Desert Spring (14 page)

Read Desert Spring Online

Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
7.43Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Who knows? If you marry, which you probably will—someone your own age, I might add—then, no, there'll be no future intimacy between us.”
“And what about
you
?” He laughed softly. “What about marriage? What about … Glenn? Someone
your
own age, I might add.”
“Whew!” I backed off a few inches. “I should've seen
that
coming.”
Tanner laughed louder, telling no one, “She can dish it out …”
“Okay, okay”—I gave his hand a playful slap—“your point is well made. It's just that I've never quite seen myself in the role of a, of a … wife.” I nearly choked on the word.
“You might consider it, Claire.” His tone was serious. “You deserve that security.”
“You think I'm insecure?”
“Hardly. But Glenn has a
lot
to offer, and—”
“An egotistical billionaire shopping for a third wife may have a lot to offer, but I doubt if there's much security in
that
dowry.”
“You're being kinda tough on him, aren't you? He worships you.”
“He does.” Ho hum. “But I just can't deal with Glenn and his doting—not now, not yet.” I paused, adding, “Not while you're here, Tanner.”
He leaned and kissed me. “My time here isn't long. I suggest we make use of it.” He nuzzled my ear.
“Mmm.” I slid my hand down his back and under the waistband of his shorts. His skin felt warm and comforting against my fingers. “What'd you have in mind?”
“For starters,” he said into my ear, “I think we should move indoors.”
“Bedtime?” I asked coyly. “It's barely ten.”
“We can while away a few hours till you're sleepy. I'll think of something to amuse you.”
“I'll bet you will.”
“Shall I carry you?” He wasn't kidding. Tanner occasionally carried me indoors from a midnight dip, providing a seamless fantasy that moved from the lapping of water to the rumpling of bed linens. Was this dreamy, or what?
“Uh”—I wavered, but my practical side won out—“my clothes.” I had left them in a heap near the pool, and I didn't want them lying there till morning.
Equally practical, Tanner suggested, “While you take care of that, I'll set up the coffeemaker for tomorrow.”
“Deal.”
So we both got up from the chaise and set about our domestic chores, readying for a romp in the bedroom. Within no time, we had moved inside and locked the doors. I slipped out of Tanner's T-shirt and added it to the bundle of my own clothes. Tanner was
turning off the music and I was switching off the lights in the living room—when the phone rang.
We both froze, unsure of what do to.
I shook my head. “Let the machine get it. People shouldn't be calling at this hour.”
“But they are,” Tanner noted as the phone rang again, “so it might be important.” He was very likely correct; I had almost forgotten that a murder investigation was now in the works.
I dropped the wad of clothes on the leather bench near the fireplace and crossed to the pass-through bar, where the phone rang a third time. Before the answering machine clicked on, I picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Hi, Claire. Larry Knoll. Sorry to disturb you so late.”
“No bother at all, Larry.” I must have been a sight, standing there stark naked, gabbing on the phone, because Tanner stifled a laugh as he scooped up our clothes and took them back to the bedroom. I said into the phone, “What can I do for you?”
“I spoke to Rebecca Wallace, and I'm planning to visit her late husband's house in the Movie Colony tomorrow morning at ten. I want to get a general feel for the place, but more to the point, I need to take a good look at Wallace's darkroom. I sent the evidence techs over there today to seal the room. With any luck, no evidence has been disturbed—if there even
was
any evidence.”
“You sound skeptical that the poisoning was related to Spencer's photography.”
“At this point, I don't subscribe to
any
theory. I have an open mind, but what I don't have, just yet, is evidence. Tomorrow morning, the real hunt begins.”
I reiterated my earlier offer: “I'll help any way I can.”
“That's why I called, Claire. Since you're familiar with the house in Palm Springs and actually worked with Wallace in the
darkroom, I'm wondering if you could come along. I think you could be helpful.”
“Sure, Larry,” I answered, trying not to sound too eager. “I need to spend some time on campus tomorrow and check in at the theater, but I don't have any Monday classes, so my day is wide open. I'm at your disposal.”
“Great. I appreciate it. I'll pick you up at a quarter to ten.”
“It's a date,” I said, almost chirping. Then, toning down my enthusiasm, I added, “Let's hope we find some answers.”
Larry seconded that wish; then we both said good night and hung up.
“‘It's a date'?” asked Tanner, standing in the bedroom hall. “I thought
we
had a date.” With a single, fluid motion, he unfastened the top button of his khaki shorts, unzipped them, let them fall to his feet, and stepped free of them.
I didn't bother explaining Larry's call. Crime solving could wait.
First things first.
Despite the troubling events of that weekend, I slept like a baby on Sunday night; Tanner had made good on his promise to “amuse” me before bed. Monday morning, I was raring to go.
As planned, Larry Knoll picked me up in his unmarked cruiser at a quarter to ten. He wore one of his usual business suits that day with a freshly laundered white shirt and neatly knotted tie. Though lacking his brother Grant's sartorial flair, he looked professional and authoritative, ready to take on a busy week. While driving northwest, up valley, from Rancho Mirage to Palm Springs, he updated me on the case. “I visited Coachella Catering yesterday. I was able to track down the owner Sunday morning, and we met at their office in the afternoon.”
“Is the owner Thierry? He seemed to be in charge at the party on Saturday.”
“Right, Terry Armand.” The French pronunciation eluded Larry, making me wonder again whether Thierry was indeed French. Perhaps Canadian. Or was he corn-fed American, christened with a distinctive family name?
Larry continued, “Terry was helpful and cooperative, shocked by the news of what had happened. He checked his records and even opened his books for me, giving me complete information on everyone who had worked at your party. The bottom line is, we
found no suspicious connections between the deceased and any of the catering staff.”
I recalled, “But Coachella had done some catering for Spencer, correct?”
“Right. They'd worked several events for him. Erin Donnelly had said as much on Saturday night, and Terry confirmed it yesterday. I saw the records of those bookings; everything looked routine.” This meant, in effect, that Larry had no new potential suspects for Spencer's murder. Which further meant that he would be focusing his investigation more closely on my party guests—and me.
I thumped my forehead. “Gosh, Larry, I just remembered—I promised to give you my guest list, but I'm afraid it slipped my mind.”
He laughed. “Glad you brought it up. I neglected to ask for the list when I was at your house yesterday with Rebecca.”
I muttered, “She
was
a bit distracting.”
“Can you pull that list together today? I do need it.”
“Of course.” I crossed my heart.
Larry made a turn and glanced ahead through the windshield. “We must be getting close.”
“It's just a few more blocks,” I told him.
The initial boom period of development in Palm Springs took place during the late 1920s, when Hollywood discovered the then remote desert oasis and fell in love with its warm weather, spectacular scenery, and sparse population, which offered an ideal getaway from burgeoning Los Angeles. Indeed, many westerns of the era were filmed against the surrounding backdrop of craggy desert mountains, but more significant was the migration of studio moguls and stars to the resorts and spas that were being built. When the El Mirador Hotel opened in 1928, it quickly became the favorite of Hollywood royalty, many of whom decided to stay
awhile, building second homes in the surrounding neighborhood, which came to be known as the Movie Colony.
The houses built in the Movie Colony were not, by and large, palaces, but quiet weekend retreats where the famous could escape the trappings of conspicuous wealth while at leisure in tasteful seclusion and relatively modest surroundings. The entire Palm Springs area was, until that time, essentially undeveloped, so it presented architects with a clean canvas against which they could create a style that was both playful and uninhibited.
The early wave of stars' homes, built in the thirties and forties, was generally of a design vernacular that was ornately Spanish, borrowed from the style that then dominated homes being built in and around Hollywood. Another early favorite, which evolved from the Spanish style, was the true California ranch, with ready access to the outdoors from virtually every room. Later, in the fifties and sixties, modernism—whether fanciful or minimalist—would take hold and become the trademark style of the desert.
“Here we are,” I told Larry as Spencer Wallace's home came into view. It was a charming California ranch, originally built in the forties by another producer, then famed, now a footnote.
From the street, the low, rambling house was discreetly unpretentious, mostly hidden by well-manicured vegetation. Curious eyes were given no clue that the homey, casual-looking entrance (it might have been a spiffed-up bunkhouse) led to a sprawling labyrinth of rooms and wings that surrounded a private courtyard with an Olympic-size pool, replete with diving boards, high and low.
“Glad to have you along,” Larry said with a quiet laugh. “I would've missed it.” Other than an unassuming house number on the mailbox, there was no visible hint that this had been the home of Megahit Wallace, Mr. Blockbuster himself.
We got out of the car and walked the winding brick path to the front door. A sheriff's van was already parked in the motor court,
hidden from the street by a high wall of oleander in full, white bloom. A sleek, black Porsche was parked in the shade of an arbor. I presumed it belonged to either Rebecca Wallace or her attorney, Bryce Ballantyne, but the car's standard-issue California plates did not suggest which one.
Stepping to the front door, Larry hesitated, given the choice of announcing our arrival by either a doorbell or a knocker. Choosing the knocker—a large, squeaky contraption of curlicued wrought iron—Larry thumped the door as gently as possible, but each stroke seemed to rumble and reverberate within the house. I felt like one of those angry, torch-wielding peasants making a ruckus outside Frankenstein's castle.
Moments later, the door inched open with a prolonged creak. I half expected to find a hunched Igor peering at us from the other side, and I wasn't far off. Rebecca Wallace looked like hell that morning.
“Ah,” she croaked, “hello, Detective.” She squinted into the sunlight as if roused from the grave. Then she noticed me, standing in Larry's shadow. “And Miss Gray. Good morning.”
“Please,” I said, offering my hand, “it's Claire.”
“Of course, Claire.” She took my hand and wiggled it listlessly. “Do come in.” Opening the door wide, she stepped back as we entered, adding, “I hope you'll forgive me—I'm a fright this morning.”
If she expected polite rebuttals, she was disappointed, as I simply couldn't bring myself to deny her unflattering self-assertion. When she had visited my house the previous day, she had been the picture of well-groomed dignity in the face of sudden loss. Now she looked like something not even a cat would drag in. Her steely hair, before perfectly coiffed, was now limp and tangled; her attire, previously pert, trim, and razor-edged, was now replaced with a slovenly pink terry-cloth bathrobe that looked not only slept-in,
but eaten-in. Near the lap, there was a large stain that I hoped was orange juice. I didn't mean to stare, but I could barely take my eyes off the woman.
Sidestepping the topic of her appearance, Larry said, “It was good of you to open the house to our investigation.”
She asked, “Did I have any choice?”
“You made the choice to cooperate. That's easier on everyone.”
“And why
wouldn't
I cooperate?” Her question rang with insinuation, daring Larry to tell her that he held her under suspicion. Which I hoped he did.
His answer was more diplomatic than mine would have been. “There's no reason
not
to cooperate with the investigation. We share the same goal; we both want to determine how and why your husband died.”
“Of course we do.” The flat tone of Rebecca's agreement verged on cynicism.
Larry continued, “I'm most interested in your late husband's darkroom.”
“So I understand. Your other men are already back there. It's at the far end of the house”—she flung an arm in the general direction. “If you don't mind, Detective, I really ought to try to put myself together.” Taking her leave, she retreated down a nearby hall.
Larry called after her, “But I don't know where it's—”
I touched his arm. “I know the lay of the house, Larry. I'll take you.”
Rebecca had by now disappeared, so we made our way through her late husband's home unobserved, pausing to gawk at the various rooms we passed. The living room, though not grandiose, was wonderfully spacious and comfortable, decorated in a laid-back western style suggestive of television's old Ponderosa set, except that the Cartwrights' living room did not open to a swimming pool, which the Wallaces' did.
“It's quicker to cross the courtyard,” I told Larry, leading him out to the terrace, around the pool, and into another wing of the house. “The darkroom is beyond the library.”
The leather-upholstered, brass-studded, book-lined den was in the same manly, cowpoking style as the living room. Giddyup. Between two floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a narrow hall led back to a windowless room; perhaps it had been a storeroom or large closet. This was where Spencer had set up his darkroom, and today, yellow police tape hung limp from the doorway. I could hear the evidence technicians conversing within.
Larry greeted them as we entered, then introduced me, adding, “Miss Gray learned the basics of photography from the deceased in this darkroom. I thought she could help us make sense of what's here.”
Though the darkroom had felt roomy enough when Spencer and I had worked in it, today it was cramped and hot. Larry, the two deputies, and I could barely move without risking greater intimacy than decorum allowed. A dim work light reinforced the feeling of claustrophobic unease.
“Everything is just as we found it,” one of the techs told Larry. “We checked everything for prints, and we've been busy making an inventory of the room, especially the chemicals.”
“I don't suppose you found a big, incriminating vial of cadmium chloride stashed away somewhere.”
The deputy chuckled. “No, Detective. No such luck.”
“So, then”—Larry looked about—“what've we got here?”
The deputy suggested, “Since Miss Gray is familiar with the equipment and the chemicals, maybe she could give us
all
the Cook's tour.”
“Good idea.” Larry turned to me. “Claire?”
“Well,” I began, trying to keep it terse, “Spencer processed his film on
this
side of the room, adjacent to the sink. The film is
developed in a lighttight canister”—I pointed to it—“so the process doesn't require much space. Prints are a different matter.” I directed everyone to turn toward the opposite side of the room. “The exposed film is projected and focused onto photographic paper, using this enlarger”—I patted the sizable piece of equipment—“then the paper is submerged and gently agitated in a series of three trays containing chemical baths: developer, stop bath, and fixer. A fourth tray allows the finished print to rinse in clean running water. Each step is timed to the second, and the entire process takes place under a ‘safe light,' which is amber; black-and-white photo paper is not sensitive to light of that color.” I demonstrated how a large timer on the wall was set and reset, and I flicked the safe light on, work light off, to give the investigators a better sense of what it was like to print photos in near darkness.
Switching the work light on again, Larry said, “From what we know of chronic cadmium poisoning, the deadly compound, a powder, could be dissolved in any acidic solution, then inhaled by the victim slowly, over time. That lends itself to these photo baths.” He indicated the three empty trays, asking me, “Can you show us which chemicals are used in these?”
Spencer had arranged the bottles of concentrated solutions, in order, on a shelf above the trays, so I had no difficulty recalling, “Spencer used conventional Kodak chemicals, available from any photo-supply store. He preferred Microdol developer for its fine grain. Ektaflo stop bath, which halts the process and prevents overdeveloping, is favored by many photographers and was always Spencer's choice. And he'd been using a Polymax fixer, which preserves the printed image after it's exposed to light. There's nothing the least bit unusual about the setup or the chemical solutions.”
“Detective?” said one of the deputies, taking the bottle of concentrated stop bath from the shelf. “The label warns that this contains acetic acid.”
“Yes,” I affirmed, “the stop bath is corrosive and highly acidic. The concentrate is deep yellow and has a piercing vinegar smell. You dilute it with care and keep your hands out of it. But I don't mean to imply that it's dangerous, not when handled properly and used for its intended purpose.”
Larry nodded. “But
any
acidic solution—tomato juice, for instance—could be used to dissolve cadmium chloride, so the stop bath could
become
dangerous, even lethal, if spiked with cadmium.”
“I'm no chemist, but that sounds reasonable, yes.”
“Once the concentrated chemicals have been poured from their bottles and diluted in the trays, how long do they last?”

Other books

The Other Side of Divine by Vanessa Davis Griggs
Falling Kingdoms by Rhodes, Morgan, Rowen, Michelle
Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu by Alexander Marmer
[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones by Patricia Briggs
Feral Park by Mark Dunn
The Apprentices by Meloy, Maile
Last Writes by Lowe, Sheila
Shadow Hunters by Christie Golden
Captain Caution by Kenneth Roberts