Desert Winter (17 page)

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.

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.