8

Tuesday morning, Tanner and I lounged with coffee and newspapers on the terrace near the pool at Villa Paseo. Having spent a late night at the theater, we took our time rising that morning. Though it was well past nine, an overnight chill still clung to the valley, so we’d donned comfy, bulky sweaters and lit the firepot on the terrace near our table. An unimaginative cook at best, I’d managed to butter a stack of toast, which we now nibbled at, sharing from a common plate.

Sitting across from me at the round table, Tanner poured me a fresh cup of coffee, drizzling it in a long stream from the pot. Its steam dazzled in the desert sunshine, then vanished in the clear morning air. Reaching for the cup, I set aside the Palm Springs paper. Its headline announced the demise of the king of decorators, a longtime figure on the local social scene. The story gave no details as to how Stewart Chaffee had died; it merely referred to an accident at home that police were still investigating. Quotes from all manner of high-profile acquaintances mourned the loss.

“Two more rehearsals,” I told Tanner, affecting a breezy tone, trying to push the murder from my mind. “We’re almost there. Isn’t it thrilling?”

“It is for me.” Tanner lolled back in his chair, smiling—God, that smile. “But I can’t imagine that you find this production all that thrilling. I mean, you’ve directed some of the finest theatrical talent in the English-speaking world. Let’s face it: this is a glorified school play.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” I winked astutely. “With Glenn Yeats’s backing, the technical aspects of this show rival the best professional productions anywhere. As to the acting talent, well, it’s my job to raise the bar and set new standards.”

“Have we lived up to them?” asked Tanner, referring to the whole cast.

I answered with a question of my own. “Do you think I’d invite the New York press—to say nothing of prominent talent scouts—to Friday’s opening if I were less than confident of delivering top-notch theater?”

“Guess not.”

“Oh, sure,” I continued, “we still have work to do. There were a few lighting glitches last night, but we’ll get them ironed out. There’s always room to improve the acting, naturally, and—”

“You gave enough notes last night.”

“Of course I did. But what did the notes focus on? Not flubbed lines, missed entrances, or sloppy cues. No, we’re down to the nitty-gritty, the meat of acting—interpretation, pacing, and cohesive ensemble skills. Trust me. Tanner. We’re very, very close.”

Had I been totally honest, I would have confided to Tanner that Monday’s rehearsal had, in my judgment, slipped some from our previous efforts. But I attributed this to the hoo-ha generated by the murder, and I was confident that the distraction would quickly pass—by that evening, I hoped.

Tanner paused in thought, holding his coffee mug with both hands, then slurped from it, exhaling steam. He looked up. “Critics and talent scouts—you’ve mentioned them before. It’s unlike you to be so coy, Claire. What are you up to?”

I grinned. “I’m not being coy. Hardly. It’s just that I have reason to believe there will be some very big names in the audience on Friday night. If a buzz gets going among the cast, it could be counterproductive. Besides, the spotlight belongs on the stage, not on the auditorium.”

Tanner leaned forward, set his coffee down, and fixed me in his stare. With a tone of mock threat, he demanded, “I want names, Claire.”

How could I refuse him? Who could refuse him? “Very well. You understand, though, this is for your ears only, not backstage gossip.”

“Got it.” He mimed zipping his lips. Lord, those lips.

“I’ve invited a number of theater writers, but the most prominent of these”—I paused for effect—“is Hector Bosch, critic at large for the New York Weekly Review.”

“I’m impressed.”

“We’re old friends.”

“He’s tough, though.”

I shrugged. “He’s a critic. Get used to it.”

Tanner considered this for a moment, then asked, “Who else?”

“All right.” I cleared my throat. “Don’t read too much into this. I haven’t called in any ‘talent scouts’ as such, but since we’re so near to LA, I thought I’d invite a couple of film producers whom I’ve met in the past. They’re always on the lookout for new talent, and they’ve accepted.”

“Who?”

“One you wouldn’t know. The other is Spencer Wallace.”

I’d expected Tanner to be surprised, but not dumbstruck. His jaw actually dropped. With a choked cough, he finally found his voice. “You have got to be kidding. Spencer Wallace? The mega-producer supreme? Mr. Blockbuster?”

“The same.”

“Wallace will be in our audience on Friday?”

I laughed. “Let’s hope he doesn’t whisk you away when the show closes. This is our first production, an auspicious start, but I need to build a whole department, a lasting program.” I spoke of this concern blithely, as if Hollywood never beckoned so quickly, only in fairy tales. In truth, I already dreaded losing Tanner, whether sooner or later.

It was Tanner’s turn to laugh. “Not to worry, Claire. I’ll do my best to deliver a great show to Wallace and Bosch and anyone else you’ve invited, but I have no delusions about overnight stardom. I’m quite content to pay my dues for a while—and to learn my craft from you.”

Was it any mystery that I found him so infatuating?

“Morning, doll!” said my neighbor, Grant Knoll, strolling out to the terrace, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other. “You too, Claire.”

“Morning, Grant,” said Tanner.

“Hello, Grant.” I offered my cheek, which he obligingly kissed.

He told us, “I spotted you from the kitchen window. Mind some company?”

“Of course not,” we said. “Have a seat.” Which he did, sitting between us, flopping the paper on the table.

I said, “I see you’ve read the news. I’m sorry about your friend. The paper didn’t go into much detail, but I was there. So was Tanner. You’ll never believe—”

“I’ve heard all about it,” he assured me. “My brother Larry paid a call last night, needing to clarify the particulars of Kane’s visit with Stewart yesterday morning.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Here he is now,” said Grant. He called, “Over here, Kane. Join us.”

And Grant’s young lover walked out from their living room, dressed for a day of classes, looking every inch the college kid. He carried a banana. “Hi, guys,” he greeted all of us, approaching the table.

We greeted him in turn as he sat in the fourth chair, across from Grant. Peeling his banana, he spotted the newspapers. “Man, how ’bout that? I was there yesterday, returning the desk key.”

Tanner told him, “Claire and I were there in the afternoon. We found him.”

Kane nodded. “Larry told us what happened. He even took my fingerprints—pretty cool!” Kane bit off the end of the banana, chewed, and swallowed. Then his features turned more serious. “It must’ve been awful, finding the old guy like that. He was sure alive when I was there.”

“Oh?” I sensed that Kane had more to tell. “What time was that?”

Wryly, Grant noted, “You sound like my brother—the cop. Milady isn’t wheedling her way into another murder investigation, is she?”

I shushed him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Kane answered my question. “I stopped there on my way to campus. I left here around eight and arrived at DAC by eight-thirty, so I must have dropped off the key around eight-fifteen. That’s what I told Larry last night.”

“How long were you there? Did you talk to anyone?”

Kane laughed. “That’s what Larry asked.”

From the corner of his mouth, Grant said, “I rest my case. Madam is sleuthing again.”

“I wasn’t there long,” said Kane, “no more than five minutes. I rang the intercom at the gate, and someone buzzed me in. When the gate opened, I drove in and went up to the front door. The old guy answered it himself. It took him a while; he was in his wheelchair. He asked me to come in, saying he had more ‘treats’ for me.” Kane rolled his eyes. “I knew better than that, so I just handed him the key, thanked him, and left. That’s all there was to it.”

I asked, “And there was no one else around?”

“Nope. Not that I could tell.” Kane ate more of his banana.

I recalled the previous afternoon, when Larry had questioned Pea Fertig about his whereabouts that morning. Pea had said he’d left the house for the gym at seven-thirty, then checked back on Stewart at nine-thirty. Kane’s brief visit had been squarely in the middle of Pea’s absence, leaving a lot of time unaccounted for.

Grant asked me, “Bottom line—did you get Stewart’s clock for your set?”

I nodded. “Larry convinced Pea to let me take it. I can’t thank you enough, Grant, for suggesting it. The clock is perfect; the set’s a knockout.”

“Can’t wait to see it.” And we gabbed about the play.

Still, the murder was like a cloud intruding on the bright morning, and our conversation kept drifting back to it. We all agreed that while Stewart’s death was not exactly untimely—he was eighty-two—it was nonetheless an ugly injustice. What’s more, it was baffling. Larry had already ruled out the possibility that Stewart had died of a self-inflicted accident. Someone had killed him, but why? Though Stewart had been a wealthy man, there was not yet an apparent, specific motive for anyone to want him dead.

Grant checked his watch, downed the last of his coffee, and set the mug on the table. “It’s after ten already. I can’t linger.”

I asked, “Busy day ahead at the Nirvana office?” I myself looked forward to a day of leisure. After Monday night’s rehearsal, I’d cancelled my only Tuesday class, an advanced acting workshop. Most of my students were involved with the play. Why waste their energies on class when they’d be doing the real thing again that night?

“No,” said Grant, “there’s nothing going on at the office this morning, but I have an appointment to meet Stewart’s banker, Merrit Lloyd, in Indian Wells.”

I was suddenly on high alert. “Oh?”

Grant grinned, delighted that he had tantalized me so easily. “Merrit phoned me at home last night, shortly after my brother left. He’s planning to open Stewart’s safe-deposit box this morning and examine its contents. He recalled that Stewart had given him some minor item a few years ago, asking him to place it in the vault and telling him that it should be given to the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts. Since I’m now president of the museum’s board, Merrit thought I might want to be present when the box is opened. So I need to head over to Indian Wells Bank and Trust.” Grant pushed back his chair.

Hoping to delay his departure, I asked, “Did Merrit give you any idea of what Stewart had left for the museum? Something highly valuable?”

Tanner cleared his throat, a suggestion that I should mind my own business.

Grant shook his head. “I got the impression it was an Indian artifact of some kind. As to what else he kept in the bank vault—who knows?”

I reminded him, “We know there’s a plain white envelope in there. Stewart gave it to Merrit on Saturday. From the tenor of their conversation that day, the envelope contained a homemade will.” I twitched my brow as if to ask, Get it?

Grant eyed me with suspicion. “What conceivable interest does milady have in Stewart Chaffee’s will?”

With an exasperated grumble, I explained, “The murder. Stewart didn’t trust lawyers, so he wrote himself a will and delivered it to his banker. Two days later, Stewart was dead.”

Kane set down his banana peel. “Maybe someone was after an inheritance.”

“I have to admit,” said Tanner, “it’s not far-fetched.”

“No,” I stressed the obvious, “it’s not far-fetched.” Turning to Grant, I added, “That’s why I’d like to go with you this morning.”

“What?”

“Maybe Merrit will open the will.”

“Maybe,” Grant conceded, “but the contents of that letter concern only Stewart and his heirs.”

“And possibly the police.”

Grant sat back in his chair. “How, pray tell, does any of this involve you?”

I paused, collecting my thoughts. “You’re quite correct,” I told him calmly. “The investigation is—and belongs—in your brother’s capable hands. But I’m already involved. After all, I discovered the body, so by any logical reasoning, I’m a suspect.”

Grant tisked. “Don’t be nuts. Larry wouldn’t suspect you for even a minute.”

Preposterously, I asked, “Why not? I took the victim’s clock, didn’t I?”

“For God’s sake.”

“Hold on,” said Tanner, only half-joking. “I was there too. And Thad Quatrain. Don’t implicate us.”

Calming down, I flashed Tanner a soft smile. “No, of course not. Never.” Then I turned to Grant, admitting, “Let’s just say I’ve developed an obsessive interest in Stewart Chaffee since discovering his body—and the hideous circumstances of his death. Who wouldn’t? Yesterday, throughout rehearsal, I had to struggle to keep my mind on the show because my eye kept wandering back to that damn clock. Call me nosy. Call me theatrical, but I sniff a nicely twisted plot here, and I’m itching for some resolution.”

Grant turned to Tanner. “If I take her to the bank, will I regret it?”

Tanner blew a low whistle. “More likely, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Grant gave me a blank look, then smiled. “All right, doll.”

“Wonderful.” I pushed my chair back.

He stared at me aghast.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, you can’t go like that.”

I glanced down. No, my breakfast grubs would not be deemed presentable in the rarefied environs of Indian Wells. “Give me five minutes. Kane and Tanner can keep you company.” I stood.

Kane, sitting next to me, stood as well. “Actually, I need to run, or I’ll be late for class.” He told Grant, “I’ll take our stuff back to the kitchen.” He picked up the remains of his banana, crumpled a paper napkin, then reached in front of me for Grant’s empty coffee mug.

As he did so, I noticed a nasty bruise on his upper arm. “Oooh, poor Kane.” I turned an accusing eye to Grant. “Don’t tell me you’ve been beating this dear child.”

Grant instantly paled. “Claire.” he said, both astonished and defensive, “how could you say such a thing? I’d never—”

“I’m kidding, Grant.” Laughing, I picked up my coffee and the plate of cold toast.

Kane also laughed. Twisting his arm to examine it, he explained, “I was unloading some groceries from the car when I got home yesterday, and the door jabbed me. No big deal.”

“See?” said Grant, mustering his usual humor. “I may be many unsavory things, but I am not a wife beater.”

Kane quipped, “I thought you were the wife.”

“That’s on Mondays and Wednesdays, pumpkin, but today is Tuesday.”

“Oops. My mistake.” Kane stepped around the table, gave his lover a peck, then went indoors.