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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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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.”
Rebecca set down her wineglass and her celery stalk. Flicking imagined grime from her fingers, she said, “Don't make him out to be a saint, Claire. He wasn't.”
“No, apparently not.”
As I spoke, Erin entered quietly from the kitchen with a small tray bearing a cocktail shaker and a fresh martini glass. She moved to Kiki, leaned to let her take the glass, then poured from the shaker. When the glass was filled to the brim, Erin left with the shaker on her tray.
I continued, “It seems I'm the only one in this room who truly thought Spencer a friend. And yet, someone here tonight has gone out of his way to implicate
me
in this crime.”
From the bar, Grant said, “They'd have to be nuts to think they could get away with it. We all know
you
didn't kill Wallace.”
“Really? Do you?” I moved to the center of the room. “I was overheard on Saturday night
saying
I could kill him. I was quoted in Sunday's paper making fist-shaking threats against him. And just this afternoon, Grant,
you
discovered a stash of deadly cadmium chloride hidden in my sugar canister.”
“How preposterous … ,” Kiki sputtered over the rim of her drink.
Larry told us, “We ran the bottle through forensics. It did indeed contain cadmium chloride. As expected, it was clean of fingerprints, other than Grant's—he pulled it out of the sugar.”
Tanner asked, “How would anyone get ahold of such awful stuff?”
I recalled, “Cadmium compounds have legitimate industrial uses. They're easily obtainable over the Internet, or even by mail order, using a fake letterhead. It's right in the script, as are so many aspects of Spencer's death. Don't you remember, Tanner?”
“Duh”—he thumped his forehead—“the screenplay.”
“You're not the
only
one familiar with the script.” Meaningfully, I added, “Everyone in this room has read it.”
Brandi piped in, “
I
haven't.”
“I stand corrected. Everyone
else
in this room has read the script.”
Referring to his notes, Larry said, “And according to the profile we've developed, the killer had read the script.”
Bryce raised a finger. “Remember, though: many others, not present in this room, have also read it.”
Larry nodded. “Duly noted.”
Seated at the bar, Gabe asked, “What else do we know about the killer?”
I enumerated, “We know the killer was present at Saturday night's party. We suspect the killer also had access to Spencer's darkroom. And I'm
sure
the killer has been inside my kitchen—at least once. What's more, it simply stands to reason that the killer had a strong motive to want Spencer dead. In short”—I moved toward the fireplace—“the killer could be anyone here tonight. Except Larry, of course.” I patted his shoulder.
Looking up at me from his chair, he asked in an odd tone, “What makes you so sure of that?”
“Isn't it obvious?” I explained naively, “You represent the law, Larry.”
“So do I,” said Bryce, sounding left out and defensive.
“Do I hear you correctly?” said Glenn, stepping to my side. “You think it's possible that
I
killed Spencer Wallace?”
“Or
I
?” echoed Lance, sounding huffy.
Though tempted, I refrained from cracking a smile. “Perish the thought that either of you fine gentlemen would stoop to such an act. But is it possible? Of course it is. It's logistically feasible that either one of you was responsible.”
“Just a moment, Claire.” Rebecca straightened her spine. “If the killer was at Saturday's party, that rules
me
out. I wasn't there.”

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