Desert Winter (40 page)

I stood as well, offering Larry a farewell hug. “Forgery…,” I echoed as he was about to leave. “I wonder what will become of the Per-Olof Östman paintings faked by Atticus. I suppose, with all the other art, they'll go to Stewart's niece.”

Larry laughed heartily.

I turned to Grant, who sat there with a blank expression, looking as mystified as I was. So I asked the detective, “What am I missing?”

Still chortling, he said, “I thought you'd
never
get around to asking about those.”

“Okay, okay,” said Grant, “we're asking: Did Dawn inherit the Östmans?”

“No, Grant.” Larry stuffed his hands in his pockets. He paused. “You did.”

Grant and I shared a dumbstruck, jaw-dropping glance. Then he rose, asking his brother,
“Me?”

“Yup. Chaffee was explicit. It seems he had truly admired you over the years, and he was especially pleased that you'd now taken over at the museum. He claimed that acquiring the Östman collection was his crowning accomplishment. The paintings are yours.”

“I'm … stunned.”

“And you'd be rich—if they were real.”

“Yeah.” Grant turned to me, hand to hip. “Did you have to be
quite
so quick in exposing this artistic chicanery?”

“Sorry.” I hugged him. “Easy come, easy go.”

He sighed. “The story of my life.”

“Get over it.”

Larry said, “Gotta run. Thanks again, Claire. I'll see you tonight at the theater. And, Grant—congratulations.” With an exaggerated wink, the detective left.

When his footfalls had receded and tapered off to nothing, the glorious desert morning seemed suddenly quiet. Even the birds hushed, as if an angel of silence had passed through the trees.

“Grant,” I said, taking his arm, strolling him across the terrace, “I need to have a word with you.”

“Yes, doll?”

“Regarding a bridge.”

“Hm?”

“A drawbridge. A rustic drawbridge captured at sunset in a neo-impressionist masterpiece.”

He stopped in his tracks, correcting me, “
Minor
Swedish neo-impressionist masterpiece.”

I further corrected, “Fake,
worthless
minor masterpiece.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, tapping his noggin, “
that
one. I recall it well, a bucolic treasure. Milady isn't …
interested,
is she?”

“Possibly, Grant. Possibly.”

We pattered on in this affable manner, ambling together along the apron of the pool.

The hummingbird, having needle-nosed its fill from Hector's roses, shot across the water, then flirted with the towering orange finger of an ocotillo flower before skirring to the heavens.

I watched, breathless, as the iridescent speck disappeared in a vast, blue December sky.

N
OVELS
B
Y
M
ICHAEL
C
RAFT

Rehearsing

 

The Mark Manning Series

 

Flight Dreams

Eye Contact

Body Language

Name Games

Boy Toy

Hot Spot

 

The Claire Gray Series

 

Desert Autumn

Desert Winter

 

www.michaelcraft.com

DESERT WINTER.
Copyright © 2003 by Michael Craft. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Craft, Michael, 1950–

   Desert winter / Michael Craft.—1st ed.

      p.   cm.

   ISBN 0-312-30501-X

   1.  Women theatrical producers and directors—Fiction.   2.  Collectors and collecting—Fiction.   3.  Women college teachers—Fiction.   4.  Palm Springs (Calif.)—Fiction.   I.  Title.

PS3553.R215 D475 2003

813'.54—dc21

2002031891

First Edition: February 2003

eISBN 9781466828636

First eBook edition: August 2012