Desert Winter (2 page)

Grant, who apparently knew the banker, said, “Merrit, it's
my
pleasure to introduce Claire Gray, one of the American theater's most illustrious talents.”

Merrit gave my hand a gentle shake, holding it for a moment. “I'm honored, Miss Gray. I hope you're finding desert life agreeable.” In a word, the man struck me as clean—nice features, perfectly groomed, well mannered. And his touch conveyed that he was not a member of Grant and Stewart's fraternity.

“On a spectacular day like this,” I bantered, gesturing toward the idyllic setting beyond the Christmas tree, “my only regret is not having moved here years ago.” I'd arrived in the Sonoran Desert just three months earlier, leaving my professional career on Broadway to chair the theater department at the new arts college. “Please do call me Claire. After a certain age, ‘Miss' has deadly overtones.” I primped.

“Claire,” he obliged, “I'd like you to meet my assistant, Robin Jones.”

The young woman stepped forward, smiled, set down a briefcase, and shook my hand. “Actually,” she noted wryly, “I'm Merrit's secretary. ‘Assistant' is overly generous, if politically correct. Welcome to California, Claire.”

“Thank you, Robin.”

Stewart slipped a plain white envelope out of his pony-skin bag and set it in his lap. “Robin runs the whole show,” he told me. “Merrit couldn't get a damn thing done without her.”

With a good-natured shrug, Merrit admitted, “He's right.”

“
Bonnie,
” barked Stewart, “where are your manners? We have guests. I think everyone might enjoy some pink fluff.”

Bonnie told the rest of us, “And I thought I was his
nurse,
not a waitress.”

“Quitcher whinin',” Stewart snapped at her. “Pink fluff!”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“I already told you, goat man, it's
gone.
”

Stewart fumed at her. “Wait till Pea gets home…”

“Oh, yeah? What's
he
gonna do about it?” Bonnie planted her hefty hands on her hips. “He's worthless in the kitchen. So you'll just have to wait till I have a chance to whip up a fresh batch.” Her humor lightened. “I'll try to make some at home tonight—on my own time.” She turned to the rest of us, explaining through a modest grin, “He laps it up as fast as I can make it.” Then she offered, “Can I get you something else, though? Maybe something to drink?”

We all declined.

Judiciously, Merrit changed the topic from refreshments, telling Grant, “I understand congratulations are in order, Mr. President.”

Grant looked momentarily befuddled, then laughed. “Thanks, but the title doesn't mean much—it's more like a second job.” He explained to the others, “I've just begun serving a term as president of the board of directors at DMSA, the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts.”

“Thatta boy, Grant,” said Stewart, thwacking his palm on the arm of his chair. “It's a fine museum with a worthy collection. They've always struggled, but now,
you
can help. You've got a shrewd business sense, and more important, no one in the valley is better connected with the ‘right' social contacts.”

Deflecting this flattery, Grant assured Stewart, “I'll help any way I can. Truth is, though, the museum
isn't
struggling anymore. Now that it's been brought under the wing of Desert Arts College, its future is secure. Glenn Yeats has not only endowed DMSA in perpetuity; he's built the museum a brand-new facility on the campus of his college.”

Merrit said, “Mr. Yeats is exceedingly generous.”

Stewart wasn't quite so complimentary. “With
that
man's wealth, it's
easy
to be generous.”

“But he's more than magnanimous,” I said. “The man has vision.”

We were speaking of D. Glenn Yeats, the computer-software tycoon, the multibillionaire with a soft spot for the arts who had decided to “give back” to society by building, from the sand up, a world-class arts college right there in the Coachella Valley. Yeats now devoted his energies to serving as president of the college, and it was he who had recruited me—personally, with lavish offers I could not ultimately refuse—to leave my career in New York and join his faculty.

“There's wealth,” said the banker, “and then there's
wealth.
” He sighed. Glenn Yeats's fortune far outweighed that of any client at Indian Wells Bank and Trust. In fact, Yeats's assets surely dwarfed those of the bank itself.

As our wistful conversation paid homage to the benevolent power of cash, Robin quietly prepared for business. On a low table near the sofa, she opened the fat briefcase, which I now realized belonged to Merrit, not her, and began to remove its contents. She arranged accounts, contracts, files, and other paperwork in neat stacks on the table. Checking to see that a pen was working, she set it atop one of the piles; I presumed Stewart's signature was needed. Robin also inventoried and tidied items belonging to Merrit—his cell phone, his car keys, his calendar. Stewart's earlier comment was apt. Merrit was clearly dependent upon his secretary's efficient services.

Merrit and Stewart got to work, with Merrit explaining the need for various disbursements, Stewart signing checks and other documents. Their discussion covered household bills, tax payments, art acquisitions—everything. Merrit's assistance went well beyond matters of banking; he was both a personal and a financial spaniel to his client. Robin remained in the background throughout these dealings, handing documents to her boss, filing others when Stewart had signed them, maintaining a checklist of the morning's transactions.

While they worked, Grant and I felt free to wander about the living room. He described a few antiques and works of art, all of it museum-quality, adding, “That's just the tip of the iceberg. Stewart's collection is so vast, most of it's in storage.” He paused to admire the shell-and-ivory marquetry of a Louis Something sideboard.

Ambling away from Grant, toward the Christmas tree, I studied it up close, amazed by the intricacy of its ornaments and the quality of its curios, many of which struck me as miniature objets d'art worthy of being displayed on a mantel or a pedestal—not stuck in a flocked tree.

“It's pretty, isn't it?”

Focused on the tree, I hadn't noticed Stewart's nurse step up beside me. Her strong features beamed a childlike joy as she stared at a svelte crystal ballerina that dangled and spun from a nearby branch. I answered her question through a breathy gasp, “I've never seen anything like it. The lights must be magnificent. Have you seen it at night, Bonnie?”

She nodded. “Many times. It's almost overwhelming, and the grounds are a real fairyland. Oops.” She touched her fingers to her lips. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

I laughed quietly. “I understand.”

“Mr. Chaffee can seem sorta gruff at times, with the name-calling and such, but underneath, there's a wonderful sense of humor. And it goes without saying, no one alive has a finer appreciation for everything beautiful.” She glanced about our surroundings.

“You seem to enjoy working for him.”

“Who wouldn't?” She again paused to give the opulent digs an appreciative glance.

My gaze was drawn to a grand piano, less than six inches long, hanging near the ballerina. The piano's inlaid lid was propped open, revealing eighty-eight taut golden strings within. Mulling Bonnie's enthusiasm for her job, I said, “I couldn't help thinking that Stewart might be difficult to work for.”

“I'm a nurse,” Bonnie reminded me with a thin smile and evident pride. “I'm used to dealing with people at their worst.”

Having spent a lifetime in the theater, I'd become a student of character—all types—and Bonnie suddenly fascinated me. I wanted to know more. “May I ask how long you've worked here?”

“Mr. Chaffee suffered a stroke about two years ago, and that's when my duties here began. It wasn't that serious, and he's recovered nicely, but at eighty-two, he needs help. Even before the stroke, he was dealing with congestive heart disease. That's why he uses the wheelchair—it's easier for him to get around.”

“Then he's not…?” I whirled a hand, searching for a genteel euphemism for
crippled.

Bonnie suggested, “Disabled?”

This struck me as entirely too vague; I was expecting something more along the lines of
ambulatorily impaired.
Just to make sure we were on the same page, I rephrased my question: “He can walk, then?”

“Yes, Miss Gray. With difficulty. Gosh, you must think I'm awful.” She clasped her hands in front of her stout, white-clad bosom. “I would
never
tease him about being a ‘crippled old goat' if in fact he was…”

I supplied the evasive word. “Disabled.”

With downcast eyes, she mumbled, “Exactly, Miss Gray.”

“Enough!” Stewart bleated (the old goat). “The rest of this hoo-ha will have to wait. I'm not a well man, remember.” And with that, he shifted his weight to one hip and blew a hefty fart. From the sound of it, he could have ripped the leather seat of his wheelchair.

“Oh, my!” said Bonnie, oddly pleased by her patient's anal outburst. Like a doting mommy, she told us, “His fleshy trumpet seems to be in fine tune this morning.”

Grant and I caught each other's glance and struggled not to laugh.

Merrit and Robin proceeded with their paper pushing as though nothing had happened; perhaps they'd heard previous trumpet recitals. Glancing at a file and handing it to Robin, Merrit told his client, “I can return with the rest early Monday. No problem.” He turned to Grant and me, adding, “Many days, I'm here more than once.”

“Maybe by then,” said Stewart to his banker, “by Monday, you'll know if that collector in Boston is ready to sell. I want that Winslow Homer seascape.”

Merrit jogged another stack of papers. “Your last offer caught his interest, all right. I think he'll bite. Meanwhile, Robin has been verifying the painting's provenance.”

Stewart grunted his approval.

I must have looked confused. Grant, standing near me, explained, “A provenance is the documentation of an artwork's authenticity, as established by its history of ownership.”

“Ah.”

Merrit assured all of us, “Robin is a first-rate researcher. Our clients' interests are well protected.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, allowing a smile.

“Speaking of research,” Stewart addressed the young woman, “have you had any success in setting up that appointment for Monday?”

Robin nodded. “Everything's taken care of, Mr. Chaffee. I tracked down the gallery in Santa Barbara, and your meeting is booked as requested.”

Merrit asked, “Is there anything else, Stewart? I didn't intend to rob you of so much time with your guests,” meaning Grant and me.

“Actually”—Stewart paused, heaving a sigh—“there
is
something else.” He lifted from his lap the envelope that he'd retrieved from his saddlebag. “This is important. I want you to place it in my safe-deposit box at the bank.”

“Certainly, Stewart. My pleasure.” Merrit took the ordinary white envelope, examined it briefly (it didn't seem to contain much, perhaps a page or two), then handed it to Robin, who placed it in a folder, which in turn went into the briefcase.

Robin said, “I notice the envelope has no markings, Mr. Chaffee. Are there any special instructions?”

“There are.” Stewart turned from the secretary to the banker. “Merrit, I trust you. You've had complete access to my affairs for many years now. I think of you not only as my banker, but also as my friend. When I die, I want you to go to my safe-deposit box and open that envelope. It will make my wishes plain enough.”

“Stewart, I really think it would be more appropriate for—”

Bonnie interrupted. “No, Mr. Chaffee. This isn't necessary, not yet. Your condition is difficult, I know, but it's not life-threatening. You're in no immediate danger. Please, try not to think such morbid thoughts.”

The old man gave his nurse a get-real stare. “Bonnie, I'm eighty-two—with a stroke and a heart condition. I'm not being morbid, just realistic.”

“But, Stewart,” said his banker, “I've told you before: you need a good lawyer, an estate planner, to assist you with these matters. Your holdings are far too vast to be settled by a simple letter of intent. Your entire estate could be held up in probate for years, and your final wishes could end up unfulfilled. It's complicated, but—”

“It's
not
complicated,” Stewart insisted. “In fact, it's perfectly straightforward. As for lawyers, you know how I've always felt about them—I just don't trust them. And I'm not about to
start
trusting them
now.
” Harrumph.

“A homemade letter of intent, which lawyers would call a holographic will, is a risky instrument at best. As your financial adviser, I strongly recommend—”

“I didn't ask for your advice, Merrit. I asked you to keep the envelope for me and to open it when I'm gone.”

With a weary nod, the banker said, “Yes, Stewart, of course I'll do that. But in the meantime, give some thought to your family, your loved ones.”

With a sarcastic snort, Stewart said, “All these years, there's been nothing but bad blood between me and the rest of my family—what's left of it. So it's time to get things settled.” He jerked his head toward the briefcase that now contained his envelope.

Then he repeated, “That will make my wishes plain enough,” punctuating the statement with another toot of his fleshy trumpet.

Overhead, the papier-mâché cherub still puffed into her long silver trumpet, but sounded not a note.