Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  What’s more, Thad was in a spin that evening because of the expected arrival of his uncle. I do not, as a rule, approve of the presence of visitors, especially family of the cast. Work, not socializing, is the purpose of rehearsals, and visitors invariably prove distracting. Mark Manning, however, was an easy exception to my rule. Knowing the importance of his role in Thad’s life, I could not, in good conscience, have barred him from the theater that evening. I’d already, in a sense, been responsible for their past three months of separation.

  More to the point, I myself was eager to see Mark again. We were little more than acquaintances, and it had been nearly four years since our last encounter, but we had a lasting affinity; we had clicked. On top of which, few journalists, let alone cops, were more adept than Mark at untangling riddles of mysterious death. That evening, I had just such a death on my mind.

  “Miss Gray?” said someone from behind, nipping my thoughts. I turned to find Thad standing in the aisle near the front row of seats. He was already in costume as a New York kid from the 1940s, wearing argyle sweater, baggy pants, and black canvas high-tops. Beaming proudly, he said, “Sorry to interrupt, but my uncle wanted—”

  “Mark!” I said, opening my arms for a hug. “Welcome to paradise.” I’d already adopted the locals’ stock greeting, though tonight it had an off ring.

  “Thank you, Claire.” After an affectionate embrace, he held me at arm’s length. “You look wonderful. Desert life obviously agrees with you.”

  I grinned. “I think it does, yes. And you, Mark—handsome as ever. It’s been a long time, but I must say, you’re wearing the years well.” It was no idle compliment. While gabbing these pleasantries, I noted that Mark’s hair was showing more gray—he was now in his midforties—but he looked even more vital and dashing than before. Men. How do they do that?

  As we spoke, he stood by Thad with an arm draped around the kid’s shoulder. Mark had never looked happier; his eyes, so arrestingly green, spoke volumes. Was it just the flush of their reunion, or was it deeper? I told him, “It seems you’ve adapted well to the unexpected role of fatherhood.”

  “Who’d have thought?” Mark mussed Thad’s hair. “Yeah, it’s worked out just fine, though Neil and I have had a rough time adapting to our latest role, empty-nesters. I’m starting to feel old.”

  Thad cuffed his uncle’s arm. “That’ll be the day.”

  I checked my watch—a quarter till seven. Asking Mark to excuse me for a moment, I stepped to the front of the auditorium, in front of the stage. “Attention, everyone.” I clapped my hands. “We’ll begin at seven sharp tonight, but otherwise, everything will be identical to Friday’s eight o’clock curtain. We have but three rehearsals remaining, and we’ll treat them as actual performances. No stopping, no matter what.”

  Standing just offstage, Tanner asked, “Does that mean you’re finished giving notes?” He was kidding.

  I chortled. “Fat chance.” There was a round of disappointed awwws. “Notes, as usual, at the end. Also, we’ll begin practicing curtain call tonight.” This, predictably, elicited a brighter response from the cast.

  “So, then, the house is now open. The seats are beginning to fill with an expectant audience, a capacity crowd in the mood for magic. You’ve worked hard, and now it’s time to summon that extra measure of focus and concentration that will truly breathe life into our theatrical artifice. I know you’re up to the challenge.” I gave everyone a thumbs-up. “Tony, drop the curtain. Places, everyone, please. Silence backstage. And break a leg.”

  As instructed, actors and crew disappeared. The curtain fell. The houselights rose to full level, allowing my imaginary audience to read their programs.

  Clipboard in hand, I started up the aisle, pausing as I approached Mark.

  He offered, “Would it be better if I left? I know directors can be sort of touchy about—”

  “Nonsense. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “So am I.” He sighed through a smile. “You’ll probably find this hard to understand, but I’ve actually been looking forward to driving Thad’s car out here. It’s a two-thousand-mile haul.”

  I squeezed Mark’s arm. “I understand. You have every right to be proud of Thad. He’s a delightful young man and a valuable member of our troupe.”

  “He’s okay, then?”

  “Okay? He’s an extraordinarily promising actor. Wait till you see what he does with the role of Danny. It’s the smallest part in the play, but he does big things with it. Rest assured, I’ll put him to better use in the next production.”

  Mark grinned. “I appreciate hearing that, but I meant to ask if he’s okay with everything in general—his move away from home, adjusting to college, new friends, and all. Does he seem happy?”

  “Very.” Then I recalled that afternoon and gestured for Mark to sit. We took two seats on the aisle. “Did Thad tell you what happened today?”

  “He said something about an accident, sort of laughed it off. Were you there?”

  I gathered my thoughts, then recounted our excursion to the Chaffee estate, concluding, “So we all got fingerprinted, including Thad. Sorry.”

  Mark asked, “Do the police suspect foul play?”

  “They do. I’m sure the whole episode upset Thad. It upset me.”

  Mark shook his head pensively. “Thad lost his mother to violent death, so he’s dealt with it before.”

  “Good heavens, I had no idea. This time, at least, he has no ties to the victim. Still, I’m glad you’ll be around for a few days.”

  “Me too. Plus, Thad has the play to think about. That should be more than enough to keep his mind off murder.”

  I felt it unwise to point out just then that Laura was a play about a particularly heinous crime—a shotgun blast, close range, to a woman’s face. Glossing past this, I suggested, “Care to sit with me while I take notes? We’ll begin soon.”

  “I’d be honored to observe the legendary director at work.”

  Little did he know that I hoped, in the near future, to observe him at work. I stood, saying, “Follow me.” Then I led him up the aisle, turning into the row where my table was set up.

  As we settled in, I noticed Glenn enter the auditorium, trotting down an aisle toward us. I asked Mark, “Have you met Glenn Yeats? He’s taken a keen interest in the theater program, attending most rehearsals.”

  Mark reflexively stood again, doubtless in deference to the vast wealth represented by Glenn and his software empire. They greeted each other from opposite sides of the table, reaching in front of me to shake hands, each sounding downright starstruck in making the other’s acquaintance. After a round of mutual kowtowing, they sat, Glenn to the left of me, Mark to my right.

  The tycoon asked the journalist, “Where are you staying?”

  “The Regal Palms Hotel. Nice place. Great views. It’s halfway up a mountain.”

  “I know it well.” Glenn laughed.

  I explained, “Glenn’s home is in Nirvana, the development farther up the hill from the Regal Palms.”

  “Ah,” said Mark. “I’d expect no less.” He told Glenn, “I admire your taste, by the way. The campus is magnificent. My partner is an architect, and he’s been following the project in the trade journals—no lack of publicity.”

  Sell the sizzle, I thought.

  “I’m pleased with it,” Glenn allowed humbly. “I hope you’ll also get a chance to see my home during your stay. The vistas are magnificent.”

  The houselights dimmed slightly, and Lance Caldwell’s recorded music began to play in the auditorium. The curtain would rise in precisely three minutes. I organized my notes and readied my pen.

  Glenn and Mark continued to converse, instinctively hushing their tone as the lights dimmed. Switching on a desk lamp and reviewing a checklist I’d written alter Sunday’s tech rehearsal, I caught snatches of their discussion.

  Mark was saying, “I’m planning to visit the Desert Sun and meet with its management. I’m always on the lookout for
ways to improve my own paper.”

  “I know the publisher.” Glenn offered, “Would you like an introduction?”

  “Thanks, but they’ve already rolled out the welcome mat.”

  Before long, Glenn was inviting Mark to his home, wanting to throw a cocktail party in honor of the esteemed visiting journalist. Dates were bantered about. I was consulted. From my perspective, the best time would have been Thursday, the evening before opening, when I traditionally gave my cast and crew a night of rest. But Mark had already planned to spend that evening with Thad, catching up, and their time together was sacrosanct. So Glenn settled on Wednesday, the night of my final rehearsal.

  Since many of the prospective guests would also be involved in the play production, Glenn revised the concept of his party. It would no longer be a cocktail bash, but a brief, early reception featuring a light buffet supper prior to dress rehearsal. “Actually,” he said, “that works out all the better. The winter sun sets early, and there’ll still be some light for the evening views.”

  “Okay, now. Hush,” I said playfully, but meaning it. “It’s showtime.”

  Caldwell’s music sounded its closing chord as the houselights faded to black. A moment later, the curtain rose in unison with the stage lights. Suddenly, there before our eyes was Laura Hunt’s lovely apartment, replete with its fanciful Austrian case clock, a gift from the scheming Waldo Lydecker.

  “Gorgeous set,” Mark leaned to whisper in my right ear.

  Glenn squeezed my left hand. “You’ve done us proud, Claire.”

  They were right. I couldn’t recall reigning over a more polished production. I made a note to have the clock’s face lightly soaped; the convex glass produced a lot of glare, and the time shown by the hands was clearly visible, an intrusive reality.

  The scene had begun, and Mark was now glued to his nephew’s performance as Danny, playing against Tanner as Detective McPherson.

  Glenn whispered, “I see you got the clock.”

  “Yes, thank God, but it wasn’t easy. Did you hear what happened?”

  “No. What?”

  “Later. Long story.”

  “I must admit, the clock is superb.” With a snort, Glenn added, “I had my doubts.” And at last he fell quiet, listening to the dialogue.

  I wondered if his condescending attitude toward Stewart Chaffee would remain so smug after he learned that the rival collector had been killed that afternoon, crushed by a refrigerator.

  Then I cleared my mind, suspended disbelief, and crossed the invisible fourth wall.

  8

  Tuesday morning, Tanner and I lounged with coffee and newspapers on the terrace near the pool at Villa Paseo. Having spent a late night at the theater, we took our time rising that morning. Though it was well past nine, an overnight chill still clung to the valley, so we’d donned comfy, bulky sweaters and lit the firepot on the terrace near our table. An unimaginative cook at best, I’d managed to butter a stack of toast, which we now nibbled at, sharing from a common plate.

  Sitting across from me at the round table, Tanner poured me a fresh cup of coffee, drizzling it in a long stream from the pot. Its steam dazzled in the desert sunshine, then vanished in the clear morning air. Reaching for the cup, I set aside the Palm Springs paper. Its headline announced the demise of the king of decorators, a longtime figure on the local social scene. The story gave no details as to how Stewart Chaffee had died; it merely referred to an accident at home that police were still investigating. Quotes from all manner of high-profile acquaintances mourned the loss.

  “Two more rehearsals,” I told Tanner, affecting a breezy tone, trying to push the murder from my mind. “We’re almost there. Isn’t it thrilling?”

  “It is for me.” Tanner lolled back in his chair, smiling—God, that smile. “But I can’t imagine that you find this production all that thrilling. I mean, you’ve directed some of the finest theatrical talent in the English-speaking world. Let’s face it: this is a glorified school play.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.” I winked astutely. “With Glenn Yeats’s backing, the technical aspects of this show rival the best professional productions anywhere. As to the acting talent, well, it’s my job to raise the bar and set new standards.”

  “Have we lived up to them?” asked Tanner, referring to the whole cast.

  I answered with a question of my own. “Do you think I’d invite the New York press—to say nothing of prominent talent scouts—to Friday’s opening if I were less than confident of delivering top-notch theater?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Oh, sure,” I continued, “we still have work to do. There were a few lighting glitches last night, but we’ll get them ironed out. There’s always room to improve the acting, naturally, and—”

  “You gave enough notes last night.”

  “Of course I did. But what did the notes focus on? Not flubbed lines, missed entrances, or sloppy cues. No, we’re down to the nitty-gritty, the meat of acting—interpretation, pacing, and cohesive ensemble skills. Trust me. Tanner. We’re very, very close.”

  Had I been totally honest, I would have confided to Tanner that Monday’s rehearsal had, in my judgment, slipped some from our previous efforts. But I attributed this to the hoo-ha generated by the murder, and I was confident that the distraction would quickly pass—by that evening, I hoped.

  Tanner paused in thought, holding his coffee mug with both hands, then slurped from it, exhaling steam. He looked up. “Critics and talent scouts—you’ve mentioned them before. It’s unlike you to be so coy, Claire. What are you up to?”

  I grinned. “I’m not being coy. Hardly. It’s just that I have reason to believe there will be some very big names in the audience on Friday night. If a buzz gets going among the cast, it could be counterproductive. Besides, the spotlight belongs on the stage, not on the auditorium.”

  Tanner leaned forward, set his coffee down, and fixed me in his stare. With a tone of mock threat, he demanded, “I want names, Claire.”

  How could I refuse him? Who could refuse him? “Very well. You understand, though, this is for your ears only, not backstage gossip.”

  “Got it.” He mimed zipping his lips. Lord, those lips.

  “I’ve invited a number of theater writers, but the most prominent of these”—I paused for effect—“is Hector Bosch, critic at large for the New York Weekly Review.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “We’re old friends.”

  “He’s tough, though.”

  I shrugged. “He’s a critic. Get used to it.”

  Tanner considered this for a moment, then asked, “Who else?”

  “All right.” I cleared my throat. “Don’t read too much into this. I haven’t called in any ‘talent scouts’ as such, but since we’re so near to LA, I thought I’d invite a couple of film producers whom I’ve met in the past. They’re always on the lookout for new talent, and they’ve accepted.”

  “Who?”

  “One you wouldn’t know. The other is Spencer Wallace.”

  I’d expected Tanner to be surprised, but not dumbstruck. His jaw actually dropped. With a choked cough, he finally found his voice. “You have got to be kidding. Spencer Wallace? The mega-producer supreme? Mr. Blockbuster?”

  “The same.”

  “Wallace will be in our audience on Friday?”

  I laughed. “Let’s hope he doesn’t whisk you away when the show closes. This is our first production, an auspicious start, but I need to build a whole department, a lasting program.” I spoke of this concern blithely, as if Hollywood never beckoned so quickly, only in fairy tales. In truth, I already dreaded losing Tanner, whether sooner or later.

  It was Tanner’s turn to laugh. “Not to worry, Claire. I’ll do my best to deliver a great show to Wallace and Bosch and anyone else you’ve invited, but I have no delusions about overnight stardom. I’m quite content to pay my dues for a while—and to learn my craft from you.”

  Was it any mystery that I f
ound him so infatuating?

  “Morning, doll!” said my neighbor, Grant Knoll, strolling out to the terrace, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other. “You too, Claire.”

  “Morning, Grant,” said Tanner.

  “Hello, Grant.” I offered my cheek, which he obligingly kissed.

  He told us, “I spotted you from the kitchen window. Mind some company?”

  “Of course not,” we said. “Have a seat.” Which he did, sitting between us, flopping the paper on the table.

  I said, “I see you’ve read the news. I’m sorry about your friend. The paper didn’t go into much detail, but I was there. So was Tanner. You’ll never believe—”

  “I’ve heard all about it,” he assured me. “My brother Larry paid a call last night, needing to clarify the particulars of Kane’s visit with Stewart yesterday morning.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  “Here he is now,” said Grant. He called, “Over here, Kane. Join us.”

  And Grant’s young lover walked out from their living room, dressed for a day of classes, looking every inch the college kid. He carried a banana. “Hi, guys,” he greeted all of us, approaching the table.

  We greeted him in turn as he sat in the fourth chair, across from Grant. Peeling his banana, he spotted the newspapers. “Man, how ’bout that? I was there yesterday, returning the desk key.”

  Tanner told him, “Claire and I were there in the afternoon. We found him.”

  Kane nodded. “Larry told us what happened. He even took my fingerprints—pretty cool!” Kane bit off the end of the banana, chewed, and swallowed. Then his features turned more serious. “It must’ve been awful, finding the old guy like that. He was sure alive when I was there.”

  “Oh?” I sensed that Kane had more to tell. “What time was that?”

  Wryly, Grant noted, “You sound like my brother—the cop. Milady isn’t wheedling her way into another murder investigation, is she?”