Desert Winter (19 page)

“Those are the meerkats,” said Bonnie, pointing to a photo on the cover. “Don't they look like they're smiling?” In fact, they did.

While Larry continued to question Bonnie about the remainder of her Monday afternoon, I idly paged through the brochure. It told me that, in all likelihood, Bonnie had visited the park, but it didn't tell me when. If, as she claimed, she was there on Monday from midmorning through noon, she would be held above suspicion in Chaffee's murder.

On the other hand, because she seemed unable to verify her alibi of visiting the crowded tourist attraction, alone, at the time of Chaffee's death, it was conceivable that she had not left the estate after writing the note that morning. She could have hidden in the house during the succession of later visitors, lured her elderly patient to the refrigerator, using pink fluff as bait, then toppled the refrigerator, crushing him. The note may have been an afterthought, planted on his dead or dying body to help exonerate her.

In other words, Bonnie Bahr had had the means and possibly the opportunity to kill Stewart Chaffee. But did she have a motive? Seemingly, she had none at all.

Larry was wrapping up his questions, thanking her for her cooperation, when she asked, “Exactly what happened, Detective? The newspaper didn't give much information, and when Pea called to inform me that my services were no longer needed, he mentioned something about the kitchen, but told me no more. How did Stewart die?” She sat again, looking somber and concerned.

Larry hesitated, then said, “Mr. Chaffee was found in the kitchen, crushed in his wheelchair by the refrigerator, which had fallen over. It may have been an accident, but some of the circumstances suggest foul play.” He was being as vague about his suspicions, I noted, as he had been yesterday while talking with Pea at the crime scene.

Bonnie had gone pale. “My God,” she whispered, lifting both hands to her face, “Stewart must've been after the pink fluff.” She began to cry, telling us through her tears, “I shouldn't have left that note for him. I should have woken him up and given him his treat. He always had trouble opening the fridge door.”

With a sob, she whined, “I should've stayed to
help
him.”

12

Pulling up to the gate
outside the Chaffee estate, Larry Knoll reached from the window of his car and pressed the intercom button. No one answered, so he punched in the keypad code. When the gate slid open, he drove onto the grounds, telling me, “Pea said I should check for him by the garage.”

“What's he doing, working on his car? He doesn't strike me as the type.”

As soon as we had pulled around to the side of the house, I had my answer. Though Pea's Cadillac was visible inside the open garage, next to Stewart's orphaned Rolls, neither car was the object of Pea's attention. Rather, he was directing a crew of helpers, workers in tan jumpsuits who were sorting and packing some of the clutter that had accumulated in the garage.

While Larry parked, I watched Pea strut about with a clipboard, nosing into cartons, pointing this way and that, hoisting a few things the workers had missed. He wore black nylon shorts, a pink tank top, and white tennis shoes with bulky gray socks. Though the day was barely warm, not hot, he'd worked up a sweat, which soaked his skimpy shirt with red splotches. It was clear at a glance that his time at the gym had been spent not lounging in a whirlpool, but engaged in obsessive physical training. For a short, middle-aged man, he had a great body. Though I admired the apparent determination with which he had compensated for his diminutive stature, I couldn't help also thinking that Pea Fertig would have no difficulty whatever toppling a heavy refrigerator.

As Larry and I got out of the car, Pea spotted us, crossing the courtyard to meet us. “Afternoon, Detective. Hello, Miss Gray.” His tone was neither cheery nor defensive, but flat and neutral, as if numbed by the events of the previous day. If he was surprised to find me in Larry's company, he didn't express it.

Larry said, “Thanks for making some time for me today.” They shook hands.

I offered mine. “I'm so sorry about everything. In addition to your loss, it seems you're swamped by the aftermath.”

“It helps to keep busy,” he said, accepting my hand, shaking it without interest. “Besides, someone has to do it.”

A large panel truck backed into the courtyard, bleeping its warning signal as workers cleared a path through the cartons.

Larry suggested, “Perhaps we could go inside. It'll be easier to talk.”

“Sure.” Pea led us across the courtyard to the kitchen door, opened it, and stepped aside so we could enter.

I half expected to find other helpers at work inside, but no. The quiet of the house stood in eerie contrast to the bustle and noise outside the garage.

“In here okay?” asked Pea, directing us toward the great room.

“Fine, thanks.” Larry followed him through the kitchen.

I paused to look at the spot where Stewart had been killed. The refrigerator had been righted, of course, but the collection of cocktail shakers, some of them now chipped and dented, had been shoved haphazardly into a corner of the countertop. There was no sign of Stewart's crumpled wheelchair, surely taken as evidence. The mess of foodstuffs—and blood—had been cleaned up, but I noticed with a wave of repugnance that in front of the refrigerator door, the cracks between the floor tiles were stained brown.

“Uh, Claire?” From the great room, Larry saw me staring at the kitchen floor. “Are you coming?”

I looked from Larry to the floor and back to Larry again. Then I mustered a weak smile, left the kitchen, and joined Larry with Pea in the great room. The space was much as it had been on the previous afternoon, except that some of the artwork had been taken from the walls and propped on the floor. The collection of paintings by Per-Olof Östman had been removed from the easels and stacked against a wall, draped with sheets. The room was still festooned, however, with its Christmas decorations, which looked insanely malapropos, their cheeriness mocking the grim mood that now shrouded the dead man's home.

Pea had settled on the leather sofa, using a towel he'd grabbed in the kitchen to blot perspiration from his face and chest. Larry sat across from him, at the coffee table, as the day before, reviewing his notes. I remained standing, drawn to the glass doors that looked over the terrace to the pool.

Pea glanced in my direction, asking, “The clock—you transported it safely?”

“Yes, thank you. It's ticking away onstage, even as we speak.” I felt it wise not to mention that we'd soaped its face, as Pea was such a fussbudget.

Larry seconded, “Yes, thank you for allowing Claire to take it yesterday. I'm sure Mr. Chaffee would be highly pleased, knowing the clock makes such an important contribution to her play.”

Pea responded with a cynical smile. He still wasn't happy that I'd gotten the clock. Did he feel it was rightfully his? Or did he simply feel loyal to his deceased employer and protective of his property?

Larry continued, “I notice you've moved some of the paintings.” He gestured toward the stack of draped canvases. “May I ask what you intend to do with them?”

Pea snapped, “Well, I don't intend to
steal
them.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything.”

Pea exhaled. “I'm sorry too. I didn't get much sleep last night, and I've been on edge all day.” Referring to the stack of paintings, he explained, “I have no idea what's to become of everything, but I thought I should start getting things organized for the bank.”

“Then you've spoken to Merrit Lloyd?”

“Yes, he phoned to explain about the old clipping. The courts will probably appoint him the estate's executor while everything grinds through probate. Fine by me—I wouldn't know where to begin.”

I noted, “Things look fairly well organized out in the courtyard.”

“I called in a crew this morning, before I'd heard from Merrit. The garage was a mess; most of it's my own stuff. Not sure where to send it, but I want to be ready.”

I crossed to the sofa and sat, separated from Pea by the middle cushion. With a tone of concern as well as curiosity, I asked, “But didn't you expect to remain here at the house?”

His features twisted. “Why would I?” He tossed the damp towel on the floor. “It was Stewart's house, and now he's gone.”

I glanced at Larry, unsure how to respond. The day before, Pea had told us that he and Stewart had been friends and nothing more. “Pea,” I said, “weren't you and Stewart a couple?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?” His tone suggested that I had accused him of something unseemly.

“Intuition.” I shrugged, letting him know that I found their relationship unremarkable.

He paused, then turned to face me on the sofa. His bare leg squeaked on the leather cushion. “Well, actually, yes, Stewart and I went way back together. There was a time when we were intimate, but that was long ago.” With a snort, he added, “Longer ago than I'd care to admit.” Pea's head bowed.

Larry assured him, “We don't mean to pry, and I certainly don't mean to judge. After all, my own brother's gay. But your background with Stewart could be helpful to our investigation. We all share the same goal—we want to figure out who killed your friend.”

Pea looked up. “Then it wasn't an accident?”

Larry leveled, “We believe Stewart was murdered.” He explained how the refrigerator door handle had been cleaned of all fingerprints.

“Yesterday,” said Pea, “the police were also checking the doors and knobs for fingerprints, right?”

“Right. We found traces of your prints on all the doorknobs—front, back, and garage. Since you live here, that's exactly what we'd expect. What's most telling is that the inside knob of the front door had been wiped clean. The killer must have been flustered or in a hurry. We have a lot to sort through.”

“Who could do such a thing? And why?”

“At the moment, I don't know.”

I added, “That's why we need your help, Pea. You knew Stewart better than anyone, I gather. Please, tell us how you came to know him.”

With a faint laugh, he told us, “It's a long story.”

Larry sat back, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. “I've got plenty of time.”

Pea nodded. “Okay.” He collected his thoughts. “I should back up—before I came to California.”

Larry turned a page of his notebook. “Where did you grow up?”

“Born and raised in Charlotte. In the proper Southern tradition, my parents were both literary types, and I was named after William Makepeace Thackeray. From the start, everyone called me Pea, which I really resented, since it was only a breath away from Peewee. But the name stuck, and eventually I grew to like it. I mean, it's different. And it sure as hell beats Makepeace.”

I laughed. “I'm inclined to agree with you.”

“In college, I majored in English. My parents thoroughly approved, but careerwise, the degree prepared me for nothing. By the time I graduated, I'd ‘found' myself—sexually, I mean—so I moved to California for the freer lifestyle.”

“What'd your parents think of
that?
”

“Not much. But then, I didn't tell them much. After all, that was almost twenty-five years ago—those times were still fairly closeted, even after Stonewall. So I settled in LA for a while, hoping to blend into the counterculture. One weekend, I visited Palm Springs with friends, and it was a real eye-opener. It was early spring, so the weather was spectacular—and so were the guys. That weekend was one long party, and sure enough, at a bar on Saturday night, I met Stewart. We shared an instant, mutual attraction.”

I said, “Do you mind if I ask how old you were then?”

“Not at all. That was just over twenty years ago. I was twenty-four; Stewart was sixty-one.” He smiled at the memory.

In spite of my relationship with Tanner Griffin, or perhaps because of it, I had to ask, “Didn't the age difference present some … obstacles?”

“Like what?” Either Pea had been truly infatuated, or he was very naive.

I tried explaining, “You were nearly forty years apart, and—”

“Miss Gray,” he interrupted, “I have always had a thing for older men. It's not that unusual. Wealth is an amazing turn-on, and Stewart offered fame as well; those are two qualities than can override all manner of shortcomings. Besides, guys never really lose the urge, regardless of age. Stewart didn't. Of course, his tastes were the opposite of mine. Till the day he died, he was always partial to
younger
men—and lots of them—for all the obvious reasons.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” I said, attempting to inflect my words with a tone other than cynicism.

“It was, at least at first.”

Larry got curious. “What went wrong?”

“What
usually
goes wrong? One of us got bored. After three or four years as lovers—and we really did love each other, emotionally as well as physically—Stewart's eye began to wander. What can I say? He lost interest in me. He liked to screw around. As angry as that made me, I was in no position to object—or leave. Like it or not, I'd built a comfortable life with Stewart, and I wasn't inclined to walk away from it in a fit of jealous pique. So Stewart kept me on as his secretary. I'd fallen a notch from lady of the manor, but my life was no less cushy, and truth is, the job suited me.”

“What were your duties?”

“You name it. I generally ran the estate, coordinating the schedules of all the part-time help. Stewart knew he could trust me, so he eventually put me in charge of the household accounts, paying bills and such. I also took care of his social correspondence; there was a lot of it.” He gestured toward the desk there in the great room. “We finally got a computer a few years ago, and it's really helped. Stewart never quite got the hang of it, but I've found it a godsend, especially for accounting and correspondence.”