Desert Spring (8 page)

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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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“God,” I asked, “
did
I?”
“No, no,” said Gabe through a soothing laugh, “not at all, Claire. You were marvelously articulate. It's just that, well, one of your quotes struck a somewhat prophetic note—in light of what's happened.” He cleared his throat with a nervous cough.
“What on earth … ?”
Grant took my arm. “Let's have a look at that paper.”
Gabe offered, “I have a copy.” He led us back to the terrace.
Grant and I followed with our dessert plates, setting them down at our table as Gabe stepped over to his own table, mumbled something to his group, then returned with the folded copy of the
Tribune,
which was not on the ground, but had been passed around by his guests.
“They gave you great coverage,” he said lamely while handing me the paper.
Taking it, sitting, I recalled, “The reporter said his editor was holding page one.” Then I unfolded the entertainment section and saw, with a gasp, that the editor had been true to his word. Splashed across the front page, above the fold, was Kemper Fahlstrom's interview. There was no photo, but the headline alone was sufficient to grab my eye. “Oh, Lord,” I groaned.
“What's wrong, Claire?” Grant moved around the table and stood behind me.
The headline trumpeted: SPENCER WALLACE DESERVES PUBLIC
FLOGGING—OR WORSE! An italic subhead attributed my words:
Claire Gray accuses megahit producer of stealing her star.
My eyes bugged as I skimmed the article. It was a verbatim account of my conversation with the reporter the previous night. Everything was in context and factually correct, even the observation: “Miss Gray playfully shook her fist while lamenting, ‘There ought to be a law against such thievery.'”
“Uh-oh,” said Grant beneath his breath. “Considering the developments later that night …” He didn't need to finish.
I shook my head. “What rotten timing. If the headline writer hadn't had a field day with my quote, it might've gone unnoticed.”
“No such luck,” said Gabe, sitting in Grant's empty chair. “That headline—coupled with the news that broke on television this morning—well, let's just say that tongues are wagging. I'm sorry, Claire.” His look of genuine sympathy had the unintended effect of making me feel all the more concerned.
“It's nothing,” Grant tried to assure me. “It'll all blow over by tomorrow.” His words were unconvincing.
“Christ,” I muttered, “if your brother didn't already see me in a suspicious light, he will now.” I set the newspaper on the table and tapped the bold headline, smudging the tip of my index finger with black ink.
“Hmm?” asked Gabe, having no idea who Grant's brother was.
“Nothing,” I dismissed the question with a blithe smile. “I'm just out of sorts this morning.”
Gabe commiserated, “It's all been very trying, I'm sure.”
“Hasn't it, though?” Shifting focus, I asked the movie director, “You'll still be heading back to Los Angeles tomorrow?”
“Far as I know. I'm not sure what impact, if any, Spencer's death will have on production of
Photo Flash.
” Gabe stood, shrugged. “The show must go on.”
“Indeed.” A new worry:
Would
the show go on? Or, as the result of the producer's untimely death, would Tanner's budding film career be nipped before take one?
Gabe stepped to where I sat and leaned to give me a hug. “Hang in there, Claire. I need to get back to my guests.” And he retreated to his table.
I turned to Grant. “Do you have your cell phone?”
“Always.” He patted a lump in his jacket pocket.
“If you don't mind, I'd like to phone Tanner.” I hadn't called his apartment earlier that morning, thinking he needed his sleep. But if he'd switched on the television, he'd heard the awful news, and I assumed he would want to talk to me.
“Sure, doll. Let me power it up for you.” He punched a button on the handset, explaining, “I
always
switch it off at restaurants.”
“You're a breath of civility in a barbaric world.”
“I try.” Then he noticed something on the phone's readout. “Oops. I have a voice mail waiting from Larry.”
“‘Oops' isn't quite the expression I'd use for that discovery. Wonder what he wants—do you suppose he saw the
Tribune
?”
“One way to find out.” Grant punched in the number. Within seconds, his brother answered. “Hi, Larry,” said Grant. “What's up?”
I writhed in silent, inquisitive agony as Grant listened, nodding, grunting occasional uh-huhs. At last he said, “I'll tell her. Thanks, Larry. We'll be there.” And he snapped the phone shut.
My pleading expression asked, Well … ?
“Well, Larry didn't see the
Tribune
—at least he didn't mention it. But he's been in touch with Spencer's widow, Rebecca Wallace, and she and her attorney are driving to the desert from LA this morning to meet with Larry.”
With a measure of relief, I noted, “Standard procedure, I should think.”
“But according to Larry, the widow wants to see, with her own eyes, where it happened.”
“Peachy.” I rolled my eyes. “Company's coming. When?”
“High noon.” Grant glanced at his watch.
I did likewise; the morning was slipping away. “That doesn't give us much time.”
“Always time for mango sorbet,” he countered, then sat again across from me at the table.
Grant spooned the slurpy ice from his banana leaf.
I pondered my litchi nut.
When Grant's car had descended the mountain and began crossing the flat valley floor, I asked, “Do we have time for a detour?”
“Depends. Where? How far?” With a sharp laugh, he added, “As if I couldn't guess.”
“How insightful of you. Yes, I'd like to swing past Tanner's apartment in Palm Springs.”
“Oh, I forgot—you wanted to phone him.” Steering with one hand, Grant fished in a pocket with the other. The car swerved, but the Sunday morning traffic was nil, so neither of us flinched.
“I've had second thoughts about that. If he's learned what's happened to Spencer, I might seem to be trivializing the tragedy if I tell him about it by phone—as if it were morning-after gossip. Better to discuss this face-to-face.”
“As milady wishes.” Grant slowed the car at the next intersection and turned up valley.
With Grant's well-tuned engine, heavy foot, and an open roadway, we made good time, arriving within minutes at a drab little apartment complex near the edge of town. It looked like a run-down motel, and for all I knew, in former years it may have been just that. These were the humble quarters that Tanner had called home before our lives had merged. In recent months, he had viewed the apartment as little more than storage space.
“Looks pretty quiet,” said Grant, pulling off the road and braking his car on the barren plot of sand that served as a front yard. A neighbor's dog, napping in the shade of a peppertree, looked up for a moment, then dropped his snout to his paws, drifting off again. Grant surmised, “I don't think anyone's here.”
I didn't see Tanner's black Jeep, but it may have been parked in back, especially if he was loading things. “We've come this far,” I said. “I'll try the door.”
Grant cut the engine and, getting out of the car, accompanied me to Tanner's door. The dog didn't bother lifting an eyelid.
I knocked, then waited. Listening for any action within, I heard only the whisper of traffic drifting across the sands from Interstate 10, perhaps a mile away. I knocked again, louder.
Grant said, “He must have gone out.”
“But he was so insistent that he had to be
here
this morning—packing.”
Lamely, Grant suggested, “Maybe he ran out of boxes.”
“I think I have a key. I want to look inside.” Snapping open my purse, I dug to the bottom, but the only keys there were mine.
“Allow me,” said Grant, choosing a key from the others on his ring.
“If you intended to tantalize me, you have. Okay, I'll bite: What on earth are you doing with Tanner's key?”
Grant paused. “Jealous?”
I paused, considering the question. “Maybe.”
“Why? You
never
tire of reminding me that Tanner is straight—period.”
Grant was right; I had lorded Tanner's heterosexuality over my gay friend with such satisfaction that my attitude had verged on gloating. Yet, there stood Grant, displaying between his thumb and index finger my lover's house key. It glinted in the sunlight like a forbidden jewel. As Grant had adroitly shifted the topic from his
reason for having the key to my reasons for feeling insecure in an unlikely relationship, I decided to sidestep both issues. Jerking my head toward the locked door, I ordered, “Give it a try.”
Grant stepped forward and gave a perfunctory knock—just in case—then slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and cracked the door open a few inches. “Tanner?” he called inside.
Hearing no response, he opened the door wider, and we both stepped in.
The apartment consisted of only two small rooms and a bath, so it was plain to see that no one was home. Glancing through a window, I also saw that Tanner's Jeep was not parked in back. I wondered aloud, “Where
is
he?”
Grant checked the answering machine on the kitchen counter. “No messages.”
Boxes gaped open, empty, from the corners of the main room. Clothes, books, dishes, and such were stacked here and there on the floor. Surveying the general disarray, I mentioned, “He hasn't gotten much packing done.”
Grant added, “It's hard to tell if he even slept here last night.”
With a touch of annoyance, I asked, “Where
else
would he have slept last night?” Indeed.
 
Riding with Grant back to my house in Rancho Mirage, I fretted over Tanner's whereabouts while trying not to let my questions fester into vague, groundless suspicions. After all, Tanner was not accountable to me for his every move, and I had no reason to think that he had not driven directly home from my party the previous night. Still, it was a quiet ride.
“You know, doll,” Grant said softly, sensing my consternation, “the only reason I happened to have Tanner's key is that he asked me to bring in his mail now and then. Since moving in with you,
he hardly ever gets out to the apartment, but my work takes me all over the valley, and I'm out that way every few days. Just doing a favor for a friend.”
I reached across the car's center console and patted his hand.
When we turned off Country Club Drive onto my side street, the sight of Tanner's Jeep in my driveway prompted a ditsy laugh of relief. I told Grant, “He's probably beside himself, wondering where the hell
I've
been.”
Spotting a second car in the driveway, Grant noted, “Kiki's here too. Word spreads fast.”
Walking through the front door with Grant, I found Tanner and Kiki at the pass-through from the kitchen, helping themselves to an impromptu breakfast they'd set up on the bar—juice, coffee, a plate of pastries. At the sound of the door, they turned, abandoned the food, and rushed toward me.
“Claire,
darling,
” gasped Kiki, “what a perfectly horrid way to end a party!” She wrapped me in a fierce hug, jangling her bracelets.
“Claire,” said Tanner, trailing behind Kiki, “I came over the minute I heard. Kiki phoned me this morning, but no one could reach
you
.”
Kiki explained, “I heard it on the news. I thought maybe you'd gone to Tanner's, so I phoned him at the apartment, but he hadn't heard from you. Needless to say, he was shocked to learn what had happened.”
“Shocked,” he repeated, nodding.
Grant to the rescue: “It was my fault entirely, the lack of communication. We assumed the news hadn't spread yet, so I took Claire out for a quiet breakfast. She didn't want to disturb anyone so early on a Sunday.”
I added, “Especially you, Tanner—what with your packing and all.”
“Yeah, I was in the middle of it.” Clearly, he'd been busy. He was looking rugged and butch that morning, wearing olive-colored cargo shorts, a sweat-splotched gray T-shirt, and tan work shoes. The sight of him was enough to make me swoon, even under such vexing circumstances. He cut in on Kiki's hug, planting a light kiss on my lips. “So considerate,” he said, “finding yourself at the center of a murder investigation and worrying about interrupting my packing.”
Vacantly, I protested, “I'm not quite at the
center
of the investigation.”
“I only meant that Wallace died here, at your home.”
“Oh.”
Grant asked Tanner, “Then you haven't heard the corker?”
“
Corker
?” blurted Kiki. “There's a corker?”
I explained how the catering maid had overheard my exaggerated threat against Spencer at the party and had later reported it to Larry Knoll.
“Oh, dear,” said Kiki, fingering her lips. Leaning close, she asked, “You didn't
do
it, did you?”
With a laugh, Tanner answered for me, “Of course not, Kiki. Last night, when Claire said she ‘could kill Spencer Wallace,' she was speaking to me—I remember those words verbatim. I recall their tone as well. It was obviously an empty threat.”
“Hey!” said Grant. “Maybe the
maid
did it.” His tone was jocular.
But he'd raised a valid point. “Maybe she did,” I allowed. “Or the cook, or one of the other servers—or anyone else who was here last night. Point is, the threatening words were
mine,
and in retrospect, they
are
highly incriminating. Larry made note of them.”
Tanner said, “It's a good thing Grant's brother is on the case. He knows you too well to suspect you of foul play.”
“Let's hope so,” I said under my breath.
“And with any luck,” said Grant, “he'll wrap this up fast.”
Kiki nodded, telling Grant, “When you said ‘corker,' I assumed you meant the headline in this morning's
Trib.
” She pointed to a copy of the Los Angeles paper that she'd brought over. It was on my coffee table, spread open to the interview.
With slumped shoulders, I noted, “There were
two
corkers.”
“By the way, Kiki,” said Grant, trying to sound an upbeat note, “you're looking resplendent this morning. As usual.”
“Oh,
pish,
darling.” She tittered. “But thank you—I do try. Sometimes I fear I
almost
overdo it.” That morning, she had almost overdone it in a bizarre outfit that resembled a transparent choir robe over zebra-print leotards—her Sunday look, perhaps. “It's a curse,” she added, “my
penchant
for costuming.”
“Hardly a curse,” Tanner told her. He then asked any of us, “Can I get you something to drink?” He returned to the pass-through and picked up the glass he'd poured for himself.
Kiki eyed his glass, horrified. “What
are
you drinking?”
“Tomato juice. Can I get you some?”
Slyly, she asked, “Nothing stronger?”
“Everything's put away from last night.”
I offered, “I can find you something.”
“Ugh!” said Kiki grandly. “Never mind. Don't bother, love.” To Tanner, she added, “A shot of orange juice would be splendid, thank you.”
He poured it, then handed it to Kiki, asking over his shoulder, “Claire? Grant? Something for you?”
I declined.
Grant told Tanner, “No, thanks. Not much appetite this morning.” He failed to mention that he and I had already gorged ourselves at the Regal Palms.
Shaking his head, Tanner commiserated, “I'm sure. Rough
night, huh? I understand you played the would-be hero. Good going, Grant.”
“Shucks, doll-cakes, it was nothing.” With exaggerated humility, Grant joined his hands in the fig-leaf position. “Duty called; I answered. Unfortunately, the poor devil died.” He heaved a big sigh. “If you'll all excuse me, I want to make sure I didn't forget anything in the guest room.” And he took his leave, crossing the living room to the bedroom hall.
A brief silence fell over us. Kiki sat on the leather bench at the center of the room. Then, pensively, she muttered, “Murder …”
“For all we know,” said Tanner with a carefree shrug, “maybe it was just a freak accident.” He sipped his tomato juice.
I eyed him with curiosity. “I must say, Tanner—you don't seem terribly distraught by Spencer's death.”
“Sorry. Didn't mean to sound glib. But the truth is, Spencer Wallace was
not
the most likable of men.”
“How very diplomatic of you,” said Kiki.
Tanner asked her, “You've had encounters with him?”
“That's one way of putting it.”
“All set!” said Grant, returning from the guest room. “Just wanted to make sure I didn't leave my toothbrush on the sink.”
I reminded him, “You didn't
bring
a toothbrush.”
“Ah. I suppose you're right.” He patted the patch pocket of his sport coat, which bulged with more than his slim cell phone.
As he passed me on his way to the breakfast bar, I got a glimpse of red-striped wool protruding from his pocket. Good God—I suppressed a laugh—he had stolen Tanner's boot socks. “Don't tell me you're hungry,” I said, my voice laced with innuendo.
“Just thought I'd browse some.” Then Grant stopped short. Picking up something from the plate of pastries, he examined it curiously. “Oh? What's this?”
Tanner told him, “That's a protein bar. Try it—they're great.”
“Yechhh!” Recoiling, Grant dropped the bar on the plate. It sounded like metal hitting glass.
Suddenly energized, Kiki rose from the bench and rushed to Grant. “Darling, darling—no, no, no—you've got it all wrong!”

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