Desert Winter (15 page)

“Well, then,” said Merrit, smiling broadly and patting Grant on the back, “it appears that the museum, while under your able watch, has just inherited a windfall. Congratulations.” He shook Grant's hand.

Still befuddled by this turn of events, Grant gestured to the shred of old newsprint on the table. “Will
that
stand up in court?”

“I'm no lawyer, but the bank has probate attorneys on staff, so I'll refer the legalities to them. In
my
opinion, however, this clipping should qualify as a holographic will.”

Knowing little of such matters, I ventured, “Doesn't a holographic will have to be handwritten?”

“Traditionally, yes, but in recent years, the courts have been inclined to grant some leeway. Increasingly now, their prime criterion has become whether or not the deceased has clearly and verifiably communicated his or her wishes. In this case, even though Stewart's intentions are stated in the printed text of the article, his handwritten marginalia—signed and dated—are explicit.”

“And,” I recalled, “he verbally reiterated those intentions in front of all of us on Saturday when he handed you the envelope.”

Merrit tapped the clipping on the table. “It's a very strong case.”

Still in a daze, Grant said, “How incredibly ironic—that I should happen to be present when Stewart gave this document to Merrit.”

I patted Grant's hand. “Somehow, I doubt that the timing was coincidental. Stewart knew that both you and Merrit were coming to the house that morning. Maybe it was his way of acknowledging your recent leadership at the museum. He made a point of complimenting your business sense and your social contacts. Remember?”

“True.”

Merrit agreed, “Claire's right. I'll bet Stewart meant to telegraph his intentions to all of us that morning. He had such a colorful personality—always did have that streak of gaming. Still, I feel it would be prudent for us to take a few precautions.” He stepped to a wall phone, picked up the receiver, and punched in a number. “Robin, could you join us in the vault, please? And bring along our file copy of Stewart Chaffee's signature.”

Waiting for Robin, Merrit voiced some other probate issues, telling Grant that he hoped they could forestall any contesting claims to the estate.

While they spoke, I picked up the clipping, examined it, and found it unquestionably genuine. The paper was brittle and yellow, attesting to its age. I read through the entire interview, then glanced at the back side, where I found part of an ad for a Nash dealer with a four-digit phone number. Its headline trumpeted
THE HOTTEST DEALS IN THE DESERT.
The more things changed, it seemed, the more they stayed the same.

“Thank you, Robin,” said Merrit as his secretary entered the vault and handed him Stewart's signature card. Holding the card beneath the signature on the clipping, he asked Robin to examine both. “Are they a satisfactory match?”

“No doubt whatever,” she said at a glance. “May I ask the nature of the document?”

“Of course.” Merrit apprised Robin of the clipping's significance, concluding, “The disbursement of a multimillion-dollar estate rests on this scrap of paper.”

She nodded. “Then authentication is a top priority.”

“Precisely. So there are several things I'd like for you to do, please. First, make several photocopies of the clipping for our own use and files, returning the original to Mr. Knoll.”

“Me?” asked Grant.

“You represent the museum, and the museum is the sole beneficiary. You have the greatest interest in the integrity of the original.”

“Wouldn't it be safer here, at your bank?”

“That might be seen as a conflict of interest, insofar as you are now the claimant against the deceased's estate.” Merrit turned to his secretary. “Robin, be sure to find a protective sleeve for the newsprint; it should not be folded or handled any more than necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do some library research to verify that the interview was actually published by the
Herald
in 1954. The clipping is clearly genuine—one look makes it self-evident—but with so much at stake, the authenticity could be routinely challenged by contesting claims on the estate. So let's do our homework up front.”

“I'll get right on it. There should be microfilm in Palm Springs.” Robin lifted the old clipping from the table, touching only the top corners. “Anything else, sir?”

“Uh…” Merrit glanced about. “Oh, yes. Here's an old stack of family photos that was among Mr. Chaffee's effects. I suppose they should go to his niece in Santa Barbara. You know how to reach her, don't you?”

“Yes, sir. We were in touch last week. I'll take care of it.” Robin set the clipping on top of the photos, lifted the bundle, and left the vault.

Merrit turned to Grant. “Well, now,” he said with a quiet laugh, “it seems you got more than you bargained for this morning.”

Grant peered into his briefcase. “I was happy to get the
ring …
”

“And you got the whole shooting match.”

I told Grant, “I hate to think of Stewart's death as having a silver lining, but I guess it did. It was a windfall for the arts.”

Grant nodded. Pensively, he told us, “In a sense, I ought to be thrilled, but the truth is, it's a pointless sort of windfall.”

Merrit and I exchanged a quizzical glance.

Grant elaborated, “For years, the museum struggled financially, but now that D. Glenn Yeats has brought it under his wing, built it a new facility, and affiliated it with Desert Arts College, the museum finds itself in the enviable position of not having a financial worry in the world.”

Merrit shrugged. “And now you've got a ‘little something' extra. A nice cushion. Think of it as an endowment.”

“But most of Stewart's wealth was tied up in his collection, I assume.”

“Yes, that's largely true.”

“So the museum has inherited a vast collection of art and antiques.”

I asked Grant wryly, “Something wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all. It's a wonderful, generous bequest. Except, most of Stewart's collection is not even remotely connected to Southwestern arts. It doesn't fit our artistic mission.”

Merrit suggested the obvious: “So sell off the non-Southwestern pieces.”

Grant brightened at the thought. Then he noticed my scowl. “What's wrong?”

“Sorry, gentlemen, but I don't think that idea will fly. Read the entire interview. In the paragraph after Stewart's statement about everything going to the Southwest Museum, he stipulates that nothing may be sold.”

Merrit sighed. “That's a fairly typical restriction in bequests such as this.”

“Which means,” said Grant, “DMSA has just inherited a windfall with some very sticky strings attached.”

“All that beautiful stuff…” I shook my head. “If you don't want to display it, and you can't sell it, what do you do with it?”

Grant tossed his hands. “Put it in storage.”

duplicity

10

Climbing the mountainside toward Nirvana
, I asked, “Are you sure I'm dressed for this?”

Grant glanced over at me, grinning. “You look spectacular, doll. I'm honored to escort you
anywhere.
”

“I mean, don't you think this is a tad Christmassy?” Seated next to him in the Mercedes, I swept a hand from my red dress to my green turban.

He paused. “It's December.”

“Somehow, the suave crowd at the Regal Palms strikes me as more sophisticated—and less thematic.”

“Shush. They're just people, mere
tourists.
Milady is a star. She's entitled to make a statement. Here we are.” He turned off the steep road that continued up to the gated Nirvana housing development, swinging into the driveway of the Regal Palms Hotel.

By the time we had finished our dealings with Merrit Lloyd at the bank, it was nearly noon, and Grant was still reeling from having learned the unexpected disposition of Stewart Chaffee's estate. So he'd phoned from the car to reserve a terrace table at the hotel, where we could discuss that morning's events in relaxed, genteel surroundings.

“Ah,” said Grant, peering ahead through the windshield, “Larry's here.”

We had decided that the developments regarding Chaffee's fortune would be found equally intriguing by Grant's brother, Detective Larry Knoll, so we had phoned him as well, telling him what we'd learned. Since he happened to be driving down valley from Palm Springs, we invited him to join us for lunch. He readily agreed, saying there was something important he needed to discuss with Grant.

Larry had arrived first and now stood under the huge portico at the hotel's entrance, eyes closed, face aimed toward the sun, soaking up a few mild winter rays. In the glare, he didn't notice Grant's car pull up.

A pair of uniformed parking valets stepped to the car, opening both front doors. Getting out, grabbing his briefcase from the backseat, Grant said, “We're just staying for lunch.”

Hearing this, Larry snapped out of his trance and greeted us, adding, “What took you so long?”

Grant reminded Larry, “I don't have the option of stopping traffic and running red lights when I'm late for a rendezvous.”

“I would
never
do that.” The brothers shook hands.

“Hi, Larry.” I gave the detective a hug.

“Nice to see you again, Claire—under considerably more pleasant circumstances than yesterday.”

I nodded. “The circumstances are different, but the topic's the same.”

Grant suggested, “Shall we continue this inside? I've booked a fabulous table.”

Walking us to the entrance, Larry told his gay brother, “I'd expect nothing less than ‘fabulous' from you, Grant.”

Crossing the lobby toward the dining room, Grant was saying, “It pays to have pull—”

“Claire!” someone interrupted. “Of all people.”

Several guests milled nearby, so it took me a moment to spot Mark Manning striding toward us. He wore a crisp khaki business suit. “Mark!” I hailed, stopping under an expansive chandelier.

“I was just on my way out. What a nice surprise.” He kissed my cheek.

“I forgot you were staying here. Everything to your liking?”

He made a gesture encompassing the graceful room. “What's not to like?”

Remembering my manners, I turned to introduce the brothers Knoll and saw at once that Grant had a hungry interest in Mark. So I saved that introduction—the better to tantalize my neighbor—telling Larry, “This is Mark Manning, a journalist from the Midwest. His nephew is my student Thad Quatrain, who was with me yesterday at the Chaffee home.”

Larry shook hands. “He seems like a great kid, Mark. Sorry he had to witness something like that.” Then he explained, “I'm Larry Knoll, the detective in charge of the case.”

I let them banter some, knowing that Grant was now all the more eager to meet my handsome, green-eyed friend. He was surely aware that Mark was not only a star journalist, but openly gay.

“Grant,” I said at last, “do you know Mark Manning?”

“By reputation, of course. My pleasure, Mark.” Grant beamed, shaking hands. “I'm Claire's neighbor—and Larry's brother.” When all the pleasantries had been dispatched, Grant added, “Won't you join us for lunch? We'd
love
to have you.”

At first, Grant's suggestion struck me as ill timed, motivated by shallow attraction when we had a deeper matter, murder, to discuss. Then I recalled that Mark had solved many such crimes during his investigative career, so I hoped he would accept Grant's invitation.

“Thanks, but I have plans”—Mark checked his watch—“and I'm running late. I have a lunch meeting with the publisher of the
Desert Sun.
Then I'm touring their offices and printing plant.”

I joshed, “A working vacation…”

“Yeah, I guess.” Mark laughed. “The fourth estate—ever vigilant.” Then, after a quick round of farewells, he dashed out the front door.

Grant turned to watch him leave.

I said, “You're almost ‘married,' remember.”

“And blissfully so. But I'll never stop looking.”

I singsonged, “Look but don't touch.”

“
Gawd,
you're square.” He tisked, then abruptly changed gears, asking, “Lunchtime?” And he escorted us to the dining room.

Grant had not exaggerated. His table was indeed “fabulous.” As we settled on the back terrace and unfurled our heavy linen napkins, I gazed across the Coachella Valley, which spread out beneath us and disappeared through the San Gorgonio Pass. Overhead, palms rustled in a languid breeze.

A waiter offered drinks. Out of deference to Larry, who was on duty, we all opted for iced tea. “It's quite delectable,” Grant told me, whirling a hand. “They infuse it with mango or … or
some
manner of exotic sapor.”

Larry squinted. “‘Sapor'?”

“Flavoring. Really, Larry.”

“Sorry. Once a philistine…”

Waiting for our tea to arrive, we moved quickly to our intended topic. “So,” asked Larry, “Chaffee left everything to the museum?”

Grant lifted his briefcase from the limestone floor, set it in his lap, wedged it open, and peeped inside. “It was the damnedest thing. Merrit Lloyd had called me down to the bank because Stewart had left a turquoise ring to the museum, but I left with, in his words, ‘the whole shooting match.'” Grant plucked from his case the plastic sleeve that now held the old newspaper clipping. “If you ask me, this is a highly peculiar last will and testament, but Merrit thinks it'll stand up.”

I added, “The banker said it should qualify as a holographic will because of Stewart's handwritten note in the margin.”