Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  Larry cleared his throat. “If you feel up to it, Mrs. Wallace, could we sit down and discuss a few things?”

  “I’ve come all this way. Why not?” She settled primly on the leather bench.

  As Larry sat in the chair nearest Rebecca and paged through his notebook, Bryce returned from the kitchen and sat next to Rebecca on the bench, within reach of his briefcase. I took the chair next to Larry.

  Looking up from his notes, Larry said, “I don’t mean to be impertinent, Mrs. Wallace, but your attitude toward your husband’s death is rather puzzling.”

  “Then you didn’t know my husband, Detective. He was not a likable man.”

  Quietly, I mentioned, “I keep hearing that.”

  “It’s true,” Rebecca assured me. “His business methods were ruthless. His ego was boundless. His film-production empire was all that mattered—God knows, I didn’t.”

  “And yet,” I said, “he was a genius.”

  “I keep hearing that.” Rebecca exhaled a derisive snort. “But genius, in the arts or otherwise, is often just an excuse for bad behavior. And believe me, Spencer could behave very badly. He seemed to feel self-indulgence was his birthright—just because he’d figured out how to sell movie tickets, and lots of them.”

  I paused, weighing her words. “Rebecca, I confess to being bewildered. The Spencer Wallace I knew was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Then he must have respected you. Good for you, Claire. But the Spencer Wallace I knew was a perfect prick.” With a crooked smile, she asked, “Am I sorry he’s dead? Not one bit. And, uh … I did inherit everything. Correct, Bryce?”

  “Yes, Rebecca.” The attorney set his briefcase on the coffee table, snapped it open, and pulled out a few folders. “Spencer may have tried, but he couldn’t evade California’s community-property laws.”

  Larry asked, “He tried?”

  “I’m sure he did,” Rebecca answered offhandedly. “He had no use for me, but he was afraid to divorce me—far too costly. So he led his life; I led mine.”

  “You lived apart?”

  “By and large. I stayed at the main house in Brentwood; he was spending more and more time here in this godforsaken desert. There are other homes, most notably his little getaway in Cabo.” She jerked her head toward the photo that faced her squarely from the mantel.

  “Ah,” I said, following her glance. “You recognize it.”

  She stood, moving to the mantel. “Oh, yes. I’ve been there—once. Did he take you there, Claire?”

  “Well, no,” I said, flustered.

  She picked up the photo, studying it. “He took many women there—chippies and whores, mostly—and a few men, too. His appetites were voracious, and the house in Cabo was his playpen.” Setting the picture back on the mantel, she noted with distaste, “Nude sunbathing—really. Thank God no one would mistake this one for me.” She patted her frosty, ash-blond hair.

  Larry asked, “How do you know he took women to Cabo?”

  Returning to the bench and sitting, she explained, “He bragged about it, for Christ’s sake. Not only did he entertain there; he had a quack Mexican doctor on call to help him out of his ‘little fixes.’ That was his stock euphemism for knocking up yet another nubile young popsy. Can you believe it? More than once, he gloated to me—me!—that he’d just gotten out of ‘another little fix.’” She fumed.

  I mumbled, “I admit, it’s amazing.”

  “Mrs. Wallace,” Larry said with a squint of confusion, “you said that your husband also took men to his place in Mexico. What for?”

  “What do you think?” she blurted. “Spencer’s appetites swung both ways, Detective. Oh, sure, he preferred women to men, but if he encountered a choice, studly specimen, he just couldn’t help himself. And of course, as a producer, he was always on the lookout for fresh talent, which, in turn, was only too eager to please him. He bragged about that, as well—called it ‘executive privilege’ or the ‘casting-couch syndrome.’”

  Bryce stifled a leering laugh. When Rebecca’s eyes slid in his direction, he coughed, muttering, “Sorry.”

  Rebecca leaned forward to Larry and me. “Did you hear about his latest conquest?” she asked with an eager, gossipy inflection. “Or should I say ‘non-conquest’? Spencer had been putting the finishing touches on his latest script, a movie called Photo Flash. There’s a hot new discovery playing the lead. Tanner Griffin—ever heard of him?”

  Suddenly very uncomfortable, I told Rebecca, “It happens that I know him quite well. In fact, your husband first saw Tanner in a play I directed last winter.”

  “Ah,” she said, as if recalling a paltry detail, “now that you mention it, that does ring a bell. Then you know, my dear, what a tempting morsel the young Mr. Griffin is. Spencer couldn’t stop talking about him. He boasted that he’d ‘bag that boy’ eventually, and I’m sure he tried—Spencer could be very aggressive. But now, alas, Spencer is gone, and the sensational Mr. Griffin, God love him, will forever be ‘the one that got away.’” She laughed merrily.

  Distressed by this story, I rose and stood behind Larry at the fireplace, looking outdoors, immersed in thought.

  Larry said to Rebecca, “You mentioned Photo Flash. Have you read the script?”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “So have I,” said Bryce, producing a copy of the screenplay from his briefcase.

  Larry told Rebecca, “Then you know that it was inspired by your husband’s photography hobby. The plot focuses on a murder by cadmium poisoning.”

  Rebecca nodded. “Specifically, cadmium chloride was the toxic compound, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Correct,” said Larry. “I myself read the script overnight. Are you aware that your husband, prior to his death, was suffering from some health conditions that might suggest cadmium poisoning?”

  “He had some complaints—said he was getting old—but how does that relate to cadmium?”

  Larry explained, “Claire and I were reviewing some of his symptoms with my brother just before you got here, and it struck me that—”

  “Detective Knoll,” said Bryce, “excuse me. The man who was leaving when we arrived—that was your bother? You called him Grant.”

  “Right,” said Larry. “Grant Knoll is my brother.”

  “So that was Grant Knoll,” said Bryce with dawning insight. “I knew he lived in the desert, but I hardly expected to see him here this morning.”

  With my interest drawn back to the conversation, I asked the lawyer, “How do you know of Grant?”

  Rebecca turned sideways on the leather bench. “Yes, Bryce. Whatever are you talking about?”

  Meaningfully, Bryce reminded her, “The deal.”

  “Ohhhh …” She nodded.

  With pen poised, Larry asked, “Deal?”

  “It’s history now,” said Bryce, tossing papers back into his briefcase. “Water under the bridge. Since Rebecca needed to sign off on any of Spencer’s real-estate dealings that could affect her portion of the estate, a fair amount of paperwork crossed my desk. Earlier this spring, after Spencer began spending so much of his time out here, he struck up an acquaintance with your brother, and—”

  Interrupting, I explained, “I introduced them.”

  “Oh?” said Bryce. “That makes sense. Well, it seems Spencer was feeling more and more at home in the desert. He was always on the lookout for a promising investment, and Grant made him aware of a proposal for a mountainside golf-course project that he himself was investing in. It was a risky venture, due to opposition from an environmental group concerned about an endangered sheep species, but on the upside, it was potentially lucrative. Spencer wanted in, and—well, to make a long story short—he later pulled out at the wrong moment. When word got around, the whole deal collapsed. Spencer was shrewd, I’ll hand him that. He walked away unscathed. But unless I’m mistaken, Grant took a bath.”

  I turned to tell Larry, “He never mentioned it to me.”

  Larry’s brow was pinched in thought.
Then, with a weak smile, which seemed forced, he told me, “Grant must’ve been embarrassed. Who knows?”

  Rebecca stood, smoothing wrinkles from the lap of her skirt. “Detective, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to be going. This has been a tiring morning, and much as I hate to admit it, news of Spencer’s sudden demise is indeed unsettling.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mrs. Wallace.” Larry stood also. “I’ll probably need to see you again tomorrow, if you’ll be around. And I’d like to take a look at your late husband’s darkroom in the Palm Springs house.”

  “Of course, Detective. Bryce and I will be staying for a few days, I’m sure.” Her attorney had been fussing with his attaché case, locking it. He now stood as Rebecca continued, “I need to start sorting through Spencer’s things. You can reach me at the house.” She and Bryce moved toward the door.

  Larry and I followed. He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Rebecca at the door, telling her, “Be sure to call if you need me, and I’ll stay in touch as well. Rest assured, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  As they were shaking hands, the cell phone on Larry’s belt warbled. He turned aside to answer it, asking his caller, “Can you hold, please?” Then he told Rebecca, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take this call. Thanks again for your cooperation.” He flashed Rebecca a smile, gave Bryce a quick handshake, then stepped out to the terrace, out of earshot, where he conversed on the phone in the shade of an umbrella table near the pool.

  Turning to my guests, I said, “Before you leave, Rebecca, I was just wondering—when Spencer began working on a new screenplay or film project, did he ever discuss plotting issues with you?”

  Through a twisted smile, she answered, “We had very few heart-to-hearts, Claire.”

  “I understand. But you did read the script of Photo Flash. Bryce has one too.”

  “Yes, but that’s not typical. Spencer seemed especially proud of this one. He had high expectations for it.”

  “Let’s hope his expectations prove justified. It’ll make a fitting final tribute.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, unsure of her own feelings.

  I patted her hand. “Try to get some rest.”

  “I will.” With a weak smile, she added, “I need it.”

  I told her attorney, “Good to meet you, Bryce. Take care.”

  “Sure thing, Miss Gray.” He opened the door. “Good day.”

  They left. I watched them walk together toward the street. Then I closed the door with a light, uncertain sigh.

  Larry seemed to be finishing on the phone—he was returning his notes to his pocket—so I strolled out to join him on the terrace, hoping for an update. The noontide sun had turned hot. As I arrived, Larry snapped the phone shut and clipped it to his belt.

  “That was the coroner,” he said.

  Trying not to sound too eager, I prompted, “And … ?”

  “The autopsy is complete,” he informed me, “and the medical examiner has some initial findings. I was wrong, Claire, and your hunch was correct. Wallace tested positive for cadmium. What’s more, he had severe kidney and liver damage, which is consistent with chronic cadmium poisoning, as are all the symptoms we discussed earlier—weight loss, anemia, irritability, yellow-stained teeth, even his loss of the sense of smell. He was a heavy smoker, which increases the toxic effect of cadmium. It could have been inhaled as fumes from his photo baths, which may have been spiked with cadmium chloride. Or the lethal compound could also have been dissolved in something acidic, then ingested—he was drinking tomato juice last night, which would do the trick.” Larry paused before concluding, “In short, this investigation has entered a new phase.”

  I spoke the words slowly: “It was murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the killer was someone who either had access to Spencer’s darkroom or attended last night’s party. Or both.”

  Larry nodded. “Yes.”

  “Which means”—hoping for a rebuttal, I needed to voice the unthinkable—“which means, I’m a suspect.”

  Larry eyed me with an odd expression for a moment. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “I don’t … I don’t mean to alarm you, but by any objective measure …” He hesitated. “Yes, Claire, you are indeed a suspect.”

  Was it my imagination, or had the earth stopped spinning?

  Birds hushed. The breeze died.

  The sun glared, its intensity magnified by its reflection in the pool.

  Not a single ripple broke the mirror of the water’s flat surface.

  PART TWO

  developments

  7

  “Good God, Claire,” gasped D. Glenn Yeats over the phone, “you must be beside yourself. Such a dreadful turn of events.”

  It was Sunday afternoon, shortly after Larry Knoll had left my home. Glenn had just gotten word of Spencer Wallace’s death and had called to talk about it. Frankly, I’d been expecting to hear from the computer tycoon and college founder since sunrise, but apparently he hadn’t turned on a television that morning, and none of his underlings had been willing to deliver the unwelcome news that the head of his theater department had, once again, been thrust by circumstance into a police investigation.

  He continued, “Let’s hope it was all just an unfortunate accident. Sometimes, suspicious death is mere happenstance, a peevish twist of fate.”

  I hated to disillusion him. “Sorry, Glenn. The coroner has already determined that this suspicious death was no mishap; it was murder. Spencer didn’t die because he was drunk and stumbled into my pool. No, he was the victim of chronic cadmium poisoning. The drowning merely finished him off.”

  As soon as I’d said the words, I realized that my phrasing had been too blunt. Perhaps I had already been jaded by the facts of the case, but to Glenn’s ears, my hard-boiled pronouncements must have sounded cold and uncaring. I myself was taken aback by my seemingly callous tone.

  “Claire,” said Glenn, at a temporary loss for words, “let’s not discuss this on the phone. I’d like to see you. Soon.”

  Pleading fatigue—true enough—I managed to fend off an afternoon meeting, but I was unable to defer his requested rendezvous for more than a few hours, so I agreed to join him for dinner at his home that night.

  I had insisted that we make it an early evening. Shortly after six, I passed the gatehouse and revved the engine of my Beetle, preparing for the steep ascent of the winding roadway that led up past the Regal Palms Hotel and onward to Nirvana, the exclusive community of mountainside estates that Glenn Yeats called home. My ears plugged as I neared the top; when I swallowed, they popped. Rounding a final curve in the road, I saw the dramatic lines of Glenn’s sanctuary appear from the uppermost terrace of the development.

  During the seven months since I had moved to the desert, I had been a frequent visitor to Nirvana, but the sheer power of wealth displayed there never failed to impress. I was as agog that Sunday evening as I had been the previous September when I had first set eyes upon Glenn’s magnificent dwelling. Like the college campus he had built, his house was also the work of the famed architect I.T. Dirkman, and it was no less a contemporary masterpiece.

  Tonight, though, was different from most of my previous visits because I was not to be one of scores of guests invited to a party. Glenn had a habit of opening his home for all manner of events—from faculty get-togethers to memorial services—but tonight’s gathering would be decidedly more intimate. I was to be the single guest at a dinner for two.

  Pulling into Glenn’s driveway, I found no parking valet waiting to whisk away my car—we were indeed roughing it tonight. I wondered wryly if Glenn would press me into duty washing dishes after our meal.

  At the sound of my car (or had the gatehouse guard alerted him?), Glenn stepped out to the courtyard to greet me. He wore a casual but expensive-looking outfit—silk shirt and gabardine slacks—giving the unfortunate impression of a rich nerd out of his element. Behind
him, from the house, a huge, modern, asymmetrical chandelier glowed with warm, yellow light in a front hall big enough to be aptly described as a lobby. Outdoors, overhead, the sky shone with cool, blue twilight. The sun had just begun to slip behind the peaks of neighboring mountains, which jutted from the horizon as saw-toothed, abstract silhouettes.

  Crossing the courtyard toward each other, we met midway and paused to embrace. “Good evening, Claire. Welcome.”

  “Glenn,” I said, taking his arm, strolling toward the house, “you’re the perfect host. Once again, you’ve arranged for a perfect night in a perfect setting.”

  “This could all be yours,” he reminded me. His tone was so offhanded, he might have been offering me a drink or a Kleenex, not half his empire.

  We had not explicitly discussed marriage; I had never let the conversation go that far. But I had no doubt that the subtext of Glenn’s patient, persistent wooing was matrimonial. He had previously set his sights on snagging me from Broadway to chair the theater department at his fledgling college, and he had won. He had now set his sights on snagging me as the third Mrs. Yeats, and he intended, as always, to win.

  The prospect of immense wealth was appealing, naturally, but the prospect of losing my independence was not. After all, I had evaded the altar for fifty-four years. Had I felt the need to be kept or protected, I’d have tied a knot at a more knot-tying age.

  Now such a commitment struck me as silly and pointless.

  Now I was winding down a live-in tryst with Tanner Griffin. What possible interest would I have in bedding D. Glenn Yeats, who could not begin to compete with Tanner at a raw, physical level?

  Still, Glenn had many other sterling attributes that made him an enviable potential partner. To his credit, he had shown the longsightedness to let me sort through my jumbled feelings. To my discredit, I had been unable or unwilling to weigh his advances seriously.

  “ … every bit of it,” he was saying. “It could all be yours.”

  “Not now,” I said softly, pausing at the entry to his home. Patting his hand, I added, “It’s been a hellish day. I can barely think straight.”