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Authors: Michael Craft

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BOOK: Desert Spring
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“It was all
meticulously
researched,” I assured Larry. “Spencer Wallace knew as well as anyone: when it comes to details, you can't bluff a mystery audience.”
With a touch of skepticism, Larry said, “I gather, then, you've both read the script.”
“Of course.” I explained, “Tanner will be starring in the film. He asked me to read the script and sought my advice on various points of interpretation.”
Grant told his brother, “I've read it too, here at Claire's. Since Tanner needs to memorize the script, I've helped him by running lines, feeding him cues.”
Larry nodded, making note of all this, then asked me, “Do you have a spare copy?”
“I think so, yes.” Enticingly, I added, “Care to borrow it?”
“Please. It seems I have some brushing up to do with regard to cadmium poisoning. I'll alert the coroner's office to test for it at once.”
My brow wrinkled. “Doesn't it take
weeks
to get results of toxicology ?”
“Usually, yes. But that's when you don't know what you're looking for. If we know we're looking for cadmium, the testing is straightforward.” He sat again. “If you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to make notes on all this while it's fresh.”
“Sure, Larry. Let me try to find that script for you.” I headed toward the bedroom hallway.
“Uh, Claire?” said Grant, following me a step or two.
I turned. “Yes, dear?”
He fingered the marabou collar of his—rather, my—robe. “I hate to impose, but I wonder if I might spend the night here. My clothes are wet, it's late, and—”
“Of
course,
Grant. Not another word. In fact, I'd rather not be alone tonight. I'm sure you're bushed; God knows
I
am. Let's get you fixed up in the guest room.” I led him down the hall.
“Thanks, doll,” he told me when we reached the extra bedroom. He paused outside the door to give me a good-night kiss. “If I wake up early, I'll try not to disturb you.”
“I appreciate that, but somehow, I have an inkling I won't be sleeping late tomorrow morning.”
He breathed a little sigh of understanding. “Just try to get some rest.” Then he retreated into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Stepping to the next door, I entered my own room, the one I'd shared with Tanner for several months. Tonight, I realized, the room seemed suddenly, depressingly empty. Ignoring that issue, I crossed to the dresser and opened one of the drawers. I found Tanner's copy of the bound screenplay at once; it was dog-eared from repeated handling, with his lines marked in yellow highlighter. Digging deeper, I found a second copy of the script, the one I'd studied. Taking the script, I closed the drawer and stepped across the bedroom toward the hall. Near the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in a dressing mirror and realized, with sagging spirits, that my new red dress was probably ruined by the cognac I'd spilled from chest to knee.
Ah, well, I thought. An excuse to shop.
Walking the hall from the bedroom to the living room, I heard Larry's voice and thought he might be using his cell phone. Not exactly eavesdropping, I slowed my pace—the better to hear—when I realized he was conversing with Erin.
“Sure, thanks,” he said.
“Cream or sugar?” she asked, leading me to conclude she was serving more coffee.
“No, black, please.”
For some reason, I stopped, delaying my return to the living room. At this point, I concede, I was indeed eavesdropping.
There was a long moment of silence, then Larry told Erin, “They're finished.”
“Hmm?” Her voice had a vacant air.
“Miss Gray and my brother—I'm sure they're finished with their coffee.” I heard him set down his cup, mumbling, “It
is
late.”
There was another pause. Then Erin said with a tone of resolve, “I wonder if I might have a word with you, Detective.” She set down the pot with a decisive clack.
“Certainly. That's why I'm here. What is it?”
“It's about … it's about Miss Gray.”
Needless to say, I was now on full alert. I may have stopped breathing, for fear of detection.
“Yes?” asked Larry, intrigued.
“Earlier, when I first brought out the coffee, you were all discussing what happened tonight. You were talking about possible motives, and you asked Miss Gray if she knew of anyone who might've had a reason to kill Mr. Wallace.”
Larry riffled through the pages of his notebook. “And she replied that while Wallace had both enemies and rivals, she doubted that any of them would stoop to murder.”
“I, uh … I think Miss Gray neglected to tell you something.”
“Something”—his footsteps approached her as his voice lowered—“something like what?”
“At the party tonight, after most of the guests had left, I was cleaning up—here, in this room—and Miss Gray was talking to Mr. Griffin.”
Larry clarified, “Tanner? Miss Gray's … ‘friend'?”
“Yes. They were discussing his move to Hollywood, and Miss Gray was getting all worked up.”
Oh, no, I thought. Should I interrupt this? Or should I stay put so Larry could react candidly? Though tempted, I didn't move.
Larry asked, “She was angry?”
“When Mr. Griffin said it was time for him to ‘fly the nest,' Miss Gray sort of flipped. I mean, she was like—”
I heard Erin stomping across the room, and I could easily visualize her flinging her arms, exactly as I had done.
“—she was like, ‘Aarghh! I could
kill
Spencer Wallace for stealing you from me!'”
Screwed, I thought, shaking my head. Screwed as screwed can be.
Larry asked, “Was she just being … dramatic? Or did you get the impression she was serious? Sometimes people exaggerate.”
“Well,” allowed Erin, “Mr. Griffin and your brother laughed, so
they
didn't think she was serious. But they're not
women,
Detective. I don't think they fully understand what Miss Gray has been going through.”
A primal instinct shot down my spine and put my feet in motion. Suddenly I was emerging from the hall into the living room, waving the movie script with triumph. “Well, I found it!”
Larry and Erin turned to me in silence.
I explained, “The screenplay.
Photo Flash.
”
But still they remained mute. Their embarrassed look would have struck me as funny had I not known the topic of the discussion I'd interrupted.
With a lighthearted laugh, I asked, “What in God's name is going on here?”
Brightly, I added, “What'd I miss?”
Sunday morning was not the time of serenity and solitude I'd been hoping to enjoy. My gay friend and former neighbor had spent the night, and his brother the detective now suspected me of murder.
“That's nuts,” Grant told me when I voiced these concerns. “Larry would never seriously suspect you of
any
crime, let alone murder.” Grant revved the engine of his Mercedes as it began the trek up a steep mountainside road that led to the Regal Palms Hotel. He was treating me to a luxe champagne brunch to help get my mind off the disturbing developments of the previous night.
I stared blankly out the windshield as palms and tall, colorful grasses whisked by. “Somehow,” I mused, “your brother strikes me as the consummate professional. I doubt that he would let his objectivity be clouded by friendship.”
Grant tsked. “I
heard
your so-called threat against Spencer Wallace. No one in his right mind would take it seriously.”
“The catering gal did.”
“Obviously befuddled—probably a crack baby.” He turned into the hotel driveway and coasted to a stop beneath the massive portico.
A pair of smartly uniformed parking valets helped us from the car. Absorbing the genteel surroundings, I felt instantly calmed. As Grant escorted me through the doors to the lobby, I turned to get
a good look at him. “I'm amazed,” I said. “I was sure your clothes would be ruined.”
He tossed his head with a laugh. “My ensemble may not look fresh-off-the-rack, but hell, linen is
supposed
to be worn rumpled.” His loafers, now sockless, clacked on the marble floor as he strutted across the lobby with me at his side. His bare ankles revealed perhaps an extra inch of leg below the cuffs of his pants, which had shrunk under the iron earlier that morning during a futile attempt to restore their creases.
“Ah, good morning, Mr. Knoll,” said a spiffed-up hostess as we approached the main door to the dining room. “I have your usual table on the terrace if you'd care to dine alfresco today.”
Grant turned to me, deferring to my wishes. “Too breezy? Too warm?”
“Not at all. Let's enjoy the weather.” April in the desert already hinted at summer, with daytime highs pushing ninety. But at mid-morning, the valley still basked under a sun that felt warm and welcoming, not hot. I had gazed out upon the spectacular view from Grant's regular terrace table many times and was eager to do so again.
Within moments, we were seated and champagne was being poured. I don't make a habit of boozing in the morning, but the prospect of bubbles on my tongue seemed oddly appealing, and the consequent light-headedness would be its own reward, so I made no effort to signal the waiter to cut short his pouring. He filled my crystal flute to the rim, then backed away with a subtle bow.
Grant raised his glass. “To a quick resolution to the events of last night.”
“I'll drink to that.” And I did. The champagne was bone-dry and ice-cold. I swallowed the first sip with rapture, then indulged in a few more, as did Grant.
During this lull in our conversation, I glanced about the other tables on the terrace. People gabbed, laughed, and ate. Laid-back and casually dressed but conspicuously accessorized in all manner of designer whatnot, most were Angelinos on a weekend's retreat from the smoggy metropolis. Sunday papers were folded on the tables or scattered on the stone floor. I glimpsed headlines from New York and Los Angeles and the local
Desert Sun.
There was no mention of Spencer Wallace; news of his drowning was too late for the overnight deadline. As far as the trendy brunch crowd was concerned, this was just another peaceful morning in paradise.
One table, at the far end of the terrace, was getting raucous. Their giddy hoots and loud repartee lent a disagreeable note to the elegant surroundings. Perhaps they had tarried too long with their champagne before moving on to the eggs Benedict and lobster soufflé. I assumed a hotel manager would soon stop by to politely, but firmly, shush them.
Grant followed my stare. “Who
are
they?” he wondered, appalled. There were five or six of them at the circular table. One of them, a man with his back to us, brayed at the sky, handing his newspaper to the woman sitting next to him.
I conjectured, “Perhaps they don't know better—or simply don't care.”
“Well, they're
old
enough to know better.” Grant jerked his head in the direction of the unruly table. “Those aren't kids. In fact, Laughing Boy looks older than
us.
”
“We're hardly ancient,” I said with mild umbrage. But Grant's comment was apt; Laughing Boy was no moppet. From behind, his silvery hair gave him a grandfatherly air. What's more, he looked familiar, but the back of his head was an insufficient clue to his identity, and I was at a loss to place him.
“Shall we get something to eat?” asked Grant. “I'm starved.”
“Sure. Let's graze.”
So Grant rose, helped me from my chair, and walked indoors with me to the lavish buffet, leaving the rowdy table behind.
It was all too much—the food, that is. An omelette chef stood at the ready to concoct fresh, frothy egg dishes of any description. Baskets brimmed with breads and buns. A sculpted cornucopia of ice spilled heaps of shrimp and crab onto silver platters. Sausage and bacon and little breakfast steaks hissed in flame-licked chafing dishes. Boats of jams and sauces and syrup littered the long table in festive confusion. Though it was my intention to “just pick,” a waiter stepped forward to hand me a fresh plate, offering to carry my first plate, now loaded high, back to the table for me. I gratefully accepted his offer, returning, unencumbered, to my frenzied foraging.
So engrossed had I become in the task of food-gathering (as if I might starve), I failed to notice that the table of revelers had stepped indoors to do the same. When I returned to the terrace with Grant, the lofty setting seemed eerily quiet. It was not till I seated myself, scraping the metal chair legs on the limestone pavers, that I realized Laughing Boy and his cohorts had ditched their bubbly and hit the trough. “Ah,” I said with a dainty snap of my oversize damask napkin, “that's better.”
Poising a silver fork, I focused on the task at hand. Generous chunks of lobster disappeared from my plate as fast as I could drag them through a buttery, opalescent pool of hollandaise.
Grant and I spoke very little—our mouths were busy. At some point, Laughing Boy's table returned, but I took little note of them, as they too had grown quiet, engrossed in the magnificent brunch. Though I had found their behavior boorish, even they understood that, ultimately, fine dining is no laughing matter. We were one in our appreciation of the moment, the food, and the setting.
From the corner of my eye, I watched a quail scamper across the
apron of the hotel swimming pool and disappear beneath the fronds of a tiny, precious sago palm. Our mountaintop, that morning, was a peaceable kingdom.
But I could not completely brush aside, even momentarily, the vexing questions that had arisen with the discovery of a corpse in my own swimming pool. Ah, well, I told myself with a pensive sigh, at least the mystery of Spencer Wallace's death had allowed me to sidestep the issue of Tanner's departure.
As if reading my thoughts, Grant put down his fork, dabbed his lips, and asked quietly, “What's wrong, doll?”
“Well”—I whirled my fork—“everything. I mean, Spencer, of course. It was ghastly.”
“The case is in good hands. Larry usually manages to get to the bottom of these things. Yet milady seems vexed. Are you sure it isn't Tanner?”
Exhaling noisily, I allowed, “Perhaps it is. I was so sure I would be stolid. Intellectually, I've known that I'm losing Tanner to bigger things, to another calling, one that I helped him achieve, so I've been congratulating myself on the success of my plans for him. Still …”
“Still,” Grant concluded my thought, “he's leaving. You're losing him.”
My shoulders slumped. “God, Grant, I wish you wouldn't put it quite that way.” With an inelegant little snort, I forced back a tear.
Ashen, Grant rose from his chair and scooted to sit directly next to me, on the low wall that surrounded the terrace. He reached for my hands and leaned close. “Sorry, doll. I'm such a lout, being so blunt.”
“You?” I laughed quietly. “A lout? Never, Grant. You're the perfect gentleman—and my best friend.” I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it.
He gave me a hug. “Would you like some more champagne?”
My glass was almost empty, and the little wine that remained in it was warm and flat. I considered, but declined, “Better not. The day is young, and there's no telling what might follow.”
“Most meals are followed by dessert.” Grant twitched a brow.
I groaned. I'd gotten a quick look at the dessert table while filling my first two plates. It was all too tempting, but I had already overindulged. In fact, I could barely breathe. With a soft shake of my head, I told Grant, “Thanks, love, but I'll have to pass.”
“Aw, come on,” he said rising, offering his hand. “A little sweet taste is just what the doctor ordered to cut through this savory repast. Perhaps just a dollop of sorbet?” Seductively, he added, “I spied mango.”
Hmm. There was little point in resisting, so I rose. Walking indoors with Grant, I told him under my breath, “You
are
wicked.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“C'est moi—une tentatrice extraordinaire.”
No sooner had we arrived at the dessert table (a dollop of mango sorbet, my eye) when Laughing Boy and his companions came in from the terrace as well. Sated by their meal, as well as the champagne, they were again becoming too jovial; they sounded even louder indoors than when I had first noticed them outside. As logistics would have it, I still could see only the back of Laughing Boy's head, its silvery locks shaking as he regaled his party with an observation unheard by me but found
terribly
amusing by the others.
“Good God,” he continued as I slid a litchi nut onto my plate, where it mingled with an assortment of other sweet delicacies, “who'd have thought it? It seems Spencer finally met his match.”
The others agreed merrily with a chorus of inane right-ons.
I froze momentarily, not only in reaction to the cold humor and the unseemly topic, but also in recognition of Laughing Boy's voice. It was Gabe Arlington, director of
Photo Flash.
I considered turning my back to the group and wandering nearer, the better to listen, but common courtesy demanded that I should make my
presence known and forestall the future embarrassment of discovery at an awkward moment.
Someone said, “I wonder if Claire Gray has read the paper yet.”
Shocked into action, I asked brightly, “Did I hear my name?”
Heads—including Gabe's silvery mop top—turned. It seemed the entire crowded room was caught in suspended animation for an interminable span of several seconds while everyone tried to assess what had been said, heard, and meant. Even the background clatter of plates and cutlery hushed.
“Good
heavens,
” said Gabe, getting a good look at me, smiling too broadly, “what a pleasant coincidence. Good morning, Claire.” Then his look instantly sobered as he stepped to me at the dessert table and offered a hug.
I managed to return the gesture without spilling my slippery litchi nut.
“You must be devastated,” said Gabe, patting my back.
Confused, I asked, “It's in the papers already? The police didn't arrive till after midnight.”
“Uh, no,” he said, equally confused, “at least I didn't notice it in the paper. But it was all over the TV news this morning.”
“Ahhh.” I should have known, but I rarely thought about television, and it would never even occur to me to switch it on in the morning.
Grant was standing nearby with his mango sorbet, which was beginning to melt, sliding lazily across the waxy surface of a banana leaf that garnished his plate. Cocking his head, he asked anyone, “Then why were you wondering if Claire had read the paper?”
In sheepish silence, Gabe's companions abandoned him, retreating to their table on the terrace.
Gabe asked me, “Then you didn't see it?”
“See
what
?” My confusion was now tinged with annoyance.
“The
Los Angeles Tribune.
Your interview.”
“Oh. I'd totally forgotten …”
“Kemper Fahlstrom apparently caught you after the show closed last night.”
Nodding, I recounted, “We spent a few minutes talking on the set before I headed home for the party.” My brow wrinkled. “Hope I didn't come across like a blabbering idiot.”
Gabe didn't answer.
BOOK: Desert Spring
10.68Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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