Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  Grant amplified, “Namely, Brycey-boy.”

  With finger to chin, I told Grant, “I like the way you think. When did you get so devious?”

  “Moi? I’m not devious—merely suspicious. And I learned that from you.”

  “Perhaps you did.” With a pensive laugh, I rose from the bench, stepped to the patio doors, and gazed out upon the pool for a moment. Then I returned to the coffee table. “Grant, now that you’ve tattled on Bryce and Rebecca, are you aware that Bryce himself did some tattling yesterday?” I raised a brow.

  Grant looked confused. “Bryce tattled? On Rebecca?”

  “No, love. On you.”

  With mock shock, Grant sat ramrod stiff. “Why, that snip! He swore he’d never kiss and tell.” Then, with his features twisted in thought, Grant allowed, “He’s all right, I guess, but not my type. I barely know the man. Other than our very brief encounter here yesterday, I’ve never even met him.” Then, as an afterthought, Grant asked, “Just what did he tell you?”

  “Nothing to do with romantic interests—his or yours.” I cleared my throat. “No, when he realized that you were Larr y’s brother, he connected the names and recalled that you and Spencer Wallace had been working on a real-estate deal—a mountainside golf-course development?”

  “Oh.” Grant’s shoulders slumped. “That.”

  “Yes, that. The way Bryce tells it, Spencer pulled out at the wrong moment. Word spread, other investors fled, and you took a bath.”

  Grant took a sip of wine, swallowed, and looked at me over the rim of his glass. “That would be the gist of it, correct.”

  “Actually, Claire”—Brandi leaned forward in her chair and set her wine on the table, placing both hands on her knees—“Grant wasn’t the only one to get stung. The golf-course development was mine. I’m the one who put together the consortium, so I’m the one who looked like an idiot in the eyes of other investors. On top of which, I lost a bundle.”

  My eyes slid to Grant. “How much did you lose?”

  “Well”—he tossed a shoulder—“despite what Bryce told you, I wouldn’t quite call it a ‘bath.’ That has such a pejorative ring of overstatement. I’m surprised; lawyers are usually more precise. Yes, the deal fell through with Wallace, but I’ve chalked it off as a … a mere mixup.” He sipped more wine.

  I persisted, “How much of a mixup?”

  He paused to calculate. “About a half. Well, a little over half.”

  “Half?” I crossed my arms. “Half what?”

  Setting his glass on the table, he mumbled, “Half a million.”

  My eyes bugged. “Good Lord, Grant. I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had a half million to lose.”

  He stood, telling me, “When it comes to investments in California real estate, the numbers do sound inflated—like Monopoly money—but that’s the name of the game here, and I play it quite well. The Coachella Valley is a hotbed of development; I’ll recoup my losses on the next deal. Win some, lose some. I happened to lose on this particular venture.”

  “Because of Spencer Wallace.”

  Grant took a measure of solace in my statement. “That’s right. Wallace blew the deal. He was a nervous Nellie about the risks, pulled out at the wrong time, and was inept in the way he handled it. The result was, I lost a bundle.”

  “So did I,” seconded Brandi. “And so did several others.”

  “Hmm.” I paced toward the bar, set down my glass, and turned to ask both of them, “So how do you feel about Spencer’s death?”

  With a tsk, Brandi said, “Need you ask?”

  I must have looked dismayed.

  Grant asked me, “How would you feel? Look, murder is inexcusable, period. I’m sorry he was poisoned, I’m sorry he drowned—or however it happened. But am I sorry he’s gone?” With a sharp nod, he answered, “Not one bit.”

  An awkward silence fell over us. Noticing that Grant’s glass was empty, I offered, “Uh, more wine?”

  “No, thanks. That’s enough.” Having vented his bitterness, he was chipper again. Stooping to lift his glass from the coffee table, he said, “I’ll just give this a rinse.” And he carried the glass to the kitchen.

  Brandi replenished her glass from the bottle on the table. She called after Grant, “Considering how you felt about Wallace, it was good of you to try to save him Saturday night.”

  Grant’s voice carried over the sound of running water. “I didn’t know who it was down there. I couldn’t get a good look at him till I had him out of the water. Had I known, I wouldn’t have been so quick to ruin my clothes.”

  I assured him, “You did the right thing.”

  The doorbell chimed. Recognizing the tune, Brandi looked up from her wine. Lamely, I explained to her, “The previous owners …” Stepping toward the door, I told Grant, “That must be your brother.”

  Appearing in the kitchen doorway, Grant intoned, “The law never rests.”

  I opened the front door. “Hello, Larry.” Before he could speak, I asked, “Is it true you never rest?”

  “Huh?”

  With a laugh, I told him, “Do come in. Grant’s here; so is his friend Brandi.”

  “Yes, I saw the car,” he said, still sounding disoriented by my queer greeting.

  “Hello, Detective,” said Brandi, rising briefly.

  “Miss Bjerregaard,” he acknowledged her, and she sat again.

  “Hey, bro,” said Grant, stepping forward. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, Grant, fine.” Larry turned to me. “How about you, Claire?”

  I shrugged. “Just trying to keep one step ahead of the law.” Stepping to the bar, I retrieved the guest list I had reconstructed for him.

  Grant took his brother aside, telling him facetiously (I think), “Arrest her, Larry. Lock ’er up.”

  Ominously, Larry quipped, “All in due time …”

  I shot them both a dirty look. “I’m not too sure I like the sound of that.” Then I smiled. “Here’s the list I promised you, Larry. Hope it helps, but my instincts tell me it will only muddy the waters.”

  He took the list, glanced over it, and slipped it into a pocket. “The more information, the better. I appreciate it.”

  I suggested, “Do sit down. Can I pour you some wine? Just opened it; there’s an extra glass waiting.”

  He crossed to the bench and sat where Grant had been sitting, telling me, “Thanks, but I’m on duty. I don’t need anything.”

  “How about some iced tea? Made some this morning.”

  “Sure. That’d be great.” He took a pen and notebook from inside his suit jacket and set them on the coffee table near Grant’s zippered portfolio.

  “Back in a flash,” I told them, moving to the kitchen to get the tea.

  A minute or two later, I returned with a small tray bearing the glass of tea, a saucer of lemons, and a sugar bowl. Grant was now seated on the bench with Larry; Brandi still sat in the nearby chair. All three leaned toward the coffee table, huddled over Grant’s portfolio, which had been zipped open to disgorge a sheaf of papers. Brandi was saying, “It’s only pennies on the dollar, but at least it’s something. It’s the best I could do.”

  Grant sighed. “Sorry, Larry.”

  The detective also sighed. “It’s not a total loss—but almost.”

  Their somber tone suggested that this “little business matter” wasn’t so minor. And with Brandi involved, I had a sudden insight regarding what had happened. “Oh, no,” I said, setting my tray on the table. “Don’t tell me you got roped into that golf-course deal too, Larry.”

  He looked up at me, chagrined. “My gut told me this deal was too good to be true. At the same time, it seemed too good to pass up.” His mouth sounded dry. He reached for the tall glass of iced tea and took a sip.

  I now understood why Larry had reacted so oddly—pinched brow and forced smile—when Bryce Ballantyne had first mentioned the deal on Sunday afternoon.

  Sounding defensive, Grant explained, “I didn’t pressu
re him, Claire. Honest. I happened to tell Larry about the prospects for the development, and I guess I was overly excited. I would never steer my own brother wrong, but he wanted in.”

  “Grant warned me of the risks,” Larry admitted. He lifted the sugar bowl’s lid, glanced inside, then closed it again, looking forlorn.

  I was certain that Larry—a cop with a family, a dog, and a station wagon—did not have his brother’s financial resources, so I hoped he had not taken similarly high risks. I ventured to ask, “How bad was it, Larry?”

  Making light of his losses, he answered, “Nowhere near as bad as it was for Grant. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Grant told me quietly, “He used part of his kids’ college funds.”

  “Grant, don’t,” said Larry.

  “I’ll help you out. It’s still a few years off. We’ll make it happen.”

  “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  Brandi tried to lighten the conversation. “At least we’re all getting something back. There’s a conservancy dedicated to the preservation of bighorn sheep. This group presented our greatest obstacle to development all along, so now that the golf course is dead, our consortium is selling the tract of mountainside land to the sheep huggers.”

  “Pennies on the dollar,” Grant repeated wistfully.

  “Take it or leave it.” Brandi nudged a pile of papers in his direction.

  Grant uncapped an exquisite fountain pen and scrawled his signature on several flagged documents. Then he turned to Larry, offering the pen. “Bro?”

  “Sure,” Larry answered without enthusiasm. He silently added his signature to the papers.

  As they were finishing, I extended feeble sympathies for everyone’s misfortune (everyone’s but the sheep’s, that is). My comments were accepted gratefully, and I continued to mouth hackneyed assurances that clouds would part and tides would turn. It didn’t matter what I said. I simply felt the need to keep talking, hoping the noise would mask a horrifying notion that had popped into my mind, demanding consideration: Larry Knoll, detective in charge of the investigation, had lost a nest egg because of Spencer Wallace and could therefore have nurtured the most base of motives for the victim’s extinction, spite.

  I grasped for any topic that would distance my mind from this idea, but it was Grant who finally shifted the conversation to safer ground. “Oh!” he said to his brother, returning his pen to his pocket. “Brandi and I have reason to believe that Becky-baby and Brycey-boy are an ‘item,’ if you catch my drift.”

  “Yeah, I sorta got that impression myself.”

  Brandi was collecting the signed papers and returning them to the portfolio. “Do you think it has a bearing on the case?”

  “Maybe.” Larry nodded. “But first things first.”

  I asked, “Meaning … ?”

  “Meaning, the darkroom. We’re waiting for the results of tests to determine if any of Wallace’s photo chemicals had been tainted. But my guess is that the killer wouldn’t be clumsy enough to leave evidence of cadmium there in the darkroom.” Larry picked up his glass of iced tea, then set it down again without drinking.

  I asked, “How long will the tests take?”

  “Maybe a few days. But don’t forget—we’ve already made an important discovery that suggests we’re on the right track. The ventilation system wasn’t working, and it may have been tampered with.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Grant. “Why, that’s just like the screenplay—the faulty vent system increased the toxicity of the fumes in the darkroom.”

  “Correct.” Larry touched his glass again, then withdrew his hand.

  “Uh, Larry,” I said. “Don’t you like it—the tea?”

  “It’s fine, Claire. Great, thanks.” He hesitated before telling me, “But I could use some sugar, and there isn’t any.” He removed the lid from the sugar bowl and showed me that it was empty.

  “Oh, Larry, I’m sorry.” I stepped forward, took the sugar bowl from him, and moved toward the kitchen.

  Grant skittered after me. “Stay put, milady. I’ll take care of it. My pleasure to serve.” He took the sugar bowl from my hands; then, with a flourish and a bow, he charged off to the kitchen.

  Brandi told Larry, “It sounds as if everything is starting to line up.”

  I added, “Exactly as detailed in Spencer’s own script.”

  “Uh-huh,” agreed Larry. “But I don’t think Wallace meant to send us a ‘message from the grave,’ so to speak. This has none of the earmarks of suicide—no note, no motive, no history of depression.”

  I averred, “Which leaves under suspicion anyone who’d read the script.”

  Larry tapped his notebook. “Precisely. So the next step—”

  “Aowww? Hwat’s this?”

  Larry, Brandi, and I exchanged a quizzical glance. I called to Grant in the kitchen, “Finding everything?”

  “I’ll say!” Grant returned to the living room. In one arm, he cradled my open kitchen canister of sugar. With his other hand, he held the top of a brown bottle he had apparently pulled from the canister. It was flask-shaped, with a typewritten label and a black screw top, the generic sort of bottle that a druggist might use for cough syrup. I noted at once that it was small enough to be concealed in a pocket or handbag. Grant repeated, “Hwat’s this?”

  Larry, Brandi, and I had already rushed to surround him. Peering close at the label, I sputtered, “I don’t … I can’t believe … How could it possibly … ?”

  With hand to chin, Larry nodded. “Cadmium chloride.”

  “Hidden in milady’s sugar canister.” Grant arched his brows.

  Larry said, “Don’t touch it, Grant.”

  His brother quipped, “What am I supposed to do—levitate it in midair?”

  “I mean, have you handled the bottle?”

  “Just the cap.”

  Larry asked me, “Got a plastic bag?”

  “Sure, Larry.” I dashed into the kitchen for a moment and got one.

  When I returned, Larry had his notebook open and was asking Grant, “This is how you found it, buried in the sugar?”

  Grant nodded. “Just below the surface.”

  Writing in the notebook, Larry mumbled, “Not very subtle … unless …” He closed the notebook and pocketed it.

  “Here, Larry.” I handed him the plastic bag.

  “Perfect.” Using the bag as a mitt, he took the bottle from Grant, then turned the bag inside out, containing the bottle. Tying the neck of the bag, he said, “I want to get this down to the lab right away. First, we’ll verify if it actually contains cadmium chloride, not just, say … baby powder …”

  “Or sugar,” Grant suggested, licking his fingertips.

  Larry continued, “And second—”

  I interjected, “Fingerprints?”

  “Right. Let’s see if someone got sloppy and left us a clue.”

  “Larry”—I hesitated—“I know this sounds lame, but I’m really getting worried. I feel I’ve been … well, ‘framed.’”

  The detective acknowledged, “Could be a setup.”

  “Either that,” joshed Grant, “or I’ve stumbled upon milady’s stash.”

  “That’s not funny,” I said with a foot stomp.

  “Hold on,” said Larry. His tone was calm and sensible. “Time out. Let me take this over to forensics, and we’ll see what we’ve got.” He began moving to the front door.

  I followed, then halted, snapping my fingers. “Larry.”

  Halting, he turned to me. “Yes?”

  “I’m not naive, Larry. I understand how incriminating this appears for me. Jeez, you might as well have found a bloody dagger in my trash. I also understand that you would fully expect me to deny any knowledge of where it came from. Before, I was merely mystified by the circumstances surrounding Spencer’s death. Now, I’m feeling threatened, which makes me not only frightened—but angry.”

  Grant prodded, “You go, girl.”

  Ignoring him, I c
ontinued, “So it seems to me that the simplest, most direct means of exonerating myself is to name the real killer.”

  “Logical enough,” Larry agreed. “So tell me, Claire: Who did it?”

  “I don’t know—yet—but I damn well intend to find out.” Having vented my ire, I felt more levelheaded, and a fresh thought occurred to me. My tone changed abruptly as I asked, pleasant as pie, “Do you happen to have plans this evening?”

  Larry shrugged. “What’d you have in mind?”

  I tried not to sound too scheming as I told him, “A party. A little cocktail reception. An intimate gathering of friends.”

  “Oh, goody,” said Grant, “a party. On a Monday evening, no less. My calendar’s wide open, doll.”

  “Wonderful”—I tweaked his ear—“because you’re most definitely invited, Grant. You too, Brandi. Shall we say six-thirty?”

  “Fine with me,” said Grant.

  Brandi nodded her acceptance, returned to the chair where she’d been sitting, and picked up her purse from the floor.

  “Me, too,” said Larry, stepping to the door and opening it. “I’m curious to see where you’ll take this. Until then, if you’ll excuse me …” And he walked outside.

  “We ought to run as well,” said Grant, leading Brandi to the door. Handing me the sugar canister, he leaned to peck my cheek. “Thanks for the chardonnay—enjoyed it. See you tonight, love.”

  “Good-bye, Claire,” said Brandi. “We’ll be back at six-thirty.” She stepped outside with Grant.

  I called after everyone, “Don’t be late.” My wry delivery had an ominous ring that sounded more comical than foreboding.

  Closing the door, I paused in thought, planning the evening that lay ahead.

  Then I realized that I was still holding the sugar canister. Feeling foolish, I carried it to the bar and set it down near the phone. Thumbing through the little black book I kept there, I found the number of Coachella Catering, lifted the receiver, and dialed.

  When a man answered, I said, “Good afternoon. This is Claire Gray in Rancho Mirage. Ah, Thierry, it is you; I thought so. Yes, that’s right, it was dreadfully unfortunate, thank you. The reason I’m calling, Thierry—I’ve decided to throw another little get-together this evening. I know it’s short notice, but I’ll need help with the bar and serving appetizers.”