Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Kane sat down again, continuing, with considerable enthusiasm, “I brought the project home that evening, where I could work on it without distraction. First, I had to typeset the interview; then I had to lay it out newspaper-style. I scanned the old ad for a car dealer and put it on the back side. For the interview, I even morphed the various typefaces with antiqued or ‘distressed’ fonts so the typesetting wouldn’t look too clean; it had to have the appearance of an old letterpress job. Which it did, except for being laser-printed, of course. But no one has an eye that good.”

  He hadn’t met Mark Manning.

  Grant asked, “When did you deliver the forged—” He stopped, rephrasing, “When did you deliver your work?”

  “Monday morning, after my trip to the Chaffee estate with the desk key, I came directly here to campus. I was crossing the plaza, and the guy called my name; he was just coming out of the museum. I was glad he caught me because I was on my way to class. I gave him the project, which he looked at quickly, saying it was great. Then he gave me a hundred dollars in cash and thanked me for putting in the overtime.”

  “Didn’t you find that a little strange?”

  “Kind of, I guess. But he said the school preferred to handle overtime out of petty cash in order to avoid some paperwork or something. I don’t know how this stuff works. Besides, it was a hundred bucks.”

  I could understand that Kane might not have a grasp of accounting procedures within a bureaucratic, hierarchical institution, but I was certain he’d been lied to in this respect. It was inconceivable that Glenn Yeats would allow cash payments for his employees’ overtime. Further, in my three months at Desert Arts College, I’d met most of the faculty and had no recollection of a Professor Eastman. I asked Kane, “What did he look like?”

  “He was older.” Kane shrugged. “He wore black.”

  Great, I thought. Anyone over thirty was “older” in Kane’s eyes, and half the faculty wore arty, trendy black.

  Kane added, “Both of our meetings were so rushed, he didn’t make much of an impression on me.”

  “Would you know him if you saw him again?”

  “Maybe.”

  Grant had been quiet through much of this conversation, weighing what Kane told us. It was an odd story, to say the least, but no odder than the notion that Kane himself had plotted Stewart Chaffee’s demise. Also, the story was consistent with everything we’d already known or heard, including Kane’s previous reference to the history display.

  Clearly, Grant wanted to believe Kane’s explanation of why the clipping was forged. With a note of relief, he said, “Now tell us about that bruise.”

  Kane hesitated. “You’re not gonna like this.”

  “Then it had nothing to do with a car door?”

  “No. It happened Monday morning, when I delivered the key to the estate.”

  Closing his eyes, Grant asked with restrained composure, “How?”

  Kane blew a mouthful of air from his lips, as if expelling something distasteful from his gut. “I drove over there early with the key, arriving shortly after eight. I buzzed the intercom. No one answered, but the gate slid open, and I drove in. When I got to the front door, I rang the bell, and the old guy himself answered it. It took him a while to get to the door; he was in his wheelchair. He offered ‘treats.’ but I said no and just handed him the key.”

  So far, Kane’s recounting of the incident was consistent with what he’d told us at breakfast on Tuesday. Now the story veered along a different course. “But when I gave him the key,” Kane continued, squirming some, “the old man tried to pull me forward, like he wanted to kiss me or something. I’m not sure what he wanted, but I didn’t feel like sticking around to find out. So I pulled back, naturally. But—this is sort of embarrassing—he didn’t let go, and I lost my footing. I fell smack on my ass, banging my arm on the wheelchair as I went down, hard. I was sort of stunned, and that old fart just sat there, laughing at me. I got up, and I got the hell out. I could hear that fucker laughing through the door.”

  “Oh, Kane,” said Grant, “I’m so sorry, letting you go there alone. I felt in my bones that it was a bad idea. I should have known Stewart would try something. In fact, I felt sure he would.”

  “Hey,” said Kane, emerging from the anger that had colored the telling of his story, “no harm was done—except the bruise, and that’ll heal.” He was an attractive young man, used to occasional pawing, willing to brush it off.

  Grant asked, “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  Kane leveled, “I thought it would make you mad.”

  “Well,” Grant admitted with a quiet laugh, “it does. But I’m not angry with you, Kane. It was Stewart’s transgression, not yours. Monday morning, I had a hunch something had gone wrong. I was worried about you, not angry. That’s why I tried phoning you here at the museum. When you hadn’t arrived by eleven, I decided to visit the estate. I hate to ask, but just where were you?”

  “Simple. I was in class. I don’t work on Monday mornings. I have a design lab from nine till noon.”

  I reminded Grant, “Kane told us not five minutes ago that he was crossing College Circle on his way to class when our mysterious man in black called his name and took delivery of the computer-generated newspaper clipping.” I hardly needed to add that Kane’s class schedule was a matter of record, easily verified.

  Kane continued, telling Grant, “Whoever you talked to in the museum office must not have been familiar with my hours.”

  “Oh, Lord…,” said Grant, rising, extending his arms. “Come here.”

  Kane stood, stepped to Grant, and shared a long hug. After several moments of soppy dialogue (I felt like a voyeur, but had no graceful means of excusing myself), Kane said with a smirk, “Now, then. If you’re satisfied I’m not a killer, can I get back to work?”

  “Sure. But can’t you join us for lunch?”

  Kane checked his watch. “It’s barely eleven. Even so, I’ve got way too much going on here. Thanks, though.”

  He, Grant, and I strolled from the gallery to the lobby, where Kane said good-bye and headed back toward the offices. Moving down the corridor, he passed Iesha coming out, who spotted us and signaled for us to wait. Her brass breastplate clanged as she bustled toward us.

  Arriving in the lobby, she greeted us, adding, “Didn’t mean to seem rude back in the office. There’s just so much going on.”

  Grant smiled. “That was quite a huddle you were trapped in.”

  “With the press conference tonight—and the official opening tomorrow night—there’s more than enough to huddle over. Kane, by the way, has been a godsend. I think we’re actually going to make it through all this, but it wouldn’t have been possible without his help. He’s a good worker, smart too. Sure, Glenn Yeats has given us plenty of support, with Tide and the rest of his staff, but Kane has been indispensable in getting our printed material together. He’s a wonderful intern. Thanks for bringing him to our attention.”

  “He’s a great kid,” Grant acknowledged, sounding more like a proud dad than a doting lover.

  I, too, admired Kane, and though I didn’t seriously suspect that he’d had an active connection to Stewart Chaffee’s death, I thought it best to confirm a few points with Iesha. Questioning her, I learned that, first, there was no Professor Eastman on the art faculty or museum staff. Second, the museum had been short-staffed on Monday, and someone inexperienced had taken over phone duties that day; this explained why Grant had been told that Kane was late arriving for work when, actually, he was in class, as scheduled. Finally, Iesha reiterated that there had never been plans for a history display relating to the new museum’s opening.

  As we wrapped up our conversation, into our midst strolled our esteemed college president, D. Glenn Yeats. Entering the lobby, he greeted the cleaning crew like a beneficent monarch, tossing out not coins, but dribs and drabs of textbook Spanish.

  “¡Hola!” he told us, keeping up the act as he approached.

/>   We wished him a good morning in English.

  He asked Iesha, “Everything set for tonight’s big event?”

  “Yes, sir. Everyone’s been notified. The building’s in great shape. We’ll have a delivery from the printer this afternoon.”

  “And the exhibit in the main gallery?”

  She grimaced. “We put together what we could, but I’m afraid it may seem overwhelmed by the space.”

  Glenn frowned. “Let’s have a look.” Turning, he strode from the lobby through the doorway to the gallery, still lit from our meeting there with Kane.

  “Good God,” his voice boomed in the near-empty room as we followed him inside, “don’t you think it’s looking a bit bare?” He gazed down at the meager Plexiglas display case. Centered among the several objects within it was the ceremonial ring Grant had received at the bank on Tuesday. The rest consisted of a beaded pouch, a feathered doodad of unfathomable purpose, a tattered moccasin, and a few broken clay vessels. “This is pathetic.”

  Iesha explained, “That’s everything from our collection that had been donated by Mr. Chaffee over the years.”

  Glenn sputtered, “But … but what about the bequest? We need something showy as a backdrop for the announcement tonight. It’s a photo op, for cry-eye!” His oaths were generally mild.

  “To the best of my knowledge,” said Iesha, “Mr. Chaffee’s collection is still tied up in probate along with the entire estate.”

  “But the museum is the sole beneficiary. No one has come forward to contest the will. Why can’t—”

  “I just had a thought,” Grant interrupted. “We need to procure something flashy from Stewart’s collection, and it may be difficult to get anything out of storage in time for this evening. The house itself, though, is also filled with art, and Stewart was particularly proud of a recent acquisition, a set of some dozen obscure Swedish neo-impressionist works. There’s nothing Southwestern about them, but they’re newsworthy—and accessible. Stewart had them displayed on easels in his family room.”

  I updated Grant. “When I was there on Tuesday with your brother, Pea had been doing some organizing and packing. The Swedish paintings were no longer on their easels, but stacked against a wall. I’m not sure if they’re still there.”

  Glenn told us, “I’d like to get them—if only for tonight.”

  Grant nodded. “Tell you what. Claire and I can pop over to the bank in Indian Wells. Merrit Lloyd is acting as executor of the estate, so he should know the disposition of everything. He’s an agreeable sort of guy. Let’s see if he can help us arrange to get those paintings quickly.”

  “It’s worth a try,” said Iesha.

  “Do it,” said Glenn.

  So Grant and I did it.

  19

  Riding to the bank together in Grant’s car, we compared notes on that morning’s revelations. We both wanted to believe Kane’s explanation of how and why he had produced the fake clipping. “Unfortunately,” said Grant, eyes on the road, “Kane’s story, combined with that bruise, would be found highly suspicious by someone more objective than us.” He was referring to someone like a detective, someone like his brother, Larry Knoll.

  “I hate to suggest this,” I said, “but given Kane’s relationship to you, and given your relationship to DMSA, it’s conceivable that Kane’s forgery would cast you in a suspicious light.”

  Grant’s knuckles blanched on the steering wheel. “That worrisome little wrinkle has indeed crossed my mind.”

  “Grant,” I said, touching his arm, “Larry needs to be told this—all of this.”

  With a barely perceptible nod, Grant agreed, “Of course. And soon. But it’s a question of when.” He pulled the car into the bank’s parking lot. It was around eleven-fifteen.

  “Our best strategy,” I thought aloud, “is to plunge ahead with this evening’s press reception. Unless I’m mistaken, the event should be an irresistible lure for Stewart’s killer. Larry will be there, and with any luck, he could resolve this on the spot, rendering irrelevant the issue of Kane’s forgery.” Not only that, I told myself, but a speedy resolution would put the murder behind us and allow my cast to focus on the opening of Laura—the hidden, selfish priority behind my involvement in the investigation.

  Grant braked the car and cut the engine. “Even when Kane is exonerated—well, I hope that’ll be the outcome—it’s still reasonable to assume that the forged clipping is relevant to the murder. So the mystery boils down to this: Who commissioned the forgery? Who’s the man in black?”

  “We know he’s not who he said he was. We don’t even know if he works at the school. It could be anyone.” Feeling hopelessly adrift, I heaved a sigh of exasperation.

  “First things first,” said Grant, sounding a more positive note. “Let’s check on those Swedish masterpieces.” He opened his door.

  “Minor Swedish neo-impressionist masterpieces,” I corrected him smugly as we got out of the car.

  When we entered the bank’s stylish lobby, the receptionist said, “My, that was fast.” We’d phoned on our way over. “I’ll inform Mr. Lloyd that you’ve arrived.”

  Moments later, Merrit Lloyd’s secretary appeared. With a smile and a brisk handshake for each of us, Robin said, “Our quiet morning has turned rather busy. Your brother is here, Mr. Knoll. He arrived a few minutes ago, right after you called.”

  “Larry’s here?” Grant’s brow wrinkled.

  I thought aloud, “Wonder what he wants.”

  Robin said, “He’s with Mr. Lloyd right now, but they said to send you in.”

  So she led us back to Merrit’s office, announced us at the door, then excused herself to deal with a deskful of work. Merrit’s desk of concrete and steel was as sleek and unencumbered as on my previous visits.

  Merrit and Larry, seated at the conference table away from the desk, rose as we entered. During our round of greetings, Larry and I made no reference to having seen each other earlier that morning at Bonnie Bahr’s home, and Larry showed no surprise that I was now in the company of his brother. This was doubtless no more than simple discretion, but it left me with the uneasy sense that all of us, myself included, were harboring secrets.

  Merrit closed his office door and invited everyone to sit. He seemed distracted.

  As we settled around the table, Larry told Grant and me, “I felt it was time to bring Merrit up to speed with regard to the clipping. I’ve just told him that we have reason to suspect that the Stewart Chaffee interview may have been forged.”

  May have been forged? Although Larry had no knowledge of Kane’s involvement, he already knew for a fact that the laser-printed interview was not genuine. Why was his revelation to the banker less than forthright? Perhaps he meant to leave room for discussion, hoping Merrit might float some theories, pro and con. Or perhaps Larry just wanted to soften the news.

  If the latter, it didn’t work. “This is shocking,” Merrit told us flatly, as if his emotions had been numbed. “If word of this got out, it could wreak great damage to the bank’s reputation and integrity. News of a possible forgery might even make it appear that we had some role in the subterfuge—or, at best, that we’d let our guard down.”

  Larry said, “Then let’s keep this knowledge to ourselves. There’s no reason to go public with this angle of the investigation, and in fact, there’s considerable reason not to. As of right now, we in this room are the only ones who know about the possible forgery.”

  “And Mark Manning,” Grant reminded him.

  Larry nodded.

  Merrit mulled the name for a moment; then it clicked. “The reporter? Oh, God.” He mopped his brow with the back of his hand.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him, “Mark isn’t here on assignment.”

  “So it’s important,” Larry emphasized, “that this new information not leave this room. Besides, there are several ways a faked clipping could have gotten into Chaffee’s safe-deposit box, and they don’t necessarily reflect badly on the bank.”

&
nbsp; “Oh?” asked Merrit, eager for any consolation.

  “Sure.” Larry took out his notebook and checked a list he’d made. “The way I see it, there are three ways this could have happened. First, Chaffee himself could have forged the clipping, put it in an envelope, then given it to you on Saturday.”

  Merrit nodded, finding the theory feasible. “But why,” he asked, “would Stewart bother with the fabrication?”

  He and Larry proceeded to discuss this detail, but I knew they were on the wrong track. Stewart hadn’t faked the clipping on Saturday; Kane had done it on Sunday.

  “So here’s a second possibility,” Larry suggested. “Someone else forged the clipping and let Stewart unwittingly give it to you on Saturday. Stewart thought there was something else in the envelope, perhaps a homemade will.”

  “Yeah,” said Grant, “why not? Someone in Stewart’s household—like Pea or the nurse—could have switched the documents.”

  They examined this possibility at some length, weighing motives and logistics, but again, I knew they were following a false lead. Kane had not forged the clipping until Sunday, so it could not have been given to Merrit by Stewart on Saturday—unless, good grief, there were two forgeries. My mind was spinning.

  “Or,” said Larry, “there’s a third possibility. Something else was in the envelope on Saturday, presumably a homemade will. Then, later, someone switched the envelopes.”

  “It was a plain white business envelope,” Merrit recalled. “It would be easy to produce an indistinguishable substitute.”

  Larry checked back through his notes. “When was Chaffee’s envelope placed in the vault?”

  “On Saturday, early afternoon, after returning to the bank from our morning meeting at the estate.”

  “Who might have had access to Chaffee’s strongbox between Saturday afternoon, when the envelope was deposited, and Tuesday morning, when you opened the envelope and found the clipping?”