Palm Springs Noir

by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett

  He rolled a few feet back and gobbled the trifle. Between swallows, he groaned and gurgled.

  I glanced over at Clark, who seemed unfazed by this behavior. In fact, he gave me a thumbs-up. So, I returned to the task of putting things away. I had to tug at the Philco’s heavy ornamental latch (which brought to mind the hardware on a casket) and soon had the beast filled. Its condenser hummed in earnest.

  Edison was now banging his spoon on the sides of the plastic container as he scraped at the last of the trifle. I asked if he needed anything else from me, but he shook his head without looking up from his scavenging.

  I stepped around the wheelchair, took my folder from the dining table, and told Clark I was leaving. He followed me toward the front of the house.

  When I stepped outside, he went with me and gently closed the door behind us. We stood together on the landscaped walkway, protected by the jutting cantilever of the roof. It rained heavily now—straight down, with no wind to drive it—like a translucent curtain blurring the gray afternoon. Raindrops danced wildly on the windshield of the polished Bentley. In the hushed racket of the pelting water, the world was still.

  “It’s … exhausting,” said Clark, his words no louder than a whisper as he gazed into the courtyard.

  “Edison?”

  Nodding, Clark turned to me. “Ten years ago, I knew what I was getting into, and I was sure I could deal with the age difference. He’s always been pampered and fussy—that was part of his charm. But now, Jesus. It gets worse by the month, like he’s regressing into childhood. You’ve seen the pink fluff; that’s been going on awhile. As of last week, about the only other thing he’s willing to eat is canned spaghetti, like a kid.”

  I’d noticed the SpaghettiOs while unpacking in the kitchen.

  Clark said, “What’s next—diapers?”

  “Maybe.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then laughed. Stepping near, he clasped my hand with both of his. “You’ve been super, Dante. Really helpful. Thank you.”

  I grinned. “Anything else, just let me know.”

  He moved closer still, brushing against me and lolling his head back to fix me in his stare. His dark almond-shaped eyes appeared black in the dusky shadows that hugged us. I could hear him breathing. I could almost hear his thoughts. Was he open to a fleeting kiss? Or did he want something less innocent—something more animal and lusty?

  When his lips parted, he broke the spell. “Can you fix this weather?”

  I backed off a few inches. “It’ll dry up. We never get much, but they say we need it.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed coyly, “we need it.”

  Which left me unsure if this was small talk—or foreplay. Either way, the time was right for a quick exit. I turned to leave but paused. “Enjoy your Sunny Junket.”

  Clark rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. They make you say that.”

  With a wink, I sprinted off toward my car.

  When the office texted the next morning, it came as no surprise that the Quesada Reál party was having trouble with the cable and Wi-Fi. They had snubbed my earlier offer to explain things, and now they were miffed, so the office told me to return to Little Tuscany at once. I was driving down valley for an inspection in Indian Wells—I’d nearly arrived—but I did a U-turn at the next light on Highway 111 and shot back toward Palm Springs.

  Shortly after ten, I drove up the narrow driveway and parked in the courtyard next to the Bentley, which had been spiffed and detailed since the rain. More was on the way, but for now, tourists were getting the slice of winter paradise they’d paid for.

  When I rang the doorbell, it took a while for someone to garble through the intercom. I said, “It’s Dante.”

  Another long pause. “Let yourself in?”

  “Sure.” I tapped the code.

  Inside, I walked back to the main room. “Hello?” Hearing no response, I stepped farther in and looked around. Everything seemed in order. In the kitchen, a few dishes were stacked near the sink, but the tenants clearly appreciated tidy surroundings. Although the print racks near the dining table had been rearranged, the David Hockney was still prominently displayed. On the table, boxes and bulging portfolios contained more inventory.

  I turned as one of the glass doors on a side wall slid open, and in from the pool deck strolled Clarence Kwon with a towel slung over one shoulder. He was otherwise naked, far more buff than I had imagined, and still aroused from whatever merrymaking had transpired outdoors. He carried an empty Tupperware container of raspberry trifle, smeared pink. Unless I was mistaken, there was also a creamy lick of it on his inner thigh.

  “Morning, Dante,” he said, crossing the room toward the kitchen. “Sorry to call you back. Edison got frustrated with the TV last night. He started punching buttons, and by the time he gave up, the Wi-Fi was fritzed out.” Clark set the towel on the kitchen counter and rinsed the Tupperware in the sink.

  “Happens all the time,” I said. “No two setups are alike. I’ll restore the settings, then show him how to work the video.”

  “Fair warning: he’ll never catch on.” Clark stepped over to me while wiping his hands. “Can you tackle the Wi-Fi first?”

  “Uh-huh.” I paused to look him up and down, which got a rise out of both of us. A jolt of waist-level attraction nudged us closer. I managed to say, “Seems you had no trouble with the pool controls.”

  “Worked like a charm. But Edison was griping last night about the landscape lighting—said it was totally screwed up. I thought it looked fine.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  Clark wrapped the towel around his waist. “Gotta throw myself together. Someone’s coming over from the convention center. Security—to help transport some of the good stuff. So, go ahead and do your thing.” He traipsed off toward the bedroom.

  I gathered the remote controls and took them to a former linen closet, now overtaken by electronics. Resetting the Wi-Fi was easy but rebooting the cable and restoring the streaming services was tedious. About ten minutes into it, I heard the doorbell ring. I also heard the spray of the shower from down the hall. Stepping out to the main room, I saw that Edison had not yet come in from the pool. The doorbell rang again, so I went to answer it.

  When I opened the door, our eyes locked in disbelief.

  “What the fuck?” she said.

  And I relived the scene—a shattering scene from a year earlier—when I had first encountered this woman.

  After Dr. Anthony Gascogne, ophthalmologist, had fired me, thrown me out of the house, and changed the locks, he was then catty enough to give me one of his new keys—in case anyone needed access during his travels, which had grown more frequent.

  A few months later, after leaving the bartending job, I was going through several days of training with Sunny Junket. On a Wednesday morning, while touring some of our properties with Ed, my supervisor, I started receiving messages from my ex’s office, concerned that he had not shown up that day. He’d already missed two appointments and could not be reached. Could I check at the house?

  Later, maybe—I was in the middle of something important, at the far end of the valley.

  By late afternoon, after work, after a continued spate of texting, I drove to the house I had once shared with Anthony. Letting myself in, I called to him, but all was quiet. At a glance, there were no signs of trouble, and I thought he had simply taken off for a while. Spontaneity, though, was not one of his hallmarks, so I decided to do a walk-through.

  When I entered his study, my knees went weak. I grabbed the doorjamb to steady myself as the room seemed to spin beneath me. Anthony had dropped face-first from the chair behind his desk, landing on the white shag carpet, puddled with the blackening ooze of his blood. His skull was bashed in. A lamp with a heavy crystal base, streaked red, had been thrown violently aside, cracking a cabinet door below the bookcase.

  I kneeled in the mess to check on Anthony, who was beyond helping. Stupidly, I picked up the lamp and set it upright. Then I
phoned 911.

  Among the first responders was a hotshot cop, a black woman in her thirties with a street mouth and a chip on her shoulder. I assumed she was a dyke. Her name badge identified her, dubiously, as Officer Friendly. I would later learn that her surname was indeed Friendly, that she was not a dyke, and that she was bucking for a promotion to detective.

  That day at the crime scene, she must’ve figured she could grease the path to her promotion by arresting me on the spot. It sort of made sense: I literally had blood on my hands, there were no signs of intrusion, I had a key, and most important, I had a plausible motive for revenge against the victim. It was front-page news in Thursday morning’s Desert Sun, though I never saw it, waking up behind bars.

  On Thursday evening, the medical examiner released his finding that Anthony had died Wednesday around noon. My salvation turned out to be Ed at Sunny Junket, who had spent most of Wednesday with me, providing a solid alibi. I was freed within the hour. Officer Friendly, however, was screwed.

  And now, there she was, in a rent-a-cop costume, reduced to running security errands for the convention center. She sported a gun, a badge, and handcuffs, looking plenty pissed.

  I smiled. “What happened? Lose your job?”

  “None of your motherfucking business.”

  “Couth it up, Friendly. Our clients wouldn’t approve.”

  “Go to hell, asshole.”

  “Aha,” said Clark, strolling out from the bedroom, dressed for the day. “It seems you two have met. Morning, Jazz.”

  “Jazz?” I said.

  She looked aside, mumbling, “Beats the shit out of Jasmine.”

  Nodding, I agreed. “Not quite your style.”

  Clark asked, “Get everything fixed, Dante?”

  “Hold on,” said Friendly. With a low chortle, she said, “Dante? This asswipe lowlife? He’s Danny O’Donnell.”

  We were interrupted by the rattle of the sliding glass door to the pool deck as Edison struggled to open it from his wheelchair. I rushed over and helped him inside.

  “Dante, dah-ling,” he said, “too good of you.”

  “I’ve got the video up and running again. Can we take a few minutes to go over it?”

  He heaved a weary sigh. “If we must. Later—when you come back to fix the lighting.”

  “I can take a look at that right now.”

  “Not in the daylight,” he scoffed. “It has to be tonight.”

  Hesitating, I said, “I’ll drop by around six.” Not wanting to be stuck alone with Edison, I turned to ask Clark, “Will you be here?”

  “Depends. I’ll try.” Clark was at the dining table, checking the inventory of prints against a list. As if he’d just thought of something, he looked up to tell Friendly, “I need a few minutes before we go. Make yourself at home. Check out the view.”

  Edison gave the black woman a haughty, disapproving look as she sauntered out to the pool deck. I followed.

  A mockingbird warbled as it swooped from the fronds of a palm to the scrub of an embankment that opened to the city below. Friendly stood at the railing, looking out. I approached from behind. With her back to me, she said, “You fucked up my life.”

  I stepped to the railing and stood beside her, looking out. “You didn’t do me any favors, either. The few friends I had left after the divorce—they’re gone.”

  “Shit happens, O’Donnell. It happened to me, starting with the murder of your ex. Still an open case”—she turned to look at me—“but I have my suspicions.”

  “Knock it off. You know I didn’t do it. You were wrong.”

  “And you made a mess of that crime scene. My so-called partner—a racist prick—reported that the muddled evidence was my doing, that the arrest was wrongful and incompetent. So, I was denied training for detective status. I lost overtime privileges. Got crappy shifts. Then my husband dumped me—said it was my drinking.” She paused and looked away. Her voice dropped as she said, “Worst part, he got custody of our daughter. My little girl.”

  I blew a low whistle. “Sorry. That’s rough.”

  The story had drained her swagger. I heard the tinge of fear in her words, in her uncertain future, as she explained how her standing with the police force had continued to sour. They made it clear they wanted her out. She decided to leave on her own terms and quit. Trying to start over, she opened a private investigation service. “Not much business yet”—she shook her head—“so I’m doing security at the convention center.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a plan.”

  “It sucks.”

  Clark appeared in the doorway. “Ready, Jazz.”

  With a parting smirk, she went inside.

  So did I. Closing the glass slider, I noticed that the front door of the house was wide open, as if Clark had already trudged through with several batches of prints. But he was standing at the dining table with Jazz, telling her, “Light load today, just this portfolio. Take it in your van; I’ll follow in the Bentley.”

  “Got it.” After signing a receipt, she took the portfolio from Clark, and they headed toward the door.

  “Pink fluff!” bellowed Edison.

  Exasperated, Clark asked me, “Can you take care of him?” Before I could answer, Clark walked out to the courtyard with Friendly and shut the door.

  “Now,” said Edison.

  I turned to him. “You just finished a whole tub of the stuff.”

  “And now I’d like you to try some. It’s quite delicious.”

  I wanted to leave. But I’d been told to give him the VIP treatment. Plus, I’d been wondering if the trifle was as good as it looked. So I played along.

  Edison wheeled himself into the kitchen and waited behind me as I tugged the refrigerator door open and removed one of the containers. I popped the lid, grabbed a spoon from a drawer, and gave it a taste.

  “Get out,” I said, amazed. It was fabulous.

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  I wolfed a few more spoonfuls, then stopped myself, returning the trifle to the fridge. “Thanks, really, it was great.” I stepped to the sink to rinse the spoon.

  “Give me that.” He grabbed it. Locking eyes with me, he licked my spoon lewdly. When finished, he sat back, whirling the spoon. “Let me ask you something. What do you think of my Clark?”

  “Nice guy. Seems attentive to your needs.” I grinned.

  “And he’s hot.”

  “Isn’t he though?” With an edge of bitterness, Edison added, “I’m not stupid, Dante. I know what you’re thinking: I’m just a vapid old rice queen.”

  I assured him, “I would never say such a thing.”

  But that very thought had crossed my mind.

  Driving back to Little Tuscany that evening, I hoped that Edison would not be alone at the house, that Clark would have returned from the convention center. He might be in the mood for a drink. He might ask me to join him. I was off the clock and felt no obligation to wear the insipid Sunny Junket uniform, so I wore tight black jeans and a leather jacket—surefire date bait.

  Winter nights in the desert could be cold, and the bright, perfect day had already turned gray and windy. Clouds piled up beyond the mountains to the west, rushing the sunset. The dusk disappeared into a starless, moonless darkness.

  As the Camry reached the top of the narrow drive, its headlights skimmed the parking court, which was empty. Peachy—I’d be solo with Edison. When I got out of the car, I took note of the landscape lighting and, finding no problems at the front of the house, checked along both sides, which also seemed fine. However, the most elaborate lighting could be seen only from the rear deck, and due to the embankment, the safest way to get there was through the house.

  I rang the doorbell. After half a minute, I rang again. A minute later, I punched in the code and entered, calling, “Edison?” All was quiet.

  The interior lights were on, as programmed. At a glance, there were no signs of trouble, and I thought Edison’s afternoon nap might have drifted into the evening. But he h
ad been expecting me, so I decided—with a chilling sense of déjà vu—to do a walk-through.

  When I entered the kitchen, my knees went weak. I grabbed the doorjamb to steady myself as the room seemed to spin beneath me. Edison had fallen backward, crushed beneath the refrigerator, which had toppled onto him, covering his lower torso. The scene was a nightmarish shamble, with Edison pinned in the mangled metal frame of his wheelchair. The refrigerator was still running, its condenser humming, its door flung open. Raspberries, whipped cream, and tub after tub of pink fluff were scattered everywhere, oozing across Edison’s chest. From his mouth, blood had gushed and was beginning to blacken, puddling with Melba sauce on the hard, white terrazzo floor.

  This time, I knew better than to kneel in the mess and try to help.

  This time, I knew better than to phone 911.

  This time, I beat a path out the door and ran to my car.

  Shaking, I fumbled to start the engine, then backed up to turn around, when I noticed headlights bouncing up the narrow drive. Running through my options—fuck me, there weren’t any—I stopped the car and got out while Officer Friendly pulled her van in next to me, followed by Clark in the Bentley. The wind had picked up, rattling the palms in the black sky.

  Friendly got out of the van with the portfolio she was guarding. With a flashlight, she swept the surroundings before proceeding. The beam slid up my backside. “Hngh,” she grunted. “Nice ass, for a white guy.”

  Trying to keep things buoyant, I said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You damn well better.”

  Carrying a box of files from the Bentley toward the house, Clark asked, “Did you check out the lighting?”

  “Uh, look,” I said. “There’s something you need to know. Inside. It’s bad.”

  Clark and Friendly glanced at each other, then rushed into the house. I followed, telling them, “Kitchen.”

  “Holy fucking Christ,” said Friendly, stunned by the grisly scene.

  Clark dropped the files and stared numbly at his husband.

  “Jesus.”

  “No signs of intrusion,” said Friendly, giving me a suspicious look.