Desert Winter by Michael Craft

just that, and then Stewart pocketed the key before…”
    â€œBefore 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.”
    â€œWhat 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…?”
    â€œLovers? 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?”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir. I can see what a terrible shock this has been for you. Do you think you need a doctor?”
    â€œUh, 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.
    â€œDo 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.”
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œTanner,” 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