“Good morning, Detective. I hope you weren’t kept waiting.” A dark little man with intense eyes, a caring smile, and no trace of an accent, he shook hands with Larry and introduced himself to both of us.
Larry introduced me as a friend of the deceased.
“I was so very sorry,” the doctor told me, “to learn of Mr. Wallace’s untimely death.”
Larry suggested, “Might we sit down?”
“Of course.” Doctor Jandali gestured toward an oblong library table, not quite a desk. He set down his files, offering us chairs on one side facing him on the other.
Settling next to Larry, I explained to the doctor, “Mr. Wallace was at my home on Saturday night when the, uh … accident occurred.”
Jandali nodded. “I can appreciate how upsetting that must have been, especially when it was determined that the tragedy was other than an accident.”
I sighed. “Yes. I still can’t believe it.”
Larry said, “As I told you on the phone, Doctor, the medical examiner has determined that when Mr. Wallace drowned, he had been weakened beyond the point of saving himself, suffering from chronic cadmium poisoning.”
The doctor tapped his pile of folders. “Since we last spoke, Detective, I’ve done some research on cadmium poisoning. You’re probably aware that it’s very rare. When Mr. Wallace visited these offices last week—it was Wednesday—he mentioned complaints ranging from fatigue and sour stomach to irritability, weight loss, and yellow teeth. These vague, seemingly unrelated symptoms at first led me to a cursory diagnosis of constellation syndrome—a catchall term for conditions that don’t seem to add up, medically or logically. But something was wrong, and he was most distraught. Unsure of where to start, I thought a chest X ray might prove helpful, as we could perform the test here on the premises and read the results at once. I’ve brought it along.”
From the files on the table, Doctor Jandali removed a large sheet of X-ray film and held it up at an angle that allowed us to see it backlit by the room’s fluorescent lighting. “I was easily fooled. As you can see”—he swirled his finger on an area of the film—“the X-ray results suggest bronchial pneumonia.”
The foggy patches of light and dark meant nothing to me; I could barely discern the rib cage. I asked, “Did you tell Mr. Wallace that you suspected bronchial pneumonia? On Saturday night, I encouraged him to see a doctor. He implied that he had done so, concluding, ‘It’s nothing.’”
Jandali raised a brow. “Really? I assure you, Miss Gray, I discussed my diagnosis with Mr. Wallace at length and put him on a course of strong antibiotics. I also prescribed Xanax, as he needed something to calm his nerves. He seemed to fully understand this plan of treatment, grousing that he wouldn’t be able to drink for a while.”
Larry surmised, “Tranquilizers and alcohol don’t mix.”
“Not at all.”
I recalled, “Spencer was drinking Virgin Marys on Saturday night, so he must have been taking your advice seriously, Doctor.”
“The diagnosis of pneumonia was tentative, of course. I planned to see Mr. Wallace again this week to determine if the antibiotics had provided any relief. If there was no improvement, I would have moved on to other theories and other tests. Blood work would surely have revealed his liver damage, but to be perfectly honest, even then I would not have associated the symptom with cadmium poisoning—it’s so very rare, and almost never accidental.”
“No,” agreed Larry, “there was nothing accidental about Spencer Wallace’s death.”
“Just out of curiosity,” said the doctor, “did he ever express fears or concern that someone was out to harm him?”
Larry turned to me. “Claire?”
I thought back for a moment. “No, never. Except for his mounting concern about his health, Spencer didn’t seem to have a fear in the world. Emotionally, he was very strong. As a friend, I found this an appealing trait in him. Many others, I’ve since discovered, regarded him as overly aggressive and egotistical.”
The doctor asked, “Then he did have enemies?”
“Before Saturday, that’s not the word I would have used. I’d have said that Spencer had competitors or business rivals or perhaps even artistic adversaries. Now, though, it’s abundantly clear that he had at least one real enemy. Did he express such fears to you, Doctor?”
“No. I wish he had. If he’d walked in here last week complaining of so many disparate symptoms while confiding fears that someone meant him harm, I would have instantly suspected some sort of poisoning and would have researched the possibilities. With any luck, I might have zeroed in on cadmium.”
Larry wondered, “Would you have been able to save him? Or was it already too late?”
“We’d have tried to save him,” Jandali assured us.
I asked, “But the chances?”
The doctor heaved a frustrated sigh. “I’m afraid we’ll never know.”
11
When Larry and I arrived at the Regal Palms Hotel, we crossed the lobby to the main dining room and announced ourselves to the hostess, explaining that Mr. Arlington was expecting us to join him for lunch.
“He stopped by a few minutes ago,” she explained, “and asked me to let you know that he’s waiting for you in the lounge.” She gestured across the lobby to the hotel bar.
Recalling that Gabe Arlington had been boisterously feeling his champagne the previous morning, I wondered if he had a little problem. The pitfalls of alcohol had ruined more than one career in the theater; the movie business, I reasoned, was no different. Had Gabe’s once spectacular directing career been scuttled by booze? It was a reasonable explanation. Still, if Gabe wanted to drink his lunch today, he could do it in the dining room as easily as in the bar. He’d been staying at the hotel for a few days; maybe he wanted a change of scenery.
“Ah! There you are.” Recognizing me as I entered the lounge with Larry, Gabe rose from a corner booth and stepped in our direction. At least I assumed it was Gabe; my eyes had not yet adjusted to the room’s subdued lighting.
When he drew close enough for me to discern the crop of silvery hair, I greeted him in turn, then introduced Larry, who thanked him for making time for us.
“Anytime, Detective.” Gabe shook Larr y’s hand heartily, telling him, “I hope I can be of use to you—though I’m not sure how.” His tone was bouncy, his manner backslapping, as if meeting old pals at the club for a rusty game of golf. Gabe continued, “Hope you don’t mind eating in the bar. The bill of fare is lighter than the dining room’s, and the service is quicker.”
“This is fine,” said Larry. “In fact, this room seems better for conversation. Nice and quiet.”
“Exactly.” Gabe led us to his table, which was set for three. Near the middle place setting sat a half-empty highball.
At that hour, the cushy lounge was indeed quiet. A couple of well-dressed women sat at the bar, drinking and chatting, fortifying themselves for an afternoon of shopping. A bartender fussed with glassware; his natty uniform resembled a tuxedo, except that he wore a vest instead of a jacket with his pleated shirt and black bow tie. The thick carpeting and dark wood paneling gave the room a muffled intimacy—perfect for imparting secrets or arranging assignations.
Some maneuvering was required for the three of us to get settled at the small round table in the corner booth. Gabe took my hand and assisted me as I slid into one of the end positions; my rump squeaked on the polished oxblood leather of the crescent-shaped banquette. Then Gabe entered from the other side, jostling to the center position, also squeaking up a storm (the ladies at the bar turned, looked, and tittered, then returned to their whispered gossip, nose to nose). Larry slid in next to Gabe, across from me. We unfurled our linen napkins, spreading them in our laps.
The bartender stepped over and took drink orders. Gabe was still nursing his Tom Collins (I hadn’t seen anyone drink such a concoction in years); Larr y asked for iced tea (he was on duty); I opted for a glass of well-chilled chardonnay (why not?).
When the drinks arrived, we ordered lunch. When the bartender left us, we raised our glasses.
Sobered by the moment, Gabe said earnestly, “To the memory of Spencer Wallace.”
“To Spencer,” Larry and I seconded.
We tasted, set down our drinks, and fell silent.
As it was time to get down to business, Larry took his notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it on the table. Squinting to read his own writing in the dim pool of light cast by an ornate overhead lantern, he asked Gabe, “Can you tell me about your relationship to the deceased?”
Gabe leaned back in the booth, eyeing the dark ceiling for a moment. “Well,” he said, uncertain where to begin, “we had lately entered into a working relationship—on his new film, Photo Flash—but beyond that, I wouldn’t say we had a ‘relationship’ at all.”
“Somehow,” said Larry, “I was under the impression that the two of you were old friends.”
Gabe shook his head. “We rubbed shoulders in the same indus-tr y for many years, but no, we rarely socialized, never one-on-one.”
Larr y tapped his notes absentmindedly. He hesitated, then asked, “Am I mistaken, or has your career been … ‘inactive’ for a while?”
Gabe broke into a grin. “I appreciate the sensitivity with which you worded that question, Detective. Truth is, my directing career ground to a halt some years ago. Pictures are a tough business—it can be merciless and unforgiving.”
Entering the conversation, I recalled, “Spencer told me you’d had the misfortune of directing a picture or two that didn’t quite set box-office records.”
“Claire,” said Gabe, beading me with a get-real stare, “if Spencer said that, he was being uncharacteristically softhearted. Let’s call a spade a spade—after a promising start, I directed a string of flops. My glory days were over, and my career was washed up.” Gabe was correct; Spencer had used essentially the same words to describe Gabe’s fall from grace.
“I don’t recall how Spencer phrased it,” I fibbed, “but he obviously held you in high regard. After all, he wrote Photo Flash; he doted over that script and had great expectations for the production. He wouldn’t have signed you on for such a high-profile film if he hadn’t respected your talents.”
Gabe fingered his icy cocktail glass, agreeing with a slow nod. “That’s what he said. When he first approached me and tried to recruit me for the project, I asked him bluntly, ‘Why me?’ I mean, he could’ve had the pick of Hollywood’s elite. Why settle for a has-been?”
“You are far from a has-been,” I told him.
“You’re kind. But the fact is, I haven’t directed in ten years, so Spencer’s offer came as a surprise, to say the least.”
“Then why did he come to you?” asked Larry. “I don’t mean to sound crass, but I’m grasping at straws. Did he get you cheap?”
“Hell, no.” Gabe laughed, taking no offense. “In fact, he offered far more than I’d have dared to ask. He paid for top talent, so he must have thought he was getting top talent.” Gabe’s mood slackened as he added, “Of course, I hadn’t yet learned all the details.”
It was my turn to grasp at straws. “Hmm. Don’t tell me. No sooner had you signed with Wallace than you found out he’d really wanted someone else—someone ‘bigger’ who was unavailable because of other commitments.”
“No. To the contrary, I found out that both Spielmueller and Wertberg had wanted the picture. According to friends, they were waiting around for the phone to ring. Spencer could’ve had either of them if he’d wanted them.”
I concluded, “So he wanted you.”
“Indeed he did. He paid top dollar and offered me a comeback opportunity to boot. In return, I offered a known name, a once-illustrious track record, and a publicity opportunity for buzz about the comeback. When the contract arrived, I didn’t hesitate to sign it. My agent had combed through the fine print and assured me it was all standard boilerplate. Only later, when Spencer and I got into initial discussions regarding budgets and production schedule, did I realize that he had retained complete artistic control over the picture.”
Larry looked up from the notes he was taking. “Pardon my lack of insight, but is that unusual?”
Gabe explained, “Depends. The producer and director often work as a team; sometimes it’s the same person. In a battle of wills, the moneyman generally wins—except at a certain level of talent where artistic control is presumed absolute. Can you imagine Spielmueller deferring to anyone’s wishes? I don’t think so.” Gabe snorted, then continued, “Spencer had lured me into the project with vague—not specific—promises of artistic autonomy. He gave the impression I was being hired under those terms, and such an understanding would be expected in a high-budget picture like Photo Flash. So it came as a rude awakening when I realized that my artistic concept of the film didn’t matter. Essentially, I was hired to aim the camera for Spencer Wallace.”
I gave a long, low sigh. “I’m so sorry, Gabe. That must have hurt.”
Larr y asked, “Why didn’t you quit? You could have gotten out of the contract; you’d been misled.”
Through a soft laugh, Gabe said, “Do you honestly think I’d give up a deal like this? It’s the chance of a lifetime to reestablish myself. If I walked out on it, I’d end up even lower than I’d been before, a true pariah. Besides, I need the money. The loss of artistic control was a disappointment, a major one, but I quickly learned to live with it.”
“I must say”—I smiled—“your approach to this difficult situation is stunningly good-natured and practical. I’m not sure I’d be able to show your forbearance.”
“Perhaps your artistic integrity is greater than mine, Claire.”
“Don’t be unfair to yourself. You found yourself in a dilemma not of your own making. You dealt with it the only way you could.” I sipped some of my wine, which had gone warm.
“Perhaps.” Gabe paused. “Besides, it doesn’t matter now.”
“Oh?” Larry’s eyes slid toward mine.
Gabe explained, “With Spencer gone, so is his artistic control.”
I nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“I assure you, it makes perfect sense. I spent yesterday afternoon on the phone with my agent and my lawyer, and they spent this morning with the production company’s legal team. They first determined that the picture is not in jeopardy—the show will go on. Second, and just as important, they confirmed that artistic control over the production now rests solely with me.” With a satisfied nod, he drank the last of his Tom Collins.
“Hmm,” I said, swirling my wine, “then everything’s dandy.”
“It is, isn’t it?” agreed Gabe. He hadn’t caught the chilling subtext of my idle pronouncement: Gabe Arlington’s artistic ego had been tremendously bolstered by Spencer Wallace’s death.
The bartender arrived with our lunch just then—thank goodness, as I didn’t enjoy the direction our conversation had taken. Larr y finished the note he was writing, then closed his pad and set it aside.
“Excellent,” Gabe told the bartender, rubbing his hands together. “I’m famished. Perhaps another Tom Collins as well. Everyone else happy?”
Larr y and I declined second drinks; then all three of us began to eat. A minute or two passed as we sampled our first bites, pausing to sigh with satisfaction.
At the back of my mind, however, a memory of Saturday evening scratched at my consciousness and distracted me from the pleasures of a twenty-dollar sandwich. Dabbing my lips with my napkin, I turned to Gabe and said offhandedly, “I presume you won’t be filming Photo Flash in black and white.”
Gabe nearly choked. With a chortle, he replied, “Are you kidding ?”
Larry looked confused. H
e asked me, “Why would he do that?”
I was about to explain that Spencer had openly considered that option at Saturday night’s party, but Gabe answered for me, “Now and then, Detective, some artsy-fartsy filmmaker gets the notion that cinema needs to ‘connect with its roots’ or whatever, and presto, you get some epic shot in grainy black and white. It ends up looking experimental and low-budget, and the ticket-buying public finds it annoying at best. Spencer was a devoted amateur photographer—black and white, naturally—and he was flirting with the idea of doing Photo Flash in monochrome. I tried to dissuade him, but I knew very well that if Spencer Wallace had a brainstorm, there was likely no stopping it. If you ask me”—Gabe laughed—“the guy must have been sniffing his photo chemicals.”
Larry and I glanced at each other. It escaped neither of us that Spencer may in fact have died from inhaling toxic fumes from his photo baths. This detail of the investigation was not generally known, but Gabe Arlington was intimately familiar with Spencer’s screenplay, which had spelled out a precise formula for murder.
The director continued, “Thank God that battle’s behind us.”
Though his opinion was already clear, I decided to draw him out some, asking, “Did you see no merit at all in filming Photo Flash in black and white? The idea struck me as inventive and daring.”
“Claire,” he said, resting his fingers on my arm, “I admire your artistic sense greatly, but it stems from the theater, which is intrinsically symbolic and interpretive. Film, on the other hand, is reality; at least that’s how audiences see it. Hell, film is rarely even film anymore. Many pictures are now shot on high-definition video, then transferred to film for projection in theaters.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. Bottom line: the movie-going public simply has no appetite for such retro affectations. You never see a new television show in black and white, do you?”
“No,” I admitted. But I thought, So what?
“So the same applies to films. Why risk it? Spencer was boss of this project, but I wasn’t going to let it go black and white without a fight. Fortunately, saner ideas have prevailed.” Gabe gave a self-satisfied nod, then hungrily returned his attentions to his half-eaten club sandwich. The bartender brought his second Tom Collins.
Desert Spring Page 14
