Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Merrit shook his head. “Aside from myself, only Stewart had access. He had the only key outside the bank.” Merrit’s features brightened as he posited, “Stewart’s key could have been duplicated by anyone—household help, for instance—or stolen after he was killed.”

  I asked Larry, “Do we know the whereabouts of Stewart’s key?”

  “Sorry. The issue wasn’t relevant till now.”

  Trying to inject a lighter note, Merrit told Grant, “You’ve been awfully quiet. It’s a good thing you didn’t have access to the box. As president of the museum board, you might be seen as a highly motivated suspect.”

  Larry joined Merrit in laughing at this scenario.

  Grant and I found no humor in it—other than the grim variety.

  Merrit rose from the table, stepped to the door, and opened it. “Robin,” he said, “could you get the log of bank customers given access to the vault since last weekend, please?”

  A minute later, Robin joined us in the office, placing a leather-bound ledger on the conference table. Merrit turned to the page of vault activity on Saturday, and finding nothing unusual, flipped to Monday, the day of Stewart’s death. “Oh,” he said, pointing to an entry, “Pea Fertig was in the vault during the noon hour.” His inflection conveyed mild surprise but no overtone of suspicion.

  Larry and I exchanged a bug-eyed glance. He asked Merrit, “Don’t you find that strange?”

  The banker shrugged. “Not at all.”

  Robin explained, “Mr. Fertig rents a safe-deposit box of his own. He’s in and out quite often.” She asked her boss, “Anything else, sir?”

  “Not right now, Robin. Thank you.”

  She nodded with a smile, retrieved the vault ledger, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Though she and Merrit had found nothing remarkable about Pea’s visit to the vault on Monday, the rest of us found these circumstances tantalizingly suspicious. Grant mumbled to me, “When we visited the estate on Sunday morning, Pea was wearing black.” This comment went over Larry’s and Merrit’s heads, but Grant’s meaning was clear to me: a man in black had commissioned the forgery from Kane on Sunday afternoon.

  It was tempting to think of Pea as the source of the bogus clipping, but this notion was hampered by some logical inconsistencies. For example, Kane had met Pea on Sunday morning while helping us return the desk, so Kane would surely have recognized Pea later that day on campus. Further, what possible motive might Pea have had for faking the bequest to the museum?

  As I pondered this, Grant and Merrit were immersed in an energetic conversation, reviewing the theories that had been floated. Larry rose from the table and paced the room, checking back through his notes. Catching my eye, he signaled for me to join him.

  “Yes?” I said, stepping near.

  “Earlier today we learned from Chaffee’s nurse that Pea had been humiliated by procuring call boys for Chaffee. Now we know that Pea visited the bank vault on Monday, shortly after Chaffee’s death. I don’t know how any of this adds up, or even if it adds up, but now I’m doubly eager to have another talk with that guy.”

  “Did you set up the meeting?”

  “We’re expected at the estate at one-thirty.” He checked his watch. “If you don’t have plans, why don’t you join me for lunch? Then you can ride over to Rancho Mirage with me. How did you get here?”

  “Grant drove me, and—” I stopped short, realizing that Grant and I had completely overlooked the purpose of our visit, sidetracked by Larry’s unexpected presence and our discussion of the forgery. “Sorry, Larry. I can’t leave yet. Grant and I need to discuss some paintings with Merrit.”

  “Will it take long?”

  “Shouldn’t.” I stepped to the conference table. “Grant? Aren’t we forgetting something?”

  He looked up from his conversation with Merrit, blinking as my words sank in. “Good God”—he laughed—“I need to start writing notes to myself and sticking them on my lapels.”

  “That won’t work,” I told him dryly. “I’ve tried it; then I can’t remember what the notes mean.” I wasn’t senile, not yet, but now and then my faculties had subtle ways of putting me on notice that the slide had begun.

  Understandably, Merrit was perplexed by this exchange. “Is something, uh … wrong?”

  “Not at all,” said Grant. Then he corrected himself. “Well, aside from the murder, the forgery, and the various dead ends, nothing’s wrong. Actually, Merrit, the reason Claire and I are here is to ask if the museum could borrow some paintings from Stewart’s collection.”

  Grant and I took turns filling in the details: Glenn Yeats wanted to have something on display at the museum that night during the Chaffee tribute and press conference. Since it was short notice and the estate was tied up in probate and most of the collection was in storage, we were hoping to borrow the set of Swedish neo-impressionist paintings that Chaffee had recently acquired. I assumed they were readily accessible because on Tuesday, I’d seen them stacked against a wall of the great room at the estate.

  Merrit followed along, nodding. Then something occurred to him. “The museum event, I forgot about that. Now that the validity of the clipping is in question, doesn’t the press conference seem a bit, well, premature at best?”

  “Absolutely,” I told him. “But Glenn Yeats doesn’t know that the clipping was forged, and the museum event was his brainchild. The wheels are in motion. There’s no stopping it.”

  “And besides,” Larry spoke up, “I don’t want to stop it. The press conference and official announcement of the bequest may well lure the killer out into the open. After all, the event is an affirmation of the killer’s success. If I’d plotted this, I’d want to be there.”

  Grant explained to the banker, “And since you’re acting as executor of Stewart’s estate, we hoped you could help us arrange to get the paintings—to borrow them. They’ll be in professional, curatorial hands and fully insured. We need them for tonight only.”

  Weighing all this, Merrit conceded, “The ploy might work. If you do flush out the killer and we do wrap it up quickly, the bank’s reputation would be cleared before the scandal even broke. I like it.”

  “So do I,” said Larry. “How do we make this happen?”

  Merrit rose. “We just need to make a few phone calls, make sure the paintings have not yet been moved to storage, and notify Pea that the museum will be picking them up.”

  Grant rose also. “I’ll arrange with the college to send a truck over. How about three or four o’clock?”

  “That should be fine. Let me get Robin started with those calls.” Merrit stepped to the door and opened it, but found that his secretary was already busy on the phone, typing as she spoke. So Merrit crossed his office to the desk and stared down at his own elaborate, multibuttoned telephone. It had various tiny lights, one of them blinking. With a laugh, he told us, “I suppose I can figure out how to work this thing.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Larry. “The fewer people in the loop, the better.”

  “Aaah,” said Merrit, “I see what you mean.” With a conspiratorial wink, he assured the detective, “I’ll make the calls myself.”

  With our plan in place, Larry, Grant, and I exchanged some parting words with the banker before leaving him to figure out his phone. I was last to file out of his office, closing the door behind me. Robin was still busy at her desk, but she rose briefly, covering the receiver with her hand as she wished us a good day.

  Passing through the lobby, we paused outside the bank on the sidewalk. Though noon approached, the sun shone low in the winter sky, slicing between the trunks of date palms that lined the street like a colonnade.

  Larry reiterated his earlier invitation. “Join me for lunch, Claire? You too, Grant.”

  “Sure,” I replied. I assumed Grant would be equally agreeable.

  But he hesitated. “I think it would be better if I returned to the museum and arranged for the truck.”

  I
suggested, “Can’t you handle that by phone?”

  “I want to make sure there are no foul-ups.”

  I found his hedging curious, to say the least. Although Grant had exhibited a hands-on interest in a broad range of human endeavors, trucking was not among them. Besides, it was simply unlike him to squirm out of an invitation to lunch. I’d fully expected him to suggest twenty-dollar salads at the Regal Palms.

  Then it dawned on me. Grant felt no urgency to arrange the hauling of the paintings. Grant had no aversion to lunch with me. No, Grant was squeamish about being trapped at table for an hour with his brother. Grant doubtless feared, correctly, that lunching with Larry would compel us to reveal to him that the clipping had been forged by Kane.

  It was time to share our knowledge with Larry. It was time to keep everyone honest. “No, Grant,” I interrupted his protestations, “do join us for lunch.”

  “Perhaps some other time, really.”

  Flatly, I insisted, “We need to have a talk with your brother.”

  20

  Once Grant realized that he was not to be let off the hook, he groused, “If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it in style.” So he phoned the Regal Palms from his car, reserving his usual table. Larry followed as we left Indian Wells, driving up valley through Palm Desert to Rancho Mirage, where our little convoy climbed the mountain to the swank hotel in the craggy granite foothills beneath Nirvana.

  Larry pulled up behind us under the monumental porte cochere. A crew of parking valets helped us from our cars and drove them away. As we entered the double doors to the lobby, nodding to the natty doormen, Larry leaned to tell me, “A guy could get used to this.” We’d lunched at the Regal Palms only two days earlier. Grant strutted ahead as if he owned the place.

  The lobby was a buzz of activity as kitchen and decorating staff fussed with the construction of a giant gingerbread house (real gingerbread, you could smell it) under the central chandelier. In its unfinished state, it wasn’t clear whether the structure represented a Nativity crèche, a storybook castle, or Santa’s workshop. It was surrounded by both palms and pines, camels and reindeer, so go figure. The head decorator flounced about with a pastry bag, frosting the eaves with icicles, the corners with snowdrifts. A florist spruced mounds of white poinsettias and stunning pink amaryllis.

  “That’s pretty amazing,” said Larry as we paused to watch the to-do.

  “Fab-ulous!” gushed his brother.

  “But,” I said, sounding a disapproving note, “they should know better.”

  The brothers Knoll glanced first at each other, then turned to me.

  Whirling a hand, I explained, “This cutesy gingerbread hoo-ha—it positively draws children.”

  “Like moths to a flame,” Grant agreed before letting out a powerful laugh that drew a disapproving stare from the guy with the icing.

  It was barely noon when we three entered the hotel dining room, so we were among the first to arrive. Busboys still tinkered with silver and napery; someone adjusted the long, tasseled drapes, which had been drawn against the morning glare, now framing a pristine desert sky of boundless blue. The host hustled from the far side of the room to greet Grant, then us, walking us to the terrace, where he helped with our chairs as we settled around the table, facing out over the valley.

  We all ordered iced tea, then quickly perused the menus, choosing our twenty-dollar salads—today mine would be embellished with chicken, Grant’s with shrimp, Larry’s with strips of steak. When the tea had arrived and the handsome waiter had left to place our orders (with Grant glancing over his shoulder to watch the young man’s retreat), an awkward silence fell over the table.

  Grant cleared his throat. “It was good of Merrit Lloyd to be so helpful. I wasn’t sure he’d play along and lend us the paintings for tonight.”

  Larry nodded. “Especially after learning that the museum is very likely not the heir to Chaffee’s estate.”

  I said, “Merrit is shrewd enough to recognize the need for damage control. I doubt if he’d have been so quick to lend the paintings if he wasn’t so eager to cover the bank’s tracks with regard to the forgery.” There. I’d said the word—with a tad more emphasis than its context demanded.

  Grant’s eyes slid toward mine. His features pleaded, Slow down.

  Larry blew a silent whistle. “That’s still the big unknown in this investigation. If we knew who forged the clipping, all the other pieces would fall into place.”

  My eyes slid toward Grant’s. My features told him, It’s now or never.

  He sat back in his chair, as if retreating, putting a few more inches between us. He asked his brother, “But that’s not necessarily true, is it? I mean, if you knew who fabricated the clipping, you might still be unable to name the killer.”

  “Okay,” Larry conceded, “it’s conceivable that the forger and the killer are not the same person. But if not, there’s clearly some connection, which means we’re dealing with conspiracy to commit murder.” He summed up, “Name the forger; the rest is easy.”

  Leaning forward, Grant persisted, “But what if the fabricator was an unwitting accomplice? What if he created a facsimile of an old newspaper clipping for someone else, not knowing that its purpose was fraudulent?”

  Larry leaned within inches of his brother’s face. “Come on, Grant. That’s a stretch. How could anyone forge an exacting, aged replica of a bogus interview that carries immense financial implications—and do this for someone else—without suspecting foul play?”

  “Trust me.” Grant swallowed. “It could happen.”

  Larry drummed his fingers on the linen tablecloth. “How?”

  Grant didn’t answer.

  Larry turned to me. The twist of his torso revealed a glimpse of the polished leather holster beneath his jacket. “Is there something I haven’t been told?”

  Finding it difficult to speak, I took a sip of tea, then said, “The answer to that question really needs to come from Grant.”

  “Okay, Grant. What’s up?”

  The detective’s brother began, “This, uh, didn’t come to my attention until this morning. We weren’t sure how to tell you, or when.”

  “You’re doing just fine.” Larry allowed a smile. “Let’s hear it.”

  Grant paused, then recited without embellishment, “At home this morning, I was checking e-mail on Kane’s computer and discovered a file containing the forged interview; Kane did it. Later, Claire and I confronted him at the museum, and he readily admitted that he’d created the document.”

  “He seemed truly guileless in his admission,” I added. “Someone representing himself as a college faculty member commissioned Kane to produce the clipping as part of a history display for the museum’s opening. The way Kane told it, it all sounded perfectly feasible—and innocent, at least on Kane’s part.”

  Larry took out his notebook and began recording details of our account. Rotely, he asked, “Did Kane describe the man?”

  “Barely,” said Grant. “The guy was older, and he wore black.”

  “How much older?”

  I reminded Larry, “Kane is twenty-one. He wouldn’t know thirty-five from fifty-five.”

  With a tone of understatement that verged on sarcasm, Larry noted, “That doesn’t give us much to work with.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “it doesn’t. And the black clothes don’t mean much, either. Many of the faculty do wear black, but we don’t even know if this guy is on staff, and in fact, we have reason to suspect that he is not—he gave a false name. Besides, clothes are easily changed.”

  “Black today, taupe tomorrow,” Grant quipped.

  Larry underlined something in his notes. He spoke to his pad, not making eye contact with Grant or me. “I know you both believe Kane’s story; I want to, too. But I don’t need to remind you that I’m responsible for a murder investigation.” Then he looked at Grant. “You’re my brother, and I know how important Kane is to you, but I’m a cop first. You can’t expect me to
compromise my objectivity.”

  Grant slumped in his chair. “I should learn not to compromise my own objectivity. I’ve been blinded by love—God, that sounds trite, but the phrase fits. When Kane entered my life, my world turned upside down and I lost all sense of perspective. Perhaps I did let him rush our relationship, but the truth is, I wanted to be a couple as badly as he did. I would hate to think, now, that he’s been harboring motives less loving than mine.”

  “There’s no reason to think that,” I told him.

  “The clipping. The bruise. Those might be reasons.”

  Larry asked, “What bruise?”

  We told him about Kane’s experience at the estate on Monday morning, how he fell against Stewart’s wheelchair when fending off an advance, a detail that Kane had failed to mention while talking to the detective on Monday evening.

  Larry took notes, staring at the paper as he wrote, his features grave and purposeful. Jabbing his pad with a period, he said, “Whether Kane knew it or not, he was a part of this.”

  Grant shook his head fiercely, as it shaking off the doubts he had just expressed to us. “Kane couldn’t have understood what was going on. Maybe I’ve known him for only three months, but he’s not a killer—I’m sure of that much. And he’s not a conspirator to murder. He’s been framed, Larry. He’s been victimized.”

  “Possibly,” said Larry.

  Grant thumped the table. “We need to find that man in black.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  I ventured to ask, “Then you’re willing to reserve any judgment—or action—with regard to Kane?”

  “Yes,” Larry answered, thinking, returning his notes to his jacket, “until tonight. Kane will be at the press reception, won’t he?”

  Grant nodded. “I imagine so.”

  “Make sure of it. Whoever commissioned the forgery may be there as well. He just may be the killer. With any luck, Kane may be able to point him out to us.”

  I noted, “This ought to be quite a night.”

  Under his breath, Grant added, “Fasten your seat belts.”

  Larry was about to say something, but our lunch arrived, stifling conversation.