Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  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?”

  “With open trays, the rule of thumb is twenty-four hours. But that can be stretched, and I know that Spencer often did, simply replenishing the trays after they’d sat overnight.” Sensing where Larry’s reasoning was headed, I added, “Given that scenario, someone could have spiked the tray of used stop bath, perhaps during the night, leaving Spencer to inhale the fumes during his next session in the darkroom.”

  Larry directed the deputies to impound the trays, equipment, and concentrated developing solutions for evidence. “Take special care with the chemicals. Have all the bottles analyzed to confirm whether their contents are consistent with their labeling. And needless to say, check scrupulously for trace elements of cadmium anywhere in the room.”

  The evidence technicians got down to work. By now, they were sweating.

  So were Larry and I. He pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his brow.

  I said, “There must be an exhaust fan in here. Let me try to find the switch.” With the walls, switch plates, and ceiling all painted flat black, the task was more difficult than one would suppose.

  “Uh, Miss Gray?” said one of the deputies. “It doesn’t seem to be working. There’s an exhaust system, and we found the switch, but it won’t kick on.”

  Larry and I exchanged a glance. He told the tech, “We need to get to the bottom of that. Figure out what’s wrong with the fan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Larry asked me, “Do you recall if it was working before, when you were here with Wallace?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. I presume it was working, because I never noticed the heat. But then again, there were never four people in the room, just the two of us.”

  Larry paused. “Let’s get some air.”

  I needed no further prodding. We slipped out of the darkroom and passed through the library, then stepped out to the courtyard. Dazzling sunlight ricocheted in bursts from the rippling surface of the pool as my eyes adjusted from the dim interior. Through a squint, I asked Larry, “Now what?”
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  “Well”—he slipped on a pair of dark glasses that gave him a vaguely sinister mien, a bad-cop air—“I plan to visit the clinic where Wallace got a checkup last week. The doctor who examined him is expecting me in a half hour. I can drop you off at home, or you can tag along with me.”

  “I suppose I have time.” Of course I wanted to go. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to tell you about something, a strange encounter.”

  Readily interested, he suggested, “Tell me now.”

  “Let’s sit down.” We were near the deep end of the pool, where a tall palm happened to cast a circle of shade around the anchored end of a diving board. A foot or so off the ground, it made a handy bench, so we both settled on it. I told Larry, “Remember yesterday morning, when you were trying to reach me and you called Grant’s cell phone?”

  “Yup. My hunch was correct. You were with him.”

  I nodded. “Since he’d spent Saturday night at my house, he took me out for Sunday brunch—at the Regal Palms Hotel.”

  “Nothing but the best for Grant. He has fabulous taste.” Larry grinned, removing his glasses and pocketing them.

  “That’s where we were when you phoned, out on the terrace.”

  “A table with a view …”

  “Yes, his usual table.”

  “So? What was so strange about the encounter?”

  With a soft laugh, I shook my head. “The encounter with Grant wasn’t strange. It was the bunch of hotel guests at a nearby table. They were having a good time and being conspicuously loud. I didn’t think much of it—it was a champagne brunch. My mood was on the sour side because of what had happened, but I couldn’t expect total strangers to share my dumps over Spencer’s death. As far as I knew, they hadn’t even heard about it.”

  “It was all over the TV news yesterday morning.”

  “I hadn’t realized that; I was thinking of newspaper deadlines. Later, during a trip inside to the buffet table, I heard them gabbing merrily about Spencer’s death—they’d heard the news. I also heard someone mention my name—they’d seen the interview in the Tribune. Most important, I realized that Gabe Arlington was among them.”

  Larry scrunched his brow. “Who?”

  “Gabe is the director Spencer had hired for the filming of Photo Flash.”

  “Ah, sure. Gabe Arlington—I know the name.”

  “He used to be big, but according to Spencer, he was practically washed-up in Hollywood, so Photo Flash represented a golden opportunity for Gabe to stage a comeback and rekindle his faltering career.”

  Larry looked confused. “Then you’d think he’d show some remorse over Wallace’s death.”

  “Precisely. Spencer Wallace had given Gabe a much-needed break. But according to both Gabe and Tanner, the film production is still on schedule and the buzz surrounding Spencer’s murder will actually help the picture with added publicity.”

  Larry shook his head, musing, “And I thought police work could be a cold, brutal business.”

  “I just don’t get it,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “No one seems the least bit fazed by Spencer’s death. In fact, most of those who ought to be grieving seem downright giddy that Spencer fell victim to such an awful twist of fate.”

  “It wasn’t fate,” Larry reminded me. “Circumstances suggest that his death was not only intentional, but carefully premeditated.” He got out his notebook and turned to his schedule for the day. “It sounds as if I should have a chat with Gabe Arlington.”

  “God, Larry, I suppose so, but I’m not sure you can trust my instincts anymore. Everyone looks suspicious to me.”

  “I was thinking the same thing myself.” As he scribbled a note, I wondered how suspicious he found me at that moment. Taking the cell phone from his belt, he asked, “Do you think I can reach Arlington at the hotel?”

  “Not sure. He planned on driving back to LA today. Maybe he hasn’t checked out yet.”

  Larry got busy on the phone.

  I stood, pacing a few steps along the side of the pool, away from the shaded diving board. Another tall palm, I noticed, was casting the shadow of its fronds directly into the pool, making a dark, wavy blob beneath the water. Again I was reminded of Spencer’s body drifting in the depths of my own pool. Blinking away this morbid image, I marveled at how easily I had transformed icons of paradise—swimming pools and palm trees—into symbols of death. This is nuts, I told myself, and I knew I had all the more reason to help Larry solve the murder. I wanted to return, and quickly, to a paradise unthreatened by shadows.

  “Claire,” said Larry, covering the phone with his hand, “I caught Gabe Arlington. He can meet us for lunch at the hotel. I don’t even know the guy, so I’d appreciate it if you could join us. Can you make it?”

  “Are you buying?” As if I cared. Without waiting for an answer, I told him, “Sure, Larry, count me in.”

  Larry finished on the phone, wrote a note, then rose. “It’s good of you to give me so much time.”

  We stood at the pool’s edge, gazing over the water. I recalled, “Yesterday you said that by any objective measure, I had to be considered a suspect in this case. So I have a vested interest in helping you prove that anyone but me was responsible. My time is your time.” I paused, adding, “Except I do need to get over to campus this afternoon.”

  He smiled. “I’ll drive you there myself, if necessary. Now, then—shall we visit that doctor?”

  “What’s his name?”

  Larry filled me in as we stepped around the pool, crossed the courtyard, and entered the main wing of the house, heading for the front door.

  Arriving in the entry hall, Larry and I paused and looked about. We were capable of letting ourselves out, but we were inclined to announce our departure and thank our hostess for her “hospitality” and cooperativeness.

  “Maybe she went back to bed,” Larry told me.

  I muttered, “For her sake, I hope so.”

  Just as Larry was reaching for the door, I noticed, from the edge of my vision, a pink bathrobe whisking past an adjacent hall. I called, “Oh, Rebecca?”

  Larry and I paused at the door as Bryce Ballantyne retraced his steps, appeared again in the side hall, and strode forward, barefoot, to greet us. His robe not only resembled Rebecca’s, it was the same slovenly cover-up. I recognized the orange-juice stain.

  “Detective. Miss Gray,” he said, extending his hand. In the opposite arm he cradled a hot bag of popcorn, fresh from the microwave, still steaming. The heady smell filled the room within seconds. I felt suddenly famished; my mouth watered.

  We exchanged terse greetings, explaining that we were just on our way out.

  I couldn’t help asking, “Popcorn for breakfast?”

  “Not really. We’re watching a movie. Oh—have some?” He proffered the bag.

  Larry declined.

  I hesitated, but reached for a fistful, thanking Bryce.

  Then Larry and I left. Walking to the car, I munched kernels of popcorn from my palm.

  “Huh,” said Larry. “Interesting—movies on Monday morning.”

  I swallowed, nodded. “And when Bryce said, ‘We’re watching a movie,’ I assumed he meant he and Rebecca. Did you notice? They were sharing more than popcorn.”

  “Yup. They were sharing the same bathrobe.”

  “Huh,” I echoed Larry’s earlier observation. “Interesting.”

  10

  Shortly before eleven o’clock, Larry drove into Palm Desert and found the side street off El Paseo where Sunnyside Medical Center was located. Despite its lofty name, the “medical center” was simply a walk-in clinic consisting of several doctors’ offices. A uniformed car parker stepped forward the moment we pulled to the curb, leading me to conclude that Sunnyside served a well-heeled clientele.

  “Do you have an appointment?” he asked while assisting me out of the car. Perhaps I looked sickly.

  Larry told him, “Doctor Jandali is expecting us.”

  “Very good, sir. Please step inside.�
�� He slid behind the wheel of the car, doubtless surprised to find the bland sedan equipped with police radio, flashers, and a DMV computer. When he touched the accelerator, he was also surprised by the souped-up engine that propelled the car into the street with a fearsome lurch. Larry barely took note of this; it happened all the time.

  We stepped under an awning, through the door, and into a small but tastefully appointed reception area—no fish tanks, no play area for the kiddies. A smartly dressed woman, not a nurse, sat behind a marble counter, flashing us a well-practiced smile. “Good morning … ?” she said with a lilt, as if to ask what we wanted.

  Larry introduced himself, produced his badge, and explained, “We have an eleven o’clock meeting with Doctor Pradeep Jandali. Is he available?”

  Flustered—apparently not aware that the police were expected—the woman flipped a few pages of her appointment ledger and answered, “I think so, yes. He’s finishing with a patient right now, and I don’t see any others scheduled till afternoon. Let me check.” She got on the phone. When the other party answered, she swiveled away from us and conversed in a whisper.

  Larry caught my eye and drummed his fingers on the counter.

  “Yes, Detective,” the receptionist said, hanging up the phone, standing. “The doctor can see you now. If you’ll follow me … ?”

  I expected to be led into a cramped doctor’s office, an examination room, but the room we entered was large and inviting, resembling a clubby lounge. French doors opened to a tranquil garden with a fountain. The receptionist had no sooner left us when a door on the opposite wall opened and in walked the doctor. He carried several oversize files.