Desert Winter (36 page)

He pulled me close, told me to smile, and turned us toward a photographer, who snapped a quick candid.

“Yes,” said Larry, “it's a wonderful tribute
to Mr. Chaffee.
” His implication was that Glenn had lost sight of the evening's purpose.

“Of course,” said Glenn, pausing for a dignified moment of silence. Then, breaking this brief spell of reverence, he told us, under his breath, “Frankly, I never could stand the guy, but hey, he handed us this situation, so we might as well work it for all it's worth.”

Glenn's secretary, Tide, and the museum director, Iesha, hustled toward us. Iesha said, “They've finished in the gallery, Mr. Yeats.” Tide overlapped, “We can begin the program whenever you're ready.”

“Excellent!” said Glenn, raring to go. “Grant? Do you have your welcoming speech prepared?”

“Yes, Glenn.” Grant paused, then reminded him, “You wrote it.”

Glenn laughed. “Ah! So I did.”

23

Within a few minutes, the
lobby lights had dimmed and the crowd, numbering perhaps a hundred, had clustered around the podium near the doors to the main gallery. The security guards squinted into the glare of a spotlight as Grant stepped to the microphone.

“On behalf of the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts, I wish to welcome you to this evening's special tribute, titled ‘The Chaffee Legacy.' My name is Grant Knoll, and I'm privileged to serve as president of the museum's board of directors. Stewart Chaffee, who died so suddenly and tragically this past Monday, was a longtime acquaintance of mine, a man I was proud to call a friend—an honor shared by so many of you present tonight. I also want to welcome the many representatives of the press who have come to share this evening with us.

“Tonight's event, you see, serves three purposes. First, it is the grand opening of the new museum building itself. Second, we have chosen to dedicate this occasion to the memory of Stewart Chaffee, whose lifelong commitment to the arts has enriched our community beyond measure. And third, well, that's not for me to say—except to tell you that D. Glenn Yeats, founder and president of Desert Arts College, will make a very special announcement this evening. I know there's been widespread speculation regarding the tenor of this announcement. I can assure you that this speculation will end tonight on a happy note indeed.

“And so, ladies and gentlemen—without, as they say, further ado—I invite you to enter the museum's main gallery and to hear the words of our esteemed college president. Welcome, one and all.”

To a smattering of applause, Grant signaled the guards, who made a show of unlocking the huge gallery doors and swinging them wide open. Simultaneously, recorded music swelled through the lobby, a sort of electronic fanfare, surely the work of Lance Caldwell. It almost worked, the pomp and ballyhoo, but to my jaded eye, the entire doings came across as trumped-up and artificial. Then again, I was one of only a few present who understood that the premise for these festivities was false to the core.

Larry and I, with everyone else, herded through the doors and entered the gallery. After all the buildup—the speech, the guards, the fanfare—the gray, quiet space within seemed distinctly anticlimactic.

The floor still contained clusters of display cubes, and as before, only one of them displayed anything—the Plexiglas case containing the ring and other primitive whatnot. The wall at the far end of the room was now draped with some dozen swags of burgundy velvet. Looping through them was a long golden cord that ended in a huge tassel of green silk hanging near the podium where Glenn Yeats awaited the arrival of his audience.

The color scheme of this drapery—burgundy, gold, and green—lent a vaguely Christmassy note, appropriate enough to December, but the seasonal theme was probably happenstance, as the museum crew had scrambled to rig the unveiling apparatus even as the first guests were arriving in the lobby. The green tassel seemed especially out of place as a finial for the gold cord; it was doubtless used solely because it was at hand when needed. Save for its operatic proportions, it reminded me of the little green tassel that decorated the key to Chaffee's antique Biedermeier desk.

The lighting in the gallery was generally dim, except for a floodlight on the podium and a dozen pin spots on the velvet swags. Voices rose and fell as the crowd worked its way into the room, settled into the new surroundings, and wondered aloud what was concealed by the drapes.

“Come in, everyone,” Glenn said from the dais, his voice booming from unseen loudspeakers. Someone scurried to adjust the amplification; then Glenn repeated, sounding less gargantuan, “Please, come in and get comfortable.”

The crowd drew near him. As previously arranged, the press gathered in a roped-off section that afforded the best view for the unveiling. Larry and I stepped aside, where we could best observe not Glenn or the draped paintings, but the other onlookers.

Prominent among them was Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, the bereaved niece, looking more Jackie-esque than ever; all that was missing was a black lace chapel veil. Merrit Lloyd, banker of the deceased, stood by her side as escort and surrogate uncle. Recalling their lunch at the Royal Palms, I wondered again if Merrit harbored more intimate interests in the arty woman from Santa Barbara.

Merrit's secretary, Robin, stood several feet away with Chaffee's nurse, Bonnie. The out-of-work caregiver looked misty-eyed and contemplative, at odds with her spangled holiday outfit. Was her mood the result of genuine sorrow, I wondered, or guilt? Robin leaned close, offering the big woman a hug, saying something to boost her uncertain spirits.

Pea Fertig, the victim's erstwhile houseman, stood alone in the crowd in his smart black suit, staring at the swags beyond the podium. His hard features hid thoughts I couldn't fathom. Was he mourning the loss of a long-ago lover? Or was he gloating over the accomplishment of a deadly revenge that had simmered for twenty years?

Lance Caldwell and Atticus caught my attention. They still hung together, elbowing their way toward the front of the assembly, still blathering and boasting. The two great egos—music and art—grunted at each other and postured for anyone who would look at them.

Looking at them from the press corps was Mark Manning, who'd flashed his credentials to enter the cordoned-off area near the draped paintings. Then Mark glanced about as if he'd lost track of something. His eyes traveled toward the lobby doors. His features brightened as he spotted his nephew Thad, who had just entered the gallery—chomping on one last giant shrimp. Thad paused to wipe a smear of cocktail sauce from his chin.

Also near the door, slipping in from the lobby, were Kiki and Tanner, who must have met at the bar. Both carried concoctions in martini glasses—Kiki's was pink, Tanner's clear—moving slowly into the crowd, careful not to spill.

Grant stood just outside the door. Though I would have expected him to appear relieved that his welcoming speech was finished (by now there should have been a drink in his hand), he looked even more flummoxed than before. Keeping an ear on the activity in the gallery, he stepped back and glanced about the lobby, as it, like Mark Manning, he had lost track of someone. Of course, I reasoned—Kane. Where was he?

“… this most generous and unexpected bequest.”

A hearty round of applause nipped my thoughts. Absorbed as I was with the to and fro of the crowd, I'd managed to miss the opening of Glenn Yeats's speech, which was now in full swing. He'd already announced the terms of the alleged will. As he paused to acknowledge the applause, the room blinked with strobe lights from photographers who captured the moment.

“Well,” said Larry Knoll, standing at my side, clapping halfheartedly, “it's a matter of public record now.”

“Too bad it's all bogus. When the truth gets out, Glenn's going to have egg on his face.”

The detective puckered and blew a low whistle.

Glenn continued, “Stewart Chaffee dedicated his life to the decorative arts, and later, to the fine arts. His collection grew to proportions rivaled by few others in Southern California, private
or
public. Pending final clearance of probate—a mere formality, I'm told—stewardship of this marvelous art trove will pass to the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts.”

Glenn turned. Fingering the green tassel that hung at his side, he continued, “We've arranged, through the executor of Mr. Chaffee's estate, to preview a small sampling of the vast body of works that constitute the museum's new legacy…”

As Glenn's words flowed, extolling a benefactor he didn't like and a gift he didn't want, my attention was riveted to his hand on the tassel. Again I recalled the dainty green silk tassel that had adorned the key to the Biedermeier desk. Keys, I realized, had played a role throughout the developing circumstances of Chaffee's death. The desk key had been returned by Kane on the morning of the murder; the same key was found on Chaffee's dead body. Later, when the forgery of the clipping was discovered and access to Chaffee's safe-deposit box became an issue, Pea had shown us the key to the box, among many others attached to his key ring. He'd even looked after Chaffee's car keys. “I'm the keeper of the keys,” Pea had said.

“And so,” said Glenn, pausing dramatically with his hand gripping the tasseled rope, “I'm highly honored to unveil for you one of Stewart Chaffee's most prized and recent acquisitions, a rare collection of works never before publicly displayed. I present to you”—he yanked the cord—“paintings by the Swedish neo-impressionist master, Per-Olof Östman.”

The swags of velvet drapery fell, revealing the twelve little landscapes. Cameras flashed as the crowd broke into hearty, sustained applause. Their clapping was underlaid by gasps of approval and excited chatter. The delicate, colorful paintings, now exhibited in a proper gallery setting, perfectly lit, were indeed breathtaking, and I suspected that even Glenn Yeats would grudgingly acknowledge that Stewart Chaffee's final acquisition had lent profound distinction to his lifelong efforts of collecting.

Glenn quelled the applause, telling his onlookers, “I'd now be happy to take any questions you may have.” As he said this, Tide and Iesha appeared from the shadows behind the podium, bearing cordless microphones. They began circulating among the guests, who suddenly took on the appearance of a daytime TV talk-show audience. This impression was made all the more vivid by the television cameras that now panned the crowd from the press pool.

Someone raised his hand; Iesha rushed to him with a microphone. He asked Glenn, “Can you give us some background on the artist?”

With an apologetic laugh, the computer magnate acknowledged, “Unfortunately, art history, especially that of Östman's period, is not my forte. However, we've garnered some essentials from the collection's certified provenance, and we're preparing a printed handout, which should be available shortly.”

Bonnie, I noticed, was now openly crying. Robin seemed at a loss to console her. Pea approached the nurse through the crowd and said something quietly into her ear. I recalled, once more, that he was the keeper of the keys.

Atticus raised his hand. Both Iesha and Tide started toward him with their microphones, but Iesha was closer, so Tide dropped back. “Glenn,” said Atticus, grabbing the mike like a lounge singer, “let me be the first to congratulate both the college and the museum on its acquisition of this fine collection. What a marvelous surprise. These Östman works are delightful.” The crowd seconded his appraisal with a quick round of applause. “However,” said Atticus, puffing his chest, “aren't these works rather far afield from the museum's artistic mission?”

Glenn bluffed an answer, stopping short of conceding that most of Chaffee's collection would end up in storage.

Many of the assembled reporters held tape recorders over their heads, capturing these exchanges. Others scribbled notes. Mark Manning had sat down on one of the display cubes, taken out his laptop, and begun typing. The computer sprouted a little antenna that looked like a black pinkie finger—he was on-line with a newsroom somewhere. I recalled our earlier conversation. He had asked me, “If forgery is at the crux of the murder, but the forger isn't the killer, where does that leave you?”

Pea and Bonnie were now conversing, and I was surprised to note no apparent hostility in their manner. Robin stepped away from them and sidled through the crowd toward Atticus. She touched her fingertips to his forearm—a gesture I recalled from Tuesday, when happening upon their romantic luncheon at the Regal Palms. She now looked him in the eye again and spoke to him with the same quiet intensity. Was she cautioning him against challenging the powerful Glenn Yeats, his employer, in so public a setting?

Someone near Larry and me raised his hand, and Tide bounded toward him on her muscular brown legs, thrusting the microphone toward his mouth. The squirrelly-looking professor—a potter, I believe—first cleared his throat, then got down to business, generously lacing his convoluted words with academic gibberish. Glenn, never one to back away from bull, took his time in responding, relishing the sound of his own voice, layering clause upon dependent clause.

During this drone, Merrit Lloyd stepped away from Dawn Chaffee-Tucker, slipping through the crowd toward the back of the room, where he found Grant Knoll near the doorway. Framed by the light from the lobby, they leaned together in conversation. Dawn, niece of the deceased, was left alone near the front of the assembled guests. She stood ramrod stiff, staring at the paintings, dismayed.

“I'm the keeper of the keys,” Pea had said.

“Forgery is at the crux of the murder, but the forger isn't the killer,” Mark had said.

Kane appeared in the doorway from the lobby carrying a stack of papers.

“My God,” I blurted.

Larry turned to me. “What is it, Claire?”