Desert Winter (14 page)

“Grant!” said Merrit, rising from his chair. “And Claire too—what a pleasant surprise—even under such unpleasant circumstances.” He stepped around his desk to shake hands with us.

The desk, I noted, was not the sort that one would expect in a banker's office—no carved walnut panels, brass lamp, or leather-edged blotter. Rather, the desk consisted of a polished concrete slab supported by rusted steel trestles. Its top was neat and clutter-free, bearing a phone, a photo of his family (himself, his wife, and a son of about Kane's age, but not nearly so good-looking), and a single, slim file folder, bright red. A long credenza behind the desk was similarly spare, but it had drawers and doors that presumably concealed additional files, his computer, and the day-to-day whatnot of business.

Above the credenza was displayed not a portrait of Washington or the bank's founder, but a large minimalist painting, some ten feet by four, entirely black, with the exception of a chrome-yellow squiggle running through the middle, suggesting a horizon. Its only other detail was the artist's signature. Though I could not make it out, I had no doubt that the scrawl marked a modern masterpiece worth several times the price of my home.

“I didn't mean to intrude on your day,” Merrit was telling Grant, “but Stewart had given me explicit verbal instructions to donate the ring to the museum's collection. Since he eschewed professional estate planning, probate may get sticky. I thought I'd just give you the ring and be done with it.”

“That's good of you,” said Grant. “You've certainly piqued my curiosity. Stewart's taste didn't focus much on Southwestern arts and crafts.”

So I'd noticed. Stewart's taste had leaned more toward Louis This and Louis That.

Merrit reminded us, “His collection was highly eclectic. It's been quite a while since I've seen inside his safe-deposit box, but I do recall the large ring he asked me to place there some two or three years ago. It's in a velvet pouch, and the ring itself is clearly of Native American origin—not sure what tribe.”

“Well, then,” said Grant, “suppose we have a look.”

“Of course.” Merrit turned to his secretary. “Do you have Mr. Chaffee's key?”

“It's at my desk. Let me get it for you.” Robin left the office.

Merrit told us, “If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the vault.” Leading us out of his office, he paused at Robin's desk, where she handed him a small key. He thanked her, palmed the key, then guided Grant and me down a central hall. “Once Stewart's estate is settled, it won't seem quite natural not having him on our roster of clients.”

Grant asked, “How long has he done business with the bank?”

“Twenty-three years,” Merrit answered without pausing to calculate. “Stewart brought his business to us the day these facilities opened. He said he admired the architecture.”

“As good a reason as any,” I quipped. I was tempted to add that I'd once opened an account at a bank that had enticed me with a toaster, but I feared this would be judged not only lowbrow, but vulgar.

“Needless to say,” Merrit continued, “we were gratified to welcome such a gifted—and influential—client, and we were more than eager to please him, even after learning his somewhat eccentric views with regard to lawyers and conventional banking practices.”

I recalled, “I know he didn't trust lawyers, but how did he feel about bankers?”

“As far as I know, he had no quibble with bankers—he was always cordial to
me
—but on the day he walked through our doors, he made it clear that he'd have no relationship with a banking institution that insisted on holding a master key to its safe-deposit boxes. He wanted complete privacy in the vault, with the assurance that there were no master keys in circulation. Since he was our first important customer, we tailored our policies to suit him, and they remain in effect even today.”

Grant laughed. “Stewart certainly had moxie.”

“Indeed he did. Ironically, within a few weeks of opening the account with us, he asked me to hold a copy of his key for him.” Pausing outside the vault, Merrit tossed the key in his palm, telling us, “Here we are.”

Now, at last, our surroundings did indeed look like a bank. The vault door, some two feet thick, stood open for the day's business, with an armed guard seated behind a small desk near the door. The guard exchanged a nod with Merrit, who turned to Grant and me, then flourished an arm, bidding us to enter before him.

Though the vault was large, its interior felt compressed and claustrophobic. Indirect lighting emanated from the low ceiling with unnatural whiteness; ventilated air swirled through the space, feeling chilled and artificial; the acoustics were utterly dead. The place reminded me of a tomb, an image made all the more vivid by the safe-deposit boxes lining the walls—like locked drawers for the deceased in a mausoleum. At the room's center, an oblong table, chest high, took on the morbid shape of a sarcophagus. Grant plopped his briefcase on top of it.

Merrit stepped around to the other side of the table. “Stewart is right over here,” he said, presumably meaning Stewart's box, not his remains. Merrit unlocked one of the bigger boxes and slid it out of the wall.

“My,” said Grant, “a double-wide, and in a prime location, no less.”

With a grunt, Merrit placed the long, heavy box on the table. He tapped an engraved plate on the face of it, telling us, “Vault box number one.”

Grant acknowledged, “Stewart always did have a nose for real estate.”

As Merrit lifted the lid, Grant and I gathered near him at the table. I held my breath, uncertain of what I'd see inside. Bones, perhaps? Spiderwebs, gold bullion, a stash of uncut jewels? I chided myself for such foolish melodrama when I saw that the interior of Stewart's safe-deposit box contained nothing more malign than the messy miscellany I'd tossed into the bottom drawer of my own office desk. Odd-sized papers and envelopes defied tidy filing, while an assortment of small objects had settled in the corners, reminding me of so many spent ballpoint pens and pencil stubs that I ought to have thrown away.

Merrit began removing items from the box, describing them as he placed them on the table: “Insurance policies, car titles, deeds to his home and other real property, a bundled stack of old family photos, and files relating to his art collection—receipts and provenances.” Among the paperwork he inventoried, I noticed a plain, white business envelope, surely the one I'd seen Stewart hand to his banker three days earlier.

Merrit continued plucking things from the box. “Stewart also kept a few of the smaller, more valuable items from his collection here at the bank.” Displayed on the table now was an assortment of jewelry and tiny antique curios. “Ah, here we are,” said Merrit, reaching for a small blue velvet bag. “This is the ring that Stewart asked me to donate to the museum in his name.” Untying a cord at the neck of the bag, he emptied it into his palm, then handed a thick silver ring to Grant.

Playfully, Grant slipped it on, held the ring up to the light, and glanced at me. “It's fabulous, doll, but is it ‘me'?” The oversize ring—perhaps designed for some ceremonial purpose—was encrusted with a setting of quartz crystals and turquoise.

“If anyone could pull it off, Grant,
you
could.” My features pinched. “But Cartier is more your style.”

“Yes”—he squinted at the ring, scowling—“you're right.” Then, seriously, he told Merrit, “On behalf of the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts, I can't thank you enough. And Stewart too, of course. This is a charming piece. I'll be sure that it's added to DMSA's permanent display of primitive crafts.” Grant dropped the ring into the velvet bag, then slipped the bag into his briefcase.

“There,” said Merrit with a nod, “my duty has been done. I'm glad the ring will now have a home where it's appreciated.” He began to reload the safe-deposit box with items from the table.

I coughed, catching Grant's eye.

“What?” he asked.

With a jerk of my head, I indicated the box.

Seeing this, Merrit asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Well, no,” I explained clumsily, “but we were wondering when you intend to open the letter.” I tapped the plain white envelope, conspicuous among other, larger, labeled ones on the table.

“Ahhh.” He paused, raising a hand to his chin. “Stewart did want me to open it, didn't he?”

I recalled, “His very words were ‘When I die, I want you to go to my safe-deposit box and open that envelope.'”

Grant explained to Merrit, “Claire's theatrical training has given her an uncanny memory for dialogue and detail.”

Checking my watch, I reminded Merrit, “Stewart has now been dead for some twenty-four hours. I can't help feeling that his letter may shed some light on his death.”

Grant again explained on my behalf, “Claire discovered the body, as you know, and my brother is the detective in charge of the investigation. Unless I'm mistaken, Claire has taken something of a personal interest in the case.”

I exhaled a loud sigh, admitting, “Perhaps I have. Regardless, the letter should be opened, as Stewart instructed.”

“You're right, Claire,” said Merrit. “I have no objection to opening it now. In fact, I'm glad you reminded me.” He picked up the envelope, held it up to the light from the ceiling, and turned it in his hand. “No markings or notation whatever.” He paused. “Hngh. Interesting.”

“What?” I asked.

“I'd assumed there was a letter inside, but whatever it is, it looks sort of yellow.”

Grant suggested, “Ivory stationery?”

I prodded them along: “One way to find out.”

“True enough.” Merrit set down the letter, opened a shallow drawer near the top of the table, and peered inside. “Oh, dear. No letter opener.”

For God's sake, just
rip
it. I smiled patiently.

“I have a pocketknife,” said Grant, offering the elegant little gold tool from his key chain.

“Splendid. How resourceful.” Merrit fidgeted with the tiny knife, at last getting it to flip open.

“Uh, no,” said Grant, wagging a finger, “that's the nail file.”

“Ah, so it is. How clever.” He closed the knife and tried again.

By now, I'd reassessed my original assumption that Merrit Lloyd was straight. Still, I'd just seen that family photo on his desk. Were the wife and kid actually a sister and nephew, or were all bankers, like accountants, compulsively anal?

I asked sweetly, “Need some help?”

“Thanks, but—
there,
” he said. “Got it.” He hoisted the one-inch blade in triumph, then brandished it like a buccaneer—a buccaneer in a button-down, pin-striped, French-cuffed shirt—before setting to work on the envelope, slitting it open with surgical precision.

“Well done,” said Grant.

“Thank you, sir.” Merrit gave a little bow, returning Grant's knife. “What a handy little gadget. Do you recall where you got it?”

“Sorry, it was a gift. But it may have come from Tiffany's.”

“Really? I'll have Robin check for me.”

“Gentlemen,” I reminded them soberly, “we were about to exhume a man's dying wishes.”

“Oops,” said Grant, “milady is getting antsy.”

Merrit said, “Of course, Claire. Let's take a look at what Stewart left for us.” And he slid a folded piece of paper out of the envelope. “Hngh,” he said, opening it with care, “it's not a letter at all, but an old newspaper clipping.”

Grant wondered aloud, “What's that supposed to tell us?”

“It appears to be an interview with Stewart. Ah. Look,” said Merrit, pointing to the margin of the fragile newsprint. “Stewart wrote something along the side: ‘This will make my wishes plain enough.'”

I noted, “Those were his words when he gave you the envelope on Saturday.”

Merrit added, “He signed his name, dating it three days ago—Saturday.”

I asked, “Can you verify the signature?”

“Certainly. We can check it against his signature on file, but I'd know Stewart's handwriting anywhere. It's his, all right.”

“Well?” asked Grant. “What's in the article?”

“Interesting.” Merrit pointed to the top margin of the page. “This was clipped from the
Palm Springs Herald,
an issue dated 1954, nearly fifty years ago, when Stewart was in his early thirties.”

“The
Herald?
” I asked.

Grant explained, “A former competitor of the
Desert Sun.
”

“Long defunct,” Merrit added. Then he began skimming the article, summarizing as he read. “It's basically a personality profile. Stewart's star was already rising by the time he'd reached thirty, and the story notes some of the high-profile decorating projects he'd recently completed. A few celebrities of the day are quoted, praising his talents—it's quite a valentine. Here we go. Near the end, the reporter, noting that Stewart wasn't married and had no children, asks about his long-term intentions for the art collection he was already beginning to amass. Oh, my.” Merrit looked up from the article with an expression of blank astonishment.

“Yes?” we prompted. “What does it say?”

Merrit held up the clipping and read, “‘The flamboyant Mr. Chaffee turned momentarily serious, responding with earnest, “Everything I own is to be my legacy to the Southwest Museum. We have a heritage here, and after I'm gone, I want to be a part of it.”'”

Grant looked stunned. “Good God.”

“Huh?” I asked stupidly, though I had an inkling.

Setting down the clipping, Merrit explained, “Unless I'm mistaken, the Southwest Museum eventually became the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts.”

Grant verified, “DMSA was known in its early days as the Southwest Museum. The name change occurred years ago, long before the museum's recent affiliation with Desert Arts College. In any event, it has remained the same corporate entity since its inception.”