10

Climbing the mountainside toward Nirvana, I asked, “Are you sure I’m dressed for this?”

Grant glanced over at me, grinning. “You look spectacular, doll. I’m honored to escort you anywhere.”

“I mean, don’t you think this is a tad Christmassy?” Seated next to him in the Mercedes, I swept a hand from my red dress to my green turban.

He paused. “It’s December.”

“Somehow, the suave crowd at the Regal Palms strikes me as more sophisticated—and less thematic.”

“Shush. They’re just people, mere tourists. Milady is a star. She’s entitled to make a statement. Here we are.” He turned off the steep road that continued up to the gated Nirvana housing development, swinging into the driveway of the Regal Palms Hotel.

By the time we had finished our dealings with Merrit Lloyd at the bank, it was nearly noon, and Grant was still reeling from having learned the unexpected disposition of Stewart Chaffee’s estate. So he’d phoned from the car to reserve a terrace table at the hotel, where we could discuss that morning’s events in relaxed, genteel surroundings.

“Ah,” said Grant, peering ahead through the windshield, “Larry’s here.”

We had decided that the developments regarding Chaffee’s fortune would be found equally intriguing by Grant’s brother, Detective Larry Knoll, so we had phoned him as well, telling him what we’d learned. Since he happened to be driving down valley from Palm Springs, we invited him to join us for lunch. He readily agreed, saying there was something important he needed to discuss with Grant.

Larry had arrived first and now stood under the huge portico at the hotel’s entrance, eyes closed, face aimed toward the sun, soaking up a few mild winter rays. In the glare, he didn’t notice Grant’s car pull up.

A pair of uniformed parking valets stepped to the car, opening both front doors. Getting out, grabbing his briefcase from the backseat, Grant said, “We’re just staying for lunch.”

Hearing this, Larry snapped out of his trance and greeted us, adding, “What took you so long?”

Grant reminded Larry, “I don’t have the option of stopping traffic and running red lights when I’m late for a rendezvous.”

“I would never do that.” The brothers shook hands.

“Hi, Larry.” I gave the detective a hug.

“Nice to see you again, Claire—under considerably more pleasant circumstances than yesterday.”

I nodded. “The circumstances are different, but the topic’s the same.”

Grant suggested, “Shall we continue this inside? I’ve booked a fabulous table.”

Walking us to the entrance, Larry told his gay brother, “I’d expect nothing less than ‘fabulous’ from you, Grant.”

Crossing the lobby toward the dining room, Grant was saying, “It pays to have pull—”

“Claire!” someone interrupted. “Of all people.”

Several guests milled nearby, so it took me a moment to spot Mark Manning striding toward us. He wore a crisp khaki business suit. “Mark!” I hailed, stopping under an expansive chandelier.

“I was just on my way out. What a nice surprise.” He kissed my cheek.

“I forgot you were staying here. Everything to your liking?”

He made a gesture encompassing the graceful room. “What’s not to like?”

Remembering my manners, I turned to introduce the brothers Knoll and saw at once that Grant had a hungry interest in Mark. So I saved that introduction—the better to tantalize my neighbor—telling Larry, “This is Mark Manning, a journalist from the Midwest. His nephew is my student Thad Quatrain, who was with me yesterday at the Chaffee home.”

Larry shook hands. “He seems like a great kid, Mark. Sorry he had to witness something like that.” Then he explained, “I’m Larry Knoll, the detective in charge of the case.”

I let them banter some, knowing that Grant was now all the more eager to meet my handsome, green-eyed friend. He was surely aware that Mark was not only a star journalist, but openly gay.

“Grant,” I said at last, “do you know Mark Manning?”

“By reputation, of course. My pleasure, Mark.” Grant beamed, shaking hands. “I’m Claire’s neighbor—and Larry’s brother.” When all the pleasantries had been dispatched, Grant added, “Won’t you join us for lunch? We’d love to have you.”

At first, Grant’s suggestion struck me as ill timed, motivated by shallow attraction when we had a deeper matter, murder, to discuss. Then I recalled that Mark had solved many such crimes during his investigative career, so I hoped he would accept Grant’s invitation.

“Thanks, but I have plans”—Mark checked his watch—“and I’m running late. I have a lunch meeting with the publisher of the Desert Sun. Then I’m touring their offices and printing plant.”

I joshed, “A working vacation…”

“Yeah, I guess.” Mark laughed. “The fourth estate—ever vigilant.” Then, after a quick round of farewells, he dashed out the front door.

Grant turned to watch him leave.

I said, “You’re almost ‘married,’ remember.”

“And blissfully so. But I’ll never stop looking.”

I singsonged, “Look but don’t touch.”

“Gawd, you’re square.” He tisked, then abruptly changed gears, asking, “Lunchtime?” And he escorted us to the dining room.

Grant had not exaggerated. His table was indeed “fabulous.” As we settled on the back terrace and unfurled our heavy linen napkins, I gazed across the Coachella Valley, which spread out beneath us and disappeared through the San Gorgonio Pass. Overhead, palms rustled in a languid breeze.

A waiter offered drinks. Out of deference to Larry, who was on duty, we all opted for iced tea. “It’s quite delectable,” Grant told me, whirling a hand. “They infuse it with mango or … or some manner of exotic sapor.”

Larry squinted. “‘Sapor’?”

“Flavoring. Really, Larry.”

“Sorry. Once a philistine…”

Waiting for our tea to arrive, we moved quickly to our intended topic. “So,” asked Larry, “Chaffee left everything to the museum?”

Grant lifted his briefcase from the limestone floor, set it in his lap, wedged it open, and peeped inside. “It was the damnedest thing. Merrit Lloyd had called me down to the bank because Stewart had left a turquoise ring to the museum, but I left with, in his words, ‘the whole shooting match.’” Grant plucked from his case the plastic sleeve that now held the old newspaper clipping. “If you ask me, this is a highly peculiar last will and testament, but Merrit thinks it’ll stand up.”

I added, “The banker said it should qualify as a holographic will because of Stewart’s handwritten note in the margin.”

Larry took the clipping from Grant and skimmed through it. “I’m no legal genius, but the intentions of the deceased do seem perfectly clear.” He set the printed interview aside.

Our tea arrived just then, and we raised our glasses in a toast to the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts. Grant added, “And to Stewart Chaffee’s memory, of course.”

“Of course.” We clinked glasses and sipped. Guava, perhaps.

Pausing in thought, Grant then told Larry, “The odd thing is, from the museum’s standpoint, there’s very little to celebrate.”

“Why not? It’s a windfall.”

“That word keeps popping up.” Grant went on to explain the double irony: Chaffee’s art collection was largely inappropriate to DMSA’s artistic mission, and the museum was no longer in financial need, thanks to Glenn Yeats’s generosity in bringing it under the stewardship of Desert Arts College. “What’s more,” Grant noted, “we won’t be able to sell the collection, so we’ll be faced with the trouble—and expense—of storing it.”

Menus were presented, which we perused briefly before ordering light lunches—twenty-dollar hotel salads. Grant reminded us, “This one’s on me.” He removed the newspaper clipping from the table and returned it to his briefcase on the floor.

When our waiter had left, I leaned into the table, asking Larry, “Well? Anything to report?”

Grant roared with laughter, drawing glances from several nearby tables.

Larry asked me, “Do I detect an inordinate note of interest in this investigation? Don’t tell me you’ve developed an appetite for police work—again.”

Grant cracked, “I thought you’d come to appreciate Claire’s ‘theatrical perspective’ on crime solving.”

“Actually,” said Larry, sitting back, “I have. I admit, when Claire got involved in the case of the sculptor’s wife, I was skeptical. But I found that her years in the theater have indeed imbued her with a keen understanding of plotting, motivation, and character. Plus, I’ve rarely known anyone with a sharper memory for detail.”

I suggested, “That’s because you’ve never memorized a three-hour Shakespearean script.” With a sharp nod, I added, “Verbatim.”

“No, I’ve never done that, and I doubt that I could. Plus, I don’t have Claire’s firsthand knowledge of the interaction, prior to yesterday, between Stewart Chaffee, the victim; Bonnie Bahr, the nurse; and Pea Fertig, the houseman. I’m man enough to admit it—I could use Claire’s help.”

I showed Grant the tip of my tongue, then turned to his brother. “I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”

Grant reminded me, “You’ve got a show to put on.”

“Yes,” I conceded, “that’s my top priority. But we’re into production week now, and the show has its own momentum. What’s more, my theatrical duties are at night.” Glancing at my watch, I grinned. “It’s barely past noon.”

“Oh, Lord.” Grant sat back, crowing. “Milady’s a sidekick again.”

Shushing him, I turned to Larry and repeated my original question. “Well? Anything to report?”

The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket and opened it on the table. “Here’s where we are. First, as established yesterday at the crime scene, the lack of fingerprints on the refrigerator handle points convincingly to foul play.”

“Meaning,” I clarified, “murder.”

“Yes. Further, when the refrigerator fell on Chaffee, crushing him, the door was splayed wide open.”

“Right,” I recalled. “That’s why there was such a mess.”

“Yes, but think about it. The logistics are inconsistent with how the refrigerator would have fallen if Chaffee himself had accidentally toppled it while trying to pull the door open. If the door had already opened wide enough to clear him, he would have stopped pulling. No, someone else opened the door, then easily overturned the refrigerator by using the leverage provided by the door. The culprit stayed only long enough to remove the fingerprints, then left Chaffee to die a horrible, painful death.”

“Poor Stewart,” said Grant, ditching his glib manner. “I wasn’t aware of the details. What a vile way to kill a helpless old man.”

Larry said, “The coroner has not ruled out the possibility that the ‘accident’ was staged to mask some other murder method, such as drug overdose or poisoning. Toxicology tests have been ordered, but those results can take days, even weeks, depending on the caseload.”

Grant suggested, “If it turns out that Stewart did have a drug overdose, that would point to the nurse, wouldn’t it?”

“On the surface,” I thought aloud. “But anyone with access to Stewart and his prescriptions might have given him an overdose to make it appear that Bonnie had done it.”

“Someone like Pea?”

I shrugged. “They seem to despise each other.” Turning to Larry, I said, “So toxicology is a big ‘if.’ Meanwhile, what has the coroner definitely established?”

Larry tapped his notebook. “Time of death. The autopsy itself is complete, and the coroner has fixed the time of Chaffee’s death sometime between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty on Monday morning. I’d prefer a tighter window, of course, but the time can’t be fixed more precisely because it’s impossible to calculate the effect of the refrigerator upon the victim’s loss of body temperature.”

“Still,” I noted, “that narrows it down to an hour. What about the security tape of cars entering the gate? That should tell you plenty.”

“It does.”

“Huh?” asked Grant, going pale.

Had he choked on a guava seed? Concerned, I asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Security tape?”

Larry explained to his brother, “The gate at Chaffee’s estate is equipped with a security system that shoots time-stamped photos of the rear bumper of every vehicle entering the grounds. There was a fair amount of traffic there yesterday morning. We had no trouble tracing all the plates.”

Grant weighed this news before saying, awkwardly, “Then I guess I understand why you were so quick to meet us for lunch. You said there was something important you needed to discuss.”

If there was caffeine in my tea, it hadn’t kicked in yet. Dense me. I asked, “What are you talking about?”

Grant slumped forward, bracing himself on his elbows. “I drove out to the estate yesterday morning.” With a sigh, he added, “It was sometime after eleven. Yes, I was there.”

I saved Larry the trouble of asking, “What for?”

Grant told both of us, “I was driving through the vicinity on an errand, and I wanted to make sure that Stewart had gotten the desk key, as promised. That’s all there was to it. When I pulled up to the gate and used the intercom, no one answered, so I punched in the code, which Stewart himself had given me. I went to the front door, rang the bell several times, but no one answered. So I left.”

Larry asked, “You were never inside the house?”

“No, not yesterday. Since no one seemed to be home, I left within a minute or two after I arrived.” Grant’s face brightened with a thought. “I’m sure the tapes will verify that.”

“I’m sure they would,” said the detective with a soft laugh, “but unfortunately, the system isn’t set up to record exiting vehicles.”

“Peachy.” Grant grimaced. “As far as anyone knows, I was there for hours, engaged in all manner of devilry.”

“Don’t be silly.” I patted his arm. “I arrived shortly after one o’clock with Tanner and Thad. You weren’t there then, so you couldn’t have been there for more than, say, an hour and a half.”

“Thanks a heap.”

Larry prompted his brother, “I assume you had lunch somewhere yesterday.”

Grant sniffed haughtily. “Have you ever seen me brown-bag it? I always dine out, and I generally have witnesses. In fact, I was right here yesterday, with a client, at this very table.”

Larry took notes. “What time?”

Grant fudged, “Noonish.”

I slid an accusing eye in his direction. “Which left you a whole hour for mischief.” I thought I’d better add, “Just kidding. Why would anyone suspect you, even remotely, of harboring motives to harm Stewart? You two were old friends.”

Larry suggested, “What about the windfall for the museum?” Though I assumed he wasn’t serious, I couldn’t be sure.

“Larry,” said Grant, “I’ve already told you—that ‘windfall’ is of very little use to DMSA, and it presents the museum with an enormous storage problem.”

“Relax,” said the cop. “I don’t suspect you any more than Claire does, but you were there yesterday, so I need to get you crossed off my list.”

“Good. How do we accomplish that?”

“For starters”—Larry hesitated—“you could volunteer a set of your fingerprints.”

Grant gasped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Sorry, I am.”

“Then you won’t need all ten, just the right index finger.” Grant displayed the digit. “The only thing I touched was the doorbell.”

Larry explained, “It’s a process of elimination. It we can match prints found at the property with people known to be there, people whose presence we can explain, we then stand a chance of identifying any unaccountable set of prints.”

“Mystery prints…,” I called them.

“Killer’s prints,” said Larry.

“Very well,” said Grant, sounding put-upon. “If you want my prints, you can certainly have them. What do I have to do—go down to the cop shop in shackles?”

Larry allowed a laugh. “Of course not. When we leave here, I can take care of it at my car. It won’t take half a minute.”

“Oh.” Grant lost his attitude. “Fine. No problem.”

I asked Larry, “Yesterday at the crime scene, you instructed a deputy to check the exterior doors for prints. I take it you found some.”

“Sure. Doorknobs are fingerprint magnets, so there were plenty. But because the refrigerator door handle had been wiped clean, I thought the killer might have cleaned the doorknobs as well.”

“And?”

The detective grinned. “Someone got sloppy—or rushed. They polished the inside knob of the front door before leaving, but neglected to clean the outside knob.”

I suggested, “Maybe they pulled the door closed by handling its edge with a cloth.”

“Entirely possible. But I doubt if they entered the house that way.”

“Aha.”

Grant leaned across the table, eyeing his brother’s notebook.

“Yes?” asked Larry.

“I believe you mentioned something about crossing me off your list.”

With a comical flourish of his pen, Larry did so.

Visibly relieved, Grant took a long swallow of his iced tea. Relieved for him, I did likewise. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Grant’s reason for visiting the estate—checking on the key—had been lame. His young partner, Kane, had taken responsibility for returning the key. Why would Grant have given a second thought to so simple a mission? Watching Larry scribble notes, I wondered if he had questioned this as well.

Grant set down his glass. “You mentioned tracing the plates of quite a few cars that visited the estate yesterday. Might I ask who else was there?”

I seconded, “Good question.”

“Sure,” said Larry, “let’s run through the list. Feel free to share your thoughts about any of this. The first car entering through the gate yesterday morning was a Mercedes-Benz belonging to Merrit Lloyd, the victim’s banker. It was early, about a quarter to eight.”

I recalled, “When I first met Merrit at the estate on Saturday, he mentioned that he would return with some paperwork early Monday, on his way into the office, I presume. I got the impression his services extended well beyond the normal bounds of banking. He said, ‘Many days, I’m here more than once.’”

“That checks out.” Larry tapped his pen on the pad. “Merrit showed up twice that morning.”

Grant sighed. “Ah, the privileged lifestyle of the wealthy few.”

I asked Larry, “Who arrived next?”

“Kane Richter. The tape shows that he drove past the gate at eight-fifteen, exactly as he told me last night. He returned the key to Stewart and left immediately.”

Grant added, “Kane said he didn’t see anyone else around, so Merrit Lloyd must have left by then, within a half hour after he arrived. He probably just needed a few signatures.”

“I’ll check it out,” said Larry, “but sure, that would make sense.”

I prodded, “Next?”

“The nurse, Bonnie Bahr, entered the grounds at nine on the nose.”

“Delivering the pink fluff,” I surmised.

“Yeah, that’s what she told me when I reached her by phone last night. She sounded pretty distraught about Chaffee’s death, so I didn’t press for details. I’ve arranged to meet her after lunch.”

“Not that I actively suspect Bonnie,” I said, “but that meeting should be informative. She was probably as close to Stewart as anyone was during his latter days, with total access to the house and complete knowledge of his various medical conditions. If she’s willing to open up, she could tell us plenty.”

“Us?” asked Larry.

“Well, I meant ‘us’ in the general sense of the investigation.” I sipped my tea.

Larry tapped his notes again. “Now we come to the houseman, Pea Fertig. This one is an intriguing character, if you’ll pardon the understatement.”

Grant said, “He’s been with Stewart forever. Frankly, I’ve never known what to make of Pea.” Grant paused before acknowledging, “He is odd.”

Larry continued, “He drove through the gate around nine-thirty.”

I recalled, “That’s what he told us yesterday afternoon. He said he’d gone out to a gym at seven-thirty and decided to check on Stewart briefly before going on his shopping spree.”

“Right. But remember, we have no way of verifying either the time he departed for the gym or the time he left to go shopping. And even though he said there seemed to be no one else at the house while he was there, we don’t know for a fact when Bonnie left.”

Grant asked, “Meaning, she could have been hiding, lurking, waiting?”

“Please,” I told him, “spare us the melodrama.”

“Anything’s possible,” Larry acknowledged, “especially when you consider that my time line is approaching the window established by the coroner for Chaffee’s death. This is where it starts to get interesting—and confusing.”

Grant cracked, “I must be having a blond day, but I’ve been confused since we sat down.”

A waiter—not the one who took our order, but a younger, beefier one who happened to be blond—appeared with our salads and circled the table, serving us. Grant and I were both mesmerized by the lad’s posterior, which, level with our eyes, alternately clenched and flexed as he stepped and reached, providing a momentary but welcome distraction from the headier theme of murder.

Larry set his notebook to the side as his salad landed in front of him. Oblivious to our ogling, he asked, “Do you mind if we continue to discuss business while we eat? I’m sorry the topic is so unappetizing.”

“No problem,” we assured him. The waiter had disappeared. “Please, go on.”

Larry glanced at his notes. “The next person to arrive, at ten-fifteen, was Merrit Lloyd—his second visit that morning.”

I considered the timing of Merrit’s return while forking a plump shrimp from the delicate, oily greens on my plate. “It was a workday, so I imagine Merrit’s second visit, like his first, was brief. He was probably gone by ten-thirty, the earliest that Stewart could have died.”

“Probably,” repeated Larry. “Now, here’s where I really need some help: Do either of you know anything about a Dawn Chaffee-Tucker? I got the ID on her car just as I was arriving here at the hotel. It’s registered in Santa Barbara, but there was some confusion as to whether it was hers or her husband’s, so the report took longer than it should have.”

Grant looked at me, then blinked. “On Sunday, when we returned the desk, didn’t Stewart mention a niece named Dawn from Santa Barbara?”

“He did. But he flatly rejected my suggestion that he should ‘reach out’ to her. Earlier, on Saturday, he confirmed with Merrit’s secretary that a Monday meeting had been set up with someone from a gallery in Santa Barbara. Sunday, he made such disparaging remarks about his niece, I assumed that the meeting was with someone else from Santa Barbara.”

Grant nodded. “Then, this morning, Merrit asked his secretary to send the bundle of old photos from Stewart’s safe-deposit box to the niece.”

“No way around it,” said Larry. “The niece from Santa Barbara and the person who Stewart planned to meet were clearly one and the same—Dawn Chaffee-Tucker.”

“Clearly,” I agreed. “But I don’t get it. Why would Stewart confirm the meeting on Saturday, disavow any interest in his niece on Sunday, then meet with her on Monday?”

“Hard to say. Maybe she can tell us.”

Grant asked, “What time did she arrive yesterday?”

“Eleven sharp, top of the hour, right on time for an appointment.”

“And right in the middle,” I noted, “of the time frame in which Stewart died.”

Larry swirled a strip of chicken in a glistening puddle of vinaigrette. “I’ve already instructed the department to contact her. The timing of her visit is suspicious, certainly, but if, as you say, Chaffee himself called the meeting, the agenda was his, not hers.” He paused in thought. “I need to talk to her.” Then he ate the chicken.

Grant hesitated. “I hate to ask, but who’s next on the list?”

“You, O brother mine. You opened the gate at eleven-twenty.”

I asked Grant, “Doesn’t it give you a nice, secure feeling to know that someone’s looking after you?”

“And you, Claire,” said Larry, “arrived in Tanner’s Jeep at eight minutes past one.” He frowned, looking down at his plate. “Could stand some pepper.”

I passed it to him. “So we have a detailed record of everyone entering the grounds of the estate yesterday.”

“And what we don’t have is any verifiable means of determining how long each of those visitors stayed. We have their own accounts, as well as each successive visitor’s report that no one else was there.”

I paused while he peppered, then asked, “What’s next?”

“Meet with them. Talk to them. Start examining motives, means, and opportunities. And hope that something clicks—or someone slips.”

I reminded him, “I’m free all afternoon.”

With only a moment’s hesitation, Larry said, “Not anymore, you’re not.”

Grant gave me a canny grin, but didn’t say a word.

*   *   *

Finishing our meal, Grant, Larry, and I rose from the table, paused to savor a last look across the valley, then left the terrace together, walking back through the dining room toward the hotel lobby.

The lunch crowd had swelled since our arrival, and the room now seemed inelegantly noisy with the chatter of patrons and clatter of plates. Several tables were turning, with a flurry of guests both arriving and departing. We got caught in this tangle near the door, pausing to let others pass as they entered.

Just as we were leaving, I happened to notice, from the corner of my eye, a couple being seated at a banquette along the wall. They were partly obscured by a waiter who adjusted the table as they settled side by side on the upholstered bench, but there was something familiar about them, so I lingered for a moment to watch. They leaned together and shared a kiss of easy intimacy; then the waiter handed them their menus and stepped away.

“What the—” I mumbled.

“Hmm?” asked Grant, wondering why I tarried.

“Look,” I said, “it’s Robin. With Atticus.”

“Who?”

“Robin,” I repeated, “Merrit Lloyd’s secretary.”

“I know Robin,” Grant reminded me, “but who—or what—is Atticus?”

By now, Larry was also sufficiently intrigued to join us in ogling the couple in the booth.

I explained, “Atticus is a colleague of mine at DAC, a painter. In fact, he did a marvelous portrait of Laura for our stage setting.”

“Oh?” asked Grant. “I’m eager to see it.”

“Soon enough. But meanwhile, what are they doing here?”

“Having lunch, I imagine.”

“I mean, what are they doing here together?”

At that moment, Robin placed her fingertips on Atticus’s forearm, looked into his eyes, and spoke to him with quiet intensity.

Larry cleared his throat. “I’d say it’s fairly obvious why they’re together.” With a laugh, he added, “That dog—he must be a good twenty years older than she is.”

Grant tisked. “I can’t imagine what she sees in him. Of course, they both have red hair.”

Though I’d grown accustomed to Grant’s non sequiturs, I had to ask, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Red hair?” He whirled a hand. “It’s a mutant strain, you know, a freakish hiccup of genetics. So they’re drawn to each other. Survival of the species—it has an irresistible allure.”

“You are so full of crap.” I was not amused. My ill humor, however, had nothing to do with Grant’s slant on Darwin. Rather, I was still stuck on Larry’s candid observation that Robin and Atticus were mismatched by age. He was right. They made a dreadful-looking couple. Did total strangers similarly recoil at the sight of me with Tanner?

Just then, Robin caught sight of us gawking. Following her eyes, Atticus turned to see us as well. Recognizing me through the crowd, he stood, doffed an imaginary hat, and greeted my little group with a supercilious bow. Knowing the man’s ego, I did not find it surprising that he took apparent pride in being discovered at lunch with a fashionable young girlfriend.

Robin, on the other hand, looked mortified.