11

Larry Knoll discreetly took a set of his brother’s fingerprints in the shadows of the hotel portico, then drove me from the Regal Palms in his anonymous-looking county-issue sedan. The souped-up cruiser resembled Grant’s car in only one respect: it was white. We snaked down the mountain roadway from the hotel, then headed up valley along Highway One-Eleven, passing out of ritzy Rancho Mirage and into working-class Cathedral City.

“By my count,” I summarized, “there were six people at the Stewart Chaffee estate yesterday morning—Merrit Lloyd, Kane Richter, Bonnie Bahr, Pea Fertig, Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, and Grant—plus Stewart himself, of course.”

“Correct. And of those, I’m willing to assume, for now, that three are above suspicion. Either timing or circumstances seem to clear Merrit Lloyd, Kane, and Grant. On the other hand, there’s still plenty to sort out regarding the nurse, the houseman, and the niece.”

The first of those suspects, nurse Bonnie Bahr, lived on a quiet side street off the main highway in Cathedral City, a few blocks from the new city hall and its surrounding downtown redevelopment. Larry coasted to the curb in front of a modest but tidy stucco house. Its garage faced the street; parked in the driveway was the powdery blue Korean compact I’d seen on Sunday at Chaffee’s estate. Larry pulled out his notebook to double-check the address. I told him, “This is the place. That’s Bonnie’s car.”

We got out of the unmarked sedan and stepped along the short, curving walk to the front door. “I’m eager to meet this gal,” Larry told me as he rang the bell.

Recalling that he’d characterized Bonnie as a Nurse Ratched, I assured him, “She’s not what you think.”

We waited a few moments, but no one answered, so Larry pushed the doorbell again. I asked, “We are expected, right?”

“You’re not, but I am.” He checked his watch.

Then the door opened. “Gosh,” Bonnie told Larry, “I hope you weren’t waiting long. I had the TV on—must’ve been sorta loud.” Spotting me, she said, “Why, Miss Gray, what a nice surprise.”

Larry introduced himself, adding, “It was good of you, Miss Bahr, to make time for me today. And I understand you were most cooperative in providing my deputy with fingerprints this morning. This has surely been difficult for you. I hope you don’t mind that I brought Claire along. As you may know, she’s the one who discovered what happened yesterday.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” cooed Bonnie. “Of course you’re welcome. I’m glad you’re here. Please, won’t you come in? No point in standing outdoors.”

Truth is, it was a spectacular afternoon, and I would have enjoyed having our discussion on a little patio somewhere—Bonnie’s home probably had one in back—but she waved us through the front door, which opened directly into a small, dark living room, its curtains drawn against the midday sun. A large, ungainly television hunkered in one corner. A ceramic Christmas tree, about a foot high with a light in it, doubtless the handiwork of some crafts class, was perched atop the cabinet, placed off to the side like an afterthought. The TV sound was muted, but the screen flashed the opening credits of the soap opera Passions.

Bonnie wore white slacks—surely part of a nursing uniform, not flattering on a big woman—along with a rumpled top in a colorful print that looked more dingy than joyful in the shadowy room. Clearly, she was out of sorts. Unless she had killed Stewart Chaffee, she had not expected to be home today. She offered, “Can I get you something?”

“No, thanks,” we answered. “Just came from lunch.”

“Then, please, have a seat. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Larry and I both sat on a nubby green couch flanked by end tables holding lamps with huge white silk shades, grossly out of proportion with the room. One of the lamps was within reach of me, and I was tempted to switch it on, as my eyes had not yet fully adjusted from the daylight. Bonnie sat in a recliner, apparently “her” chair, placed at an angle to the couch, facing the TV, which flickered at the corner of my vision.

Larry flipped open his notebook and clicked a ballpoint pen. “If you don’t mind, Miss Bahr, I’d like to run through a few routine questions establishing your background.”

“Certainly, Detective.” She affirmed her name and address and gave her age as thirty-four. While detailing her education and early nursing career, she kept glancing from Larry to the television. Pausing to watch for a moment, she said, “Isn’t that cute?”

I turned to look at the screen. Juliet Mills, playing a dotty witch done up in a hairdo that made her look like a refugee from Cats, was sipping a pink cocktail while conversing with a floating head. With a forced laugh, I agreed, “Cute.”

Larry cleared his throat. “You’re single, correct, Miss Bahr?”

Her wan smile faded as she shifted her focus from the witch in the soap opera to the detective in her living room. “Yes,” she said, “single. Never married. Grew up in the Midwest, so I have no family out here. In a sense, I guess you could say I’m alone in the world.”

I would have found her self-profile disarmingly pitiable were it not for my own circumstances, which were remarkably similar to hers—except that I’d never been happier. Bonnie, on the other hand, had just suffered an unexpected death in her life, and I could not yet judge the depth of her relationship to the deceased.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “Just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I feel unneeded or useless. I’m a nurse—a caregiver, as they like to say. It may sound sorta cliché, but I’m wed to my career.”

Larry gave her a soft smile. “I’m sure it’s satisfying work.”

“It can be.” Her expression went hard. “The nursing field has changed a lot, even in the ten years or so that I’ve been at it. Hospital nursing isn’t nearly so noble as I thought it would be when I was a kid. It’s constant paperwork, impossible hours, and inflexible regulation. It got to the point where I couldn’t stand it, so I bowed out and found a different calling—private-duty nursing.”

“When did you make this transition?”

“Two years ago.” She thought a moment. “Two years, two months. I had just resigned from my hospital position when Stewart suffered his stroke, requiring full-time at-home nursing and rehab. Not to sound opportunist, but I guess you could say I was in the right place at the right time. I’ve been employed in his household ever since.” She bowed her head, adding, “Till yesterday, of course.”

I told her, “I’m a little surprised you’re at home today.”

She gave me a strange look. “My patient has expired. And so has my job.”

“I understand. But in the aftermath of Stewart’s sudden death, I should think you’d be needed at the estate—at least for a little while—sorting through things, helping out.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” She shook her head with disgust, getting agitated. “Pea, that weasel, seems to think he’s ruling the roost now. The little shit has actually barred me from returning to the house.” She swiped up a remote control and jabbed one of its buttons, which blackened the television. The room now seemed eerily dark, with searing streaks of sunlight leaking in from the slits and edges of the curtains.

Larry asked, “In what sense did Pea ‘bar’ your return?”

“Said he’d call the cops, that bitchy little mother—” She stopped herself.

“I can’t imagine why,” said Larry. “Under the circumstances, I doubt if the police would act on his complaint. As far as we know, he has no authority there. He’s out of work too.”

“Tell him that.”

“I just may. I’m meeting with him later this afternoon.”

A vindictive grin turned Bonnie’s mouth.

Larry continued, “We could use your help in sorting through Stewart’s medications. I understand there were quite a few.”

She reminded him, “They had to hire a nurse to deal with it all. There was plenty to keep track of.” She got up from her chair, crossed the room to a window, and drew the curtains open, admitting a blast of light.

Larry squinted. “Can you recall any of them?”

“Sure. All of them.” And Bonnie proceeded to list well over a dozen prescription medicines that had sustained Stewart during his latter days. Larry took notes as Bonnie described each drug’s purpose and detailed its dosage.

“In addition to the medications,” said Larry, “Stewart needed rehab, correct?”

Nodding, Bonnie moved from the window to the sofa, standing squarely before Larry and me. “After the stroke, Stewart couldn’t walk, lost the use of one arm, and needed speech therapy. Gradually, with a lot of work, everything improved. Even though he felt he still needed the wheelchair, his arm and his speech recovered completely. It was gratifying to see him come back physically and emerge from his aphasia. Because I hadn’t known the man before his stroke, it was almost like witnessing his birth.”

As Bonnie detailed the regimens of physical therapy she had provided, it was easy to imagine her hoisting the ill, stretching sluggish muscles, pummeling away pain. This benign image was countered by a more sinister one—Bonnie toppling a refrigerator with the effortless nudge of a well-trained arm.

“Miss Bahr,” said Larry, “I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Chaffee, but I certainly knew of him; everyone in the valley did. What was he like?”

With a sheepish smile, Bonnie said, “I’m sorta reluctant to talk about him, now that he’s gone.”

I leaned forward, telling her, “I think what Larry is asking is, what was it like, working for Stewart? How would you describe your relationship?”

Larry gave me a discreet, grateful wink.

Bonnie reminded us, “I never knew him in his prime, but from everything I’ve heard, he was always quite a character.” She sat again in the recliner, knees together, hands folded, looking suddenly dainty, an improbable image. “Stewart had a quirky personality, that’s for sure, and he was difficult to work for at times—but he was sick, and that’s why I was there. Sometimes his mind wasn’t right, and those were the most difficult times, but he always snapped out of it. He could be charming and gracious. I think that was his true nature, believe it or not.”

I nodded, admitting, “I could see that in him, easily. Still, during my visits, his manner was generally gruff and unpredictable. At times, Bonnie, his treatment of you verged on abusive.”

She shook her head, telling us flatly, “That wasn’t the real Stewart Chaffee. It’s unfair to judge him for his name-calling. There’s a special relationship between a patient and a long-term caregiver that’s difficult for an outsider to understand. Good Lord, I helped bathe the man; he depended on me. And sure, I depended on him; he paid me well. So our barking back and forth didn’t mean anything. Really. Not a thing.”

Larry asked, “Is it safe to say, then, that you were not only Mr. Chaffee’s nurse, but also his companion?”

She gave the detective an odd look. “Well, sort of. When Pea wasn’t around.”

Larry flashed me a quizzical glance. I shrugged an I-dunno. He asked Bonnie, “You served as Mr. Chaffee’s companion when the houseman wasn’t around?”

“I never thought of Pea as the ‘houseman.’ He was more of a secretary. You know—he scheduled things, ran errands, and such.”

“Okay,” said Larry, amending his notes. “But Pea was also Mr. Chaffee’s companion?”

“Maybe I’m behind the times.” Bonnie blew an exasperated sigh. “I’m not sure what they call themselves these days.”

Larry scratched behind an ear. “You’re not sure what who call themselves?”

She blurted, “Gay people.”

Larry still looked confused. “Everyone’s aware that Stewart Chaffee was gay. And I got the impression that Pea Fertig is also. Are you now telling me that Stewart and Pea were … gay together?”

I translated: “Bonnie, were Pea and Stewart lovers?”

“Well, they weren’t sleeping together, if that’s what you mean. But I’m pretty sure they used to.”

“How long ago?”

“Beats me. Long time ago. I’m not even sure how long those two had been together, but it must’ve been decades. Cripes, I wonder what Stewart ever saw in him.”

“For one thing,” I suggested, “Pea was thirty-some years younger. Chances are, Stewart found that highly attractive.”

Bonnie’s face wrinkled. “That’s disgusting.”

In light of my relationship with Tanner, I was tempted to take offense. Instead, I countered, “It sounds to me as if they were loving and loyal. Sex had withered from their relationship, but Pea, still in his best years, held on. He remained ‘there’ for Stewart because he was needed.”

Bonnie corrected me, “He remained ‘there’ for Stewart because he was paid. And don’t kid yourself—Pea resented it.”

“How could you tell?”

“His behavior, of course. He’s a nasty little bastard. But think about it. How would you feel? You used to be this rich, important guy’s ‘wife,’ and now here you are, reduced to nothing more than paid domestic help.”

Bonnie had made a good point. Both Larry and I recognized it. He asked her, “What sort of services did Pea perform in the household?”

Bonnie began to speak, then hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe you should ask him about that. To my way of thinking, he wasn’t very useful at all. One thing’s for sure—he couldn’t cook.”

“And you can,” I said brightly, shifting the topic.

Modestly, she allowed, “I get by in the kitchen, but nothing fancy. On my day shifts at the estate, I always made lunch for Stewart. Simple stuff—soup and sandwiches.”

Larry asked, “Who fixed dinner?”

“There was part-time help who came in for that. Or Pea would bring meals home from various restaurants that Stewart liked.”

I reminded her, “You also made pink fluff.”

She smiled sweetly. “Sure. Rice Krispies squares, too. They’re easy to make, and he enjoyed them so. Considering his refined tastes and cultured past, I don’t know why he took such a liking to such childish foods. His favorite lunch was canned spaghetti.”

“Sometimes,” I ventured, “as we grow older, our tastes change. And it’s often been observed that the elderly seem to revert to childhood—playing with dolls, for instance, or collecting stuffed toys.” As another example of age reversion, I recalled Grant joking with me, that very morning, about changing each other’s diapers. In the interest of decorum, however, I kept the thought to myself.

“It’s true,” said Bonnie. “In health care, we see it every day. As death approaches, it often brings with it a second infancy.”

Finding Bonnie’s observation both sensitive and poetic, I was glad I hadn’t mentioned diapers.

Getting us back on track, Larry asked the nurse, “This pink fluff—you brought some to Stewart yesterday morning, correct?”

She nodded. “He’d been asking for it for several days, so I made a batch of it here at home on Sunday night.”

Larry turned a page of his notebook. “Please tell me everything you can remember about going to the estate yesterday.”

Bonnie paused, closing her eyes, gathering her thoughts. With a blink, she began, “Monday is my day off. I had the pink fluff in a large green Tupperware bowl. I left here sometime before nine and drove over to the estate, arriving a few minutes later. I let myself in through the front gate, using the entry code. Then I drove up to the house and went inside, using my key.”

I asked, “Where did you park? Which door did you use.”

“I parked around back, in the courtyard by the garage, as usual. Then I entered through the kitchen door, as usual.”

Larry asked, “Did you need to disarm the security system at the door?”

“No, it was activated only at night. During the day, the gate security was sufficient to keep out salesmen or snoops.”

“Tell us about entering the house.”

“There’s nothing much to tell. Passing through the kitchen, I put the pink fluff in the fridge, then went to find Mr. Chaffee. I wanted to tell him that I’d brought the fluff, but I also wanted to check on him and see if there was anything he needed.”

“Did you call his name?”

“No. He sleeps at all hours, so I didn’t want to risk waking him. I began walking through the house and quickly found him—in the living room, asleep in his wheelchair, taking some sun through the window. I went back to the kitchen and wrote him a note about the fluff. I put the note in his lap, where he’d be sure to find it, and then I left.”

Everything she said was consistent with the story Pea had told us after he’d returned to the estate on Monday afternoon. Her estimated arrival time was consistent with the evidence of the video camera.

Larry asked, “While you were there, did you see anyone besides Mr. Chaffee?”

“The house sure seemed empty, but I didn’t make a point of checking. None of the service people would be there at that hour, and I assumed Pea had gone to the gym, which he often does in the morning. The garage door was closed, so I don’t know for a fact if his car was there or not.”

Larry was making detailed notes. “Thank you, Miss Bahr. This is helpful. Where did you go after leaving the estate?”

“It was a beautiful day—we’ve been having such delightful weather, with winter setting in. Since I’d never been to the Living Desert Reserve, I decided to check it out.”

I asked, “Living Desert?”

Larry explained, “It’s a popular botanical park on the outskirts of Palm Desert, up in the foothills on Portola Avenue.”

Bonnie added, “They’ve got all the indigenous plants, plus an exhibit of palms of the world, not to mention the animals.”

“Snakes?” I asked feebly.

“They keep those separate,” she assured me, “in another building.”

“How sensible. A snakehouse.”

“But most of the other critters are right out in the open. You should see the meerkats. They’re adorable.”

Trying to sound interested, I asked, “Are they some sort of wildcat?”

“No, they’re not cats at all. They sorta look like prairie dogs, but they’re part of the mongoose family.”

This too struck me as sensible—in case of a breach at the snakehouse.

Larry asked, “How long were you there?”

“Till well past one. I had lunch there. It was okay, but they were slow. It’s crowded this time of year.”

“Did you get an entry ticket, maybe a stub?”

“I think they gave me a receipt when I paid, but I probably tossed it.” Then she thought of something. “I got a pamphlet, though. Would you like to see it?” And she rose from her chair, went to a table near the door, and brought back a brochure about the park.

“Thank you,” said Larry, glancing at it, handing it to me.

“Those are the meerkats,” said Bonnie, pointing to a photo on the cover. “Don’t they look like they’re smiling?” In fact, they did.

While Larry continued to question Bonnie about the remainder of her Monday afternoon, I idly paged through the brochure. It told me that, in all likelihood, Bonnie had visited the park, but it didn’t tell me when. If, as she claimed, she was there on Monday from midmorning through noon, she would be held above suspicion in Chaffee’s murder.

On the other hand, because she seemed unable to verify her alibi of visiting the crowded tourist attraction, alone, at the time of Chaffee’s death, it was conceivable that she had not left the estate after writing the note that morning. She could have hidden in the house during the succession of later visitors, lured her elderly patient to the refrigerator, using pink fluff as bait, then toppled the refrigerator, crushing him. The note may have been an afterthought, planted on his dead or dying body to help exonerate her.

In other words, Bonnie Bahr had had the means and possibly the opportunity to kill Stewart Chaffee. But did she have a motive? Seemingly, she had none at all.

Larry was wrapping up his questions, thanking her for her cooperation, when she asked, “Exactly what happened, Detective? The newspaper didn’t give much information, and when Pea called to inform me that my services were no longer needed, he mentioned something about the kitchen, but told me no more. How did Stewart die?” She sat again, looking somber and concerned.

Larry hesitated, then said, “Mr. Chaffee was found in the kitchen, crushed in his wheelchair by the refrigerator, which had fallen over. It may have been an accident, but some of the circumstances suggest foul play.” He was being as vague about his suspicions, I noted, as he had been yesterday while talking with Pea at the crime scene.

Bonnie had gone pale. “My God,” she whispered, lifting both hands to her face, “Stewart must’ve been after the pink fluff.” She began to cry, telling us through her tears, “I shouldn’t have left that note for him. I should have woken him up and given him his treat. He always had trouble opening the fridge door.”

With a sob, she whined, “I should’ve stayed to help him.”