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 Claire 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.’”

No one breathed a word.

“Well, now,” I said, tossing the card aside, “who do you suppose sent the red roses in the middle?” I eyed Grant, wondering, Was it he? Perhaps his brother, Larry? Or even the banker, Merrit Lloyd?

Hearing no guesses, I slit open the envelope, pulled out the card, and gasped. “Oh, Lord,” I muttered, “they’re from Hector.”

“See?” said Kiki. “His torch is still aflicker.”

“Oh, please.” I read aloud, “‘Brava, dear lady. Despite your abandonment of our fair city, you are still making headlines in the Times. I am leaving for the airport now and will soon be winging my way west to see you once more. Till this evening, my darling!’ And it’s signed, ‘Hector Bosch’—as if I might know more than one Hector.” I tossed the card on top of Glenn’s, lifted Tanner’s carnation from my lap, and sniffed its clean, unaffected scent.

“How terribly sweet of Hector,” said Grant with a crooked smile.

“I just hope he likes the play,” I worried aloud.

“Of course he will.” Kiki’s chair scraped the pavement as she rose. “If everyone will excuse me, I really must put myself together for the day.” She looked thoroughly put-together already, but I refrained from commenting. There was no telling how many costume changes her day would see.

Tanner rose as well. “I need to get going too. I’ve got some business on campus and a few errands to run.”

I told him, “Good idea to keep your mind occupied today. Don’t stew over the play. Eight o’clock will come soon enough.”

He leaned to give me a kiss, then lifted our tray of breakfast things. Kiki gabbed some pleasantries in parting. Within a few moments, Grant and I were left alone at the table.

“He really does suit you,” said Grant. “Tanner and you are looking very … domestic.”

Wistfully, I admitted, “I hope so. I mean, God, I’m not sure what I want. Do I dare to think this can actually work?”

“Why not, Claire? Live your dreams. I’m living mine with Kane. This weekend, we’ll decorate our first Christmas tree. You know the old bromide: life is not a dress rehearsal.”

“I’ve heard that once or twice.” Looking Grant in the eye, I told him, “What scares me is this: What if I decide that Tanner and I are right for each other, and then I lose him? He’ll find someone younger, or his career will take off, or—”

“Listen, Claire. You can’t control what you can’t control. You can only do what’s right for you. If all the other pieces fit, fabulous. If not, at least you tried.”

I twirled the flower in my hands, mentioning, “I may need a bigger place.”

Offhandedly, Grant suggested, “Move in with Glenn. He’s all but proposed it. He’d love to have you. And his digs are spectacular.”

“Stop that. You know what I mean. I may need a bigger place for the two of us, Tanner and me.” A hummingbird darted from a nearby arbor and began exploring Hector’s red roses.

Grant reminded me, “I’m a real-estate broker. Anytime you’re ready…” He paused, drumming his fingers on his chin. “Come to think of it, I’ve got a listing that’s perfect for you.”

Footfalls passed through the courtyard. Then Larry Knoll appeared at the gate. “I thought I might find you back here.”

“He’s so clever,” said Grant. “My brother, the detective.”

“Good morning, Larry,” I called to him. “Come on in.”

He crossed the terrace, greeting both Grant and me, then sat at the table with us. With a broad smile, he shook his head, saying, “I’ve got to hand it to you, Claire—you really pulled it off. I have no idea how you pieced everything together when you did, but your timing was impeccable.”

“Must be due to my theatrical training.” I primped. “It was nothing.”

Grant asked his brother, “And how are the deadly duo this morning?”

“Haven’t seen them today. But they were feisty as hell last night. The fraud charges are a done deal; we’ll have no trouble picking up the money trail.”

“And the murder charges?” I asked.

“Robin played it smug until we took her fingerprints. I gave her one last chance to level with me, dangling the carrot of leniency. Your gambit worked, Claire. She believed your story about the incriminating ‘female’ thumbprint. We got a complete confession.”

I shrugged. “Happy to help.”

Grant said to Larry, “You mentioned a money trail. Where is all the cash they swindled out of Stewart? Neither Robin nor Atticus seemed to be flashing it around, living beyond their means.”

“They managed to hide it, invest it, or plant it somewhere offshore. Robin is well acquainted with the ins and outs of banking; she’s a pro. Chances are, their scam would never have come to light if it hadn’t been for the murder. Now, though, tracing the money will be a breeze.”

I flipped my hands. “Neat and easy. You must have been tucked in by ten last night.”

Larry laughed. “Actually, no.”

Grant and I turned to each other with an inquisitive look.

Larry explained, “Apparently you suggested that several interested parties should check the victim’s home computer. No sooner had I finished up with Robin and Atticus than I got a phone call from the banker, Merrit Lloyd. He was at the estate, and they’d found a file on the computer, claiming it spelled out Chaffee’s last wishes.”

“Ahhh.” I sat back in my chair. “Then we were right all along. The envelope that Stewart gave to Merrit last Saturday did contain a homemade will.”

“It would seem so, yes. And that’s why Merrit phoned. He wanted to instantly alert someone in an official capacity that the file had been found, presumably to forestall any future claims that the electronic document was a fraud. So I went right over there, taking with me a computer specialist from the department. Everything seems to check out. The document was created in Stewart’s directory late last week.”

Grant asked, “Can I presume, then, that the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts is not Stewart’s true heir?”

“Correct. He left a few minor items to the museum, stuff that fits its collection, but most of his estate goes elsewhere.” Larry crossed his arms.

I had to ask, “Well?”

“Let’s just say that when I arrived last night, I was greeted by some very happy people. First of all, Stewart willed the house, many of the antiques, and several other real-estate holdings to his longtime companion, Makepeace Fertig. Second, he left the bulk of his art collection to his niece, Dawn Chaffee-Tucker. And finally, he left a sizable cash remembrance to his nurse, Bonnie Bahr.” With a grin, Larry added, “Among those parties, there was a consensus that everyone had been treated fairly. The will named Merrit Lloyd executor of the estate, and the banker was greatly relieved that probate battles now seem unlikely.”

Grant swirled some tepid coffee in the bottom of his mug. “And thus ends a colorful chapter in the history and lore of Palm Springs decorating.” He tossed the coffee along the roots of a nearby hedge.

Larry stood. “Forgery and murder—yes, I’d call that fairly colorful.”

I stood as well, offering Larry a farewell hug. “Forgery…,” I echoed as he was about to leave. “I wonder what will become of the Per-Olof Östman paintings faked by Atticus. I suppose, with all the other art, they’ll go to Stewart’s niece.”

Larry laughed heartily.

I turned to Grant, who sat there with a blank expression, looking as mystified as I was. So I asked the detective, “What am I missing?”

Still chortling, he said, “I thought you’d never get around to asking about those.”

“Okay, okay,” said Grant, “we’re asking: Did Dawn inherit the Östmans?”

“No, Grant.” Larry stuffed his hands in his pockets. He paused. “You did.”

Grant and I shared a dumbstruck, jaw-dropping glance. Then he rose, asking his brother, “Me?”

“Yup. Chaffee was explicit. It seems he had truly admired you over the years, and he was especially pleased that you’d now taken over at the museum. He claimed that acquiring the Östman collection was his crowning accomplishment. The paintings are yours.”

“I’m … stunned.”

“And you’d be rich—if they were real.”

“Yeah.” Grant turned to me, hand to hip. “Did you have to be quite so quick in exposing this artistic chicanery?”

“Sorry.” I hugged him. “Easy come, easy go.”

He sighed. “The story of my life.”

“Get over it.”

Larry said, “Gotta run. Thanks again, Claire. I’ll see you tonight at the theater. And, Grant—congratulations.” With an exaggerated wink, the detective left.

When his footfalls had receded and tapered off to nothing, the glorious desert morning seemed suddenly quiet. Even the birds hushed, as if an angel of silence had passed through the trees.

“Grant,” I said, taking his arm, strolling him across the terrace, “I need to have a word with you.”

“Yes, doll?”

“Regarding a bridge.”

“Hm?”

“A drawbridge. A rustic drawbridge captured at sunset in a neo-impressionist masterpiece.”

He stopped in his tracks, correcting me, “Minor Swedish neo-impressionist masterpiece.”

I further corrected, “Fake, worthless minor masterpiece.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, tapping his noggin, “that one. I recall it well, a bucolic treasure. Milady isn’t … interested, is she?”

“Possibly, Grant. Possibly.”

We pattered on in this affable manner, ambling together along the apron of the pool.

The hummingbird, having needle-nosed its fill from Hector’s roses, shot across the water, then flirted with the towering orange finger of an ocotillo flower before skirring to the heavens.

I watched, breathless, as the iridescent speck disappeared in a vast, blue December sky.