Desert Winter (35 page)

As I prepared to leave the condo, Tanner asked, “Do you want me there with you tonight?”

Of course I did. But I asked him, “Would you mind driving yourself? I need to get there early, and to be honest, I'm not sure what the evening may hold. Depending on what unfolds, there's no telling how late I may have to stay.” Brightly, I added, “I want you properly rested for the big opening tomorrow.”

He readily bought that, agreeing to follow me a while later in his Jeep.

“Wish me luck,” I said, latching onto him for a fierce hug.

“Break a leg, Claire.”

*   *   *

The December night had fallen. The desert sky was a velvety black as I crossed the valley floor, headed toward campus. I would have no trouble finding my way—klieg lights crisscrossed the heavens, emanating from a spot near the horizon that grew brighter as I drove nearer.

Entering the campus and parking in my reserved space, I noted that College Circle was already aflutter with activity, remarkable on any evening, let alone a Thursday. Lights burned bright in the museum lobby, drawing a crowd from the plaza to the doors. Several television news vans had parked near the entrance, their long antennas poking toward the stars. The searchlights buzzed, burning white-hot in the chilly night. The giant banners wafted with the breeze. If Stewart Chaffee's friends and associates had been expecting a solemn memorial service, they now had ample reason to revise their thinking. If any in the crowd were put off by the hoopla, they hid their indignation well. Without exception, those arriving rushed to the museum like kids to the big top.

I felt my own pace quicken as I crossed the plaza from the faculty garage. Passing my darkened theater, which loomed large but indistinct against the sky, I wondered if tomorrow's opening of
Laura
would generate this kind of excitement. If, twenty-four hours from now, Stewart Chaffee's killer was still unknown and at large, I knew that my premiere would be the focus of too much excitement—for all the wrong reasons.

“Claire,” a woman's voice greeted me as I approached the museum.

Glancing over, I saw Dawn Chaffee-Tucker escorted toward the doors by her late uncle's banker. “Dawn, Merrit,” I greeted them, “how nice to see you again.”

Merrit intoned the obligatory “Even under such unpleasant circumstances.”

Dawn halted. “None of that,” she said with a smile. “Tonight is the summation of Uncle Stewart's wishes. He led a long, productive life, and now he's leaving behind a genuine legacy.”

“Well said,” I told her, giving her arm a squeeze. From the side of my mouth, I added, “Let's hope that Glenn Yeats will be equally eloquent and succinct.”

With a soft laugh, Merrit suggested, “Ladies, shall we?” And he ushered us through the doors.

The processed interior air, which on previous visits had felt so sterile and bone-chilling, now felt warm and comforting against the night. The whirl and hubbub projected a pleasant conviviality, almost partylike. Tuxedoed waiters (Regal Palms staff—I was beginning to recognize them) passed trays of hors d'oeuvres and offered cocktails, a civilized note amid all the hype and glamour. Television cameras, hoisted on shoulders, recorded snippets of the crowd for the late news.

Merrit spotted his secretary, Robin, in the milling crowd and, needing to have a word with her, excused himself, leading Dawn away with him. As they disappeared, I paused to take stock of who was present.

The media types were largely unknown to me, as I was still new to the area, but this bash was being thrown for their benefit, and there were plenty on hand—reporters, video cameramen, and newspaper photographers representing local media outlets as well as several from Los Angeles. The entire museum staff was working the crowd, of course, including director Iesha Birch. I noticed Kane Richter emerge from an office with a bundle of printed material.

College faculty from all departments had been encouraged to attend, and many had—lured more by the food and booze, I gathered, than by an interest in the bequest. Most, I noted, wore black that night. Among them were the composer Lance Caldwell and the painter Atticus, who were engaged in one of their heated discussions of the arts, brandishing tiny chicken kabobs while slurping from oversize glasses of wine—white for Caldwell, red for Atticus. My old friend, Kiki Jasper-Plunkett, did not wear black, not by a long shot. Her penchant for costuming was given free rein that night, and she jangled about in a garish getup best described as that of a Gypsy queen. Our president, Glenn Yeats, and my neighbor. Grant Knoll, huddled near a podium, comparing notes with Glenn's secretary, the amazonian Tide Arden.

Bonnie Bahr, Chaffee's nurse, arrived just then, looking prettier than I'd seen her, done up for the evening in a dressy pantsuit and glittery shawl that were curiously flattering to her heft. A waiter approached her with a tray, and she plucked a dainty stuffed mushroom, placing it on a cocktail napkin as if she did not intend to eat it. A bar was set up along the far wall, and she made her way toward it without pausing to chat; she doubtless knew few among the others attending.

One person whom she knew well, Pea Fertig, arrived after Bonnie had been swallowed by the crowd. He wore black again that night—a good-looking, well-tailored suit, possibly Italian, complementing his buffed but smallish frame. I didn't know whether the dark suit had been chosen as a chic fashion statement or out of deference to the funereal overtones of the event, but I couldn't fault Pea's instincts. He presented himself most attractively that evening. I found him rakishly handsome. Devilishly so. A waiter offered appetizers, but he declined with a shake of his head, hotfooting toward the bar.

“Evening, Claire.”

I turned to find Mark Manning at my side, studying me with a grin. “Hi, Mark.” I gave him a peck. “Sorry if I seem distracted. Lots on my mind.”

“The play?” he asked. He held a drink in one hand, vodka on the rocks, and held a padded case in the other, the sort that carries a laptop. “Or is it murder on your mind?”

“Both,” I admitted. Eyeing his computer, I asked, “Planning to do some work tonight?”

“Not sure. Am I correct to sniff a story here—I mean, beyond the ‘bequest'?” His subtle wink alluded to our shared knowledge that Chaffee's holographic will had been faked.

I leaned to tell him, “I'm
sure
there's a story here. I just don't know whether all the pieces will fall together tonight.” Enough of my pothering. I asked, “Is Thad here? I thought you two had set aside this evening for catching up.”

“We'll catch up; I merely pushed back our dinner reservation.” With a snicker, he added, “No one's going to starve.” He jerked his head toward a nearby buffet table, where Thad held his own among a knot of reporters, gorging himself on shrimp the size of lamb chops.

“Mark,” I said, touching my fingers to his arm, “I can't thank you enough for alerting us to the forged clipping. I'm still not sure what it means, but my instincts tell me that the forgery is at the crux of Chaffee's murder.”

“My instincts tell me you're correct.”

Without going into detail, I told him, “We now know who created the forgery, but—those instincts again—they tell me he's not the killer.”

Mark sipped his vodka, thinking. “If forgery is at the crux of the murder, but the forger isn't the killer, where does that leave you?”

“Confused,”
I blurted with a laugh of frustration.

“Then you need to look at every possible aspect of the forgery and compare them to every possible aspect of the murder. The pieces are all there. You just need to make them fit.”

I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound baby simple.”

“I'm not saying it's easy, but yes, the solution is always, ultimately, simple. You have a field of suspects. Eliminate the ones who could
not
have committed the crime, and you're left with one man standing.”

Glancing toward the doors to College Circle, I noticed Detective Larry Knoll enter the museum lobby, talking with Tanner Griffin; they'd apparently run into each other while walking from their cars. I told Mark, “It seems that all the players are now assembled for this evening's little drama. Curtain going up. Enjoy the show.”

He assured me, “I intend to.” Then, with a courtly nod, Mark excused himself and wandered into the crowd.

Tanner spotted me from across the lobby, hailing me with a wave before slipping over to the bar. Larry saw me as well and headed in my direction.

As I made my way through the crowd to meet him, museum staffers began circulating throughout the room, handing out printed programs of that evening's order of events. Taking one and glancing at it, I noted that its cover was a smaller version of the banner Kane had created, trumpeting in bold letters,
THE CHAFFEE LEGACY.
The inside pages contained statements from college president Glenn Yeats and museum board president Grant Knoll, as well as a brief bio of the late art collector.

Larry took a program as he stepped up to me. “Is everyone here?”

“I believe so, yes. Though it's impossible to keep an eye on everyone at once.” I gazed out over the shifting crowd.

“That's okay.” His mouth twisted with a facetious grin. “We've got all evening to piece this together.” If he was feeling stressed, he didn't show it.

But I did. Impatiently, I asked, “Any developments?”

“Fingerprints.” Though his brief statement sounded promising, he added, “Nothing conclusive, I'm afraid. We've done a thorough study of all the prints found on the premises, comparing them with prints given by individuals known to have been there. As you know, someone—presumably the killer—wiped all fingerprints from the refrigerator handle and from the inside knob of the front door, but not from the outside knob. That knob was covered with layer upon layer of prints, most of them smudged and useless. We did, however, manage to pull one clean thumbprint that seemed relatively fresh and uncontaminated.”

“Meaning,” I conjectured, “it was left by the last person out.”

“Possibly. It's a good theory. Unfortunately, it matches none of the sets given to us since Monday.”

“I assume you've run a check on the thumbprint.”

“Of course. It's no one with a known criminal past. So it could be anyone—not necessarily the killer—the mailman, for instance.”

I frowned. “You're right. That's
not
very conclusive.”

“Sorry. That's what I've got.”

Grant Knoll—the detective's brother, housemate of the young forger of the bogus clipping—rushed over to us. He looked more stressed than I did. “Christ,” he said, “I need a drink.”

“The bar's open.”

“Aarghh”—he shook his head—“not a good idea. Not before a speech. I've never had a qualm about public speaking, never before, not until now.”

“It's no big deal,” I tried telling him, pointing to the program. “You're simply delivering ‘Words of Welcome' here in the lobby. Glenn makes the real speech, later, in the main gallery, when he announces the bequest and—surprise of surprises—unveils the collection of Swedish masterpieces.”

He corrected me, “
Minor
neo-impressionist Swedish masterpieces.”

I asked, “You managed to get them without incident? No trouble from Pea?”

“I wasn't there. I heard there was a spot of trouble, but not from Pea. It seems the driver sent by the college was given bad directions or the wrong address, so the truck was late. Everything's here now, but the installation of the paintings is still under way.” Grant gestured toward the closed double doors of the main gallery, guarded (pretentiously, I thought) by a pair of uniformed security officers, lacking only plumed helmets and broadswords. “Talk about a last-minute rush.”

Larry asked, “What's all the fuss? Just hang a bunch of pictures, right?”

“The paintings are hung. And they're already lighted—a big enough project in itself. But then Glenn decided he wanted to do an actual unveiling, so there's a crew in the main gallery rigging the drapery right now.”

My features twisted. I recalled, “Yesterday morning, Glenn said there wouldn't be an unveiling.”

Grant shrugged. “You know Glenn. He changed his mind—end of discussion. So even the programs had to be reprinted. I'll bet the ink is still wet. Kane has been running full speed, trying to keep up with all this.”

I turned a page of the program, and sure enough, Glenn Yeats's appearance was described as “Announcement and Unveiling.” Rubbing a finger over the type, I found that the ink did indeed smudge. I asked Grant, “Where
is
Kane?”

“God only knows. He really has his hands full. He must have ducked back into the offices for something.”

“But basically,” I said, “everything's under control.”

Grant answered with a reluctant nod.

The detective asked his brother, “So why the jitters about your welcoming speech?”

Grant exhaled a frustrated sigh. “I guess it's the subterfuge. I mean, we three
know
that the museum isn't Chaffee's true heir, and we also know that Kane
—my
Kane—created the facsimile of the interview.” (I noted wryly that Grant did not refer to the clipping as a forgery.) He concluded, “Unless we see some fairly dramatic developments tonight, my world could come crashing down around me.”

I had other issues at stake but felt a similar trepidation. I stated the obvious: “Then it's time to wrap this up.”

Glenn Yeats, who had been plying the crowd, wooing the press, and strutting about like a movie star, drifted into our midst. He asked anyone, “A splendid occasion, don't you think?”

“As usual,” I told him. “You
do
know how to entertain, Glenn.”