Desert Spring (10 page)
Authors: Michael Craft
“Mm-hm.” With perfect nonchalance, Kiki dug a tube of lipstick out of her purse and began touching up.
Sitting in one of the three-legged chairs by the fireplace, I explained to Grant, “Kiki first met Spencer when he attended the opening of
Laura
last December. It seems there was a mite of chemistry. They had a brief fling.”
Laura
last December. It seems there was a mite of chemistry. They had a brief fling.”
“
Very
brief,” Kiki stressed. “A flingette.”
Very
brief,” Kiki stressed. “A flingette.”
“I see.” Enjoying himself, Grant crossed to the bench, musing, “But not
so
brief a flingette that you didn't have time for a little travel, eh?”
so
brief a flingette that you didn't have time for a little travel, eh?”
Gloating some, Kiki replied, “I'd prefer to call it a lost weekend, a
sordid
lost weekend in the dusty, torrid Baja.” Then her mood deflated. “But he was a jerk, a true asshole, if you'll pardon my expletive. And
that
”âshe snapped her purse shutâ“was
that.
”
sordid
lost weekend in the dusty, torrid Baja.” Then her mood deflated. “But he was a jerk, a true asshole, if you'll pardon my expletive. And
that
”âshe snapped her purse shutâ“was
that.
”
Grant eyed her askance. “So who's the babe on the balcony?”
Kiki primped. “Need you ask?”
Grant stepped back to the fireplace and peered at the photo. Skeptically, he asked, “It's
you
?” He handed the picture to me and looked over my shoulder as I perused it.
you
?” He handed the picture to me and looked over my shoulder as I perused it.
Kiki whirled a hand. “I admit, I don't
recall
him taking the picture. But I did sunbathe on the terraceânude, obviouslyâand I know I fell asleep because the terrace was in shadow when I awoke. He must have snapped me as I napped.” Mustering some indignation, she added, under her breath, “The filthy bugger.”
recall
him taking the picture. But I did sunbathe on the terraceânude, obviouslyâand I know I fell asleep because the terrace was in shadow when I awoke. He must have snapped me as I napped.” Mustering some indignation, she added, under her breath, “The filthy bugger.”
“Well,” said Grant, “if you
squint
at it ⦠I suppose ⦠the dark hair.” Though Kiki's hair was now black, she changed its color almost as frequently as she changed clothes, a point that eluded Grant. He took the photo from me and returned it to the mantel.
squint
at it ⦠I suppose ⦠the dark hair.” Though Kiki's hair was now black, she changed its color almost as frequently as she changed clothes, a point that eluded Grant. He took the photo from me and returned it to the mantel.
“I will say this,” said Kiki, pleased as punch. “He knew his craft. He certainly chose a flattering ⦠angle, or lens, or whatever.”
Dryly, I agreed, “Didn't he, though?”
The doorbell rang. Perhaps out of whimsy, perhaps in deference
to the futuristic design of the house, its previous owner had installed door chimes that played the opening notes of the theme from
The Jetsons.
“I really
must
have that changed,” I thought aloud as I moved to the front door, turned the knob, and swung it wide.
to the futuristic design of the house, its previous owner had installed door chimes that played the opening notes of the theme from
The Jetsons.
“I really
must
have that changed,” I thought aloud as I moved to the front door, turned the knob, and swung it wide.
“Morning, Claire,” said Detective Larry Knoll, stepping in. “Sorry to trouble you on a Sunday.” He wore no tie today, but a pale blue polo shirt under his suit jacket. Also under his jacket was the glint of a polished leather shoulder holster. Another holster, on his belt, carried a cell phone.
Closing the door, I told him, “In light of last night, I'd be surprised if you
didn't
come calling.”
didn't
come calling.”
Spotting his brother, Larry said, “Hey, Grant. Nice outfit.”
Lolling at the mantel, Grant lifted a foot to display the bare ankle beneath his rumpled slacks. “You
would
notice.”
would
notice.”
“And Miss Jasper-Plunkett,” said Larry, moving to the bench where Kiki still sat. “Nice to see you again, even under difficult circumstances.”
She extended her hand like royalty. “
Please,
Detective. It's Kiki. How delightful to see
you
again.” When he leaned forward to shake her hand, she yanked him near, asking, “Is it true? I hate to be indiscreet, but is Claire in trouble? Is she really a suspect? I mean the threat, the interview, and all. I highly
doubt
that she did it, you know.”
Please,
Detective. It's Kiki. How delightful to see
you
again.” When he leaned forward to shake her hand, she yanked him near, asking, “Is it true? I hate to be indiscreet, but is Claire in trouble? Is she really a suspect? I mean the threat, the interview, and all. I highly
doubt
that she did it, you know.”
“Kiki!” said Grant and I in unison, each moving a pace in her direction.
Larry stage-whispered to Kiki, “I'll let you in on something. I, too, highly doubt that Claire would stoop to murderâat a party, in her own home, no lessâwhile vowing to throttle the guest of honor.”
I stepped to the detective and patted his back. “Thank you, Larry. It's all very disturbing, and I spent a restless night. You have
no idea how grateful I am that you recognize my empty threat for what it wasâdramatic hyperbole.”
no idea how grateful I am that you recognize my empty threat for what it wasâdramatic hyperbole.”
He nodded. “Exactly. You're a friend, and I've come to knowâand enjoyâyour âdramatic' style.” Hesitating, he added, “Of course, I
am
a cop first, and I need to remain objective.”
am
a cop first, and I need to remain objective.”
From the corner of her mouth, Kiki said, “
That
sounds ominous.”
That
sounds ominous.”
Grant glared at her. “Do shush, Kiki.”
Perfectly at ease, I told Larry, “I understand your position. And I'll help any way I can.”
“I ought to have some crucial issues cleared up soonâat least as far as you're concerned, Claire. The coroner is completing his initial exam, and he knows to test for cadmium. If those results are positive, then we know we're dealing with homicide, and the killer could have been anyone at the party last nightâor anyone who's had access to Wallace's darkroom.”
Grimly, I asked, “That would leave me on your suspect list, wouldn't it?”
“Actually, it would. But the point is, I'm
not
expecting the coroner to find cadmium. It's too much like the screenplay; I've read it. Murder isn't generally so neat and tidy, with the clues laid out, point by point, in a manuscript left by the deceased. So if I'm right and Wallace tests negative for cadmium, the investigation goes back to square one. But
you'd
be in the clear.”
not
expecting the coroner to find cadmium. It's too much like the screenplay; I've read it. Murder isn't generally so neat and tidy, with the clues laid out, point by point, in a manuscript left by the deceased. So if I'm right and Wallace tests negative for cadmium, the investigation goes back to square one. But
you'd
be in the clear.”
With supreme understatement, I said, “Glad to hear it.”
“Anyway, the reason I'm here.” He checked his watch. “It's nearly noon. I thought Wallace's widow and her attorney might already be here. I assume they'll arrive any minute.”
“Oops,” said Kiki, rising. “I
just
heard my exit cue.”
just
heard my exit cue.”
With playful cynicism, Grant asked, “Aww, Kiki, gotta rush?”
“Yes, darling, I do âgotta rush.'” She crossed to the fireplace and
plucked her cocktail glass from the mantel. “I'm less than eager to meet the bereaved Mrs. Wallace.” And she whisked into the kitchen.
plucked her cocktail glass from the mantel. “I'm less than eager to meet the bereaved Mrs. Wallace.” And she whisked into the kitchen.
With feigned naiveté and a finger to his chin, Grant said, “I wonder why ⦔
Kiki instantly returned from the kitchen without her glass. Snatching her purse from the bench, she headed for the front door. “It's been a stitch, everyone. Claire? Call me later. Maybe lunch tomorrow.” She blew me a kiss and opened the door. “Ta, duckies.” And she left with a flourish, closing the door behind her.
Larry shook his head, as if clearing a fog. “What was
that
all about?”
that
all about?”
I shrugged. “With Kiki, one never knows.”
Enjoying himself, Grant tattled to his brother, “Kiki had a flingette with the deceased.”
With arched brows, Larry theorized, “So she doesn't care to meet the wife.”
Grant laughed. “Well, duh.” As the late morning was getting warm, he removed his sport coat and draped it over one of the chairs near the fireplace. The red stripe of Tanner's sock peeped from the pocket.
Changing the topic, I asked, “Won't you sit down, Larry?”
“Thanks.” He sat on the leather bench and pulled a notebook from his inside breast pocket.
“Can we get you some coffee?” I offered, removing the open copy of the
Tribune
from the coffee table, folding it, and setting it aside with some magazines.
Tribune
from the coffee table, folding it, and setting it aside with some magazines.
“No, thanks, all set. Claire, I wonder if I might review a few facts of the case with you.”
Sitting in the chair nearest him, I replied brightly, perhaps too eagerly, “With pleasure.”
“Uh-oh.” Grant laughed, drifting to the bar to pour himself some orange juice. “Milady
is
wheedling her way into the investigation. I warned you last night, bro. You've got a sidekick.”
is
wheedling her way into the investigation. I warned you last night, bro. You've got a sidekick.”
I piped in, “Stop that, Grant.” I was embarrassed to realize that his puckish words carried a kernel of truth.
“Well,” said Larry, “to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I mind. Claire seems to have known the victim as well as anyone, and I'm impressed by her ability to recall details and conversations.”
With self-satisfaction, I noted, “All those years of theatrical training must have paid off. Memorization is part of the craft.” Then my tone turned thoughtful. “I must admit, the riddle intrigues me. How and why did Spencer Wallace die? Was he murdered? And if so, who killed him? It's not unlike a baffling, nicely twisted stage play. I've been directing plays for over thirty years, so I suppose that qualifies me as a passable expert when it comes to analyzing character, motivation, and plot. If you find those skills useful, I offer them freely.”
Larry had studied me as I spoke. Now, with a pensive nod, apparently satisfied that I could help, he said, “Let's talk about the victim.” He set his open notebook on the coffee table. “Specifically, I'm intrigued by his recent health history. The maid said he appeared sickly last night.”
I nodded. “He did. He even mentioned it to me, dismissing his complaints as the ravages of advancing years. But that struck a false noteâhe was only sixty.”
“What were his specific symptoms?”
“Well”âmy eyes searched the ceiling as I thoughtâ“last night he complained of a sour stomach. But he'd been out of sorts for weeks, plagued by a whole array of unpleasant symptoms. For instance, he was irritable. He often found himself apologizing for his behavior, and no doubt about it, he was always on edge and
testy. He was losing weight, but claimed not to be dieting, and he said he felt generally sluggish or anemic. He even complained that he couldn't get his teeth really clean, and in fact, I noticed that they seemed too yellow.”
testy. He was losing weight, but claimed not to be dieting, and he said he felt generally sluggish or anemic. He even complained that he couldn't get his teeth really clean, and in fact, I noticed that they seemed too yellow.”
Grant stepped toward us from the bar, swallowing a sip of juice. “Did he smoke?”
“He did. Heavily at times.” With a feeble laugh, I added, “But his oddest complaint was
here
”âI tapped my nose. “He thought he was losing his sense of smell. Naturally, I encouraged him to see a doctor. Last night, he implied that he had done so. He dismissed the results as ânothing.'”
here
”âI tapped my nose. “He thought he was losing his sense of smell. Naturally, I encouraged him to see a doctor. Last night, he implied that he had done so. He dismissed the results as ânothing.'”
Larry underlined something in his notes. “He did see a doctor, last Wednesday. We found out he visited a walk-in clinic in Palm Desert. After hearing his complaints, they took chest X rays, which led to a tentative diagnosis of bronchial pneumonia. But now”âLarry hesitatedâ“well, I'm not so sure.”
Concerned by his tone, I asked, “What do you mean?”
But the doorbell rang before Larry could answer. “That's probably Mrs. Wallace,” he said, rising, taking his notebook from the table.
“God,” I said, rising with him and crossing the room toward the front door, “I hate to imagine what
she's
going through.”
she's
going through.”
Grant set down his glass. “I'd better leave,” he said, sounding suddenly rushed. “These
clothes
âhardly presentable. I'll just duck out through the terrace. Bye, kids!” And he stepped to the rear wall of the room, sliding open the glass doors that led out to the pool.
clothes
âhardly presentable. I'll just duck out through the terrace. Bye, kids!” And he stepped to the rear wall of the room, sliding open the glass doors that led out to the pool.
I exchanged a quizzical look with Larry while reaching to open the door. As I did so, Grant stopped in his tracks. “Forgot my jacket,” he explained, rushing back into the living room and grabbing his sport coat from the chair near the fireplace.
Ignoring Grant's antics, I turned to the guests outside my door.
“Good morning,” I said with a peculiar mixture of sobriety and warmth. “Mrs. Wallace, I presume.”
“Good morning,” I said with a peculiar mixture of sobriety and warmth. “Mrs. Wallace, I presume.”
She stepped inside with her companion. “Yes, Rebecca Wallace. And this is my attorney, Bryce Ballantyne.”
I was distracted by Grant, who had retrieved his jacket and was now darting through the room toward the pool.
Larry called after him, “So long, Grant.”
I turned briefly from my guests. “Call me later, Grant.”
“Later!” was his sole word of parting. And he was gone.
Returning my attention to my visitors, I said, “Please accept my condolences, Mrs. Wallace. I'm Claire Gray. I was proud to call your late husband a friend.” I shook Rebecca's hand, then closed the door behind her. I told her lawyer, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Ballantyne.”
“My pleasure, Miss Gray.” He shook my hand mechanically.
They stepped into the room, and Larry moved forward to greet them. “I'm Detective Larry Knoll,” he told them, offering his hand. “Thanks so much for driving over on such short notice.”
While they exchanged a predictable round of pleasantries and sympathies, I spent a moment observing the new arrivals. I judged Rebecca to be about fifty years old, some ten years younger than her late husband. Bryce, her attorney, was younger still, under forty. Their clothes were dressy and stylish, marked by urban sophistication, which struck me as a bit “too much” for a Sunday morning. Both Rebecca's dress and Bryce's suit were dark, signaling they were not local, as desert residents rarely wear dark colors by day. Still, neither outfit was black, signaling that neither of my visitors wished to make a show of mourning. Rebecca was unquestionably attractive for her years, but icy. Bryce looked athletic and fit, but his manner and bearing were reserved. He carried a slim, elegant attaché case, which he set on the floor near the coffee table as Rebecca and Larry got down to business.
Other books
The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas
Striker by Lexi Ander
Skin Walkers: Gauge by Susan A. Bliler
Torment by Lindsey Anne Kendal
Graced by Sophia Sharp
Game of Death by David Hosp
Prince of Shadows by Tes Hilaire
The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) by Jayne Castel
Risky Business by Nicole O'Dell
Confessions of a Wild Heart by Kade Boehme