Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  During this lull in our conversation, I glanced about the other tables on the terrace. People gabbed, laughed, and ate. Laid-back and casually dressed but conspicuously accessorized in all manner of designer whatnot, most were Angelinos on a weekend’s retreat from the smoggy metropolis. Sunday papers were folded on the tables or scattered on the stone floor. I glimpsed headlines from New York and Los Angeles and the local Desert Sun. There was no mention of Spencer Wallace; news of his drowning was too late for the overnight deadline. As far as the trendy brunch crowd was concerned, this was just another peaceful morning in paradise.

  One table, at the far end of the terrace, was getting raucous. Their giddy hoots and loud repartee lent a disagreeable note to the elegant surroundings. Perhaps they had tarried too long with their champagne before moving on to the eggs Benedict and lobster soufflé. I assumed a hotel manager would soon stop by to politely, but firmly, shush them.

  Grant followed my stare. “Who are they?” he wondered, appalled. There were five or six of them at the circular table. One of them, a man with his back to us, brayed at the sky, handing his newspaper to the woman sitting next to him.

  I conjectured, “Perhaps they don’t know better—or simply don’t care.”

  “Well, they’re old enough to know better.” Grant jerked his head in the direction of the unruly table. “Those aren’t kids. In fact, Laughing Boy looks older than us.”

  “We’re hardly ancient,” I said with mild umbrage. But Grant’s comment was apt; Laughing Boy was no moppet. From behind, his silvery hair gave him a grandfatherly air. What’s more, he looked familiar, but the back of his head was an insufficient clue to his identity, and I was at a loss to place him.

  “Shall we get something to eat?” asked Grant. “I’m starved.”

  “Sure. Let’s graze.”

  So Grant rose, helped me from my chair, and walked indoors with me to the lavish buffet, leaving the rowdy table behind.

  It was all too much—the food, that is. An omelette chef stood at the ready to concoct fresh, frothy egg dishes of any description. Baskets brimmed with breads and buns. A sculpted cornucopia of ice spilled heaps of shrimp and crab onto silver platters. Sausage and bacon and little breakfast steaks hissed in flame-licked chafing dishes. Boats of jams and sauces and syrup littered the long table in festive confusion. Though it was my intention to “just pick,” a waiter stepped forward to hand me a fresh plate, offering to carry my first plate, now loaded high, back to the table for me. I gratefully accepted his offer, returning, unencumbered, to my frenzied foraging.

  So engrossed had I become in the task of food-gathering (as if I might starve), I failed to notice that the table of revelers had stepped indoors to do the same. When I returned to the terrace with Grant, the lofty setting seemed eerily quiet. It was not till I seated myself, scraping the metal chair legs on the limestone pavers, that I realized Laughing Boy and his cohorts had ditched their bubbly and hit the trough. “Ah,” I said with a dainty snap of my oversize damask napkin, “that’s better.”

  Poising a silver fork, I focused on the task at hand. Generous chunks of lobster disappeared from my plate as fast as I could drag them through a buttery, opalescent pool of hollandaise.

  Grant and I spoke very little—our mouths were busy. At some point, Laughing Boy’s table returned, but I took little note of them, as they too had grown quiet, engrossed in the magnificent brunch. Though I had found their behavior boorish, even they understood that, ultimately, fine dining is no laughing matter. We were one in our appreciation of the moment, the food, and the setting.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched a quail scamper across the apron of the hotel swimming pool and disappear beneath the fronds of a tiny, precious sago palm. Our mountaintop, that morning, was a peaceable kingdom.

  But I could not completely brush aside, even momentarily, the vexing questions that had arisen with the discovery of a corpse in my own swimming pool. Ah, well, I told myself with a pensive sigh, at least the mystery of Spencer Wallace’s death had allowed me to sidestep the issue of Tanner’s departure.

  As if reading my thoughts, Grant put down his fork, dabbed his lips, and asked quietly, “What’s wrong, doll?”

  “Well”—I whirled my fork—“everything. I mean, Spencer, of course. It was ghastly.”

  “The case is in good hands. Larry usually manages to get to the bottom of these things. Yet milady seems vexed. Are you sure it isn’t Tanner?”

  Exhaling noisily, I allowed, “Perhaps it is. I was so sure I would be stolid. Intellectually, I’ve known that I’m losing Tanner to bigger things, to another calling, one that I helped him achieve, so I’ve been congratulating myself on the success of my plans for him. Still …”

  “Still,” Grant concluded my thought, “he’s leaving. You’re losing him.”

  My shoulders slumped. “God, Grant, I wish you wouldn’t put it quite that way.” With an inelegant little snort, I forced back a tear.

  Ashen, Grant rose from his chair and scooted to sit directly next to me, on the low wall that surrounded the terrace. He reached for my hands and leaned close. “Sorry, doll. I’m such a lout, being so blunt.”

  “You?” I laughed quietly. “A lout? Never, Grant. You’re the perfect gentleman—and my best friend.” I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it.

  He gave me a hug. “Would you like some more champagne?”

  My glass was almost empty, and the little wine that remained in it was warm and flat. I considered, but declined, “Better not. The day is young, and there’s no telling what might follow.”

  “Most meals are followed by dessert.” Grant twitched a brow.

  I groaned. I’d gotten a quick look at the dessert table while filling my first two plates. It was all too tempting, but I had already overindulged. In fact, I could barely breathe. With a soft shake of my head, I told Grant, “Thanks, love, but I’ll have to pass.”

  “Aw, come on,” he said rising, offering his hand. “A little sweet taste is just what the doctor ordered to cut through this savory repast. Perhaps just a dollop of sorbet?” Seductively, he added, “I spied mango.”

  Hmm. There was little point in resisting, so I rose. Walking indoors with Grant, I told him under my breath, “You are wicked.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “C’est moi—une tentatrice extraordinaire.”

  No sooner had we arrived at the dessert table (a dollop of mango sorbet, my eye) when Laughing Boy and his companions came in from the terrace as well. Sated by their meal, as well as the champagne, they were again becoming too jovial; they sounded even louder indoors than when I had first noticed them outside. As logistics would have it, I still could see only the back of Laughing Boy’s head, its silvery locks shaking as he regaled his party with an observation unheard by me but found terribly amusing by the others.

  “Good God,” he continued as I slid a litchi nut onto my plate, where it mingled with an assortment of other sweet delicacies, “who’d have thought it? It seems Spencer finally met his match.”

  The others agreed merrily with a chorus of inane right-ons.

  I froze momentarily, not only in reaction to the cold humor and the unseemly topic, but also in recognition of Laughing Boy’s voice. It was Gabe Arlington, director of Photo Flash. I considered turning my back to the group and wandering nearer, the better to listen, but common courtesy demanded that I should make my presence known and forestall the future embarrassment of discovery at an awkward moment.

  Someone said, “I wonder if Claire Gray has read the paper yet.”

  Shocked into action, I asked brightly, “Did I hear my name?”

  Heads—including Gabe’s silvery mop top—turned. It seemed the entire crowded room was caught in suspended animation for an interminable span of several seconds while everyone tried to assess what had been said, heard, and meant. Even the background clatter of plates and cutlery hushed.

  “Good heavens,” said Gabe, getting a good look at me, smiling too broadly, “w
hat a pleasant coincidence. Good morning, Claire.” Then his look instantly sobered as he stepped to me at the dessert table and offered a hug.

  I managed to return the gesture without spilling my slippery litchi nut.

  “You must be devastated,” said Gabe, patting my back.

  Confused, I asked, “It’s in the papers already? The police didn’t arrive till after midnight.”

  “Uh, no,” he said, equally confused, “at least I didn’t notice it in the paper. But it was all over the TV news this morning.”

  “Ahhh.” I should have known, but I rarely thought about television, and it would never even occur to me to switch it on in the morning.

  Grant was standing nearby with his mango sorbet, which was beginning to melt, sliding lazily across the waxy surface of a banana leaf that garnished his plate. Cocking his head, he asked anyone, “Then why were you wondering if Claire had read the paper?”

  In sheepish silence, Gabe’s companions abandoned him, retreating to their table on the terrace.

  Gabe asked me, “Then you didn’t see it?”

  “See what?” My confusion was now tinged with annoyance.

  “The Los Angeles Tribune. Your interview.”

  “Oh. I’d totally forgotten …”

  “Kemper Fahlstrom apparently caught you after the show closed last night.”

  Nodding, I recounted, “We spent a few minutes talking on the set before I headed home for the party.” My brow wrinkled. “Hope I didn’t come across like a blabbering idiot.”

  Gabe didn’t answer.

  “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.

  6

  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 turne
d 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.”