“Well,” said Larry, notes in hand, all business, “Wallace drowned. That’s all we know.”
Grant moved to a chair near the fireplace and sat. “So it was just an accident?”
“A horrible accident,” I corrected him, crossing to stand near him.
Larry said, “Too soon to tell. Like any suspicious death, this one requires a complete medical-legal autopsy. Unfortunately, of the many possible causes of death, drowning presents the greatest obstacle to a definitive report.”
Trying to follow, I mumbled, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Death by drowning cannot, in fact, be ‘proven’ by an autopsy. Drowning is known as a diagnosis of exclusion. If circumstances point to drowning—like a body, facedown, at the bottom of a swimming pool—drowning is logically presumed the cause of death.”
I posited, “But that leaves the possibility that a dead or dying person either fell or was pushed into the water.”
“Exactly.”
Twirling a hand, Grant wondered, “Wouldn’t you find water in the lungs if the person actually drowned?”
“Usually,” said Larry, “but not always. There’s a phenomenon known as dry drowning, by which the victim suffocates as the result of sudden laryngospasm—closure of the airway—caused by water in the throat. Either way, if water filled the lungs or not, the operative word is suffocation. It’s an agonizing death.”
All the more sobered by this insight into my friend’s demise, I tried to remain unemotional and objective. “Do you know yet if there was water in Spencer’s lungs?”
“We do. There was. But aside from circumstantial evidence, it’s nearly impossible to tell whether we’re dealing with an accident, which is reasonable; a suicide, which seems unlikely; or murder.”
Larry’s last word hung in the air for a moment before I asked, “Do the circumstances strike you as suspicious?”
The detective sat on the bench, facing Grant and me near the fireplace. Setting his notes on the table, he said, “This wasn’t a pool party. Wallace didn’t suffer a mishap while swimming; he was fully clothed. That might not seem remarkable if he’d been drinking heavily tonight—accidental drownings often result from alcohol abuse—but we know he was not drinking. Therefore, if he ended up in the water by accident, it was fluky at best.” He summarized, “Do I find all this suspicious? You bet.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Erin, stepping from the kitchen with a tray. She paused uncertainly in the doorway, explaining, “The coffee’s ready.”
“Excellent,” said Larry, waving her in. “I could use some.”
As Erin moved to the coffee table with her tray, I sat in the chair next to Grant, who told the girl, “Just half a cup, please.” I seconded, “Yes, a splash for me as well.” Erin began pouring for us.
Grant asked Larry, “So, then, was it a freak accident? Or murder?”
“The investigation has just begun. But you’ve asked the central question.”
I couldn’t help musing, “All the elements of a neatly convoluted plot …”
“Uh-oh,” said Grant. “Milady sniffs a tantalizing whodunit.”
“Nonsense. It’s a regrettable tragedy.”
Grant told Larry, “I don’t know if you’re prepared to take on a sidekick, O brother mine, but I have a hunch the great Claire Gray is willing to assist the investigation. As you already know, she has a uniquely theatrical perspective on perplexing death.”
“Oh, shush,” I told him.
Erin was offering cream and sugar to each of us. Larry and I declined, but Grant fussed—pouring, spooning, stirring.
Rhetorically, Larry said, “If it was murder, there had to be a motive.”
“And a means.” I nodded. “And an opportunity.”
“Of course,” agreed Larry, who had already drunk his coffee, setting down the empty cup, “but the motive tells all. I’ll need to look into Wallace’s family background, his business dealings, the works. You two were friendly, Claire. Off the top of your head, do you know if he had any conspicuous enemies? Perhaps a rival with an ax to grind?”
Erin refilled his cup, then peeped into the smallish coffeepot. Deciding a refill was needed, she put things in order on the tray, then took the pot and stepped toward the kitchen.
I told Larry, “Spencer Wallace was wealthy and powerful. He could—and did—make and break careers. Over the years, I think it’s safe to say he made plenty of enemies. And there was no shortage of jealous rivals. But would anyone stoop to kill the man—here, tonight, in my home? I can’t imagine that anyone felt an animosity toward him that was sufficient to provoke murder.”
Erin, I noticed, had paused at the kitchen doorway, turning to watch me as I spoke. When my eyes met hers, she bit her lip and slipped out of the room. What, I wondered, was that all about?
Larry was perusing his notes again. Without looking up, he asked, “Can you get me a complete list of everyone who was here tonight?”
I rose, cup in hand. “I’ll try, Larry, but there were quite a few unfamiliar faces. I’ll pull together my guest list and get it to you tomorrow.” Crossing to the bar, I set down my cup and made a note to myself on a pad near the phone.
Grant swallowed the last of his coffee, then said to his brother, “Don’t tell me you suspect everyone at the party.”
With a menacing frown, Larry replied, “Anyone and everyone.” Then he laughed, explaining, “It’s a start. Every guest tonight presumably had the opportunity to engage in deadly mischief. The sooner I start eliminating those who had no conceivable motive, the sooner I can zero in on serious suspects.”
Grant yawned, rose, and stretched a kink from his shoulders. He reminded Larry, “There were fifty guests. You’ll have your hands full.” An idle glance led his eyes to the photos over the mantel, and he stepped to the fireplace to study them.
“That’s the grunt work of police work,” Larry said vacantly, immersed in his notes and his thoughts.
Immersed in my own thoughts, I strolled toward the bench where Larry was seated. “The killer’s motive—if there was a killer—is a total mystery. But what do we know about the victim?”
“Good question. Let’s review.” Larry flipped back through his notebook, reciting, “Spencer Wallace, a famed movie producer, aged sixty, died of apparent drowning under suspicious circumstances. He had nothing to eat tonight, and though he was known to drink heavily sometimes, tonight he drank only tomato juice. The caterer’s maid who served him said his mood seemed off, and she described him as sickly. The victim’s permanent residence is near Los Angeles, but he’d lately spent most of his time at a second home in Palm Springs …”
Grant turned and caught my eye as we simultaneously recognized that details of Larry’s summary were beginning to sound familiar. Then we both swung our gaze to the wall of photos.
Larry continued, “Wallace was working on a movie script that will soon go into production. He was also spending considerable time in his home darkroom, working on his hobby, black-and-white photography.”
Grant and I interrupted him with a shared gasp.
“Good God,” said Grant.
I blurted, “Photography!”
Larry rose from the bench, bewildered. “What about it?”
“Photo Flash. The script,” I told him, stepping to his left side.
Flanking Larry on the right, Grant explained, “Wallace’s screenplay was inspired by his hobby.”
I added, “The plot focuses on the murder of a renowned photographer.”
Larry’s head ping-ponged as Grant picked up the story again: “He was poisoned slowly, over time, in his darkroom.”
I leaned close to tell Larry, “By cadmium poisoning.”
Larry blinked. “Cadmium?” He began taking notes.
“An extremely toxic element,” said Grant. “But cadmium also has legitimate industrial uses.”
I elaborated, “It’s one of the major toxins in fluorescent lighting tubes, for instance. More to t
he point, cadmium compounds are widely used in photographic materials.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Larry with a disbelieving chortle. “How do you two know all this?”
“It’s in the script!” we both told him.
Grant continued, “In his screenplay, Wallace spells out exactly how the photographer was poisoned—with cadmium chloride—and exactly how the crime evaded detection.”
“It was all meticulously researched,” I assured Larry. “Spencer Wallace knew as well as anyone: when it comes to details, you can’t bluff a mystery audience.”
With a touch of skepticism, Larry said, “I gather, then, you’ve both read the script.”
“Of course.” I explained, “Tanner will be starring in the film. He asked me to read the script and sought my advice on various points of interpretation.”
Grant told his brother, “I’ve read it too, here at Claire’s. Since Tanner needs to memorize the script, I’ve helped him by running lines, feeding him cues.”
Larry nodded, making note of all this, then asked me, “Do you have a spare copy?”
“I think so, yes.” Enticingly, I added, “Care to borrow it?”
“Please. It seems I have some brushing up to do with regard to cadmium poisoning. I’ll alert the coroner’s office to test for it at once.”
My brow wrinkled. “Doesn’t it take weeks to get results of toxicology ?”
“Usually, yes. But that’s when you don’t know what you’re looking for. If we know we’re looking for cadmium, the testing is straightforward.” He sat again. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to make notes on all this while it’s fresh.”
“Sure, Larry. Let me try to find that script for you.” I headed toward the bedroom hallway.
“Uh, Claire?” said Grant, following me a step or two.
I turned. “Yes, dear?”
He fingered the marabou collar of his—rather, my—robe. “I hate to impose, but I wonder if I might spend the night here. My clothes are wet, it’s late, and—”
“Of course, Grant. Not another word. In fact, I’d rather not be alone tonight. I’m sure you’re bushed; God knows I am. Let’s get you fixed up in the guest room.” I led him down the hall.
“Thanks, doll,” he told me when we reached the extra bedroom. He paused outside the door to give me a good-night kiss. “If I wake up early, I’ll try not to disturb you.”
“I appreciate that, but somehow, I have an inkling I won’t be sleeping late tomorrow morning.”
He breathed a little sigh of understanding. “Just try to get some rest.” Then he retreated into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Stepping to the next door, I entered my own room, the one I’d shared with Tanner for several months. Tonight, I realized, the room seemed suddenly, depressingly empty. Ignoring that issue, I crossed to the dresser and opened one of the drawers. I found Tanner’s copy of the bound screenplay at once; it was dog-eared from repeated handling, with his lines marked in yellow highlighter. Digging deeper, I found a second copy of the script, the one I’d studied. Taking the script, I closed the drawer and stepped across the bedroom toward the hall. Near the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in a dressing mirror and realized, with sagging spirits, that my new red dress was probably ruined by the cognac I’d spilled from chest to knee.
Ah, well, I thought. An excuse to shop.
Walking the hall from the bedroom to the living room, I heard Larry’s voice and thought he might be using his cell phone. Not exactly eavesdropping, I slowed my pace—the better to hear—when I realized he was conversing with Erin.
“Sure, thanks,” he said.
“Cream or sugar?” she asked, leading me to conclude she was serving more coffee.
“No, black, please.”
For some reason, I stopped, delaying my return to the living room. At this point, I concede, I was indeed eavesdropping.
There was a long moment of silence, then Larry told Erin, “They’re finished.”
“Hmm?” Her voice had a vacant air.
“Miss Gray and my brother—I’m sure they’re finished with their coffee.” I heard him set down his cup, mumbling, “It is late.”
There was another pause. Then Erin said with a tone of resolve, “I wonder if I might have a word with you, Detective.” She set down the pot with a decisive clack.
“Certainly. That’s why I’m here. What is it?”
“It’s about … it’s about Miss Gray.”
Needless to say, I was now on full alert. I may have stopped breathing, for fear of detection.
“Yes?” asked Larry, intrigued.
“Earlier, when I first brought out the coffee, you were all discussing what happened tonight. You were talking about possible motives, and you asked Miss Gray if she knew of anyone who might’ve had a reason to kill Mr. Wallace.”
Larry riffled through the pages of his notebook. “And she replied that while Wallace had both enemies and rivals, she doubted that any of them would stoop to murder.”
“I, uh … I think Miss Gray neglected to tell you something.”
“Something”—his footsteps approached her as his voice lowered—“something like what?”
“At the party tonight, after most of the guests had left, I was cleaning up—here, in this room—and Miss Gray was talking to Mr. Griffin.”
Larry clarified, “Tanner? Miss Gray’s … ‘friend’?”
“Yes. They were discussing his move to Hollywood, and Miss Gray was getting all worked up.”
Oh, no, I thought. Should I interrupt this? Or should I stay put so Larry could react candidly? Though tempted, I didn’t move.
Larry asked, “She was angry?”
“When Mr. Griffin said it was time for him to ‘fly the nest,’ Miss Gray sort of flipped. I mean, she was like—”
I heard Erin stomping across the room, and I could easily visualize her flinging her arms, exactly as I had done.
“—she was like, ‘Aarghh! I could kill Spencer Wallace for stealing you from me!’”
Screwed, I thought, shaking my head. Screwed as screwed can be.
Larry asked, “Was she just being … dramatic? Or did you get the impression she was serious? Sometimes people exaggerate.”
“Well,” allowed Erin, “Mr. Griffin and your brother laughed, so they didn’t think she was serious. But they’re not women, Detective. I don’t think they fully understand what Miss Gray has been going through.”
A primal instinct shot down my spine and put my feet in motion. Suddenly I was emerging from the hall into the living room, waving the movie script with triumph. “Well, I found it!”
Larry and Erin turned to me in silence.
I explained, “The screenplay. Photo Flash.”
But still they remained mute. Their embarrassed look would have struck me as funny had I not known the topic of the discussion I’d interrupted.
With a lighthearted laugh, I asked, “What in God’s name is going on here?”
Brightly, I added, “What’d I miss?”
5
Sunday morning was not the time of serenity and solitude I’d been hoping to enjoy. My gay friend and former neighbor had spent the night, and his brother the detective now suspected me of murder.
“That’s nuts,” Grant told me when I voiced these concerns. “Larry would never seriously suspect you of any crime, let alone murder.” Grant revved the engine of his Mercedes as it began the trek up a steep mountainside road that led to the Regal Palms Hotel. He was treating me to a luxe champagne brunch to help get my mind off the disturbing developments of the previous night.
I stared blankly out the windshield as palms and tall, colorful grasses whisked by. “Somehow,” I mused, “your brother strikes me as the consummate professional. I doubt that he would let his objectivity be clouded by friendship.”
Grant tsked. “I heard your so-called threat against Spencer Wallace. No one in his right mind would take it seriously.”
“The
catering gal did.”
“Obviously befuddled—probably a crack baby.” He turned into the hotel driveway and coasted to a stop beneath the massive portico.
A pair of smartly uniformed parking valets helped us from the car. Absorbing the genteel surroundings, I felt instantly calmed. As Grant escorted me through the doors to the lobby, I turned to get a good look at him. “I’m amazed,” I said. “I was sure your clothes would be ruined.”
He tossed his head with a laugh. “My ensemble may not look fresh-off-the-rack, but hell, linen is supposed to be worn rumpled.” His loafers, now sockless, clacked on the marble floor as he strutted across the lobby with me at his side. His bare ankles revealed perhaps an extra inch of leg below the cuffs of his pants, which had shrunk under the iron earlier that morning during a futile attempt to restore their creases.
“Ah, good morning, Mr. Knoll,” said a spiffed-up hostess as we approached the main door to the dining room. “I have your usual table on the terrace if you’d care to dine alfresco today.”
Grant turned to me, deferring to my wishes. “Too breezy? Too warm?”
“Not at all. Let’s enjoy the weather.” April in the desert already hinted at summer, with daytime highs pushing ninety. But at mid-morning, the valley still basked under a sun that felt warm and welcoming, not hot. I had gazed out upon the spectacular view from Grant’s regular terrace table many times and was eager to do so again.
Within moments, we were seated and champagne was being poured. I don’t make a habit of boozing in the morning, but the prospect of bubbles on my tongue seemed oddly appealing, and the consequent light-headedness would be its own reward, so I made no effort to signal the waiter to cut short his pouring. He filled my crystal flute to the rim, then backed away with a subtle bow.
Grant raised his glass. “To a quick resolution to the events of last night.”
“I’ll drink to that.” And I did. The champagne was bone-dry and ice-cold. I swallowed the first sip with rapture, then indulged in a few more, as did Grant.
Desert Spring Page 6
