I hesitated. “Sorry, Larry. That key has nothing to do with stolen goods.”
He plopped the bagged key onto the table. “And how do you know that?”
“The key fits the drawers of an antique Biedermeier writing desk that Grant had borrowed for a designer showhouse. We returned the desk yesterday; it should still be in the garage. But we forgot to return the key. So Kane brought it over here this morning.”
Larry blinked. “Grant’s Kane?” What he meant to ask was, My brother’s boyfriend? But the words were unnatural to him. The two brothers lived in different worlds.
“Yes,” I answered, “Kane Richter was here with us yesterday, and he offered to drop off the key this morning on his way to campus. Obviously, he did just that, and then Stewart pocketed the key before…”
“Before what?”
I tossed my hands. “Before … whatever happened. I distinctly recall that Kane planned to come here early, and the medical examiner just said that Stewart was killed after ten. I’m sure there’s no connection whatever.”
We heard a commotion in the garage. Then one of the officers rushed in. “Detective Knoll? This gentleman says he lives here.”
“What do you mean, there’s been an accident? What in God’s name—” Pea burst into the kitchen from behind the officer, then froze in his tracks, seeing Stewart on the floor. “I … I…” A clutch of shopping bags dropped from his hands—Saks, Brooks Brothers, Banana Republic. “Stewart?” he asked quietly, inching a step forward. “Oh, God, Stewart, what’s happened?” And he darted toward the body.
Two deputies restrained him before he could touch the corpse. Pea was now kneeling within a yard of Stewart, with his dressy tan slacks hopelessly stained by the sanguine mess on the tile floor. Looking to the ceiling, he heaved a painful sigh, then fell forward and began to sob, mumbling Stewart’s name.
Everyone observed a respectful moment of silence while Pea vented the initial shock of his loss. Even the medical examiner’s team, jaded by countless scenes of unexpected death, seemed moved by Pea’s display of raw grief. Naturally, I felt sympathy for the man, whom I barely knew. At the same time, I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps, just maybe, this scene had been rehearsed. I’d seen a lot of theater in my years. Was I being shamefully cynical—or justifiably suspicious?
Larry leaned to ask me, “Who is he, do you know?”
I whispered, “He runs the household, sort of a secretary-butler. I think the name is Makepeace Fertig, but he goes by Pea.”
Hearing the odd moniker, Larry gave me a squint. “Were they, uh…?”
“Lovers? Not to my knowledge.” I’d never even considered that possibility, as Pea and Stewart must have been separated by some forty years.
Larry stepped over to the pitiful scene in the kitchen. He asked gently, “Mr. Fertig, is it?”
Pea’s tear-streaked face turned up. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can see what a terrible shock this has been for you. Do you think you need a doctor?”
“Uh, no.” Pea shook his head, composing himself. “I’m fine, I think.” He tried getting up, but had to steady himself with a hand on the floor, so one of the latex-gloved deputies helped him to his feet. Not only his slacks, but also his white tennis sweater was smeared with spilled food and blood.
“Do you feel up to a few questions? I’m Larry Knoll, the sheriff’s detective in charge of the case.”
Pea absentmindedly wiped his hands on his thighs. “Of course, Detective. Anything to help. Let me just…” He stepped to the sink, rinsed his hands, dried them, and shook hands with Larry, who was taller by a head. Pea looked up to tell him, “Thanks for being here.”
“We’ll be more comfortable in the other room,” said Larry, leading Pea from the kitchen.
Tanner and Thad, who had risen from the sofa in the great room during Pea’s dramatic entrance from the garage, now gathered with me, standing near the Austrian clock, while Larry returned to his notes at the coffee table. Larry took his previous chair, and Pea sat across from him, perching on the edge of the leather sofa’s center cushion, where I had been.
“Tanner,” I said quietly, “why don’t you and Thad go relax outdoors? The grounds are beautiful.”
Tanner nodded; he understood that I didn’t want to expose young Thad to more of these proceedings than I had already inadvertently done. “Sure. Let us know when things wrap up, and we’ll get that clock loaded.” They headed out through the glass doors toward the pool.
A new worry: With Stewart gone, would I still get the clock?
Larry had begun his routine questioning, which first covered Pea’s name, established his age as forty-five, and confirmed that he resided at the estate. “And how long have you lived here, Mr. Fertig?”
“Years. Forever.” He focused his thoughts, then elaborated, “It’s been about twenty years, since Stewart moved from his place in Palm Springs.”
“And what was your relationship to the victim?”
“Household help. Stewart and I would joke about it, calling me his majordomo. But there really isn’t a staff, at least no other live-ins. We have part-time help for cleaning, gardening, pool maintenance. The list goes on and on.”
“What about the nurse?” Larry checked his notes. “Bonnie Bahr, right?”
“That’s her name. She’s full-time, but she doesn’t live here.”
“Where is she right now?”
“Monday is her day off. No idea what she does with her own time.”
Larry added a line to his notes. He paused before asking, “Aside from your household duties, did you also have a personal relationship with Mr. Chaffee?”
Pea choked up. “We were … friends, sure. But nothing more.” Then, as if the question had only now occurred to him, Pea asked, “What happened, Detective?” He gestured toward the kitchen.
“There’s no quick answer, I’m afraid. At first glance, this appears to be a dreadful accident. I’m really very sorry.”
While Larry and Pea exchanged a few words lamenting the tragedy, I wondered why Larry had not shared with Pea his suspicions of foul play. Was Pea already on the suspect list?
Larry returned to his notes. “I need to begin constructing a chronology, a timetable, of everything that happened here at the house this morning. I hope you can help me.”
“I wish I could, but I wasn’t here.”
“Where were you?”
“I left the house early, around seven-thirty, for my daily workout, over at Decathlon Gym.”
Larry made note of the gym. “Do you routinely sign in there?”
“Yeah, but why? You don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?”
“Not at all. I simply need to establish who was and wasn’t here this morning, and when. So how long were you at the gym?”
“About an hour and a half, maybe longer. I had errands to run afterward, but since it’s Bonnie’s day off, I thought I should stop back here and check in on Stewart, which I did. I returned to the house at nine-thirty; I recall checking the time because I wanted to plan the rest of the morning. I found Stewart sleeping peacefully in his wheelchair, positioned near a sunny window in the living room.”
“Here?” asked Larry, pointing toward the doors to the pool terrace.
“No,” Pea explained, “the living room is near the center of the house, just off the main hall. Stewart was resting and seemed comfortable, so I didn’t wake him. I left within fifteen minutes.”
“Where did you go?”
Pea exhaled noisily, flapping his lips. “Gosh, all over. Shopping, mostly. The stores open at ten, and I hit quite a few. Clothes—it was time for some new duds.”
“Do you have receipts?”
“Sure. That’s a good idea; we can figure out when I was at each store. By the time I was finished, it was after twelve, so I had lunch at a nice little place on El Paseo. Then I came home. When I saw the gate open, I wondered if something was wrong. When I saw all the police cars, I s
orta panicked. That’s when I ran in from the garage.” His eyes got glassy as he recalled what he’d seen in the kitchen.
“Mr. Fertig,” said Larry, lifting one of the plastic bags from the table, “do you recognize this?”
Pea gave a decisive nod. “That’s the key to Stewart’s Biedermeier desk, which someone borrowed. When they returned it, they forgot to—” Pea stopped short. Something had clicked. He asked, “What’s your name, Detective?”
“Knoll.” Larry smiled. “Grant is my brother.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You two sure don’t dress alike, but yeah, I can see the resemblance. What a coincidence that you should end up here.”
Butting in, I explained, “Truth is, Pea, it’s not a coincidence. I’m the common link. Grant is my neighbor, and he introduced me to Larry. When I found Stewart this afternoon, the first thing I did was phone Larry.”
“Ah.” Pea’s tone was colored by a lingering shade of confusion.
Getting back on track, Larry said to Pea, “So Grant borrowed the desk, and when he returned it yesterday, he forgot the key. Claire tells me that Grant’s friend Kane volunteered to bring the key back this morning.”
“I do recall that.” Pea tapped the bagged key. “So the kid must have been here.”
“Did you happen to see him, or maybe his car, when you came home at nine-thirty to check on Stewart?”
“No, there was no one here. Stewart was alone.”
“How about the key? Did you notice it? We found it in Stewart’s breast pocket.”
With a tiny sigh, Pea said, “Sorry.”
Larry flipped back through his pad. “All right. The note from the nurse, Bonnie Bahr.” He showed it to Pea. “Does this look like her writing?”
“Well, that snip,” said Pea, indignant, hand to hip. “I warned her about her abusive manner with Stewart, and here she is, at it again, calling him an old goat. Really!” He shoved the note aside. “That’s Bonnie, all right.”
“I understand she routinely made pink fluff for Stewart.”
Pea stuck a finger down his throat.
I reminded him, “Stewart seemed to enjoy it.”
“Yes,” Pea conceded, “Stewart loved the stuff. Poor Stewart. I suppose I should thank Bonnie. Unless…” He trailed off suggestively.
Larry asked, “Unless what?”
“Unless Bonnie used the pink fluff as … as bait, as an excuse to see him alone today.”
I asked, “Why would she do that?”
Pea shrugged. “It’s as good a theory as any.”
Larry reminded him, “But I’m assuming that Stewart’s death was an accident. Are you suggesting otherwise?”
“Uh … well, no, of course not.” Pea fell awkwardly silent. Glancing down, he noticed the mess on his clothes. His eyes bulged, as if he didn’t remember groveling in the kitchen.
The coroner’s crew had arrived, wheeling a gurney in from the garage.
Larry continued, “Then it’s safe to say that when you returned home at nine-thirty, you didn’t see Bonnie.”
Pea repeated, “There was no one here. Stewart was alone.”
Larry summarized, “Stewart was here all morning. You came and went. And it’s reasonable to conclude that both Bonnie Bahr and Kane Richter were here at some point. Do you know of anyone else who might have come to the house today?”
Pea shook his head. “Mondays are generally quiet. The pool boy comes later this afternoon, but otherwise, no other help.”
“The gate is electronically monitored, right?”
Pea snapped his fingers. “Of course! I forgot. We’ve never had trouble in the past, so I hardly give the security system a second thought. But sure, there’s a camera at the gate, and it records a time-stamped video photo of the license plate of every car that enters.”
“And when they exit?”
“I don’t think so. Whoever designed this setup must have figured that since there’s only one entrance, that’s the only exit too.”
“Makes sense. Those videos will go a long way toward establishing the exact sequence of events here this morning. Can I get the tape?”
“Absolutely. I’ll phone the monitoring service and let them know you need it.”
Larry seemed satisfied with this, making a last note before returning the book to his pocket. Then he rose from the chair, stepped to the kitchen, and huddled in conversation with some of the investigators.
The medical examiner had just finished up, and the coroner’s crew had moved Stewart’s body to their gurney. Zipping his remains inside the long, black bag, they began wheeling the fallen king of decorators from the house. Pea slumped forward, elbows on his knees, wearied by the frightful turn of events.
When Larry glanced back in my direction, I made a show of checking my watch. He walked over and told me, “If you need to be going, that’s fine. But we need to take fingerprints from you and your friends, and I’ll probably have to follow up with you later.”
“Whenever you need me,” I offered—too eagerly.
With an amiable frown, he reminded me, “You’ve got a play to keep you busy.”
“Do I ever.”
“So you focus on theater, and I’ll focus on homicide.”
“Yes, sir.” Wryly, I reminded him, “You just told Pea this was an accident.”
“Leave the strategizing to me, Claire.”
“You’re right, Larry. Sorry.” Then I remembered, “Oh, hell. I need that clock. But now?”
Larry rubbed the nape of his neck. “How badly do you need it? Can’t it wait?”
“We’re going into our last three rehearsals,” I blabbered, “and we open on Friday. The set is otherwise finished, and the cast needs to work with real props and furnishings. Besides, I’m afraid if I leave here today without the clock, I’ll never get it. Who knows what the next few days will bring?” With a pout of defeat, I slumped.
“Let’s see what we can do.” Jerking his head toward the sofa, Larry signaled me to follow him.
Pea saw us coming. He stood, looking bedraggled, needing a hot shower, a change of clothes, and probably a good stiff drink. He asked Larry, “Do you mind if I…?”
“Not at all, Mr. Fertig. Get yourself cleaned up, and get some rest. We can finish here on our own. But we’d like to get your fingerprints first, and I’ll need to talk to you again, probably tomorrow.”
“Of course.” He stepped away from us, intending to leave the room.
“Just one other thing. I’m sure you’ll recall that the reason Miss Gray came over this afternoon was to borrow a clock—that one—to use in her play.”
Pea eyed the clock, then me. His features twisted in thought as he reminded us of the obvious: “The clock is Stewart’s, but Stewart is dead.”
Feeling somewhat childish, I reminded Pea, “He said I could use it.”
Pea repeated, “But Stewart is dead.”
“Mr. Fertig,” said Larry, “it would be very helpful if Miss Gray could take the clock today.”
“If you’re asking permission,” said Pea, starting to sound belligerent, “I say no. But then, who’s to say? Whose clock is it—now?”
Larry acknowledged, “Your point is well taken. It’s not yet clear where authority rests with regard to Mr. Chaffee’s property. But he did intend to lend the clock to Miss Gray, and she only wants to borrow it, not keep it. I know Miss Gray, and I’m willing to vouch for her. The clock will be in good hands.”
Pea hesitated, tantalizing me. Huffily, he said, “Well! I see it hasn’t taken long for the buzzards to circle the carcass.”
With greater self-control than I could have summoned, Larry said, “This is a stressful situation, I understand, but I’m sure you don’t mean to imply anything unflattering by that remark.”
Pea’s spine stiffened. “Detective Knoll, I’m not sure what I mean to imply. But if you intend to get that clock by bullying or by force, then take it. There’s no one to stand in your way.” And with that, Pea turned on his he
el and left the room, retreating to the other end of the house.
Larry shook his head wearily.
I rounded up Tanner and Thad.
We gave our fingerprints.
Then we took the clock.
7
Stewart Chaffee’s Austrian pendulum clock was a sensational addition to the Laura set. It was, as Grant Knoll had predicted, a perfect finishing touch to our production, an exotic visual counterpoint to the feminine surroundings of the three-walled apartment created onstage. At rehearsal on Monday night, the clock proved sensational not only because of its inherent aesthetics, but also because word had spread among the cast and crew that the clock belonged to a man whom I’d found gruesomely killed that very afternoon.
“It’s all too delicious,” said my friend Kiki, the costumer, watching as Tanner helped a couple of stagehands cart the clock from the wings and install it on the set. “Laura is such a dark script—what an opportune publicity angle for the show.”
I dismissed this suggestion, telling Kiki dryly, “I think we’re better off promoting the production on its own merits. Besides, we don’t want to draw undue attention to the clock; it’s pivotal to the plot.”
Kiki was unconvinced. “You know the old advertising adage: sell the sizzle, not the steak.”
“Trust me, Kiki.” Mine was the voice of integrity. “We’ve got sizzle galore. There’s no need to resort to ghoulish tabloid tactics.”
With a shrug, she sauntered from the auditorium to check the backstage wardrobe, pausing on the set to take a closer look at the clock. She wasn’t the only one. A small crowd had gathered, admiring the clock with awed reverence, fascinated by its morbid overtones.
“Crushed by a refrigerator,” said someone.
“And the clock was there in the same room,” someone else elaborated.
“Can you imagine?”
“Too cool.” And on and on.
Needless to say, I did not share in this giddiness, and neither did Tanner or Thad. We’d witnessed the aftermath of Stewart Chaffee’s painful annihilation, and there was nothing cool about it. While Tanner was mature enough to put the troubling afternoon in perspective and to focus on the task at hand—rehearsal—Thad had become noticeably shaken, and I worried that his performance might suffer that night. I could only hope that he was sufficiently experienced to put the real world aside while creating another reality onstage.
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