Larry clarified, “Perhaps ‘pimping’ isn’t the precise term, but it’s close. I don’t mean to suggest that you solicited clients for a prostitute, but you did, it seems, solicit prostitutes for a client—your boss, Stewart Chaffee.”
“That … bitch,” Pea spat at us.
“Bonnie told us that you frequently arranged for young call boys to visit Stewart and perform sexual services here at the estate. I think you may have shocked her puritan sensibilities, Pea. These goings-on did not sit well with her. I’m sure she’d swear to this activity, perhaps sign a complaint. She could be very helpful in providing the chronology. Then my department would have no trouble tracing any financial records of your payments.”
“Look,” said Pea, starting to pace behind the sofa, “you’ve got the wrong spin on this. I don’t know what Bonnie told you, but it sounds like crap. Stewart’s special visitors—that’s how he preferred to think of them—were not prostitutes, and they were not underage. They were male escorts, every one of them certified over eighteen. You can find them in any bar rag. Christ, they’re even in the Yellow Pages. Point is, they were paid for their time here, nothing else.”
I suggested, “But if, while they were here, one thing led to another, that was a private matter between consenting adults.”
“Absolutely correct. That’s how the escort business works. I didn’t make the rules.”
“You merely took advantage of them,” said Larry.
Pea stopped pacing. “No, Detective. Stewart took advantage of them. I merely set up the appointments and wrote the checks when they had finished.”
Mustering an air of sympathy, I shook my head, telling Pea, “That must’ve been terribly painful for you.”
He paused, recalling everything. With a bitter laugh, he asked, “Painful? You don’t know the half of it. It was bad enough that I lost Stewart’s affections and became his servant. It was bad enough that I wasted—really, truly wasted—twenty years of the prime of my life. But when I started arranging for an old man’s young tricks, that was way beyond the call of duty.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because he enjoyed it so. You see, down deep, I still loved the man. It even got to the point where I had no problem with the one-nighters—they were just cattle, an expendable commodity. But now and then, one of them would catch his fancy, and I’d hear all about their exploits, in numbing detail, at breakfast the next morning. It was enough to make me gag. So these were the guys he wanted back, and I had to set up the return visits. Now, that galled me.” The memory colored Pea’s face with anger.
Larry reminded him, “Those visits made Bonnie angry as well. It sounds as if you both would have liked to put a stop to the call boys.”
He shouted, “Who gives a shit what Bonnie did or didn’t like? She worked here, damn it!”
“So did you.”
That parallel slid past Pea. He ranted, “I can’t believe it—I just really can’t believe that Bonnie would divulge such a private matter. She’s trash, obviously. Who but trash would use such sordid knowledge to besmirch the memory of her former employer? Stewart was so good to her. Then she turns around and pulls this.”
Larry said, “She took no pleasure in telling us this background. She must have thought it was relevant to the murder investigation.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll bet she did. The call boys were ‘relevant,’ all right. She saw this naughty little wrinkle as a convenient means of casting both Stewart and me in a bad light—while diverting suspicion from herself. How’s that for relevant? I’ve said it before, Detective: if you want Stewart’s killer, look no further than Bonnie.”
Pea had wound himself into such a state, there was little point in protracting the discussion. His emotional reaction to Bonnie’s revelation of the call boys made him look far guiltier than she did, though it was easily arguable, in light of the entire investigation, that either the houseman or the nurse had had a motive, the means, and the opportunity to kill. I was unable, then and there, to sort through all that we’d learned. Like Larry, I had come to believe that our best chance of clarifying the bigger, blurry picture would be that evening, when all of the interested parties—suspects and bereaved alike—would gather at the museum.
Not wanting to jeopardize either Pea’s attendance that night or his cooperation in releasing the paintings that afternoon, Larry told him, simply, “I appreciate your time.” Then Larry put away his pen. He rose from his chair. I rose from the sofa.
But Pea wasn’t finished. “Stewart’s interest in hot young men wasn’t limited to call boys, you know.” He grinned at us during a meaningful pause.
“I’m sure we’ve heard enough on that topic,” I told him primly while stepping toward the kitchen door, though in truth, I was itching for more details.
Pea supplied them. Sauntering toward Larry and me, he continued, “Yes, Stewart immensely enjoyed the sexual services of the barely legal. He had a habit of getting what—and whom—he wanted. He had recently set his sights on your brother’s lover, Detective. What’s his name—Kane? Stewart was interested from the moment they met last Sunday. And when the kid offered to bring the desk key back to him the next morning, Stewart was convinced that the attraction was mutual. I mean, I knew Stewart was dreaming—a kid like that doesn’t drop his pants for an old cripple unless there’s cash involved. But Stewart was convinced he had a tryst in the making, and he took great offense when I suggested that he might want to keep a few crisp hundreds in his saddlebag, just in case. ‘A kid like that,’ I told him, ‘would expect nothing less than five.’”
Pea concluded, “That’s why I made myself scarce on Monday morning. I smelled trouble, and I didn’t want to be around for it.”
22
Larry drove me back to campus, where I’d left my car that morning. Talking along the way, we both agreed that Pea’s emotional outburst over the issue of call boys had not served him well. “Aside from the thin ice with the law,” said Larry, “sex for pay is fraught with dangers. Its practitioners can be disreputable, to say the least. There’s no telling what sort of seedy connections Stewart forged as a result of this habit, opening up untold potential for his own demise. Pea should have informed us of this immediately.”
“But he was basically in denial,” I reasoned. “When the issue surfaced, he blew. Certainly, one of Stewart’s tricks could have turned murderous. If not, Pea harbored resentments strong enough that he himself may have done it—exactly as proposed by Bonnie.”
We discussed the merits of this scenario, pro and con, agreeing that suspicious details were mounting against both Pea and Bonnie, but there was not yet sufficient evidence to accuse either of the crime.
A detail we were reluctant to discuss was Pea’s final revelation that Stewart had not only voiced his carnal interest in Kane, but that the victim-to-be had felt convinced that the attraction was mutual. On the surface, it didn’t make sense, easily dismissed as the delusion of a mind turned feeble. What’s more, neither Larry nor I cared to entertain a theory that seemed to draw an additional link from Kane—and by implication, from Grant—to Chaffee’s murder.
Still, I knew some background regarding Kane and Grant that Larry was unaware of. He knew that his brother and the much younger man were now living together, but I doubted that he knew they were planning a contractual marriage, a legal union promoted largely by Kane. Grant had already been shaken by the discovery of the forged clipping on Kane’s computer, sufficiently shaken to question the kid’s motive in rushing toward a partnership that would, at a purely material level, enrich Kane far more than Grant.
Kane had met the renowned Stewart Chaffee on Sunday, getting a good look at the wealthy old man’s surroundings and witnessing his obvious flirtations. Was it conceivable that Kane had seen in the retired decorator a bigger fish than the one he’d already landed? Was Stewart’s wishful contention—that Kane had volunteered to return the desk key as a means for the two of them to meet alone—not so feebleminded after all?
>
I shared none of these thoughts with Larry as we drove from Rancho Mirage toward the campus of Desert Arts College, but my silence must have clued him that I was pondering Pea’s insinuations about Stewart and Kane.
Larry was pondering them as well. Glancing over at me, he said, “After Chaffee was killed and the medical examiner’s team arrived on the scene, we made a complete inventory of the effects found on the victim’s person. Most conspicuously, there was the nurse’s note and the tasseled key, but there were other miscellaneous items found in that pony-skin bag. At the time, I saw no significance in any of those additional items, but now I’m not so sure.”
I could have guessed what he was about to say, but remained silent.
“Stewart Chaffee had five new hundred-dollar bills in his purse.”
Just as Pea had suggested.
The remaining distance to campus was short, and we traversed it in silence, unwilling to speculate on the meaning of Chaffee’s willingness to buy, if necessary, Kane’s affections. I couldn’t help recalling that when Kane had forged the clipping for the mysterious man in black, he’d been paid a hundred dollars in cash for an evening’s work. What, I wondered, would he be willing to do for five hundred—for a task that would take minutes, not hours? Granted, the cash had been found in Stewart’s saddlebag, so perhaps the proposition had never been discussed. Or had there been more cash, with five hundred remaining after a deal had been struck?
When Larry dropped me off, he simply asked, “Seven o’clock?”
Before closing the car door, I confirmed, “The press reception begins at seven.” Gesturing across College Circle toward the museum, I added, “I’ll see you there tonight.”
* * *
I coasted through my dramatic-literature seminar that afternoon, perplexed by this new wrinkle in an investigation that was edging perilously close to home. I tried to keep our discussion focused on the topic delineated by my syllabus—social alienation as a recurring theme of twentieth-century playwrights—but my half dozen students kept steering our discourse back to the murder. Even those not directly involved in the Laura production were now well aware that the victim’s clock was a centerpiece of the stage setting. One young lady assured me, “Everyone’s talking about it.”
I briefly considered a simple remedy, removing the clock from the stage. Something else—anything else—would have to take its place. But then I realized that the clock would become all the more conspicuous by its absence, providing an even greater distraction to audience and cast alike. No, I didn’t need a new clock; I needed to solve the larger riddle, naming Stewart’s killer and quashing the buzz.
At home, after class, I was fretful and distraught, not caring to eat. When I explained to Tanner what Larry and I hoped to accomplish that night, he offered, “At least let me fix you some soup.”
I thanked him with a kiss, managed to down a bowl without tasting it, then primped for that evening’s main event, wondering if Larry’s gambit to lure the killer to the press conference would pay off. If it didn’t and Glenn Yeats announced to the world that the museum was sole heir to Chaffee’s estate, which was not true, and if he later found out, as he surely would, that I had kept this information from him and allowed him to make a fool of himself … well, I didn’t care to contemplate the fallout.
Dressing, I considered several outfits, wintry and sedate, but I ultimately decided, what the hell, wear red. I already knew that I would choose the same hue on Friday evening, just twenty-four hours away, when I would reign at the premiere of my play. Tonight’s event, decidedly less festive—even grim—also needed, to my way of thinking, that extra bit of flash and dazzle. Not that I was out to impress anyone at the museum with my vibrant tastes. I simply needed any help I could get in energizing my mind and concentrating my creative energies on the decryption tasks at hand.
As I prepared to leave the condo, Tanner asked, “Do you want me there with you tonight?”
Of course I did. But I asked him, “Would you mind driving yourself? I need to get there early, and to be honest, I’m not sure what the evening may hold. Depending on what unfolds, there’s no telling how late I may have to stay.” Brightly, I added, “I want you properly rested for the big opening tomorrow.”
He readily bought that, agreeing to follow me a while later in his Jeep.
“Wish me luck,” I said, latching onto him for a fierce hug.
“Break a leg, Claire.”
* * *
The December night had fallen. The desert sky was a velvety black as I crossed the valley floor, headed toward campus. I would have no trouble finding my way—klieg lights crisscrossed the heavens, emanating from a spot near the horizon that grew brighter as I drove nearer.
Entering the campus and parking in my reserved space, I noted that College Circle was already aflutter with activity, remarkable on any evening, let alone a Thursday. Lights burned bright in the museum lobby, drawing a crowd from the plaza to the doors. Several television news vans had parked near the entrance, their long antennas poking toward the stars. The searchlights buzzed, burning white-hot in the chilly night. The giant banners wafted with the breeze. If Stewart Chaffee’s friends and associates had been expecting a solemn memorial service, they now had ample reason to revise their thinking. If any in the crowd were put off by the hoopla, they hid their indignation well. Without exception, those arriving rushed to the museum like kids to the big top.
I felt my own pace quicken as I crossed the plaza from the faculty garage. Passing my darkened theater, which loomed large but indistinct against the sky, I wondered if tomorrow’s opening of Laura would generate this kind of excitement. If, twenty-four hours from now, Stewart Chaffee’s killer was still unknown and at large, I knew that my premiere would be the focus of too much excitement—for all the wrong reasons.
“Claire,” a woman’s voice greeted me as I approached the museum.
Glancing over, I saw Dawn Chaffee-Tucker escorted toward the doors by her late uncle’s banker. “Dawn, Merrit,” I greeted them, “how nice to see you again.”
Merrit intoned the obligatory “Even under such unpleasant circumstances.”
Dawn halted. “None of that,” she said with a smile. “Tonight is the summation of Uncle Stewart’s wishes. He led a long, productive life, and now he’s leaving behind a genuine legacy.”
“Well said,” I told her, giving her arm a squeeze. From the side of my mouth, I added, “Let’s hope that Glenn Yeats will be equally eloquent and succinct.”
With a soft laugh, Merrit suggested, “Ladies, shall we?” And he ushered us through the doors.
The processed interior air, which on previous visits had felt so sterile and bone-chilling, now felt warm and comforting against the night. The whirl and hubbub projected a pleasant conviviality, almost partylike. Tuxedoed waiters (Regal Palms staff—I was beginning to recognize them) passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and offered cocktails, a civilized note amid all the hype and glamour. Television cameras, hoisted on shoulders, recorded snippets of the crowd for the late news.
Merrit spotted his secretary, Robin, in the milling crowd and, needing to have a word with her, excused himself, leading Dawn away with him. As they disappeared, I paused to take stock of who was present.
The media types were largely unknown to me, as I was still new to the area, but this bash was being thrown for their benefit, and there were plenty on hand—reporters, video cameramen, and newspaper photographers representing local media outlets as well as several from Los Angeles. The entire museum staff was working the crowd, of course, including director Iesha Birch. I noticed Kane Richter emerge from an office with a bundle of printed material.
College faculty from all departments had been encouraged to attend, and many had—lured more by the food and booze, I gathered, than by an interest in the bequest. Most, I noted, wore black that night. Among them were the composer Lance Caldwell and the painter Atticus, who were engaged in one of their heated discussions of the arts, bra
ndishing tiny chicken kabobs while slurping from oversize glasses of wine—white for Caldwell, red for Atticus. My old friend, Kiki Jasper-Plunkett, did not wear black, not by a long shot. Her penchant for costuming was given free rein that night, and she jangled about in a garish getup best described as that of a Gypsy queen. Our president, Glenn Yeats, and my neighbor. Grant Knoll, huddled near a podium, comparing notes with Glenn’s secretary, the amazonian Tide Arden.
Bonnie Bahr, Chaffee’s nurse, arrived just then, looking prettier than I’d seen her, done up for the evening in a dressy pantsuit and glittery shawl that were curiously flattering to her heft. A waiter approached her with a tray, and she plucked a dainty stuffed mushroom, placing it on a cocktail napkin as if she did not intend to eat it. A bar was set up along the far wall, and she made her way toward it without pausing to chat; she doubtless knew few among the others attending.
One person whom she knew well, Pea Fertig, arrived after Bonnie had been swallowed by the crowd. He wore black again that night—a good-looking, well-tailored suit, possibly Italian, complementing his buffed but smallish frame. I didn’t know whether the dark suit had been chosen as a chic fashion statement or out of deference to the funereal overtones of the event, but I couldn’t fault Pea’s instincts. He presented himself most attractively that evening. I found him rakishly handsome. Devilishly so. A waiter offered appetizers, but he declined with a shake of his head, hotfooting toward the bar.
“Evening, Claire.”
I turned to find Mark Manning at my side, studying me with a grin. “Hi, Mark.” I gave him a peck. “Sorry if I seem distracted. Lots on my mind.”
“The play?” he asked. He held a drink in one hand, vodka on the rocks, and held a padded case in the other, the sort that carries a laptop. “Or is it murder on your mind?”
“Both,” I admitted. Eyeing his computer, I asked, “Planning to do some work tonight?”
“Not sure. Am I correct to sniff a story here—I mean, beyond the ‘bequest’?” His subtle wink alluded to our shared knowledge that Chaffee’s holographic will had been faked.
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