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Authors: Michael Craft

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BOOK: Desert Spring
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Stepping to the bench, I nudged Grant's legs and sat near his knees, pondering the swizzle stick. My tone was matter-of-fact. “You know very well that unexpected death, however dramatic, plays no role whatever in my day-to-day life.”
“Hmmm.” Grant considered my words for a moment. “And yet,” he noted, “tonight, I had to fish a corpse out of your pool.”
Ignoring his remark, I thought aloud, “‘Theater is my life.' Such a simple statement, it verges on hackneyed. But it's true, Grant. My dreams have been ambitious and direct, and I've attained them—I've established a solid reputation in the theater world. And now, well into my middle years, I've grasped at the opportunity to start over in a new direction, in a new locale, as if rebuilding my life from scratch.” Looking at Grant, I concluded, “I've devoted myself to theater, and my goals have served me well.”
Grant moved his feet to the floor and sat up, scooting close to me. Softly, he said, “Those goals have been strictly professional, Claire. Well done—you've proved your point and climbed to the top. I salute you as the
prima donna assoluta
of the American theater world. But what about … the woman within?”
With a touch of humor, I asked, “You're saying I'm shallow?” I was avoiding the real issue, and Grant knew it.
“Hardly.” He touched my arm. “You know only too well what I'm really asking: Where's the man in your life?”
Fidgeting with the swizzle stick, I told him, “I've just never had time for that. We've been through this before, Grant—I'm happily independent. It may sound lame, but I've been wed to my work.”
The swizzle stick snapped in my fingers. Flustered, I set the pieces on the coffee table.
“What about … Tanner?”
“Ah.” I slumped next to Grant, drained of tension, but my words were tinged with melancholy. “Tanner's been glorious. I've needed him badly.” With a feeble laugh, I added, “What woman wouldn't?”
Grant paused. “And now he's gone, almost.”
I nodded. “Almost.”
Grant rose. “I must say, doll—you're taking it better than I expected.”
“I knew it was coming. It was inevitable. In a sense, I planned it this way.”
“Hmm?” Concern colored Grant's voice.
I rose from the bench and crossed toward the front door, where I had last seen Tanner, leaving my home that night. Contemplating the door, I spoke more to myself than to Grant. “Tanner and I were drawn together by a force that's hard to define. How can I justify a romantic relationship with a man half my age—and a student, no less? I can't, not sanely.” My voice took on a quiet intensity as I explained, “But the attraction was there, and it was mutual. What's more, we each had something to offer the other, something beyond sex.
He
had the innate talent, the promise for greatness that was simply lacking in the younger students at DAC.
He
could help me put our theater program on the map. And we did. Meanwhile,
I
had the experience and influence that could mold Tanner's raw potential into the actor he is today—and launch him to true stardom. Which we've done. He's on his way.”
I turned from the door to face Grant, telling him, “So I knew all along this wasn't for keeps. I could look beyond the jowl-wagging and the disapproving gossip because it didn't matter. Tanner and I were part of a larger plan. We've brought it full circle. It's complete.”
“And now,” said Grant, moving to me, “you're losing him.”
I shook my head with a wan smile. “I never really ‘had' him. I may be largely inexperienced in affairs of the heart, but I'm not naive. I do love Tanner, and I have no doubt that he has loved me. But a lifelong, live-in relationship?” Through a soft laugh, I concluded, “It was never in the cards.”
Our conversation was interrupted—thank God—by Larry, who appeared again outside the open terrace doors. “Thanks, Doc,” he called to someone near the pool. “Talk to you in the morning.” As Larry walked inside, the police flashers stopped, darkening the terrace, and a few moments later, several vehicles revved their engines and drove off.
“Well,” said Larry, notes in hand, all business, “Wallace drowned. That's all we know.”
Grant moved to a chair near the fireplace and sat. “So it was just an accident?”
“A horrible accident,” I corrected him, crossing to stand near him.
Larry said, “Too soon to tell. Like any suspicious death, this one requires a complete medical-legal autopsy. Unfortunately, of the many possible causes of death, drowning presents the greatest obstacle to a definitive report.”
Trying to follow, I mumbled, “I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“Death by drowning cannot, in fact, be ‘proven' by an autopsy. Drowning is known as a diagnosis of
exclusion.
If circumstances point to drowning—like a body, facedown, at the bottom of a swimming pool—drowning is logically presumed the cause of death.”
I posited, “But that leaves the possibility that a dead or dying person either fell or was pushed into the water.”
“Exactly.”
Twirling a hand, Grant wondered, “Wouldn't you find water in the lungs if the person actually drowned?”
“Usually,” said Larry, “but not always. There's a phenomenon known as dry drowning, by which the victim suffocates as the result of sudden laryngospasm—closure of the airway—caused by water in the throat. Either way, if water filled the lungs or not, the operative word is
suffocation.
It's an agonizing death.”
All the more sobered by this insight into my friend's demise, I tried to remain unemotional and objective. “Do you know yet if there was water in Spencer's lungs?”
“We do. There was. But aside from circumstantial evidence, it's nearly impossible to tell whether we're dealing with an accident, which is reasonable; a suicide, which seems unlikely; or murder.”
Larry's last word hung in the air for a moment before I asked, “Do the circumstances strike you as suspicious?”
The detective sat on the bench, facing Grant and me near the fireplace. Setting his notes on the table, he said, “This wasn't a pool party. Wallace didn't suffer a mishap while swimming; he was fully clothed. That might not seem remarkable if he'd been drinking heavily tonight—accidental drownings often result from alcohol abuse—but we know he was
not
drinking. Therefore, if he ended up in the water by accident, it was fluky at best.” He summarized, “Do I find all this suspicious? You bet.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Erin, stepping from the kitchen with a tray. She paused uncertainly in the doorway, explaining, “The coffee's ready.”
“Excellent,” said Larry, waving her in. “I could use some.”
As Erin moved to the coffee table with her tray, I sat in the chair next to Grant, who told the girl, “Just half a cup, please.” I seconded, “Yes, a splash for me as well.” Erin began pouring for us.
Grant asked Larry, “So, then, was it a freak accident? Or murder?”
“The investigation has just begun. But you've asked the central question.”
I couldn't help musing, “All the elements of a neatly convoluted plot …”
“Uh-oh,” said Grant. “Milady sniffs a tantalizing whodunit.”
“Nonsense. It's a regrettable tragedy.”
Grant told Larry, “I don't know if you're prepared to take on a sidekick, O brother mine, but I have a hunch the great Claire Gray is willing to assist the investigation. As you already know, she has a uniquely
theatrical
perspective on perplexing death.”
“Oh, shush,” I told him.
Erin was offering cream and sugar to each of us. Larry and I declined, but Grant fussed—pouring, spooning, stirring.
Rhetorically, Larry said, “If it was murder, there had to be a motive.”
“And a means.” I nodded. “And an opportunity.”
“Of course,” agreed Larry, who had already drunk his coffee, setting down the empty cup, “but the motive tells all. I'll need to look into Wallace's family background, his business dealings, the works. You two were friendly, Claire. Off the top of your head, do you know if he had any conspicuous enemies? Perhaps a rival with an ax to grind?”
Erin refilled his cup, then peeped into the smallish coffeepot. Deciding a refill was needed, she put things in order on the tray, then took the pot and stepped toward the kitchen.
I told Larry, “Spencer Wallace was wealthy and powerful. He could—and did—make and break careers. Over the years, I think it's safe to say he made plenty of enemies. And there was no shortage of jealous rivals. But would anyone stoop to
kill
the man—here, tonight, in
my
home? I can't imagine that anyone felt an animosity toward him that was sufficient to provoke murder.”
Erin, I noticed, had paused at the kitchen doorway, turning to watch me as I spoke. When my eyes met hers, she bit her lip and slipped out of the room. What, I wondered, was that all about?
Larry was perusing his notes again. Without looking up, he asked, “Can you get me a complete list of everyone who was here tonight?”
I rose, cup in hand. “I'll try, Larry, but there were quite a few unfamiliar faces. I'll pull together my guest list and get it to you tomorrow.” Crossing to the bar, I set down my cup and made a note to myself on a pad near the phone.
Grant swallowed the last of his coffee, then said to his brother, “Don't tell me you suspect
everyone
at the party.”
With a menacing frown, Larry replied, “Anyone and everyone.” Then he laughed, explaining, “It's a start. Every guest tonight presumably had the
opportunity
to engage in deadly mischief. The sooner I start eliminating those who had no conceivable
motive,
the sooner I can zero in on serious suspects.”
Grant yawned, rose, and stretched a kink from his shoulders. He reminded Larry, “There were fifty guests. You'll have your hands full.” An idle glance led his eyes to the photos over the mantel, and he stepped to the fireplace to study them.
“That's the grunt work of police work,” Larry said vacantly, immersed in his notes and his thoughts.
Immersed in my own thoughts, I strolled toward the bench where Larry was seated. “The killer's motive—if there was a killer—is a total mystery. But what do we know about the victim?”
“Good question. Let's review.” Larry flipped back through his notebook, reciting, “Spencer Wallace, a famed movie producer, aged sixty, died of apparent drowning under suspicious circumstances. He had nothing to eat tonight, and though he was known to drink heavily sometimes, tonight he drank only tomato juice.
The caterer's maid who served him said his mood seemed off, and she described him as sickly. The victim's permanent residence is near Los Angeles, but he'd lately spent most of his time at a second home in Palm Springs …”
Grant turned and caught my eye as we simultaneously recognized that details of Larry's summary were beginning to sound familiar. Then we both swung our gaze to the wall of photos.
Larry continued, “Wallace was working on a movie script that will soon go into production. He was also spending considerable time in his home darkroom, working on his hobby, black-and-white photography.”
Grant and I interrupted him with a shared gasp.
“Good God,” said Grant.
I blurted, “Photography!”
Larry rose from the bench, bewildered. “What about it?”
“
Photo Flash.
The script,” I told him, stepping to his left side.
Flanking Larry on the right, Grant explained, “Wallace's screenplay was inspired by his hobby.”
I added, “The plot focuses on the murder of a renowned photographer.”
Larry's head ping-ponged as Grant picked up the story again: “He was poisoned slowly, over time, in his darkroom.”
I leaned close to tell Larry, “By cadmium poisoning.”
Larry blinked. “Cadmium?” He began taking notes.
“An extremely toxic element,” said Grant. “But cadmium also has legitimate industrial uses.”
I elaborated, “It's one of the major toxins in fluorescent lighting tubes, for instance. More to the point, cadmium compounds are widely used in photographic materials.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Larry with a disbelieving chortle. “How do you two
know
all this?”
“It's in the script!” we both told him.
Grant continued, “In his screenplay, Wallace spells out exactly how the photographer was poisoned—with cadmium chloride—and exactly how the crime evaded detection.”
BOOK: Desert Spring
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