Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  “Careful,” I reminded him as he slid the paper from its sleeve, “that’s worth millions.”

  Grant handed the clipping to Mark, who held it carefully in his fingers, leaning to examine it under the electrified candles of an antique bouillotte lamp that stood near a corner of the desk. Larry, Grant, and I gathered near, peering at the paper over Mark’s shoulders.

  He stood motionless, saying nothing.

  “Well,” Grant finally asked, “was the Herald printed by letterpress?”

  Mark set down the clipping and turned to face us. “I’m not sure how to tell you this”—he paused—“but something is very wrong. The clipping is a fraud.”

  At that moment, there was a rap at the door, which opened. A waiter entered bearing a tray. “Your drinks.”

  “Uh,” said Grant, distracted, “just leave them, please.”

  The waiter nodded, placed the tray on a side table, and left, closing the door.

  “What?” Grant asked Mark.

  “Are you sure?” asked Larry.

  “How can you tell?” I chimed.

  Mark raised a hand, then stepped aside so the rest of us could better see the suspect shred of paper. “Obviously,” he told us, “the newsprint is old—it’s yellow and brittle—but the ink was not applied by letterpress or by offset. Letterpress printing leaves a slight impression in the paper, but this shows none at all. Even offset printing, with a flat plate, presses the ink into the fibers of the paper, but this shows no absorption, no show-through.” He flipped to the back side, proving his point. “May I fold this?”

  Grant shrugged. “Why not? If what you say is true, it’s not worth anything.”

  Larry corrected his brother. “If what Mark says is true, our murder investigation has an important new lead.”

  Mark chose an area of the back-side advertisement that was heavy with black ink. He made a crease through it, then flattened the paper again. “Look,” he said, tapping the crease, “the ink flakes off at the fold. Both letterpress and offset printing use wet, oily inks, but this was a dry-ink transfer. The pigment merely rests on the surface of the paper. No doubt about it—this was forged on a laser printer.” Setting the clipping on the desk, he brushed the flaked ink from his fingers.

  Larry asked Grant, “May I take this?”

  “All yours.” Grant slid the clipping back into its plastic sleeve, surrendering it as evidence to his brother.

  Larry held it up at arm’s length, pondering its significance to his investigation. “Name the forger,” he said, “and we’ve probably named Stewart Chaffee’s killer.”

  16

  At Larry’s urging, we decided, for the time being, to keep knowledge of the forged clipping hush-hush. Even though it was now highly questionable whether the museum was the true heir to Chaffee’s estate, we would not alert Glenn Yeats, letting him proceed with Thursday night’s press reception as planned. Larry’s investigation had a promising new direction to explore, and he reasoned that going public with the faked interview would tip his hand to the killer.

  So around six-thirty, I thanked Glenn for a splendid evening (he had no idea that it had proven not only entertaining, but informative), gathered my cast and crew, and left the party, heading over to the theater for our final rehearsal of Laura.

  The memos I had written that morning helped. Almost any director would be thrilled with the level of polish my student cast had brought to the production, but still, I knew they were capable of better. I knew that the murder—and the victim’s clock—had become a menacing distraction not only for Thad and Tanner, who had stumbled into the crime scene with me, but also for everyone else in the show. The buzz had proved infectious, the giddiness contagious. In the telling and retelling, Thad and Tanner’s minimal contact with the crime, to say nothing of my own, had quickly swelled to mythic proportions.

  While the gossip and excitement of an unsolved murder was seemingly harmless—no one’s psyche would be permanently damaged—the distraction was sufficient to threaten the cohesiveness of Friday’s opening performance, and I was worried. I had too much at stake. So did the college, and so did my students. When the curtain fell on Wednesday night’s rehearsal, I understood that my opportunity to achieve true excellence through direction and teaching had ceased. The only way left to ensure the focus and concentration of my troupe was to solve the crime and get it behind us.

  When Tanner and I left the theater and returned to my condo for the night, we were hyped by the rehearsal, by the knowledge that within forty-eight hours, our efforts would be judged by Spencer Wallace and Hector Bosch, among so many others. It would take a while to wind down for the night, so we sat up talking, sharing a drink or two.

  I was tempted to bring Tanner up to date regarding the discovery of the forged clipping. It was intriguing news, and I had no doubt that I could trust him to keep it in confidence. Still, the last thing I wanted to do was contribute to the stir and ado of the murder, so I kept the topic off-limits. The only mystery we discussed that night was the scripted one we were preparing to enact onstage—more than enough to keep us up and gabbing till well past midnight.

  When we finally went to bed, sleep, the gift of exhaustion, came quickly.

  * * *

  Thursday morning, I awoke to the sound of the shower. Rolling over, I squinted at the clock on a bedside table and saw that it was nearly nine, hours later than I typically rise. There was no need to rush—my only class that day was a late-afternoon seminar—but I was surprised that I’d slept so soundly. With rehearsals finished, perhaps my subconscious had temporarily set aside the pressures of my soon-to-open play. Stretching, kicking the bedclothes from one of my legs, sniffing coffee and shower steam and Tanner’s shampoo, I felt wonderfully rested—and horny as hell.

  The shower stopped running, and while the drain swallowed its last with a long gurgle, I heard Tanner toweling off, a treat for my mind’s eye, which drank in the image of him bending and turning to blot and buff his wet body. Next he did some grooming; I heard the pop of plastic bottle caps, the clatter of a comb, the slapping of aftershave. Then he zipped up; he often wore a pair of shorts after his morning shower, before dressing for the day. I heard him pad through the hall and down the half flight of stairs to the kitchen.

  Ceramic mugs, two of them, scraped the tile countertop. He poured the coffee in slow trickles, raising the pot high above each mug. He always poured that way, claiming the bubbles in the cup made the coffee taste better—something to do with aeration. I had no idea whether this was demonstrably true, but I could hardly argue the point, as any coffee, even instant swill, would taste better when served by the likes of Tanner Griffin topless.

  The stairs creaked again, and in the next moment, he appeared in the bedroom. “Time to get up.” He approached the bed with both mugs of coffee.

  Good God, the sight of him. On the morning when I first saw him at a garage in Palm Springs, I knew at a glance that he had “leading man” writ large all over him. The magnetism, the star quality, radiated like a nimbus. If only he could act, I had mused. Now I knew that he could indeed act—superbly—and with very little luck, he might soon enjoy a Hollywood career.

  For now, though, he was still a heartthrob in training, and there he was, standing near the side of my bed, smiling down upon me with a caring expression that made me go limp. Had I been standing, my knees would have buckled. He wore the same baggy pair of olive drab cargo shorts that he’d worn that morning at the garage—and nothing else. His mop of sandy blond hair was matched by a fleecy nap that twisted from his navel and disappeared beneath the loose waistband of his shorts.

  “Still sleepy?” he asked. That face. That smile. God help me.

  “Hardly.” My shoulder blades dug at the mattress.

  “Brought you some coffee.” He set my cup on the bedside table, sipping from his own before setting it down as well.

  “You’re the perfect overnight guest, Tanner.”

  He laughed. “Is that what
I am—a guest?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Though you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  He glanced around the room. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been moving a few things in.” The closet was jammed. The dresser drawers couldn’t accommodate everything, so some of his clothes were still stored in boxes on the floor. “Sorry if I’ve crowded you.”

  “Have you heard me complaining?”

  “No.” With a grin, he leaned over the bed, planting his hands on the mattress to either side of my shoulders. I felt willingly trapped, deliciously caged by him. Hovering over me, he suggested, “If you are feeling cramped, maybe you should be looking for a bigger place.”

  “That’s a thought.” Reaching up, I traced a finger from his throat and down his chest, hooking it in his waistband where the hair disappeared.

  “Oooh,” he said softly, “I just got everything tucked in.”

  “Too bad,” I said, undoing the metal button.

  “I forgot to kiss you good-morning.” And he lowered his head to deliver the dilatory greeting.

  I tasted coffee on his tongue, parting my lips wider so he could probe deeper. With one hand, I raked my fingers through his still-damp hair. With the other, I unzipped him. As I took hold between his legs, he surfaced from my mouth to exhale a rapturous groan.

  I whispered, “I love it when men do that.”

  As he nuzzled into my neck, I gave him ample motivation to groan all the louder, which seemed amplified as his mouth approached my ear. When he inserted his tongue, my moan bested his groan.

  There was no turning back now—not that either of us was inclined to stop. He broke away for a moment to kick free of his shorts, then crawled onto the bed, straddling me. Our lovemaking always had an element of gaming to it; we had fun. The experience of my years, to say nothing of my innate creativity, was perfectly complemented by the vigor of his youth. I still had a few tricks to teach him, and he never tired of learning. That morning’s lesson required a bit of contortion, which he handled with athletic aplomb, but eventually we got back to basics, and he was giving me the ride of my life.

  I lost track of time. Whether mere moments flew or long minutes passed, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. Tanner had found his rhythm—and how. Though not quite frenzied, he was clearly in the zone and seemed on the verge of driving it home, so to speak.

  When there came a frantic pounding at the door.

  “Huh?”

  Tanner hadn’t heard it, focused blindly on his studly mission.

  The knocking continued. Someone shouted my name.

  “Tanner,” I whispered. Did I really want him to stop? Hell, no.

  The pounding—Tanner’s and the door’s—persisted. Whoever was on my stoop would have to wait. Tanner, I was certain, could not.

  “Claire!” It was Grant, my neighbor. “Are you home, doll?”

  Tanner froze, suddenly aware of what was happening. Bug-eyed, he whispered, “What was that?”

  “I think it’s Grant.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I have no idea.” Sharp raps of the door knocker made it apparent that Grant’s visit was urgent.

  In a sweat, Tanner slid out of me, uncertain what to do. Still rock-hard, he appeared to be on the brink of nuclear fission.

  Poor baby, I couldn’t leave him in the lurch like that, so I joined him in manipulating a quick, explosive orgasm. “God,” I said, pecking his cheek, “I love it when men do that.” As he slumped woozily onto his back, I hopped out of bed, slipped on my robe, and traipsed down the stairs to answer the door.

  “Coming!” I called. The knocking stopped only when I opened the door, flinging it wide. “Good heavens, Grant, what’s wrong?”

  He rushed past me, beelining for the living room, where he turned back to me, ashen and shaken. “I was just getting ready to leave for the office, when I discovered something.” His shoulders slumped. “Something dreadful.”

  I asked the logical question: “What did you find?”

  “I’d rather show you. Can you come over to my place? Please?” He moved toward the door.

  “Right now? Grant, I just rolled out of bed.” He, on the other hand, was preened for the day, impeccably dressed and groomed, fresh from his twenty-minute shave.

  He flicked a wrist. “You always look spectacular, doll. I must say, you seem positively energized this morning.”

  “What’s up, guys?” Tanner interrupted us, descending the stairs with the two full mugs of coffee. He’d thrown on a robe—one of mine, red silk.

  “Oh, my,” said Grant, fingers to mouth, absorbing the whole scene. “I hope I didn’t interrupt something.”

  Tanner winked at me, telling Grant, “We managed to finish.” Tanner gave me a kiss, then retreated to the kitchen, where he dumped the tepid coffee and poured two fresh cupfuls.

  I told him, “No time for coffee, thanks. Something’s come up, and Grant needs me next door.”

  Tanner peered out from the kitchen. Sizing me up, he grinned. “Better dress first.” As I bounded upstairs, he asked, Grant, “What’s wrong?”

  I heard Grant explain that he’d found something, that he’d rather not say more about it, that he wanted me to have a look. Tanner offered him coffee, but he declined. Within a minute or so, I’d thrown on a shirt, khakis, and sandals.

  “This better be good,” I said, meeting Grant downstairs. The front door was still open, and the hall was now chilly.

  “I’m afraid,” said Grant with a perplexed sigh, “this is anything but good. It is, however, extraordinarily interesting. Milady will not regret this intrusion.”

  I mumbled, “That’s easy for you to say,” recalling Tanner’s passion. I should have been lying upstairs now, sated, enjoying some rapturous afterglow—but here I was, half-dressed, looking like hell, being dragged out of my home by my hysterical neighbor for some impromptu show-and-tell. I blew Tanner a kiss, waggled my fingers, then went out the door, scurrying to follow Grant’s lead.

  “You won’t believe this,” he said, leading me across the courtyard, past the fountain, and through his gate and front door, both left wide open. “In here,” he directed, striding through the hall to the spare bedroom, where Kane’s home studio was set up.

  The computer was up and running. I asked, “Is Kane here?”

  Grant shook his head. “He left early. He put in some late hours here at home last night, working on material for tonight’s press reception. I think he had to drop something off at the printer this morning on his way to the museum.”

  “He’s very industrious. I’m sure you’re proud of him.”

  Grant gave me a steely stare. “When he left the house this morning, I was fussing in the bathroom, and he asked if he should leave his computer booted up for me. I’ve been expecting an important e-mail relating to a land deal at Nirvana, so I asked him to leave it on so I could check before going to the office.” With a flourish, Grant offered, “Have a seat, Claire.”

  Warily (this didn’t sound good), I sat in the desk chair in front of the computer terminal. The monitor displayed some snappy, dancing graphics as well as the icons for dozens of programs, none of them familiar to me. I looked over my shoulder to ask Grant, “So what’s the problem? Wrong response on that e-mail?”

  “There was no response, but that’s not the problem. See this?” He tapped his fingernail on a menu that ran down the side of the screen.

  I squinted. “It looks like a listing of various categories of projects that Kane has been working on.”

  “Correct. You’ll note that one of the menu items is labeled MUSEUM. Not finding my e-mail, I became idly curious about the materials Kane has been working on for DMSA, so I moused the cursor over MUSEUM and clicked on it. Try it, Claire.”

  As instructed, I clicked on MUSEUM. A submenu appeared beneath it.

  “Most of the file names on this sublist made sense to me,” said Grant, “except the one called HISTORY.”

 
I inferred that I should click on it, so I did. The screen blanked for a moment before displaying a new image. When it did, I gasped.

  There on the large, high-resolution monitor was Stewart Chaffee’s bogus interview as it had supposedly appeared in the defunct Palm Springs Herald. Front and back were shown side by side on the screen, with the interview on one side and the car dealer’s ad on the other. Peering close, I muttered, “What the hell?”

  Grant was saying, “How stupid could I get? There’s the layout, here’s the laser printer”—he tapped the gizmo’s plastic cabinet—“and right over there”—he pointed to the closet that contained the stored remnants of his art-school days—“there you’ll find old sketch pads with page after page of blank, brittle, yellowed newsprint. Christ.” He threw his hands in disgust.

  Trying to stay objective, I asked, “Can you tell when Kane worked on this?”

  Grant leaned over my shoulder, moused around the screen, then clicked open a directory. “The file was last edited on Sunday night. And Stewart—” He stopped himself, not needing to remind me that Stewart was killed on Monday morning.

  Befuddled, I suggested, “There must be some reasonable explanation for this.”

  “You bet there is. There’s no doubt whatever: Kane forged the goddamn clipping.” He didn’t need to remind me of his brother Larry’s words from the previous evening, which now hung in the room as if freshly spoken: Name the forger, and we’ve probably named Stewart Chaffee’s killer.

  I shook my head, unwilling to accept the reality of the damning evidence displayed on the screen. “Why would Kane do such a thing? It doesn’t add up.”