Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  He asked for a few details, and I explained, “That’s right, just drinks and hors d’oeuvres, starting at six-thirty. Some ten or twelve of us, no more. What’s that? No, Thierry, it’s not another going-away party.”

  I paused, then added, “This will be more of a … a cat-and-mouse party.”

  PART THREE

  photo finish

  15

  Sometime after six, I sat at the dressing table in my bedroom, primping for an impromptu cocktail party, wondering about the uncertain evening that awaited me and my guests. Whatever its outcome, the night was sure to bring developments of consequence, so I had no difficulty picking an outfit for the occasion. Red, some might say, was too festive a choice for a night that would focus on solving a murder. But red carries overtones beyond those of mirth and celebration. Red is primal. It’s commanding and sensual. It’s in-your-face. I hardly need add, red is evocative of blood, which itself is metaphoric for death as well as life.

  It would be disingenuous of me to claim that the silky scarlet blouse I wore that night was meant to convey anything more symbolic than my affection for the color. If, however, my guests chose to interpret it as an assertion of authority in my own home, I would not quibble, for my purpose that evening was not to play the congenial hostess. I intended, rather, to unmask a killer.

  Standing, I checked myself in the mirror. The red blouse draped smartly over plain black slacks. The only adornment it needed was a simple gold chain. Opening a drawer to find the necklace, I spotted Tanner’s wristwatch, a dressy one he rarely wore; he’d missed it while packing his other things. I took it out and placed it on the dresser, where he would be sure to spot it later. He’d had a busy day, meeting the movers at his apartment and tidying up some loose ends on campus, so he would arrive at my house like any other guest this evening. Unlike the others, he would spend the night here—his last with me.

  I was tempted to get soppy, to lift the watch reverently and slip it around my wrist, as if this action would somehow bind us, attach us, secure us with a slim strap of crocodile hide, but I reminded myself that Tanner, like every other visitor who was soon to arrive, was possibly responsible for the mystery I sought to solve. The likelihood of Tanner’s guilt struck me as infinitely remote, but still, I needed to remain objective because, objectively speaking, my own innocence was questionable.

  Congenial hostess, indeed. I held all of my guests under varying degrees of suspicion that evening. And these suspicions, I now realized, were focused on couples—or more precisely, “pairs”—which made it all the more difficult to sort through the motives and the likelihood of guilt.

  Rebecca Wallace and Bryce Ballantyne, for instance, were a couple. Semisecret lovers, they had both taken satisfaction from the abrupt end to Rebecca’s unhappy marriage to the powerful producer. Rebecca was now a wealthy, independent woman, and Bryce was now free to watch movies with her all morning, lounging in a shared bathrobe while feeding her hot popcorn. They had both read Spencer Wallace’s screenplay, which was a virtual guidebook to his own demise.

  Another pair, not a couple, motivated not by avarice or romantic passion, but by spite, was Glenn Yeats and Lance Caldwell. Glenn’s bruised ego, combined with Lance’s artistic pique, could have been sufficient to impel deadly payback for a rejected movie score. I had previously entertained notions that Glenn’s self-conceit cloaked a sinister edge, only to be proven wrong. So my suspicion now gravitated toward Maestro Caldwell, whose vengeful instincts may have been bolstered by Glenn’s resentment. Both men had read the screenplay.

  Base revenge provided a feasible motive for another pair who’d been wronged by Spencer. Grant Knoll and Brandi Bjerregaard had lost a great deal of money—and a great deal of face, professionally—when Spencer had turned their high-stakes golf-course project into a worthless sheep pasture. Grant had become my closest friend, so I was loath to consider him a killer. I had no reason to extend my kindhearted thinking to Brandi, however. To the best of my knowledge, she hadn’t read the script, but Grant had, and he may have unwittingly told her all she’d needed to know.

  Similarly, Grant was half of another motivated pair, which consisted of him and his brother, Detective Larry Knoll. The circumstances were identical to those with Brandi—financial loss—but I was terrified by the thought that Larry could conceivably be hunting for a suspect to cover his own crime.

  Equally unsettling was another pair with a shared motivation—Gabe Arlington and Tanner Griffin. Both the washed-up director and the rising-star actor had movie careers riding upon the success of Photo Flash. Both Gabe and Tanner were keenly knowledgeable of the screenplay. After Spencer’s death, both had spoken matter-of-factly of the publicity boon that the film would reap from the tragedy.

  Even more disturbing was Rebecca Wallace’s revelation that her husband had voiced an aggressive sexual interest in Tanner. Whether Tanner had been aware of this, I simply didn’t know, and I didn’t even want to consider whether Spencer’s lechery could have driven my young lover to an impassioned crime. It may have been wishful, defensive thinking, but my suspicions of the movie pair—Tanner and Gabe—fell squarely on Gabe.

  Finally, there was Kiki. Not a couple, not a pair, she and she alone represented the most strongly motivated of those who now found a silver lining in Spencer Wallace’s untimely death—untimely, that is, except in the eyes of Kiki, who’d faced a deadline for salvaging her career, her reputation, and her life in academic theater, the only life she’d ever known or cared about.

  On the one hand, I was mortified that she had faced this dilemma as the result of Spencer’s scheming with regard to me. The whole plan, frankly, struck me as ridiculous, but Spencer had taken it seriously, and so had Kiki. So I felt a measure of guilt. On the other hand, I felt a measure of anger because Kiki had refused to divulge to Larry’s investigation this important insight into Spencer’s modus operandi. I was all the more irked because Kiki had secured my collusion in this secrecy by invoking our past friendship.

  Tonight would put that friendship to the test. Tonight would also test my sense of ethics. Tonight I would have to ask myself, When does a promise “not count”?

  It was nearly time. Within minutes, my crowd of guests would arrive. I’d managed to reach everyone that afternoon, and when I’d explained my purpose, no one had dared decline to attend. At that moment, Kiki, Rebecca, Bryce, Glenn, Lance, Grant, Brandi, Gabe, Tanner, and Detective Larry Knoll were on their way to my home for an evening of iffy fun and ructious games, not to mention cocktails.

  Music—bouncy, upbeat party music—now drifted through the hallway from the living room. Thierry had arrived earlier from Coachella Catering, before I had retreated to the bedroom to don my hostess garb. Still shaken by the outcome of Saturday’s party, he wanted to be on hand for my follow-up soiree to ensure that everything would go smoothly. He had begun setting up in the kitchen and would tend to duties there; a server was to join him, passing appetizers and tending bar. Hearing the music, I surmised that Thierry’s help had arrived.

  I paused for a final spiff in the mirror, then left the bedroom, following the music through the short hall.

  Emerging into the living room, I saw that all was ready. The bar had been set up, a few candles had been lit, and nibbles had been set about. Even the view from the terrace doors had cooperated. The sky glowed orange near the horizon; the day had begun its slow slide toward a perfect desert evening. Ripples of blue light from the swimming pool were reflected from the underside of a surrounding canopy of palms.

  “Good evening, Miss Gray. My, what a beautiful blouse.”

  My gaze returned from the pool to the living room. Erin had entered from the kitchen, wearing the same black, formal maid’s uniform she’d worn on Saturday night. Moving to the coffee table, she set down a tray of small plates and napkins.

  I adjusted my necklace. “Thank you, Erin. Nice to see you again.” In truth, I hadn’t been expecting her, not after she’d seen fit to tell Larry about
my threat after Saturday’s party. Perhaps Thierry hadn’t heard this detail when he’d scheduled her for tonight. I asked pleasantly, “Everything under control?”

  “Yes, Miss Gray, all set. The hors d’oeuvres are still in the kitchen; I’ll pass them when your guests arrive.”

  “Sounds reasonable. Very good.”

  Erin gestured toward the bar. “Can I get you something while you’re waiting?”

  I checked my watch. “Still a bit early, thanks.” Then I reconsidered. “Well, just a taste of wine, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She stepped to the bar.

  Moving to the fireplace, I realigned a few of the framed photos that hung there—just so—and noticed Erin behind me, reflected in the glass, pouring my wine. Picking up the Cabo photo, I studied it for a moment before positioning it on the mantel. It caught the image of Erin crossing the room toward me with the wineglass. Presuming herself unseen by me, she grooved to the music while walking, almost dancing. Ah, I mused, the carefree days of youth.

  When I turned, she instantly switched to a more sedate, decorous gait, completing her cross. “Here you are, Miss Gray.” She extended the glass.

  “Thank you.” Taking the glass, I air-skoaled the girl, then sipped. She remained stationed at my side, watching as I swallowed. “That’s all for now,” I told her, nodding once with a stiff smile.

  “Yes, Miss Gray.” She made an awkward stab at a curtsy, then hesitated. “Uh, Miss Gray?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I was sort of surprised when they told me I was working here tonight.”

  My thoughts exactly. Avoiding the real issue, I told her, “I realize it may seem strange for me to entertain so shortly after Saturday’s tragic turn of events, but I—”

  “Oh, no, Miss Gray, that’s not what I meant. I’d never question your reasons for having the party. I only meant, I’m surprised you’d allow me on the job.”

  With a chortle, I told her, “After what happened Saturday, I’m surprised you’d take the job.” Graciously, I added, “Why wouldn’t I want you back?”

  “Uh,” she said, ambling from the fireplace, toward the bookcase that housed the sound system, “this is sort of awkward.” Indicating the stereo, she asked, “May I?” The peppy music was ill suited to the uncomfortable topic she meant to broach.

  “Please do.” I moved to the leather bench and sat.

  She switched off the music, then turned to tell me, “It’s not what happened in the pool Saturday. But after.”

  Reading the evident concern in her voice, I suggested, “Do sit down, Erin. Tell me what’s troubling you.” I set my wineglass on the coffee table.

  She chose the three-legged chair nearest the bench. “Thank you, ma’ am.”

  “You’re welcome to call me Claire, you know.” I smiled.

  “Oh, no, no”—she shook her head vigorously—“that doesn’t seem right. You see, Miss Gray, I just wanted to apologize for telling Detective Knoll what you said that night.” Needlessly, she clarified, “About wanting to kill Mr. Wallace.”

  Leaning toward her, I peered into her eyes. “You didn’t think I was serious, did you?”

  “No. I mean, not when you said it. But then, later, when Mr. Wallace turned up dead, well, it was hard not to wonder. So I told the detective. Now I’m afraid I’ve gotten you into trouble. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it.”

  With a short breath of laughter, I agreed, “I wish you hadn’t also. But you did what you thought was right—can’t blame you for that.”

  She gave me a weak smile. “Thank you, Miss Gray. That means a lot to me. You’re the last person I’d want to rub the wrong way.”

  I informed her, “I hardly think you’ve ‘rubbed’ me—either way.”

  “It’s just that I respect you so very highly.”

  “I keep hearing that.” Thinking aloud, I wondered, “Whatever have I done to inspire such awe?”

  “Well, your career, Miss Gray.”

  “Erin, sweet thing, I was asking the question rhetorically.”

  “Oh,” she said with a blank look. Then, with sudden enthusiasm, she continued, “It’s just that, well, you’re the greatest director alive, and now you’re here, at Desert Arts College, and there’s no one else on the planet who I’d rather study theater from.”

  Pedantically, I corrected, “ … from whom I’d rather study theater.”

  With a bright-eyed, energetic nod, she agreed, “Yeah!”

  “A-ha. I thought so. A would-be actress. I might have guessed—that was a marvelous stage scream you delivered on Saturday night.”

  Flattered beyond measure, she flopped a hand to her chest, gushing, “Thank you, Miss Gray. I’ve worked on it. But I know—there’s so much more to learn. Do you think there might be a chance, any chance at all, that I could enroll in your program at DAC?”

  I shrugged. “It’s worth a try. I’ve decided just today to conduct a summer workshop, so at this point, enrollment is wide open. Go over to campus, pick up an application, and send it in. You’ll get a call when auditions are scheduled. I can’t promise anything, but—”

  “Of course, Miss Gray,” she interrupted. “I’m just grateful to know I have a chance. Theater is everything to me.” She sat back. With a big sigh, she added, “It’s my dream.”

  “Join the club—and it’s a large one. Competitive, too.” Leaning to her, I said earnestly, “I wish you success, but I must warn you: if you’re intent on dedicating your life to theater, you’ll find room for little else. Few professions are so demanding. You might want to start a family first, then decide if your priorities have shifted. Not that I myself have any regrets, but sometimes, it’s difficult not to wonder about other paths.”

  Softly, seriously, the girl told me, “Miss Gray, you made the right decision. As for me, well, I won’t be starting a family, either.” Her head dropped. “Circumstances made the decision for me. It’s not going to happen.”

  Though tempted to ask her to elaborate, I didn’t know her well enough to pry, and in truth, I preferred to maintain our distance. With quiet sincerity, I told her, “I’m sorry, Erin.”

  “But in a way,” she continued, perking up, “that’s just fine. I mean, it lets me focus on my dream.”

  “Hold on to that dream, dear.”

  She gave me a warm smile. “I will, Miss Gray.”

  “So, then,”—I stood—“ready for a party?”

  “You bet.” She stood as well. “Let me check on Thierry in the kitchen.” And she left the room.

  I surveyed the well-stocked bar, the polished glassware, the flicker of candlelight. How festive. The corners of my mouth twisted with a crooked grin.

  “Miss Gray?” called Thierry from the pass-through. “I just saw headlights in your driveway.”

  “Curtain going up,” I told him.

  Let the games begin.

  16

  As the door chimes sounded, I glanced at my watch. It was not quite six-thirty.

  “Shall I get that?” asked Erin from the kitchen doorway.

  “No, thanks, dear. This ought to be Detective Knoll. I’m expecting him first.”

  Erin bopped back into the kitchen as I crossed the living room to the front door. Opening it, I found my hunch confirmed. “Evening, Larry.”

  “Hello, Claire.” The detective stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Hope I’m not too early.”

  “Not at all,” I told him, strolling him into the room. “Just thought we should have a few minutes to compare notes before the others arrive.”

  “Brought mine,” he said, showing me the notebook he withdrew from an inside pocket.

  Tapping my noggin, I assured him, “So did I.” As we were standing near the bar, I offered, “Care for something?”

  “Still on duty. Iced tea, maybe.” With a laugh, he added, “No sugar.”

  “No problem.” I laughed as well. As Larry seated himself on the leather bench, I called to the kitchen, “Erin, could you get the
detective—?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She appeared at the pass-through. “I heard.”

  I joined Larry, sitting near him in one of the three-legged chairs.

  Flipping through his notes, he looked up to ask, “So, then. Who’s coming?”

  “Everyone. At least everyone of interest.” I ran him through the list, concluding, “Which leaves Rebecca, the not-so-bereaved widow, and her pet lawyer, Bryce Ballantyne. Rebecca seemed downright mystified by my invitation when I phoned today. But when I told her you’d be here, she quickly decided to attend. I’m not certain, Larry, but I highly suspect the killer will be among us tonight.”

  “You suspect them all?”

  “To varying degrees. I admit, it’s hard to think of Tanner, Kiki, or Grant—people I love—in such a light. But someone murdered Spencer Wallace, and it wasn’t I. So I can’t afford to leave any stone unturned.”

  Larry nodded. “I admire your thoroughness—and your impartiality.”

  I thought for a moment, then told him, “Theater may be fiction, but life is real, and reality can’t be wished away. We need answers—wherever the truth might lead us.”

  “Spoken like a true-blue cop. You seem to have a knack for this, Claire.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I was grateful that Erin appeared just then.

  “Good evening, Detective. Your tea.”

  “Thanks, Erin.” He took the iced tea, tasted it, and set it down as the girl returned to the kitchen.

  I reached for my wineglass, which was still on the coffee table. “Your turn, Larry. Your notes?” I sipped the wine.

  “Let’s review. We know that Spencer Wallace had wealth, power, and few real friends. We know he died of drowning, already weakened by chronic cadmium poisoning. We also know—”

  The doorbell interrupted him.

  “Sorry.” I rose.

  “Just as well—saves me the trouble of repeating everything later.” Returning his notes to his pocket, he sipped his tea.