The Last Temptation

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  “Dru, remember?”

  He smiled. I’d forgotten the gap between his two front teeth. I grinned at his engaging smile. “I’ll go with the rum, too.”

  After handing the drinks around, he sat and sighed. He gulped his drink, emptying half his tall glass. “Helluva thing,” he said.

  “How well did you know Larry Bell?” I asked.

  Dartagnan huffed. I was supposed to stay mum.

  “Pretty good,” Arlo said. “I knew him to be a gent, and that’s why I’d recommend him to people who needed his services. Mostly divorce work. Hell, in this town, you can get rich on divorce work alone.”

  “Larry didn’t get rich,” Dartagnan said.

  “He did all right,” Arlo said. “Maybe he had some habits that took up his dough, but if he did, I don’t know about them.” He downed the rest of his drink and rose to get another.

  I avoided Dartagnan’s stare and looked at the pool until Arlo sat back down. I asked, “Did you know that Eileen had a detective checking on Whitney?”

  I became conscious of how ill at ease he really was. “Yeah,” he said. “She told me. That’s what the twenty-five Gs were for she took out of the bank.”

  Dartagnan said, “I’m in the wrong end of the business. That’s rich.”

  “Out here, it ain’t,” Arlo said.

  “You should have told me what the money was for when I was here,” I said.

  “Eileen was keeping the PI confidential. I went along.”

  “Did you know who this PI was?” Dartagnan asked.

  “I recommended Larry,” Arlo said, “but she got someone else, back east.”

  “Bellan Thomas,” I said. “He—”

  Arlo finished his second rum and ginger ale. “What was Bellan doing out here anyway?”

  “I sent him.”

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “He was investigating Whitney—Whitney lives in Atlanta, and he’s never been out here.”

  “Bellan was thorough,” I said. “That meant he’d check upon Whitney’s ex-wife, his own client. Bellan didn’t tell me outright, but I think he’d contacted his buddy Larry here in Palm Springs. Larry knew about Eileen and Kinley, and that I’d been out here investigating their disappearance. I’d talked to several people, any of whom could have gossiped to Larry—including you.”

  Arlo shot me a gappy-toothed grin. “Barking up that tree, you’re wasting your time. I haven’t seen Larry Bell in a few months.”

  “When Eileen and Kinley went missing, didn’t it occur to you to hire him?”

  “Nope,” he said, and then pointed to Dartagnan. “I got him, and he’s all I need. He can’t find them—they’re hiding until they want to be found.”

  I glanced at Dartagnan, who failed in his attempt to look humble. I asked Arlo, “You still think Eileen took off?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you don’t know where?”

  “I wish I did.”

  Dartagnan cleared his throat for attention. “With these two murders, we maybe ought to re-think Eileen and Kinley. Maybe something bad happened to them, and Bellan and Larry got onto it.”

  Arlo paled, making his caramel skin appear yellow. “I can’t think about that.”

  Dartagnan’s eyes shifted upward, to the palm fans overhead. I could read his thought. There wouldn’t be a better time to bring up the Luminol. “Arlo,” Dartagnan said, “I’d like to bring in some lab people and go over the house—”

  Arlo raised his chin. “You done that.”

  “No. We looked around, but we didn’t test for fingerprints or blood—”

  “Blood? LeRoi, what the fuck!” His head snapped toward me. “Excuse me, ma’am. There’s no fucking blood in this house.” He appeared to accuse me.

  Dartagnan’s eyes settled on mine, but imparting this news was up to him. He faced Arlo. “You got to know this, Arlo. This man, Bellan, posed as a prospective buyer for your house. He came in with Luminol. He told Miss Dru that he got positives.”

  Arlo’s eyes bugged. “Positives?”

  “Luminol luminesces,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  I didn’t believe that a movie director wouldn’t know that.

  “Turns green when it hits blood,” Dartagnan said.

  “Aw, Christ sake, show me a house anywhere on the planet that ain’t got blood somewhere in it, and I’ll show you a brand-new house ain’t ever seen humans, which ain’t possible because men from Mars don’t build the fucking things.”

  Imaginative.

  Arlo got up and headed to the bar. Dartagnan followed, and put his empty bottle on the bar. The two men faced each other. Dartagnan said, “If there’s blood, there’s typing and DNA testing to be done.”

  “So what if the blood’s Eileen’s, or Kinley’s? They live here for Christ’s sake.”

  “Arlo, it’s got to be done. If not by me, by the state or feds.”

  Arlo marched to where I stood—his face glowered into mine. “This Bellan—now I’m sorry as anyone the man’s dead—but he had no right coming here, testing in my house.”

  “I know that,” I said. “Bellan knew that. What he learned can’t be used to get a court order, because what he did was illegal. But he reported to me what he’d done, and Dartagnan had to be told.” I looked at the cop.

  “So,” Arlo said, easing away. “I don’t have to do this—this Luminol thing?”

  Dartagnan answered, “Not because of what Bellan found. But Arlo, I’m telling you, we didn’t do a thorough search when Eileen went missing. Like you, I thought she’d turn up with the kid when the PI, who turns out to be this Bellan, got the material on Whitney.”

  Dartagnan hadn’t meant to blurt the last sentence, and I eye-signaled him that I’d not missed what he’d just said.

  Arlo’s face was purple. “Keep your fucking mouth shut, Dartagnan.”

  I raised my hand. “Gentlemen. Once I learned Eileen was having Whitney investigated, it was obvious you people were waiting for the PI’s results.”

  Arlo said angrily, “Don’t go reading my mind.”

  “You won’t admit it, and I understand why, but you knew that Eileen wasn’t going to return Kinley to Atlanta.”

  He looked as if he were trying to figure out what I’d said. He worked his mouth over it for a while. “I didn’t know Eileen was going to skip, but I’m not surprised she didn’t send Kinley home.” He took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his forehead and neck. “When Whitney called that Kinley wasn’t on the plane, well, that’s when I thought Eileen must have gone into hiding until she could get proof of what Whitney was. And that’s just exactly what I told Dartagnan here.”

  Dartagnan nodded, keeping his eyes on Arlo while avoiding mine.

  “So,” Arlo concluded, “there’s no need to nuke my house. Eileen’ll be back once she learns her PI got killed. That should cast some doubt on that bastard Whitney and make you people in Georgia investigate him better.”

  “I don’t think Eileen will be back. I don’t think she’s going to learn that her investigator is dead,” I said.

  Dartagnan said, “Arlo, there’s a problem about this PI. Legal or not, he found blood in your house. He’s told Miss Dru here.” He looked at me. “You won’t keep it quiet, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Fuck,” Arlo muttered. “Okay, so—spray my goddamn house.”

  Dartagnan seemed relieved. “It won’t take long. We’ll pick up the clean-up costs—using your maids if you want.”

  “I ain’t worried about no goddamned clean-up costs. Listen, I’m leaving tomorrow, and I ain’t coming back. Goddamn, fucking PIs. Got no business coming in here spraying all over the place. Now, you two get out while I’m still not mad!”

  Not a bad get-your-ass-to-the-exit line.

  * * * * *

  When Arlo Cameron slammed the door on my butt, I said to Dartagnan, “I didn’t get a chance to ask Arlo about being an extra in his movies.”

  Dartagnan’s
lips parted slightly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  I waited until he got the car started and heading down the street. “According to Bellan, Larry Bell said that most of the Indians and half the white people in town are hired as extras when he makes westerns in the desert.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe nothing. You ever been an extra?”

  “Maybe. What’re you hunting for?”

  “Answers.”

  “Ain’t we all. Now, where you want to go?” He turned onto Ramon Road.

  “Philippe’s,” I said. “But you don’t have to come with me. Drop me at my car—”

  “Where you go, I go.”

  “Where’s Philippe from?” I asked.

  Dartagnan frowned. “LA by way of Newark, I think. He says he’s originally from Nice in France. Bullcrap.”

  “I can believe the Newark part. How long’s he been here?”

  “Don’t know exactly. Arlo knew him in LA. He had the same kind of operation on Sunset. Arlo wanted him here, so he’s here.”

  “Arlo set him up?”

  “Probably bankrolled him, but don’t quote me on that to the Phony Frenchman.”

  “I’m not without discretion,” I said.

  “I wonder about that. Discretion don’t usually get people killed.”

  “And you’re saying that I do?”

  “Nothing like that at all. Just talking through my hat.”

  46

  Philippe was behind the counter at Too Busy To Cook? He bid a flamboyant farewell to a pretty young woman who lifted two shopping bags full of goodies and carried them to the door. Dartagnan held the door for her. I glanced over at the floral section. No attendant.

  Philippe beamed down at Dartagnan. When he focused on me, he spread his arms wide. “Mademoiselle.”

  “Philippe,” Dartagnan said. “How’s bidness?”

  “It excels.” He pointed his finger at his neon sign. “Too busy to cook!”

  “Never too busy to make money,” Dartagnan drawled. “You remember Miss Dru?”

  “I do,” Philippe answered with a sweeping bow. “I am honored that you have called upon me once again, mademoiselle.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to ask a question or two, if I may?”

  “Oh, oui. Je suis à votre service.”

  “I told you that I was on a mission when we met. Do you remember that?”

  “Oui. I remember, très bien.”

  “And I guess you found out what that mission was?”

  “Triste. Your misfortunes in the endeavor to find Mrs. Cameron and her child. But so good that you lived through them.”

  “I’m still investigating Eileen Cameron’s disappearance.”

  He looked quizzically at Dartagnan.

  Dartagnan said through a grimace, “Me and her, we’re in this together.”

  Philippe nodded. I asked, “You remember we talked about other things?”

  “Oui. We conversed about many things.” He smiled. “Sushi.”

  “Recall, you told me that Eileen saw a man buying flowers from your girl.”

  “That is correct, mademoiselle.”

  “You noticed that Eileen seemed frightened?”

  “Alarmed, oui, she was that.”

  “I’d like to talk to your flower girl.”

  “You would have to go to Los Angeles, mademoiselle, to talk to Nicole.”

  “She doesn’t work here anymore?”

  “A summer job. Back to school she goes.”

  “What school?”

  Big Gallic shrug. “I did not hear.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  “Smith? No Schmidt.”

  “Where did she live in Palm Springs?”

  “In an apartment not far from here, but I do not know exactly where.” He looked at Dartagnan and spread his hands as if to ask, Why all this?

  I asked, “Did she have any friends in town that you knew?”

  “The young—they do not speak to old men.”

  Philippe was in his forties and attractive enough to interest young girls, if only for his personality.

  Dartagnan asked, “Did a private investigator named Bellan Thomas ask you questions about Eileen and Kinley?”

  “Why non. He asks about Nicole. I tell him what I tell you. He leaves.”

  “You know Larry Bell, don’t you?” Dartagnan asked.

  Philippe grabbed at his chest. “Ah! La mort! Mon ami! I cry.” Big tears rolled down his cheeks. “Merde! Merde.” He picked up the hem of his apron and blew his nose. “My friend. The lonely one.” He stopped blowing his nose and shook his head.

  Dartagnan asked, “When did you last see Larry?”

  “Ah, mon ami, Larry. He came in last week.” He continued to sniffle. “He is, you know, without the family. He comes in one time a week, maybe two. I give him leftovers, just like I give to you.” Dartagnan looked embarrassed; Philippe caught the look. “Non, mon ami, not leftover leftovers. I give wonderful food that I cannot bear to throw away. Bread a day old. Caramel rolls, so divine. Chicken salad and pea soup. He enjoyed my food.”

  “And he didn’t have to go out and buy it, and prepare it,” Dartagnan said, smiling. “Just like me.”

  “That is so,” Philippe admitted. “I am forced to ask. What happened to Larry, and thees Bellan? They were shot, non?”

  “Yes,” Dartagnan answered. “They were shot.”

  “They were investigating together?”

  I answered his question. “Bellan was working for me. Larry Bell was a PI Bellan knew from Alabama before he moved here.”

  “I remember,” Philippe said. “The South accent, sooooo hard on the ears.”

  “Did Larry Bell know Eileen Cameron?”

  “Surely, mademoiselle, this is The Springs.”

  “Did Larry ever talk about Arlo?”

  “Not that I remember. But I think not. In his job, he was discreet.”

  “Well,” Dartagnan said, “if you remember anything that might have anything to do with what happened to the two PIs, you know where to find me.”

  Philippe sighed and said, “Certainment.” Then he brightened at Dartagnan. “You must come tomorrow at closing. I make wonderful escargots, and I save a dozen for you.”

  “I’ll be here,” Dartagnan said. “And I’ll see you at the poker table.”

  I said, “When you have a minute, if you’d look up Nicole Schmidt’s address in your files, or if she gave references, would you please call Dartagnan? I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course, I will do that this evening.”

  We were leaving, and when I turned suddenly, Philippe looked as if he would pass out. “I’m sorry about your friend, Larry,” I said.

  Grimacing like a buffoon, he said, “And I am sorry for Monsieur Thomas.”

  We left him wiping his face with his white chef’s apron.

  * * * * *

  My mind was on overload, the kind of overload that comes with exhaustion. The cool whites and tans of the hotel room promised a tranquil nap, and just as I was almost asleep, the telephone binged two staccato bursts. It was the concierge. He said he was sending someone up with flowers.

  That uh-oh worm crawled along my spine. Opening the door to someone with flowers was not going to happen. “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll come down.”

  In the elevator, I reflected on who could have sent the flowers. Lake, of course. Who else? I lazed against the gold-tone wall and visualized his face—that beautiful face with the dark eyes that delved into my soul and the lips that gave me everything I wanted, and more. And how, when we made love, our need, so urgent and overwhelming, made us forget the sordid world in which we lived. Did I love him? Is there a word that transcends love?

  An exquisite vase of deep red, perfect roses nearly overpowered the concierge’s desk. He presented me with the card. My breathing ceased as I opened it.

  It read: To Miss Dru. Please accept my apologies for my behavior today. I was out of line.
I would ask you to dinner but I am leaving tonight for Los Angeles. Good luck in your quest. Arlo Cameron.

  Arlo. Of course. Silly me. I turned for the elevator.

  The concierge said, “Here, Miss.” He came from behind his desk to hand me a gold box wrapped in blue ribbon. “This is for you, too.”

  The card with it read: “The sweetness herein can’t compare to you, and the blue ribbon is a poor imitation of your lovely eyes.”

  No card. I asked the concierge, “Who brought the candy?”

  “Delivery service,” he answered.

  “Which one?”

  “Philippe’s.”

  Flowers from Arlo; candy from Philippe. Dared I hope for balloons from Dartagnan?

  In the elevator lobby, a marble-top mahogany table sat under a gilded mirror. Perfect. I placed the flowers on the table, rode up in the elevator, and threw the candy in a closet with firsthand memories of poisons.

  Two minutes after I was back in my room, my cell played Mozart. The display read, “Lake.” Tears slipped onto my cheeks. Damn. “Yes, Lake.”

  “How was the plane ride? What’s been happening? You haven’t answered your phone.”

  “I’ve been working.”

  “On who?”

  “Arlo and Philippe.” I gave him a thumbnail of the conversations.

  “What’s Dartagnan saying about Bellan and the PI out there?”

  I told him.

  “That’s some stone killer, to sit there and take them out,” Lake said. “You’re a good shot. Could you pick off two men from four feet, sitting apart, in three seconds?”

  “I’ve never been an Annie Oakley. But I bet you could.”

  “I got news.”

  “About Whitney?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And?”

  “You know the Chastain gay who got caught in the sting? Our entrée into The Cloisters?”

  “Our sponsor?”

  “That guy. Name’s Risso. He got out on bond, and hung himself.”

  My shoulders tightened. “Oh, jeez.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure it’s suicide?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “Easiest way to get away with murder is to strangle a guy with a rope, then hang him up with it. But you’ve got to know how to do it right with the rope and angles. Even with double rope burn it can be hard to tell. We’ll see.”