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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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“Oh, Lord,” I mumbled.
“No,” said Erin into the phone, “I'm not Miss Gray. I work for the catering company that served a party here tonight.”
Grant looked from Spencer's body to me. “See if they can reach my brother.”
With a finger snap, I told him, “That's
just
what I was thinking.” I called to Erin, “Ask them to notify Grant's brother, Detective Larry Knoll of the Riverside County sheriff's department.”
Erin nodded, then turned back to the phone. “Miss Gray wants to know if … oh, you heard? Wait, I'll ask.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and told me, “They need to know if it's an emergency, Miss Gray.”
Flabbergasted, I marched indoors and grabbed the receiver.
“
Yes,
it's an emergency,” I barked. “There's a corpse in my goddamn
swimming
pool!”
Well past midnight, instead of collapsing in bed after the party, I paced the living room, nursing the icy remains of a cocktail as a police investigation descended on my home. Red and blue flashers skimmed across the terrace as the medical examiner and his crew huddled near the pool.
Inside, the sheriff's detective sat on my leather bench, taking notes while questioning Erin, who sat primly in a three-legged chair near the dark fireplace. He asked, “And your full name, please?”
Her tone was shy but cooperative. “Erin Marie Donnelly,” she recited with a touch of importance—her fifteen minutes of fame, I guess.
“You were working at a catered party here at the house tonight, correct?”
“Yes, sir. I'm employed by Coachella Catering. We do events all over the valley.”
“Were you working alone?”
“Yes, sir.” Erin hesitated. “Excuse me, sir. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to call you. Inspector? Officer?”
“Sorry,” he replied with a soft laugh. “I'm Detective Larry Knoll, with the Riverside County sheriff's department. You can call me detective, if you like. Or ‘sir' is fine.” He didn't wear a uniform, but a dark, workaday business suit with a plain shirt and a
loosely knotted tie—it was late. He smiled. “No need to stand on protocol, though. If it would make you feel more comfortable, just call me Larry.”
“Oh,
no,
sir—I couldn't do that.” Erin paused a moment, then asked, wide-eyed, “You're with the
sheriff's
department? This must be really serious.”
He put down his notebook. “A suspicious death is never taken lightly, Erin, but I'm here tonight because some of the smaller desert cities contract their police services with the county sheriff. In neighboring Palm Springs, they have their own police force. Here in Rancho Mirage, you're stuck with me.”
I moved between them, telling Erin, “We're hardly ‘stuck' with Detective Knoll. He happens to be the brother of my friend Grant, so Larry is also a friend. He's the best on the force; I've seen him at work before.”
Larry told Erin, “Miss Gray is exaggerating. I'm just a cop doing a job.” He turned to me. “By the way, where
is
my waggish brother?”
I gestured toward the hall to the bedrooms. “Changing. He jumped in with most of his clothes on.” Under my breath, I added, “Hope they're not ruined.”
“Drip-dry fabrics have never been Grant's style. I'm afraid silk and cashmere don't take well to chlorinated pool water.” Larry picked up his notes again, returning his attention to Erin. “Now, then. You were working here alone tonight?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then she shook her head. “I mean,
no,
not at first. There was a cook and a bartender, Thierry was in charge, and there were several other servers. But they left after the buffet supper was finished, along with most of the guests. I stayed behind for cleanup.”
“Can I get contact information for the other staff?”
“I'm sure the office will provide it.” She gave Larry the phone number.
“Claire,” he said, “how many guests did you have?”
I stepped to the bench and sat next to him. “At least fifty. It was a cast party, so the actors and crew were all here, some faculty and friends, plus a few
friends
of friends. The party was also a send-off for Tanner, who's about to launch his film career. Gabe Arlington, the director, attended. So did Spencer Wallace, the producer.”
Larry tapped his notes. “The victim.”
With a sober nod, I told him, “I'm still stunned.”
He turned a page, asking Erin, “Can you tell me how you discovered the body?”
She described how she'd been cleaning up after the party, taking everything to the kitchen. “I'd finished here in the living room, so I went outside to the terrace. I started at that end”—she pointed—“then worked my way toward the pool. That's when I saw … this, like,
man
in the water, and I dropped the—”
Larry interrupted, “Was he faceup or facedown?”
“Face
down,
sir,” she said decisively. “Near the bottom, as far as I could tell. I was so surprised, I dropped the tray I was carrying and …
screamed.
Then I—”
“
Marvelous
scream, by the way,” I told her. It would have been perfect for the stage.
“Thank you, Miss Gray,” she said, befuddled but grateful for the compliment. To Larry, she continued, “Then I ran back to the living room and alerted Miss Gray and your brother. He jumped in the pool and tried to save the poor guy, but I guess it was too late.”
“Uh-huh.” Larry studied his notes for a moment. “Did you yourself serve anything to Mr. Wallace tonight?”
She nodded. “Virgin Marys.”
“Tomato juice?”
“Basically. Bloody Mary mix with garnish, no booze. He drank quite a few, but that's all he wanted—no food, no alcohol. If you ask me, he seemed sort of sick. Not in his party mood at all.”
Suddenly curious, I beat Larry to the question: “You knew Spencer Wallace?”
Erin clasped her palms to her chest. “Gosh,
no,
Miss Gray. I mean, not personally. But I've worked a few parties at his house, so I knew who he was.”
“Ah.” Larry wrote something on his pad. “And he normally did eat and drink at his own parties?”
Erin rolled her eyes. “And how.”
“Well … ?”
Booming and throaty, Grant's voice sounded from the bedroom hallway. All eyes turned as he entered the living room, asking, “How do I look?”
Pausing for effect in the doorway to the hall, he wore a lavish, red silk robe with a marabou collar—mine, of course. Incongruously, he also wore heavy, rumpled, gray boot socks, the sort with a red stripe around the tops—no shoes. Strutting like a model on a runway, he passed in front of us, crossing the room. Larry shook his head with good humor; Erin tittered; I laughed openly.
Arriving near the front door, Grant twirled to face us. With a grand toss of his arms, he declared, “Works for me!”
I stood, still laughing. “Grant, I must admit, you do seem to make a ‘statement,' whatever you wear.”
“It's not
what
one wears,” he lectured, “but
how
one wears it.”
With hands on hips, I asked, “But why on earth did you raid
my
closet? Tanner has
lots
of clothes here, you know.”
Grant aped my posture, hands on hips. “I doubt that Tanner would appreciate knowing I'd fingered through his underwear.” Twitching his brows, he added, “Not that I didn't.”
“And I'm supposed to be thrilled that you've fingered through
mine
?”
He clutched the collar of the robe high against his throat, as if for warmth. With a feigned whimper, he asked, “You really mind?”
I flicked a wrist. “Of course not. Have fun.”
“Well”—Grant paused—“the socks
are
Tanner's. Oooooh. Think I can keep them?”
I scowled. “Don't be perverse, Grant dear.” Then I grinned. “Well, why not? It seems like scant reward for your heroics tonight.”
He shook his head woefully. “It takes very little to tickle my fancy, now that I've entered my dotage.”
“You're forty-nine.”
“See?”
Larry stood, crossed to his brother, and patted his back. “Well, Grant, I hear you rose to the occasion tonight. For whatever it's worth, I'm proud of you.”
“Thanks, bro. Too bad it was for naught. I tried to revive him, but he was already gone.”
“Yeah,” said Larry with a slow shake of his head, “so I've heard.”
Erin stood, asking tentatively, “Detective?”
Larry turned to her.
“I was wondering—have you finished talking to me?”
He stepped toward her. “Yes, for now. But I may need to reach you again later.”
“Of course, sir. I'd like to finish up in the kitchen. Can I make everyone some coffee?”
Grant and I exchanged a frown of disinterest—the hour was late.
But Larry answered, “Sure, Erin, that'd be great. No telling how long we'll be here.”
Grant and I groaned as Erin left for the kitchen.
Larry, oblivious to our bedraggled state, retrieved his notebook from the coffee table and continued his questioning. “Let's see,
now,” he said to me. “Do you recall when Spencer Wallace arrived tonight?”
I crossed to one of the chairs near the fireplace and sat. “Sorry, Larry. Everyone arrived at once, right after the show. I was detained at the theater, and by the time I got home, most of the guests were already here.”
“Was Wallace with anyone?”
“Don't think so.” I asked Grant, “He was alone tonight, wasn't he?”
“Not exactly.” Grant strolled to the bench and sat, crossing his legs. “While I was talking to him about the new movie, he implied he was with
you
tonight.”
I clucked. “I'm sure you're mistaken.”
“Perhaps Wallace was mistaken, but I'm sure
I'm
not. He referred to himself as—get this—your ‘consort.'”
I stood, blurting, “That's nuts!”
“Tell
him
that.” Grant blinked. “Oops—too late.”
“Oh, Lord.” I plopped myself into the chair again.
Larry cleared his throat. “Pardon a blunt question, Claire, but were you two, uh … involved?”
“Of course not. I've had my hands quite full with Tanner, thank you. As for Spencer, the man's
married,
for cry—eye.”
“
Was
married,” Grant corrected me, “till tonight, and not very happily, I might add. The man's philandering is—
was
—legendary.”
Larry asked, “Any idea where his wife was this evening?”
Grant shrugged. “LA, I imagine.”
I explained, “The wife stays at the main house near Los Angeles, in Brentwood, I believe. They also have a weekend home in Palm Springs—the old Movie Colony, in fact. Lately, Spencer was here most of the time. He was polishing his script for
Photo Flash,
at least when he wasn't in the darkroom.”
Larry looked up from his notes. “Darkroom?”
“His photo lab. Spencer was an avid hobbyist, specializing in black and white—said it harkened back to ‘the golden age of the silver screen.' He got
me
interested in it, too.” I pointed to the collection of framed photos above the mantel. “Those are some of the prints we processed together at his home.”
Larry stepped to the fireplace and studied the pictures for a moment. “Not bad. Then you
were
close, the two of you.”
“We were friends. I admired his professional accomplishments—who wouldn't?—and he seemed to admire mine. We came to enjoy a hobby together. But that was the extent of it.” I sat back in the chair, slumping. “I'll save you the trouble of asking: No, we were never intimate.”
Larry grinned, wrote a note, then turned from the photos to face me again. “Tonight, at the party, didn't you find it strange that he disappeared at some point?”
“Not at all. People came and went all evening. Frankly, I never
did
notice that Spencer was no longer around.”
“'Scuse me. Detective?”
We turned toward the back of the living room. A sheriff's deputy in a tan uniform had entered from the terrace.
Gesturing outdoors toward the pool, he asked Larry, “Can the ME have a word with you?”
Larry told us, “The medical examiner may have some initial findings. Back in a minute.” And he went outdoors with the deputy, disappearing into a clump of other officers and technicians.
I rose from my chair with an exasperated sigh. “Ughh, what a night.” Crossing to the bar, I was tempted to pour another drink, but decided against it, shoving my glass aside. I plucked a plastic swizzle stick from a bunch near the ice bucket and twiddled it in my fingers.
Grant pulled his legs up onto the bench and lay on his side, adjusting the folds of my silk robe. Propping himself on an elbow,
he intoned grandly, “‘Theater is my life.' How many times have I heard milady say it?”
“More than once, I admit.”
“If that's truly the case—your life is theater—I should think that tonight's
dramatic
developments would constitute ‘just another evening at home.' Ho hum.” He patted his mouth.

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