Desert Winter (10 page)

Larry elaborated, “Man against machine. Fights over lost quarters.”

Thad admitted, “I've seen
that
often enough. But I've never seen a Coke machine fall.”

“It happens,” Larry assured us.

The medical examiner and an assistant now hovered over the body on the floor, trying to assess the injuries and their causes.

I recalled, “And just yesterday, I saw Stewart sitting in front of the refrigerator, tugging at the handle—twice. Those cocktail shakers were ready to take a dive even then. Too bad there was no one around this morning to help him. Poor guy. What an awful way to go.”

“Detective?” An evidence technician had popped in from the kitchen. “We've dusted the refrigerator handle for prints.
Nada.
”

“Nothing at all?” asked Larry, hand to chin.

The tech shook his head. “Clean as a whistle.”

“Be sure to dust the knobs of all the exterior doors, inside and out.”

The tech nodded and returned to his work.

Larry recited while making note of it, “Fridge handle, clean.”

Eyeing him, I prompted, “Which means…”

“Which means, foul play is now apparent. That door didn't open itself;
someone
had to touch the handle. I doubt if Mr. Chaffee accidentally pinned himself beneath the refrigerator, then, as his dying act, polished the hardware.”

Following his line of reason, I added, “And whoever
did
polish the handle eventually left the house, which is why you're checking all the doorknobs.”

Larry nodded. “Maybe someone got careless. So we'll need to take prints of everyone who's been here, hoping to zero in on a set that's unaccounted for.”

“Foul play,” repeated Thad. “That's like, murder, right?”

Larry raised a finger. “Maybe. For now, I'm treating it as a suspicious death.”

Tanner agreed, “Plenty suspicious.”

The medical examiner stepped into the great room. Eyeing Larry, he jerked his head toward the kitchen, wanting to talk.

Larry excused himself and stepped a few yards away from us. I had no trouble hearing him ask the examiner, “What do you know?”

“This is preliminary, of course, but the victim clearly died of severe hemorrhaging caused by traumatic injuries to his lower torso, beginning just beneath the rib cage.”

Larry grimaced. “Did he go fast?”

“The direct injuries involved neither the heart nor the brain, so I doubt if he died instantly. There may have been time to save him, but whoever was responsible left him to die.”

“When did it happen?”

“It's going to be difficult to establish the exact time of death because the refrigerator had been pumping cold air over the corpse since falling. A complete medical-legal autopsy will be required. With any luck, we'll sort this out.”

Larry persisted, “Give me your best guess.”

The medical examiner checked his watch. “It happened a few hours ago; I can't be more specific. It was definitely this morning, probably later rather than earlier. Let's say sometime after ten.”

Larry nodded, thinking.

As the medical examiner returned to his crew in the kitchen, two sheriff's deputies lined up to speak to Larry. One of them said, “We did a quick check with the DMV, and the Rolls in the garage is registered to the victim, Stewart Chaffee.”

Larry thanked him, and he left.

The other deputy said, “We may have some evidence, Detective.” He held out two plastic bags.

“Over here,” said Larry, returning to the coffee table—affording me a fine view. “What have you got?”

The cop turned over the first bag, containing a piece of paper. “This was found in the victim's lap, stuck there by the mess from the refrigerator.”

Larry smoothed it on the table. Inside was a handwritten note, smeared with a mixture of blood, Jell-O, and Cool Whip. Tanner and Thad leaned, trying to see it, but it was upside down.

I didn't horse around. Rising, I stepped to Larry's side and read the note aloud: “‘Pink fluff in the fridge. Go ahead—pig out, you old goat.'” I explained to the others, “That has to be from Bonnie Bahr, Stewart's nurse.”

Larry sat down and turned to a new page of notes. Clicking his pen, he asked, “What do you know about her?”

I filled him in.

Larry scribbled details. “She sounds like a real Nurse Ratched.”

I tisked. “Hardly. What makes you say that?”

“Well, that note,” he blustered. “The tone of it—‘pig out, you old goat'—not very professional. Insubordinate. And just possibly sadistic.”

“Possibly,” I allowed, “but my instincts suggest otherwise. After all, she made him a batch of pink fluff and brought it over on her day off. I've watched them interact. They sniped, but it struck me as gaming and ultimately good-natured.”

Larry looked up from his notes. “For her sake, I hope you're right.”

The deputy held out the second plastic bag. “We found this in the victim's breast pocket. Pretty fancy. Something valuable? Theft maybe?”

Larry examined the bag. It contained an old, ornate key with a green silk tassel. Though I had never before seen it, I knew exactly what it was. “Yeah,” said Larry, holding it up to the light, “theft. A good possibility for a motive. If we can find out what this key unlocks—a jewelry box, a silver chest—we could be halfway home to solving this.”

I hesitated. “Sorry, Larry. That key has nothing to do with stolen goods.”

He plopped the bagged key onto the table. “And how do you know
that?
”

“The key fits the drawers of an antique Biedermeier writing desk that Grant had borrowed for a designer showhouse. We returned the desk yesterday; it should still be in the garage. But we forgot to return the key. So Kane brought it over here this morning.”

Larry blinked. “
Grant's
Kane?” What he meant to ask was, My brother's boyfriend? But the words were unnatural to him. The two brothers lived in different worlds.

“Yes,” I answered, “Kane Richter was here with us yesterday, and he offered to drop off the key this morning on his way to campus. Obviously, he did just that, and then Stewart pocketed the key before…”

“Before what?”

I tossed my hands. “Before … whatever happened. I distinctly recall that Kane planned to come here early, and the medical examiner just said that Stewart was killed after ten. I'm sure there's no connection whatever.”

We heard a commotion in the garage. Then one of the officers rushed in. “Detective Knoll? This gentleman says he lives here.”

“What do you
mean,
there's been an accident? What in God's name—” Pea burst into the kitchen from behind the officer, then froze in his tracks, seeing Stewart on the floor. “I … I…” A clutch of shopping bags dropped from his hands—Saks, Brooks Brothers, Banana Republic. “Stewart?” he asked quietly, inching a step forward. “Oh,
God,
Stewart, what's happened?” And he darted toward the body.

Two deputies restrained him before he could touch the corpse. Pea was now kneeling within a yard of Stewart, with his dressy tan slacks hopelessly stained by the sanguine mess on the tile floor. Looking to the ceiling, he heaved a painful sigh, then fell forward and began to sob, mumbling Stewart's name.

Everyone observed a respectful moment of silence while Pea vented the initial shock of his loss. Even the medical examiner's team, jaded by countless scenes of unexpected death, seemed moved by Pea's display of raw grief. Naturally, I felt sympathy for the man, whom I barely knew. At the same time, I couldn't help wondering if perhaps, just maybe, this scene had been rehearsed. I'd seen a lot of theater in my years. Was I being shamefully cynical—or justifiably suspicious?

Larry leaned to ask me, “Who is he, do you know?”

I whispered, “He runs the household, sort of a secretary-butler. I think the name is Makepeace Fertig, but he goes by Pea.”

Hearing the odd moniker, Larry gave me a squint. “Were they, uh…?”

“Lovers? Not to my knowledge.” I'd never even considered that possibility, as Pea and Stewart must have been separated by some forty years.

Larry stepped over to the pitiful scene in the kitchen. He asked gently, “Mr. Fertig, is it?”

Pea's tear-streaked face turned up. “Yes?”

“I'm sorry, sir. I can see what a terrible shock this has been for you. Do you think you need a doctor?”

“Uh, no.” Pea shook his head, composing himself. “I'm fine, I think.” He tried getting up, but had to steady himself with a hand on the floor, so one of the latex-gloved deputies helped him to his feet. Not only his slacks, but also his white tennis sweater was smeared with spilled food and blood.

“Do you feel up to a few questions? I'm Larry Knoll, the sheriff's detective in charge of the case.”

Pea absentmindedly wiped his hands on his thighs. “Of course, Detective. Anything to help. Let me just…” He stepped to the sink, rinsed his hands, dried them, and shook hands with Larry, who was taller by a head. Pea looked up to tell him, “Thanks for being here.”

“We'll be more comfortable in the other room,” said Larry, leading Pea from the kitchen.

Tanner and Thad, who had risen from the sofa in the great room during Pea's dramatic entrance from the garage, now gathered with me, standing near the Austrian clock, while Larry returned to his notes at the coffee table. Larry took his previous chair, and Pea sat across from him, perching on the edge of the leather sofa's center cushion, where I had been.

“Tanner,” I said quietly, “why don't you and Thad go relax outdoors? The grounds are beautiful.”

Tanner nodded; he understood that I didn't want to expose young Thad to more of these proceedings than I had already inadvertently done. “Sure. Let us know when things wrap up, and we'll get that clock loaded.” They headed out through the glass doors toward the pool.

A new worry: With Stewart gone, would I still get the clock?

Larry had begun his routine questioning, which first covered Pea's name, established his age as forty-five, and confirmed that he resided at the estate. “And how long have you lived here, Mr. Fertig?”

“Years. Forever.” He focused his thoughts, then elaborated, “It's been about twenty years, since Stewart moved from his place in Palm Springs.”

“And what was your relationship to the victim?”

“Household help. Stewart and I would joke about it, calling me his majordomo. But there really isn't a staff, at least no other live-ins. We have part-time help for cleaning, gardening, pool maintenance. The list goes on and on.”

“What about the nurse?” Larry checked his notes. “Bonnie Bahr, right?”

“That's her name. She's full-time, but she doesn't live here.”

“Where is she right now?”

“Monday is her day off. No idea what she does with her own time.”

Larry added a line to his notes. He paused before asking, “Aside from your household duties, did you also have a personal relationship with Mr. Chaffee?”

Pea choked up. “We were …
friends,
sure. But nothing more.” Then, as if the question had only now occurred to him, Pea asked, “What happened, Detective?” He gestured toward the kitchen.

“There's no quick answer, I'm afraid. At first glance, this appears to be a dreadful accident. I'm really very sorry.”

While Larry and Pea exchanged a few words lamenting the tragedy, I wondered why Larry had not shared with Pea his suspicions of foul play. Was Pea already on the suspect list?

Larry returned to his notes. “I need to begin constructing a chronology, a timetable, of everything that happened here at the house this morning. I hope you can help me.”

“I wish I could, but I wasn't here.”

“Where were you?”

“I left the house early, around seven-thirty, for my daily workout, over at Decathlon Gym.”

Larry made note of the gym. “Do you routinely sign in there?”

“Yeah, but why? You don't think I had something to do with this, do you?”

“Not at all. I simply need to establish who was and wasn't here this morning, and when. So how long were you at the gym?”

“About an hour and a half, maybe longer. I had errands to run afterward, but since it's Bonnie's day off, I thought I should stop back here and check in on Stewart, which I did. I returned to the house at nine-thirty; I recall checking the time because I wanted to plan the rest of the morning. I found Stewart sleeping peacefully in his wheelchair, positioned near a sunny window in the living room.”

“Here?” asked Larry, pointing toward the doors to the pool terrace.

“No,” Pea explained, “the living room is near the center of the house, just off the main hall. Stewart was resting and seemed comfortable, so I didn't wake him. I left within fifteen minutes.”

“Where did you go?”

Pea exhaled noisily, flapping his lips. “Gosh, all over. Shopping, mostly. The stores open at ten, and I hit quite a few. Clothes—it was time for some new duds.”

“Do you have receipts?”

“Sure. That's a good idea; we can figure out when I was at each store. By the time I was finished, it was after twelve, so I had lunch at a nice little place on El Paseo. Then I came home. When I saw the gate open, I wondered if something was wrong. When I saw all the police cars, I sorta panicked. That's when I ran in from the garage.” His eyes got glassy as he recalled what he'd seen in the kitchen.

“Mr. Fertig,” said Larry, lifting one of the plastic bags from the table, “do you recognize this?”

Pea gave a decisive nod. “That's the key to Stewart's Biedermeier desk, which someone borrowed. When they returned it, they forgot to—” Pea stopped short. Something had clicked. He asked, “
What's
your name, Detective?”