The Last Temptation

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  The woman said, “Eileen sure loved her sushi.”

  They both looked at me, the woman’s head at a perky angle, Arlo uncomfortable. He pointed at the woman. “This is Heidi. From next door.”

  Heidi’s eyes were as blank as a mannequin’s. I said, “Nice meeting you.”

  She said in a pout, “I still can’t believe Eileen’s missing. I look out all the time, expecting to see her in the garden.”

  “Kinley’s missing, too,” I said.

  Heidi’s eyes grew extraordinarily wide. “I never thought for the tiniest second Eileen would skip like that.” Arlo suddenly remembered he was the host. “Hey, ladies, let’s sit. My back’s killing me.”

  Heidi wriggled into a chair. Once settled, she said, “Arlo here thinks I probably was the last to see Eileen—and her little girl—before, before whatever they did.”

  “What time was that “ I asked.

  She batted her lashes at Arlo, who got interested in the hair on the back of his hands. She said, “Late afternoon Saturday, I think. I thought they probably were going for dinner. It was about that time.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “No. I was driving by to go to a cocktail party.”

  “That would have been around five?”

  “I don’t look at clocks.”

  “But you saw Mrs. Cameron and Kinley?”

  She looked tested to the limit. “No, I didn’t—not exactly. I saw the car—the back of it—and someone was there. Moving, like. It had to be them.”

  While Arlo studied his hands, Heidi kicked a foot and let a sandal fall to the floor. I asked, “Were you and Eileen good friends?”

  I knew by the look on her face they weren’t. She said, “Kind of. We talked. But I played tennis. She golfed.”

  “So, she wouldn’t have confided in you?”

  “Oh no, she wasn’t . . .”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “She didn’t—she wasn’t the kind to tell her secrets.”

  “Did you think she had secrets?”

  An odd smile distorted her mouth. “Everyone does.”

  “You, too?” I said, smiling. Her lips pressed as she looked at Arlo, who was still finding his hands more interesting than our conversation. “How long have you lived next door?” I asked.

  “A year and a half.”

  “Are you married?”

  At once, Arlo and Heidi sat upright and looked pissed. Arlo said, “Miss Dru, I asked Heidi over because she saw Eileen that day, not to tell her life’s story.”

  I’d hit the hot button. “Sorry,” I said. “Force of habit.”

  Heidi was on her feet, tripping toward the double French doors. Not rising to let her out, Arlo called over his shoulder, “Thanks, Heidi.” She looked back and gave him a little-girl wave. He wasn’t pleased when he looked at me. He waited a few beats before he said, “You got something in mind?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Heidi’s a nice woman. A nice neighbor. She tends the fish in the pond when I’m gone. She tells the gardeners what to do. Knows every desert tree there is.”

  “Handy, when you live in the desert.”

  His mouth twisted while he appraised me. “As to your question, Heidi is not married now. She’s a widow.”

  What else could I say, or ask? Then I thought of something. “Who’s Eileen’s hairdresser?”

  The muscles of his face eased somewhat, and he sat forward. “You got to have something to chew on, don’t you? That’s the kind you are.” I spread my lips to indicate a smile. He said, “Theodosia’s on Ramon. She knows every hair on Eileen’s head—as well as everyone who’s anyone in The Springs. But if she knows what went on inside that pretty head of my wife’s, I’d be damned surprised.”

  He rose and headed for the French doors. At the front door, he looked at his watch. “Supper time.” He looked at me. “There’s a great restaurant downtown. Used to be Frank’s favorite place. Tourists now. You can ask me tourist questions, if you want.”

  I smiled sweetly. “But I’m not a tourist, Arlo.”

  I think he was going to say, “Call me, Mr. Cameron,” but he nodded and said, “Good evening, then.”

  The door closed on my derriere—softly, but firmly.

  13

  I waited until I got to the hotel to look at the missed calls logged in my cell. Lake had called. So had Whitney. So had Portia. And so had Dartagnan.

  Immediately, Mozart played. Whitney. He was the last person I wanted to speak to. He was strumming my one last nerve, and, I, apparently, his. He was not happy that I hadn’t pulled the rabbit, Eileen, out of a hat. I said, “I’m a quick learner, Mr. Whitney. Palm Springers keep their mouths closed and their secrets to themselves.”

  “I don’t care about those California weirdos. Someone out there has to know something about where she might have taken Kinley. She didn’t vanish into thin air.”

  “The air here is very thin, literally and figuratively, Mr. Whitney.”

  “And what the hell am I to make of that observation?”

  “I told you I’d find Eileen and Kinley, and I will.”

  “The longer this investigation lasts, the more vulnerable I become to curiosity seekers.” With that, he cut the conversation.

  It was ten-thirty at night in Atlanta, but I called Portia anyway. She never sleeps. I told her about Arlo’s startling blab about a possible stripper past for the academic Mr. Whitney.

  She observed, “Interesting, but too long ago to count for much.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, thinking of The Cloisters.

  “Keep at it, Moriah.”

  As if I wouldn’t. As for Lake, it was hard to tell where people were when you called their cells, but the background noises didn’t sound like he was in Frankie’s. I heard honking horns. “You got the traffic gig tonight?” I asked.

  “I wish I was directing traffic sometimes, but right this minute I’m heading downtown. A grandmother walking her pup said she saw a man dart from some bushes. She found a d/b, or rather the curious pup did. Woman was dead only minutes. Grandma’s helping the artist draw a facsimile of the bush-darter. What’s up with you?”

  I told him all I knew, emphasizing the give-and-take between Arlo and Heidi.

  “You think they got something to do with this?”

  “They’re being coy. Whether they’re lying or being careful, I don’t know. Heidi didn’t actually see Eileen and Kinley—just the car. I’ll have to verify that Arlo was in LA during the time they vanished.”

  “You can bet he was, because he’d be the likely suspect if they turned up dead. What’s the cop Dartagnan saying?”

  “He’s a buddy of Arlo’s. Taken with himself, but doesn’t know anything.”

  “They been gone a week and this Dartagnan doesn’t know shit yet?”

  “He thinks Eileen’s headed for Georgia with the girl. Maybe taking in the sights of Alabama.”

  “Thinks? What makes him think that?”

  “He’s playing the jurisdictional football game. Let somebody else handle it.”

  “Well, they haven’t made it back here,” Lake said. “Might be helpful if we put out a bulletin. A picture of them.”

  “Whitney’d have a stroke.”

  “It’s a matter of time before the reporters get hold of this, you know. The FBI likes to put CAC cases on their website.” CAC was the bureau’s Crimes against Children unit.

  I asked, “How does Whitney look so far?”

  “Squeaky. He doesn’t miss his classes. He writes learned papers on his computer at home. Students, and other profs speak well of him. No scent of wrongdoing. We still haven’t nailed down where he got his money.”

  “Well, I got something you can look into.” I told him what Arlo’d told me about the stripping.

  Lake gave his trademark whistle. “The mannequin has a blemish, huh?”

  “It was a boy-girl strip club. There’s only one that I know of in Atlanta.”

  “Sas
s Shay’s,” he said. “Two stages, one for the boys, one for the girls.”

  “Bet someone’s still around from fifteen years ago.”

  “Is that a marching order?”

  “A mere tap dance for you. What’s fifteen years?”

  * * * * *

  I returned Dartagnan’s call. As I’d expected, he asked me to dinner. I hemmed and hawed about exhaustion and finally let him insist.

  The Ristorante Italia was in Cathedral City, a hop and a skip southeast of Palm Springs.

  The maître d’ led us through the crowded little foyer, past the cozy bar, into a large green room—light green carpet, green upholstered chairs, gold linen table toppers over green underskirts, white napkins shaped like flowers in crystal water glasses.

  This was Dartagnan’s place, all right. Half the room hailed him as he was led to “his table.”

  He forbade shop talk—to assure proper digestion—for the hour it took to dine. And, furthering his initiative, he ordered for us. Not even Lake dared do that for me.

  Cakebread sauvignon blanc, ’01. We talked wines.

  Pappa al pomodoro, which is Florentine tomato and bread soup. We talked soups. People should know more about Italian soups than pasta fagioli, he grumped.

  Insalata saporita, that is, mixed greens with walnuts, pears, and Gorgonzola. Cheeses—I learned a lot about Italian cheeses.

  Paillard di vitello, which was grilled veal topped with fresh arugula. We compared recipes for osso buco.

  Tiramisu soufflé, spiked with Amaretto. He maintained a soufflé was better than heavy cakes and pudding desserts after three courses. Stuffed to the eyeballs, I had to agree.

  Finally, a Moët & Chandon Brut-Impérial champagne. The French, he said, couldn’t be beat for champagnes.

  He patted his mouth and laid his napkin aside. Rising, he said, “Now we go and talk about the case.”

  Sated with food and wine, all I wanted to do was go to my room and pass out. “You’ll be interested in where we’re going and it’s right in your back yard,” he said.

  On the way, while he drove fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit, he explained that on Thursday nights street traffic was closed between Baristo and Amado Roads on Palm Canyon Drive for VillageFest. “You know who Sonny Bono was?” he asked.

  “Sonny, of Sonny and Cher,” I said, almost too tired to answer.

  He glanced at me, then back at the road. “As mayor, Sonny started the festival, and it continued. Most of the time, everything goes okay. Sometimes people drink too much.”

  I drank way too much. “I can’t do a street festival tonight,” I said.

  He apparently didn’t hear me. “You’ll be interested in some of the Mission Hills exhibits.”

  No use protesting further. “Maybe I can pick up a desert memento for someone I know who loves all things desert.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and I got the feeling he had planned an après-dinner tête-à-tête at my hotel. He’d insisted on paying the entire dinner check. He asked, “You’re not married, are you?”

  “See a ring?” I said, holding out my left hand.

  “Means nothing.”

  “It would to me.”

  We parked off the street. The first thing I caught was the smell—the wonderful food odors mingling with leather and five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume. Food carts lined the street on each side. A person dressed as a long chocolate donut held a tray loaded with them. “Have a one,” the Asian voice said through the chocolate frosting on his face.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Hey Dartagnan,” the man cried, “you no gonna pass me by, are you?”

  “Not a chance, Zing,” Dartagnan said, taking a sticky donut from the tray. “You know cops and donuts.”

  We walked on. Dartagnan explained as he chewed, “I eat at Zing’s Donuts every morning I’m on duty, and that’s seven days a week. Try the place unless you do room service.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Zing’s is next door to the casino. You can walk from your hotel.”

  Six pantomimes danced by—on stilts. A juggler followed, eight different objects flying from his hands. We wandered by booth after booth of crafts, of silver, and iron, and turquoise, and pottery. Dartagnan stopped at a weaver’s booth. “You might pick out something for your special someone here.”

  I had in mind getting Lake an iron piece, not a basket. But the artistry was exquisite. A handwoven round tray with a lizard in the middle caught my eye. Not that I like lizards. It was just that lovely. The basket weaver had coiled the straw counterclockwise. I looked up to see Dartagnan talking to the woman behind the table. I swear to God I thought I was looking at a young Natalie Wood—dark eyes, wide full mouth, flawless warm skin in a perfect oval face. She looked at me and flipped her long black braid to the back of her neck. Something in the motion of her hand and her glance made me feel we’d be friends. And that feeling came seconds before Dartagnan introduced us. “Contessa Resovo, this is Moriah Dru of Atlanta.”

  She nodded, and her smile reached beyond her eyes. “Atlanta,” she said. “Nice to have you here, Miss Dru.”

  “Just Dru,” I said.

  “You must call me Tess then. I see that you like the iguana tray.”

  “I must have it.” I’d spoken before I knew the price and realized immediately that I couldn’t afford it.

  Dartagnan said, “Hope you’ve got a line of credit.”

  “That much?”

  “Not for you,” Tess said, grinning. “Half price. Five hundred for you.”

  I swallowed. “Sounds like a deal.”

  “It is,” Dartagnan said.

  The interplay between Dartagnan and Tess tantalized. Did he, like Lake, spawn groupies wherever he went? Dartagnan flirted clearly, but she didn’t. Poised and rather standoffish, she might have been good at hiding her true feelings.

  Dartagnan noticed that I noticed. He said to Tess, “Dru is an investigator for the State of Georgia. She’s looking for a missing mother and child.”

  Tess’s mouth turned down. “Here? Who?”

  Dartagnan said, “Keep this quiet for the time being, but they are Arlo Cameron’s wife and stepdaughter.”

  A hand went to her breast. “Eileen? Kinley? They are missing? When?”

  “On Sunday morning they went for a hike in a canyon—we’re not sure which one—but they never returned. It’s so easy to get lost in the desert.” There wasn’t a hitch in his voice when he threw out this bold lie, unless he knew it to be true.

  “Yes,” Tess agreed. “For tourists. But in the desert, there are people. They will help you find your way back.”

  “Sure in Painted Canyon, but not in Lost Coyote Canyon—if they strayed there.” He clutched my shoulder. “Kinley’s father in Atlanta hired Dru here to find them.”

  One of her eyebrows cocked, and I understood why. An investigator from a southern city—hired to find someone lost in the desert? Dartagnan’s lie stood out. She said, “Lost Coyote Canyon is forbidden.”

  Dartagnan turned to me. “The Canyon is sacred. And closed. But there are those who won’t listen, especially if their child begs to go.”

  Tess’s eyes danced when she looked at me. She grinned and said, “I am not simpleminded. Dartagnan brings you here because he thinks I might be able to help you find them—if they are really lost in the desert.”

  His laugh was hearty and full of teeth. “You couldn’t find your way past Saks Fifth Avenue.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You know Aunt Rosa is teaching me the old ways.”

  He looked at me. “Tess’s aunt is famous in the canyons. She runs the reservation’s casino in Mission Palms, but she’s also a shaman who’s found lost souls before.”

  Tess said, “I am going to visit her tomorrow afternoon late.” Her eyes traveled from him to me. “Perhaps if Eileen doesn’t return by the time I leave, we can go together.”

  “I would like that,” I said, wishing tomorrow were now.


  Tess wrapped the tray in brown paper and put it in a simple woven shopping bag—a handsome freebie. She took my credit card. For the next couple of months there’d be no wine purchases at Murphy’s Wine Shop.

  Tess and I made an agreement. If she didn’t hear from Dartagnan or me that Eileen and Kinley had returned, we’d meet at the Palkott tomorrow. We hugged our goodnights, and Dartagnan led me back the way we’d come.

  “Hey, Monsieur Dartagnan,” a man called from the curb.

  He stood outside a food booth. The sign hung above it read: “Too Busy to Cook?” The man wore a chef’s crepe paper tall hat. He had a pencil-thin moustache that curled at the ends. I blinked a couple of times. He can’t be for real.

  We ambled over to the booth. Dartagnan exaggerated a stage whisper that the man could hear, “Philippe tests out his goodies on the unsuspecting for free.”

  The man tittered with his hand to his mouth. “They l’amour the sushi, the California rolls,” he said. I wondered about his French and noticed he wasn’t as wispy as he affected. He towered over Dartagnan, and he seemed familiar—the movie Frenchman in a chef’s hat, perhaps.

  Dartagnan explained, “Philippe’s got five stores from Rancho Mirage on up the valley. He personally flies his tasty trays everywhere.”

  “All sushi?” I asked.

  “Non,” he said. If he was French, I was Chinese. He went on, “Trays of merveilleux cheeses and wines. Le monde des saucissons. Eggplants, the couleurs, they take your breath away.” He spoke with his fingers together. “Caviar, smoke salmon, oysters in season, foie gras, escargot, truffles. Boeuf so divine you would never want any but Philippe’s.” He kissed his fingers, so de rigueur. “You call ahead, I make what you want.”

  “How’s that for service?” Dartagnan asked, then realized he hadn’t formally introduced us. “Philippe, this is Moriah Dru. She’s visiting from Atlanta.”

  “Ah, you want the fried chicken”—he pronounced it shik-can—“and the okras?”

  “You bet,” I said. “Lunch tomorrow, before I shop?”

  “My pleasure, mademoiselle.”

  Strolling back the way we’d come, dodging dawdlers and sellers packing up, I said to Dartagnan, “Where did you come up with that wild idea? A hike in the canyon? Eileen and Kinley? Sounds far-fetched for leisure-loving folks.” I waited for an answer, but Dartagnan appeared not to have heard the question. “Or was it a wild idea?”