Desert Winter (11 page)

“Knoll.” Larry smiled. “Grant is my brother.”

“Well, I'll be damned. You two sure don't dress alike, but yeah, I can see the resemblance. What a coincidence that you should end up
here.
”

Butting in, I explained, “Truth is, Pea, it's not a coincidence. I'm the common link. Grant is my neighbor, and he introduced me to Larry. When I found Stewart this afternoon, the first thing I did was phone Larry.”

“Ah.” Pea's tone was colored by a lingering shade of confusion.

Getting back on track, Larry said to Pea, “So Grant borrowed the desk, and when he returned it yesterday, he forgot the key. Claire tells me that Grant's friend Kane volunteered to bring the key back this morning.”

“I do recall that.” Pea tapped the bagged key. “So the kid must have been here.”

“Did you happen to see him, or maybe his car, when you came home at nine-thirty to check on Stewart?”

“No, there was no one here. Stewart was alone.”

“How about the key? Did you notice it? We found it in Stewart's breast pocket.”

With a tiny sigh, Pea said, “Sorry.”

Larry flipped back through his pad. “All right. The note from the nurse, Bonnie Bahr.” He showed it to Pea. “Does this look like her writing?”

“Well, that
snip,
” said Pea, indignant, hand to hip. “I
warned
her about her abusive manner with Stewart, and here she is, at it again, calling him an old goat. Really!” He shoved the note aside. “That's Bonnie, all right.”

“I understand she routinely made pink fluff for Stewart.”

Pea stuck a finger down his throat.

I reminded him, “Stewart seemed to enjoy it.”

“Yes,” Pea conceded, “Stewart loved the stuff. Poor Stewart. I suppose I should thank Bonnie. Unless…” He trailed off suggestively.

Larry asked, “Unless what?”

“Unless Bonnie used the pink fluff as … as
bait,
as an excuse to see him alone today.”

I asked, “Why would she do that?”

Pea shrugged. “It's as good a theory as any.”

Larry reminded him, “But I'm assuming that Stewart's death was an accident. Are you suggesting otherwise?”

“Uh … well, no, of course not.” Pea fell awkwardly silent. Glancing down, he noticed the mess on his clothes. His eyes bulged, as if he didn't remember groveling in the kitchen.

The coroner's crew had arrived, wheeling a gurney in from the garage.

Larry continued, “Then it's safe to say that when you returned home at nine-thirty, you didn't see Bonnie.”

Pea repeated, “There was no one here. Stewart was alone.”

Larry summarized, “Stewart was here all morning. You came and went. And it's reasonable to conclude that both Bonnie Bahr and Kane Richter were here at some point. Do you know of anyone else who might have come to the house today?”

Pea shook his head. “Mondays are generally quiet. The pool boy comes later this afternoon, but otherwise, no other help.”

“The gate is electronically monitored, right?”

Pea snapped his fingers. “Of course! I forgot. We've never had trouble in the past, so I hardly give the security system a second thought. But sure, there's a camera at the gate, and it records a time-stamped video photo of the license plate of every car that enters.”

“And when they exit?”

“I don't think so. Whoever designed this setup must have figured that since there's only one entrance, that's the only exit too.”

“Makes sense. Those videos will go a long way toward establishing the exact sequence of events here this morning. Can I get the tape?”

“Absolutely. I'll phone the monitoring service and let them know you need it.”

Larry seemed satisfied with this, making a last note before returning the book to his pocket. Then he rose from the chair, stepped to the kitchen, and huddled in conversation with some of the investigators.

The medical examiner had just finished up, and the coroner's crew had moved Stewart's body to their gurney. Zipping his remains inside the long, black bag, they began wheeling the fallen king of decorators from the house. Pea slumped forward, elbows on his knees, wearied by the frightful turn of events.

When Larry glanced back in my direction, I made a show of checking my watch. He walked over and told me, “If you need to be going, that's fine. But we need to take fingerprints from you and your friends, and I'll probably have to follow up with you later.”

“Whenever you need me,” I offered—too eagerly.

With an amiable frown, he reminded me, “You've got a play to keep you busy.”

“Do I ever.”

“So
you
focus on theater, and
I'll
focus on homicide.”

“Yes, sir.” Wryly, I reminded him, “You just told Pea this was an accident.”

“Leave the strategizing to me, Claire.”

“You're right, Larry. Sorry.” Then I remembered, “Oh, hell. I need that clock. But now?”

Larry rubbed the nape of his neck. “How badly do you need it? Can't it wait?”

“We're going into our last three rehearsals,” I blabbered, “and we open on Friday. The set is otherwise finished, and the cast needs to work with real props and furnishings. Besides, I'm afraid if I leave here today without the clock, I'll never get it. Who knows what the next few days will bring?” With a pout of defeat, I slumped.

“Let's see what we can do.” Jerking his head toward the sofa, Larry signaled me to follow him.

Pea saw us coming. He stood, looking bedraggled, needing a hot shower, a change of clothes, and probably a good stiff drink. He asked Larry, “Do you mind if I…?”

“Not at all, Mr. Fertig. Get yourself cleaned up, and get some rest. We can finish here on our own. But we'd like to get your fingerprints first, and I'll need to talk to you again, probably tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He stepped away from us, intending to leave the room.

“Just one other thing. I'm sure you'll recall that the reason Miss Gray came over this afternoon was to borrow a clock—that one—to use in her play.”

Pea eyed the clock, then me. His features twisted in thought as he reminded us of the obvious: “The clock is Stewart's, but Stewart is dead.”

Feeling somewhat childish, I reminded Pea, “He said I could use it.”

Pea repeated, “But Stewart is dead.”

“Mr. Fertig,” said Larry, “it would be very helpful if Miss Gray could take the clock today.”

“If you're asking
permission,
” said Pea, starting to sound belligerent, “I say no. But then, who's to say? Whose clock is it—now?”

Larry acknowledged, “Your point is well taken. It's not yet clear where authority rests with regard to Mr. Chaffee's property. But he did intend to lend the clock to Miss Gray, and she only wants to borrow it, not keep it. I know Miss Gray, and I'm willing to vouch for her. The clock will be in good hands.”

Pea hesitated, tantalizing me. Huffily, he said, “
Well!
I see it hasn't taken long for the buzzards to circle the carcass.”

With greater self-control than I could have summoned, Larry said, “This is a stressful situation, I understand, but I'm sure you don't mean to imply anything unflattering by that remark.”

Pea's spine stiffened. “Detective Knoll, I'm not sure
what
I mean to imply. But if you intend to get that clock by bullying or by force, then take it. There's no one to stand in your way.” And with that, Pea turned on his heel and left the room, retreating to the other end of the house.

Larry shook his head wearily.

I rounded up Tanner and Thad.

We gave our fingerprints.

Then we took the clock.

7

Stewart Chaffee's Austrian pendulum clock
was a sensational addition to the
Laura
set. It was, as Grant Knoll had predicted, a perfect finishing touch to our production, an exotic visual counterpoint to the feminine surroundings of the three-walled apartment created onstage. At rehearsal on Monday night, the clock proved sensational not only because of its inherent aesthetics, but also because word had spread among the cast and crew that the clock belonged to a man whom I'd found gruesomely killed that very afternoon.

“It's all too delicious,” said my friend Kiki, the costumer, watching as Tanner helped a couple of stagehands cart the clock from the wings and install it on the set. “
Laura
is such a dark script—what an opportune publicity angle for the show.”

I dismissed this suggestion, telling Kiki dryly, “I think we're better off promoting the production on its own merits. Besides, we don't want to draw undue attention to the clock; it's pivotal to the plot.”

Kiki was unconvinced. “You know the old advertising adage: sell the sizzle, not the steak.”

“Trust me, Kiki.” Mine was the voice of integrity. “We've got sizzle galore. There's no need to resort to ghoulish tabloid tactics.”

With a shrug, she sauntered from the auditorium to check the backstage wardrobe, pausing on the set to take a closer look at the clock. She wasn't the only one. A small crowd had gathered, admiring the clock with awed reverence, fascinated by its morbid overtones.

“Crushed by a refrigerator,” said someone.

“And the clock was there in the same room,” someone else elaborated.

“Can you imagine?”

“Too cool.” And on and on.

Needless to say, I did not share in this giddiness, and neither did Tanner or Thad. We'd witnessed the aftermath of Stewart Chaffee's painful annihilation, and there was nothing cool about it. While Tanner was mature enough to put the troubling afternoon in perspective and to focus on the task at hand—rehearsal—Thad had become noticeably shaken, and I worried that his performance might suffer that night. I could only hope that he was sufficiently experienced to put the real world aside while creating another reality onstage.

What's more, Thad was in a spin that evening because of the expected arrival of his uncle. I do not, as a rule, approve of the presence of visitors, especially family of the cast. Work, not socializing, is the purpose of rehearsals, and visitors invariably prove distracting. Mark Manning, however, was an easy exception to my rule. Knowing the importance of his role in Thad's life, I could not, in good conscience, have barred him from the theater that evening. I'd already, in a sense, been responsible for their past three months of separation.

More to the point, I myself was eager to see Mark again. We were little more than acquaintances, and it had been nearly four years since our last encounter, but we had a lasting affinity; we had clicked. On top of which, few journalists, let alone cops, were more adept than Mark at untangling riddles of mysterious death. That evening, I had just such a death on my mind.

“Miss Gray?” said someone from behind, nipping my thoughts. I turned to find Thad standing in the aisle near the front row of seats. He was already in costume as a New York kid from the 1940s, wearing argyle sweater, baggy pants, and black canvas high-tops. Beaming proudly, he said, “Sorry to interrupt, but my uncle wanted—”

“Mark!” I said, opening my arms for a hug. “Welcome to paradise.” I'd already adopted the locals' stock greeting, though tonight it had an off ring.

“Thank you, Claire.” After an affectionate embrace, he held me at arm's length. “You look wonderful. Desert life obviously agrees with you.”

I grinned. “I think it does, yes. And you, Mark—handsome as ever. It's been a long time, but I must say, you're wearing the years well.” It was no idle compliment. While gabbing these pleasantries, I noted that Mark's hair was showing more gray—he was now in his midforties—but he looked even more vital and dashing than before. Men. How do they do that?

As we spoke, he stood by Thad with an arm draped around the kid's shoulder. Mark had never looked happier; his eyes, so arrestingly green, spoke volumes. Was it just the flush of their reunion, or was it deeper? I told him, “It seems you've adapted well to the unexpected role of fatherhood.”

“Who'd have thought?” Mark mussed Thad's hair. “Yeah, it's worked out just fine, though Neil and I have had a rough time adapting to our latest role, empty-nesters. I'm starting to feel
old.
”

Thad cuffed his uncle's arm. “
That'll
be the day.”

I checked my watch—a quarter till seven. Asking Mark to excuse me for a moment, I stepped to the front of the auditorium, in front of the stage. “Attention, everyone.” I clapped my hands. “We'll begin at seven sharp tonight, but otherwise, everything will be identical to Friday's eight o'clock curtain. We have but three rehearsals remaining, and we'll treat them as actual performances. No stopping, no matter what.”

Standing just offstage, Tanner asked, “Does that mean you're finished giving notes?” He was kidding.

I chortled. “Fat chance.” There was a round of disappointed awwws. “Notes, as usual, at the end. Also, we'll begin practicing curtain call tonight.” This, predictably, elicited a brighter response from the cast.

“So, then, the house is now open. The seats are beginning to fill with an expectant audience, a capacity crowd in the mood for magic. You've worked hard, and now it's time to summon that extra measure of focus and concentration that will truly breathe life into our theatrical artifice. I know you're up to the challenge.” I gave everyone a thumbs-up. “Tony, drop the curtain. Places, everyone, please. Silence backstage. And break a leg.”

As instructed, actors and crew disappeared. The curtain fell. The houselights rose to full level, allowing my imaginary audience to read their programs.

Clipboard in hand, I started up the aisle, pausing as I approached Mark.