Desert Winter (18 page)

“Don't get me wrong,” she continued. “Just because I'm alone doesn't mean I feel unneeded or useless. I'm a nurse—a caregiver, as they like to say. It may sound sorta cliché, but I'm wed to my career.”

Larry gave her a soft smile. “I'm sure it's satisfying work.”

“It
can
be.” Her expression went hard. “The nursing field has changed a lot, even in the ten years or so that I've been at it. Hospital nursing isn't nearly so noble as I thought it would be when I was a kid. It's constant paperwork, impossible hours, and inflexible regulation. It got to the point where I couldn't stand it, so I bowed out and found a different calling—private-duty nursing.”

“When did you make this transition?”

“Two years ago.” She thought a moment. “Two years, two months. I had just resigned from my hospital position when Stewart suffered his stroke, requiring full-time at-home nursing and rehab. Not to sound opportunist, but I guess you could say I was in the right place at the right time. I've been employed in his household ever since.” She bowed her head, adding, “Till yesterday, of course.”

I told her, “I'm a little surprised you're at home today.”

She gave me a strange look. “My patient has expired. And so has my job.”

“I understand. But in the aftermath of Stewart's sudden death, I should think you'd be needed at the estate—at least for a little while—sorting through things, helping out.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you?” She shook her head with disgust, getting agitated. “Pea, that weasel, seems to think he's ruling the roost now. The little shit has actually
barred
me from returning to the house.” She swiped up a remote control and jabbed one of its buttons, which blackened the television. The room now seemed eerily dark, with searing streaks of sunlight leaking in from the slits and edges of the curtains.

Larry asked, “In what sense did Pea ‘bar' your return?”

“Said he'd call the
cops,
that bitchy little mother—” She stopped herself.

“I can't imagine why,” said Larry. “Under the circumstances, I doubt if the police would act on his complaint. As far as we know, he has no authority there. He's out of work too.”

“Tell
him
that.”

“I just may. I'm meeting with him later this afternoon.”

A vindictive grin turned Bonnie's mouth.

Larry continued, “We could use your help in sorting through Stewart's medications. I understand there were quite a few.”

She reminded him, “They had to hire a
nurse
to deal with it all. There was
plenty
to keep track of.” She got up from her chair, crossed the room to a window, and drew the curtains open, admitting a blast of light.

Larry squinted. “Can you recall any of them?”

“Sure. All of them.” And Bonnie proceeded to list well over a dozen prescription medicines that had sustained Stewart during his latter days. Larry took notes as Bonnie described each drug's purpose and detailed its dosage.

“In addition to the medications,” said Larry, “Stewart needed rehab, correct?”

Nodding, Bonnie moved from the window to the sofa, standing squarely before Larry and me. “After the stroke, Stewart couldn't walk, lost the use of one arm, and needed speech therapy. Gradually, with a lot of work, everything improved. Even though he felt he still needed the wheelchair, his arm and his speech recovered completely. It was gratifying to see him come back physically and emerge from his aphasia. Because I hadn't known the man
before
his stroke, it was almost like witnessing his birth.”

As Bonnie detailed the regimens of physical therapy she had provided, it was easy to imagine her hoisting the ill, stretching sluggish muscles, pummeling away pain. This benign image was countered by a more sinister one—Bonnie toppling a refrigerator with the effortless nudge of a well-trained arm.

“Miss Bahr,” said Larry, “I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Chaffee, but I certainly knew
of
him; everyone in the valley did. What was he like?”

With a sheepish smile, Bonnie said, “I'm sorta reluctant to talk about him, now that he's gone.”

I leaned forward, telling her, “I think what Larry is asking is, what was it like, working for Stewart? How would you describe your relationship?”

Larry gave me a discreet, grateful wink.

Bonnie reminded us, “I never knew him in his prime, but from everything I've heard, he was always quite a character.” She sat again in the recliner, knees together, hands folded, looking suddenly dainty, an improbable image. “Stewart had a quirky personality, that's for sure, and he was difficult to work for at times—but he was sick, and that's why I was there. Sometimes his mind wasn't right, and those were the most difficult times, but he always snapped out of it. He could be charming and gracious. I think
that
was his true nature, believe it or not.”

I nodded, admitting, “I could see that in him, easily. Still, during my visits, his manner was generally gruff and unpredictable. At times, Bonnie, his treatment of
you
verged on abusive.”

She shook her head, telling us flatly, “That wasn't the real Stewart Chaffee. It's unfair to judge him for his name-calling. There's a special relationship between a patient and a long-term caregiver that's difficult for an outsider to understand. Good Lord, I helped
bathe
the man; he depended on me. And sure, I depended on him; he paid me well. So our barking back and forth didn't mean anything. Really. Not a thing.”

Larry asked, “Is it safe to say, then, that you were not only Mr. Chaffee's nurse, but also his companion?”

She gave the detective an odd look. “Well, sort of. When Pea wasn't around.”

Larry flashed me a quizzical glance. I shrugged an I-dunno. He asked Bonnie, “You served as Mr. Chaffee's companion when the houseman wasn't around?”

“I never thought of Pea as the ‘houseman.' He was more of a secretary. You know—he scheduled things, ran errands, and such.”

“Okay,” said Larry, amending his notes. “But Pea was also Mr. Chaffee's companion?”

“Maybe I'm behind the times.” Bonnie blew an exasperated sigh. “I'm not sure
what
they call themselves these days.”

Larry scratched behind an ear. “You're not sure what
who
call themselves?”

She blurted, “
Gay
people.”

Larry still looked confused. “Everyone's aware that Stewart Chaffee was gay. And I got the impression that Pea Fertig is also. Are you now telling me that Stewart and Pea were … gay
together?
”

I translated: “Bonnie, were Pea and Stewart lovers?”

“Well, they weren't
sleeping
together, if that's what you mean. But I'm pretty sure they used to.”

“How long ago?”

“Beats me.
Long
time ago. I'm not even sure how long those two had been together, but it must've been decades. Cripes, I wonder what Stewart ever saw in
him.
”

“For one thing,” I suggested, “Pea was thirty-some years younger. Chances are, Stewart found that
highly
attractive.”

Bonnie's face wrinkled. “That's disgusting.”

In light of my relationship with Tanner, I was tempted to take offense. Instead, I countered, “It sounds to me as if they were loving and loyal. Sex had withered from their relationship, but Pea, still in his best years, held on. He remained ‘there' for Stewart because he was needed.”

Bonnie corrected me, “He remained ‘there' for Stewart because he was
paid.
And don't kid yourself—Pea resented it.”

“How could you tell?”

“His behavior, of course. He's a nasty little bastard. But think about it. How would
you
feel? You used to be this rich, important guy's ‘wife,' and now here you are, reduced to nothing more than paid domestic help.”

Bonnie had made a good point. Both Larry and I recognized it. He asked her, “What sort of services did Pea perform in the household?”

Bonnie began to speak, then hesitated. “I'm not entirely sure. Maybe you should ask him about that. To my way of thinking, he wasn't very useful at all. One thing's for sure—he couldn't cook.”

“And you
can,
” I said brightly, shifting the topic.

Modestly, she allowed, “I get by in the kitchen, but nothing fancy. On my day shifts at the estate, I always made lunch for Stewart. Simple stuff—soup and sandwiches.”

Larry asked, “Who fixed dinner?”

“There was part-time help who came in for that. Or Pea would bring meals home from various restaurants that Stewart liked.”

I reminded her, “You also made pink fluff.”

She smiled sweetly. “Sure. Rice Krispies squares, too. They're easy to make, and he enjoyed them so. Considering his refined tastes and cultured past, I don't know why he took such a liking to such childish foods. His favorite lunch was canned spaghetti.”

“Sometimes,” I ventured, “as we grow older, our tastes change. And it's often been observed that the elderly seem to revert to childhood—playing with dolls, for instance, or collecting stuffed toys.” As another example of age reversion, I recalled Grant joking with me, that very morning, about changing each other's diapers. In the interest of decorum, however, I kept the thought to myself.

“It's true,” said Bonnie. “In health care, we see it every day. As death approaches, it often brings with it a second infancy.”

Finding Bonnie's observation both sensitive and poetic, I was glad I hadn't mentioned diapers.

Getting us back on track, Larry asked the nurse, “This pink fluff—you brought some to Stewart yesterday morning, correct?”

She nodded. “He'd been asking for it for several days, so I made a batch of it here at home on Sunday night.”

Larry turned a page of his notebook. “Please tell me everything you can remember about going to the estate yesterday.”

Bonnie paused, closing her eyes, gathering her thoughts. With a blink, she began, “Monday is my day off. I had the pink fluff in a large green Tupperware bowl. I left here sometime before nine and drove over to the estate, arriving a few minutes later. I let myself in through the front gate, using the entry code. Then I drove up to the house and went inside, using my key.”

I asked, “Where did you park? Which door did you use.”

“I parked around back, in the courtyard by the garage, as usual. Then I entered through the kitchen door, as usual.”

Larry asked, “Did you need to disarm the security system at the door?”

“No, it was activated only at night. During the day, the gate security was sufficient to keep out salesmen or snoops.”

“Tell us about entering the house.”

“There's nothing much to tell. Passing through the kitchen, I put the pink fluff in the fridge, then went to find Mr. Chaffee. I wanted to tell him that I'd brought the fluff, but I also wanted to check on him and see if there was anything he needed.”

“Did you call his name?”

“No. He sleeps at all hours, so I didn't want to risk waking him. I began walking through the house and quickly found him—in the living room, asleep in his wheelchair, taking some sun through the window. I went back to the kitchen and wrote him a note about the fluff. I put the note in his lap, where he'd be sure to find it, and then I left.”

Everything she said was consistent with the story Pea had told us after he'd returned to the estate on Monday afternoon. Her estimated arrival time was consistent with the evidence of the video camera.

Larry asked, “While you were there, did you see anyone besides Mr. Chaffee?”

“The house sure
seemed
empty, but I didn't make a point of checking. None of the service people would be there at that hour, and I assumed Pea had gone to the gym, which he often does in the morning. The garage door was closed, so I don't know for a fact if his car was there or not.”

Larry was making detailed notes. “Thank you, Miss Bahr. This is helpful. Where did you go after leaving the estate?”

“It was a beautiful day—we've been having such delightful weather, with winter setting in. Since I'd never been to the Living Desert Reserve, I decided to check it out.”

I asked, “Living Desert?”

Larry explained, “It's a popular botanical park on the outskirts of Palm Desert, up in the foothills on Portola Avenue.”

Bonnie added, “They've got all the indigenous plants, plus an exhibit of palms of the world, not to mention the
animals.
”

“Snakes?” I asked feebly.

“They keep those separate,” she assured me, “in another building.”

“How sensible. A snakehouse.”

“But most of the other critters are right out in the open. You should see the meerkats. They're adorable.”

Trying to sound interested, I asked, “Are they some sort of wildcat?”

“No, they're not cats at all. They sorta look like prairie dogs, but they're part of the mongoose family.”

This too struck me as sensible—in case of a breach at the snakehouse.

Larry asked, “How long were you there?”

“Till well past one. I had lunch there. It was okay, but they were slow. It's crowded this time of year.”

“Did you get an entry ticket, maybe a stub?”

“I think they gave me a receipt when I paid, but I probably tossed it.” Then she thought of something. “I got a pamphlet, though. Would you like to see it?” And she rose from her chair, went to a table near the door, and brought back a brochure about the park.

“Thank you,” said Larry, glancing at it, handing it to me.