No one breathed a word.
“Well, now,” I said, tossing the card aside, “who do you suppose sent the red roses in the middle?” I eyed Grant, wondering, Was it he? Perhaps his brother, Larry? Or even the banker, Merrit Lloyd?
Hearing no guesses, I slit open the envelope, pulled out the card, and gasped. “Oh, Lord,” I muttered, “they’re from Hector.”
“See?” said Kiki. “His torch is still aflicker.”
“Oh, please.” I read aloud, “‘Brava, dear lady. Despite your abandonment of our fair city, you are still making headlines in the Times. I am leaving for the airport now and will soon be winging my way west to see you once more. Till this evening, my darling!’ And it’s signed, ‘Hector Bosch’—as if I might know more than one Hector.” I tossed the card on top of Glenn’s, lifted Tanner’s carnation from my lap, and sniffed its clean, unaffected scent.
“How terribly sweet of Hector,” said Grant with a crooked smile.
“I just hope he likes the play,” I worried aloud.
“Of course he will.” Kiki’s chair scraped the pavement as she rose. “If everyone will excuse me, I really must put myself together for the day.” She looked thoroughly put-together already, but I refrained from commenting. There was no telling how many costume changes her day would see.
Tanner rose as well. “I need to get going too. I’ve got some business on campus and a few errands to run.”
I told him, “Good idea to keep your mind occupied today. Don’t stew over the play. Eight o’clock will come soon enough.”
He leaned to give me a kiss, then lifted our tray of breakfast things. Kiki gabbed some pleasantries in parting. Within a few moments, Grant and I were left alone at the table.
“He really does suit you,” said Grant. “Tanner and you are looking very … domestic.”
Wistfully, I admitted, “I hope so. I mean, God, I’m not sure what I want. Do I dare to think this can actually work?”
“Why not, Claire? Live your dreams. I’m living mine with Kane. This weekend, we’ll decorate our first Christmas tree. You know the old bromide: life is not a dress rehearsal.”
“I’ve heard that once or twice.” Looking Grant in the eye, I told him, “What scares me is this: What if I decide that Tanner and I are right for each other, and then I lose him? He’ll find someone younger, or his career will take off, or—”
“Listen, Claire. You can’t control what you can’t control. You can only do what’s right for you. If all the other pieces fit, fabulous. If not, at least you tried.”
I twirled the flower in my hands, mentioning, “I may need a bigger place.”
Offhandedly, Grant suggested, “Move in with Glenn. He’s all but proposed it. He’d love to have you. And his digs are spectacular.”
“Stop that. You know what I mean. I may need a bigger place for the two of us, Tanner and me.” A hummingbird darted from a nearby arbor and began exploring Hector’s red roses.
Grant reminded me, “I’m a real-estate broker. Anytime you’re ready…” He paused, drumming his fingers on his chin. “Come to think of it, I’ve got a listing that’s perfect for you.”
Footfalls passed through the courtyard. Then Larry Knoll appeared at the gate. “I thought I might find you back here.”
“He’s so clever,” said Grant. “My brother, the detective.”
“Good morning, Larry,” I called to him. “Come on in.”
He crossed the terrace, greeting both Grant and me, then sat at the table with us. With a broad smile, he shook his head, saying, “I’ve got to hand it to you, Claire—you really pulled it off. I have no idea how you pieced everything together when you did, but your timing was impeccable.”
“Must be due to my theatrical training.” I primped. “It was nothing.”
Grant asked his brother, “And how are the deadly duo this morning?”
“Haven’t seen them today. But they were feisty as hell last night. The fraud charges are a done deal; we’ll have no trouble picking up the money trail.”
“And the murder charges?” I asked.
“Robin played it smug until we took her fingerprints. I gave her one last chance to level with me, dangling the carrot of leniency. Your gambit worked, Claire. She believed your story about the incriminating ‘female’ thumbprint. We got a complete confession.”
I shrugged. “Happy to help.”
Grant said to Larry, “You mentioned a money trail. Where is all the cash they swindled out of Stewart? Neither Robin nor Atticus seemed to be flashing it around, living beyond their means.”
“They managed to hide it, invest it, or plant it somewhere offshore. Robin is well acquainted with the ins and outs of banking; she’s a pro. Chances are, their scam would never have come to light if it hadn’t been for the murder. Now, though, tracing the money will be a breeze.”
I flipped my hands. “Neat and easy. You must have been tucked in by ten last night.”
Larry laughed. “Actually, no.”
Grant and I turned to each other with an inquisitive look.
Larry explained, “Apparently you suggested that several interested parties should check the victim’s home computer. No sooner had I finished up with Robin and Atticus than I got a phone call from the banker, Merrit Lloyd. He was at the estate, and they’d found a file on the computer, claiming it spelled out Chaffee’s last wishes.”
“Ahhh.” I sat back in my chair. “Then we were right all along. The envelope that Stewart gave to Merrit last Saturday did contain a homemade will.”
“It would seem so, yes. And that’s why Merrit phoned. He wanted to instantly alert someone in an official capacity that the file had been found, presumably to forestall any future claims that the electronic document was a fraud. So I went right over there, taking with me a computer specialist from the department. Everything seems to check out. The document was created in Stewart’s directory late last week.”
Grant asked, “Can I presume, then, that the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts is not Stewart’s true heir?”
“Correct. He left a few minor items to the museum, stuff that fits its collection, but most of his estate goes elsewhere.” Larry crossed his arms.
I had to ask, “Well?”
“Let’s just say that when I arrived last night, I was greeted by some very happy people. First of all, Stewart willed the house, many of the antiques, and several other real-estate holdings to his longtime companion, Makepeace Fertig. Second, he left the bulk of his art collection to his niece, Dawn Chaffee-Tucker. And finally, he left a sizable cash remembrance to his nurse, Bonnie Bahr.” With a grin, Larry added, “Among those parties, there was a consensus that everyone had been treated fairly. The will named Merrit Lloyd executor of the estate, and the banker was greatly relieved that probate battles now seem unlikely.”
Grant swirled some tepid coffee in the bottom of his mug. “And thus ends a colorful chapter in the history and lore of Palm Springs decorating.” He tossed the coffee along the roots of a nearby hedge.
Larry stood. “Forgery and murder—yes, I’d call that fairly colorful.”
I stood as well, offering Larry a farewell hug. “Forgery…,” I echoed as he was about to leave. “I wonder what will become of the Per-Olof Östman paintings faked by Atticus. I suppose, with all the other art, they’ll go to Stewart’s niece.”
Larry laughed heartily.
I turned to Grant, who sat there with a blank expression, looking as mystified as I was. So I asked the detective, “What am I missing?”
Still chortling, he said, “I thought you’d never get around to asking about those.”
“Okay, okay,” said Grant, “we’re asking: Did Dawn inherit the Östmans?”
“No, Grant.” Larry stuffed his hands in his pockets. He paused. “You did.”
Grant and I shared a dumbstruck, jaw-dropping glance. Then he rose, asking his brother, “Me?”
“Yup. Chaffee was explicit. It seems he had truly admired you over th
e years, and he was especially pleased that you’d now taken over at the museum. He claimed that acquiring the Östman collection was his crowning accomplishment. The paintings are yours.”
“I’m … stunned.”
“And you’d be rich—if they were real.”
“Yeah.” Grant turned to me, hand to hip. “Did you have to be quite so quick in exposing this artistic chicanery?”
“Sorry.” I hugged him. “Easy come, easy go.”
He sighed. “The story of my life.”
“Get over it.”
Larry said, “Gotta run. Thanks again, Claire. I’ll see you tonight at the theater. And, Grant—congratulations.” With an exaggerated wink, the detective left.
When his footfalls had receded and tapered off to nothing, the glorious desert morning seemed suddenly quiet. Even the birds hushed, as if an angel of silence had passed through the trees.
“Grant,” I said, taking his arm, strolling him across the terrace, “I need to have a word with you.”
“Yes, doll?”
“Regarding a bridge.”
“Hm?”
“A drawbridge. A rustic drawbridge captured at sunset in a neo-impressionist masterpiece.”
He stopped in his tracks, correcting me, “Minor Swedish neo-impressionist masterpiece.”
I further corrected, “Fake, worthless minor masterpiece.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, tapping his noggin, “that one. I recall it well, a bucolic treasure. Milady isn’t … interested, is she?”
“Possibly, Grant. Possibly.”
We pattered on in this affable manner, ambling together along the apron of the pool.
The hummingbird, having needle-nosed its fill from Hector’s roses, shot across the water, then flirted with the towering orange finger of an ocotillo flower before skirring to the heavens.
I watched, breathless, as the iridescent speck disappeared in a vast, blue December sky.
NOVELS BY MICHAEL CRAFT
Rehearsing
The Mark Manning Series
Flight Dreams
Eye Contact
Body Language
Name Games
Boy Toy
Hot Spot
The Claire Gray Series
Desert Autumn
Desert Winter
www.michaelcraft.com
DESERT WINTER. Copyright © 2003 by Michael Craft. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Craft, Michael, 1950–
Desert winter / Michael Craft.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-30501-X
1. Women theatrical producers and directors—Fiction. 2. Collectors and collecting—Fiction. 3. Women college teachers—Fiction. 4. Palm Springs (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.R215 D475 2003
813'.54—dc21
2002031891
First Edition: February 2003
eISBN 9781466828636
First eBook edition: August 2012
Desert Winter Page 30
