Desert Winter (22 page)

Kane asked, “Mr. Yeats, will we need a new set of posters and banners?”

“You bet. Can they be ready by tomorrow night?”

“Yes, sir. No problem—if I can authorize a rush with the supplier.”

“Do it.”

Iesha asked, “What about the kachinas? Are we postponing the exhibit?”

“Heavens, no,” said Glenn. “We'll run the two exhibits concurrently—the more noise the better. But since the main gallery will now be devoted to Chaffee, we'll have to move the kachinas to one of the temporary galleries.”

“Got it.” Iesha's pen scratched at her clipboard.

Kane asked, “And what about the history display?”

Glenn looked blankly to Iesha, who turned to Grant, who asked Kane, “What history display?”

“Museum history. I thought the opening of the new museum was going to include an exhibit pertaining to its history.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Iesha, “but it's news to me.”

“First I've heard of it,” said Glenn. “Good concept, but let's save it, maybe use it for the first anniversary of the new facility. I think we've got enough on our plates right now.”

Iesha wrote another note, looking relieved that she wasn't required to research and mount a history exhibit by the next evening. She told Glenn, “If there's nothing else, I need to get cracking.”

“Me too,” said Kane. “Posters, banners, press release.”

“In wording the release,” Glenn instructed, “make it clear that the evening is a tribute to the late Stewart Chaffee. Also indicate that the press is being invited to hear an important announcement regarding the estate of the deceased. They'll put two and two together; we'll have a mob on our hands.”

Iesha suggested, “We should probably have some sort of printed program. Perhaps a handout regarding Mr. Chaffee and his collection.”

With an eager nod, Kane agreed, “Sounds good. If someone can supply the copy, I'll set the type, lay it out, and make sure it's printed on time.”

Glenn offered, “Feel free to use my office in any way that's needed. We probably have that background on file. And Tide can help you get word out to the press. She's been working with them a lot lately.”

“Thanks,” said Iesha, grinning, “we just may take you up on that.” Then she and Kane excused themselves and left the lobby together, heading down the corridor toward the museum offices.

Watching them leave, it took me a moment to notice that Glenn's gaze was fixed squarely on me. Reading something in my face, he seemed concerned. “I hope you don't mind, Claire.” Stepping near, he gave me an apologetic hug.

Though I enjoyed the manifest affection of my employer, I was mystified by both his words and his action. Patting his back, I looked over his shoulder at Grant, who appeared as bewildered as I was. I asked, “You hope I don't mind what, Glenn?”

He held me at arm's length. “This last-minute hullabaloo over Chaffee's bequest—I hope you don't feel it's stealing thunder from your play.”

Now that he mentioned it, maybe I did have reason to be irked. What had started out as a quest for an oddball piece of set dressing, the Austrian case clock, had evolved into a perplexing murder that threatened the concentration of my student actors. Now the propitious fallout of that murder, the museum's windfall, had inspired a misdirected media circus that ought, by rights, to be focused on the opening of
Laura.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I assured him. “Image is everything. The announcement of the bequest will be good for the school. And the extra media attention will only heighten the public's interest in the play.” This, I recognized, was a stretch of logic, but the wheels were already in motion for the press reception, so I thought it prudent to convince myself, as well as Glenn, that the tribute to Chaffee was a dandy idea.

What's more, I appreciated that Glenn was sensitive enough to care about my feelings on the matter. His aspirations for the success of the play were as lofty and intense as my own. His dedication to the theater program had been unwavering. I would appear petty indeed if I now begrudged the museum a few moments in the lime-light.

Glenn continued to eye me with concern. “It's just that you seem preoccupied. Is something troubling you? How can I make it right?”

Standing behind Glenn, Grant gave me a goofy, bored look.

“Glenn”—I laughed softly—“you amaze me sometimes. You're far too caring.”

“How could I not care about
you?
” He pecked the side of my mouth.

I pecked back. The exchange was hardly passionate, but it carried genuine fondness. What's more, I realized with a spark of revelation that these warm feelings were mutual; I really did care about the man. Since Glenn had first made his affections known to me three months earlier, I had shied from considering that I might find in his overture any appeal beyond its obvious material implications. Glenn understood this, but he had shown patience, taking no apparent umbrage in my need to think things through and to examine my heart—a process, a window, that also allowed me to bed Tanner Griffin with indulgent regularity. Glenn simply hoped that, in time, I would come around. Was I now, in fact, doing just that?

“So?” He repeated, “Is something troubling you?”

My two-timing was troubling me, but that's not what he had read in my face. I explained, “It's the murder.”

“Ahhh,” said Glenn, wrapping me in another hug, but this time it felt more paternal than romantic. “It's disturbing, I know, but don't worry yourself with it. The investigation is in good hands.”

“My brother's hands,” Grant reminded me. His grin conveyed knowledge that I had already wheedled my way into Larry Knoll's investigation. It also conveyed knowledge that Glenn did not approve.

My comforting employer clucked into my ear, “The police know what they're doing, Claire. They're trained to deal with these matters—and to minimize the risks, the inherent dangers of nosing into homicide.”

I pulled away from him. “Glenn,
please
don't be patronizing.”

“Sorry.” He raised his hands in a gesture of backing off.

We'd been through this before, and I was now clearly reminded of why I'd “needed time” to weigh his earlier profession of love. It wasn't only that I found Tanner so achingly attractive; it was Glenn's condescending presumption that I needed his protection and mothering.

Calming myself (there was no point in berating the man while preparing to ask him a favor), I hedged, “This has nothing to do with any personal interest I've taken in Chaffee's murder. Having discovered the body, however, I
am
involved, and it occurs to me that Detective Knoll's investigation might be helped along if he were invited to the party at your home tomorrow evening.”

“Fine.” Glenn blinked. “But why?”

“To observe people. The ebb and flow of conversation could help—”

Suddenly enlightened, Glenn interrupted, “It's Mark Manning, isn't it?”

The name caught Grant's attention, fast. “Oh? What about Mark Manning?” Though Grant was coordinating the catering and other hotel services that would be needed the next night at Glenn's home, he apparently had not been informed of the party's purpose.

I explained, “Mark will be the guest of honor.”

“Do tell?” Grant looked downright bubbly at the prospects of rubbing elbows with the famed journalist.

Glenn continued, “And you're speculating, Claire, that Manning may have a few useful ideas for the investigation.”

Lamely, I admitted, “Two heads are better than one,” though I didn't specify to whom the other head belonged.

“Fine,” Glenn repeated. “Detective Knoll is more than welcome. Shall I have Tide phone him?”

I shook my head. “I'll be in touch with him, I'm sure.” Then I had another thought. “Besides the press, who else will be invited to tomorrow's event here at the museum?”

“Anyone who's interested. After all, the reception is being billed as a tribute to Stewart Chaffee—not quite a memorial, but ostensibly, he's the focus. Family, friends, business associates, they're all welcome. Why?”

“Well, think about it. Such an event might very well have overtones for the murder investigation.”

Facetiously, Glenn asked, “A killer in the crowd?”

With a quiet laugh, I allowed, “Maybe I
am
being melodramatic, but I think Larry will want to be here.”

“Then ask him.”

Grant pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his camel-hair blazer. “Be my guest,” he said, offering me the phone and reminding me of his brother's programmed number.

“Thanks, Grant.” I glanced about the high-ceilinged lobby and wrinkled my face in response to its harsh acoustics. “I think I'll phone him from outside. Less noise.” I also wanted to escape the air-conditioning.

“As milady pleases.” Grant gave me a deft bow, then turned to Glenn and began discussing some matter of museum policy. I was already headed for the door.

The warmth of the plaza felt therapeutic as I crossed to a bench near a clump of palms and sat facing the sun. I opened Grant's phone, punched in Larry's code, and within a few seconds, he was on the line.

“Morning, Claire. Always a pleasure to hear from you. What's up?”

I told him about Thursday's press conference, and he readily agreed that he should be there, thanking me for the tip. But when I also suggested that he attend the party at Glenn Yeats's home tonight, he asked, “What's the point?”

I was not inclined to tell him that a visitor from Wisconsin might be able to help with his investigation. Instead, I explained, “The guest of honor is Mark Manning—you met him in the hotel lobby yesterday on our way to lunch. Mark is gay and a prominent professional, as was Stewart. I'm not sure of Glenn's guest list, but it's apt to include a few A-gays. Maybe someone will know something. Maybe something will be said.”

“Worth a shot,” Larry conceded. “What time?”

I gave him the particulars.

“I'll be there. But I'm betting that Thursday's news conference holds greater promise for developments. You never know.”

“You never know,” I echoed, watching a roadrunner scamper across College Circle and hop to the top of a low hedge of oleander, from which it surveyed the quiet plaza with random jerks of its head. Recalling Glenn's statement that Chaffee's friends and family would be welcome at the museum press conference, I said into the phone, “I wonder about Dawn, Stewart's niece from Santa Barbara. Perhaps she should be notified. After all, the reception is a tribute to her late uncle.”

“I spoke to Dawn Chaffee-Tucker by phone late yesterday,” Larry told me. “The department had already informed her of her uncle's death, and she readily admitted having visited the estate on Monday morning, claiming to have been summoned to an eleven o'clock meeting by Chaffee's banker.”

I noted, “That's consistent with Monday's security tape and with the discussion I heard on Saturday at Chaffee's estate. How did Dawn take the news?”

“When I myself spoke to her, she seemed unemotional about it. Of course, she'd already heard the news from one of my deputies, so the shock, if there was any, had worn off. I will say this: she was extremely cooperative. I asked if she would mind having a set of fingerprints made by the Santa Barbara police, and she did it as soon as we hung up. They've already been sent to me.”

“And?” Our discussion of fingers had led me to examine my own. With my free hand, I picked the dried little hook of a hangnail.

“And they don't match any that we found at the crime scene.”

“She's in the clear, then?”

“Not necessarily. She admits being there.” Larry asked rhetorically, “Why no prints?”

“Have you asked her about that?” My cuticle began to bleed, so I stopped toying with it.

“I intend to. Turns out, she's driving back to the valley today. As Chaffee's next of kin, she's meeting with Merrit Lloyd at Indian Wells Bank and Trust to discuss the disposition of her uncle's estate. I need to question both the banker
and
the niece, so I plan to join their meeting at two o'clock.”

“One-stop shopping,” I joshed tritely.

“Yup,” he agreed, “two birds with one stone.”

14

My exploits with Larry Knoll
had evolved to the point where I barely needed to beg to accompany him that afternoon on his visit to the bank. When I asked, he paused and grumbled—out of sheer principle. Then I pleaded sweetly, explaining that I should be there, on behalf of the college, to invite Dawn to her uncle's tribute at the museum. Satisfied, Larry relented. Our routine was well practiced by now, and I found that I needed to offer only minimal justification for tagging along with him.

We drove our own cars, meeting at the bank. At a minute or so before two, I pulled my Beetle into the parking lot, noting that Larry had already arrived and sat waiting for me. When I got out of my car, he got out of his. “Right on time,” he said, walking in my direction.

Meeting him halfway, I offered a hug, noting, “I'm compulsively prompt. Guess it's to compensate for a fear of being late. I'm always having dreams about missing tests. Do you suppose that signals some deep-seated psychopathy?”

“God, I hope not.” Larry eyed me with concern.

“Sorry. I was oversharing.” The California vocabulary had already become second nature to me.

Walking me toward the building, he said, “I wonder if the niece was equally prompt.”

I looked around the parking lot, but would not have known her car if I'd seen it. “Not sure about Dawn, but Merrit Lloyd is here.” I pointed to his big silver Mercedes; it hunkered like a tank in the blue shadow of the building.