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Authors: Michael Craft

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BOOK: Desert Spring
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“You're right, I imagine.” Kiki slowly turned away. “And I appreciate the moral support. But I'm afraid there's more to this story—a trifling footnote I've never had the nerve to confide in you.” She stepped from the stage and down the stairs to the auditorium, settling in one of the first-row seats.
I followed down the stairs. “If you're trying to pique my interest, you've succeeded.”
“This isn't easy.” Kiki swallowed. “The night of the party and the drug bust, a young woman died—of an overdose.”
“How horrible,” I mumbled, sitting in the seat next to Kiki's.
“It's worse,” she told me. “The kid was a student—of mine. She was a senior theater major with an emphasis in costuming, extremely talented, with a promising career ahead of her. That fall, we had clicked instantly. Throughout the year, she thought of me as a mentor.”
Wide-eyed, I asked, “Good Lord, Kiki, you weren't trafficking drugs to her, were you?”
She shook her head vehemently. “
No,
Claire, absolutely not. She had her own habit, her own source. But still, she looked up to me. She saw me as a role model, and I made a poor one. That night at the party, she lost all sense of judgment.
Lots
of us lost control, including me, and she followed my example. To this day, I often wonder if—in some sense—I killed Jennie.” Kiki bowed her head, clarifying, “That was her name.”
I touched my friend's arm. “I'm so sorr y, Kiki. Why haven't you shared this with me before?”
“It's just not the sort of thing you ‘share.' I could barely deal with it myself.”
“Was there any … fallout?”
“There was. With so many people at the party, lots of them knew that Jennie and I were student and teacher—and close friends. Rumors started flying that I
had
been pushing drugs to her, that I was responsible for the overdose. There was a police investigation.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned, utterly deflated.
Kiki stood, moved toward the stage, and turned to me. “Nothing came of it. I'd played no direct role in what happened to Jennie, so there was nothing to prove. There were never any charges. The incident was noted in my school records, then buried.”
I promised, “The secret's safe with me. Don't give it another thought.”
She breathed a weak sigh. “Denial is a marvelous self-defense mechanism. And I did a fairly decent job of repressing the whole mess—until this past Januar y. That's when I went to Cabo.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Mm-hm.” Kiki nodded slowly. “Spencer Wallace and I had some chemistry, as you've noted, and he enticed me down to his vacation home in the Baja for that lost weekend. It was spectacular—the house, the setting—and it
might
have been naughtily romantic. But there was a problem.” She paused, then told me bluntly, “It was you.”
With a dumbfounded gasp, I rose.
“What?”
“Spencer wasn't interested in
me,
Claire. He was interested in you.”
Pacing past the front of the stage, hand to head, I recalled, “And his widow said he was after
Tanner
.” I turned to ask Kiki, “How do
I
fit into this picture?”
“Tanner?” asked Kiki, herself confused. “Spencer must've wanted
him
for sex. But not you, Claire.”
I stepped face-to-face with Kiki, exasperated. “Am I supposed to be relieved—or
insulted
?”
She tsked. “Spencer was far too old for you. You wouldn't have enjoyed him.”
“But you
would
have? Kiki, you and I are the same age.”
“Oh.”
Reining in my emotions, I paced again, thinking aloud, “I'm no sweater girl, far from it. And I can live with that; my life has other priorities. But now and then it
is
difficult not to feel the slightest bit—shall we say—insecure?” I turned back to Kiki, expounding, “My own
mother
once called me ‘handsome,' and now—”
Kiki gasped. “She
didn't.

“She did. And now
you're
telling me that Spencer Wallace, a shameless womanizer, a notorious lech, was more interested in my
boyfriend
than he was in
me
?” The pitch of my voice had slid beyond its normal range; I wasn't so much speaking as squeaking.
Stepping toward me, Kiki spoke in soothing tones. “Spencer was
very
interested in you, Claire. But not ‘that way.'” Meaningfully, she added, “He had other plans for you.”
Tossing my arms, I asked, “What on
earth
are you talking about?”
Kiki sat again in the first row, patting the cushion of the seat next to her. “Sit down, dear.”
Warily, I did so.
Kiki looked me in the eye. “Spencer admired you tremendously.”
Hangdog, I recalled, “His wife told me that if he didn't invite me to Cabo, it was a sign of ‘respect.'”
“Yup.” Kiki nodded knowingly. “That was the very word he used. The entire weekend I was in Mexico, he yammered nonstop about his ‘respect' for you. He felt your talents were being wasted here—in the desert—teaching college.”
“Well.”
I was suddenly huffy. “It's good to know that
someone
—other than my own mother—saw fit to correct the course of my misguided life.”
“Spencer felt your true destiny was still further west …” Kiki paused. “In Hollywood.”
“Oh, Lord.” I laughed, but I was hardly amused. “How many times have I heard
that
? People who make movies seem so convinced that they've answered the ultimate calling, that anyone in his right mind would hotfoot away from legitimate theater at the first possible chance, joining the ranks of the glitterati who ‘do pictures.'” With a derisive snort, I added, “Have you ever noticed that? They
never
call a movie a ‘movie.' It's
always
a ‘picture.' So self-important …”
“And Spencer Wallace was the most important of them all. He
wanted
you, Claire—in his production company, in his studio. He wanted to make you a star director—of ‘pictures.' He said you could make a fortune—for both of you.”
Skeptically, I noted, “He never mentioned it to
me.

“He was afraid to. He'd read your interviews. He knew only too well that you could be a tad defensive about”—Kiki cleared her throat, placed a hand over her bosom, and completed her statement with a highbrow delivery—“about the
legitimate theater.

“Good.” I crossed my arms, smugly self-satisfied.
“So his plan was to recruit
me
into helping recruit
you
for
him.


What
?”
Kiki nodded. “Spencer didn't give a damn about
me.
The only reason he took me to Mexico was to brainwash me into advancing his scheme.”
I patted her hand. “Well, I'm glad you refused.” As an afterthought, I asked, “You
did
refuse, didn't you?”
“Yes, of course. But that wasn't the end of it. A few weeks ago, Spencer phoned me, wanting to meet for drinks at the Regal Palms. I was skeptical, but he assured me his only purpose was to apologize for his presumptuous behavior on the trip. So I went.”
“And … ?”
“And he'd reserved a quiet corner booth in the hotel lounge, where he was waiting for me.”
I wondered if it was the very booth where I'd lunched with Gabe Arlington only an hour earlier.
Kiki continued, “As soon as we'd ordered our drinks and the waiter had left, Spencer made it apparent that his purpose was
not
to apologize, but to ratchet up the pressure. First he tried friendly persuasion, but when that failed to sway me, he took another tack. He produced a manila file folder, placed it on the table before me, and opened it. Even in the dim light of the bar, I knew at once what it was.”
Apprehensively, flatly, I told her, “I don't believe it.”
“Believe it, Claire. Spencer had had me
investigated.
He'd done a complete background check and had managed to dig up copies of my files from Evans. In short, I was about to be coerced—
blackmailed
—into snaring you for his production company.”
I couldn't help thinking of Glenn Yeats's similar campaign, two years prior, to recruit me onto his future faculty. He'd been aggressive, but he hadn't been ruthless. “Christ,” I muttered. “Or else … ?”
“Or else,” said Kiki, “Spencer would expose my past problems, very likely putting an end to my teaching career. He was in thick with various board members at Desert Arts College, which has a strict, zero-tolerance policy for drug offenses. Oh, I know, it's mere posturing at best, a nod to the ruling conservative element, but no two ways about it—
drugs
is a far dirtier word today than it was thirty years ago. If Spencer revealed my previous arrest, coupled with Jennie's death, there's not a college in the land that would let me within a mile of its students. I'd be totally, irreversibly sca-
rewed.

I heaved a big sigh. “God, Kiki. What'd you do?”
She stood, recounting, “I begged—no soap. I pleaded—get real.
At best, Spencer would only give me a little while to think things over and decide. So I was buying time.”
I stood, grasping her arms. “Why didn't you
tell
me about this? I could have played along, helped you, then backed out on Spencer—screwing
him.

Kiki shook her head. “Nice thought, but Spencer was too savvy. He stressed that he'd settle only for
results,
not appearances of cooperation. My other option was to go to the police, and I was tempted. But that would bare the very details I needed to keep hidden.”
Looking into her eyes, I wanted to cr y. “Oh, Kiki, I'm mortified to know that I played some role in this—even unwittingly. I can't
imagine
what you must've been going through. I'm remorsefully sorr y.”
“Oh, well,” she said with unexpected breeziness, “all's well that end's well.”
“Huh?”
“He's
dead,
Claire. And I, for one, couldn't be happier.” Kiki gave me a brisk nod, checked her watch, then headed for the stairs that led up to the stage.
Following, I sputtered, “You, uh … didn't … ?”
Standing on the bottom stair, she turned to tell me, “Of
course
not. But somebody did, thank God, and that's all that matters to me.”
“I can understand your relief. And I appreciate that you've shared this with me. But don't you think it's time to fill Larry in?”
“The police?” she asked, aghast, stepping down to the floor. “Whatever for?”
“This is a previously unknown aspect of Spencer Wallace's background; it could be important to the case. If he stooped to blackmail
you,
Kiki, there's no telling how many others he'd victimized. As it stands,
I'm
on the suspect list, probably near the top, and I'd like to give Larry a little more to work with.”
Kiki tossed her head. “It
sounds
as if you're angling to substitute
my
name for
yours
on that list!”
With equal umbrage, I retorted, “That's nonsense. I merely want to give Larry a helpful new direction for his investigation.”
Kiki planted a hand on her hip. “While deflecting suspicion from yourself …”
I struggled to keep my anger in check, but just barely, telling her, “Sure. Why not? I
know
I didn't kill the man. Why shouldn't I nudge the police toward the same conclusion?”
Kiki blew. “While pinning the murder on your best
friend
? Oops, sorr y, I forgot. I'm
not
your best friend, am I, Claire? No, I'm your
OLDEST
friend!” She huffed up the stairs.
I followed her to the stage. “Kiki,” I said, mustering a conciliatory tone, “please, let's try to keep everything in perspective. We go back too far together to be divided by misunderstandings and unfounded suspicions.”
She spun toward me. “Then don't expect me to … to ‘take the rap' for you.”
I grinned. “For heaven's sake—I'm asking for no such thing.”
She returned my grin with the slightest little pout, a moue. “Then don't betray the confidence I shared with you. I have the right to expect that, if only out of friendship.”
BOOK: Desert Spring
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