Silence reigned for a moment as the young woman considered her options. Her fingers curled into fists; she dared not look at her hands.
When she opened her mouth, Atticus told her, “Don’t, Robin. It’s a trick.”
“No, Dad.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid this is it. It’s over.”
Atticus seemed to wither before our eyes. A talented artist, perhaps a genius, had fallen from greatness, weighted down by his own ego, damned by his pride.
Robin watched as her father buried his head in his hands. Then she turned to Larry and spoke softly. “Yes, Detective, I think you’ll find that the unknown thumbprint is mine. I was there that day, in Mr. Lloyd’s car, as suggested by Miss Gray. The rest, well—now that it’s out, you’ll have no trouble tracing the forgery of the paintings or the false certification of the provenances.”
Larry nodded. “And Mr. Chaffee’s death?”
Robin sighed, began to speak, then hesitated. Regaining a touch of her spunk, she said, “I don’t intend to make this easy for you, Detective. You’ve got a lot of circumstantial evidence. But did I kill Stewart Chaffee? You’ll have to prove it.”
“I intend to, Miss Jones. And it won’t be difficult.”
With that, in front of a roomful of witnesses and a battalion of reporters, Larry Knoll arrested Robin for murder and Atticus for complicity; numerous counts of fraud would doubtless be added to their litany of woe. He handcuffed both, recited their rights, and led them from the gallery while phoning for backup.
The mum crowd parted, as if to let lepers pass.
* * *
They had no sooner left the room when the grim silence gave way to jolly pandemonium. The dramatic arrest had been far more entertaining than the dreary press conference to which the guests had presumably been invited. The crowd gabbed and laughed, comparing notes. Some rushed out to the lobby to watch the killers being hauled away—and to have another drink.
Most of the reporters left as well, scurrying to capture the scene outside the building. Others stayed behind, including Mark Manning, who still typed diligently at his laptop, pausing to glance at me, smile, and salute me with a thumbs-up. One of the television crews was clustered near the podium, interviewing Glenn Yeats. The microphone was still on. He told the reporters, “… so we saw our duty, and we never hesitated to assist the sheriff’s department in this crime-solving effort. It’s so gratifying to know that we played a small role in seeing justice done.”
Grant and Kane strolled up to me, again the happy couple, secure in the knowledge that their relationship had not been undermined by scheming, greed, or murder. Grant gave me a hug. “Congratulations, doll. You did it again.”
“Nonsense. Haven’t you heard? This was all Glenn’s doing.”
We shared a laugh. Then Grant and Kane spotted Iesha and, needing to talk to her, excused themselves.
“Miss Gray?”
I turned to find Pea standing behind me with Bonnie. My eyes surely bugged at the sight of the little man in black with his arm around the big nurse in spangles.
“We wanted to thank you,” said Pea, “for straightening this out.”
Bonnie nodded. “The shock of Stewart’s death was hard on everyone. He was a difficult man, but I did love him, and I know that Pea did, too.”
Pea bowed his head. “We’ve both said and done some terrible things.”
“That was anger talking,” I assured him. “And the loss.”
“But that’s no excuse,” said Bonnie. “Our feuding was no help to the investigation. I’m real sorry.”
“So am I,” echoed Pea.
“Claire!” said Merrit Lloyd, striding toward me with Dawn Chaffee-Tucker. “What a night, eh? Who’d have thought—a murderess in my own office. I’m mortified.” He didn’t sound mortified; he sounded tickled pink.
With a soft smile, Dawn told him, “Just be thankful it’s over.” She looked as composed and elegant as ever, utterly unruffled by the turn of events.
Merrit shuddered. “But the forged paintings, and the forged will, and the security breach.” Sounding less giddy, he repeated, “I’m mortified.”
I told them, “I just had a thought. This all began when Dawn received a badly typed letter from her uncle. I assume that letter was written on the home computer at the estate sometime during Pea’s absence. We’re reasonably sure that Stewart delivered a homemade will to Merrit, the one in the original white envelope, destroyed by Robin. I’ll bet Stewart wrote his will on that same computer. Since it’s now evident that Stewart’s intentions were not those expressed in the fake newspaper column, what did he intend? If I were you”—I looked from face to face, from Merrit to Dawn to Pea to Bonnie—“I’d search those computer files and figure out the true disposition of Stewart’s estate.”
They gaped at each other, having overlooked this promising angle. Pea, the keeper of the keys, jangled them, telling the others, “I’ll open the house. Let’s get going.”
And with words of thanks, they left.
Tanner and Kiki were making their way through the crowd, laughing at something, bearing fresh drinks from the bar. Tanner carried an extra martini, and seeing it, I realized that I needed it badly—I’d been doing far too much talking that evening.
“Claire! Darling!” gushed Kiki as they approached. “You were a triumph, my dear. An unmitigated triumph.”
“Thank you,” I cooed, hugging her tight. With a wink, I took the glass from Tanner’s hand and sipped behind Kiki’s back. It was icy, stiff, and wonderful.
“My turn,” said Tanner, wrapping his arms around me, managing not to spill either his or my cocktail. With an offhand tone, he asked, “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”
I smiled wryly. “I can’t say I recall.” My God, he’d said the word. Would I utter it as well?
Before I could speak, Kiki interrupted at the decisive moment. “They really are charming, aren’t they?”
“Hmm?”
“The paintings, dear”—she wagged a bracelet-clad arm toward the wall of faked Swedish masterpieces—“the Östmans or the Atticuses or whatever the hell you call them. Despite their shady pedigree, they’re quite delightful.” She sipped the pink liquid from her bird-bath, adding, “Simply enchanting.”
I eyed the canvases. They were, in a word, captivating. One in particular, that little landscape at evening featuring a crude drawbridge over a stream, drew me into its bucolic charm and its evocation of simpler times. Its lively palette was even more appealing than before. Nice frame too.
Why, it would look just dandy on one of my bare living-room walls.
To whom, I wondered, did the Östman collection now belong?
24
Tanner said the word again that night, after we returned to my condo, and again on Friday morning, as we tangled the sheets before rising.
Did I tell him, in turn, that I loved him? It seems hopelessly scatterbrained to claim that I cannot remember, but remember I cannot. I had flirted with the simple declaration for months, while weighing a schizophrenic mix of relief and resentment that Tanner, too, had felt no rush to label our emotions. So on Friday morning, during a moment of high rapture, when the word again rolled from his lips, it may at last have rolled from mine as well.
If I didn’t speak it, I felt it. And I communicated my love with a physical intensity that delighted Tanner and amazed even me.
“Wow,” he said, catching his breath when we had finished. “I mean, wow.”
I needed a cigarette. But I had quit on the day when I had moved to California. Still, a trace of telltale tobacco huskiness colored my voice as I told Tanner, deadpan, “You weren’t so bad yourself.”
Springing from the bed, he informed me, “I’ll get the coffee going.” Then he bounded down to the kitchen, taking the stairs by twos. I heard the latch of the front door as he opened it to grab the paper. “Hey!” he called. “You made page one.”
I flopped back on the pillows, heaving a big sigh, as if bored by
it all.
We had slept late for a weekday, till nine or so, a just reward for my exploits the previous evening. Besides, our production of Laura was to open that night, and I wanted Tanner well rested for the long-awaited debut. By nine-thirty that morning, we had thrown on some clothes and headed out to the pool terrace bearing a tray loaded with coffee, the paper, and Tanner’s protein slop (his regimen usually struck me as superfluous, but that morning, following our vigorous romp, I silently conceded that he might be due for a booster).
The overnight chill had lifted, and we settled comfortably at the round glass table, dismissing any need to light the firepot. Abundant sunshine slanted through surrounding palms and pines, dancing on the placid surface of the pool.
“Morning, doll!” called Grant, spotting us from the French doors of his neighboring condo. “How’s the lady of the hour?” he asked, slipping out to join us with an oversize mug of coffee. Dressed for his day at the office and fresh from his twenty-minute shave, he made me feel like a feckless sloven. Arriving at the table, he set down his cup and leaned to give me a kiss.
“What about me?” asked Tanner wryly.
Grant circled behind him with a menacing growl, then chastely pecked the top of Tanner’s head, pausing a moment to savor the touch and scent of sandy, bed-rumpled hair. “Hmm,” Grant sounded an accusing note. “I smell sex.”
“Stop that.” Behind my playful reprimand, I wondered if Grant had made a good guess—or were his senses truly that well honed?
“Well, now,” he said, sitting across from me, tapping the newspaper on the table, “milady will have a tough time of it tonight, topping last night’s performance.”
“Not at all,” I assured him. “Last night was merely a diversion, an improvisation. But tonight—that performance has been fully rehearsed and polished. Besides, my work is done. It’s Tanner’s turn to shine.” I reached over the table and rubbed the back of his hand.
“I’ll do my best,” he told me, flashing a smile that would, I was certain, make any audience wilt.
I asked Grant, “Where’s Kane this morning?”
“Up and out already. The museum crew will have their hands full today. ‘The Chaffee Legacy’ is now history, the figment of a fake newspaper clipping. So it’s back to plan A, and the kachina exhibit returns to the main gallery in time for the opening of your play tonight.”
“Claire!” hollered my other neighbor, Kiki, from somewhere unseen, probably the center courtyard, near the fountain. “Where are you?”
Tanner called, “We’re by the pool.”
Footfalls raced through the courtyard, crunching sand on the terra-cotta tiles. Appearing at the terrace gate, Kiki announced, “You made the Times, Claire.”
“What?” I had no doubt that the Times she waved was the one from New York, as Los Angeles had not yet registered on Kiki’s radar.
She banged the gate and bustled toward the table, fluttering the newspaper, jangling her bracelets (though the day was young, she never left the house less than fully accessorized). Plopping the paper on the table, she said, “And Mark Manning wrote it.”
Sure enough, there on page three, above the fold, was Mark’s bylined story, which had been picked up by wire, apparently running in numerous papers that day. The Times headline proclaimed, FLAIR FOR DRAMA, followed by an italic subhead, Claire Gray, toast of Broadway, snares killer, art swindler at museum opening in California.
The story, which I read aloud, recounted the events of the previous evening with Mark’s typical precision, insight, and charm—there was no mistaking his style. He’d gotten some good quotes from Detective Larry Knoll as well as D. Glenn Yeats, who basically took credit for aiding police in setting the trap. Mark spared no ink, however, in describing me as “the undisputed hero in untangling a most heinous crime.” He even plugged the opening of my play. Setting down the paper, I shook my head, telling the others, “This is far too flattering.”
“Nonsense, doll.” Grant beaded me with a stare. “You love it.”
“Yes,” I admitted with a grin, “I do.”
Kiki joined us at the table, sitting next to me. With a pensive sigh, she asked, “Why would he do it? Atticus, I mean. Robin’s crime was terrible, but there’s no mystery to her motive; the murder was a cover-up, an attempt to hide other transgressions. But Atticus—what made him tick? Did he really think he could get away with such an outrageous forgery scheme?”
Tanner reminded her, “He damn near did.”
Repeating Kiki’s question, Grant asked rhetorically, “Why would he do it?” Then he answered, “For the money. It was greed, pure and simple.”
“I’m not so sure,” I thought aloud. “Atticus had great talent—and an enormous ego. I think he undertook the forgery scheme simply to see if he could pull it off. When he succeeded, the secret must have driven him wild. After all, what’s the point of a stupendous hoax if it’s known to no one? Ultimately, he was brought down by his own pride, the classic flaw of theatrical tragedy.”
“And he brought down his daughter with him,” said Kiki. With a shudder, she added, “It’s like a sordid twist on Oedipus.”
Shrugging off this sobering observation, Grant told me, “At least you got his portrait of Laura.”
Kiki perked up. “That’s right! My God, think of the buzz. It’s now known that Atticus forged the work of an obscure painter who was entirely fictitious, much as he created the fictitious Stuart Jacoby’s portrait of Laura. So the play’s set is graced by two remarkable artifacts: a murder victim’s clock, and a portrait painted by the father of the killer. Oooh, how delicious.”
With a start, I realized that Kiki was right. I had hoped, by solving the murder, that I would put an end to the hype and allow my cast and their audience to focus on the play itself, without the distraction of the recent crime. Instead, I had generated more headlines and cranked up the noise.
“Claire, darling,” Kiki reminded me with an elaborate flourish, “sell the sizzle!”
I laughed. Whom, pray tell, was I kidding? Certainly not myself, not anymore. The clock, the portrait—remnants of murder—they were sensational additions to our show, adding to a staged mystery some real-life sizzle that I couldn’t have bought at any price. I now understood that my motive for getting involved with the investigation had had nothing to do with protecting the integrity of my production.
No, I realized, I had simply enjoyed the challenge of another twisted plot. I also enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing I was up to the challenge; in fact, I was good at it.
Tanner was saying, “I have nothing but positive vibes about tonight’s opening. The murder is behind us, the cast is ready, and the curtain is ready to rise.”
With a slow, exaggerated nod, Kiki intoned the words of the bard: “‘The play’s the thing.’”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said firmly, dismissing the real world and its woes, gladly shifting my attention to mayhem of the scripted sort. I told my well-rehearsed heartthrob of a sleuth, “Don’t forget, Tanner—important guests in the audience tonight.”
“Forget? I can think of little else. Knowing that both Hector Bosch and Spencer Wallace will be out there in the dark, watching, I can feel the butterflies already.”
“Perfectly natural,” I assured him. “That’s the adrenaline working. Don’t fear it; use it. Harness those jitters, and they’ll give you your edge.”
“Pearls of wisdom,” said Grant. “At such an ungodly, early hour.” He slurped his coffee.
I confessed, “The pep talk was meant for me as much as for Tanner. Truth is, I’m nervous about seeing Hector again. We parted on shaky terms when I left New York.”
“Nonsense,” said Kiki. “Hector has always carried a torch for you.”
“That’s what has me worried.”
“Hello?” asked a voice. “Anybody home?”
Grant rose and looked over the wall into the courtyard. “Yes? May I help you?”
“We have a delivery for Miss Clai
re Gray.”
“Ah. She’s here with us. Just use the gate, please.” Grant motioned toward it.
The rest of us exchanged a round of quizzical glances.
A moment later, the deliveryman and a young helper entered the terrace bearing gifts from a local florist. Grant signed for them as the kid aligned three arrangements near the edge of the pool. There was a small one, a bud vase with some carnations. The second vase, a tasteful crystal cylinder, contained a dozen red roses, a few long black twigs, and no greenery, conveying urban sophistication. The third was an opulent arrangement of callas and white roses, easily fifty stems, suggesting not only price-is-no-object extravagance, but overtones of (God help me) matrimony.
I felt reasonably sure of who had sent the first and the third, but the one in the middle left me guessing.
Sitting again, Grant quipped, “Who died?”
The kid asked me, “Would you like the cards?”
“Please.”
So he plucked the little envelopes from each of the bouquets and placed them in order on the table in front of me. Then he and his partner left.
I sipped my coffee.
The others stared at me, waiting. Grant finally offered, “If you’d prefer to be alone…”
“Of course not.” I grinned, then opened the first card. “Aww,” I said, reading it privately, “I thought so. Thank you, Tanner.” He’d used that word again. I rose from my chair, stepped to his, and leaned to kiss him. Holding his face in my hands, I told him, awkwardly but deliberately, “I, uh … I love you too.” He smiled; predictably, my knees went weak. Steadying myself, I plucked one of the carnations from his vase, then sat again.
“Let’s see,” I said, fingering the third envelope, “any guesses?”
With a snort, Kiki said, “Judging from the proportions of that overgrown nosegay, I’d say the sender is fairly obvious.” She added, “Not that it wasn’t thoughtful of him.”
“Glenn can be very generous.” The understatement left my lips before my fingers had extracted the card from its envelope. Reading the inscription, I confirmed that our speculation was dead-on. I told the others, “Get this: ‘Dearest Claire, once again it seems congratulations are in order, but perhaps it would be prudent to limit your future triumphs to those of the theatrical ilk. Break a leg tonight! All my love, Glenn.’”
Desert Winter Page 29