Desert Winter (38 page)

“Of course not, Detective. How could anyone possibly think—”

“Robin,” I interrupted, “before you go too far with that denial, you should know about a crucial development in the investigation.”

Larry's eyes slid toward me, wondering what I was up to.

I forged ahead, telling Robin, “The crime scene, obviously, was checked thoroughly for fingerprints. As you know, the killer cleaned the refrigerator handle before leaving, not only concealing her identity, but proving foul play. She also cleaned the prints from the inside knob of the front door when leaving, proving her escape route.”

With a smirk, Robin noted, “Then you have nothing.”

“Ah, but we do. It seems the killer was rushed or distracted when leaving the house, and she neglected to clean the
outside
doorknob.”

Robin's smirk faded.

I wasn't sure how much latitude Larry might be allowed in fudging the facts to coax a confession, but I was bound by no such restrictions, so I felt no compunction in telling Robin, “The killer, the last person to use that door, left a full, clean set of fingerprints on the outside knob, including a beautiful thumbprint recognized by experts as that of a female. Prints have been taken from everyone known to be at the house on Monday, and the mysterious thumbprint has no match. Which means, we have abundant knowledge of who did
not
kill Stewart Chaffee. Since you claim to be innocent, Robin, I assume you'll be more than eager to volunteer a set of your prints.”

Silence reigned for a moment as the young woman considered her options. Her fingers curled into fists; she dared not look at her hands.

When she opened her mouth, Atticus told her, “Don't, Robin. It's a trick.”

“No, Dad.” She shook her head. “I'm afraid this is it. It's over.”

Atticus seemed to wither before our eyes. A talented artist, perhaps a genius, had fallen from greatness, weighted down by his own ego, damned by his pride.

Robin watched as her father buried his head in his hands. Then she turned to Larry and spoke softly. “Yes, Detective, I think you'll find that the unknown thumbprint is mine. I was there that day, in Mr. Lloyd's car, as suggested by Miss Gray. The rest, well—now that it's out, you'll have no trouble tracing the forgery of the paintings or the false certification of the provenances.”

Larry nodded. “And Mr. Chaffee's death?”

Robin sighed, began to speak, then hesitated. Regaining a touch of her spunk, she said, “I don't intend to make this easy for you, Detective. You've got a lot of circumstantial evidence. But did I kill Stewart Chaffee? You'll have to prove it.”

“I intend to, Miss Jones. And it won't be difficult.”

With that, in front of a roomful of witnesses and a battalion of reporters, Larry Knoll arrested Robin for murder and Atticus for complicity; numerous counts of fraud would doubtless be added to their litany of woe. He handcuffed both, recited their rights, and led them from the gallery while phoning for backup.

The mum crowd parted, as if to let lepers pass.

*   *   *

They had no sooner left the room when the grim silence gave way to jolly pandemonium. The dramatic arrest had been far more entertaining than the dreary press conference to which the guests had presumably been invited. The crowd gabbed and laughed, comparing notes. Some rushed out to the lobby to watch the killers being hauled away—and to have another drink.

Most of the reporters left as well, scurrying to capture the scene outside the building. Others stayed behind, including Mark Manning, who still typed diligently at his laptop, pausing to glance at me, smile, and salute me with a thumbs-up. One of the television crews was clustered near the podium, interviewing Glenn Yeats. The microphone was still on. He told the reporters, “… so we saw our duty, and we never hesitated to assist the sheriff's department in this crime-solving effort. It's
so
gratifying to know that we played a small role in seeing justice done.”

Grant and Kane strolled up to me, again the happy couple, secure in the knowledge that their relationship had not been undermined by scheming, greed, or murder. Grant gave me a hug. “Congratulations, doll. You did it again.”

“Nonsense. Haven't you heard? This was
all
Glenn's doing.”

We shared a laugh. Then Grant and Kane spotted Iesha and, needing to talk to her, excused themselves.

“Miss Gray?”

I turned to find Pea standing behind me with Bonnie. My eyes surely bugged at the sight of the little man in black with his arm around the big nurse in spangles.

“We wanted to thank you,” said Pea, “for straightening this out.”

Bonnie nodded. “The shock of Stewart's death was hard on everyone. He was a difficult man, but I did love him, and I know that Pea did, too.”

Pea bowed his head. “We've both said and done some terrible things.”

“That was anger talking,” I assured him. “And the loss.”

“But that's no excuse,” said Bonnie. “Our feuding was no help to the investigation. I'm real sorry.”

“So am I,” echoed Pea.

“Claire!” said Merrit Lloyd, striding toward me with Dawn Chaffee-Tucker. “What a night, eh? Who'd have thought—a murderess in my own office. I'm mortified.” He didn't sound mortified; he sounded tickled pink.

With a soft smile, Dawn told him, “Just be thankful it's over.” She looked as composed and elegant as ever, utterly unruffled by the turn of events.

Merrit shuddered. “But the forged paintings, and the forged will, and the security breach.” Sounding less giddy, he repeated, “I'm mortified.”

I told them, “I just had a thought. This all began when Dawn received a badly typed letter from her uncle. I assume that letter was written on the home computer at the estate sometime during Pea's absence. We're reasonably sure that Stewart delivered a homemade will to Merrit, the one in the original white envelope, destroyed by Robin. I'll bet Stewart wrote his will on that same computer. Since it's now evident that Stewart's intentions were not those expressed in the fake newspaper column, what
did
he intend? If I were you”—I looked from face to face, from Merrit to Dawn to Pea to Bonnie—“I'd search those computer files and figure out the true disposition of Stewart's estate.”

They gaped at each other, having overlooked this promising angle. Pea, the keeper of the keys, jangled them, telling the others, “I'll open the house. Let's get going.”

And with words of thanks, they left.

Tanner and Kiki were making their way through the crowd, laughing at something, bearing fresh drinks from the bar. Tanner carried an extra martini, and seeing it, I realized that I needed it badly—I'd been doing
far
too much talking that evening.

“Claire!
Darling!
” gushed Kiki as they approached. “You were a
triumph,
my dear. An unmitigated triumph.”

“Thank you,” I cooed, hugging her tight. With a wink, I took the glass from Tanner's hand and sipped behind Kiki's back. It was icy, stiff, and wonderful.

“My turn,” said Tanner, wrapping his arms around me, managing not to spill either his or my cocktail. With an offhand tone, he asked, “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

I smiled wryly. “I can't say I recall.” My God, he'd said the word. Would I utter it as well?

Before I could speak, Kiki interrupted at the decisive moment. “They really
are
charming, aren't they?”

“Hmm?”

“The
paintings,
dear”—she wagged a bracelet-clad arm toward the wall of faked Swedish masterpieces—“the Östmans or the Atticuses or whatever the hell you call them. Despite their shady pedigree, they're quite delightful.” She sipped the pink liquid from her bird-bath, adding, “Simply enchanting.”

I eyed the canvases. They were, in a word, captivating. One in particular, that little landscape at evening featuring a crude drawbridge over a stream, drew me into its bucolic charm and its evocation of simpler times. Its lively palette was even more appealing than before. Nice frame too.

Why, it would look just dandy on one of my bare living-room walls.

To whom, I wondered, did the Östman collection now belong?

24

Tanner said the word again
that night, after we returned to my condo, and again on Friday morning, as we tangled the sheets before rising.

Did I tell him, in turn, that I loved him? It seems hopelessly scatterbrained to claim that I cannot remember, but remember I cannot. I had flirted with the simple declaration for months, while weighing a schizophrenic mix of relief and resentment that Tanner, too, had felt no rush to label our emotions. So on Friday morning, during a moment of high rapture, when the word again rolled from his lips, it may at last have rolled from mine as well.

If I didn't speak it, I felt it. And I communicated my love with a physical intensity that delighted Tanner and amazed even me.

“Wow,” he said, catching his breath when we had finished. “I mean,
wow.
”

I needed a cigarette. But I had quit on the day when I had moved to California. Still, a trace of telltale tobacco huskiness colored my voice as I told Tanner, deadpan, “You weren't so bad yourself.”

Springing from the bed, he informed me, “I'll get the coffee going.” Then he bounded down to the kitchen, taking the stairs by twos. I heard the latch of the front door as he opened it to grab the paper. “Hey!” he called. “You made page one.”

I flopped back on the pillows, heaving a big sigh, as if bored by it all.

We had slept late for a weekday, till nine or so, a just reward for my exploits the previous evening. Besides, our production of
Laura
was to open that night, and I wanted Tanner well rested for the long-awaited debut. By nine-thirty that morning, we had thrown on some clothes and headed out to the pool terrace bearing a tray loaded with coffee, the paper, and Tanner's protein slop (his regimen usually struck me as superfluous, but that morning, following our vigorous romp, I silently conceded that he might be due for a booster).

The overnight chill had lifted, and we settled comfortably at the round glass table, dismissing any need to light the firepot. Abundant sunshine slanted through surrounding palms and pines, dancing on the placid surface of the pool.

“Morning, doll!” called Grant, spotting us from the French doors of his neighboring condo. “How's the lady of the hour?” he asked, slipping out to join us with an oversize mug of coffee. Dressed for his day at the office and fresh from his twenty-minute shave, he made me feel like a feckless sloven. Arriving at the table, he set down his cup and leaned to give me a kiss.

“What about me?” asked Tanner wryly.

Grant circled behind him with a menacing growl, then chastely pecked the top of Tanner's head, pausing a moment to savor the touch and scent of sandy, bed-rumpled hair. “Hmm,” Grant sounded an accusing note. “I smell sex.”

“Stop that.” Behind my playful reprimand, I wondered if Grant had made a good guess—or were his senses truly that well honed?

“
Well,
now,” he said, sitting across from me, tapping the newspaper on the table, “milady will have a tough time of it tonight, topping last night's performance.”

“Not at all,” I assured him. “Last night was merely a diversion, an improvisation. But
tonight
—that performance has been fully rehearsed and polished. Besides, my work is done. It's Tanner's turn to shine.” I reached over the table and rubbed the back of his hand.

“I'll do my best,” he told me, flashing a smile that would, I was certain, make any audience wilt.

I asked Grant, “Where's Kane this morning?”

“Up and out already. The museum crew will have their hands full today. ‘The Chaffee Legacy' is now history, the figment of a fake newspaper clipping. So it's back to plan A, and the kachina exhibit returns to the main gallery in time for the opening of your play tonight.”

“Claire!” hollered my other neighbor, Kiki, from somewhere unseen, probably the center courtyard, near the fountain. “Where are you?”

Tanner called, “We're by the pool.”

Footfalls raced through the courtyard, crunching sand on the terra-cotta tiles. Appearing at the terrace gate, Kiki announced, “You made the
Times,
Claire.”

“What?”
I had no doubt that the
Times
she waved was the one from New York, as Los Angeles had not yet registered on Kiki's radar.

She banged the gate and bustled toward the table, fluttering the newspaper, jangling her bracelets (though the day was young, she never left the house less than fully accessorized). Plopping the paper on the table, she said, “And Mark Manning wrote it.”

Sure enough, there on page three, above the fold, was Mark's bylined story, which had been picked up by wire, apparently running in numerous papers that day. The
Times
headline proclaimed,
FLAIR FOR DRAMA
, followed by an italic subhead,
Claire Gray, toast of Broadway, snares killer, art swindler at museum opening in California.

The story, which I read aloud, recounted the events of the previous evening with Mark's typical precision, insight, and charm—there was no mistaking his style. He'd gotten some good quotes from Detective Larry Knoll as well as D. Glenn Yeats, who basically took credit for aiding police in setting the trap. Mark spared no ink, however, in describing me as “the undisputed hero in untangling a most heinous crime.” He even plugged the opening of my play. Setting down the paper, I shook my head, telling the others, “This is far too flattering.”

“Nonsense, doll.” Grant beaded me with a stare. “You
love
it.”