Excusing myself, I crossed to the door and opened it. Surprised to find not one guest waiting, or two, but four, I said theatrically, “And so the onslaught begins—greetings, all.”
Kiki rushed in, followed by Tanner, Grant Knoll, and his colleague Brandi Bjerregaard. Kiki pecked my cheek. “I’ve been called many things, darling, but never an onslaught.”
In spite of the evening’s heavy purpose, the arrival of my friends lightened my spirits and gave our gathering the feel of a party. Everyone had dressed for the occasion, looking their best, though they had instinctively worn dark colors; my red blouse fairly shrieked, pleasing me no end.
Larry had risen and stepped forward to greet the group of arrivals, shaking hands with the men.
Tanner kissed me on the lips. He wore all black—dress slacks, oxfords, and a knit shirt that nicely displayed his physique.
“Grrr,” I said, giving him the once-over, “aren’t we looking devilish tonight?”
“You’re the one in red,” he noted with a laugh. He then explained, “We just happened to pull up together—we didn’t all ride together.”
Grant gave me a quick hug, cheek to cheek. He wore a beautifully tailored dark suit, probably Armani. “Actually, love,” he told me, “the rest of us did ride together. I gave Kiki a lift from the condo; then we picked up Brandi at her hotel.”
“Yes, darling,” Kiki said vacantly. “Saves gas, you know. Just doing our bit for humanity or the environment or whatever.” She whirled an armload of bracelets. Her getup that evening was one of the more fanciful I’d seen her wear, which took considerable effort, as she could not easily outdo herself. Her costume of the moment, all black and gossamer, made her look like the Queen of the Night from The Magic Flute.
Tanner lectured, “That’s called ‘carpooling,’ Kiki, but I doubt if it applies to a five-minute ride to a cocktail party with your neighbor.”
While Kiki and Tanner traded a few amiable barbs, Grant pulled me aside. Eyeing Tanner, he told me, “Good God, you’re one lucky woman.”
Brandi said, “See, Claire? There he goes again.” She wore a classic little black dress. With a smile, she added, “Thanks so much for inviting me.”
Obliquely, I told her, “Our gathering wouldn’t be complete without you.”
Larry had fallen into conversation with Kiki, escorting her away from the crowd, into the room, where she sat regally on the end of the bench near the fireplace. Larry took his iced tea from the coffee table and stood nearby.
Entering from the kitchen, Erin offered to get drinks for the ladies. Brandi asked for white wine. Erin turned to Kiki. “And you, Miss Jasper-Plunkett?”
“Something light, I guess. Perhaps wine … or kir.” Kiki rattled her bracelets again in thought. “Oh, hell, let’s call it a martini. Breathlessly dry. Up, of course.”
“Of course.” Erin retreated to the bar to prepare the drinks.
Grant asked me, “May I serve milady?”
“All set, Grant, but thanks.” I crossed to the coffee table, picked up my wineglass, and joined Larry, standing near the fireplace.
Grant nudged Tanner. “Then I guess it’s up to us boys to fend for ourselves. Come on—I know where she keeps the good stuff.” And he led Tanner off to the kitchen. I heard him greet Thierry with a burst of campy laughter.
From the bar, Erin looked over her shoulder to ask Kiki, “Would you like an olive with that?”
“No, thank you, dear—takes up far too much room in the glass!” She barked a loud laugh.
“Here we go.” Erin brought the martini to Kiki, who accepted it with a grateful nod, tasted it, and cooed. Erin then took a glass of wine to Brandi, who settled with it on an oblong hassock near the coffee table, across from the bench.
Returning to the kitchen, Erin passed Grant and Tanner in the doorway. Bottles clanged in their arms as they stepped into the living room and moved to the bar, then rearranged the liquor.
Slapping Tanner’s back, Grant said, “I’m mixing, lad. What’ll it be?”
“Scotch’ll be great.”
“Rocks? Soda? Twist?”
“No, thanks. Neat.”
“What a man … ,” purred Grant while pouring drinks for both of them.
There was such an easy conviviality among us, I was disappointed that our underlying purpose would eventually squelch the merry mood.
“Claire, love?” Kiki looked up at me from the bench.
“Hmm?”
“Who else is coming tonight? Or is it ‘just us’?”
“No, it’s not.” I hesitated before telling Kiki, “Rebecca Wallace, Spencer’s widow, will be joining us.”
“Oh, ish. I’d rather not meet the woman. But I had a hunch she’d be here—under the circumstances. I mean, it’s a rather specious pretext for a party, isn’t it?”
Still working at the bar, Grant asked over his shoulder, “What about Bryce, the boy wonder?”
I answered, “He’s coming as well.”
“I have to admit,” said Kiki, “I admire the woman’s consistency—she never travels without her lawyer.”
Grant quipped, “Don’t leave home without one—that’s my credo.”
“Amen,” seconded Brandi, raising her glass.
Kiki asked me, “Anyone else coming?” Her tone suggested that Bryce and Rebecca were already two too many.
“Glenn Yeats said he would be here, and he’s bringing Lance Caldwell.”
Everyone knew who Glenn was—everyone in the nation knew of Glenn Yeats—but Lance’s renown had not spread beyond the arts crowd. Larry asked, “Caldwell?”
“He’s DAC’s composer in residence. He submitted a film score for Photo Flash, which was rejected.” Meaningfully, I added, “He was here Saturday night.”
“Ah.” Larry nodded.
“Last but not least, the film’s director, Gabe Arlington, will also be joining us.”
“Really?” said Tanner, standing at the bar. “I thought he was driving back to LA today.”
“Let’s just say he had a change of plans.” I sipped my wine.
Erin had returned from the kitchen, bearing a tray of appetizers. Stopping first at the bar, she offered crudités, cheese things, and stuffed, broiled mushrooms to Grant and Tanner. Grant plucked up some radishes and carrot sticks while Tanner stepped briefly to the coffee table to get a couple of small plates.
Kiki leaned toward Larry, asking, “Tell me, Detective. Is it true? The autopsy results were conclusive? Spencer Wallace was poisoned?”
Larry sat in the chair nearest her. “Yes, Kiki. The mechanism of death was asphyxiation by drowning, but toxicology revealed chronic cadmium poisoning that had seriously affected his kidney and liver functions. That, coupled with cardiopulmonary depression, left his health severely compromised. When he fell—or was pushed—into the water Saturday night, he was simply unable to save himself.”
Grant and Tanner had finished arranging food on their plates, and Erin had moved to the coffee table. She asked, “Miss Jasper-Plunkett? Appetizers?”
“Ah.” Kiki took a plate from the table and picked a few things from Erin’s tray while telling Larry, “It sounds so much like Spencer’s screenplay; I’ve read Claire’s copy. The actual poison used, the compound, was it”—she whirled her free hand—“cadmium … fluoride?”
“No, ma’am,” said Erin, who had just finished serving Kiki. Helpfully, she corrected, “Cadmium chloride.”
“Well, now,” said Tanner, sitting on one of several stools at the bar. “It seems we have a chemistry wiz in our midst.”
Erin blushed. “Gosh, hardly. Sorry, Mr. Griffin. The poisoning was discussed Saturday night after Detective Knoll arrived.” Passing the tray to Brandi, she added, “Guess I’ve got an ear for detail.”
I nodded. “Highly commendable—in an aspiring actress.”
Laughing, Tanner ran a hand through his hair. “Now, why doesn’t this surprise me?”
Grant, next to Tanner at the bar, playfully shoo
k a finger. “I warned you before, young man—no flirting.” And he pinched both of Tanner’s cheeks. The irony escaped no one that it was Grant, not Tanner, who was flirting.
Tanner endured these attentions with good-natured ease. Standing again, he gave Erin a courtly bow. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t mean to give that impression. My heart belongs to another.”
Grant sighed theatrically. “And that ‘other,’ alas, is not I.”
With mock relief, I told him, “I’m glad you added that!”
Erin turned to me with her tray. “Hors d’oeuvre, Miss Gray?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Pleasant chatter filled the room as Larry took two plates from the coffee table, passing one to me, keeping the other for himself. We picked a few cold vegetables and hot appetizers from the tray; then Erin left to replenish it in the kitchen.
The doorbell chimed, and we all fell silent. It seemed the mood of our gathering grew instantly serious.
“Excuse me,” I said, setting my plate on the mantel and crossing the room to the front door. When I opened it, I was hailed by jolly hellos from Glenn Yeats and Lance Caldwell, who had ridden together, and Gabe Arlington, who had encountered them outside the house. I couldn’t help feeling that their friendly but loud greetings carried a note of vulgarity; they were well aware that this party was a guise for grimmer concerns, as evidenced by their dressy but dark attire.
Still, I had invited them in a spirit of camaraderie, so it seemed peevish of me to deny them the very pretext I myself had fabricated. “Welcome,” I gushed as they filed through the door. “So good of you to join us.”
With the exception of Larry, everyone present had attended Saturday’s cast party, so introductions were brief, and within a few minutes, the new arrivals had settled into conversation with my other guests, drinks in hand. Gabe joined Tanner and Grant at the bar. Lance ended up on the long hassock with Brandi. Larry took one of the three-legged chairs. Glenn stood with me near the fireplace. And throughout, Kiki remained firmly planted on the leather-cushioned bench.
At a lull in the conversation, Kiki said to Larry, “Forgive me if I keep obsessing about the murder, but—”
“That is why we’re here,” I reminded everyone.
Kiki continued to Larry, “—but I’m confused. If Spencer drowned, but had already been poisoned at home in his darkroom, how did the killer end up here at Saturday’s party?”
All heads turned to Larry. He said, “That’s a major sticking point of the investigation. We’re all but certain that Wallace was poisoned, at least partially, by inhalation of cadmium fumes in his darkroom. But he was also affected by cadmium ingested here at the party, as revealed by analysis of his stomach contents. Now, cadmium chloride is easily dissolved in any acidic solution—”
Once again, we were interrupted by the doorbell.
“Hold that thought,” I told Larry. Walking to the door, I added, “This party’s not complete yet.”
With a frown of disappointment, Kiki said, “And it was just getting good.”
Grant heaved a bored sigh. “When does the dancing begin?”
Opening the door, I admitted the last of my guests. “Ah, good evening, Rebecca. So glad you could come.”
Rebecca stepped inside with her lawyer, Bryce. I was relieved to see that Rebecca had put herself together since that morning; she was now as prim and well coiffed as when I’d first met her on Sunday. Tonight she wore widow’s black, making a show of her mourning; her outfit included black hose, which I thought took the concept overboard. Bryce was looking especially handsome and severe in a black suit, white shirt, and silvery gray tie. As they entered, everyone in the room stood, except Kiki, who remained conspicuously seated, fussing with her food, avoiding eye contact with the bereaved Mrs. Wallace.
Rebecca gave me a stiff hug. “Thank you for inviting us, Claire.” Wearily, she added, “Though I’m still not sure what you intend to accomplish.”
“Soon enough, dear, soon enough.” I turned to her lawyer and shook his hand. “Welcome, Bryce.”
“Hello, Miss Gray. Most gracious of you.” He closed the door behind him.
“Let’s see,” I said, taking charge of introductions, “you already know Detective Knoll, of course.” Larry nodded politely from where he stood, exchanging greetings with the new arrivals. I then presented Glenn Yeats, making a considerable impression; wealth of such magnitude tends to raise the eyebrows of even the most jaded. Moving around the room, I also introduced Lance Caldwell. I could tell from Rebecca’s reaction that his name meant nothing to her; I could tell from Lance’s reaction that this blank reception made him bristle. Rebecca already knew Brandi Bjerregaard, from their real-estate dealings, and she seemed remotely acquainted with Gabe Arlington, from her husband’s movie dealings.
Standing near Gabe at the bar was Grant. I told Bryce and Rebecca, “Although you got a fleeting glimpse of Larry’s brother yesterday, I don’t believe you’ve met him. This is my friend Grant Knoll.”
Grant stepped forward to greet both coolly, then retreated to the bar, sitting on a stool.
“And this,” I said, “is Tanner Griffin, the young actor who will be appearing in the film Spencer wrote, Photo Flash.”
Tanner stepped to Rebecca, took her hand, and held it. “My condolences, Mrs. Wallace. Your husband was a great man—and he was good to me.”
“Your words are very generous, Mr. Griffin.” The lilt of Rebecca’s voice conveyed utter enchantment. “And I’ve heard wonderful things about you—all of them true, I’m delighted to observe.” From the glint in her eye, I feared she might hitch her skirt, jump, and mount him.
Tanner turned to Rebecca’s lawyer and shook his hand. “Good evening.”
“Bryce Ballantyne. My pleasure.”
I looked about, saving the best for last. “And, uh—oh! Kiki, love? Do meet our special guests.”
Stone-faced, Kiki at last rose from the bench, holding her martini glass, which was now empty. Regally extending her free hand, she said without inflection, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Stiff-jawed, the widow replied, “Mine entirely. Rebecca Wallace.”
I explained to her, “This is Kiki Jasper-Plunkett, costumer extraordinaire, whom we’re fortunate to have on the faculty at Desert Arts College.” Turning, I told Kiki, “And this is Bryce Ballantyne, Rebecca’s attorney.”
Bryce said, “It’s an honor, Professor Jasper-Plunkett.”
No, it wasn’t my imagination; Kiki was lucently charmed by the guy. With a dainty handshake, she told him, “There’s no need to stand on ceremony, Bryce. Do call me Kiki.” Primping, she added, “Did Claire mention? She’s my oldest friend.”
Bryce replied through a toothy, frat-boy smile, “Then you’re both exceedingly fortunate.”
Unnerved by this spark of mutual attraction, I said, “Rebecca? Please, have a seat.” I indicated the cushioned bench. “Would you care for something to drink?”
Disinterested, she answered, “Oh, some wine, I suppose.” She moved to the bench and sat in the spot Kiki had been warming. Kiki backed off a few steps, observing the new dynamics of the room. Larry sat in one of the three-legged chairs. Brandi and Lance sat again on the hassock.
Tanner offered, “I’ll get Rebecca’s wine.” Noticing that Bryce did not yet have a drink, Tanner suggested that he join him at the bar. With a pleasant nod, Bryce did so, and they began pouring drinks.
Grant moved out of their way, stepping toward the terrace doors, where he stood looking out. Erin entered from the kitchen with a fresh tray of appetizers, stopping to let Grant pick from her tray.
Kiki seemed adrift. There were now only two empty seats—the spot next to Rebecca on the bench, and the three-legged chair nearest Rebecca, facing her. Kiki said, “Claire? Would you like to sit down?” She indicated the chair. “It seems everything’s under control.”
“I’ll stand, thanks.” I moved next to Glenn at the fireplace; he put an arm around my
shoulder. Patting the back of the vacant chair, I told Kiki, “Please. Take it.” Smiling sweetly, I added, “I insist.”
Dryly, she told me, “Too kind of you.” Then, with palpable reluctance, she settled into the chair, not two feet from Rebecca.
Erin plied the crowd with her tray, asking Rebecca, “Hors d’oeuvre, ma’ am?”
“Thank you.” Rebecca picked a tiny celery stalk, held it, but did not eat.
Bryce stepped from the bar with two glasses and sat on the bench next to Rebecca, handing her the wine, setting his cocktail on the table. Erin offered him appetizers; he took a few, arranging a plate for himself.
Grant, noting that Bryce had left the bar, moved back from the terrace doors, joining Tanner and Gabe, who all settled on bar stools.
Erin moved from the bench to the fireplace, where Glenn and I stood, behind Kiki’s chair. She offered more appetizers, which Glenn accepted; I declined.
“There now,” I said, surveying the room. “Is everyone comfortable?”
Kiki hoisted her empty martini glass. “I could use another …”
“Yes, ma’am.” Erin plucked the glass from Kiki’s hand, set it on her tray, and took it to the kitchen.
With finger to chin, I strolled, thinking, across the room. The others watched silently as I reached the front door, then turned back to them. The trace of a grin curled my mouth as I said, “I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here tonight.”
My comment was met by a roomful of blank stares.
“Sorry.” I explained, “That was meant to be amusing. It’s a stock line from the last act of every murder mystery I’ve ever directed.”
“Of course!” blurted Kiki. “Most amusing, darling. Here we are, smack in the middle of the drawing-room scene from some tangled manor-house whodunit. How very Agatha Christie of you!” She heaved a huge, well-rehearsed laugh.
“Well”—my tone was pensive—“it is rather tangled, isn’t it? The murder of Spencer Wallace, now two days past, has darkened my home and touched the lives of all present. For Spencer’s sake, and for the peace of mind of those left behind, the riddle of his death must be solved.”
Desert Spring Page 20
