Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Before long, we were chatting again, but our topic had shifted from murder to extortion. “It’s great,” Larry admitted, “but twenty dollars for a salad? There ought to be a law.”

  * * *

  As Larry and I weren’t due to meet Pea Fertig until one-thirty, we took our time, savoring our lunch, the view, and the noontide sun. Shortly after one, we rose from the table, Grant planning to return to his office at Nirvana, where he would phone the college and arrange for a truck to transport the Swedish paintings from the Chaffee estate to the museum.

  “I hope Pea doesn’t get pissy about this,” I told the brothers.

  “Frankly,” said Larry, “I don’t care. Pea can fuss and fret about the paintings all he wants, but he still needs to explain what he was doing in that bank vault on Monday.”

  The three of us left the terrace, entering the dining room and heading for the hotel lobby. My eyes had not fully adjusted to the dimmer, indoor light as we passed along the banquette of diners facing into the room. A woman’s voice said, “Well, hello, Detective. What a nice surprise.”

  We stopped, and turning, I realized that Dawn Chaffee-Tucker was lunching with Merrit Lloyd—at the very table where, two days earlier, I’d seen Merrit’s secretary, Robin. As Merrit was seated in a chair with his back to the room, he hadn’t realized that we were passing through until Dawn greeted Larry.

  “My, what a coincidence,” said Merrit, rising and twisting awkwardly to shake hands, sounding more flustered to see us than surprised. With a tone of embarrassment, he told us, “Mrs. Chaffee-Tucker is staying here at the Regal Palms, and I felt she might appreciate some company. It seems I’m still in the service of her late uncle, a role I’m delighted to perform.”

  We knew all this; there was no need for Merrit to explain himself. I didn’t find it at all remarkable that he would be lunching with his client’s niece at her hotel, where he’d arranged her accommodations. What I did find puzzling was that he took such pains to justify their presence.

  “I’ve been made to feel very much at home,” Dawn was telling the banker. “Thank you for looking after me.” She sat back against the tufted booth, looking decidedly regal.

  Larry asked her, “You’ll be attending the reception at the museum tonight?”

  “Of course.” She smiled—perfect teeth, perfect complexion, perfect makeup. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Merrit fidgeted with the large linen napkin in his hands. “In addition to announcing the bequest, the reception will serve as a splendid tribute to Stewart and his philanthropy.”

  Again, I noted, Merrit was telling us something we already knew, as if struggling to fill voids in our conversation. Why was he so ill at ease? Was his motive for lunching with the woman perhaps something other than stated?

  In my several encounters with Merrit Lloyd, I’d seen him squirm only once before. The previous afternoon, when Larry and I visited his office, Merrit had been unable to explain his second visit to the Chaffee estate on Monday morning, claiming first not to recall it, then pleading confusion over the time of an auditors’ meeting at the bank.

  His current behavior was similarly elusive, his words equally lame.

  Was something going on between Merrit Lloyd and Dawn Chaffee-Tucker?

  Or was I attempting to connect dots that didn’t exist?

  21

  By one-thirty, Larry and I had arrived at the Chaffee estate in Rancho Mirage. When Larry pressed the intercom button at the gate, Pea Fertig answered—though he did not identify himself, there was no mistaking his vestige of a drawl. Larry announced himself, and Pea signaled the gate to open, telling us curtly, “Go to the back.”

  We drove onto the grounds, circling the house as instructed. As the view of the street disappeared, I wondered if Pea had told us to use the rear entrance as an intentional slight. Was he sending a message that he deemed us too lowly for the front door? Or was he simply busy in the kitchen?

  Whatever his attitude, he was in no rush to welcome us. We parked near the garage, which was closed that afternoon, then went to the kitchen door and rang the bell, twice, waiting a minute or two for Pea to answer. When the door at last swung open, he offered no apology, no greeting, simply telling us, “We can talk in the great room,” and led the way. He wore a sweatshirt, nylon workout pants, and athletic shoes—all of it black, even the socks.

  Nothing had changed much since our Tuesday visit. The grout of the kitchen floor tiles was still stained in front of the refrigerator; the collection of dented cocktail shakers was still haphazardly shoved into a corner of the counter. A half pot of cold coffee sat near the sink, but otherwise, it didn’t appear that any cooking had transpired in the last two days.

  Christmas decorations still festooned the great room, and I was relieved to note that the Swedish paintings were still draped, stacked against a wall. Pea saw me eyeing them. “So the rush is on,” he said cynically.

  I pretended not to catch his meaning.

  He explained, “I heard from Merrit Lloyd. I understand you plan to truck away the Östman collection. Pretty tacky, if you ask me. It’s just plain tasteless of Glenn Yeats to be so quick to claim the museum’s windfall and trumpet it to the press.”

  “That’s not his intention at all,” I assured Pea, even though his description of Glenn’s strategy was on the mark. “The museum simply wants to make the best possible impression when announcing such a generous bequest. It’s a tribute to Stewart.”

  “Oh, please.” Pea spun on one heel and plopped on the leather sofa, as if wearied to exhaustion by our bullshit. Sprawling with a leg flung over the arm of the couch, he added, “I have half a mind to lock those away.” He jerked his head toward the paintings.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that,” said Larry, sitting in the chair across from the sofa. His tone was conciliatory, not threatening.

  But Pea had a taste for confrontation. “Oh, yeah?” He sat up straight, facing Larry squarely. “Why not?”

  “Because it would only precipitate ill will, and if word got out, there’d be a public impression of infighting between Stewart’s household and his heirs. It would not serve his memory well.”

  “Besides,” I added, speaking softly, sitting next to Pea, “the museum will get the paintings eventually, so what would be the point in stalling them?” Both Larry and I now knew, of course, that the museum had no such claim to Stewart’s property, but Pea didn’t need to know this yet.

  “In fact,” Larry told him, “I think it would be appropriate for you to attend the event at the museum tonight. You really shouldn’t miss it. It may prove to be Stewart’s finest hour.”

  With any luck, it might also prove to be the killer’s darkest hour. Larry, truth be told, had little interest in assuaging Pea’s grief or helping him with closure; he was still attempting to herd all of the suspects into one room that night.

  Pea paused. Then he grumbled, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” I patted his arm. “If you missed Stewart’s memorial, you’d never forgive yourself.” Shame on me. I was not only toying with a man’s fragile emotions; I was also guilty of an indefensible linguistic leap. Since when could a media circus, replete with searchlights, be described as a “memorial”?

  Larry told Pea, “As I understand it, there’ll be a lot of press there tonight, but all of Stewart’s friends and associates are welcome to attend as well. Chances are, there’ll be a crowd.”

  Pea’s mouth twisted with a smirk. “I suppose Bonnie will be there.” His tone conveyed both disgust and resignation.

  With a matter-of-fact air, Larry answered, “I suppose so, yes.”

  Testing the waters, I told Pea, “Dawn will be there as well.”

  “Who—” he began. Then he recalled, “Stewart’s niece? She’s coming tonight?”

  “She’s already here. She arrived yesterday and spent last night at a hotel.”

  “What’s she snooping around for?”

  I shrugged. “She’s next of
kin. Why wouldn’t she be here?”

  Pea laughed. “Next of kin, like hell. They never spent time together. Stewart never even had a civil word to say about her. He couldn’t stand Dawn.”

  I nodded, thinking. Pea had just confirmed what Merrit Lloyd had told us—that Stewart, when setting up Monday’s appointment with Dawn, had taken pains to arrange it behind Pea’s back. So I decided to push further, asking, “Are you sure? We have reason to think that Dawn was here at the estate on Monday morning. She said that Stewart had approached her regarding a reconciliation.”

  Pea looked genuinely astounded. “Don’t you get it? If his niece was here on Monday, it was because she was after something, not because Stewart invited her.” Pea turned to Larry. “That’s it, Detective. There’s your prime suspect.”

  Larry made a show of taking out his notebook and writing something. “I’ll certainly look into this.”

  But both Larry and I already knew that Pea’s hypothesis was not only wishful thinking, but flawed. We knew for a fact that Stewart had invited Dawn. We’d seen the letter. And there, behind Pea, on a desk mere feet from the sofa, sat the computer on which Stewart had clumsily composed the letter.

  Larry continued, “The relationship between Stewart and his niece—strained, hostile, or indifferent—makes this evening’s reception at the museum all the more significant. Can I assume that you’ll cooperate when the truck arrives for the paintings later this afternoon?”

  With his well-practiced grumble, Pea promised, “I won’t make any trouble.”

  “Thank you. You won’t regret taking the high road.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Pea slapped his knees. “Well, is that it? Is that what you needed to talk to me about—the paintings?” He was itching to see us out.

  Before Pea could rise, Larry explained, “No, actually, we’re not here because of the paintings. There have been some new developments on the case, and I thought you’d want to know about them. In fact, I’m hoping you can help us with a few more details.”

  Pea sat back. “I hope so too. We need to find Stewart’s killer, right?”

  “Right. Find him—and punish him.”

  Pea nodded. “Great. So what are these ‘developments’?”

  “Before I get to that”—Larry flipped a few pages of his notes—“I wonder if you could run through Monday morning again with me. Tell me about your comings and goings.”

  Larry, I figured, wanted to check the consistency of Pea’s story. He was also giving Pea an opportunity to mention that he’d gone to the bank vault that day. Pea began recounting the events of that morning, but I’d heard it all before, so my attention drifted. My eye traveled back to the desk, where the computer was set up next to a laser printer.

  I had no doubt that this was the equipment that had produced Stewart’s letter to Dawn. The more tantalizing thought, the one that didn’t quite make sense, was whether this equipment could have convincingly forged a 1954 newspaper clipping. The question seemed moot because I already knew that Kane had produced just such a facsimile on the computer in Grant Knoll’s spare bedroom. But the possibility of a second forgery was appealing because it would neatly tie together so many loose threads of a perplexing murder plot. And it would point squarely at the disagreeable little man seated next to me on the sofa.

  Pea was telling Larry, “So after the gym, but before I went shopping, I came back to the house to check on Stewart.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “I arrived around nine-thirty. Stewart was sleeping and seemed to be fine, so I left within minutes.”

  Pea’s story was fully consistent with what he’d told us before. Also consistent with his previous telling was the inability to prove when he had left the estate—meaning there was no way to verify that he had not been in the house at the time Chaffee died.

  Larry asked, “After checking on Stewart, where did you go?”

  “I went shopping for clothes and had lunch.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Come on, Detective. You saw me return to the house with the shopping bags. I even gave you the receipts.”

  “Mm-hm. And none of your purchases were made prior to eleven o’clock. Stewart died sometime between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty.”

  Pea’s spine stiffened. He seemed to grow three inches before our eyes. “I must say, I don’t care for your tone. You act as if I’m hiding something.”

  Larry paused. “Mr. Fertig, did you or did you not visit Indian Wells Bank and Trust on Monday?”

  Pea froze where he sat. After a moment, he shook his head, blinked, and said, “Damn. You’re right. I guess I forgot.”

  I blurted, “You forgot?”

  “Sorry. It just didn’t seem important.”

  I was tempted to ask, Not important? But there was no point in tipping my hand. Pea did not yet know that the clipping found in Stewart’s safe-deposit box was a fake. Pea did not yet understand that the timing of access to the box might prove crucial to naming Stewart’s killer. That is, Pea did not grasp these points unless he himself had masterminded the switch.

  “All right,” said Larry with strained patience, “suppose you tell us about your visit to the bank. When did you go there?”

  “After shopping, before lunch. It must have been around noon.”

  “And why did you go there?”

  “Like Stewart, I keep a safe-deposit box at Indian Wells. Over the years, I came to share Stewart’s distrust of lawyers, so we’ve both made a habit of storing important papers in the vault. Since the year is nearly over, I was starting to organize some receipts for taxes. On Monday, when I finished shopping along El Paseo, which isn’t far from Indian Wells, I thought I’d pop over to the bank and get a jump on things. I was there for a few minutes, then went to lunch, then came home. Discovering what happened here”—Pea gestured toward the kitchen—“I sorta freaked. The bank slipped my mind. Honest. If you need to know exactly when I was there, I think the guard keeps a log of everyone who goes into the vault.”

  “We’re aware of that,” said Larry. “So you and Stewart maintained separate boxes in the vault.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the boxes have separate keys.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Do you know where Stewart kept his key?”

  “Well, that’s easy. I’m the keeper of the keys. Since his stroke, Stewart couldn’t drive and generally needed help getting around. He was also more and more forgetful, misplacing things. So I kept his keys to the Rolls, the house keys, and the key to his safe-deposit box. In fact”—Pea got up from the sofa, stepped to the desk, opened the top drawer, pulled out a heavy ring of keys, and tossed it to Larry—“there’s everything.”

  Larry reached up and plucked the keys out of the air as deftly as a cat catching a fly (a guy thing—I guess it’s genetic). He looked over the ring, which contained at least a dozen keys, asking Pea, “Did you ever open Stewart’s box?”

  “Only if he asked for help.”

  “Did you open it on Monday?”

  “Stewart wasn’t with me on Monday. Of course I didn’t open his box.” Pea’s indignant tone suggested he would never stoop to such bad manners—let alone murder. He added, “Why? What’s wrong? Is something missing?”

  “We’re not sure. A document may be missing that could shed light on the crime.” Jangling the keys, Larry asked, “Did anyone else have access to these?” He tossed them back.

  Catching them, Pea grinned. “You’re making this too easy for me, Detective. Bonnie Bahr was here all the time, and I don’t generally keep the keys on me; they’re too heavy. She could have taken them from the desk just about anytime.” He put them back in the drawer and slid it closed. “Sure, Bonnie could have ‘borrowed’ the keys—then used them or copied them.”

  Making note of this, Larry looked troubled.

  So was I. We had seen the log of vault visitors, and we would surely have noticed if Bonnie’s name were on the list. But Bonnie, we
knew, was not above using a pseudonym when the situation demanded it. Had she possibly gained access to Stewart’s strongbox by assuming the identity of Marjorie Horne, as she had signed her letters to the Desert Sun in support of mercy killing? For that matter, she could have concocted any name whatever, at random. What credentials, I wondered, would she have been required to present in order to pass the scrutiny of the guard outside the vault? These frets, however, seemed unwarranted. Merrit Lloyd had reviewed the log with us, assuring us there had been no suspicious activity during the time in question.

  Larry turned a page of his notes, telling Pea, “You seem more than a little eager to cast suspicion on Stewart’s nurse.”

  “Damn right. And I make no apologies. I’ve already told you outright—I always suspected Bonnie’s motives in this house. Did you look into those newspaper letters I told you about?”

  “We did. The information was useful, but hardly conclusive. In fact, we visited Miss Bahr again this morning.”

  “And what did that murderous sow have to say for herself?”

  Larry closed his notes. “Mr. Fertig, I find your words highly offensive.”

  “Tough.” Pea gave the detective an unflinching stare. “That pig invites mockery. She deserves it.”

  “It may interest you to know that she gave us a highly reasoned explanation for the letters she wrote to the paper. She became emotional and distraught, though, when the topic turned to you.”

  Pea leaned toward Larry, bracing his arms on the back of the sofa. “Good.”

  “Truth is, she sympathized with the dilemma you’ve felt here in the household all these years—having once been so close to Stewart, reduced to hired help. She had no sympathy, however, for some of the more recent duties you’d taken on.”

  Pea paused. A touch of wariness colored his bravado as he asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Ever so slightly, Larry leaned forward in his chair. “I’m talking about pimping, Mr. Fertig.”

  Pea glared. His mouth pinched. A vein pounded along the side of his neck.