Desert Winter (30 page)

“Don't get smart with me.”

“Don't
you
play dad with
me.
You're my lover, not my parent. I want to ‘marry' you, Grant. I love you. So you need to give me the benefit of the doubt sometimes. How could you possibly jump to such awful conclusions?”

Grant's mind was surely in a spin. The computer file was all but damning evidence against the young man Grant had brought into his home. Grant had understood, intellectually if not in his heart, that his attraction to Kane had been pure infatuation, but he'd thrown caution to the wind in merging their lives. Kane had recently been pressuring him to go a step further, to make their relationship contractually binding. Grant was now rudely sobered by that morning's discovery, forcing him to weigh their future prospects with a clearer head.

Still, Kane had just asked him for the benefit of the doubt, and based on their three months together, which had been totally loving—rapturous beyond Grant's jaded dreams—he was now inclined to suspend judgment and explore the situation rationally. He said softly, “Let's start with the clipping. What happened?”

“Okay,” said Kane, gathering his thoughts. He began pacing as he spoke. “On Sunday afternoon, I was working here at the museum, putting in some extra hours. We were hustling to get the kachina exhibit ready for the museum's opening.”

Grant nodded, recalling, “You helped Claire and me return the Biedermeier desk to the Chaffee estate that morning, and you said you'd be spending the rest of the day here.”

“Right. And that's exactly what I did. There was a lot going on that afternoon, preparing both the building and the exhibit. I took a short break, and as I walked through the lobby, this guy asked to talk to me.”

“Who?” both Grant and I asked.

“Someone from the school. I think he said he was Professor Eastman. He was involved with mounting a display that would chronicle the museum's history.”

I recalled Kane mentioning a history display on Wednesday morning. “When you asked about it yesterday, Iesha said that no such exhibit had been planned.”

“I know. But that's what the guy told me; someone must've been confused. Anyway, he explained that an important part of the museum's history was contained in a newspaper clipping, but that it was tattered with age and needed to remain safely in the school's files. So the museum needed a convincing reproduction for display purposes, and since they needed it fast, they'd pay some nice overtime. He gave me a few sheets of old newsprint, a photocopy of an old advertisement, and typewritten text of the interview itself. It was an interesting challenge, and I enjoyed working on it.”

Kane sat down again, continuing, with considerable enthusiasm, “I brought the project home that evening, where I could work on it without distraction. First, I had to typeset the interview; then I had to lay it out newspaper-style. I scanned the old ad for a car dealer and put it on the back side. For the interview, I even morphed the various typefaces with antiqued or ‘distressed' fonts so the typesetting wouldn't look too clean; it had to have the appearance of an old letterpress job. Which it did, except for being laser-printed, of course. But no one has an eye
that
good.”

He hadn't met Mark Manning.

Grant asked, “When did you deliver the forged—” He stopped, rephrasing, “When did you deliver your work?”

“Monday morning, after my trip to the Chaffee estate with the desk key, I came directly here to campus. I was crossing the plaza, and the guy called my name; he was just coming out of the museum. I was glad he caught me because I was on my way to class. I gave him the project, which he looked at quickly, saying it was great. Then he gave me a hundred dollars in cash and thanked me for putting in the overtime.”

“Didn't you find that a little strange?”

“Kind of, I guess. But he said the school preferred to handle overtime out of petty cash in order to avoid some paperwork or something. I don't know how this stuff works. Besides, it was a hundred bucks.”

I could understand that Kane might not have a grasp of accounting procedures within a bureaucratic, hierarchical institution, but I was certain he'd been lied to in this respect. It was inconceivable that Glenn Yeats would allow cash payments for his employees' overtime. Further, in my three months at Desert Arts College, I'd met most of the faculty and had no recollection of a Professor Eastman. I asked Kane, “What did he look like?”

“He was older.” Kane shrugged. “He wore black.”

Great, I thought. Anyone over thirty was “older” in Kane's eyes, and half the faculty wore arty, trendy black.

Kane added, “Both of our meetings were so rushed, he didn't make much of an impression on me.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

“Maybe.”

Grant had been quiet through much of this conversation, weighing what Kane told us. It was an odd story, to say the least, but no odder than the notion that Kane himself had plotted Stewart Chaffee's demise. Also, the story was consistent with everything we'd already known or heard, including Kane's previous reference to the history display.

Clearly, Grant wanted to believe Kane's explanation of why the clipping was forged. With a note of relief, he said, “Now tell us about that bruise.”

Kane hesitated. “You're not gonna like this.”

“Then it had nothing to do with a car door?”

“No. It happened Monday morning, when I delivered the key to the estate.”

Closing his eyes, Grant asked with restrained composure, “How?”

Kane blew a mouthful of air from his lips, as if expelling something distasteful from his gut. “I drove over there early with the key, arriving shortly after eight. I buzzed the intercom. No one answered, but the gate slid open, and I drove in. When I got to the front door, I rang the bell, and the old guy himself answered it. It took him a while to get to the door; he was in his wheelchair. He offered ‘treats.' but I said no and just handed him the key.”

So far, Kane's recounting of the incident was consistent with what he'd told us at breakfast on Tuesday. Now the story veered along a different course. “But when I gave him the key,” Kane continued, squirming some, “the old man tried to pull me forward, like he wanted to kiss me or something. I'm not sure
what
he wanted, but I didn't feel like sticking around to find out. So I pulled back, naturally. But—this is sort of embarrassing—he didn't let go, and I lost my footing. I fell smack on my ass, banging my arm on the wheelchair as I went down, hard. I was sort of stunned, and that old fart just sat there, laughing at me. I got up, and I got the hell out. I could hear that fucker laughing through the
door.
”

“Oh, Kane,” said Grant, “I'm so sorry, letting you go there alone. I felt in my
bones
that it was a bad idea. I should have known Stewart would try something. In fact, I felt sure he
would.
”

“Hey,” said Kane, emerging from the anger that had colored the telling of his story, “no harm was done—except the bruise, and that'll heal.” He was an attractive young man, used to occasional pawing, willing to brush it off.

Grant asked, “Why didn't you tell us this before?”

Kane leveled, “I thought it would make you mad.”

“Well,” Grant admitted with a quiet laugh, “it does. But I'm not angry with
you,
Kane. It was Stewart's transgression, not yours. Monday morning, I had a hunch something had gone wrong. I was
worried
about you, not angry. That's why I tried phoning you here at the museum. When you hadn't arrived by eleven, I decided to visit the estate. I hate to ask, but just where were you?”

“Simple. I was in class. I don't work on Monday mornings. I have a design lab from nine till noon.”

I reminded Grant, “Kane told us not five minutes ago that he was crossing College Circle on his way to class when our mysterious man in black called his name and took delivery of the computer-generated newspaper clipping.” I hardly needed to add that Kane's class schedule was a matter of record, easily verified.

Kane continued, telling Grant, “Whoever you talked to in the museum office must not have been familiar with my hours.”

“Oh, Lord…,” said Grant, rising, extending his arms. “Come here.”

Kane stood, stepped to Grant, and shared a long hug. After several moments of soppy dialogue (I felt like a voyeur, but had no graceful means of excusing myself), Kane said with a smirk, “Now, then. If you're satisfied I'm not a killer, can I get back to work?”

“Sure. But can't you join us for lunch?”

Kane checked his watch. “It's barely
eleven.
Even so, I've got way too much going on here. Thanks, though.”

He, Grant, and I strolled from the gallery to the lobby, where Kane said good-bye and headed back toward the offices. Moving down the corridor, he passed Iesha coming out, who spotted us and signaled for us to wait. Her brass breastplate clanged as she bustled toward us.

Arriving in the lobby, she greeted us, adding, “Didn't mean to seem rude back in the office. There's just so
much
going on.”

Grant smiled. “That was quite a huddle you were trapped in.”

“With the press conference tonight—and the official opening tomorrow night—there's
more
than enough to huddle over. Kane, by the way, has been a godsend. I think we're actually going to make it
through
all this, but it wouldn't have been possible without his help. He's a good worker, smart too. Sure, Glenn Yeats has given us plenty of support, with Tide and the rest of his staff, but Kane has been indispensable in getting our printed material together. He's a wonderful intern. Thanks for bringing him to our attention.”

“He's a great kid,” Grant acknowledged, sounding more like a proud dad than a doting lover.

I, too, admired Kane, and though I didn't seriously suspect that he'd had an active connection to Stewart Chaffee's death, I thought it best to confirm a few points with Iesha. Questioning her, I learned that, first, there was no Professor Eastman on the art faculty or museum staff. Second, the museum had been short-staffed on Monday, and someone inexperienced had taken over phone duties that day; this explained why Grant had been told that Kane was late arriving for work when, actually, he was in class, as scheduled. Finally, Iesha reiterated that there had never been plans for a history display relating to the new museum's opening.

As we wrapped up our conversation, into our midst strolled our esteemed college president, D. Glenn Yeats. Entering the lobby, he greeted the cleaning crew like a beneficent monarch, tossing out not coins, but dribs and drabs of textbook Spanish.

“
¡Hola!
” he told us, keeping up the act as he approached.

We wished him a good morning in English.

He asked Iesha, “Everything set for tonight's big event?”

“Yes, sir. Everyone's been notified. The building's in great shape. We'll have a delivery from the printer this afternoon.”

“And the exhibit in the main gallery?”

She grimaced. “We put together what we could, but I'm afraid it may seem overwhelmed by the space.”

Glenn frowned. “Let's have a look.” Turning, he strode from the lobby through the doorway to the gallery, still lit from our meeting there with Kane.

“Good
God,
” his voice boomed in the near-empty room as we followed him inside, “don't you think it's looking a bit bare?” He gazed down at the meager Plexiglas display case. Centered among the several objects within it was the ceremonial ring Grant had received at the bank on Tuesday. The rest consisted of a beaded pouch, a feathered doodad of unfathomable purpose, a tattered moccasin, and a few broken clay vessels. “This is pathetic.”

Iesha explained, “That's everything from our collection that had been donated by Mr. Chaffee over the years.”

Glenn sputtered, “But … but what about the bequest? We need something showy as a backdrop for the announcement tonight. It's a photo op, for cry-eye!” His oaths were generally mild.

“To the best of my knowledge,” said Iesha, “Mr. Chaffee's collection is still tied up in probate along with the entire estate.”

“But the museum is the sole beneficiary. No one has come forward to contest the will. Why can't—”

“I just had a thought,” Grant interrupted. “We need to procure something flashy from Stewart's collection, and it may be difficult to get anything out of storage in time for this evening. The house itself, though, is also filled with art, and Stewart was particularly proud of a recent acquisition, a set of some dozen obscure Swedish neo-impressionist works. There's nothing Southwestern about them, but they're newsworthy—and accessible. Stewart had them displayed on easels in his family room.”

I updated Grant. “When I was there on Tuesday with your brother, Pea had been doing some organizing and packing. The Swedish paintings were no longer on their easels, but stacked against a wall. I'm not sure if they're still there.”

Glenn told us, “I'd like to get them—if only for tonight.”

Grant nodded. “Tell you what. Claire and I can pop over to the bank in Indian Wells. Merrit Lloyd is acting as executor of the estate, so he should know the disposition of everything. He's an agreeable sort of guy. Let's see if he can help us arrange to get those paintings quickly.”

“It's worth a try,” said Iesha.

“Do it,” said Glenn.

So Grant and I did it.

19

Riding to the bank together
in Grant's car, we compared notes on that morning's revelations. We both wanted to believe Kane's explanation of how and why he had produced the fake clipping. “Unfortunately,” said Grant, eyes on the road, “Kane's story, combined with that bruise, would be found highly suspicious by someone more objective than us.” He was referring to someone like a detective, someone like his brother, Larry Knoll.