.
The waiter’s tray contained my kir and Mark’s iced vodka, which was garnished with a pungent twist of orange peel; its fragrance seemed magnified in the still, chilly night. Grant already carried a flute of champagne. Glenn wasn’t drinking. As the waiter retreated to the house for Larry’s bourbon, the three of us with glasses skoaled and sipped.
Instinctively, we drew near the open hearth of the overscale firep
lace that blazed near the pool. Reflected flames skipped and twirled on the black surface of the water. Huddling against the night, we drank and talked. Larry’s whiskey arrived, smelling warm and wintry. Before long, we spoke of murder.
Glenn asked, “You’ve ruled out the possibility that Stewart Chaffee’s death was accidental?”
Larry glanced at me. He surely had reservations about discussing details of an investigation at a cocktail party—in the presence of a high-profile journalist, no less. Still, he’d come to this gathering to observe interactions and explore possible leads, so there was nothing to be gained by holding back. What’s more, grouped near the fire, we were secluded from the party’s to-and-fro, so he could speak in reasonable confidence.
Larry answered Glenn, “All the evidence points to foul play. I’m treating Chaffee’s death as a homicide.” He told about the absence of fingerprints on the refrigerator handle and the efficient leverage the wide-open door had provided.
Mark swirled the vodka in his glass. “Who are the heirs?” He didn’t need to elaborate that he was curious about the most obvious of possible motives.
Grant spoke up. “In a sense, I am.” He explained his position as president of the board of the museum that had received the unexpected bequest.
I told Mark about Chaffee’s next of kin, his niece, Dawn. “She never really knew her uncle and had no expectations of an inheritance. Even though Stewart’s will is bizarre at best, she has no intention of contesting it.” I gave details of the 1954 interview from the defunct Palm Springs Herald and Stewart’s handwritten marginalia.
Mark sipped his drink, thinking, following along. “If the niece wasn’t expecting a windfall, was anyone else?”
I glanced at Larry. He gave me the slightest nod of permission to proceed. I explained, “There’s a houseman, who’s the former lover of the deceased. There’s also a nurse who cared for Stewart at home full-time during the last two years of his life. It’s reasonable to assume they both expected something.”
“And now they’re bitter,” Mark reasoned.
“The houseman is, without question. The nurse is harder to read.”
Glenn shook his head. “It all seems so … pointless.” Responding to our quizzical looks, he expounded, “There may be people who wanted to inherit something from Stewart, and there may even be people who deserved to, but his gift to the museum, while generous, is ultimately pointless. The Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts has a relatively narrow artistic mission—and no interest in the vast majority of pieces from Stewart’s collection.”
“We can’t even sell off the unwanted pieces,” Grant added. “We’ll end up storing them.”
Glenn summed up, “It’s an albatross. Honest to God, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear Stewart was trying to one-up me. He knew only too well that I had already richly endowed DMSA and secured its future through its affiliation with the college. I can’t imagine what he was thinking—unless, of course, he did this as a last, feeble attempt to add some luster to his collection, which had always, frankly, struck me as second-rate.” Harrumph.
This ungracious pronouncement painted its speaker as more than a tad swellheaded. But that was Glenn. If the others were put off by the billionaire’s puffery, they didn’t let on. Whether this could be attributed to good manners or to bootlicking, I couldn’t say. For that matter, I was unable to identify the root of my own acquiescence to Glenn’s fragile, though enormous, ego.
I simply said, “Stewart’s death was tragic enough. It’s a shame his legacy hasn’t brought more happiness to his survivors.”
Focusing on the death, not the legacy, Mark noted, “The motive seems muddled. And the means are no mystery—virtually anyone could have toppled the refrigerator. But what about opportunity? Do you know who was there in the house that morning?”
“Indeed we do,” said Larry. “The problem is verifying who wasn’t there at the time of the victim’s death.” He explained about the security camera at the gate, which left a time-stamped record of those entering but not exiting the estate.
“Excuse me, Glenn?”
We turned. Iesha Birch had joined our group by the fire. Pulling a saffron-colored silk shawl over her bare shoulders, she told Glenn, “Tide and I were reviewing details of tomorrow’s press reception, and there’s some confusion about the question-and-answer period. Did you have a particular protocol in mind?”
Glenn raised a finger, preparing to give instructions, then reconsidered. “Perhaps we should go inside and have Tide take notes. Tomorrow’s event is important. I want it to run like clockwork.”
“Yes, sir. Very good.”
Glenn turned to the rest of us. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course,” we effused. “By all means.” And he left the terrace with Iesha.
From the side of my mouth, I told Mark, “From all the scraping and bowing, you’d think he was the star attraction at this party.”
Mark grinned. “D. Glenn Yeats has a way of being the dominant presence at any gathering, I’m sure.”
“Well, not tonight,” said Grant, practically purring. “It’s a glorious desert-winter evening. This is your party, Mark, and we’ve prattled entirely too much about homicide. So. Tell us. Enjoying your stay?”
“I am. I’d forgotten how peaceful it is here—in spite of all the growth.”
In spite of the recent spate of slayings, I mused.
Grant prompted, “And what have you been up to…?”
“Catching up with Thad. Relaxing. And yesterday I visited the Desert Sun.”
Grant clunked his forehead. “Silly me. You were on your way when we saw you at the Regal Palms.”
“It’s a fine paper. Impressive facilities, too.” Mark shared with Grant a few particulars of his tour.
As they conversed, Larry turned to me and said privately, “That reminds me, I have a contact in editorial at the Sun who’s trying to track down whether Bonnie Bahr wrote letters to the paper in support of mercy killing.”
“Can’t you just ask her about it?”
“I intend to. But when I ask the question, I want to already know the answer.”
Mark was giving Grant some history of the local paper. “The Sun switched to offset in 1972. They’ve done a good job of keeping up with the technology curve, offering an on-line edition to complement their traditional hard copy.”
Trying to focus on our guest’s interests, I asked, “Offset?”
“Offset printing,” he explained, “as opposed to letterpress printing. Letterpress, the older method, is essentially the technology Gutenberg used; a raised image is inked, then pressed against paper, transferring the ink from the plate to the paper. It’s the same working principle as that of an ordinary rubber stamp. Technically, this is known as relief printing, the opposite of intaglio or engraving, in which the ink is pulled from an etched indentation beneath the surface of the plate.”
I concluded, “So offset is engraving.”
“No, sorry. Offset printing is a third, entirely different method known as planography, in which the image is transferred from a flat surface. In offset printing—more precisely, offset photolithography—the original image is transferred to a photographic emulsion on a flat printing plate. The exposed emulsion attracts ink, while the unexposed areas of the plate repel ink. This inked image is transferred, or offset, first to a rubber ‘blanket,’ then finally to the paper.”
Grant whooped. “You’ve got to be kidding, Mark. That sounds like wizardry.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it works—and works very well. To the layman, the visual improvement of offset printing over letterpress may be difficult to detect, but to the trained eye, there’s a world of difference, enough to justify the expense of switching.”
I asked, “It’s a costly conversion?”
“And how. The two technologies are so totally different, the conversion of a newspaper generally requires building a whole new printing plant and scrapping the old one—a trem
endous investment. Many smaller papers, like the Dumont Daily Register, made the switch in the sixties and seventies, but the cost was so daunting for the big, old, established papers, many of them didn’t convert to offset till the eighties and nineties. A few still haven’t.” Mark paused to sip the last of his drink. With a soft laugh, he said, “Pardon the lecture. You got far more information than you probably wanted.”
“Nonsense,” said Grant, enthralled by the handsome journalist’s every word. As for myself, I was quickly losing interest, but Grant protracted the tech talk, asking Mark, “In 1954, the Palm Springs Herald would have been printed by letterpress, right?”
My interest was suddenly rekindled.
“Yes,” Mark answered, “any newspaper from 1954 would almost certainly have been printed letterpress. That’s conjecture; I could tell at a glance if I saw a sample of the paper.”
“It just so happens,” said Grant, “I have the original clipping of Stewart Chaffee’s interview. It’s still in my briefcase. Even I can tell it’s old, but I wonder if you could point out how you can recognize the method of printing.”
Mark eyed him wryly. “Boning up for future cocktail chat?”
“Exactly.”
Larry coughed. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself.”
I raised my hand. “Count me in.”
“Come on,” said Grant, herding us from the terrace. “It’s getting cold, and we need fresh drinks. My briefcase is in the library.”
Passing through the invisible wall to the living room, we nabbed a waiter, ordered a round of drinks, and made our way across the room toward the library. I noticed that Tanner had just arrived, standing in the front hall gabbing with Kiki. Glenn was still huddled with Iesha and Tide, hammering out details for tomorrow’s press conference. Mark waved at his nephew, Thad, still downing shrimp at the buffet table with other cast and crew members. The din of laughter and jabber now drowned out all but a few of the piano’s higher trills.
“In here,” said Grant, ushering us into the quiet of the library, closing the door behind us. This room, unlike Glenn Yeats’s high-tech home office, was contemplative in mood and traditional in design. Bookcases lined the walls. Plump upholstered chairs invited reading. A handsome desk from the Directoire period was meant for letter writing, not word processing. Grant lifted his briefcase from the floor, opened it on the desk, and flipped through some files, extracting a plastic sleeve that held the old clipping.
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