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Authors: Michael Craft

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“With open trays, the rule of thumb is twenty-four hours. But that can be stretched, and I know that Spencer often did, simply replenishing the trays after they'd sat overnight.” Sensing where Larry's reasoning was headed, I added, “Given that scenario, someone could have spiked the tray of used stop bath, perhaps during the night, leaving Spencer to inhale the fumes during his next session in the darkroom.”
Larry directed the deputies to impound the trays, equipment, and concentrated developing solutions for evidence. “Take special care with the chemicals. Have all the bottles analyzed to confirm whether their contents are consistent with their labeling. And needless to say, check scrupulously for trace elements of cadmium anywhere in the room.”
The evidence technicians got down to work. By now, they were sweating.
So were Larry and I. He pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his brow.
I said, “There must be an exhaust fan in here. Let me try to find the switch.” With the walls, switch plates, and ceiling all painted flat black, the task was more difficult than one would suppose.
“Uh, Miss Gray?” said one of the deputies. “It doesn't seem to be working. There's an exhaust system, and we found the switch, but it won't kick on.”
Larry and I exchanged a glance. He told the tech, “We need to get to the bottom of that. Figure out what's wrong with the fan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Larry asked me, “Do you recall if it was working before, when you were here with Wallace?”
“Sorry, I don't. I
presume
it was working, because I never noticed the heat. But then again, there were never four people in the room, just the two of us.”
Larry paused. “Let's get some air.”
I needed no further prodding. We slipped out of the darkroom and passed through the library, then stepped out to the courtyard. Dazzling sunlight ricocheted in bursts from the rippling surface of the pool as my eyes adjusted from the dim interior. Through a squint, I asked Larry, “Now what?”
“Well”—he slipped on a pair of dark glasses that gave him a vaguely sinister mien, a bad-cop air—“I plan to visit the clinic where Wallace got a checkup last week. The doctor who examined him is expecting me in a half hour. I can drop you off at home, or you can tag along with me.”
“I suppose I have time.” Of
course
I wanted to go. “Besides, I've been meaning to tell you about something, a strange encounter.”
Readily interested, he suggested, “Tell me now.”
“Let's sit down.” We were near the deep end of the pool, where a tall palm happened to cast a circle of shade around the anchored end of a diving board. A foot or so off the ground, it made a handy bench, so we both settled on it. I told Larry, “Remember yesterday morning, when you were trying to reach me and you called Grant's cell phone?”
“Yup. My hunch was correct. You were with him.”
I nodded. “Since he'd spent Saturday night at my house, he took me out for Sunday brunch—at the Regal Palms Hotel.”
“Nothing but the best for Grant. He has
fabulous
taste.” Larry grinned, removing his glasses and pocketing them.
“That's where we were when you phoned, out on the terrace.”
“A table with a view …”
“Yes, his usual table.”
“So? What was so strange about the encounter?”
With a soft laugh, I shook my head. “The encounter with
Grant
wasn't strange. It was the bunch of hotel guests at a nearby table. They were having a good time and being conspicuously loud. I didn't think much of it—it was a champagne brunch. My mood was on the sour side because of what had happened, but I couldn't expect total strangers to share my dumps over Spencer's death. As far as I knew, they hadn't even heard about it.”
“It was all over the TV news yesterday morning.”
“I hadn't realized that; I was thinking of newspaper deadlines. Later, during a trip inside to the buffet table, I heard them gabbing merrily about Spencer's death—they'd heard the news. I also heard someone mention my name—they'd seen the interview in the
Tribune.
Most important, I realized that Gabe Arlington was among them.”
Larry scrunched his brow. “Who?”
“Gabe is the director Spencer had hired for the filming of
Photo Flash.
”
“Ah, sure. Gabe Arlington—I know the name.”
“He used to be big, but according to Spencer, he was practically washed-up in Hollywood, so
Photo Flash
represented a golden opportunity for Gabe to stage a comeback and rekindle his faltering career.”
Larry looked confused. “Then you'd think he'd show some remorse over Wallace's death.”
“Precisely. Spencer Wallace had given Gabe a much-needed break. But according to both Gabe
and
Tanner, the film production is still on schedule and the buzz surrounding Spencer's murder will actually
help
the picture with added publicity.”
Larry shook his head, musing, “And I thought
police
work could be a cold, brutal business.”
“I just don't get it,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “
No one
seems the least bit fazed by Spencer's death. In fact, most of those who ought to be grieving seem downright giddy that Spencer fell victim to such an awful twist of fate.”
“It wasn't fate,” Larry reminded me. “Circumstances suggest that his death was not only intentional, but carefully premeditated.” He got out his notebook and turned to his schedule for the day. “It sounds as if I should have a chat with Gabe Arlington.”
“God, Larry, I suppose so, but I'm not sure you can trust
my
instincts anymore.
Everyone
looks suspicious to me.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself.” As he scribbled a note, I wondered how suspicious he found
me
at that moment. Taking the cell phone from his belt, he asked, “Do you think I can reach Arlington at the hotel?”
“Not sure. He planned on driving back to LA today. Maybe he hasn't checked out yet.”
Larry got busy on the phone.
I stood, pacing a few steps along the side of the pool, away from the shaded diving board. Another tall palm, I noticed, was casting the shadow of its fronds directly into the pool, making a dark, wavy blob beneath the water. Again I was reminded of Spencer's body drifting in the depths of my own pool. Blinking away this morbid image, I marveled at how easily I had transformed icons of paradise—swimming
pools and palm trees—into symbols of death. This is nuts, I told myself, and I knew I had all the more reason to help Larry solve the murder. I wanted to return, and quickly, to a paradise unthreatened by shadows.
“Claire,” said Larry, covering the phone with his hand, “I caught Gabe Arlington. He can meet us for lunch at the hotel. I don't even know the guy, so I'd appreciate it if you could join us. Can you make it?”
“Are you buying?” As if I cared. Without waiting for an answer, I told him, “Sure, Larry, count me in.”
Larry finished on the phone, wrote a note, then rose. “It's good of you to give me so much time.”
We stood at the pool's edge, gazing over the water. I recalled, “Yesterday you said that by any objective measure, I had to be considered a suspect in this case. So I have a vested interest in helping you prove that anyone but me was responsible. My time is your time.” I paused, adding, “Except I
do
need to get over to campus this afternoon.”
He smiled. “I'll drive you there myself, if necessary. Now, then—shall we visit that doctor?”
“What's his name?”
Larry filled me in as we stepped around the pool, crossed the courtyard, and entered the main wing of the house, heading for the front door.
Arriving in the entry hall, Larry and I paused and looked about. We were capable of letting ourselves out, but we were inclined to announce our departure and thank our hostess for her “hospitality” and cooperativeness.
“Maybe she went back to bed,” Larry told me.
I muttered, “For her sake, I hope so.”
Just as Larry was reaching for the door, I noticed, from the edge
of my vision, a pink bathrobe whisking past an adjacent hall. I called, “Oh, Rebecca?”
Larry and I paused at the door as Bryce Ballantyne retraced his steps, appeared again in the side hall, and strode forward, barefoot, to greet us. His robe not only resembled Rebecca's, it was the same slovenly cover-up. I recognized the orange-juice stain.
“Detective. Miss Gray,” he said, extending his hand. In the opposite arm he cradled a hot bag of popcorn, fresh from the microwave, still steaming. The heady smell filled the room within seconds. I felt suddenly famished; my mouth watered.
We exchanged terse greetings, explaining that we were just on our way out.
I couldn't help asking, “Popcorn for breakfast?”
“Not really. We're watching a movie. Oh—have some?” He proffered the bag.
Larry declined.
I hesitated, but reached for a fistful, thanking Bryce.
Then Larry and I left. Walking to the car, I munched kernels of popcorn from my palm.
“Huh,” said Larry. “Interesting—movies on Monday morning.”
I swallowed, nodded. “And when Bryce said, ‘
We're
watching a movie,' I assumed he meant he and Rebecca. Did you notice? They were sharing more than popcorn.”
“Yup. They were sharing the same bathrobe.”
“Huh,” I echoed Larry's earlier observation. “Interesting.”
Shortly before eleven o'clock, Larry drove into Palm Desert and found the side street off El Paseo where Sunnyside Medical Center was located. Despite its lofty name, the “medical center” was simply a walk-in clinic consisting of several doctors' offices. A uniformed car parker stepped forward the moment we pulled to the curb, leading me to conclude that Sunnyside served a well-heeled clientele.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked while assisting me out of the car. Perhaps I looked sickly.
Larry told him, “Doctor Jandali is expecting us.”
“Very good, sir. Please step inside.” He slid behind the wheel of the car, doubtless surprised to find the bland sedan equipped with police radio, flashers, and a DMV computer. When he touched the accelerator, he was also surprised by the souped-up engine that propelled the car into the street with a fearsome lurch. Larry barely took note of this; it happened all the time.
We stepped under an awning, through the door, and into a small but tastefully appointed reception area—no fish tanks, no play area for the kiddies. A smartly dressed woman, not a nurse, sat behind a marble counter, flashing us a well-practiced smile. “Good morning … ?” she said with a lilt, as if to ask what we wanted.
Larry introduced himself, produced his badge, and explained, “We have an eleven o'clock meeting with Doctor Pradeep Jandali. Is he available?”
Flustered—apparently not aware that the police were expected—the woman flipped a few pages of her appointment ledger and answered, “I think so, yes. He's finishing with a patient right now, and I don't see any others scheduled till afternoon. Let me check.” She got on the phone. When the other party answered, she swiveled away from us and conversed in a whisper.
Larry caught my eye and drummed his fingers on the counter.
“Yes, Detective,” the receptionist said, hanging up the phone, standing. “The doctor can see you now. If you'll follow me … ?”
I expected to be led into a cramped doctor's office, an examination room, but the room we entered was large and inviting, resembling a clubby lounge. French doors opened to a tranquil garden with a fountain. The receptionist had no sooner left us when a door on the opposite wall opened and in walked the doctor. He carried several oversize files.
“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.”

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