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Authors: Michael Craft

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BOOK: Desert Spring
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Glenn just wouldn't get it, so I covered my grin with my large damask napkin. I recognized that it, too, had come from the Regal Palms.
During the main course (I didn't need to ask—it was duck—well, maybe goose), Glenn set down his fork, swallowed, and sat back in his chair, thinking. Exhaling a quiet, wistful noise, he said, “Maybe it's for the best.”
“Hmm?” My mouth was full.
“Wallace,” he said with a note of disapprobation, shaking his head. “He won't be missed. Maybe it's for the best.”
“Glenn,”
I said, shocked by his comment. “Spencer Wallace was
murdered.
How could that possibly be ‘for the best'?”
He gave me a shushing gesture with both hands—did he fear I'd disturb the coyotes in the craggy slopes below? “Perhaps that was
too harsh of me,” he allowed. “It's just that, let's face it, Wallace was
not
the most likable of men.”
“So I've heard.”
“He'd made many enemies, Claire. I'm afraid he reaped what he'd sown.”
“Are you saying he
deserved
to die—in
my
swimming pool?”
With remarkable indifference, Glenn explained, “I'm not condoning murder. I'm merely making the observation that someone antagonized by Wallace must have felt that he deserved to die.” Picking up his fork, he sampled another bite of our dinner, chewing contentedly. Dabbing his lips, he said, “The saddle of rabbit is outstanding, don't you think?”
“Best ever.” I'd have sworn I'd seen a wing on my plate, but by now it was reduced to bones and sauce.
We ate in silence, Glenn relishing the rabbit, me pondering his attitude toward Spencer's death. Glenn's blasé justification of the murder—what goes around comes around—was troublesome, to say the least. It was almost enough to cast Glenn himself in a suspicious light.
The e-titan and the movie mogul had not been direct competitors, so I had no reason to feel that Glenn was among the legion of enemies who he claimed had been irked by Spencer. While the two men shared no business concerns, they did, however, share certain traits. To their credit, both were successful, intelligent, powerful, and wealthy. On the negative side, each felt boundless esteem for his own role in the world. I'd always noted that their interaction had been colored by an undertone of disdain, if not outright sniping—as in “This valley ain't big enough for the both of us.”
Sitting there, picking at my rabbit, watching Glenn lick his fingertips, I realized with a start that if I myself had had a plausible motive to kill Spencer, so had Glenn. Spencer had “stolen” Tanner
Griffin from my theater program, which was, after all, Glenn's creation. Indeed, the theater department was the raison d'être of the entire school; Glenn had built Desert Arts College first and foremost to advance the dramatic arts. Was he now stewing over the loss of Tanner as much as I was? More so?
It was a tempting thought that Glenn's support of my efforts at the school was so obsessive that he'd turned murderously vengeful when Spencer's recruitment of Tanner seemed to thwart my mission. What's more, I considered, Glenn had been at Saturday's party before Spencer was found dead. But then I recalled that I'd previously entertained suspicions about the darker side of D. Glenn Yeats, only to be proven laughably off base. Was my theatrical perspective on crime solving again taking a turn toward the melodramatic? Plucking the olive from the bottom of my martini glass, I popped it in my mouth and rolled it over my tongue, chiding myself for nurturing such shady doubts about my generous mentor and benefactor.
Light, friendly conversation peppered the remainder of our meal.
As we were finishing dessert (I can say with certainty only that it was sweet; beyond that, I'll hazard no guess), Glenn checked his watch and said, “It's early. Can't you spend the evening? We could watch a movie, perhaps, or simply share each other's company.” He reached across the table and placed his fingers on my hand. “I know no greater pleasure, Claire, than being with you.”
“I'm touched, Glenn.” My weak smile was more of a pout. “But I just can't stay, not tonight. It's been
such
an ordeal. I'm exhausted.”
“Of course, my dear. I understand.”
He did not understand, but I gave him a grateful nod.
And I took no pleasure in lying to him.
Although I was indeed exhausted that night, my reluctance to linger with Glenn had nothing to do with fatigue.
After strolling with Glenn through the house to the parking court, bidding a winsome farewell, and exchanging a solid if not heated kiss on the lips, I hopped into my Beetle and roared down the mountain road that would lead me home to Tanner. By plan, he was coming over to spend the night after his day of packing. I had wanted to share a meal with him—one of our last—but Glenn had scuttled those intentions with his urgent plea for our dinner meeting. When I had phoned to explain my predicament to Tanner, he hadn't minded at all, saying it would give him more time to finish at his apartment. He would shower and change there, then drive over, letting himself in with his key.
Turning off Country Club onto my side street, I held my breath for a moment, wondering if he had arrived yet, hoping I wouldn't need to spend another minute without him. A smile spread across my face as the boxy form of his black Jeep appeared from the shadow of my garage.
I pulled in, got out of the car, and fairly ran into the house. The lights were on; something soft and jazzy was playing on the stereo. But I didn't see Tanner in the living room or the adjacent kitchen. Was he waiting for me in the bedroom? An enticing prospect, to be
sure, but it was still too early for the climax of the boudoir—better to prolong our penultimate night together.
Rushing through the hall to the bedroom, I saw that he had been there, as evidenced by a large nylon gym bag on the bed; he'd begun removing a few things from my dresser drawers. With a bittersweet grin, I wondered if he'd missed the pair of boot socks Grant had pilfered. Stepping over to the bag, I reached inside and took out one of his neatly folded T-shirts. Lifting it reverently, I then buried my face in it, inhaling the intoxicating smells of detergent and fabric softener and Tanner himself.
So it's come to this, I told myself. Though I meant to feel ashamed—reduced to sniffing my young lover's underwear—I felt only the rush of excitement and intimacy. Digging deeper in his bag, I found a jockstrap and, dropping any pretense of ladylike behavior, made an absolute pig of myself.
 
“There you are!” I said, walking outdoors from the living room to the terrace. There was a distinct lilt to my voice and bounce to my step as I discovered Tanner lounging in the shallow end of the pool, sans swimwear. Eerie blue ripples from the underwater light distorted his body beneath his chest.
He broke into a broad smile at the sound of my voice. “I didn't hear you come in.” With a hint of apology, he added, “The music …”
“Glad you made yourself at home.”
“The water's great.” He raised a dripping hand from the surface and beckoned me with his index finger.
It took me all of twenty seconds to slip out of my clothes and pad barefoot to the corner of the pool. Tanner stood on one of the steps that ascended from the water, then offered me a hand as I dipped my feet in next to him, submerging my legs to the knees. In
contrast to the cool night air, the water felt warm, so I eased myself in to the neck.
He sat next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “You're especially beautiful tonight.”
“You're not so bad yourself.” I tried to mask the extreme understatement in my infatuated tone. Tanner Griffin was, as always, a sight to behold. “You look none the worse from the rigors of your day of labor.”
“It wasn't so bad, just time-consuming. I mean, I wasn't moving grand pianos; I was packing clothes and books.”
“And the kitchen,” I added. “Pots and pans are heavy.”
He laughed. “Not the aluminum junk from
my
kitchen. If I were smart, I'd just throw it all out.”
Considering that I had moved a truckload of worthless furniture from New York, only to trash it a few months later, I allowed, “It might save some effort.”
“It's already packed,” he said with a shrug, sending soft ripples across the length of the pool.
Then he took my hand and strolled me away from the steps, wrapping me in his arms when the water deepened to chest height. We held each other, chins hooked over each other's shoulders, moving woozily together, swaying to the music that drifted from the living room.
I felt the nudge of his arousal against my belly. “You're a born dancer,” I said, deadpan. “Such technique.”
“Just follow my lead.” He humped me playfully, backing me to the wall of the pool, where he slid himself between my legs and mimicked penetration. This wasn't sex, not even foreplay; we both understood that that could wait. Rather, this was a frolic—pure, simple, and pleasurable. I gladly endured his gentle pummeling while, from behind, one of the pool's jets splashed against the nape of my neck.
After a minute or so, Tanner said, “I'd better stop.” His voice had gotten throaty.
“It's your call,” I said with airy indifference. He could keep it up all night, for all I cared.
“It'll be better for you later,” he promised.
“Then you'd better stop.”
He took a step away from me and, with a kick, pushed himself toward the deep end of the pool, floating on his back. His penis gave a friendly salute, waving proud and tall in the night air. I laughed.
“What's so funny?” he asked, speaking to the black sky.
“Nothing at all. Just enjoying myself.”
He scrunched himself into a ball, sank a few feet, then spun himself facedown, swimming to the bottom of the pool with long, strong strokes. A moment later, he shot to the top, breaking the surface like a manly dolphin. His cold spray drenched me. I yelped.
“Sorry,” he called, dropping back into the water. Treading it, he barely cleared his mouth. “C'mon,” he said, inviting me to join him at the deep end.
This scene was not a new one; in fact, it was a familiar routine. These nighttime escapades often provided the perfect, relaxing finale to a stressful day. Our high jinks in deep water had become a delightful ritual.
So I waded in his direction, and when the bottom of the pool dropped away from my feet, I swam. As I drew near Tanner, he dove again, sliding noiselessly deeper and deeper. When he reached bottom, he flung all four limbs, drifting, at peace with the living body of water.
And in that instant, I saw Spencer Wallace. His lifeless body was a blurry X beneath the surface, broken by the shifting waves of light. I gasped, inhaling some water. Then I coughed loudly, spitting
it out. Repelled by the sight of Tanner as Spencer, I paddled to the side of the pool and grabbed the stone apron.
“Hey! What's wrong?” asked Tanner, breaking the surface, swimming toward me. “I heard”—he sputtered through the water—“I heard you scream.”
Had I screamed? “I was coughing. I sort of choked.”
There must have been a wild look in my eye. Tanner glided up to me and grasped both of my hands. Alarmed, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Of
course
I am.” I forced a laugh.
“But … but what happened?”
I was tempted to fudge my answer and dismiss my morbid vision, inventing some innocuous reason for my outburst and my abrupt change of mood. But I had already lied outright to Glenn Yeats that evening, and this was not a pattern I wished to establish with Tanner. In the months I had known him, we had been scrupulous in hiding nothing from each other.
“My imagination got away from me,” I explained. “When you dove to the bottom of the pool—and stayed there—I had a memory flash of last night when we found Spencer Wallace.” I jerked my head toward the deep end.
“Oh, gosh.” Tanner cradled me in his warm, slippery arms. “How awful for you. And how thoughtless of
me.
”
I shook my head. “Not at all. You couldn't possibly have known what I saw last night or how I'd react tonight.”
The carefree spirit of our skinny-dipping interlude had evaporated. Tanner asked, “Would you like to get out of the water?”
Insipidly, I answered, “Thank you for understanding.” I pecked his lips.
We sloshed our way to the shallow end of the pool and lumbered up the steps. Water fell from our bodies; the dripping sound
seemed magnified in the still night. Padding across the terrace to a pair of chaise longues, we left shiny black tracks on the stone paving.
“Don't get your clothes wet,” said Tanner, grabbing his T-shirt from one of the chaises and helping me wiggle into it. As the neck hole popped past my head, I drank in his smells. Though not burly, Tanner's build was considerably bigger than mine, and he liked wearing loose, roomy T-shirts, so the makeshift cover of soft, white cotton hung from me like a smock. He then stepped into a pair of khaki shorts and zipped up, asking, “Want to go indoors?”
“Nah. It's a lovely night. Let's stay outside awhile.”
Tanner had brought out a couple of oversize bath towels, so he wrapped me in one, himself in the other. We settled on the chaises, I sitting, he reclining with his head propped in his hand. I watched a trickle of water as it dripped from hair to hair on his shins and then disappeared into the cushion.
Our silence began to feel awkward. “Uh”—I tried my voice—“I'm sorry I put a damper on things.”
“Don't be nuts.” God, what a smile. “You're here.
We're
here.”
“At least for tonight.”
“
And
tomorrow night.”
I returned his smile, but it faded fast as my thoughts leapt to Tuesday and to Tanner's departure.
Reading my mind, he said, “I'll be just up the road. LA is two hours from here. I'll be back.”
“Sure,” I said, sounding chipper, “and I'll get over to Los Angeles now and then.” Fat chance. Having left New York and having begun a new life in the desert—with its easy pace, clean air, and serene, natural beauty at every turn—the allure of urban sprawl was now nil.
“Besides,” he said, “all my friends are here.”
Leveling with him, I noted, “You'll have new friends, Tanner.”
He began to protest.
But I continued, “A phase of our lives is drawing to a close. There's no point in denying it—better to deal with that reality than to kid ourselves into thinking that nothing will change. Otherwise, later, when we realize that everything
has
changed, we'll be festering with disappointment and, just possibly, bitterness.”
He sat up. “Bitterness? That's impossible, Claire. I could never—”
“Tanner, dearest”—I shook my head gently—“reality can't be wished away by lofty intentions.”
“This has nothing to do with ‘lofty intentions.' It's about love. Don't you get it, Claire? I
love
you.”
“And I love you, Tanner.” I moved to his chaise, sat at his side, and held his hands. “But we entered this relationship fully aware that it was not a conventional romance. Sure, from the beginning, we've both had deep feelings for each other, but beyond that, we've both understood that our relationship has served other needs—namely, my theater program and your career. We've
benefited
each other.”
After a moment, he asked, “Like … traders?”
I pinched his cheek. “Yes, like
Traders.
” We were speaking of the thematic concept that was at the heart of my play.
He drew his knee up onto the cushion, turning to face me. “You mean, we've been using each other.” His words carried no tone of disillusionment, for he had come to understand the philosophy embodied by the play.
I nodded. “We
have
used each other. But here's the important part—we've used each other with each other's knowledge and consent. We've traded purposes, and in doing so, we've both accomplished other goals.”
“And along the way, we fell in love.”
“We did.” I held him tight for a moment. “I think we both understood that our initial attraction was mere infatuation, partly
fueled by those other goals and purposes. But sure enough, along the way, we came to love each other. And that's what lasts.”
He eyed me askance. “Not two minutes ago, you told me that a phase of our lives is drawing to a close, that everything will change.”
“True enough. What's ending is our shared life as lovers; that's a huge change. What's not ending, though, is our love. I will always love you, Tanner. Once your film career is up and running, we may resume some sort of relationship; maybe not. But we will always be loving friends.”
“Ahh,” said Tanner, “‘loving friends'—that sounds so chaste and proper, doesn't it?”
I chortled. “Depends on the friends.”
Not whining, truly curious, he asked, “Will there still be room for intimacy?” He slid a hand up my thigh.
BOOK: Desert Spring
5.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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