Desert Spring (23 page)

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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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“Of
course,
Miss Gray,” she interrupted. “I'm just grateful to know I have a chance. Theater is
everything
to me.” She sat back. With a big sigh, she added, “It's my dream.”
“Join the club—and it's a large one. Competitive, too.” Leaning to her, I said earnestly, “I wish you success, but I must warn you: if you're intent on dedicating your life to theater, you'll find room for little else. Few professions are so demanding. You might want to start a family first, then decide if your priorities have shifted. Not that I myself have any regrets, but sometimes, it's difficult not to wonder about other paths.”
Softly, seriously, the girl told me, “Miss Gray, you made the right decision. As for me, well, I won't be starting a family, either.” Her head dropped. “Circumstances made the decision for me. It's not going to happen.”
Though tempted to ask her to elaborate, I didn't know her well enough to pry, and in truth, I preferred to maintain our distance. With quiet sincerity, I told her, “I'm sorry, Erin.”
“But in a way,” she continued, perking up, “that's just fine. I mean, it lets me focus on my dream.”
“Hold on to that dream, dear.”
She gave me a warm smile. “I will, Miss Gray.”
“So, then,”—I stood—“ready for a party?”
“You bet.” She stood as well. “Let me check on Thierry in the kitchen.” And she left the room.
I surveyed the well-stocked bar, the polished glassware, the flicker of candlelight. How festive. The corners of my mouth twisted with a crooked grin.
“Miss Gray?” called Thierry from the pass-through. “I just saw headlights in your driveway.”
“Curtain going up,” I told him.
Let the games begin.
As the door chimes sounded, I glanced at my watch. It was not quite six-thirty.
“Shall I get that?” asked Erin from the kitchen doorway.
“No, thanks, dear. This ought to be Detective Knoll. I'm expecting him first.”
Erin bopped back into the kitchen as I crossed the living room to the front door. Opening it, I found my hunch confirmed. “Evening, Larry.”
“Hello, Claire.” The detective stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Hope I'm not
too
early.”
“Not at all,” I told him, strolling him into the room. “Just thought we should have a few minutes to compare notes before the others arrive.”
“Brought mine,” he said, showing me the notebook he withdrew from an inside pocket.
Tapping my noggin, I assured him, “So did I.” As we were standing near the bar, I offered, “Care for something?”
“Still on duty. Iced tea, maybe.” With a laugh, he added, “No sugar.”
“No problem.” I laughed as well. As Larry seated himself on the leather bench, I called to the kitchen, “Erin, could you get the detective—?”
“Yes, ma'am.” She appeared at the pass-through. “I heard.”
I joined Larry, sitting near him in one of the three-legged chairs.
Flipping through his notes, he looked up to ask, “So, then. Who's coming?”
“Everyone. At least everyone of interest.” I ran him through the list, concluding, “Which leaves Rebecca, the not-so-bereaved widow, and her pet lawyer, Bryce Ballantyne. Rebecca seemed downright mystified by my invitation when I phoned today. But when I told her
you'd
be here, she quickly decided to attend. I'm not certain, Larry, but I highly suspect the killer will be among us tonight.”
“You suspect them
all
?”
“To varying degrees. I admit, it's hard to think of Tanner, Kiki, or Grant—people I love—in such a light. But
someone
murdered Spencer Wallace, and it wasn't I. So I can't afford to leave any stone unturned.”
Larry nodded. “I admire your thoroughness—and your impartiality.”
I thought for a moment, then told him, “Theater may be fiction, but life is real, and reality can't be wished away. We need answers—wherever the truth might lead us.”
“Spoken like a true-blue cop. You seem to have a knack for this, Claire.”
I wasn't sure how to respond, so I was grateful that Erin appeared just then.
“Good evening, Detective. Your tea.”
“Thanks, Erin.” He took the iced tea, tasted it, and set it down as the girl returned to the kitchen.
I reached for my wineglass, which was still on the coffee table. “Your turn, Larry. Your notes?” I sipped the wine.
“Let's review. We know that Spencer Wallace had wealth, power,
and few real friends. We know he died of drowning, already weakened by chronic cadmium poisoning. We also know—”
The doorbell interrupted him.
“Sorry.” I rose.
“Just as well—saves me the trouble of repeating everything later.” Returning his notes to his pocket, he sipped his tea.
Excusing myself, I crossed to the door and opened it. Surprised to find not one guest waiting, or two, but four, I said theatrically, “And so the onslaught begins—greetings, all.”
Kiki rushed in, followed by Tanner, Grant Knoll, and his colleague Brandi Bjerregaard. Kiki pecked my cheek. “I've been called many things, darling, but never an onslaught.”
In spite of the evening's heavy purpose, the arrival of my friends lightened my spirits and gave our gathering the feel of a party. Everyone had dressed for the occasion, looking their best, though they had instinctively worn dark colors; my red blouse fairly shrieked, pleasing me no end.
Larry had risen and stepped forward to greet the group of arrivals, shaking hands with the men.
Tanner kissed me on the lips. He wore all black—dress slacks, oxfords, and a knit shirt that nicely displayed his physique.
“Grrr,” I said, giving him the once-over, “aren't
we
looking devilish tonight?”
“You're the one in red,” he noted with a laugh. He then explained, “We just happened to pull up together—we didn't all
ride
together.”
Grant gave me a quick hug, cheek to cheek. He wore a beautifully tailored dark suit, probably Armani. “Actually, love,” he told me, “the rest of us
did
ride together. I gave Kiki a lift from the condo; then we picked up Brandi at her hotel.”
“Yes, darling,” Kiki said vacantly. “Saves gas, you know. Just
doing our bit for humanity or the environment or whatever.” She whirled an armload of bracelets. Her getup that evening was one of the more fanciful I'd seen her wear, which took considerable effort, as she could not easily outdo herself. Her costume of the moment, all black and gossamer, made her look like the Queen of the Night from
The Magic Flute.
Tanner lectured, “That's called ‘carpooling,' Kiki, but I doubt if it applies to a five-minute ride to a cocktail party with your neighbor.”
While Kiki and Tanner traded a few amiable barbs, Grant pulled me aside. Eyeing Tanner, he told me, “Good
God,
you're one lucky woman.”
Brandi said, “See, Claire? There he goes again.” She wore a classic little black dress. With a smile, she added, “Thanks so much for inviting me.”
Obliquely, I told her, “Our gathering wouldn't be complete without you.”
Larry had fallen into conversation with Kiki, escorting her away from the crowd, into the room, where she sat regally on the end of the bench near the fireplace. Larry took his iced tea from the coffee table and stood nearby.
Entering from the kitchen, Erin offered to get drinks for the ladies. Brandi asked for white wine. Erin turned to Kiki. “And you, Miss Jasper-Plunkett?”
“Something light, I guess. Perhaps wine … or kir.” Kiki rattled her bracelets again in thought. “Oh, hell, let's call it a martini. Breathlessly dry. Up, of course.”
“Of course.” Erin retreated to the bar to prepare the drinks.
Grant asked me, “May I serve milady?”
“All set, Grant, but thanks.” I crossed to the coffee table, picked up my wineglass, and joined Larry, standing near the fireplace.
Grant nudged Tanner. “Then I guess it's up to us boys to fend for ourselves. Come on—I know where she keeps the good stuff.” And he led Tanner off to the kitchen. I heard him greet Thierry with a burst of campy laughter.
From the bar, Erin looked over her shoulder to ask Kiki, “Would you like an olive with that?”
“No, thank you, dear—takes up far too much room in the glass!” She barked a loud laugh.
“Here we go.” Erin brought the martini to Kiki, who accepted it with a grateful nod, tasted it, and cooed. Erin then took a glass of wine to Brandi, who settled with it on an oblong hassock near the coffee table, across from the bench.
Returning to the kitchen, Erin passed Grant and Tanner in the doorway. Bottles clanged in their arms as they stepped into the living room and moved to the bar, then rearranged the liquor.
Slapping Tanner's back, Grant said, “I'm mixing, lad. What'll it be?”
“Scotch'll be great.”
“Rocks? Soda? Twist?”
“No, thanks. Neat.”
“What a man … ,” purred Grant while pouring drinks for both of them.
There was such an easy conviviality among us, I was disappointed that our underlying purpose would eventually squelch the merry mood.
“Claire, love?” Kiki looked up at me from the bench.
“Hmm?”
“Who else is coming tonight? Or is it ‘just us'?”
“No, it's not.” I hesitated before telling Kiki, “Rebecca Wallace, Spencer's widow, will be joining us.”
“Oh, ish. I'd rather not meet the woman. But I had a hunch
she'd be here—under the circumstances. I mean, it's a rather specious pretext for a party, isn't it?”
Still working at the bar, Grant asked over his shoulder, “What about Bryce, the boy wonder?”
I answered, “He's coming as well.”
“I have to admit,” said Kiki, “I admire the woman's consistency—she
never
travels without her lawyer.”
Grant quipped, “Don't leave home without one—that's
my
credo.”
“Amen,” seconded Brandi, raising her glass.
Kiki asked me, “Anyone
else
coming?” Her tone suggested that Bryce and Rebecca were already two too many.
“Glenn Yeats said he would be here, and he's bringing Lance Caldwell.”
Everyone knew who Glenn was—everyone in the
nation
knew of Glenn Yeats—but Lance's renown had not spread beyond the arts crowd. Larry asked, “Caldwell?”
“He's DAC's composer in residence. He submitted a film score for
Photo Flash,
which was rejected.” Meaningfully, I added, “He was here Saturday night.”
“Ah.” Larry nodded.
“Last but not least, the film's director, Gabe Arlington, will also be joining us.”
“Really?” said Tanner, standing at the bar. “I thought he was driving back to LA today.”
“Let's just say he had a change of plans.” I sipped my wine.
Erin had returned from the kitchen, bearing a tray of appetizers. Stopping first at the bar, she offered crudités, cheese things, and stuffed, broiled mushrooms to Grant and Tanner. Grant plucked up some radishes and carrot sticks while Tanner stepped briefly to the coffee table to get a couple of small plates.
Kiki leaned toward Larry, asking, “Tell me, Detective. Is it
true? The autopsy results were conclusive? Spencer Wallace was poisoned?”
Larry sat in the chair nearest her. “Yes, Kiki. The mechanism of death was asphyxiation by drowning, but toxicology revealed chronic cadmium poisoning that had seriously affected his kidney and liver functions. That, coupled with cardiopulmonary depression, left his health severely compromised. When he fell—or was pushed—into the water Saturday night, he was simply unable to save himself.”
Grant and Tanner had finished arranging food on their plates, and Erin had moved to the coffee table. She asked, “Miss Jasper-Plunkett? Appetizers?”
“Ah.” Kiki took a plate from the table and picked a few things from Erin's tray while telling Larry, “It sounds so much like Spencer's screenplay; I've read Claire's copy. The actual poison used, the compound, was it”—she whirled her free hand—“cadmium … fluoride?”
“No, ma'am,” said Erin, who had just finished serving Kiki. Helpfully, she corrected, “Cadmium
chloride.
”
“
Well,
now,” said Tanner, sitting on one of several stools at the bar. “It seems we have a chemistry wiz in our midst.”
Erin blushed. “Gosh, hardly. Sorry, Mr. Griffin. The poisoning was discussed Saturday night after Detective Knoll arrived.” Passing the tray to Brandi, she added, “Guess I've got an ear for detail.”
I nodded. “Highly commendable—in an aspiring actress.”
Laughing, Tanner ran a hand through his hair. “Now,
why
doesn't this surprise me?”
Grant, next to Tanner at the bar, playfully shook a finger. “I warned you before, young man—no flirting.” And he pinched both of Tanner's cheeks. The irony escaped no one that it was Grant, not Tanner, who was flirting.
Tanner endured these attentions with good-natured ease. Standing again, he gave Erin a courtly bow. “My apologies, miss. I didn't mean to give that impression. My heart belongs to another.”
Grant sighed theatrically. “And that ‘other,' alas, is not I.”
With mock relief, I told him, “I'm glad you added that!”
Erin turned to me with her tray. “Hors d'oeuvre, Miss Gray?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Pleasant chatter filled the room as Larry took two plates from the coffee table, passing one to me, keeping the other for himself. We picked a few cold vegetables and hot appetizers from the tray; then Erin left to replenish it in the kitchen.
The doorbell chimed, and we all fell silent. It seemed the mood of our gathering grew instantly serious.
“Excuse me,” I said, setting my plate on the mantel and crossing the room to the front door. When I opened it, I was hailed by jolly hellos from Glenn Yeats and Lance Caldwell, who had ridden together, and Gabe Arlington, who had encountered them outside the house. I couldn't help feeling that their friendly but loud greetings carried a note of vulgarity; they were well aware that this party was a guise for grimmer concerns, as evidenced by their dressy but dark attire.

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