Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  And in that instant, I saw Spencer Wallace. His lifeless body was a blurry X beneath the surface, broken by the shifting waves of light. I gasped, inhaling some water. Then I coughed loudly, spitting it out. Repelled by the sight of Tanner as Spencer, I paddled to the side of the pool and grabbed the stone apron.

  “Hey! What’s wrong?” asked Tanner, breaking the surface, swimming toward me. “I heard”—he sputtered through the water—“I heard you scream.”

  Had I screamed? “I was coughing. I sort of choked.”

  There must have been a wild look in my eye. Tanner glided up to me and grasped both of my hands. Alarmed, he asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am.” I forced a laugh.

  “But … but what happened?”

  I was tempted to fudge my answer and dismiss my morbid vision, inventing some innocuous reason for my outburst and my abrupt change of mood. But I had already lied outright to Glenn Yeats that evening, and this was not a pattern I wished to establish with Tanner. In the months I had known him, we had been scrupulous in hiding nothing from each other.

  “My imagination got away from me,” I explained. “When you dove to the bottom of the pool—and stayed there—I had a memory flash of last night when we found Spencer Wallace.” I jerked my head toward the deep end.

  “Oh, gosh.” Tanner cradled me in his warm, slippery arms. “How awful for you. And how thoughtless of me.”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. You couldn’t possibly have known what I saw last night or how I’d react tonight.”

  The carefree spirit of our skinny-dipping interlude had evaporated. Tanner asked, “Would you like to get out of the water?”

  Insipidly, I answered, “Thank you for understanding.” I pecked his lips.

  We sloshed our way to the shallow end of the pool and lumbered up the steps. Water fell from our bodies; the dripping sound seemed magnified in the still night. Padding across the terrace to a pair of chaise longues, we left shiny black tracks on the stone paving.

  “Don’t get your clothes wet,” said Tanner, grabbing his T-shirt from one of the chaises and helping me wiggle into it. As the neck hole popped past my head, I drank in his smells. Though not burly, Tanner’s build was considerably bigger than mine, and he liked wearing loose, roomy T-shirts, so the makeshift cover of soft, white cotton hung from me like a smock. He then stepped into a pair of khaki shorts and zipped up, asking, “Want to go indoors?”

  “Nah. It’s a lovely night. Let’s stay outside awhile.”

  Tanner had brought out a couple of oversize bath towels, so he wrapped me in one, himself in the other. We settled on the chaises, I sitting, he reclining with his head propped in his hand. I watched a trickle of water as it dripped from hair to hair on his shins and then disappeared into the cushion.

  Our silence began to feel awkward. “Uh”—I tried my voice—“I’m sorry I put a damper on things.”

  “Don’t be nuts.” God, what a smile. “You’re here. We’re here.”

  “At least for tonight.”

  “And tomorrow night.”

  I returned his smile, but it faded fast as my thoughts leapt to Tuesday and to Tanner’s departure.

  Reading my mind, he said, “I’ll be just up the road. LA is two hours from here. I’ll be back.”

  “Sure,” I said, sounding chipper, “and I’ll get over to Los Angeles now and then.” Fat chance. Having left New York and having begun a new life in the desert—with its easy pace, clean air, and serene, natural beauty at every turn—the allure of urban sprawl was now nil.

  “Besides,” he said, “all my friends are here.”

  Leveling with him, I noted, “You’ll have new friends, Tanner.”

  He began to protest.

  But I continued, “A phase of our lives is drawing to a close. There’s no point in denying it—better to deal with that reality than to kid ourselves into thinking that nothing will change. Otherwise, later, when we realize that everything has changed, we’ll be festering with disappointment and, just possibly, bitterness.”

  He sat up. “Bitterness? That’s impossible, Claire. I could never—”

  “Tanner, dearest”—I shook my head gently—“reality can’t be wished away by lofty intentions.”

  “This has nothing to do with ‘lofty intentions.’ It’s about love. Don’t you get it, Claire? I love you.”

  “And I love you, Tanner.” I moved to his chaise, sat at his side, and held his hands. “But we entered this relationship fully aware that it was not a conventional romance. Sure, from the beginning, we’ve both had deep feelings for each other, but beyond that, we’ve both understood that our relationship has served other needs—namely, my theater program and your career. We’ve benefited each other.”

  After a moment, he asked, “Like … traders?”

  I pinched his cheek. “Yes, like Traders.” We were speaking of the thematic concept that was at the heart of my play.

  He drew his knee up onto the cushion, turning to face me. “You mean, we’ve been using each other.” His words carried no tone of disillusionment, for he had come to understand the philosophy embodied by the play.

  I nodded. “We have used each other. But here’s the important part—we’ve used each other with each other’s knowledge and consent. We’ve traded purposes, and in doing so, we’ve both accomplished other goals.”

  “And along the way, we fell in love.”

  “We did.” I held him tight for a moment. “I think we both understood that our initial attraction was mere infatuation, partly fueled by those other goals and purposes. But sure enough, along the way, we came to love each other. And that’s what lasts.”

  He eyed me askance. “Not two minutes ago, you told me that a phase of our lives is drawing to a close, that everything will change.”

  “True enough. What’s ending is our shared life as lovers; that’s a huge change. What’s not ending, though, is our love. I will always love you, Tanner. Once your film career is up and running, we may resume some sort of relationship; maybe not. But we will always be loving friends.”

  “Ahh,” said Tanner, “‘loving friends’—that sounds so chaste and proper, doesn’t it?”

  I chortled. “Depends on the friends.”

  Not whining, truly curious, he asked, “Will there still be room for intimacy?” He slid a hand up my thigh.

  “Who knows? If you marry, which you probably will—someone your own age, I might add—then, no, there’ll be no future intimacy between us.”

  “And what about you?” He laughed softly. “What about marriage? What about … Glenn? Someone your own age, I might add.”

  “Whew!” I backed off a few inches. “I should’ve seen that coming.”

  Tanner laughed louder, telling no one, “She can dish it out …”

  “Okay, okay”—I gave his hand a playful slap—“your point is well made. It’s just that I’ve never quite seen myself in the role of a, of a … wife.” I nearly choked on the word.

  “You might consider it, Claire.” His tone was serious. “You deserve that security.”

  “You think I’m insecure?”

  “Hardly. But Glenn has a lot to offer, and—”

  “An egotistical billionaire shopping for a third wife may have a lot to offer, but I doubt if there’s much security in that dowry.”

  “You’re being kinda tough on him, aren’t you? He worships you.”

  “He does.” Ho hum. “But I just can’t deal with Glenn and his doting—not now, not yet.” I paused, adding, “Not while you’re here, Tanner.”

  He leaned and kissed me. “My time here isn’t long. I suggest we make use of it.” He nuzzled my ear.

  “Mmm.” I slid my hand down his back and under the waistband of his shorts. His skin felt warm and comforting against my fingers. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “For starters,” he said into my ear, “I think we should move indoors.”

  “Bedtime?” I asked coyly. �
�It’s barely ten.”

  “We can while away a few hours till you’re sleepy. I’ll think of something to amuse you.”

  “I’ll bet you will.”

  “Shall I carry you?” He wasn’t kidding. Tanner occasionally carried me indoors from a midnight dip, providing a seamless fantasy that moved from the lapping of water to the rumpling of bed linens. Was this dreamy, or what?

  “Uh”—I wavered, but my practical side won out—“my clothes.” I had left them in a heap near the pool, and I didn’t want them lying there till morning.

  Equally practical, Tanner suggested, “While you take care of that, I’ll set up the coffeemaker for tomorrow.”

  “Deal.”

  So we both got up from the chaise and set about our domestic chores, readying for a romp in the bedroom. Within no time, we had moved inside and locked the doors. I slipped out of Tanner’s T-shirt and added it to the bundle of my own clothes. Tanner was turning off the music and I was switching off the lights in the living room—when the phone rang.

  We both froze, unsure of what do to.

  I shook my head. “Let the machine get it. People shouldn’t be calling at this hour.”

  “But they are,” Tanner noted as the phone rang again, “so it might be important.” He was very likely correct; I had almost forgotten that a murder investigation was now in the works.

  I dropped the wad of clothes on the leather bench near the fireplace and crossed to the pass-through bar, where the phone rang a third time. Before the answering machine clicked on, I picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Hi, Claire. Larry Knoll. Sorry to disturb you so late.”

  “No bother at all, Larry.” I must have been a sight, standing there stark naked, gabbing on the phone, because Tanner stifled a laugh as he scooped up our clothes and took them back to the bedroom. I said into the phone, “What can I do for you?”

  “I spoke to Rebecca Wallace, and I’m planning to visit her late husband’s house in the Movie Colony tomorrow morning at ten. I want to get a general feel for the place, but more to the point, I need to take a good look at Wallace’s darkroom. I sent the evidence techs over there today to seal the room. With any luck, no evidence has been disturbed—if there even was any evidence.”

  “You sound skeptical that the poisoning was related to Spencer’s photography.”

  “At this point, I don’t subscribe to any theory. I have an open mind, but what I don’t have, just yet, is evidence. Tomorrow morning, the real hunt begins.”

  I reiterated my earlier offer: “I’ll help any way I can.”

  “That’s why I called, Claire. Since you’re familiar with the house in Palm Springs and actually worked with Wallace in the darkroom, I’m wondering if you could come along. I think you could be helpful.”

  “Sure, Larry,” I answered, trying not to sound too eager. “I need to spend some time on campus tomorrow and check in at the theater, but I don’t have any Monday classes, so my day is wide open. I’m at your disposal.”

  “Great. I appreciate it. I’ll pick you up at a quarter to ten.”

  “It’s a date,” I said, almost chirping. Then, toning down my enthusiasm, I added, “Let’s hope we find some answers.”

  Larry seconded that wish; then we both said good night and hung up.

  “‘It’s a date’?” asked Tanner, standing in the bedroom hall. “I thought we had a date.” With a single, fluid motion, he unfastened the top button of his khaki shorts, unzipped them, let them fall to his feet, and stepped free of them.

  I didn’t bother explaining Larry’s call. Crime solving could wait.

  First things first.

  9

  Despite the troubling events of that weekend, I slept like a baby on Sunday night; Tanner had made good on his promise to “amuse” me before bed. Monday morning, I was raring to go.

  As planned, Larry Knoll picked me up in his unmarked cruiser at a quarter to ten. He wore one of his usual business suits that day with a freshly laundered white shirt and neatly knotted tie. Though lacking his brother Grant’s sartorial flair, he looked professional and authoritative, ready to take on a busy week. While driving northwest, up valley, from Rancho Mirage to Palm Springs, he updated me on the case. “I visited Coachella Catering yesterday. I was able to track down the owner Sunday morning, and we met at their office in the afternoon.”

  “Is the owner Thierry? He seemed to be in charge at the party on Saturday.”

  “Right, Terry Armand.” The French pronunciation eluded Larry, making me wonder again whether Thierry was indeed French. Perhaps Canadian. Or was he corn-fed American, christened with a distinctive family name?

  Larry continued, “Terry was helpful and cooperative, shocked by the news of what had happened. He checked his records and even opened his books for me, giving me complete information on everyone who had worked at your party. The bottom line is, we found no suspicious connections between the deceased and any of the catering staff.”

  I recalled, “But Coachella had done some catering for Spencer, correct?”

  “Right. They’d worked several events for him. Erin Donnelly had said as much on Saturday night, and Terry confirmed it yesterday. I saw the records of those bookings; everything looked routine.” This meant, in effect, that Larry had no new potential suspects for Spencer’s murder. Which further meant that he would be focusing his investigation more closely on my party guests—and me.

  I thumped my forehead. “Gosh, Larry, I just remembered—I promised to give you my guest list, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind.”

  He laughed. “Glad you brought it up. I neglected to ask for the list when I was at your house yesterday with Rebecca.”

  I muttered, “She was a bit distracting.”

  “Can you pull that list together today? I do need it.”

  “Of course.” I crossed my heart.

  Larry made a turn and glanced ahead through the windshield. “We must be getting close.”

  “It’s just a few more blocks,” I told him.

  The initial boom period of development in Palm Springs took place during the late 1920s, when Hollywood discovered the then remote desert oasis and fell in love with its warm weather, spectacular scenery, and sparse population, which offered an ideal getaway from burgeoning Los Angeles. Indeed, many westerns of the era were filmed against the surrounding backdrop of craggy desert mountains, but more significant was the migration of studio moguls and stars to the resorts and spas that were being built. When the El Mirador Hotel opened in 1928, it quickly became the favorite of Hollywood royalty, many of whom decided to stay awhile, building second homes in the surrounding neighborhood, which came to be known as the Movie Colony.

  The houses built in the Movie Colony were not, by and large, palaces, but quiet weekend retreats where the famous could escape the trappings of conspicuous wealth while at leisure in tasteful seclusion and relatively modest surroundings. The entire Palm Springs area was, until that time, essentially undeveloped, so it presented architects with a clean canvas against which they could create a style that was both playful and uninhibited.

  The early wave of stars’ homes, built in the thirties and forties, was generally of a design vernacular that was ornately Spanish, borrowed from the style that then dominated homes being built in and around Hollywood. Another early favorite, which evolved from the Spanish style, was the true California ranch, with ready access to the outdoors from virtually every room. Later, in the fifties and sixties, modernism—whether fanciful or minimalist—would take hold and become the trademark style of the desert.

  “Here we are,” I told Larry as Spencer Wallace’s home came into view. It was a charming California ranch, originally built in the forties by another producer, then famed, now a footnote.

  From the street, the low, rambling house was discreetly unpretentious, mostly hidden by well-manicured vegetation. Curious eyes were given no clue that the homey, casual-looking entrance (it might have been a spiffed-up bunkhouse) le
d to a sprawling labyrinth of rooms and wings that surrounded a private courtyard with an Olympic-size pool, replete with diving boards, high and low.

  “Glad to have you along,” Larry said with a quiet laugh. “I would’ve missed it.” Other than an unassuming house number on the mailbox, there was no visible hint that this had been the home of Megahit Wallace, Mr. Blockbuster himself.

  We got out of the car and walked the winding brick path to the front door. A sheriff’s van was already parked in the motor court, hidden from the street by a high wall of oleander in full, white bloom. A sleek, black Porsche was parked in the shade of an arbor. I presumed it belonged to either Rebecca Wallace or her attorney, Bryce Ballantyne, but the car’s standard-issue California plates did not suggest which one.

  Stepping to the front door, Larry hesitated, given the choice of announcing our arrival by either a doorbell or a knocker. Choosing the knocker—a large, squeaky contraption of curlicued wrought iron—Larry thumped the door as gently as possible, but each stroke seemed to rumble and reverberate within the house. I felt like one of those angry, torch-wielding peasants making a ruckus outside Frankenstein’s castle.

  Moments later, the door inched open with a prolonged creak. I half expected to find a hunched Igor peering at us from the other side, and I wasn’t far off. Rebecca Wallace looked like hell that morning.

  “Ah,” she croaked, “hello, Detective.” She squinted into the sunlight as if roused from the grave. Then she noticed me, standing in Larry’s shadow. “And Miss Gray. Good morning.”

  “Please,” I said, offering my hand, “it’s Claire.”

  “Of course, Claire.” She took my hand and wiggled it listlessly. “Do come in.” Opening the door wide, she stepped back as we entered, adding, “I hope you’ll forgive me—I’m a fright this morning.”

  If she expected polite rebuttals, she was disappointed, as I simply couldn’t bring myself to deny her unflattering self-assertion. When she had visited my house the previous day, she had been the picture of well-groomed dignity in the face of sudden loss. Now she looked like something not even a cat would drag in. Her steely hair, before perfectly coiffed, was now limp and tangled; her attire, previously pert, trim, and razor-edged, was now replaced with a slovenly pink terry-cloth bathrobe that looked not only slept-in, but eaten-in. Near the lap, there was a large stain that I hoped was orange juice. I didn’t mean to stare, but I could barely take my eyes off the woman.