I leaned to tell him, “I’m sure there’s a story here. I just don’t know whether all the pieces will fall together tonight.” Enough of my pothering. I asked, “Is Thad here? I thought you two had set aside this evening for catching up.”
“We’ll catch up; I merely pushed back our dinner reservation.” With a snicker, he added, “No one’s going to starve.” He jerked his head toward a nearby buffet table, where Thad held his own among a knot of reporters, gorging himself on shrimp the size of lamb chops.
“Mark,” I said, touching my fingers to his arm, “I can’t thank you enough for alerting us to the forged clipping. I’m still not sure what it means, but my instincts tell me that the forgery is at the crux of Chaffee’s murder.”
“My instincts tell me you’re correct.”
Without going into detail, I told him, “We now know who created the forgery, but—those instincts again—they tell me he’s not the killer.”
Mark sipped his vodka, thinking. “If forgery is at the crux of the murder, but the forger isn’t the killer, where does that leave you?”
“Confused,” I blurted with a laugh of frustration.
“Then you need to look at every possible aspect of the forgery and compare them to every possible aspect of the murder. The pieces are all there. You just need to make them fit.”
I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound baby simple.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy, but yes, the solution is always, ultimately, simple. You have a field of suspects. Eliminate the ones who could not have committed the crime, and you’re left with one man standing.”
Glancing toward the doors to College Circle, I noticed Detective Larry Knoll enter the museum lobby, talking with Tanner Griffin; they’d apparently run into each other while walking from their cars. I told Mark, “It seems that all the players are now assembled for this evening’s little drama. Curtain going up. Enjoy the show.”
He assured me, “I intend to.” Then, with a courtly nod, Mark excused himself and wandered into the crowd.
Tanner spotted me from across the lobby, hailing me with a wave before slipping over to the bar. Larry saw me as well and headed in my direction.
As I made my way through the crowd to meet him, museum staffers began circulating throughout the room, handing out printed programs of that evening’s order of events. Taking one and glancing at it, I noted that its cover was a smaller version of the banner Kane had created, trumpeting in bold letters, THE CHAFFEE LEGACY. The inside pages contained statements from college president Glenn Yeats and museum board president Grant Knoll, as well as a brief bio of the late art collector.
Larry took a program as he stepped up to me. “Is everyone here?”
“I believe so, yes. Though it’s impossible to keep an eye on everyone at once.” I gazed out over the shifting crowd.
“That’s okay.” His mouth twisted with a facetious grin. “We’ve got all evening to piece this together.” If he was feeling stressed, he didn’t show it.
But I did. Impatiently, I asked, “Any developments?”
“Fingerprints.” Though his brief statement sounded promising, he added, “Nothing conclusive, I’m afraid. We’ve done a thorough study of all the prints found on the premises, comparing them with prints given by individuals known to have been there. As you know, someone—presumably the killer—wiped all fingerprints from the refrigerator handle and from the inside knob of the front door, but not from the outside knob. That knob was covered with layer upon layer of prints, most of them smudged and useless. We did, however, manage to pull one clean thumbprint that seemed relatively fresh and uncontaminated.”
“Meaning,” I conjectured, “it was left by the last person out.”
“Possibly. It’s a good theory. Unfortunately, it matches none of the sets given to us since Monday.”
“I assume you’ve run a check on the thumbprint.”
“Of course. It’s no one with a known criminal past. So it could be anyone—not necessarily the killer—the mailman, for instance.”
I frowned. “You’re right. That’s not very conclusive.”
“Sorry. That’s what I’ve got.”
Grant Knoll—the detective’s brother, housemate of the young forger of the bogus clipping—rushed over to us. He looked more stressed than I did. “Christ,” he said, “I need a drink.”
“The bar’s open.”
“Aarghh”—he shook his head—“not a good idea. Not before a speech. I’ve never had a qualm about public speaking, never before, not until now.”
“It’s no big deal,” I tried telling him, pointing to the program. “You’re simply delivering ‘Words of Welcome’ here in the lobby. Glenn makes the real speech, later, in the main gallery, when he announces the bequest and—surprise of surprises—unveils the collection of Swedish masterpieces.”
He corrected me, “Minor neo-impressionist Swedish masterpieces.”
I asked, “You managed to get them without incident? No trouble from Pea?”
“I wasn’t there. I heard there was a spot of trouble, but not from Pea. It seems the driver sent by the college was given bad directions or the wrong address, so the truck was late. Everything’s here now, but the installation of the paintings is still under way.” Grant gestured toward the closed double doors of the main gallery, guarded (pretentiously, I thought) by a pair of uniformed security officers, lacking only plumed helmets and broadswords. “Talk about a last-minute rush.”
Larry asked, “What’s all the fuss? Just hang a bunch of pictures, right?”
“The paintings are hung. And they’re already lighted—a big enough project in itself. But then Glenn decided he wanted to do an actual unveiling, so there’s a crew in the main gallery rigging the drapery right now.”
My features twisted. I recalled, “Yesterday morning, Glenn said there wouldn’t be an unveiling.”
Grant shrugged. “You know Glenn. He changed his mind—end of discussion. So even the programs had to be reprinted. I’ll bet the ink is still wet. Kane has been running full speed, trying to keep up with all this.”
I turned a page of the program, and sure enough, Glenn Yeats’s appearance was described as “Announcement and Unveiling.” Rubbing a finger over the type, I found that the ink did indeed smudge. I asked Grant, “Where is Kane?”
“God only knows. He really has his hands full. He must have ducked back into the offices for something.”
“But basically,” I said, “everything’s under control.”
Grant answered with a reluctant nod.
The detective asked his brother, “So why the jitters about your welcoming speech?”
Grant exhaled a frustrated sigh. “I guess it’s the subterfuge. I mean, we three know that the museum isn’t Chaffee’s true heir, and we also know that Kane—my Kane—created the facsimile of the interview.” (I noted wryly that Grant did not refer to the clipping as a forgery.) He concluded, “Unless we see some fairly dramatic developments tonight, my world could come crashing down around me.”
I had other issues at stake but felt a similar trepidation. I stated the obvious: “Then it’s time to wrap this up.”
Glenn Yeats, who had been plying the crowd, wooing the press, and strutting about like a movie star, drifted into our midst. He asked anyone, “A splendid occasion, don’t you think?”
“As usual,” I told him. “You do know how to entertain, Glenn.”
He pulled me close, told me to smile, and turned us toward a photographer, who snapped a quick candid.
“Yes,” said Larry, “it’s a wonderful tribute to Mr. Chaffee.” His implication was that Glenn had lost sight of the evening’s purpose.
“Of course,” said Glenn, pausing for a dignified moment of silence. Then, breaking this brief spell of reverence, he told us, under his breath, “Frankly, I never could stand the guy, but hey, he handed us this situation, so we might as well work it for all it’s worth.”
Glenn’s secretary, Tide, and the museum
director, Iesha, hustled toward us. Iesha said, “They’ve finished in the gallery, Mr. Yeats.” Tide overlapped, “We can begin the program whenever you’re ready.”
“Excellent!” said Glenn, raring to go. “Grant? Do you have your welcoming speech prepared?”
“Yes, Glenn.” Grant paused, then reminded him, “You wrote it.”
Glenn laughed. “Ah! So I did.”
23
Within a few minutes, the lobby lights had dimmed and the crowd, numbering perhaps a hundred, had clustered around the podium near the doors to the main gallery. The security guards squinted into the glare of a spotlight as Grant stepped to the microphone.
“On behalf of the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts, I wish to welcome you to this evening’s special tribute, titled ‘The Chaffee Legacy.’ My name is Grant Knoll, and I’m privileged to serve as president of the museum’s board of directors. Stewart Chaffee, who died so suddenly and tragically this past Monday, was a longtime acquaintance of mine, a man I was proud to call a friend—an honor shared by so many of you present tonight. I also want to welcome the many representatives of the press who have come to share this evening with us.
“Tonight’s event, you see, serves three purposes. First, it is the grand opening of the new museum building itself. Second, we have chosen to dedicate this occasion to the memory of Stewart Chaffee, whose lifelong commitment to the arts has enriched our community beyond measure. And third, well, that’s not for me to say—except to tell you that D. Glenn Yeats, founder and president of Desert Arts College, will make a very special announcement this evening. I know there’s been widespread speculation regarding the tenor of this announcement. I can assure you that this speculation will end tonight on a happy note indeed.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen—without, as they say, further ado—I invite you to enter the museum’s main gallery and to hear the words of our esteemed college president. Welcome, one and all.”
To a smattering of applause, Grant signaled the guards, who made a show of unlocking the huge gallery doors and swinging them wide open. Simultaneously, recorded music swelled through the lobby, a sort of electronic fanfare, surely the work of Lance Caldwell. It almost worked, the pomp and ballyhoo, but to my jaded eye, the entire doings came across as trumped-up and artificial. Then again, I was one of only a few present who understood that the premise for these festivities was false to the core.
Larry and I, with everyone else, herded through the doors and entered the gallery. After all the buildup—the speech, the guards, the fanfare—the gray, quiet space within seemed distinctly anticlimactic.
The floor still contained clusters of display cubes, and as before, only one of them displayed anything—the Plexiglas case containing the ring and other primitive whatnot. The wall at the far end of the room was now draped with some dozen swags of burgundy velvet. Looping through them was a long golden cord that ended in a huge tassel of green silk hanging near the podium where Glenn Yeats awaited the arrival of his audience.
The color scheme of this drapery—burgundy, gold, and green—lent a vaguely Christmassy note, appropriate enough to December, but the seasonal theme was probably happenstance, as the museum crew had scrambled to rig the unveiling apparatus even as the first guests were arriving in the lobby. The green tassel seemed especially out of place as a finial for the gold cord; it was doubtless used solely because it was at hand when needed. Save for its operatic proportions, it reminded me of the little green tassel that decorated the key to Chaffee’s antique Biedermeier desk.
The lighting in the gallery was generally dim, except for a floodlight on the podium and a dozen pin spots on the velvet swags. Voices rose and fell as the crowd worked its way into the room, settled into the new surroundings, and wondered aloud what was concealed by the drapes.
“Come in, everyone,” Glenn said from the dais, his voice booming from unseen loudspeakers. Someone scurried to adjust the amplification; then Glenn repeated, sounding less gargantuan, “Please, come in and get comfortable.”
The crowd drew near him. As previously arranged, the press gathered in a roped-off section that afforded the best view for the unveiling. Larry and I stepped aside, where we could best observe not Glenn or the draped paintings, but the other onlookers.
Prominent among them was Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, the bereaved niece, looking more Jackie-esque than ever; all that was missing was a black lace chapel veil. Merrit Lloyd, banker of the deceased, stood by her side as escort and surrogate uncle. Recalling their lunch at the Royal Palms, I wondered again if Merrit harbored more intimate interests in the arty woman from Santa Barbara.
Merrit’s secretary, Robin, stood several feet away with Chaffee’s nurse, Bonnie. The out-of-work caregiver looked misty-eyed and contemplative, at odds with her spangled holiday outfit. Was her mood the result of genuine sorrow, I wondered, or guilt? Robin leaned close, offering the big woman a hug, saying something to boost her uncertain spirits.
Pea Fertig, the victim’s erstwhile houseman, stood alone in the crowd in his smart black suit, staring at the swags beyond the podium. His hard features hid thoughts I couldn’t fathom. Was he mourning the loss of a long-ago lover? Or was he gloating over the accomplishment of a deadly revenge that had simmered for twenty years?
Lance Caldwell and Atticus caught my attention. They still hung together, elbowing their way toward the front of the assembly, still blathering and boasting. The two great egos—music and art—grunted at each other and postured for anyone who would look at them.
Looking at them from the press corps was Mark Manning, who’d flashed his credentials to enter the cordoned-off area near the draped paintings. Then Mark glanced about as if he’d lost track of something. His eyes traveled toward the lobby doors. His features brightened as he spotted his nephew Thad, who had just entered the gallery—chomping on one last giant shrimp. Thad paused to wipe a smear of cocktail sauce from his chin.
Also near the door, slipping in from the lobby, were Kiki and Tanner, who must have met at the bar. Both carried concoctions in martini glasses—Kiki’s was pink, Tanner’s clear—moving slowly into the crowd, careful not to spill.
Grant stood just outside the door. Though I would have expected him to appear relieved that his welcoming speech was finished (by now there should have been a drink in his hand), he looked even more flummoxed than before. Keeping an ear on the activity in the gallery, he stepped back and glanced about the lobby, as it, like Mark Manning, he had lost track of someone. Of course, I reasoned—Kane. Where was he?
“… this most generous and unexpected bequest.”
A hearty round of applause nipped my thoughts. Absorbed as I was with the to and fro of the crowd, I’d managed to miss the opening of Glenn Yeats’s speech, which was now in full swing. He’d already announced the terms of the alleged will. As he paused to acknowledge the applause, the room blinked with strobe lights from photographers who captured the moment.
“Well,” said Larry Knoll, standing at my side, clapping halfheartedly, “it’s a matter of public record now.”
“Too bad it’s all bogus. When the truth gets out, Glenn’s going to have egg on his face.”
The detective puckered and blew a low whistle.
Glenn continued, “Stewart Chaffee dedicated his life to the decorative arts, and later, to the fine arts. His collection grew to proportions rivaled by few others in Southern California, private or public. Pending final clearance of probate—a mere formality, I’m told—stewardship of this marvelous art trove will pass to the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts.”
Glenn turned. Fingering the green tassel that hung at his side, he continued, “We’ve arranged, through the executor of Mr. Chaffee’s estate, to preview a small sampling of the vast body of works that constitute the museum’s new legacy…”
As Glenn’s words flowed, extolling a benefactor he didn’t like and a gift he didn’t want, my attention was riveted to his hand on the tassel. Again I recalled the dainty green silk t
assel that had adorned the key to the Biedermeier desk. Keys, I realized, had played a role throughout the developing circumstances of Chaffee’s death. The desk key had been returned by Kane on the morning of the murder; the same key was found on Chaffee’s dead body. Later, when the forgery of the clipping was discovered and access to Chaffee’s safe-deposit box became an issue, Pea had shown us the key to the box, among many others attached to his key ring. He’d even looked after Chaffee’s car keys. “I’m the keeper of the keys,” Pea had said.
“And so,” said Glenn, pausing dramatically with his hand gripping the tasseled rope, “I’m highly honored to unveil for you one of Stewart Chaffee’s most prized and recent acquisitions, a rare collection of works never before publicly displayed. I present to you”—he yanked the cord—“paintings by the Swedish neo-impressionist master, Per-Olof Östman.”
The swags of velvet drapery fell, revealing the twelve little landscapes. Cameras flashed as the crowd broke into hearty, sustained applause. Their clapping was underlaid by gasps of approval and excited chatter. The delicate, colorful paintings, now exhibited in a proper gallery setting, perfectly lit, were indeed breathtaking, and I suspected that even Glenn Yeats would grudgingly acknowledge that Stewart Chaffee’s final acquisition had lent profound distinction to his lifelong efforts of collecting.
Glenn quelled the applause, telling his onlookers, “I’d now be happy to take any questions you may have.” As he said this, Tide and Iesha appeared from the shadows behind the podium, bearing cordless microphones. They began circulating among the guests, who suddenly took on the appearance of a daytime TV talk-show audience. This impression was made all the more vivid by the television cameras that now panned the crowd from the press pool.
Someone raised his hand; Iesha rushed to him with a microphone. He asked Glenn, “Can you give us some background on the artist?”
With an apologetic laugh, the computer magnate acknowledged, “Unfortunately, art history, especially that of Östman’s period, is not my forte. However, we’ve garnered some essentials from the collection’s certified provenance, and we’re preparing a printed handout, which should be available shortly.”
Desert Winter Page 27
