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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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“Apparently, Rebecca, but I don't know that with certainty. There was a
crowd
here on Saturday, including a number of guests I didn't recognize. Spencer
would
have recognized you, so if you'd come for ill purposes, you might have worn some simple disguise—say, a wig and glasses.”
She rolled her eyes. “Very well, that's a stretch, but I suppose it's plausible. However, I have
never
been inside your kitchen.”
“Bryce
has,
though. When you arrived at the house yesterday, you asked him to get you some water.”
“So?” asked Bryce. “Why would
I
be a part of this? I'm merely an
adviser
to Mrs. Wallace.”
“Oh,
please,
” said Grant with a loud tsk. “It's common knowledge that you and Rebecca are romantically involved. That would give
both
of you ample motive to want Spencer dead. And working as a team, you just might have pulled it off.”
Bryce warned, “Watch yourself, Mr. Knoll. Your words could easily be construed as slander. And from you, of all people—you had your own score to settle with Spencer.”
“So a deal fell through.” Grant flicked a wrist. “What of it? It was nothing.”
Brandi cleared her throat. “It was a half-million dollars, Grant.”
Larry wagged his head, mourning his own losses.
“Why,
Grant,
” said Tanner, turning to face him from his bar stool. “I'm impressed—I didn't realize you had that kind of money to play around with.”
“You will too, lad, once that movie of yours goes into production.” Grant sniffed Tanner lovingly, telling ever yone, “I smell box-office gold.”
“And,” I noted, moving toward the bar, “as both Gabe and Tanner have pointed out, the publicity buzz over Spencer's death will only serve to hype the film, boosting the careers of everyone involved.”
Gabe set his empty cocktail glass on the bar. “I hate to sound mercenary, but sure, that's true.”
Tanner nodded. “A ‘big film' just got much bigger.”
Erin returned from the kitchen and began circulating with her tray of appetizers.
“If I'm not mistaken,” Rebecca said coyly, “the young man may
have had more than a
mercenary
motive to want my husband dead.” She declined hors d'oeuvres with a wave of her hand, but Bryce took a few, arranging them on the plate balanced on his knees.
With an uncertain laugh, Tanner asked Rebecca, “What's
that
supposed to mean?”
“I
loathe
telling naughty tales,” said Rebecca, not loathing it at all, “but Spencer made no secret of his lust for Hollywood's soon-to-be hottest heartthrob. Unless I'm mistaken, he was all
over
Mr. Griffin, which mortified our young hero, I'm sure. Did those advances
enrage
Mr. Griffin? Who knows?”
Grant stood. “Oh, for pity's sake. Tanner gets plenty of pawing from
me,
God knows. I've had
these
queer eyes trained on
this
straight guy for months, and he always takes it in good humor.”
Matter-of-factly, Tanner told us, “I'm used to it.”
“Of
course
he is.” Grant gave Rebecca a brisk nod—so there. Then he grabbed several radishes as Erin passed by with her tray. Sitting again, he began munching one of them.
“
Really
, Rebecca,” said Kiki, amused by the woman's lack of insight. “We theater folk are far more open-minded than that.” She laughed airily. Then, catching Erin's eye, she tapped the rim of her martini glass, empty again.
With a nod, Erin returned to the kitchen.
Rebecca folded her hands in her lap. “Then we're at a stalemate. It seems everyone here tonight harbored something against my husband.”
Returning to the fireplace, I said, “But
not
everyone here tonight has been to the Baja. Specifically”—I gestured toward the framed photo propped on the mantel—“Spencer's little getaway in Cabo San Lucas.”
Rebecca looked away. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”
Kiki cleared her throat with a nervous laugh, turning in her
chair to look up at me. “Really, Claire. I thought we agreed we wouldn't ‘go there.'”
Rebecca turned to Kiki, face-to-face. “You've
been
there?”
“That's not what I meant—not exactly.” Kiki wriggled in her seat. Fortunately for her, Erin returned at that moment with the cocktail shaker and, blocking Rebecca, refilled Kiki's glass.
Taking my own glass from the mantel, I swirled the bit of wine remaining in it. “Spencer Wallace didn't mean to send us a ‘message from beyond,' I'm sure, but the photo from Cabo tells us all we need to know.”
As the others turned to whisper among themselves, speculating on the meaning of my words, Erin finished serving Kiki, who carefully raised her full glass to her lips and sipped. Noticing the empty glass in my hand, Erin stepped near and asked, sotto voce, “More wine, Miss Gray?”
“No, thank you, Erin, nothing else.”
She nodded, turned, and moved toward the kitchen.
“Uh, Erin?” I said, reconsidering.
She stopped behind the leather bench and looked back to me.
“It was, uh … it was
you
who killed Spencer Wallace, was it not?”
Erin froze where she stood, wild-eyed. Larry instinctively rose from his chair. Simultaneously, Grant spit a whole radish halfway across the room, Bryce dropped his plate to the floor, and Kiki sprayed a mouthful of her martini, dousing Rebecca.
Kiki blurted, “You mean the goddamn
maid
did it!?”
Rebecca shot up from the bench, snarling and brushing gin from her dress. She moved toward the front door, followed by Bryce. Grant, Tanner, and Gabe rose from their bar stools and took a step toward Erin. Brandi and Lance rose from the long hassock, completing a loose circle around the girl.
“Miss Gray,” said Erin, taking a tentative step in my direction,
“I … I don't … you can't possibly …” Stunned, she began to teeter near Kiki's chair.
Fearing that Erin might drop the martini shaker, Kiki reached up and took it from her hands, then refilled her own glass and set the shaker on the floor.
I moved toward Erin; Larry followed. Shaking my head gently, I told her, “I never would have guessed, but you gave yourself away tonight—it was such an innocent slip. When Kiki mentioned cadmium
fluoride,
you corrected her, telling her the poison was cadmium
chloride.
You said you recalled hearing it Saturday night, and your memory of this detail seemed plausible, as you've had some theatrical training. But so have I, Erin, and I recall with absolute certainty that you were not in this room on Saturday when Grant and I discussed cadmium chloride with Detective Knoll. So I could only conclude that you knew about cadmium chloride because you'd read the screenplay of
Photo Flash.
Then everything else fell together.”
Kiki burbled, “Boffo, Claire. How clever.” Then she cocked her head, confused. “Uh,
what
fell together?”
“Miss Gray,” Erin pleaded, “you're jumping to conclusions …”
“Indeed I am,” I agreed. “Perfectly logical conclusions, consistent with everything we know about Spencer's death. You see, I hadn't realized until tonight that you had an interest in theater. You seem to idolize me, so I assume you idolized Spencer Wallace as well—or at least saw him as an avenue to the career you dreamed of. You've worked at his home, at catered parties, and that's how you met. You ingratiated yourself, made your ambitions known, and he led you on—to the proverbial casting couch and then, I fear, to Cabo. That's you in the photo, correct? You've streaked your hair and played the dumb blonde, but otherwise, the dark-haired figure could easily be you.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, Miss Gray. I was never there.”
Kiki looked up at me. “Nonsense, darling. I've already told you—that's
me
in the picture.”
“What?”
demanded Rebecca, hands on hips.
“Oops.” Kiki slurped her martini.
I told Erin, “Regardless of who's in the photo, I'm reasonably sure Spencer had flown you to Cabo, where he arranged to take care of a ‘little fix' he'd gotten you into. Did something go wrong in Mexico, Erin? You implied earlier that you can't have children.”
Rebecca muttered with quiet disgust, “Oh, my
God
…”
I continued, “A few other details from Saturday night now make perfect sense. You served Spencer tomato juice all evening, which is acidic. You could easily have spiked it with the fatal doses of cadmium chloride. You've been in my kitchen more than
I
have, so you had ample opportunity to plant the incriminating compound in the sugar. What's more, during cleanup after the party, Tanner thought he knew you from somewhere. Grant dismissed this as flirting, but in fact, Tanner
had
seen you before—perhaps at a casting call for
Photo Flash,
or more likely, at Wallace's home in Palm Springs, where you were well acquainted with not only the bedroom, but the darkroom.”
Tanner looked at her with fresh, unbelieving eyes. “That's it,” he said quietly. “I should have realized …”
Erin's head dropped back as her mouth opened and disgorged a loud sob. Larry moved from behind me and positioned himself on the opposite side of Erin.
I told her, “The incident that should have tipped me off immediately, though, took place right after you'd ‘discovered' the body in the pool. Grant dove in and made an attempted rescue, but before he'd gotten the body out of the water, you screamed, ‘It's Spencer!' Grant himself didn't recognize him until after you'd said that, and just as damning, you referred to the victim by his first
name. Detective Knoll, Tanner, and I have all invited you to use
our
first names, but you've been only too proper, steadfastly addressing us as Detective, Mr. Griffin, and Miss Gray. In the excitement of the moment, why did ‘Mr. Wallace' become ‘Spencer'? Because you'd been intimate with the man.”
“That was his
name,
” insisted Erin. “What's the difference?”
“Finally, when my back was turned, while I'd gone into my bedroom to look for a copy of the script, you told Detective Knoll that I'd threatened Spencer's life. It was an empty threat, and you knew it. But you recognized a handy means of deflecting suspicion from yourself while steering the investigation down a false course.”
Gaining some composure and starting to feel feisty, Erin challenged me, “Miss Gray, I'm sure this all makes sense in
your
mind, but it's pure speculation. You can't prove a word of this.”
Bryce told me, “She has a point.”
I'd heard about enough from Brycey-boy. “Oh, sure—I don't
have
proof, but we can easily
get
proof. If Erin was recently in Cabo, returning by air, presumably through Los Angeles, there will be passport records of her visit to Mexico. That alone should be sufficient evidence to prove the entire sordid scenario.”
Knowing she was sunk, Erin heaved a long, low wail, buried her head in her hands, and slumped.
“You'd better sit down,” said Larry, guiding her to the leather bench. Erin sat, looking out vacantly, as if beyond the walls of the room. Larry sat next to her, took out his notebook, and clicked his pen.
I stood directly behind the girl. Tanner stepped to my side and held me by the waist. Glenn moved to my other side and placed his hand on my shoulder.
Looking gaunt and drained, Erin began to speak. She seemed to
direct her rambling words, her recollections, to no one but herself.
“I thought I'd struck gold. I thought I could skip a few hurdles along the road to stardom. It seemed like the easiest shortcut in the world when Spencer Wallace sort of fell into my lap—or should I say, I fell into his.
“Yes, he made promises; yes, he got me pregnant. He insisted on an abortion, but I refused. So he struck a deal with me: If I'd go to Mexico with him, he would have everything taken care of, safely and discreetly. Then, when we returned, he swore he'd cast me in his new film,
Photo Flash.
He even gave me the script to study.
“Well, things didn't go quite as planned. The doctor needed tequila—to calm
his
nerves—then botched the procedure, not in some back room, but right there at the house.” Erin turned and looked at the photo on the mantel.
Becoming aware of her silent, gaping audience, she explained, “I was lucky to recover at all, but I'll never have another chance at motherhood. Then—I should have seen it coming—as soon as we got home, Spencer was ‘terribly sorry' and all, but he just didn't think I was right for his picture. I was incensed, but what could I do?”

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