Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  “That”—Grant barked with delight—“and a few other bad habits!”

  “Yeah, yeah …” Kiki slurped her cocktail.

  With kindly admonition, I told her, “Easy on the booze, love. It’s early.”

  “It’s the one vice I have left.” She slurped again. Then she sighed and set her glass on the mantel. Glancing at the photos, she found something of interest and turned to examine them more closely.

  “Your life is better now.” Earnestly, I added, “Much better.”

  “Yes, dear. You’re right, of course.” Her vacant tone conveyed that she was barely listening.

  Grant told her, “Didn’t mean to be flippant, Keeks. We’re proud of you.”

  “I’m sure you are, dear, but don’t be patronizing. It’s so—” She stopped short, picking up the one framed photo that was not hung on the wall, but propped on the mantel. “Aowww? Hwat’s this?”

  Grant and I exchanged a glance, then rose from the bench and joined Kiki at the fireplace, flanking her. Bewildered, Grant asked, “Hwat?”

  Kiki displayed the photo for us. “This picture—do you know what it is?”

  “It was a gift,” I said. “Spencer brought it to the party last night.”

  “Yes, darling. But I’m asking if you recognize what’s depicted in the photo.”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  Grant studied it. “Well, it’s a seaside setting—looks rather tropical—as seen from a lofty balcony.” Holding it at arm’s length, he babbled, “Lovely composition, by the way. The black and white adds an unexpected dimension, lacking the garish postcard hues typically associated with such a vista.”

  “Look closer,” said Kiki with a kittenish lilt. “Check the shadows on the balcony.”

  “Aha.” I had a flash of insight.

  “What?” asked Grant. “I see nothing.”

  I told him, “Artfully concealed in the shadows is a reclining female figure. Nude, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Oh.” He saw it. Unimpressed, he gave a grimace of disapproval.

  I asked Kiki, “Am I connecting dots that don’t exist, or does this photo hold some special meaning for you?”

  She tossed a shoulder. “Well, I don’t know that I’d call it ‘special, ’ but yes, I do recognize the setting. It’s a vacation home owned by Spencer Wallace—in Cabo San Lucas. I’ve been there.”

  “Huh?” asked Grant. “I thought his vacation home was here, in Palm Springs.”

  Kiki explained, “He had several, darling; he was filthy rich. This one’s in Mexico—‘a bit farther away from Mrs. Wallace,’ as he liked to describe it.” Kiki returned the photo to the mantel, strolled back to the bench, and sat.

  “And you were there.” Each word of Grant’s flat statement was peppered with insinuation.

  “Mm-hm.” With perfect nonchalance, Kiki dug a tube of lipstick out of her purse and began touching up.

  Sitting in one of the three-legged chairs by the fireplace, I explained to Grant, “Kiki first met Spencer when he attended the opening of Laura last December. It seems there was a mite of chemistry. They had a brief fling.”

  “Very brief,” Kiki stressed. “A flingette.”

  “I see.” Enjoying himself, Grant crossed to the bench, musing, “But not so brief a flingette that you didn’t have time for a little travel, eh?”

  Gloating some, Kiki replied, “I’d prefer to call it a lost weekend, a sordid lost weekend in the dusty, torrid Baja.” Then her mood deflated. “But he was a jerk, a true asshole, if you’ll pardon my expletive. And that”—she snapped her purse shut—“was that.”

  Grant eyed her askance. “So who’s the babe on the balcony?”

  Kiki primped. “Need you ask?”

  Grant stepped back to the fireplace and peered at the photo. Skeptically, he asked, “It’s you?” He handed the picture to me and looked over my shoulder as I perused it.

  Kiki whirled a hand. “I admit, I don’t recall him taking the picture. But I did sunbathe on the terrace—nude, obviously—and I know I fell asleep because the terrace was in shadow when I awoke. He must have snapped me as I napped.” Mustering some indignation, she added, under her breath, “The filthy bugger.”

  “Well,” said Grant, “if you squint at it … I suppose … the dark hair.” Though Kiki’s hair was now black, she changed its color almost as frequently as she changed clothes, a point that eluded Grant. He took the photo from me and returned it to the mantel.

  “I will say this,” said Kiki, pleased as punch. “He knew his craft. He certainly chose a flattering … angle, or lens, or whatever.”

  Dryly, I agreed, “Didn’t he, though?”

  The doorbell rang. Perhaps out of whimsy, perhaps in deference to the futuristic design of the house, its previous owner had installed door chimes that played the opening notes of the theme from The Jetsons. “I really must have that changed,” I thought aloud as I moved to the front door, turned the knob, and swung it wide.

  “Morning, Claire,” said Detective Larry Knoll, stepping in. “Sorry to trouble you on a Sunday.” He wore no tie today, but a pale blue polo shirt under his suit jacket. Also under his jacket was the glint of a polished leather shoulder holster. Another holster, on his belt, carried a cell phone.

  Closing the door, I told him, “In light of last night, I’d be surprised if you didn’t come calling.”

  Spotting his brother, Larry said, “Hey, Grant. Nice outfit.”

  Lolling at the mantel, Grant lifted a foot to display the bare ankle beneath his rumpled slacks. “You would notice.”

  “And Miss Jasper-Plunkett,” said Larry, moving to the bench where Kiki still sat. “Nice to see you again, even under difficult circumstances.”

  She extended her hand like royalty. “Please, Detective. It’s Kiki. How delightful to see you again.” When he leaned forward to shake her hand, she yanked him near, asking, “Is it true? I hate to be indiscreet, but is Claire in trouble? Is she really a suspect? I mean the threat, the interview, and all. I highly doubt that she did it, you know.”

  “Kiki!” said Grant and I in unison, each moving a pace in her direction.

  Larry stage-whispered to Kiki, “I’ll let you in on something. I, too, highly doubt that Claire would stoop to murder—at a party, in her own home, no less—while vowing to throttle the guest of honor.”

  I stepped to the detective and patted his back. “Thank you, Larry. It’s all very disturbing, and I spent a restless night. You have no idea how grateful I am that you recognize my empty threat for what it was—dramatic hyperbole.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. You’re a friend, and I’ve come to know—and enjoy—your ‘dramatic’ style.” Hesitating, he added, “Of course, I am a cop first, and I need to remain objective.”

  From the corner of her mouth, Kiki said, “That sounds ominous.”

  Grant glared at her. “Do shush, Kiki.”

  Perfectly at ease, I told Larry, “I understand your position. And I’ll help any way I can.”

  “I ought to have some crucial issues cleared up soon—at least as far as you’re concerned, Claire. The coroner is completing his initial exam, and he knows to test for cadmium. If those results are positive, then we know we’re dealing with homicide, and the killer could have been anyone at the party last night—or anyone who’s had access to Wallace’s darkroom.”

  Grimly, I asked, “That would leave me on your suspect list, wouldn’t it?”

  “Actually, it would. But the point is, I’m not expecting the coroner to find cadmium. It’s too much like the screenplay; I’ve read it. Murder isn’t generally so neat and tidy, with the clues laid out, point by point, in a manuscript left by the deceased. So if I’m right and Wallace tests negative for cadmium, the investigation goes back to square one. But you’d be in the clear.”

  With supreme understatement, I said, “Glad to hear it.”

  “Anyway, the reason I’m here.” He checked his watch. “It’s nearly noon. I thought Wallace’s
widow and her attorney might already be here. I assume they’ll arrive any minute.”

  “Oops,” said Kiki, rising. “I just heard my exit cue.”

  With playful cynicism, Grant asked, “Aww, Kiki, gotta rush?”

  “Yes, darling, I do ‘gotta rush.’” She crossed to the fireplace and plucked her cocktail glass from the mantel. “I’m less than eager to meet the bereaved Mrs. Wallace.” And she whisked into the kitchen.

  With feigned naiveté and a finger to his chin, Grant said, “I wonder why …”

  Kiki instantly returned from the kitchen without her glass. Snatching her purse from the bench, she headed for the front door. “It’s been a stitch, everyone. Claire? Call me later. Maybe lunch tomorrow.” She blew me a kiss and opened the door. “Ta, duckies.” And she left with a flourish, closing the door behind her.

  Larry shook his head, as if clearing a fog. “What was that all about?”

  I shrugged. “With Kiki, one never knows.”

  Enjoying himself, Grant tattled to his brother, “Kiki had a flingette with the deceased.”

  With arched brows, Larry theorized, “So she doesn’t care to meet the wife.”

  Grant laughed. “Well, duh.” As the late morning was getting warm, he removed his sport coat and draped it over one of the chairs near the fireplace. The red stripe of Tanner’s sock peeped from the pocket.

  Changing the topic, I asked, “Won’t you sit down, Larry?”

  “Thanks.” He sat on the leather bench and pulled a notebook from his inside breast pocket.

  “Can we get you some coffee?” I offered, removing the open copy of the Tribune from the coffee table, folding it, and setting it aside with some magazines.

  “No, thanks, all set. Claire, I wonder if I might review a few facts of the case with you.”

  Sitting in the chair nearest him, I replied brightly, perhaps too eagerly, “With pleasure.”

  “Uh-oh.” Grant laughed, drifting to the bar to pour himself some orange juice. “Milady is wheedling her way into the investigation. I warned you last night, bro. You’ve got a sidekick.”

  I piped in, “Stop that, Grant.” I was embarrassed to realize that his puckish words carried a kernel of truth.

  “Well,” said Larry, “to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I mind. Claire seems to have known the victim as well as anyone, and I’m impressed by her ability to recall details and conversations.”

  With self-satisfaction, I noted, “All those years of theatrical training must have paid off. Memorization is part of the craft.” Then my tone turned thoughtful. “I must admit, the riddle intrigues me. How and why did Spencer Wallace die? Was he murdered? And if so, who killed him? It’s not unlike a baffling, nicely twisted stage play. I’ve been directing plays for over thirty years, so I suppose that qualifies me as a passable expert when it comes to analyzing character, motivation, and plot. If you find those skills useful, I offer them freely.”

  Larry had studied me as I spoke. Now, with a pensive nod, apparently satisfied that I could help, he said, “Let’s talk about the victim.” He set his open notebook on the coffee table. “Specifically, I’m intrigued by his recent health history. The maid said he appeared sickly last night.”

  I nodded. “He did. He even mentioned it to me, dismissing his complaints as the ravages of advancing years. But that struck a false note—he was only sixty.”

  “What were his specific symptoms?”

  “Well”—my eyes searched the ceiling as I thought—“last night he complained of a sour stomach. But he’d been out of sorts for weeks, plagued by a whole array of unpleasant symptoms. For instance, he was irritable. He often found himself apologizing for his behavior, and no doubt about it, he was always on edge and testy. He was losing weight, but claimed not to be dieting, and he said he felt generally sluggish or anemic. He even complained that he couldn’t get his teeth really clean, and in fact, I noticed that they seemed too yellow.”

  Grant stepped toward us from the bar, swallowing a sip of juice. “Did he smoke?”

  “He did. Heavily at times.” With a feeble laugh, I added, “But his oddest complaint was here”—I tapped my nose. “He thought he was losing his sense of smell. Naturally, I encouraged him to see a doctor. Last night, he implied that he had done so. He dismissed the results as ‘nothing.’”

  Larry underlined something in his notes. “He did see a doctor, last Wednesday. We found out he visited a walk-in clinic in Palm Desert. After hearing his complaints, they took chest X rays, which led to a tentative diagnosis of bronchial pneumonia. But now”—Larry hesitated—“well, I’m not so sure.”

  Concerned by his tone, I asked, “What do you mean?”

  But the doorbell rang before Larry could answer. “That’s probably Mrs. Wallace,” he said, rising, taking his notebook from the table.

  “God,” I said, rising with him and crossing the room toward the front door, “I hate to imagine what she’s going through.”

  Grant set down his glass. “I’d better leave,” he said, sounding suddenly rushed. “These clothes—hardly presentable. I’ll just duck out through the terrace. Bye, kids!” And he stepped to the rear wall of the room, sliding open the glass doors that led out to the pool.

  I exchanged a quizzical look with Larry while reaching to open the door. As I did so, Grant stopped in his tracks. “Forgot my jacket,” he explained, rushing back into the living room and grabbing his sport coat from the chair near the fireplace.

  Ignoring Grant’s antics, I turned to the guests outside my door. “Good morning,” I said with a peculiar mixture of sobriety and warmth. “Mrs. Wallace, I presume.”

  She stepped inside with her companion. “Yes, Rebecca Wallace. And this is my attorney, Bryce Ballantyne.”

  I was distracted by Grant, who had retrieved his jacket and was now darting through the room toward the pool.

  Larry called after him, “So long, Grant.”

  I turned briefly from my guests. “Call me later, Grant.”

  “Later!” was his sole word of parting. And he was gone.

  Returning my attention to my visitors, I said, “Please accept my condolences, Mrs. Wallace. I’m Claire Gray. I was proud to call your late husband a friend.” I shook Rebecca’s hand, then closed the door behind her. I told her lawyer, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Ballantyne.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Gray.” He shook my hand mechanically.

  They stepped into the room, and Larry moved forward to greet them. “I’m Detective Larry Knoll,” he told them, offering his hand. “Thanks so much for driving over on such short notice.”

  While they exchanged a predictable round of pleasantries and sympathies, I spent a moment observing the new arrivals. I judged Rebecca to be about fifty years old, some ten years younger than her late husband. Bryce, her attorney, was younger still, under forty. Their clothes were dressy and stylish, marked by urban sophistication, which struck me as a bit “too much” for a Sunday morning. Both Rebecca’s dress and Bryce’s suit were dark, signaling they were not local, as desert residents rarely wear dark colors by day. Still, neither outfit was black, signaling that neither of my visitors wished to make a show of mourning. Rebecca was unquestionably attractive for her years, but icy. Bryce looked athletic and fit, but his manner and bearing were reserved. He carried a slim, elegant attaché case, which he set on the floor near the coffee table as Rebecca and Larry got down to business.

  “Where did it happen, Detective?” Rebecca jerked her head toward the terrace. “Out there?”

  “Yes,” said Larry, “the pool’s just outside.”

  She stepped toward the open sliding doors, then stopped, turning to her lawyer. She spoke to him in a clipped tone. “It was a long drive, Bryce. Could I have some water?”

  Bryce nodded and moved toward the kitchen.

  I rushed forward. “I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me. Would you prefer some juice, Rebecca? Or perhaps coffee?”

  “Water’s fine. Bryce can get it.” She
gave him a steely look, and he slipped into the kitchen. Then she walked out to the terrace and turned, staring at the swimming pool without expression.

  With an eye on Rebecca, I moved to Larry’s side and asked, “Is it my imagination, or is this gal a piece of work?”

  “Try not to judge,” he said gently. “People react to sudden loss differently. In my line of work, I’ve seen the entire gamut of grief.”

  Watching the woman, I was skeptical of Larry’s charitable words. “Maybe,” I said, “but something tells me Rebecca has shed few, if any, tears.”

  “Give her a moment; then we’ll try to draw her out.”

  Bryce returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, stepped outdoors to Rebecca, and handed it to her. She drank a swallow or two, still staring at the pool. They exchanged a discreet squeeze of arms.

  Then Bryce came back into the living room. “Thank you for your patience,” he told Larry and me. Though his manner was courteous, it was evident that he found the situation awkward. He tried explaining, “Rebecca needed to, uh … ‘connect’ with the tragedy.”

  Soberly, I assured him, “I’m happy to be of any help whatever. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, but the fact is, I didn’t know Mr. Wallace very well.”

  Larry asked, “Weren’t you his lawyer?”

  Bryce shook his head. “I’ve been in the employ of Mrs. Wallace for some years now. She has her own financial interests, and I’ve helped manage her portion of the estate.”

  Rebecca stepped in from the terrace just then and handed him the empty glass without looking at him. “Thank you, Bryce.” He took the glass, backed off a step, then went to the kitchen. Rebecca heaved a tired sigh, telling Larry and me, “Spencer always had a flair for the theatrical.” With grim humor, she added, “Talk about a dramatic exit …”

  I shook my head. “It was terrible. I’m still stunned.”

  She looked me in the eye. “Trust me, Claire. You’ll get over it.”