Desert Winter (32 page)

“That's not a bad idea,” said Larry. “The fewer people in the loop, the better.”

“Aaah,” said Merrit, “I see what you mean.” With a conspiratorial wink, he assured the detective, “I'll make the calls myself.”

With our plan in place, Larry, Grant, and I exchanged some parting words with the banker before leaving him to figure out his phone. I was last to file out of his office, closing the door behind me. Robin was still busy at her desk, but she rose briefly, covering the receiver with her hand as she wished us a good day.

Passing through the lobby, we paused outside the bank on the sidewalk. Though noon approached, the sun shone low in the winter sky, slicing between the trunks of date palms that lined the street like a colonnade.

Larry reiterated his earlier invitation. “Join me for lunch, Claire? You too, Grant.”

“Sure,” I replied. I assumed Grant would be equally agreeable.

But he hesitated. “I think it would be better if I returned to the museum and arranged for the truck.”

I suggested, “Can't you handle that by phone?”

“I want to make sure there are no foul-ups.”

I found his hedging curious, to say the least. Although Grant had exhibited a hands-on interest in a broad range of human endeavors, trucking was not among them. Besides, it was simply unlike him to squirm out of an invitation to lunch. I'd fully expected him to suggest twenty-dollar salads at the Regal Palms.

Then it dawned on me. Grant felt no urgency to arrange the hauling of the paintings. Grant had no aversion to lunch with me. No, Grant was squeamish about being trapped at table for an hour with his brother. Grant doubtless feared, correctly, that lunching with Larry would compel us to reveal to him that the clipping had been forged by Kane.

It was time to share our knowledge with Larry. It was time to keep everyone honest. “No, Grant,” I interrupted his protestations, “do join us for lunch.”

“Perhaps some other time, really.”

Flatly, I insisted, “We need to have a talk with your brother.”

20

Once Grant realized that he
was not to be let off the hook, he groused, “If we're going to do this, we might as well do it in style.” So he phoned the Regal Palms from his car, reserving his usual table. Larry followed as we left Indian Wells, driving up valley through Palm Desert to Rancho Mirage, where our little convoy climbed the mountain to the swank hotel in the craggy granite foothills beneath Nirvana.

Larry pulled up behind us under the monumental porte cochere. A crew of parking valets helped us from our cars and drove them away. As we entered the double doors to the lobby, nodding to the natty doormen, Larry leaned to tell me, “A guy could get used to this.” We'd lunched at the Regal Palms only two days earlier. Grant strutted ahead as if he owned the place.

The lobby was a buzz of activity as kitchen and decorating staff fussed with the construction of a giant gingerbread house (real gingerbread, you could smell it) under the central chandelier. In its unfinished state, it wasn't clear whether the structure represented a Nativity crèche, a storybook castle, or Santa's workshop. It was surrounded by both palms and pines, camels and reindeer, so go figure. The head decorator flounced about with a pastry bag, frosting the eaves with icicles, the corners with snowdrifts. A florist spruced mounds of white poinsettias and stunning pink amaryllis.

“That's pretty amazing,” said Larry as we paused to watch the to-do.

“
Fab
-ulous!” gushed his brother.

“But,” I said, sounding a disapproving note, “they should know better.”

The brothers Knoll glanced first at each other, then turned to me.

Whirling a hand, I explained, “This cutesy gingerbread hoo-ha—it positively
draws
children.”

“Like moths to a flame,” Grant agreed before letting out a powerful laugh that drew a disapproving stare from the guy with the icing.

It was barely noon when we three entered the hotel dining room, so we were among the first to arrive. Busboys still tinkered with silver and napery; someone adjusted the long, tasseled drapes, which had been drawn against the morning glare, now framing a pristine desert sky of boundless blue. The host hustled from the far side of the room to greet Grant, then us, walking us to the terrace, where he helped with our chairs as we settled around the table, facing out over the valley.

We all ordered iced tea, then quickly perused the menus, choosing our twenty-dollar salads—today mine would be embellished with chicken, Grant's with shrimp, Larry's with strips of steak. When the tea had arrived and the handsome waiter had left to place our orders (with Grant glancing over his shoulder to watch the young man's retreat), an awkward silence fell over the table.

Grant cleared his throat. “It was good of Merrit Lloyd to be so helpful. I wasn't sure he'd play along and lend us the paintings for tonight.”

Larry nodded. “Especially after learning that the museum is very likely
not
the heir to Chaffee's estate.”

I said, “Merrit is shrewd enough to recognize the need for damage control. I doubt if he'd have been so quick to lend the paintings if he wasn't so eager to cover the bank's tracks with regard to the
forgery.
” There. I'd said the word—with a tad more emphasis than its context demanded.

Grant's eyes slid toward mine. His features pleaded, Slow down.

Larry blew a silent whistle. “That's still the big unknown in this investigation. If we knew who forged the clipping, all the other pieces would fall into place.”

My eyes slid toward Grant's. My features told him, It's now or never.

He sat back in his chair, as if retreating, putting a few more inches between us. He asked his brother, “But that's not necessarily true, is it? I mean, if you knew who fabricated the clipping, you might still be unable to name the killer.”

“Okay,” Larry conceded, “it's conceivable that the forger and the killer are not the same person. But if not, there's clearly some connection, which means we're dealing with
conspiracy
to commit murder.” He summed up, “Name the forger; the rest is easy.”

Leaning forward, Grant persisted, “But what if the fabricator was an
unwitting
accomplice? What if he created a facsimile of an old newspaper clipping for someone else, not knowing that its purpose was fraudulent?”

Larry leaned within inches of his brother's face. “Come on, Grant. That's a stretch. How could anyone forge an exacting, aged replica of a bogus interview that carries immense financial implications—and do this for someone else—without suspecting foul play?”

“Trust me.” Grant swallowed. “It could happen.”

Larry drummed his fingers on the linen tablecloth. “How?”

Grant didn't answer.

Larry turned to me. The twist of his torso revealed a glimpse of the polished leather holster beneath his jacket. “Is there something I haven't been told?”

Finding it difficult to speak, I took a sip of tea, then said, “The answer to that question really needs to come from Grant.”

“Okay, Grant. What's up?”

The detective's brother began, “This, uh, didn't come to my attention until this morning. We weren't sure how to tell you, or when.”

“You're doing just fine.” Larry allowed a smile. “Let's hear it.”

Grant paused, then recited without embellishment, “At home this morning, I was checking e-mail on Kane's computer and discovered a file containing the forged interview; Kane did it. Later, Claire and I confronted him at the museum, and he readily admitted that he'd created the document.”

“He seemed truly guileless in his admission,” I added. “Someone representing himself as a college faculty member commissioned Kane to produce the clipping as part of a history display for the museum's opening. The way Kane told it, it all sounded perfectly feasible—and innocent, at least on Kane's part.”

Larry took out his notebook and began recording details of our account. Rotely, he asked, “Did Kane describe the man?”

“Barely,” said Grant. “The guy was older, and he wore black.”

“How much older?”

I reminded Larry, “Kane is twenty-one. He wouldn't know thirty-five from fifty-five.”

With a tone of understatement that verged on sarcasm, Larry noted, “That doesn't give us much to work with.”

“Sorry,” I said, “it doesn't. And the black clothes don't mean much, either. Many of the faculty do wear black, but we don't even know if this guy is on staff, and in fact, we have reason to suspect that he is not—he gave a false name. Besides, clothes are easily changed.”

“Black today, taupe tomorrow,” Grant quipped.

Larry underlined something in his notes. He spoke to his pad, not making eye contact with Grant or me. “I know you both believe Kane's story; I want to, too. But I don't need to remind you that I'm responsible for a murder investigation.” Then he looked at Grant. “You're my brother, and I know how important Kane is to you, but I'm a cop first. You can't expect me to compromise my objectivity.”

Grant slumped in his chair. “I should learn not to compromise my
own
objectivity. I've been blinded by love—God, that sounds trite, but the phrase fits. When Kane entered my life, my world turned upside down and I lost all sense of perspective. Perhaps I did let him rush our relationship, but the truth is, I wanted to be a couple as badly as he did. I would hate to think, now, that he's been harboring motives less loving than mine.”

“There's no reason to think that,” I told him.

“The clipping. The bruise. Those might be reasons.”

Larry asked, “What bruise?”

We told him about Kane's experience at the estate on Monday morning, how he fell against Stewart's wheelchair when fending off an advance, a detail that Kane had failed to mention while talking to the detective on Monday evening.

Larry took notes, staring at the paper as he wrote, his features grave and purposeful. Jabbing his pad with a period, he said, “Whether Kane knew it or not, he was a part of this.”

Grant shook his head fiercely, as it shaking off the doubts he had just expressed to us. “Kane
couldn't
have understood what was going on. Maybe I've known him for only three months, but he's not a killer—I'm sure of that much. And he's not a conspirator to murder. He's been framed, Larry. He's been victimized.”

“Possibly,” said Larry.

Grant thumped the table. “We need to find that man in black.”

“I couldn't agree more.”

I ventured to ask, “Then you're willing to reserve any judgment—or action—with regard to Kane?”

“Yes,” Larry answered, thinking, returning his notes to his jacket, “until tonight. Kane will be at the press reception, won't he?”

Grant nodded. “I imagine so.”

“Make sure of it. Whoever commissioned the forgery may be there as well. He just may be the killer. With any luck, Kane may be able to point him out to us.”

I noted, “This ought to be quite a night.”

Under his breath, Grant added, “Fasten your seat belts.”

Larry was about to say something, but our lunch arrived, stifling conversation.

Before long, we were chatting again, but our topic had shifted from murder to extortion. “It's great,” Larry admitted, “but twenty dollars for a salad? There ought to be a law.”

*   *   *

As Larry and I weren't due to meet Pea Fertig until one-thirty, we took our time, savoring our lunch, the view, and the noontide sun. Shortly after one, we rose from the table, Grant planning to return to his office at Nirvana, where he would phone the college and arrange for a truck to transport the Swedish paintings from the Chaffee estate to the museum.

“I hope Pea doesn't get pissy about this,” I told the brothers.

“Frankly,” said Larry, “I don't care. Pea can fuss and fret about the paintings all he wants, but he still needs to explain what he was doing in that bank vault on Monday.”

The three of us left the terrace, entering the dining room and heading for the hotel lobby. My eyes had not fully adjusted to the dimmer, indoor light as we passed along the banquette of diners facing into the room. A woman's voice said, “Well, hello, Detective. What a nice surprise.”

We stopped, and turning, I realized that Dawn Chaffee-Tucker was lunching with Merrit Lloyd—at the very table where, two days earlier, I'd seen Merrit's secretary, Robin. As Merrit was seated in a chair with his back to the room, he hadn't realized that we were passing through until Dawn greeted Larry.

“My, what a coincidence,” said Merrit, rising and twisting awkwardly to shake hands, sounding more flustered to see us than surprised. With a tone of embarrassment, he told us, “Mrs. Chaffee-Tucker is staying here at the Regal Palms, and I felt she might appreciate some company. It seems I'm still in the service of her late uncle, a role I'm delighted to perform.”

We knew all this; there was no need for Merrit to explain himself. I didn't find it at all remarkable that he would be lunching with his client's niece at her hotel, where he'd arranged her accommodations. What I did find puzzling was that he took such pains to justify their presence.

“I've been made to feel very much at home,” Dawn was telling the banker. “Thank you for looking after me.” She sat back against the tufted booth, looking decidedly regal.

Larry asked her, “You'll be attending the reception at the museum tonight?”

“Of course.” She smiled—perfect teeth, perfect complexion, perfect makeup. “That's why I'm here.”

Merrit fidgeted with the large linen napkin in his hands. “In addition to announcing the bequest, the reception will serve as a splendid tribute to Stewart and his philanthropy.”