Bonnie, I noticed, was now openly crying. Robin seemed at a loss to console her. Pea approached the nurse through the crowd and said something quietly into her ear. I recalled, once more, that he was the keeper of the keys.
Atticus raised his hand. Both Iesha and Tide started toward him with their microphones, but Iesha was closer, so Tide dropped back. “Glenn,” said Atticus, grabbing the mike like a lounge singer, “let me be the first to congratulate both the college and the museum on its acquisition of this fine collection. What a marvelous surprise. These Östman works are delightful.” The crowd seconded his appraisal with a quick round of applause. “However,” said Atticus, puffing his chest, “aren’t these works rather far afield from the museum’s artistic mission?”
Glenn bluffed an answer, stopping short of conceding that most of Chaffee’s collection would end up in storage.
Many of the assembled reporters held tape recorders over their heads, capturing these exchanges. Others scribbled notes. Mark Manning had sat down on one of the display cubes, taken out his laptop, and begun typing. The computer sprouted a little antenna that looked like a black pinkie finger—he was on-line with a newsroom somewhere. I recalled our earlier conversation. He had asked me, “If forgery is at the crux of the murder, but the forger isn’t the killer, where does that leave you?”
Pea and Bonnie were now conversing, and I was surprised to note no apparent hostility in their manner. Robin stepped away from them and sidled through the crowd toward Atticus. She touched her fingertips to his forearm—a gesture I recalled from Tuesday, when happening upon their romantic luncheon at the Regal Palms. She now looked him in the eye again and spoke to him with the same quiet intensity. Was she cautioning him against challenging the powerful Glenn Yeats, his employer, in so public a setting?
Someone near Larry and me raised his hand, and Tide bounded toward him on her muscular brown legs, thrusting the microphone toward his mouth. The squirrelly-looking professor—a potter, I believe—first cleared his throat, then got down to business, generously lacing his convoluted words with academic gibberish. Glenn, never one to back away from bull, took his time in responding, relishing the sound of his own voice, layering clause upon dependent clause.
During this drone, Merrit Lloyd stepped away from Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, slipping through the crowd toward the back of the room, where he found Grant Knoll near the doorway. Framed by the light from the lobby, they leaned together in conversation. Dawn, niece of the deceased, was left alone near the front of the assembled guests. She stood ramrod stiff, staring at the paintings, dismayed.
“I’m the keeper of the keys,” Pea had said.
“Forgery is at the crux of the murder, but the forger isn’t the killer,” Mark had said.
Kane appeared in the doorway from the lobby carrying a stack of papers.
“My God,” I blurted.
Larry turned to me. “What is it, Claire?”
But I had already rushed to Dawn’s side. Larry followed. Dawn still stared at the paintings, unblinking. I leaned close and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head as if emerging from a fog, then turned to me and gave the answer I expected.
I turned to Larry, asking, “You know what this means?”
“Not … exactly…”
Glenn, at the podium, was making wrap-up noises. There was no time to explain; within moments, the crowd would disperse.
I stepped forward to a clearing in the crowd and raised my hand, calling, “Glenn?” Tide had her microphone in my face before the word had left my mouth.
“Ah!” said Glenn. “Always a pleasure, my dear.” He told the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, the illustrious Claire Gray.” Television cameras swung in my direction. “I’m sure Claire wants to remind us all that her production of Laura will open tomorrow at—”
“Glenn,” I interrupted, “don’t you think it’s time to let everyone in on our little secret?”
Rarely had I seen Glenn Yeats at a loss for words, but now he was. He stood looking at me with a quizzical expression, mouth sagging open, unable to formulate a question. Whispers rose from the crowd.
“The plan,” I said with a sharp nod, a visual nudge, as if to tell him, Play along.
“Of course,” he said uncertainly, “the … uh, plan.” His eyes pleaded for help.
I told the crowd, “We apologize for calling everyone here this evening on a specious pretext, but it was part of a necessary ruse, designed to solve a murder. Stewart Chaffee, you see, did not bequest his estate to the museum.”
Instantly, the room broke into a swirl of hushed conversation. The press was now on full alert. Glenn looked downright stupefied. “Uh, Claire?” he asked.
“So it goes without saying,” I continued, speaking to everyone, “that the paintings unveiled here tonight are not the property of the museum. In fact, they were not even painted by Östman. They’re frauds.”
Gasps of disbelief rose from the chatter as Merrit Lloyd rushed forward from the back of the gallery. “That’s impossible,” he called, approaching me.
Tide and her microphone followed as I stepped to Dawn. I told the crowd, “This is Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, niece of Stewart Chaffee and a noted art scholar in her own right.” I asked Dawn, “How can you be so sure that these paintings are not the work of Per-Olof Östman?” Tide flipped the microphone in Dawn’s direction.
Without hesitation, Dawn explained, “Because there is no such painter as Per-Olof Östman, and to the best of my knowledge, there never was. What’s more, there was never a neo-impressionist movement active in Sweden. The paintings, I must say, are exquisite; the technique is extraordinary; the compositions are masterful. But I have no idea when, where, or by whom they were painted.”
By now, Merrit had arrived at my side. As he opened his mouth to speak, Tide was ready with her microphone. With a calming gesture of both hands, Merrit said, “I’m so sorry to contradict you, Dawn, but you must surely be mistaken in this matter. Indian Wells Bank and Trust fully backs the authenticity of the Östman collection, which we arranged for Mr. Chaffee to acquire. My assistant, Robin Jones, researched and certified the provenances.” He looked across the gallery. “Isn’t that right, Robin?”
“Yes, sir,” her voice came quietly from the crowd. As Iesha stepped toward Robin with a microphone, I recalled Saturday morning, when Merrit had first introduced his secretary as Robin Jones. Now, something else made sense to me.
I told the banker, “Actually, Merrit, it is you, not Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, who is mistaken with regard to the authenticity of the Östman canvases. They were painted not in Sweden, not in the 1890s, but right here, quite recently, by a master of many styles, Atticus Jones. The forgeries were authenticated by your secretary, Robin Jones, who I now presume is the painter’s daughter. And it was Robin, by the way, who killed Stewart Chaffee.”
After a moment of stunned silence, the room erupted with conversation. Larry Knoll moved in the direction of Robin and Atticus, where the crowd instinctively pulled back, except for Iesha with her microphone. Cameras swung from me to the accused.
From the clearing in the crowd, Atticus bellowed, “Don’t be preposterous, Claire. How could you say something so slanderous and unfounded—in public, no less? Is this the thanks I get for contributing my sumptuous portrait of Laura to your stage play?”
I asked firmly, “Is Robin your daughter—or perhaps a niece or a young cousin?” Their age difference, which had appeared so unflattering in the context of romance, now made perfect sense, as did their shared last name, their red hair, their common interest in art, and their penchant for fraud.
Atticus hugged the young lady’s shoulders. “Yes, of course she is my daughter. What of it?”
I quoted Mark Manning’s earlier words: “Forgery is at the crux of the murder, but the forger isn’t the killer.”
Atticus laughed, telling the crowd, “The woman speaks in riddles.”
Recalling Pea Fertig’s earlier words, I ask
ed Robin, “And you were the keeper of the keys, were you not?”
Atticus blustered, “Again the riddles!”
I told him sharply, “I was speaking to Robin.”
She said quietly, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Claire.”
“I mean,” I explained, “you’ve been more than just a secretary to Merrit Lloyd. You’ve been his executive assistant in every sense of the word. You organized his schedule, handled his papers, carried his briefcase, even dialed his phone. Most important, you kept his keys—both the keys to his car and the keys to the bank’s safe-deposit boxes.”
“Yes,” she said uncertainly, “I try to be helpful.”
“Helpful?” I laughed. “You took advantage of your employer, and you defrauded his most important client. Then, when circumstances threatened to reveal your scheming, you stooped to kill.”
“Really, Miss Gray.” Robin sounded flustered and panicky. “This is all rather far-fetched.”
“Is it?” As the cameras swung back in my direction, I told everyone present, “Consider this scenario: A painter of considerable renown and great stylistic flexibility, Atticus conspired with his daughter, Robin, to defraud a wealthy art collector, Stewart Chaffee, whose business affairs were handled at the bank where Robin is employed in a position of trust. Working as a team, Atticus forged the Östman collection and Robin faked its provenances. They had likely done this before, with Stewart as their main ‘client.’” I paused, recalling that Glenn Yeats had frequently questioned the quality of Stewart’s art collection. Glenn’s criticism, I now understood, had been based upon more insight than I’d been willing to acknowledge.
I continued, “Robin and Atticus knew that, to prevent discovery of their crime, it was crucial for the forged works to remain out of circulation. When Stewart asked his banker, Merrit Lloyd, to set up a meeting with his niece, Dawn, the task fell to Robin, who reasoned that the purpose of the meeting was reconciliation. Robin’s hunch was reinforced last Saturday, when, in my presence, Stewart gave Merrit a plain white envelope, saying that it would make his intentions clear regarding the disposition of his estate. Merrit gave the envelope to Robin, who put it in Merrit’s briefcase.
“Later that Saturday at the bank, Robin was entrusted to put the envelope in Stewart’s safe-deposit box; she was keeper of the key and had full access to the vault. Instead of depositing the envelope, however, she opened it, discovering that Stewart had indeed written a homemade will, which may have named Dawn as heir to the Östman paintings. Robin understood that Dawn was a knowledgeable art dealer and would readily recognize the paintings as fraudulent. Since Stewart was scheduled to meet with Dawn on Monday morning, Robin and Atticus had to devise some preemptive action.
“So they hit upon a plan that involved yet another forgery—an interview supposedly published in an untraceable issue of a defunct newspaper, in which Stewart would state that everything he owns would be left to this museum. Atticus reasoned that since his forgeries did not fit the artistic mission of the museum—a point he raised just this evening—the paintings would be forever hidden in storage with DMSA’s inactive collection.
“Atticus himself took charge of having the fake clipping produced, paying a museum intern to create the facsimile, which would purportedly be used as part of a history display. The clipping was commissioned on Sunday, produced that evening, and delivered on Monday morning. Atticus gave it to his daughter, who called upon her own forgery skills, adding marginal notes and Stewart’s signature, copied from bank documents, before sealing the clipping in a fresh white envelope and depositing it in Stewart’s vault box.
“It was a good plan, but its success still depended on two prerequisites. First, Stewart could not keep his appointment with Dawn, which would reveal the true intentions of his homemade will. And second, in order to effect the stipulations of the new, bogus will, Stewart had to die.
“On Monday morning, Robin was working against a deadline of eleven o’clock, the time she’d arranged for Dawn to visit Stewart at his estate. At ten o’clock, Merrit Lloyd entered a lengthy auditors’ meeting at the bank. Robin would later fudge her boss’s records of this meeting, convincing him that it had begun an hour later—yet another forgery. She couldn’t let him know that, shortly after ten that morning, she’d taken his keys and driven his car to the estate, passing through the gate at ten-fifteen.
“Robin knew the security code, and she may even have had a key to the house. Stewart had been dozing most of the morning in his wheelchair; he was probably still asleep when Robin arrived. She woke him, perhaps explaining her presence on some banking pretext while calculating a way to forestall the eleven o’clock appointment. Robin and Stewart conversed for a while, and Stewart may have still been drowsy, but he became alert when he discovered a note left in his lap by his nurse. She had made a batch of pink fluff, his favorite treat, and had left it in the refrigerator for him.
“Sometime after ten-thirty, Stewart wheeled himself from the living room, through the great room, and into the kitchen, followed by Robin. He beelined for the refrigerator, but Robin froze in her tracks at the sight of the twelve Östman paintings displayed on easels in the great room. Now there was no doubt—Dawn Chaffee-Tucker could not be admitted to the house that morning. The mere sight of the paintings would raise her suspicions. Robin had to act fast, and she saw her opportunity as Stewart began tugging at the refrigerator door.
“With ruthless premeditation, Robin walked to the kitchen and, in the guise of friendly assistance, pulled upon the door for Stewart, swung it wide, then toppled the refrigerator onto his wheelchair, crushing but not immediately killing him. In the precious seconds when he still might have been saved from an agonizing death, Robin paused only to wipe her fingerprints from the chrome door handle. Then she fled.
“Some minutes later, Stewart’s niece arrived at the estate, keeping her appointment of reconciliation with the uncle she had never known. But no one answered the door that morning, so she turned around, got back into her car, and returned to Santa Barbara.”
In the hush of the crowded gallery, I turned to the press corps, summarizing, “And that’s how Stewart Chaffee died.”
Larry Knoll’s footsteps grated on the stone floor as he approached Atticus and Robin, then stopped. “Well?” he asked, placing his hands on his hips. His suit jacket flapped open, revealing a glimpse of his leather shoulder holster.
Atticus aped the detective’s posture. “Well, what? Surely you don’t take any of this speculation seriously. Miss Gray has a fine sense of drama—I’ll hand her that—but her story is nothing but bombastic nonsense.”
I turned toward the double doors to the lobby. “Kane,” I called, “could you come here, please?”
Heads turned as the intern paused to set down his stack of papers (the freshly printed handouts detailing the fictive background of Per-Olof Östman were of no use now), then made his way around the perimeter of the gallery to where I stood.
I pointed to the clearing in the crowd, asking, “Do you recognize anyone?”
“Yeah. The old guy. The old guy in black. That’s the man who asked me to make up the newspaper clipping. He paid me a hundred bucks. He said his name was Professor Eastman.” It was lost on no one that the names Eastman and Östman were embarrassingly similar.
“Like hell, Detective,” growled Atticus. “That kid’s a liar, plain and simple. Isn’t it obvious? You can’t trust that sort. He’s boyfriends with the museum-board president. They’re behind this.”
Larry looked Atticus in the eye. It was a steely gaze, quiet, but full of contempt. “That kid you’re talking about? His name is Kane. He’s boyfriends with my brother.”
Atticus, at last, shut up.
Robin attempted a rescue, telling Larry, “I do hope you’ll forgive my father’s surly manner. It’s easy jumping to wrong conclusions when you’re under pressure.” With a simper of a laugh, she tossed her head, brushing aside her china-doll bangs. “It seems this e
vening hasn’t developed the way any of us planned.”
She certainly hadn’t planned to find twelve forged paintings hanging in the main gallery that night. Neither had Atticus.
Larry said, “Let me get this straight, Miss Jones. You’re telling me that your father is wrong. You’re telling me that neither Kane nor my brother was behind what happened to Stewart Chaffee.”
She wriggled, “Well, I hope they weren’t.”
“Were you? Were you behind it?”
“Of course not, Detective. How could anyone possibly think—”
“Robin,” I interrupted, “before you go too far with that denial, you should know about a crucial development in the investigation.”
Larry’s eyes slid toward me, wondering what I was up to.
I forged ahead, telling Robin, “The crime scene, obviously, was checked thoroughly for fingerprints. As you know, the killer cleaned the refrigerator handle before leaving, not only concealing her identity, but proving foul play. She also cleaned the prints from the inside knob of the front door when leaving, proving her escape route.”
With a smirk, Robin noted, “Then you have nothing.”
“Ah, but we do. It seems the killer was rushed or distracted when leaving the house, and she neglected to clean the outside doorknob.”
Robin’s smirk faded.
I wasn’t sure how much latitude Larry might be allowed in fudging the facts to coax a confession, but I was bound by no such restrictions, so I felt no compunction in telling Robin, “The killer, the last person to use that door, left a full, clean set of fingerprints on the outside knob, including a beautiful thumbprint recognized by experts as that of a female. Prints have been taken from everyone known to be at the house on Monday, and the mysterious thumbprint has no match. Which means, we have abundant knowledge of who did not kill Stewart Chaffee. Since you claim to be innocent, Robin, I assume you’ll be more than eager to volunteer a set of your prints.”
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