Desert Spring (9 page)

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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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Baffled, Grant asked, “You, uh …
eat
this stuff?”
“Of course not,” she said impatiently. “But you've got it all wrong—the
delivery,
I mean.” She picked up the protein bar as Grant had, telling him, “You said, ‘Oh? What's this?'”
Grant eyed her warily. “Yes … ?”
“But that's so flat, so uninspired. My
dear,
it's
the
classic discovery line from every BBC mystery that's
ever
been produced. Just when things seem most perplexing, dark, and hopeless, our intrepid sleuth is examining the contents of the desk of the deceased. Then, from the corner of his eye, he notes a shred of paper, not fully burned, among the dying embers in the cold hearth. Stooping to pluck this scrap of evidence from the ashes”—Kiki demonstrated with the protein bar—“he examines it at arm's length, like Hamlet contemplating Yorik's skull. Finally, drawing it near, noting the few cryptic words scrawled upon it in the dead man's hand, he wonders aloud, and I quote, ‘Aowww? Hwat's this?'”
Having hung on Kiki's every word, Grant declared, “I like it.”
Matter-of-factly, Kiki told him, “Of course you do, darling. It's fabulous. Now, give it a try.”
Grant cleared his throat. He took the protein bar from Kiki and gazed upon it as if studying Yorik's skull. “Aow? What's this?”
“Yes, yes. Much better,” Kiki encouraged him. “After me: Aowww … ?”
He tried it again. “Aowww … ?”
“That's it, darling,” she said rapidly. “Think of a cat, a sickly cat: Aowww … ?”
“Aowww … ?”
“Yes!” She flailed her arms. “Perfect! Now the rest: Hwat's this?”
Grant cleared his throat again. “What's this?”
Kiki shook her head and wagged a finger. “No, pet. Not ‘what,' but ‘hwat.' Hear the difference? You have to invert the
w
and the
h.
Very British, don't you know—
very
theatrical. Put the
h
first: hwat. Try it now, very crisply: Hwat's this?”
Grant paused. Then: “Hwat's this?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,YES!”
Kiki twirled ecstatically.
With bravura, Grant asked, “Aowww? Hwat's this?”
Dryly, Tanner told me, “I think he's got it.”
“By
George,
he's got it!” Kiki grabbed Grant and flung him through a quick, elaborate swing-style dance step.
With crossed arms, I noted, “Not quite the scene I expected to find in my living room on the morning after a murder.” I sat on the bench.
The others turned to me, instantly sobered. Kiki dumped Grant, midstride, and moved to me. “Sorry, Claire. Guess we got carried away.” She sat next to me on the bench. “But cheer up, darling. I mean, we don't actually
know
that Wallace was murdered, do we?”
Staring at a void on the opposite wall, I said, “The circumstances of his death are highly suspicious, at best. And let's not forget—that mousy maid overheard me tell Tanner that I ‘could kill Spencer Wallace.' Ugh.”
“But you didn't,” Kiki said flatly.
“I might as well have. The words, in retrospect,
are
highly incriminating—Larry made note of them. Topping things off, I was quoted with a similar threat in this morning's paper.”
My grim summation cast a momentary pall over my friends. Noticing that Tanner's glass was empty, I rose and, with a soft smile, told him, “Let me get you some more juice.”
“I'm fine.” He set down the glass and crossed to me. “But I'm concerned about
you,
Claire. We all are.”
“Of course, love,” said Kiki.
Grant chimed, “We're here for you.”
“Look,” I said reasonably, “it's been upsetting, but I'll deal with it.” Then a frown colored my expression. I took Tanner's hand. “I just remembered—your movie.”
“What of it?”
“I do hope Spencer's death doesn't throw a wrench in things. This picture is important to you; it'll launch your career.”
Tanner's tone was distinctly carefree as he recounted, “The screenplay is finished. All the production contracts are complete, and I've heard that the funding is secure. Wallace wasn't
directing,
you know—that's Gabe Arlington's job. As far as I know, filming of
Photo Flash
will begin next week, on schedule.”
I recalled Gabe's comment from earlier that morning—“the show must go on.” Apparently he and Tanner were similarly philosophical and unruffled by Spencer's death. Neither seemed to be mourning the loss.
“In fact,” Tanner continued with a trace of laughter, “the buzz about the murder is bound to heighten publicity. So don't worry about my career. The untimely death of Spencer Wallace can only
help
it, not hurt it.”
The same, I thought, could be said for Gabe Arlington's career.
“Ahhh,” said Grant wistfully, strolling from the breakfast bar to the bench, “the silver lining.”
I turned to him. “That seems rather cold.”
“Sorry.” His offhand apology lacked any depth of contrition.
Tanner added, “Just trying to be practical.”
Then Kiki: “As we were just saying, dear—Spencer Wallace was
not
a particularly likable person.” She punctuated her statement
with a sharp, knowing nod, to which both Grant and Tanner responded with nods of agreement.
“Well,
I
liked him.” Crossing to the fireplace, I studied the framed photos that hung above the mantel. “He taught me things—and showed me new insights—and shared his knowledge. He was a friend.”
Grant stepped up behind me. Coyly, he asked, “Like me?”
“No, Grant,” I told him through a soft laugh, “not at all like you. You're my
best
friend.”
Kiki stood. “I thought
I
was your best friend.” Her tone conveyed humor, but a touch of offense as well.
“Well … ,” I answered sweetly, sincerely, “you're my
oldest
friend.”
“Thanks,” she said, her voice dry as sand. Then she crossed toward the kitchen with her glass of orange juice.
I asked, “Need something?”
“Yes.” She turned from the kitchen doorway. “A
real
drink.” And she disappeared in search of alcohol.
Tanner stepped to me at the fireplace, then took my hands, studying me. “You'll be okay?”
“I certainly hope so.” My tone was pragmatic, with no sense of foreboding.
“Then I think I'll run along. Just wanted to check in on you, but I've got
lots
to do today.”
“I know you do.” Taking his arm, I walked him to the front door. “It was sweet of you to pop over. Will I see you tonight—as promised?”
“Of course—as promised.” Arriving at the door, he gave me a kiss. “Will that hold you for a while?”
“Mm-hm.” I sounded like a woozy, doe-eyed schoolgirl. “Bye, love.”
“Bye.” He opened the door, but turned back to tell Grant, “See you later.”
Grant beamed. “So long, Tanner. Don't work too hard.” Suggestively, he added, “If you need any help, you
know
how to reach me.”
Ignoring Grant, Tanner called to the kitchen, “I'm leaving, Kiki. Have a good day.”
“Farewell, darling,” she warbled from the other room. “Toodle-oo!” Her voice wafted over the sounds of stirring, pouring, and the clanging of ice.
Tanner paused to tweak my cheek, then left. I closed the door behind him.
“He's
such
a delight,” said Grant, moving from the fireplace. Noticing Kiki's purse on the bench, he sat down, picked up the purse, and fingered the latch.
I agreed with a smile, “Isn't he?” Then I frowned. “I just wish Tanner felt a
smidgen
of remorse over Spencer's death. He's an actor—he could fake it.”
“He's a man—men
can't
fake it.” Grant peeped inside the purse, reacting with mock horror.
I thought aloud, “But Spencer gave Tanner his big break.”
“No, Claire dear,” said Kiki, entering from the kitchen with a sizable pink-hued cocktail. It looked like a cosmopolitan, lavishly garnished with fruit and such—she'd even found a paper umbrella in the back of a drawer, something the previous owner of the house had neglected to throw away. Stopping behind Grant at the bench, she told me, “
You
gave Tanner his big break. You found him; you taught him; you introduced him to the all-powerful Spencer Wallace.”
“May he rest in peace,” said Grant with sarcastic humor, turning to look at Kiki over his shoulder. He'd been pulling things from her purse—keys, makeup, breath spray.
“Yeah,
right,
” agreed Kiki with a cynical snort. Seeing but not
caring that Grant was rifling her purse, she crossed to the fireplace and stood elegantly with her drink at the mantel.
Sitting on the bench, I began taking things from Grant and returning them to Kiki's purse. I told both of them, “I really do think you should try to muster at least a pretense of respect for the man's memory.”
“Very well, darling,” said Kiki, practicing her pose, “as you wish.” One arm rested on the mantel with her drink. Her other hand was poised languidly in the air, fingers splayed, as if holding a cigarette. “Oh, God,” she said, noting her empty hand with disgust, “I should
never
have quit smoking.”
“That”—Grant barked with delight—“and a few
other
bad habits!”
“Yeah, yeah …” Kiki slurped her cocktail.
With kindly admonition, I told her, “Easy on the booze, love. It's early.”
“It's the
one
vice I have left.” She slurped again. Then she sighed and set her glass on the mantel. Glancing at the photos, she found something of interest and turned to examine them more closely.
“Your life is better now.” Earnestly, I added, “Much better.”
“Yes, dear. You're right, of course.” Her vacant tone conveyed that she was barely listening.
Grant told her, “Didn't mean to be flippant, Keeks. We're proud of you.”
“I'm sure you are, dear, but don't be patronizing. It's so—” She stopped short, picking up the one framed photo that was not hung on the wall, but propped on the mantel. “Aowww? Hwat's this?”
Grant and I exchanged a glance, then rose from the bench and joined Kiki at the fireplace, flanking her. Bewildered, Grant asked, “Hwat?”
Kiki displayed the photo for us. “This picture—do you know what it is?”
“It was a gift,” I said. “Spencer brought it to the party last night.”
“Yes, darling. But I'm asking if you recognize what's
depicted
in the photo.”
“Can't say I do.”
Grant studied it. “Well, it's a seaside setting—looks rather tropical—as seen from a lofty balcony.” Holding it at arm's length, he babbled, “Lovely composition, by the way. The black and white adds an unexpected dimension, lacking the garish postcard hues typically associated with such a vista.”
“Look closer,” said Kiki with a kittenish lilt. “Check the
shadows
on the balcony.”
“Aha.” I had a flash of insight.
“What?” asked Grant. “I see nothing.”
I told him, “Artfully concealed in the shadows is a reclining female figure. Nude, if I'm not mistaken.”
“Oh.” He saw it. Unimpressed, he gave a grimace of disapproval.
I asked Kiki, “Am I connecting dots that don't exist, or does this photo hold some special meaning for you?”
She tossed a shoulder. “Well, I don't know that I'd call it ‘special, ' but yes, I do recognize the setting. It's a vacation home owned by Spencer Wallace—in Cabo San Lucas. I've been there.”
“Huh?” asked Grant. “I thought his vacation home was
here,
in Palm Springs.”
Kiki explained, “He had several, darling; he was
filthy
rich. This one's in Mexico—‘a bit farther away from
Mrs.
Wallace,' as he liked to describe it.” Kiki returned the photo to the mantel, strolled back to the bench, and sat.
“And you were there.” Each word of Grant's flat statement was peppered with insinuation.

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