Read Desert Winter Online

Authors: Michael Craft

Desert Winter (6 page)

As we entered the grounds, Grant pointed out some of the estate's features to Kane, who had never been there.

Though Grant was speaking clearly, his words seemed unintelligible to me, as I felt suddenly preoccupied by an inexplicable sense of dread. Chiding myself, I dismissed this uneasiness as melodramatic nonsense. My foreboding was utterly irrational. It was a beautiful, cloudless day, after all, and the purpose of this visit was to add a crowning touch to my debut production at the college. All was well. Was I simply spooked by the queerness of our previous visit, by the grim artwork, by Stewart's self-indulgent behavior, by his fleshy trumpet?

As we drove near the house, I was distracted from these thoughts by the appearance of a man at the front door. An odd little guy of wiry build, he was dressed casually that morning in black jeans and turtleneck. Rushing toward the car, flailing his arms, he directed us with broad gestures to drive around to the side of the house. Instantly, my apprehension was supplanted by amused curiosity.

Turning the wheel, Grant told us, “That's Pea. Guess he wants us to unload at the garage.”

“Pea?”
asked Kane. “Too weird. Who
is
he?”

“If I recall correctly, his real name is Makepeace. He's Stewart's majordomo.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Huh?” asked Kane.

“Sort of a butler. He runs the household.”

At the moment, he was running behind the car as we drove around the house toward the attached garage and a back entrance, presumably the kitchen. We were well out of view of the street when Grant stopped the car in a parking court and set the brake. We all got out.

“Morning, Pea,” Grant greeted the little man.

Pea nodded, but made no move to shake hands or return the greeting. “Stewart said you'd be returning the desk. 'Bout time, too.” His words carried the hint of a drawl that he'd mostly lost—along with his manners.

Grant took over, making a proper round of introductions. I learned that the houseman's full name was Makepeace Fertig.

“But everyone's called me Pea since I was a kid. Just sorta stuck.” Despite his diminutive stature, he seemed athletic and fit for his years, which I judged to be in the midforties. His attitude warmed some as he explained, “We can put the desk in the garage. I'll help you unload it.”

So I watched Pea, Grant, and Kane hoist the desk out of the trunk and trundle it toward the open garage. A vintage Rolls-Royce was parked inside, along with a new Cadillac, both white. There in the parking court, near Grant's car, was a powdery blue Korean compact. At the moment, though, I had little interest in cars. I wanted to see the clock, and owing to the clutter in the shadows of the garage, I couldn't tell if it was there.

“The drawers,” said Pea, a touch of panic coloring his voice as they removed the padding from the desk. “Where are the drawers?”

“In the car.” Grant explained, “It was easier to move the desk without the drawers in it, and I didn't want to risk having any of them fall out.”

“I'll get them,” said Kane, trotting off to the car. He opened the back door and leaned inside. Pea's stern features lightened as he eyed the young man's rump.

Strolling over to Kane, I volunteered, “Can I help?” The drawers didn't look heavy, but as there were four or five of them, it would have been awkward for Kane to carry them all.

“Sure, Claire, thanks.” He handed me a couple.

As we carried them back to the garage, Pea fretted, “I hope you know how to get everything back in the right place…”

“Would you
relax?
” said Grant with an exasperated laugh.

Pea fussed, “Do you have
any
idea what this desk is worth?”

“Of
course
I do. For God's sake, each drawer is a different size. Any two-year-old could match up the holes.” Proving his point, Grant took the drawers from Kane and me, sliding each into its appropriate opening. Everything fit perfectly on the first try. He told Pea, “Duly delivered, all in one piece. Now stop being such a nervous Nellie.”

Pea heaved a put-upon sigh. “Well…” He squatted to examine the little writing desk, running his fingers across its inlaid blond-and-black finish. “Yes, everything seems to be in order.” Then he gasped. “Where's the
key?
The key is missing!” He stood, looking steamed, all five-foot-six of him. “The drawers have an original, antique key. It's irreplaceable. Where
is
it?”

Grant checked his pockets, then snapped his fingers. “Sorry. I left it at home. I know exactly where it is—on the kitchen counter. It has a green silk tassel.”

“Stewart will be
furious,
” warned Pea.

“I highly doubt that,” Grant told him calmly. “If it's that important, I'll go back for it right now.”

“You better
believe
it's important. Why, if—”

“What's going on out here?” a voice interrupted. It was Stewart Chaffee himself, seated in his wheelchair, calling from the back door of the house, which he had opened.

The four of us emerged from the adjacent garage into the full sunlight. “Morning, Stewart,” said Grant. “We've returned the Biedermeier desk, but—”

“But he lost the damn key,” sniped Pea. “Really, Stewart, you should have second thoughts about lending that clock.”

“The key isn't
lost,
” Grant assured Stewart, then explained where it was, offering to get it immediately.

Stewart wasn't listening. He'd just noticed Kane among us and seemed far more intrigued by the studly college kid than by the trumped-up mystery of the missing key. When Pea finally managed to convey to Stewart the reason for his fuming, Stewart dismissed the calamity with a derisive laugh. “Grant can return the key anytime. What's the difference?”

Pea stamped one of his loafers and spun away from us in a huff.

“Morning, Claire!” barked Stewart, looking decidedly jolly in a red velvet dressing gown that reminded me of a choir robe. “I presume you've come to collect my Austrian clock. Marvelous piece, marvelous.”

“I've been
dying
to see it. Did you manage to get it out of storage for me?”

“Yes, Claire, of course. Anything for the arts, you know.”

Enough of this chitchat. I wanted to ask, Then where the hell is it?

He must have read my thoughts. “It's here in the great room. Won't you come in, all of you?” And he backed his chair into the house.

Without hesitation, I hustled toward the door. Grant followed, but without my sense of urgency. Kane sauntered with Grant. Pea, though still miffed, turned and brought up the rear, doubtless fearing he might miss something.

Entering the house a few steps, I was blocked by Stewart's wheelchair in a kitchen aisle. He was bubbling something about theater, someone he'd once met, but I wasn't listening; I was looking about for the clock. It wasn't in the kitchen, naturally, but the room opened at its other end to a large space for casual living, sort of a family room. I didn't see the clock, but then, my view of the space was mostly blocked, as was the kitchen aisle where Stewart sat and prattled while riffling for something in his pony-skin saddlebag.

The kitchen, I noted, had a dated, midcentury-modern look, which I assumed was studied and intentional rather than leftover, outmoded decorating. The old white appliances, all top-line, were of rounded, streamlined design, laden with heavy chrome hardware and fittings. Pink Formica countertops were trimmed with stainless-steel edging. Pink and gray tiles formed a checkerboard on the floor.

Stewart gabbed nonstop as I observed all this, causing a backup in the doorway as the others entered behind me. When Kane had worked his way into the hall, Stewart's monologue ceased as he openly ogled the young man. Cocking his head, he asked, “What did you say your name was?”

“It's Kane, sir.”

Grant added, “Kane and I are now living together, Stewart.”

From the side of his mouth, the old man told Grant, “Good for you, cupcake. Not bad. If you ever grow tired of him…” He trailed off suggestively.

With surprising composure, Grant told him, “Never, Stewart. It's far more likely that Kane would tire of
me.

Kane assured Grant, “That is
not
gonna happen.”

Stewart persisted, “You never know with the young ones. Right, Pea?” He sniggered merrily, but no one else found humor in the comment.

Pea didn't answer the question. He simply gave Grant a knowing glance, then said to anyone, “I believe you came for a clock?”

“Yes,” I said, happy to be back on track. “It's here?” I glanced about.

“Here in the great room,” said Stewart, at last wheeling out of the aisle, allowing the rest of us to move.

We followed as he rolled from the kitchen to the airy, comfortable room, less formal than the living room I'd visited on Saturday. While the appointments of the entire house seemed equally luxe, the tone of this room was friendlier, less pretentious, with furniture that invited relaxation. I noticed a computer and printer at a corner desk, messy from use. Christmas decorations were less churchy than those in the living room, and the artwork here was more modern and blithe, some of it simply propped against the walls or displayed on easels, as if it was frequently rotated from storage. Glass doors along the far wall opened to a terrace and swimming pool.

Although there was plenty to look at, my gaze quickly settled on the Austrian pendulum clock, which I spotted near the desk. Grant's description, while enthusiastic, had not given me an accurate mental picture of the clock, but I now understood what he had meant when calling it “a whimsical little piece with a vaguely oriental motif.” To my eye, it was a mishmash of styles, yet clearly of antique pedigree, pleasantly bizarre. Most important, it struck me as exactly the sort of cockeyed gift that Waldo Lydecker might give to an unsuspecting Laura—then hide his shotgun in it.

“Oh, dear,” said Grant, strolling over to the clock. “I think it's too big.”

I came up behind him. “Nonsense. It's wonderful. It'll look perfect on the set.” Stepping to the clock, I ran my fingers along its painted cabinet. Opening the glass door that protected the pendulum, I was satisfied that the space within could conceal Waldo's murder weapon.

“I mean,” Grant explained, “I think it's too big for the car.”

“Oh.” I stepped back half a pace, sizing it up. It was substantially smaller than a conventional grandfather's clock, but Grant had a point—I doubted that it would fit into the trunk of his car, and I wasn't too sure about the backseat either.

Grant asked Stewart, “Does the finial come off?”

Stewart instructed his majordomo, “Try it, Pea.”

So Pea stood on a chair near the desk, fiddled with a fanciful spindle atop the clock, and sure enough, it popped right out, reducing the height by a few inches.

“That's better…,” said Grant, rubbing his chin. “I still have my doubts, though. Got a tape measure?”

Stewart and Pea searched a few drawers, carping at each other but managing to find a tape measure among some picture-hanging tools. Kane stepped forward, volunteering to measure the clock. Then he trotted outdoors to check the space available in the car. Moments later, he darted back inside. “Sorry. Not even close.”

“Oh …
shoot,
” I said, minding my manners. “I had
so
wanted to have a finished set this afternoon.” I slumped onto the broad arm of a nearby sofa.

Kane suggested, “Maybe we could get the school to send a truck over.”

But it was Sunday, and discussing the logistics of various options, we realized that my chances of getting the clock to the theater in time for rehearsal were slim.

My trouper instincts, my show-must-go-on mentality, then kicked in. “Well,” I said, standing, “it's no disaster. Quite the contrary—the clock is marvelous. I'll just have to wait another day to get it onstage.” Reviewing everyone's schedules, I decided to return on Monday afternoon, sometime after lunch, with Tanner's open Jeep. “The clock will fit easily, standing upright, and I'm sure that Tanner will be available to help.” To Grant, I added, “I've already wasted too much of your time.”

He dismissed my implied apology, but conceded that his Monday schedule was already heavily booked.

At some point during this conversation, Stewart's nurse, Bonnie Bahr, bustled into the room and reminded her charge that he was due for medication, which, out of sheer contrariness, he resisted. Clearly, she'd had prior experience enduring his obstinacy, as well as his insults, showing the patience of a mother with a sickly child. She managed to get a variety of pills down him, watching like a warden as he gulped a glass of water.


There,
” he said, handing her the empty glass, “are you satisfied, piglet?”

I'd have slapped him then and there. But I wanted his clock.

He looked up at his nurse with a sly grin. “Don't you think I deserve a treat?”

She crossed her beefy arms. “Like what?”

“Pink fluff!” He started wheeling himself toward the refrigerator.

“I
told
you, you old goat: there
isn't
any.”

Having heard this conversation before, I wondered about Stewart's sudden mood swings. At one moment, he could discuss art or theater with keen insight, and the next moment, he sounded like a rude child on the verge of a tantrum. I knew of his heart condition and his stroke. Was he also bedeviled by encroaching Alzheimer's?

Pea spoke up to Bonnie, “How
dare
you address Stewart like that!”

She blasted back, “Pipe down, you little worm.”

“I want pink fluff,” Stewart whined, “and
you
said you'd get me some.” He punctuated his demand with a fart—a gaseous variant of Tourette's, perhaps?

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