“Let’s get you a drink.”
“Now, there’s an offer I needn’t consider twice.”
Glenn laughed. “Come on in.” He led me into the house, through the hall, and directly back to the pool terrace, where a table for two awaited. A cocktail cart stood at the ready, stocked with ice, liquor, glassware, and a tall, silver martini shaker—he didn’t even need to ask. Wordlessly, he set about fixing my drink.
Since moving from the condo into a house, I had come to appreciate the sybaritic pleasures of having my own swimming pool. It seemed I now lived on my terrace, enjoying a nude dip whenever a free moment allowed. Landscaping and a garden wall assured total privacy, an incredible luxury to this transplanted New Yorker.
But my delightful new circumstances paled to the splendor of Glenn’s outdoor living area. Not only was it bigger than mine—considerably so—but both its setting and its design set it apart as one in a million. For starters, Glenn’s privacy was established not by walls or plantings, but by sheer, open space. He overlooked the entire valley some thousand feet below, with only a low stone parapet separating his terrace from the granite slopes beneath. The pool itself was black, of seemingly infinite depth; at its sleek edges, water met the stone paving in a perfect plane. A gargantuan fireplace, the twin of another indoors, lent a finishing touch of fantasy. This evening, it was still too warm and not yet dark enough to warrant a fire, but the massive hearth felt homey and comforting beneath the endless expanse of sky. A pair of planets glimmered near the rising crescent moon.
“I would never leave this spot,” I said with breathless awe, taking it all in.
“You needn’t.” He winked at me, destroying the sublime moment, though the icy martini he passed to me soon restored my sense of peace.
We sat and sipped, and I realized I was grateful for his invitation that night. “It feels good to relax,” I said.
His gaze moved from the distant airport, below, to me, at his side. With a tone of genuine concern, he asked, “How bad is it?” The question was vaguely worded, but Glenn’s meaning was clear. He wondered how deeply I’d gotten tangled in the investigation.
“Pretty bad,” I admitted. “I’m an active suspect.”
Glenn nearly choked on his drink. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“Afraid so.” I summarized, “Not only did Spencer Wallace die in my swimming pool, but I’d made threats against him that evening, twice—once at the party, in the presence of the catering staff, and earlier, to a reporter, the one you foisted on me, by the way.”
Glenn groaned. “Sorry. I was thinking of the school, but I should have realized you were tired.”
I hadn’t been tired; the curtain call had left me with an adrenaline rush. But that was beside the point. “What’s more,” I continued, “Larry Knoll has since determined that Spencer was being slowly poisoned by cadmium, a possibility that I myself suggested, having read Spencer’s screenplay, in which he seemed to spell out the recipe for his own undoing. The killer may have poisoned Spencer at the party or in his home darkroom—or both. In either case, I was there. So I had ample opportunity to do the deed, and my knowledge of the script gave me the means.”
“But, Claire”—Glenn set his glass down—“Detective Knoll is surely aware that you had no conceivable motive to kill Wallace.”
“Didn’t I? Not to play devil’s advocate, but you can’t just dismiss my threats. Sure, they were empty; they were merely dramatic exaggeration, easily understood as such when I spoke them. But now, with Spencer murdered, it looks as if I was hell-bent on paying him back for stealing Tanner from DAC’s theater program.”
“That’s absurd,” Glenn burbled. “You invited Spencer Wallace to our opening production at the college. You knew he was scouting for talent. And Tanner’s rise to stardom will be a credit to the school.”
“We know that, but anyone else might draw the conclusion that I’m a scheming, vengeful, murderous bitch.”
“You, Claire?” He laughed. “Never.”
I took his hand. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but objectively speaking, I had a motive.” I might have pointed out that I’d had a double motive. Whisking Tanner off to Hollywood, Spencer had raided not only my program, but also my bed. It seemed injudicious, however, to share this latter consideration with Glenn.
With his free hand, Glenn swirled his drink. “What does Larry think of your, uh, ‘motive’?”
I let go of Glenn’s hand and sat back, mulling over my predicament. “Larry is professional enough to realize that he can’t ignore suspicious circumstances. Obviously, the best way to clear me of suspicion is to name someone else as the real killer. I was disposed to help him do that even before I had a direct interest in the case.”
Glenn cringed. “Oh, God, Claire—not again.”
In the few months since my arrival, I had already gotten involved with two other murder investigations, and Glenn had made no secret of his disapproval. His claims of fearing for my safety had only strengthened my resolve to assist the police; his protective instincts had also diminished any appeal I might have found in his overtures to romance. The whole issue had grown even more touchy when, to Larry’s satisfaction and to Glenn’s chagrin, my help on those earlier cases had proved valuable and productive.
Sidestepping past quibbles, I told Glenn with a meaningful stare, “This time, it’s different.”
“Oh?” His tone conveyed not only skepticism, but a hint of condescension. If he was trying to jeopardize what affection I felt for him, he was succeeding.
Resisting the temptation to debate matters that would only antagonize him, I stayed the course, explaining in terms he would readily understand, “This time, my own good name is at stake, as is the reputation of the school.”
He seemed to catch his breath for a moment as my logic led him to the very conclusion he had hoped to avoid. “Then, uh”—his features twisted—“if Detective Knoll can make use of your assistance, perhaps you should provide it.”
“I intend to.”
Once Glenn had given his blessing (not that I thought I needed it), we both sensed that a fragile stasis had been achieved, so our conversation drifted to safer, less contentious topics, mainly those involving the school and my plans for the theater department. When I mentioned that I was giving serious thought to conducting a summer workshop, Glenn beamed like a child who’d been handed an unexpected gift adorned with a frilly bow.
“I’m surprised you’d even consider it,” he told me. “After finishing your first season, I should think you’d want to take a break.”
“I would,” I admitted, “but with Tanner leaving the program, I need to start grooming other actors as leading men. We have an ambitious slate of productions ahead of us next year.”
“Excellent,” he bubbled, rubbing his hands together. “I like your thinking—and your dedication.” Christ, he was easy.
Without further discord, cocktails led to dinner. Glenn had called upon staff from the nearby hotel to prepare and serve our meal. When the evening had waned and dusk had turned the sky an inky shade of indigo, a tuxedoed waiter appeared with candles for our little table, followed by another who brought out the appetizer course. It was delicious, as one would expect, considering its source, but in truth, I had no idea what I was eating. With no menu to guide me, I was at a loss to identify whether the sauced, flaky crust on my plate concealed fish, fowl, or cheese. Though generally not reticent by nature, I was nonetheless unwilling to ask crudely, What’s this? While Glenn prattled on about something, I recalled Kiki’s discourse earlier that day regarding the proper delivery of the query—Aowww? Hwat’s this?
Glenn just wouldn’t get it, so I covered my grin with my large damask napkin. I recognized that it, too, had come from the Regal Palms.
During the main course (I didn’t need to ask—it was duck—well, maybe goose), Glenn set down his fork, swallowed, and sat back in his chair, thinking. Exhaling a quiet, wistful noise, he said, “Maybe it�
�s for the best.”
“Hmm?” My mouth was full.
“Wallace,” he said with a note of disapprobation, shaking his head. “He won’t be missed. Maybe it’s for the best.”
“Glenn,” I said, shocked by his comment. “Spencer Wallace was murdered. How could that possibly be ‘for the best’?”
He gave me a shushing gesture with both hands—did he fear I’d disturb the coyotes in the craggy slopes below? “Perhaps that was too harsh of me,” he allowed. “It’s just that, let’s face it, Wallace was not the most likable of men.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“He’d made many enemies, Claire. I’m afraid he reaped what he’d sown.”
“Are you saying he deserved to die—in my swimming pool?”
With remarkable indifference, Glenn explained, “I’m not condoning murder. I’m merely making the observation that someone antagonized by Wallace must have felt that he deserved to die.” Picking up his fork, he sampled another bite of our dinner, chewing contentedly. Dabbing his lips, he said, “The saddle of rabbit is outstanding, don’t you think?”
“Best ever.” I’d have sworn I’d seen a wing on my plate, but by now it was reduced to bones and sauce.
We ate in silence, Glenn relishing the rabbit, me pondering his attitude toward Spencer’s death. Glenn’s blasé justification of the murder—what goes around comes around—was troublesome, to say the least. It was almost enough to cast Glenn himself in a suspicious light.
The e-titan and the movie mogul had not been direct competitors, so I had no reason to feel that Glenn was among the legion of enemies who he claimed had been irked by Spencer. While the two men shared no business concerns, they did, however, share certain traits. To their credit, both were successful, intelligent, powerful, and wealthy. On the negative side, each felt boundless esteem for his own role in the world. I’d always noted that their interaction had been colored by an undertone of disdain, if not outright sniping—as in “This valley ain’t big enough for the both of us.”
Sitting there, picking at my rabbit, watching Glenn lick his fingertips, I realized with a start that if I myself had had a plausible motive to kill Spencer, so had Glenn. Spencer had “stolen” Tanner Griffin from my theater program, which was, after all, Glenn’s creation. Indeed, the theater department was the raison d’être of the entire school; Glenn had built Desert Arts College first and foremost to advance the dramatic arts. Was he now stewing over the loss of Tanner as much as I was? More so?
It was a tempting thought that Glenn’s support of my efforts at the school was so obsessive that he’d turned murderously vengeful when Spencer’s recruitment of Tanner seemed to thwart my mission. What’s more, I considered, Glenn had been at Saturday’s party before Spencer was found dead. But then I recalled that I’d previously entertained suspicions about the darker side of D. Glenn Yeats, only to be proven laughably off base. Was my theatrical perspective on crime solving again taking a turn toward the melodramatic? Plucking the olive from the bottom of my martini glass, I popped it in my mouth and rolled it over my tongue, chiding myself for nurturing such shady doubts about my generous mentor and benefactor.
Light, friendly conversation peppered the remainder of our meal.
As we were finishing dessert (I can say with certainty only that it was sweet; beyond that, I’ll hazard no guess), Glenn checked his watch and said, “It’s early. Can’t you spend the evening? We could watch a movie, perhaps, or simply share each other’s company.” He reached across the table and placed his fingers on my hand. “I know no greater pleasure, Claire, than being with you.”
“I’m touched, Glenn.” My weak smile was more of a pout. “But I just can’t stay, not tonight. It’s been such an ordeal. I’m exhausted.”
“Of course, my dear. I understand.”
He did not understand, but I gave him a grateful nod.
And I took no pleasure in lying to him.
8
Although I was indeed exhausted that night, my reluctance to linger with Glenn had nothing to do with fatigue.
After strolling with Glenn through the house to the parking court, bidding a winsome farewell, and exchanging a solid if not heated kiss on the lips, I hopped into my Beetle and roared down the mountain road that would lead me home to Tanner. By plan, he was coming over to spend the night after his day of packing. I had wanted to share a meal with him—one of our last—but Glenn had scuttled those intentions with his urgent plea for our dinner meeting. When I had phoned to explain my predicament to Tanner, he hadn’t minded at all, saying it would give him more time to finish at his apartment. He would shower and change there, then drive over, letting himself in with his key.
Turning off Country Club onto my side street, I held my breath for a moment, wondering if he had arrived yet, hoping I wouldn’t need to spend another minute without him. A smile spread across my face as the boxy form of his black Jeep appeared from the shadow of my garage.
I pulled in, got out of the car, and fairly ran into the house. The lights were on; something soft and jazzy was playing on the stereo. But I didn’t see Tanner in the living room or the adjacent kitchen. Was he waiting for me in the bedroom? An enticing prospect, to be sure, but it was still too early for the climax of the boudoir—better to prolong our penultimate night together.
Rushing through the hall to the bedroom, I saw that he had been there, as evidenced by a large nylon gym bag on the bed; he’d begun removing a few things from my dresser drawers. With a bittersweet grin, I wondered if he’d missed the pair of boot socks Grant had pilfered. Stepping over to the bag, I reached inside and took out one of his neatly folded T-shirts. Lifting it reverently, I then buried my face in it, inhaling the intoxicating smells of detergent and fabric softener and Tanner himself.
So it’s come to this, I told myself. Though I meant to feel ashamed—reduced to sniffing my young lover’s underwear—I felt only the rush of excitement and intimacy. Digging deeper in his bag, I found a jockstrap and, dropping any pretense of ladylike behavior, made an absolute pig of myself.
“There you are!” I said, walking outdoors from the living room to the terrace. There was a distinct lilt to my voice and bounce to my step as I discovered Tanner lounging in the shallow end of the pool, sans swimwear. Eerie blue ripples from the underwater light distorted his body beneath his chest.
He broke into a broad smile at the sound of my voice. “I didn’t hear you come in.” With a hint of apology, he added, “The music …”
“Glad you made yourself at home.”
“The water’s great.” He raised a dripping hand from the surface and beckoned me with his index finger.
It took me all of twenty seconds to slip out of my clothes and pad barefoot to the corner of the pool. Tanner stood on one of the steps that ascended from the water, then offered me a hand as I dipped my feet in next to him, submerging my legs to the knees. In contrast to the cool night air, the water felt warm, so I eased myself in to the neck.
He sat next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “You’re especially beautiful tonight.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” I tried to mask the extreme understatement in my infatuated tone. Tanner Griffin was, as always, a sight to behold. “You look none the worse from the rigors of your day of labor.”
“It wasn’t so bad, just time-consuming. I mean, I wasn’t moving grand pianos; I was packing clothes and books.”
“And the kitchen,” I added. “Pots and pans are heavy.”
He laughed. “Not the aluminum junk from my kitchen. If I were smart, I’d just throw it all out.”
Considering that I had moved a truckload of worthless furniture from New York, only to trash it a few months later, I allowed, “It might save some effort.”
“It’s already packed,” he said with a shrug, sending soft ripples across the length of the pool.
Then he took my hand and strolled me away from the steps, wrapping me in his arms when the water deepened to che
st height. We held each other, chins hooked over each other’s shoulders, moving woozily together, swaying to the music that drifted from the living room.
I felt the nudge of his arousal against my belly. “You’re a born dancer,” I said, deadpan. “Such technique.”
“Just follow my lead.” He humped me playfully, backing me to the wall of the pool, where he slid himself between my legs and mimicked penetration. This wasn’t sex, not even foreplay; we both understood that that could wait. Rather, this was a frolic—pure, simple, and pleasurable. I gladly endured his gentle pummeling while, from behind, one of the pool’s jets splashed against the nape of my neck.
After a minute or so, Tanner said, “I’d better stop.” His voice had gotten throaty.
“It’s your call,” I said with airy indifference. He could keep it up all night, for all I cared.
“It’ll be better for you later,” he promised.
“Then you’d better stop.”
He took a step away from me and, with a kick, pushed himself toward the deep end of the pool, floating on his back. His penis gave a friendly salute, waving proud and tall in the night air. I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, speaking to the black sky.
“Nothing at all. Just enjoying myself.”
He scrunched himself into a ball, sank a few feet, then spun himself facedown, swimming to the bottom of the pool with long, strong strokes. A moment later, he shot to the top, breaking the surface like a manly dolphin. His cold spray drenched me. I yelped.
“Sorry,” he called, dropping back into the water. Treading it, he barely cleared his mouth. “C’mon,” he said, inviting me to join him at the deep end.
This scene was not a new one; in fact, it was a familiar routine. These nighttime escapades often provided the perfect, relaxing finale to a stressful day. Our high jinks in deep water had become a delightful ritual.
So I waded in his direction, and when the bottom of the pool dropped away from my feet, I swam. As I drew near Tanner, he dove again, sliding noiselessly deeper and deeper. When he reached bottom, he flung all four limbs, drifting, at peace with the living body of water.
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