Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Larry gave me a discreet, grateful wink.

  Bonnie reminded us, “I never knew him in his prime, but from everything I’ve heard, he was always quite a character.” She sat again in the recliner, knees together, hands folded, looking suddenly dainty, an improbable image. “Stewart had a quirky personality, that’s for sure, and he was difficult to work for at times—but he was sick, and that’s why I was there. Sometimes his mind wasn’t right, and those were the most difficult times, but he always snapped out of it. He could be charming and gracious. I think that was his true nature, believe it or not.”

  I nodded, admitting, “I could see that in him, easily. Still, during my visits, his manner was generally gruff and unpredictable. At times, Bonnie, his treatment of you verged on abusive.”

  She shook her head, telling us flatly, “That wasn’t the real Stewart Chaffee. It’s unfair to judge him for his name-calling. There’s a special relationship between a patient and a long-term caregiver that’s difficult for an outsider to understand. Good Lord, I helped bathe the man; he depended on me. And sure, I depended on him; he paid me well. So our barking back and forth didn’t mean anything. Really. Not a thing.”

  Larry asked, “Is it safe to say, then, that you were not only Mr. Chaffee’s nurse, but also his companion?”

  She gave the detective an odd look. “Well, sort of. When Pea wasn’t around.”

  Larry flashed me a quizzical glance. I shrugged an I-dunno. He asked Bonnie, “You served as Mr. Chaffee’s companion when the houseman wasn’t around?”

  “I never thought of Pea as the ‘houseman.’ He was more of a secretary. You know—he scheduled things, ran errands, and such.”

  “Okay,” said Larry, amending his notes. “But Pea was also Mr. Chaffee’s companion?”

  “Maybe I’m behind the times.” Bonnie blew an exasperated sigh. “I’m not sure what they call themselves these days.”

  Larry scratched behind an ear. “You’re not sure what who call themselves?”

  She blurted, “Gay people.”

  Larry still looked confused. “Everyone’s aware that Stewart Chaffee was gay. And I got the impression that Pea Fertig is also. Are you now telling me that Stewart and Pea were … gay together?”

  I translated: “Bonnie, were Pea and Stewart lovers?”

  “Well, they weren’t sleeping together, if that’s what you mean. But I’m pretty sure they used to.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Beats me. Long time ago. I’m not even sure how long those two had been together, but it must’ve been decades. Cripes, I wonder what Stewart ever saw in him.”

  “For one thing,” I suggested, “Pea was thirty-some years younger. Chances are, Stewart found that highly attractive.”

  Bonnie’s face wrinkled. “That’s disgusting.”

  In light of my relationship with Tanner, I was tempted to take offense. Instead, I countered, “It sounds to me as if they were loving and loyal. Sex had withered from their relationship, but Pea, still in his best years, held on. He remained ‘there’ for Stewart because he was needed.”

  Bonnie corrected me, “He remained ‘there’ for Stewart because he was paid. And don’t kid yourself—Pea resented it.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “His behavior, of course. He’s a nasty little bastard. But think about it. How would you feel? You used to be this rich, important guy’s ‘wife,’ and now here you are, reduced to nothing more than paid domestic help.”

  Bonnie had made a good point. Both Larry and I recognized it. He asked her, “What sort of services did Pea perform in the household?”

  Bonnie began to speak, then hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe you should ask him about that. To my way of thinking, he wasn’t very useful at all. One thing’s for sure—he couldn’t cook.”

  “And you can,” I said brightly, shifting the topic.

  Modestly, she allowed, “I get by in the kitchen, but nothing fancy. On my day shifts at the estate, I always made lunch for Stewart. Simple stuff—soup and sandwiches.”

  Larry asked, “Who fixed dinner?”

  “There was part-time help who came in for that. Or Pea would bring meals home from various restaurants that Stewart liked.”

  I reminded her, “You also made pink fluff.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Sure. Rice Krispies squares, too. They’re easy to make, and he enjoyed them so. Considering his refined tastes and cultured past, I don’t know why he took such a liking to such childish foods. His favorite lunch was canned spaghetti.”

  “Sometimes,” I ventured, “as we grow older, our tastes change. And it’s often been observed that the elderly seem to revert to childhood—playing with dolls, for instance, or collecting stuffed toys.” As another example of age reversion, I recalled Grant joking with me, that very morning, about changing each other’s diapers. In the interest of decorum, however, I kept the thought to myself.

  “It’s true,” said Bonnie. “In health care, we see it every day. As death approaches, it often brings with it a second infancy.”

  Finding Bonnie’s observation both sensitive and poetic, I was glad I hadn’t mentioned diapers.

  Getting us back on track, Larry asked the nurse, “This pink fluff—you brought some to Stewart yesterday morning, correct?”

  She nodded. “He’d been asking for it for several days, so I made a batch of it here at home on Sunday night.”

  Larry turned a page of his notebook. “Please tell me everything you can remember about going to the estate yesterday.”

  Bonnie paused, closing her eyes, gathering her thoughts. With a blink, she began, “Monday is my day off. I had the pink fluff in a large green Tupperware bowl. I left here sometime before nine and drove over to the estate, arriving a few minutes later. I let myself in through the front gate, using the entry code. Then I drove up to the house and went inside, using my key.”

  I asked, “Where did you park? Which door did you use.”

  “I parked around back, in the courtyard by the garage, as usual. Then I entered through the kitchen door, as usual.”

  Larry asked, “Did you need to disarm the security system at the door?”

  “No, it was activated only at night. During the day, the gate security was sufficient to keep out salesmen or snoops.”

  “Tell us about entering the house.”

  “There’s nothing much to tell. Passing through the kitchen, I put the pink fluff in the fridge, then went to find Mr. Chaffee. I wanted to tell him that I’d brought the fluff, but I also wanted to check on him and see if there was anything he needed.”

  “Did you call his name?”

  “No. He sleeps at all hours, so I didn’t want to risk waking him. I began walking through the house and quickly found him—in the living room, asleep in his wheelchair, taking some sun through the window. I went back to the kitchen and wrote him a note about the fluff. I put the note in his lap, where he’d be sure to find it, and then I left.”

  Everything she said was consistent with the story Pea had told us after he’d returned to the estate on Monday afternoon. Her estimated arrival time was consistent with the evidence of the video camera.

  Larry asked, “While you were there, did you see anyone besides Mr. Chaffee?”

  “The house sure seemed empty, but I didn’t make a point of checking. None of the service people would be there at that hour, and I assumed Pea had gone to the gym, which he often does in the morning. The garage door was closed, so I don’t know for a fact if his car was there or not.”

  Larry was making detailed notes. “Thank you, Miss Bahr. This is helpful. Where did you go after leaving the estate?”

  “It was a beautiful day—we’ve been having such delightful weather, with winter setting in. Since I’d never been to the Living Desert Reserve, I decided to check it out.”

  I asked, “Living Desert?”

  Larry explained, “It’s a popular botanical park on the outskirts of Palm Desert, up in the
foothills on Portola Avenue.”

  Bonnie added, “They’ve got all the indigenous plants, plus an exhibit of palms of the world, not to mention the animals.”

  “Snakes?” I asked feebly.

  “They keep those separate,” she assured me, “in another building.”

  “How sensible. A snakehouse.”

  “But most of the other critters are right out in the open. You should see the meerkats. They’re adorable.”

  Trying to sound interested, I asked, “Are they some sort of wildcat?”

  “No, they’re not cats at all. They sorta look like prairie dogs, but they’re part of the mongoose family.”

  This too struck me as sensible—in case of a breach at the snakehouse.

  Larry asked, “How long were you there?”

  “Till well past one. I had lunch there. It was okay, but they were slow. It’s crowded this time of year.”

  “Did you get an entry ticket, maybe a stub?”

  “I think they gave me a receipt when I paid, but I probably tossed it.” Then she thought of something. “I got a pamphlet, though. Would you like to see it?” And she rose from her chair, went to a table near the door, and brought back a brochure about the park.

  “Thank you,” said Larry, glancing at it, handing it to me.

  “Those are the meerkats,” said Bonnie, pointing to a photo on the cover. “Don’t they look like they’re smiling?” In fact, they did.

  While Larry continued to question Bonnie about the remainder of her Monday afternoon, I idly paged through the brochure. It told me that, in all likelihood, Bonnie had visited the park, but it didn’t tell me when. If, as she claimed, she was there on Monday from midmorning through noon, she would be held above suspicion in Chaffee’s murder.

  On the other hand, because she seemed unable to verify her alibi of visiting the crowded tourist attraction, alone, at the time of Chaffee’s death, it was conceivable that she had not left the estate after writing the note that morning. She could have hidden in the house during the succession of later visitors, lured her elderly patient to the refrigerator, using pink fluff as bait, then toppled the refrigerator, crushing him. The note may have been an afterthought, planted on his dead or dying body to help exonerate her.

  In other words, Bonnie Bahr had had the means and possibly the opportunity to kill Stewart Chaffee. But did she have a motive? Seemingly, she had none at all.

  Larry was wrapping up his questions, thanking her for her cooperation, when she asked, “Exactly what happened, Detective? The newspaper didn’t give much information, and when Pea called to inform me that my services were no longer needed, he mentioned something about the kitchen, but told me no more. How did Stewart die?” She sat again, looking somber and concerned.

  Larry hesitated, then said, “Mr. Chaffee was found in the kitchen, crushed in his wheelchair by the refrigerator, which had fallen over. It may have been an accident, but some of the circumstances suggest foul play.” He was being as vague about his suspicions, I noted, as he had been yesterday while talking with Pea at the crime scene.

  Bonnie had gone pale. “My God,” she whispered, lifting both hands to her face, “Stewart must’ve been after the pink fluff.” She began to cry, telling us through her tears, “I shouldn’t have left that note for him. I should have woken him up and given him his treat. He always had trouble opening the fridge door.”

  With a sob, she whined, “I should’ve stayed to help him.”

  12

  Pulling up to the gate outside the Chaffee estate, Larry Knoll reached from the window of his car and pressed the intercom button. No one answered, so he punched in the keypad code. When the gate slid open, he drove onto the grounds, telling me, “Pea said I should check for him by the garage.”

  “What’s he doing, working on his car? He doesn’t strike me as the type.”

  As soon as we had pulled around to the side of the house, I had my answer. Though Pea’s Cadillac was visible inside the open garage, next to Stewart’s orphaned Rolls, neither car was the object of Pea’s attention. Rather, he was directing a crew of helpers, workers in tan jumpsuits who were sorting and packing some of the clutter that had accumulated in the garage.

  While Larry parked, I watched Pea strut about with a clipboard, nosing into cartons, pointing this way and that, hoisting a few things the workers had missed. He wore black nylon shorts, a pink tank top, and white tennis shoes with bulky gray socks. Though the day was barely warm, not hot, he’d worked up a sweat, which soaked his skimpy shirt with red splotches. It was clear at a glance that his time at the gym had been spent not lounging in a whirlpool, but engaged in obsessive physical training. For a short, middle-aged man, he had a great body. Though I admired the apparent determination with which he had compensated for his diminutive stature, I couldn’t help also thinking that Pea Fertig would have no difficulty whatever toppling a heavy refrigerator.

  As Larry and I got out of the car, Pea spotted us, crossing the courtyard to meet us. “Afternoon, Detective. Hello, Miss Gray.” His tone was neither cheery nor defensive, but flat and neutral, as if numbed by the events of the previous day. If he was surprised to find me in Larry’s company, he didn’t express it.

  Larry said, “Thanks for making some time for me today.” They shook hands.

  I offered mine. “I’m so sorry about everything. In addition to your loss, it seems you’re swamped by the aftermath.”

  “It helps to keep busy,” he said, accepting my hand, shaking it without interest. “Besides, someone has to do it.”

  A large panel truck backed into the courtyard, bleeping its warning signal as workers cleared a path through the cartons.

  Larry suggested, “Perhaps we could go inside. It’ll be easier to talk.”

  “Sure.” Pea led us across the courtyard to the kitchen door, opened it, and stepped aside so we could enter.

  I half expected to find other helpers at work inside, but no. The quiet of the house stood in eerie contrast to the bustle and noise outside the garage.

  “In here okay?” asked Pea, directing us toward the great room.

  “Fine, thanks.” Larry followed him through the kitchen.

  I paused to look at the spot where Stewart had been killed. The refrigerator had been righted, of course, but the collection of cocktail shakers, some of them now chipped and dented, had been shoved haphazardly into a corner of the countertop. There was no sign of Stewart’s crumpled wheelchair, surely taken as evidence. The mess of foodstuffs—and blood—had been cleaned up, but I noticed with a wave of repugnance that in front of the refrigerator door, the cracks between the floor tiles were stained brown.

  “Uh, Claire?” From the great room, Larry saw me staring at the kitchen floor. “Are you coming?”

  I looked from Larry to the floor and back to Larry again. Then I mustered a weak smile, left the kitchen, and joined Larry with Pea in the great room. The space was much as it had been on the previous afternoon, except that some of the artwork had been taken from the walls and propped on the floor. The collection of paintings by Per-Olof Östman had been removed from the easels and stacked against a wall, draped with sheets. The room was still festooned, however, with its Christmas decorations, which looked insanely malapropos, their cheeriness mocking the grim mood that now shrouded the dead man’s home.

  Pea had settled on the leather sofa, using a towel he’d grabbed in the kitchen to blot perspiration from his face and chest. Larry sat across from him, at the coffee table, as the day before, reviewing his notes. I remained standing, drawn to the glass doors that looked over the terrace to the pool.

  Pea glanced in my direction, asking, “The clock—you transported it safely?”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s ticking away onstage, even as we speak.” I felt it wise not to mention that we’d soaped its face, as Pea was such a fussbudget.

  Larry seconded, “Yes, thank you for allowing Claire to take it yesterday. I’m sure Mr. Chaffee would be highly pleased, knowing the
clock makes such an important contribution to her play.”

  Pea responded with a cynical smile. He still wasn’t happy that I’d gotten the clock. Did he feel it was rightfully his? Or did he simply feel loyal to his deceased employer and protective of his property?

  Larry continued, “I notice you’ve moved some of the paintings.” He gestured toward the stack of draped canvases. “May I ask what you intend to do with them?”

  Pea snapped, “Well, I don’t intend to steal them.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  Pea exhaled. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’ve been on edge all day.” Referring to the stack of paintings, he explained, “I have no idea what’s to become of everything, but I thought I should start getting things organized for the bank.”

  “Then you’ve spoken to Merrit Lloyd?”

  “Yes, he phoned to explain about the old clipping. The courts will probably appoint him the estate’s executor while everything grinds through probate. Fine by me—I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  I noted, “Things look fairly well organized out in the courtyard.”

  “I called in a crew this morning, before I’d heard from Merrit. The garage was a mess; most of it’s my own stuff. Not sure where to send it, but I want to be ready.”

  I crossed to the sofa and sat, separated from Pea by the middle cushion. With a tone of concern as well as curiosity, I asked, “But didn’t you expect to remain here at the house?”

  His features twisted. “Why would I?” He tossed the damp towel on the floor. “It was Stewart’s house, and now he’s gone.”

  I glanced at Larry, unsure how to respond. The day before, Pea had told us that he and Stewart had been friends and nothing more. “Pea,” I said, “weren’t you and Stewart a couple?”

  “Why would you ask such a thing?” His tone suggested that I had accused him of something unseemly.

  “Intuition.” I shrugged, letting him know that I found their relationship unremarkable.

  He paused, then turned to face me on the sofa. His bare leg squeaked on the leather cushion. “Well, actually, yes, Stewart and I went way back together. There was a time when we were intimate, but that was long ago.” With a snort, he added, “Longer ago than I’d care to admit.” Pea’s head bowed.