Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Merrit stepped around to the other side of the table. “Stewart is right over here,” he said, presumably meaning Stewart’s box, not his remains. Merrit unlocked one of the bigger boxes and slid it out of the wall.

  “My,” said Grant, “a double-wide, and in a prime location, no less.”

  With a grunt, Merrit placed the long, heavy box on the table. He tapped an engraved plate on the face of it, telling us, “Vault box number one.”

  Grant acknowledged, “Stewart always did have a nose for real estate.”

  As Merrit lifted the lid, Grant and I gathered near him at the table. I held my breath, uncertain of what I’d see inside. Bones, perhaps? Spiderwebs, gold bullion, a stash of uncut jewels? I chided myself for such foolish melodrama when I saw that the interior of Stewart’s safe-deposit box contained nothing more malign than the messy miscellany I’d tossed into the bottom drawer of my own office desk. Odd-sized papers and envelopes defied tidy filing, while an assortment of small objects had settled in the corners, reminding me of so many spent ballpoint pens and pencil stubs that I ought to have thrown away.

  Merrit began removing items from the box, describing them as he placed them on the table: “Insurance policies, car titles, deeds to his home and other real property, a bundled stack of old family photos, and files relating to his art collection—receipts and provenances.” Among the paperwork he inventoried, I noticed a plain, white business envelope, surely the one I’d seen Stewart hand to his banker three days earlier.

  Merrit continued plucking things from the box. “Stewart also kept a few of the smaller, more valuable items from his collection here at the bank.” Displayed on the table now was an assortment of jewelry and tiny antique curios. “Ah, here we are,” said Merrit, reaching for a small blue velvet bag. “This is the ring that Stewart asked me to donate to the museum in his name.” Untying a cord at the neck of the bag, he emptied it into his palm, then handed a thick silver ring to Grant.

  Playfully, Grant slipped it on, held the ring up to the light, and glanced at me. “It’s fabulous, doll, but is it ‘me’?” The oversize ring—perhaps designed for some ceremonial purpose—was encrusted with a setting of quartz crystals and turquoise.

  “If anyone could pull it off, Grant, you could.” My features pinched. “But Cartier is more your style.”

  “Yes”—he squinted at the ring, scowling—“you’re right.” Then, seriously, he told Merrit, “On behalf of the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts, I can’t thank you enough. And Stewart too, of course. This is a charming piece. I’ll be sure that it’s added to DMSA’s permanent display of primitive crafts.” Grant dropped the ring into the velvet bag, then slipped the bag into his briefcase.

  “There,” said Merrit with a nod, “my duty has been done. I’m glad the ring will now have a home where it’s appreciated.” He began to reload the safe-deposit box with items from the table.

  I coughed, catching Grant’s eye.

  “What?” he asked.

  With a jerk of my head, I indicated the box.

  Seeing this, Merrit asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Well, no,” I explained clumsily, “but we were wondering when you intend to open the letter.” I tapped the plain white envelope, conspicuous among other, larger, labeled ones on the table.

  “Ahhh.” He paused, raising a hand to his chin. “Stewart did want me to open it, didn’t he?”

  I recalled, “His very words were ‘When I die, I want you to go to my safe-deposit box and open that envelope.’”

  Grant explained to Merrit, “Claire’s theatrical training has given her an uncanny memory for dialogue and detail.”

  Checking my watch, I reminded Merrit, “Stewart has now been dead for some twenty-four hours. I can’t help feeling that his letter may shed some light on his death.”

  Grant again explained on my behalf, “Claire discovered the body, as you know, and my brother is the detective in charge of the investigation. Unless I’m mistaken, Claire has taken something of a personal interest in the case.”

  I exhaled a loud sigh, admitting, “Perhaps I have. Regardless, the letter should be opened, as Stewart instructed.”

  “You’re right, Claire,” said Merrit. “I have no objection to opening it now. In fact, I’m glad you reminded me.” He picked up the envelope, held it up to the light from the ceiling, and turned it in his hand. “No markings or notation whatever.” He paused. “Hngh. Interesting.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’d assumed there was a letter inside, but whatever it is, it looks sort of yellow.”

  Grant suggested, “Ivory stationery?”

  I prodded them along: “One way to find out.”

  “True enough.” Merrit set down the letter, opened a shallow drawer near the top of the table, and peered inside. “Oh, dear. No letter opener.”

  For God’s sake, just rip it. I smiled patiently.

  “I have a pocketknife,” said Grant, offering the elegant little gold tool from his key chain.

  “Splendid. How resourceful.” Merrit fidgeted with the tiny knife, at last getting it to flip open.

  “Uh, no,” said Grant, wagging a finger, “that’s the nail file.”

  “Ah, so it is. How clever.” He closed the knife and tried again.

  By now, I’d reassessed my original assumption that Merrit Lloyd was straight. Still, I’d just seen that family photo on his desk. Were the wife and kid actually a sister and nephew, or were all bankers, like accountants, compulsively anal?

  I asked sweetly, “Need some help?”

  “Thanks, but—there,” he said. “Got it.” He hoisted the one-inch blade in triumph, then brandished it like a buccaneer—a buccaneer in a button-down, pin-striped, French-cuffed shirt—before setting to work on the envelope, slitting it open with surgical precision.

  “Well done,” said Grant.

  “Thank you, sir.” Merrit gave a little bow, returning Grant’s knife. “What a handy little gadget. Do you recall where you got it?”

  “Sorry, it was a gift. But it may have come from Tiffany’s.”

  “Really? I’ll have Robin check for me.”

  “Gentlemen,” I reminded them soberly, “we were about to exhume a man’s dying wishes.”

  “Oops,” said Grant, “milady is getting antsy.”

  Merrit said, “Of course, Claire. Let’s take a look at what Stewart left for us.” And he slid a folded piece of paper out of the envelope. “Hngh,” he said, opening it with care, “it’s not a letter at all, but an old newspaper clipping.”

  Grant wondered aloud, “What’s that supposed to tell us?”

  “It appears to be an interview with Stewart. Ah. Look,” said Merrit, pointing to the margin of the fragile newsprint. “Stewart wrote something along the side: ‘This will make my wishes plain enough.’”

  I noted, “Those were his words when he gave you the envelope on Saturday.”

  Merrit added, “He signed his name, dating it three days ago—Saturday.”

  I asked, “Can you verify the signature?”

  “Certainly. We can check it against his signature on file, but I’d know Stewart’s handwriting anywhere. It’s his, all right.”

  “Well?” asked Grant. “What’s in the article?”

  “Interesting.” Merrit pointed to the top margin of the page. “This was clipped from the Palm Springs Herald, an issue dated 1954, nearly fifty years ago, when Stewart was in his early thirties.”

  “The Herald?” I asked.

  Grant explained, “A former competitor of the Desert Sun.”

  “Long defunct,” Merrit added. Then he began skimming the article, summarizing as he read. “It’s basically a personality profile. Stewart’s star was already rising by the time he’d reached thirty, and the story notes some of the high-profile decorating projects he’d recently completed. A few celebrities of the day are quoted, praising his talents—it’s quite a valentine. Here we go. Near the end, the reporter, noting that Ste
wart wasn’t married and had no children, asks about his long-term intentions for the art collection he was already beginning to amass. Oh, my.” Merrit looked up from the article with an expression of blank astonishment.

  “Yes?” we prompted. “What does it say?”

  Merrit held up the clipping and read, “‘The flamboyant Mr. Chaffee turned momentarily serious, responding with earnest, “Everything I own is to be my legacy to the Southwest Museum. We have a heritage here, and after I’m gone, I want to be a part of it.”’”

  Grant looked stunned. “Good God.”

  “Huh?” I asked stupidly, though I had an inkling.

  Setting down the clipping, Merrit explained, “Unless I’m mistaken, the Southwest Museum eventually became the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts.”

  Grant verified, “DMSA was known in its early days as the Southwest Museum. The name change occurred years ago, long before the museum’s recent affiliation with Desert Arts College. In any event, it has remained the same corporate entity since its inception.”

  “Well, then,” said Merrit, smiling broadly and patting Grant on the back, “it appears that the museum, while under your able watch, has just inherited a windfall. Congratulations.” He shook Grant’s hand.

  Still befuddled by this turn of events, Grant gestured to the shred of old newsprint on the table. “Will that stand up in court?”

  “I’m no lawyer, but the bank has probate attorneys on staff, so I’ll refer the legalities to them. In my opinion, however, this clipping should qualify as a holographic will.”

  Knowing little of such matters, I ventured, “Doesn’t a holographic will have to be handwritten?”

  “Traditionally, yes, but in recent years, the courts have been inclined to grant some leeway. Increasingly now, their prime criterion has become whether or not the deceased has clearly and verifiably communicated his or her wishes. In this case, even though Stewart’s intentions are stated in the printed text of the article, his handwritten marginalia—signed and dated—are explicit.”

  “And,” I recalled, “he verbally reiterated those intentions in front of all of us on Saturday when he handed you the envelope.”

  Merrit tapped the clipping on the table. “It’s a very strong case.”

  Still in a daze, Grant said, “How incredibly ironic—that I should happen to be present when Stewart gave this document to Merrit.”

  I patted Grant’s hand. “Somehow, I doubt that the timing was coincidental. Stewart knew that both you and Merrit were coming to the house that morning. Maybe it was his way of acknowledging your recent leadership at the museum. He made a point of complimenting your business sense and your social contacts. Remember?”

  “True.”

  Merrit agreed, “Claire’s right. I’ll bet Stewart meant to telegraph his intentions to all of us that morning. He had such a colorful personality—always did have that streak of gaming. Still, I feel it would be prudent for us to take a few precautions.” He stepped to a wall phone, picked up the receiver, and punched in a number. “Robin, could you join us in the vault, please? And bring along our file copy of Stewart Chaffee’s signature.”

  Waiting for Robin, Merrit voiced some other probate issues, telling Grant that he hoped they could forestall any contesting claims to the estate.

  While they spoke, I picked up the clipping, examined it, and found it unquestionably genuine. The paper was brittle and yellow, attesting to its age. I read through the entire interview, then glanced at the back side, where I found part of an ad for a Nash dealer with a four-digit phone number. Its headline trumpeted THE HOTTEST DEALS IN THE DESERT. The more things changed, it seemed, the more they stayed the same.

  “Thank you, Robin,” said Merrit as his secretary entered the vault and handed him Stewart’s signature card. Holding the card beneath the signature on the clipping, he asked Robin to examine both. “Are they a satisfactory match?”

  “No doubt whatever,” she said at a glance. “May I ask the nature of the document?”

  “Of course.” Merrit apprised Robin of the clipping’s significance, concluding, “The disbursement of a multimillion-dollar estate rests on this scrap of paper.”

  She nodded. “Then authentication is a top priority.”

  “Precisely. So there are several things I’d like for you to do, please. First, make several photocopies of the clipping for our own use and files, returning the original to Mr. Knoll.”

  “Me?” asked Grant.

  “You represent the museum, and the museum is the sole beneficiary. You have the greatest interest in the integrity of the original.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer here, at your bank?”

  “That might be seen as a conflict of interest, insofar as you are now the claimant against the deceased’s estate.” Merrit turned to his secretary. “Robin, be sure to find a protective sleeve for the newsprint; it should not be folded or handled any more than necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then do some library research to verify that the interview was actually published by the Herald in 1954. The clipping is clearly genuine—one look makes it self-evident—but with so much at stake, the authenticity could be routinely challenged by contesting claims on the estate. So let’s do our homework up front.”

  “I’ll get right on it. There should be microfilm in Palm Springs.” Robin lifted the old clipping from the table, touching only the top corners. “Anything else, sir?”

  “Uh…” Merrit glanced about. “Oh, yes. Here’s an old stack of family photos that was among Mr. Chaffee’s effects. I suppose they should go to his niece in Santa Barbara. You know how to reach her, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. We were in touch last week. I’ll take care of it.” Robin set the clipping on top of the photos, lifted the bundle, and left the vault.

  Merrit turned to Grant. “Well, now,” he said with a quiet laugh, “it seems you got more than you bargained for this morning.”

  Grant peered into his briefcase. “I was happy to get the ring …”

  “And you got the whole shooting match.”

  I told Grant, “I hate to think of Stewart’s death as having a silver lining, but I guess it did. It was a windfall for the arts.”

  Grant nodded. Pensively, he told us, “In a sense, I ought to be thrilled, but the truth is, it’s a pointless sort of windfall.”

  Merrit and I exchanged a quizzical glance.

  Grant elaborated, “For years, the museum struggled financially, but now that D. Glenn Yeats has brought it under his wing, built it a new facility, and affiliated it with Desert Arts College, the museum finds itself in the enviable position of not having a financial worry in the world.”

  Merrit shrugged. “And now you’ve got a ‘little something’ extra. A nice cushion. Think of it as an endowment.”

  “But most of Stewart’s wealth was tied up in his collection, I assume.”

  “Yes, that’s largely true.”

  “So the museum has inherited a vast collection of art and antiques.”

  I asked Grant wryly, “Something wrong with that?”

  “Nothing at all. It’s a wonderful, generous bequest. Except, most of Stewart’s collection is not even remotely connected to Southwestern arts. It doesn’t fit our artistic mission.”

  Merrit suggested the obvious: “So sell off the non-Southwestern pieces.”

  Grant brightened at the thought. Then he noticed my scowl. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sorry, gentlemen, but I don’t think that idea will fly. Read the entire interview. In the paragraph after Stewart’s statement about everything going to the Southwest Museum, he stipulates that nothing may be sold.”

  Merrit sighed. “That’s a fairly typical restriction in bequests such as this.”

  “Which means,” said Grant, “DMSA has just inherited a windfall with some very sticky strings attached.”

  “All that beautiful stuff…” I shook my head. “If you don’t want to display it, and you can’t sell
it, what do you do with it?”

  Grant tossed his hands. “Put it in storage.”

  duplicity

  10

  Climbing the mountainside toward Nirvana, I asked, “Are you sure I’m dressed for this?”

  Grant glanced over at me, grinning. “You look spectacular, doll. I’m honored to escort you anywhere.”

  “I mean, don’t you think this is a tad Christmassy?” Seated next to him in the Mercedes, I swept a hand from my red dress to my green turban.

  He paused. “It’s December.”

  “Somehow, the suave crowd at the Regal Palms strikes me as more sophisticated—and less thematic.”

  “Shush. They’re just people, mere tourists. Milady is a star. She’s entitled to make a statement. Here we are.” He turned off the steep road that continued up to the gated Nirvana housing development, swinging into the driveway of the Regal Palms Hotel.

  By the time we had finished our dealings with Merrit Lloyd at the bank, it was nearly noon, and Grant was still reeling from having learned the unexpected disposition of Stewart Chaffee’s estate. So he’d phoned from the car to reserve a terrace table at the hotel, where we could discuss that morning’s events in relaxed, genteel surroundings.

  “Ah,” said Grant, peering ahead through the windshield, “Larry’s here.”

  We had decided that the developments regarding Chaffee’s fortune would be found equally intriguing by Grant’s brother, Detective Larry Knoll, so we had phoned him as well, telling him what we’d learned. Since he happened to be driving down valley from Palm Springs, we invited him to join us for lunch. He readily agreed, saying there was something important he needed to discuss with Grant.

  Larry had arrived first and now stood under the huge portico at the hotel’s entrance, eyes closed, face aimed toward the sun, soaking up a few mild winter rays. In the glare, he didn’t notice Grant’s car pull up.

  A pair of uniformed parking valets stepped to the car, opening both front doors. Getting out, grabbing his briefcase from the backseat, Grant said, “We’re just staying for lunch.”