Desert Winter (13 page)

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.

9

Grant looked over at me
from the wheel of his car. “You look fabulous, doll. It takes
me
two hours to get out of the house. Shaving alone takes twenty minutes; I'm serious. I don't know how you manage to put yourself together so quickly.”

“Just a knack, I guess.” Truth is, my speedy makeover was hardly adroit. Even though I'd taken ten minutes instead of the promised five, I still felt as if I'd just rolled out of bed. Finding a presentable outfit was little challenge—red always projects self-confidence, and besides, it was December. One glance in the mirror, however, had told me my hair was beyond easy redemption, so I'd wrapped it in a festive green silk scarf. I hoped to God this didn't give me the appearance of a chili pepper in heels, but once I'd conjured that image, I found it hard to shake.

“I just had a thought,” said Grant.

“So did I.” I assumed he was still talking about his lengthy routine of grooming and dressing. “Perhaps if you shaved before going to bed, you could save yourself some time in the morning.”

His face wrinkled. “And start the day with stubble? I think
not.
” He swiped his fingertips over his chin, just checking.

We were driving down valley through Palm Desert on Highway One-Eleven, headed toward Indian Wells, considered by many to be the area's best address. To my eye, it was expensive real estate with little sense of community. It had no schools, no downtown, not even a library. But it did have banks.

“So,” I asked, “what was your thought?”

“I was thinking about Tanner and you—and Kane and me—sitting on the terrace together this morning. Don't you see the parallel?”

Perhaps I hadn't had enough coffee. “You mean, you met Kane around the same time I met Tanner three months ago.”

“That's part of it…”

I tried another angle. “You and I are both attached to younger men.”

“
Much
younger men. Kane is twenty-one, and I'm forty-nine, so I'm twenty-eight years his senior.”

“Cradle robber.”

“And if I'm not mistaken, Tanner is twenty-six, right?”

I nearly choked. “Stop right there. No more math, please.” I'd just figured out that I too was twenty-eight years older than my live-in.

“By rights,” Grant continued, “Kane and Tanner might be better off together.”

“Nothing against Kane, but I'm afraid that
he'd
enjoy such a setup more than Tanner would.”

Grant considered this obstacle to his theory, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Tanner would adjust. I'm sure milady has taught him a lesson or two in versatility.”

I conceded, “He's an apt pupil. But I'd describe Tanner's technique as more agile than versatile. Then again, his appetites are voracious.”

“See?” Then Grant's smile fell; his brow wrinkled. “Of course, if
they
clicked, that would leave
us
together.”

I laughed. “Now,
there's
an unlikely union.”

He shrugged a why-not. “A few years down the road, we could change each other's diapers.”

“An attractive prospect. But first”—I pointed to a building on the next corner—“I believe we have some banking matters to attend to.”

Grant pulled into the neatly landscaped parking lot adjacent to Indian Wells Bank and Trust. His white Mercedes glided into a spot between a white Bentley and a white BMW roadster—basic transportation in these parts, where the only concession to practicality in the choice of vehicles is the overwhelming popularity of white or silver, colors that absorb less heat during the more torrid months.

I opened my door, but Grant was quick and chivalrous, trotting around the back of the car to assist me out, closing the door behind me. I carried an everyday handbag; Grant had his slim, handsome briefcase. As we walked together toward the entrance of the bank, Grant nodded toward a row of employee's vehicles. “This must be the place,” he said, referring to a sign on the wall identifying a parking space reserved for Merrit Lloyd, Vice President, Client Services. A muscular-looking silver Mercedes was nosed to the wall, a newer model than Grant's. Recession? Never heard of it.

Escorting me indoors, Grant paused to tell a receptionist that he was expected by Mr. Lloyd. I looked about, absorbing my surroundings. The lobby was cool and hushed, starkly contemporary. Floors of polished black granite bespoke permanence and solidity, while white marble walls, soaring ceilings, and overscale artwork, sleek and modern, spoke a language well understood by the institution's wealthy clientele.

Within moments, the quiet lobby resounded with the peck of heels on the stone floor as Robin, Merrit's secretary, strode forward, greeting us by name. The severe, coppery bangs of her china-doll haircut bobbed as she shook hands with both of us, lamenting the terrible circumstances of Stewart Chaffee's sudden death.

Since I had not been expected, Grant began to account for my presence, but Robin dismissed any need for explanation, making me feel perfectly welcome. “Before we go in,” she offered, “may I get you something to drink?” I had no idea whether she was referring to water or a highball, but I had no need for the former and it was too early for the latter, so I declined, as did Grant.

Robin led us through a series of offices and consulting rooms that bore no resemblance to a conventional bank. Conspicuously, there were no tellers; all business here was conducted by appointment, one-on-one. “Here we are,” she said, stepping aside to admit us, then following us in.