Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Larry looked up from his notes. “Are you always so punctual?”

  She allowed, “More or less. Well, no, not always. But this meeting seemed important to my uncle, so I wanted to play by the rules, as it were. There’d already been enough bad blood in the family. I didn’t want to contribute to it with the implied disrespect of tardiness.”

  “Bad blood,” I repeated. “Your uncle used those very words. What was the source of all that enmity?”

  Dawn shook her head feebly. “I never knew for sure. As I said, I had never really known my uncle. I’d only heard about him, and it was never very flattering. My father—he’s been dead nearly ten years—was Stewart’s older brother. Even as a child, I was aware of deep-seated resentment between Stewart and the entire family, but I was never sure of its roots. Now, so many years later, I suspect it was the gay issue, which doesn’t concern me in the least.”

  Getting back on track, Larry said, “So you arrived at the estate at eleven, expecting some sort of reconciliation.”

  “I assumed that was the point of the meeting, yes. So I pulled up to the gate and tried the intercom, but got no response. Robin had told me I might need to let myself in, so I punched in the code. The gate opened, and I drove to the front door. I got out of the car and rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I tried once or twice again. After waiting several minutes, I left.”

  I said, “But you’d driven so far. Didn’t you try phoning the bank?”

  Dawn shook her head. “To be honest, I was angry by then. Waiting at the door, it was apparent that no one was home, or at least that no one intended to answer. I quickly concluded that my original inclination was correct—I’d been set up for a cruel ruse. I left feeling hurt and victimized.” Wistfully, she added, “Little did I know that my uncle Stewart was the actual victim.”

  Larry asked, “How long, in total, were you there?”

  “It seemed like forever standing at the door, but it was less than five minutes. Probably less than two.”

  “Did you notice anyone else on the premises?”

  “No. I’d have asked a few questions if I’d spotted anyone.”

  “How about cars? Did you see any other vehicles on the grounds?”

  “Not in front of the house. I didn’t look in back. I just left.”

  Larry tapped his pen on the pad. “And you didn’t touch anything—other than the keypad at the gate and the doorbell button. You didn’t try the door handle?”

  “Certainly not,” she said as if the suggestion were unthinkable. “I wouldn’t have entered someone’s home without being admitted. Other than a common thief, who would?”

  I felt myself slumping in my three-legged chair.

  Larry deduced, “And because you didn’t touch anything, that’s why you assumed we wouldn’t find your fingerprints at the scene.”

  “I suppose. But more to the point, I was wearing gloves.”

  My earlier observation about her attire now seemed premature.

  Larry’s brow wrinkled. “Do you often wear gloves?”

  “When I drive, I do.” She snapped open her purse again and extracted a limp, skintight pair of perforated doeskin driving gloves, plopping them on the table. She concluded, “And I drove straight back to Santa Barbara. I hadn’t a clue that anything was wrong till yesterday afternoon, when I heard from the sheriff’s department here in Riverside County.”

  Larry asked Merrit, “Have you and Dawn discussed Mr. Chaffee’s bequest to the museum?”

  “Yes,” said the banker, “we discussed it thoroughly before you arrived. I gave Dawn a copy of the interview from the Herald.”

  Obliquely, Larry asked Dawn, “What did you think?”

  With a nascent laugh, she said, “I think my uncle chose a peculiar way to make his intentions known.” More seriously, she added, “I admire his philanthropy. I share his interest in art, and this is a marvelous final gesture. If you’re wondering if I feel slighted, no, I don’t. Given the history of friction in my father’s family, I never expected to inherit a thing from my uncle. Although I must say, his holographic will is bizarre.”

  Merrit cleared his throat, assuring Dawn, “The bank’s probate team is studying the whole matter, but there appears to be no reason to suspect that the old newspaper clipping is other than what it appears to be, a statement of Stewart’s last wishes.”

  I recalled, from our meeting at the bank on Tuesday, “Wasn’t Robin going to do some research in that regard?”

  “She was, and she did. In fact—well, let’s have Robin tell you what she found.” Merrit rose from the table, crossed to the door, and asked Robin to step inside.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked as they approached our table together.

  “The others were wondering about your library research.”

  “Ah.” Robin turned to us. “Yesterday afternoon, I went out to the Palm Springs Library Center on Sunrise Way, which has extensive records of local periodicals on microfilm and microfiche. The Desert Sun, for instance, goes back to 1934. The Palm Springs Herald, however, maintained its own archives for the several decades of its existence, which were always a struggle against the larger paper. The Herald folded during the sixties, and its archives suffered some damage when a water line burst in their warehouse shortly after publication had ceased. A few years later, the archives were acquired by the local library, which has done a superb job of cataloging and preserving them. However, due to the warehouse flood, there are a number of gaps in the collection where issues were destroyed or missing. Unfortunately, one of these gaps spans several months in 1954, when the Chaffee interview was published.”

  Larry asked, “So there’s no way to verify, absolutely, that the clipping is genuine?”

  “Short of recovering a complete issue of that day’s Herald, I suppose not.”

  “Thank you,” Merrit dismissed his secretary; she left. Sitting again at the table with us, the banker told Larry, “The original clipping, now in your brother’s possession, certainly appears to be genuine, and I believe it would stand up as evidence if the disposition of the estate were to be contested.”

  Dawn touched his arm, assuring him, “It won’t come to that. I wouldn’t dream of contesting my uncle’s estate. Why would I?”

  “As next of kin,” Merrit reminded her, “many would-be heirs would find ample reason to contest such a will. I’m highly relieved, of course, that you’re able to weigh the situation so philosophically.”

  “I’m not all that noble,” she told him with a wry grin. “If I were starving or destitute, I’d probably take an altogether different tack. But my circumstances are more than comfortable.”

  Larry asked, “Would you mind giving us some details of those circumstances—a bit of your personal background?”

  “Not at all. What would you like to know?”

  Larry prompted, “You’re married, correct?”

  “Yes. My husband is Dr. Troy Chaffee-Tucker, a dermatologist with an established practice in Santa Barbara. We were married nineteen years ago, when he was finishing medical school. You’ll notice he took the same hyphenated name; he’s a remarkably supportive man. Our daughter came along a year after we were married. Joconda is eighteen now, in her first year of college.” Dawn took her wallet from her purse and slid a photo from one of the plastic sleeves. “This was taken last summer on a sailing trip to Catalina.” Proudly, she tendered the photo to Larry and me.

  Larry made some approving comment about the boat. I focused on doctor Troy and daughter Joconda. He was handsome, toothy, blond, and wind-tossed. She, poor dear, had inherited none of her parents’ good looks. Perhaps she had yet to flower out of a gawky adolescence. I told Joconda’s mother, “She has such beautiful skin,” faint praise for a dermatologist’s kid.

  “Thank you.” Dawn gave me an appreciative nod and returned the photo to her wallet.

  Larry asked her, “You run a museum, correct?”

  “No, not a museum. It’s a small, commercial gallery—I s
ell art. I have a doctorate in art history, and twelve years ago, after Joconda started school, I decided to put the degree to use, opening the gallery as something of a lark. To the astonishment of both Troy and myself, the business has thrived from the outset. I represent some top contemporary talent, but my specialty has always been the work of earlier masters.”

  I said, “Then I can understand why your uncle sensed an affinity with you. He’d followed your career from a distance and clearly approved. What a shame the two of you never connected, talked, and explored your common interests.”

  “And we nearly did,” she lamented. “Our timing was regrettably poor.”

  Their timing was worse than poor, I mused. The coroner had determined that Chaffee had died between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty on Monday morning. Dawn had arrived at eleven. They could not have missed meeting by more than a few minutes—a nanosecond in the context of Chaffee’s eighty-two years.

  Dawn continued, “There might have been so much family history for us to cover together, and now there’s nothing. I have no memories of the man.”

  “What a shame.” Then I recalled, “The reason I’m here today, Dawn, is to invite you to attend a reception tomorrow evening at the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts. The press has been invited, and Glenn Yeats himself will announce the bequest, but the event is essentially a tribute to your late uncle. We thought you might want to be there.”

  She paused, considering this, then said with resolve, “I would like to be there. I feel so awful about … missing him on Monday. The least I can do is represent his family at the memorial service.”

  It would hardly be a “memorial service,” not with the full glare of the media and with Glenn Yeats posturing and crowing on behalf of the college, but I was not inclined to disabuse Dawn of her quaint notion. So I simply told her, “The reception begins at seven at the museum’s new facility on campus.”

  “Excuse me,” said Robin, appearing in the doorway again, holding a tray. “Your meeting seemed to be running long, so I thought you might like some water.”

  “Thank you, Robin,” said Merrit, waving her in, “most thoughtful of you.”

  Robin entered with the tray, which bore several bottles of mineral water, a dainty ice bucket and tongs, and four crystal goblets. Placing the tray in the center of the table, she distributed the glasses and twisted the lids from the bottles. Merrit poured for Dawn, Larry for me. I drank, but no one else seemed interested. Setting down my glass in a shaft of sunlight that crossed the table, I noted that I’d left a pristine set of fingerprints on the surface of the crystal.

  Offhandedly, Dawn mentioned to Merrit, “It’s a long way back and forth to Santa Barbara. Since I’ll need to be here again tomorrow, perhaps I should spend the night.”

  “Good idea.” The banker turned to his secretary. “Robin, could you give the Regal Palms a call? Mrs. Chaffee-Tucker will need a suite for tonight and perhaps tomorrow as well. Please ask them to bill it to the bank’s account.”

  “Certainly.” With a deferential bob, Robin slipped out to her desk.

  Dawn told Merrit, “I really don’t expect that.”

  “Nonsense,” the banker insisted. “Your uncle was one of our oldest and most valued clients. We think of you as family.”

  “You’ve been exceptionally kind. I can well understand my uncle’s loyalty.”

  Merrit beamed.

  Dawn plucked her driving gloves off the table, wriggled her hands into them, and fastened the snaps at her wrists. She stood.

  The rest of us stood with her, recapping our condolences and our thanks for each other’s cooperation in attempting to resolve the mystery of her uncle’s death.

  Robin popped back into the room, carrying a folder. She told Dawn, “Everything is set at the Regal Palms. Do you need directions?”

  “Thank you, but I know the way.”

  Robin stepped forward with the folder. “These are the photos I told you about—from your uncle’s safe-deposit box.”

  “Ahhh,” said Dawn, taking the folder, peeking inside, “a glimpse into my family’s forgotten past. It seems I have a nostalgic evening ahead of me.” With a sigh, she picked up her purse and tucked the photos under her arm. Then she reached with her free hand for the glass of water and swallowed a few sips. When she set down the goblet, I noticed that her gloved fingers had left smudges, but no prints. “I really should be going. Thank you, Merrit, you’ve been wonderful.”

  After a round of farewells, Dawn swept out the door, followed by Robin.

  Larry told Merrit, “I appreciate all the time you’ve given us.”

  “It’s the least I can do. I only hope it’s been helpful. Please, do let me know if I can be of any further assistance to the investigation.”

  “Actually,” said Larry, “if you could spare a few more minutes, I’m confused about a particular matter that I hope you can clarify.”

  “I’ll try, certainly.” He gestured toward the table, and all three of us resumed our former seats.

  Larry flipped a few pages back in his notebook. “Thank you for being so forthright about your visit to the Chaffee estate on Monday morning. We also appreciated your willingness to supply a set of fingerprints when my deputy called on you yesterday.”

  “I assume you found a match for mine—probably many—at the house.” Merrit’s voice carried no inflection of wariness. “I’ve been there so often, I’ve surely left paw marks everywhere.”

  “Not in the kitchen,” Larry told him, “but yes, we did find traces of your prints on the front-door handle.”

  “Makes sense.” Merrit shrugged. “I always used the front door. That’s how I entered—and left—on Monday morning.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Early. Before eight o’clock, on my way to the office. I needed a signature or two, so I wasn’t there more than a few minutes. Such visits were frequent.”

  “Sometimes more than once a day?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  Larry asked, “So it wasn’t unusual that you went to the Chaffee estate twice on Monday?”

  Merrit paused. With a trace of confusion he asked, “I did? Is that what I told your deputy yesterday?”

  “No. You said that you had been there early, before eight. You didn’t mention a return visit, but the security tapes recorded a second visit at a quarter past ten.”

  “Really?” He shook his head as if to clear his thinking. He didn’t seem to be squirming, merely befuddled. With an apologetic laugh, he said, “It’s entirely possible that I returned on Monday. It wouldn’t be unusual, but that’s not my recollection. Unless I’m mistaken, I had a long meeting at ten that morning with the bank’s auditing team; it ran into lunch.”

  I suggested, “Why don’t you check.”

  “Of course.” Merrit rose from the table and stepped to his desk. It’s immaculate surface contained nothing so trivial as an appointment book, so he pressed a button on the phone and asked his secretary to come in.

  “Yes, Mr. Lloyd,” said Robin as she entered the office.

  “Could you check my schedule for Monday, Robin? That auditors’ meeting, it began at ten, right?”

  The secretary scrunched her features. Rather than contradict her boss, she said, “Let me get your book.” A moment later she returned with a gilt-edged day planner. “No, Mr. Lloyd. The auditors’ meeting began at eleven.”

  Merrit told Larry, “Then I was mistaken. Sorry for the misinformation. Sometimes, one day just blurs into another—the perils of middle age.”

  Larry made note of the second meeting, closed his pad, and joked with Merrit about the early onset of senility.

  But I was troubled.

  Chaffee had died sometime after ten-thirty on Monday, and Merrit Lloyd, banker of the deceased, could not quite explain—or even recall—why he had arrived at the estate at ten-fifteen that morning.

  15

  Kiki Jasper-Plunkett and I hadn’t seen as much of each other in recent wee
ks as we would have liked. We’d been closest friends in college; then, over the subsequent decades, we’d maintained that friendship from a distance. Now, having both moved to the desert a few months earlier, living in condominiums only steps apart, we’d assumed we’d be thick again. But maybe it’s true—maybe there’s no going back. While I loved my old chum and everything we’d shared, our new lives in California had brought new passions and priorities.

  Kiki’s interests had always been chameleonlike, shifting almost as frequently as she changed clothes—several times daily.

  As for me, my life had been steered by a steady rudder, a myopic absorption with my career, but now, at fifty-four, I felt reborn. My days were filled with my work at Desert Arts College, where I believed, perhaps pretentiously, that I could shape a new generation of American actors. My nights were filled with Tanner Griffin; enough said. More often than not, my idle hours, my social times, were spent with Grant Knoll, a new neighbor whose friendship had proven instant and solid. What’s more, I’d somehow managed to become involved in a murder investigation, my second in three months. So I hadn’t found much time for Kiki.

  Wednesday evening presented a good opportunity for us to make up for lost time together. The reception for Mark Manning at the Nirvana home of Glenn Yeats was scheduled to begin early, around five, because so many of the guests, including myself, would be busy later that evening with the full, final dress rehearsal of Laura. I often rode to such events with Grant, but he was helping coordinate staff and services for the party; he would arrive early. Tanner had errands to run up valley in Palm Springs; he would arrive later, alone, in his Jeep. So I had asked Kiki it she needed a ride. Now, in the slanting light of dusk, I drove her up the mountain in my silver Beetle.

  “Are we allowed to drink?” she asked, checking her lips in a mirror behind the visor.

  With eyes on the road, I reminded her, “It’s a party. I’m sure the bar will be open.” As I rounded a final curve, the angular structure of Glenn’s home came into view, jutting dramatically against an indigo sky.