Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  What’s more, I appreciated that Glenn was sensitive enough to care about my feelings on the matter. His aspirations for the success of the play were as lofty and intense as my own. His dedication to the theater program had been unwavering. I would appear petty indeed if I now begrudged the museum a few moments in the lime-light.

  Glenn continued to eye me with concern. “It’s just that you seem preoccupied. Is something troubling you? How can I make it right?”

  Standing behind Glenn, Grant gave me a goofy, bored look.

  “Glenn”—I laughed softly—“you amaze me sometimes. You’re far too caring.”

  “How could I not care about you?” He pecked the side of my mouth.

  I pecked back. The exchange was hardly passionate, but it carried genuine fondness. What’s more, I realized with a spark of revelation that these warm feelings were mutual; I really did care about the man. Since Glenn had first made his affections known to me three months earlier, I had shied from considering that I might find in his overture any appeal beyond its obvious material implications. Glenn understood this, but he had shown patience, taking no apparent umbrage in my need to think things through and to examine my heart—a process, a window, that also allowed me to bed Tanner Griffin with indulgent regularity. Glenn simply hoped that, in time, I would come around. Was I now, in fact, doing just that?

  “So?” He repeated, “Is something troubling you?”

  My two-timing was troubling me, but that’s not what he had read in my face. I explained, “It’s the murder.”

  “Ahhh,” said Glenn, wrapping me in another hug, but this time it felt more paternal than romantic. “It’s disturbing, I know, but don’t worry yourself with it. The investigation is in good hands.”

  “My brother’s hands,” Grant reminded me. His grin conveyed knowledge that I had already wheedled my way into Larry Knoll’s investigation. It also conveyed knowledge that Glenn did not approve.

  My comforting employer clucked into my ear, “The police know what they’re doing, Claire. They’re trained to deal with these matters—and to minimize the risks, the inherent dangers of nosing into homicide.”

  I pulled away from him. “Glenn, please don’t be patronizing.”

  “Sorry.” He raised his hands in a gesture of backing off.

  We’d been through this before, and I was now clearly reminded of why I’d “needed time” to weigh his earlier profession of love. It wasn’t only that I found Tanner so achingly attractive; it was Glenn’s condescending presumption that I needed his protection and mothering.

  Calming myself (there was no point in berating the man while preparing to ask him a favor), I hedged, “This has nothing to do with any personal interest I’ve taken in Chaffee’s murder. Having discovered the body, however, I am involved, and it occurs to me that Detective Knoll’s investigation might be helped along if he were invited to the party at your home tomorrow evening.”

  “Fine.” Glenn blinked. “But why?”

  “To observe people. The ebb and flow of conversation could help—”

  Suddenly enlightened, Glenn interrupted, “It’s Mark Manning, isn’t it?”

  The name caught Grant’s attention, fast. “Oh? What about Mark Manning?” Though Grant was coordinating the catering and other hotel services that would be needed the next night at Glenn’s home, he apparently had not been informed of the party’s purpose.

  I explained, “Mark will be the guest of honor.”

  “Do tell?” Grant looked downright bubbly at the prospects of rubbing elbows with the famed journalist.

  Glenn continued, “And you’re speculating, Claire, that Manning may have a few useful ideas for the investigation.”

  Lamely, I admitted, “Two heads are better than one,” though I didn’t specify to whom the other head belonged.

  “Fine,” Glenn repeated. “Detective Knoll is more than welcome. Shall I have Tide phone him?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll be in touch with him, I’m sure.” Then I had another thought. “Besides the press, who else will be invited to tomorrow’s event here at the museum?”

  “Anyone who’s interested. After all, the reception is being billed as a tribute to Stewart Chaffee—not quite a memorial, but ostensibly, he’s the focus. Family, friends, business associates, they’re all welcome. Why?”

  “Well, think about it. Such an event might very well have overtones for the murder investigation.”

  Facetiously, Glenn asked, “A killer in the crowd?”

  With a quiet laugh, I allowed, “Maybe I am being melodramatic, but I think Larry will want to be here.”

  “Then ask him.”

  Grant pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his camel-hair blazer. “Be my guest,” he said, offering me the phone and reminding me of his brother’s programmed number.

  “Thanks, Grant.” I glanced about the high-ceilinged lobby and wrinkled my face in response to its harsh acoustics. “I think I’ll phone him from outside. Less noise.” I also wanted to escape the air-conditioning.

  “As milady pleases.” Grant gave me a deft bow, then turned to Glenn and began discussing some matter of museum policy. I was already headed for the door.

  The warmth of the plaza felt therapeutic as I crossed to a bench near a clump of palms and sat facing the sun. I opened Grant’s phone, punched in Larry’s code, and within a few seconds, he was on the line.

  “Morning, Claire. Always a pleasure to hear from you. What’s up?”

  I told him about Thursday’s press conference, and he readily agreed that he should be there, thanking me for the tip. But when I also suggested that he attend the party at Glenn Yeats’s home tonight, he asked, “What’s the point?”

  I was not inclined to tell him that a visitor from Wisconsin might be able to help with his investigation. Instead, I explained, “The guest of honor is Mark Manning—you met him in the hotel lobby yesterday on our way to lunch. Mark is gay and a prominent professional, as was Stewart. I’m not sure of Glenn’s guest list, but it’s apt to include a few A-gays. Maybe someone will know something. Maybe something will be said.”

  “Worth a shot,” Larry conceded. “What time?”

  I gave him the particulars.

  “I’ll be there. But I’m betting that Thursday’s news conference holds greater promise for developments. You never know.”

  “You never know,” I echoed, watching a roadrunner scamper across College Circle and hop to the top of a low hedge of oleander, from which it surveyed the quiet plaza with random jerks of its head. Recalling Glenn’s statement that Chaffee’s friends and family would be welcome at the museum press conference, I said into the phone, “I wonder about Dawn, Stewart’s niece from Santa Barbara. Perhaps she should be notified. After all, the reception is a tribute to her late uncle.”

  “I spoke to Dawn Chaffee-Tucker by phone late yesterday,” Larry told me. “The department had already informed her of her uncle’s death, and she readily admitted having visited the estate on Monday morning, claiming to have been summoned to an eleven o’clock meeting by Chaffee’s banker.”

  I noted, “That’s consistent with Monday’s security tape and with the discussion I heard on Saturday at Chaffee’s estate. How did Dawn take the news?”

  “When I myself spoke to her, she seemed unemotional about it. Of course, she’d already heard the news from one of my deputies, so the shock, if there was any, had worn off. I will say this: she was extremely cooperative. I asked if she would mind having a set of fingerprints made by the Santa Barbara police, and she did it as soon as we hung up. They’ve already been sent to me.”

  “And?” Our discussion of fingers had led me to examine my own. With my free hand, I picked the dried little hook of a hangnail.

  “And they don’t match any that we found at the crime scene.”

  “She’s in the clear, then?”

  “Not necessarily. She admits being there.” Larry asked rhetorically, “Why no prints?”

  “Have
you asked her about that?” My cuticle began to bleed, so I stopped toying with it.

  “I intend to. Turns out, she’s driving back to the valley today. As Chaffee’s next of kin, she’s meeting with Merrit Lloyd at Indian Wells Bank and Trust to discuss the disposition of her uncle’s estate. I need to question both the banker and the niece, so I plan to join their meeting at two o’clock.”

  “One-stop shopping,” I joshed tritely.

  “Yup,” he agreed, “two birds with one stone.”

  14

  My exploits with Larry Knoll had evolved to the point where I barely needed to beg to accompany him that afternoon on his visit to the bank. When I asked, he paused and grumbled—out of sheer principle. Then I pleaded sweetly, explaining that I should be there, on behalf of the college, to invite Dawn to her uncle’s tribute at the museum. Satisfied, Larry relented. Our routine was well practiced by now, and I found that I needed to offer only minimal justification for tagging along with him.

  We drove our own cars, meeting at the bank. At a minute or so before two, I pulled my Beetle into the parking lot, noting that Larry had already arrived and sat waiting for me. When I got out of my car, he got out of his. “Right on time,” he said, walking in my direction.

  Meeting him halfway, I offered a hug, noting, “I’m compulsively prompt. Guess it’s to compensate for a fear of being late. I’m always having dreams about missing tests. Do you suppose that signals some deep-seated psychopathy?”

  “God, I hope not.” Larry eyed me with concern.

  “Sorry. I was oversharing.” The California vocabulary had already become second nature to me.

  Walking me toward the building, he said, “I wonder if the niece was equally prompt.”

  I looked around the parking lot, but would not have known her car if I’d seen it. “Not sure about Dawn, but Merrit Lloyd is here.” I pointed to his big silver Mercedes; it hunkered like a tank in the blue shadow of the building.

  Larry nodded. He’d seen the rear bumper in Monday’s security photos from the estate.

  As we entered the bank lobby, I noticed that it had been decked out with a few seasonal touches since the previous morning. In keeping with the severe, minimalist style of the building and its furnishings, the Christmas decorations consisted of nothing more than a bowl of silver balls on the receptionist’s desk, a few crystal icicles hung from the overhead light fixture, and a strand of clear lights spiraling around the trunk of a potted palm. Happy holidays.

  Larry introduced himself, the receptionist recognized me from Tuesday, and a moment later, Merrit Lloyd’s secretary came out to greet us. “Good afternoon,” said Robin, heels snapping at the granite floor.

  We stepped forward, greeting her in turn. Was it my imagination, or had something changed in Robin’s manner since our sighting yesterday at lunch? Though she had never been the vivacious sort, she now seemed downright mousy, as if I’d caught her in a compromising position—keeping company with an older man. Who was I, after all, to judge the May-December thing? With Tanner and me, the sexes and ages were reversed, but otherwise, we were in the same brow-raising boat as Robin and Atticus.

  “Mr. Lloyd is expecting you,” she told Larry. If she found anything unusual in my presence, she didn’t voice it. “I understand you also wish to meet with Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, Mr. Chaffee’s niece.”

  “Yes, has she arrived?”

  “Some time ago. She and Mr. Lloyd have wrapped up their business and are ready to see you. This way, please.”

  Larry and I followed Robin toward the back of the bank, past her own desk, and into Merrit Lloyd’s office. “Detective Knoll and Miss Cray,” she announced us, then left the room.

  Merrit stood to greet us, as did Dawn. Though the banker had not expected to see me, he welcomed me warmly and introduced me to Dawn as a recent acquaintance of her late uncle, adding, “Stewart graciously lent Claire a clock from his collection, to be used on the set of her play at Desert Arts College.”

  Dawn blinked. “Claire Gray? The director?”

  “Guilty,” I admitted. It was an insipid acknowledgment, but seemed to fit the tone of our conversation, which was curiously light.

  Larry brought it down a notch, telling Dawn, “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” He shook her hand.

  “Ah”—the woman nodded—“Stewart’s death did come as a surprise. And from what I understand, he died under the most lamentable circumstances. But the truth is, I hardly knew him. We were never close.”

  I studied her as she spoke. Dawn looked some ten years younger than me, in her early forties. She stood with perfect composure and spoke with quiet, unemotional precision. I knew from previous discussions that she had a background in the arts and ran a gallery in Santa Barbara, which brought to mind the role of Iesha Birch at DMSA. But the two women bore no resemblance to each other. While Iesha projected the image of a free-spirited bohemian, Dawn looked every inch the businesswoman. Her skirt and jacket were finely tailored, probably Chanel, accented with a single strand of gray pearls. She even wore a hat, a pert pillbox, lacking only gloves to complete the Jackie-esque picture. Her handbag was indeed Chanel—no mistaking the large gold clasp—with a long gold chain instead of a strap. She was an articulate, educated woman of refined bearing and classic good taste. I liked her.

  “I met Stewart only once,” she was saying, “when I was very young. I don’t think I was walking yet; I don’t even remember the encounter. I was always told I’d met my uncle, and the family lore stuck.”

  “Just last Sunday,” I said, “your uncle recounted the same story. Yes, you’d met. It was forty years ago, when you were a toddler.”

  Confirmation of this detail from Dawn’s early life cast a pensive pall over her features. The room was momentarily silent.

  Breaking the lull, Merrit suggested, “Let’s all sit down.” He gestured toward a round conference table occupying the side of his office away from the brutally chic concrete desk. Conveniently, the table was surrounded by four chairs; disquietingly, each of the chairs sprouted three legs. We settled in.

  Larry began, “Mrs. Chaffee-Tucker—”

  “Please, Detective, call me Dawn. The hyphenated name once seemed so important to me. Now it’s just cumbersome.”

  Larry grinned. “You’re welcome to call me Larry, as well. First, Dawn, I want to thank you for being so cooperative with the investigation. It was good of you to supply your fingerprints so quickly.”

  With a soft shake of her head, she said, “Just trying to be a good citizen.” The words seemed stale, but their tone was sincere.

  “The prints were sent to us from Santa Barbara, and there was no match with any found at the crime scene.” Larry, I noted, told these findings without suggesting their significance, which we had found uncertain.

  But the meaning of these findings was clear in Dawn’s mind. With the slightest shrug, she said, “I wouldn’t expect you to find my fingerprints at the crime scene.”

  I asked, “But you were at Stewart’s estate on Monday morning, right?”

  “Yes, I was there, but I didn’t go inside the house.”

  “Let’s back up,” said Larry. “Tell us what led up to your visit that morning.”

  “This.” Dawn snapped open her purse and took out an envelope. “I received a letter from Uncle Stewart about two weeks ago, saying that he would like to see me again. My first reaction was that it was some sort of hoax, a cruel joke.” She handed the letter to Larry.

  At first glance, the detective’s face wrinkled. He blurted, “What a mess.”

  Curious, I leaned past his arm to look at the letter. It was word-processed and laser-printed, but typed without skill and clumsily formatted. The column of type sat tight against the right edge, some lines running off the paper, with an overly wide margin on the left. The sloppy, unprofessional appearance conveyed that little or no care had been lavished on this missive, which purported to bring important tidings from Dawn’s past. The opening sentence made ref
erence to Stewart and Dawn’s “shared love of the visual arts.”

  Merrit, who had already seen the letter, conjectured, “Stewart wasn’t much of a typist. I guess that’s why he had a secretary. The signature is authentic, by the way. I’d know it anywhere.”

  I recalled, “When Larry and I spoke with Pea yesterday, he mentioned that Stewart ‘never quite got the hang’ of using their home computer. This letter bears that out. Clearly, he wrote it without Pea’s assistance.” As an afterthought, I explained to Dawn, “Pea was your uncle’s live-in secretary and houseman.”

  “Then why,” asked Dawn, “didn’t the secretary help Stewart with the letter?”

  Merrit explained, “Stewart didn’t want Pea to know that he was meeting you. He specifically asked my office to set up the appointment on a Monday morning, when there would be no one else at the house. Stewart felt that Pea might find the meeting upsetting for some reason, though I don’t know the underlying reason.”

  I did. Suddenly, a lot made sense. For example, Stewart had made disparaging remarks about Dawn during my visit on Sunday, when Grant and I returned the desk. Pea was present that day, whereas he had not been present on Saturday, when I’d heard Stewart confirm with Robin that a meeting with Dawn had been arranged. Stewart’s underlying reason for this subterfuge, I now understood, was that he didn’t want to alert his ex-lover, Pea, that he was considering a rapprochement with his next of kin, Dawn. Stewart was doubtless aware that Pea entertained expectations of a substantial inheritance.

  Larry had taken out his notebook and had begun writing. He asked Dawn, “If you thought the letter was a hoax, why did you act on it?”

  “The tone seemed genuinely conciliatory, and Stewart concluded by telling me to expect a call from his banker’s office for the purpose of setting up an appointment. Not long after, I did hear from the bank, and Robin booked the meeting.”

  “Tell me about your visit that morning.”

  “We were scheduled to meet at my uncle’s estate at eleven o’clock. It’s about a four-hour drive from Santa Barbara, depending on traffic, so I started out early and arrived early in the valley. I stopped somewhere for coffee, freshened up a bit, then drove over to my uncle’s, pulling up to the gate at eleven on the dot.”