Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  We avoided further discussion of the deceased producer until the meal’s end, when our plates had been cleared and coffee was poured. Larry opened his notebook again. “You’ve been very candid, Mr. Arlington, and I appreciate that. Plain and simple, can you tell me—did you like Spencer Wallace?”

  “Hmmm.” Gabe nudged aside his cup and saucer. “There’s no point in window dressing, I suppose.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  Gabe weighed his words. “I think it’s safe to say, Detective, that no one in the film industry truly ‘liked’ Spencer Wallace, myself included. That said, everyone did respect the man; his accomplishments were legendary, and his power was self-evident. Because of that power, most of his associates also felt a measure of fear. Wallace was capable of ruining careers—in a heartbeat, on a whim—and he sometimes did.”

  Larry asked, “Your previous career slump, did that have anything to do with Wallace?”

  “Nothing at all. I blame only my own poor judgment for those dark years. Wallace handed me the opportunity to turn everything around again.”

  “And still, you say you didn’t like him.”

  “As a person? As a friend? Certainly not.” Gabe turned to me. “Sorr y, Claire. I realize that you and Spencer had gotten close. Evidently, you saw something in the man that I didn’t.”

  “I did,” I insisted. “I’m sorry he’s gone.”

  Gabe couldn’t bring himself to voice sympathy for my sense of loss. Instead, he noted, “What an exit. At least Spencer’s dramatic departure will serve the best interests of Photo Flash, and I know how deeply he cared about the project. The buzz is already starting to build. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Finishing my coffee, I felt an acidic knot grip my stomach.

  When the bartender returned to present the check, Larry signaled that he wanted it, but Gabe piped in, “Nonsense, Detective. I’ll take that. Let the production company pay for it—it’s nothing.” He signed the bill to his hotel tab.

  The three of us rose and walked to the lobby together. Preparing to part company, we paused under a large, graceful chandelier. I thanked Gabe for lunch; Larr y thanked him for his time.

  “My pleasure entirely,” he told us, glancing at his watch.

  I did the same; it was nearly one o’clock. I asked Gabe, “Checkout time? Ready to head back to LA?”

  He nodded, but looked unsure. “That was the plan. But the day seems to have slipped away already.” He yawned—doubtless the effect of his two cocktails.

  I suggested, “Stay another night. Tanner isn’t driving out till tomorrow morning. I understand the preproduction meeting isn’t till Wednesday, correct?”

  “Correct.” Gabe shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Why rush back?”

  We exchanged a few pleasantries. Then Gabe strolled off toward one of the guest wings; Larr y and I went out to the portico, where we waited for his car.

  It was Larry’s turn to check his watch. He seemed perplexed.

  “Late for a golf game?” I asked with a twisted smile.

  “Right.” He laughed. “I’m supposed to meet my brother at three—we have a little business matter to take care of—but the logistics have me stumped. He has a two o’clock in north Palm Springs, but I have an appointment down in Indio.” They would be at opposite ends of the valley.

  As Larr y’s car circled up the driveway, I offered, “You can meet at my place if you like. It’s about midway, and I should be back from campus by then.”

  Cocking his head, considering my proposal, Larr y asked, “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. You and Grant are always welcome.”

  “Then I think we’ll take you up on that.”

  When we were settled in the car, Larr y phoned Grant, told him the plan, and drove me home so I could pick up my own car.

  12

  Driving my silver Beetle across the valley toward the campus of Desert Arts College, I attempted to clear my head of the murder and to concentrate on matters relevant to the school. I was on Glenn Yeats’s payroll, after all, not Larr y Knoll’s, and it seemed only fair to give my employer an hour or two of my time as we entered the final few weeks of the school’s first academic year.

  I needed to drop in at the theater and check on the crew’s progress at striking the set of Traders. By now, I assumed, there would be little or no evidence of the show that had closed on Saturday. A clean stage would await the theater’s next production.

  Also on my brief agenda: I wanted to stop at Glenn’s office and inform him that I would commit to conducting a theater workshop that coming summer. This decision would doubtless be greeted as wonderful news, which I hoped might lessen his transparent annoyance that I had, once again, gotten myself—and the school—mixed up with a murder investigation.

  Finally, I planned to spend a few minutes in my own office, checking my files, re-creating the party guest list that Larry had requested. This last task, I realized, was hardly school business; I marveled at how quickly circumstances had thwarted my good intentions to earn an honest day’s pay.

  The campus now lay dead ahead, an instant landmark rising from the sand-swept valley floor. I. T. Dirkman’s collection of buildings punched the severely blue sky in calculated confusion, but the one structure that dominated this fanciful backdrop was my theater. The mere sight of it was enough to freshen my mind and energize my thoughts. Flooring the Beetle, I tore through the main entrance to the campus and sputtered to the faculty garage, where I parked in the prime space that Glenn had reserved for me on the day when Dirkman had first unveiled his plans.

  The campus was built around a large paved plaza called College Circle. One o’clock classes had begun, and I had the entire space to myself. Walking through the lushly landscaped common, with its palms, pools, and fountains, I momentarily dismissed the vexing questions of an unexplained death, contemplating instead the sheer beauty of the setting and the day. A warm early-afternoon breeze hinted at the planetary slide from spring to summer. An unseen mockingbird trilled with ecstatic abandon.

  I preferred to think of the plaza as an enormous entryway built solely to lead visitors to my theater’s facade. My pace quickened as I approached the building’s angular shadow. With heels snapping on the stone pavers, I strutted through College Circle as if I owned the place.

  Arriving at the lobby doors, I paused, wondering if they were locked, wondering if I had thought to bring my key. But then I noticed lights at the box office in the lobby, where a few patrons hunkered over seating diagrams, choosing tickets for various events. Stepping inside, I felt an instant sense of calm, as if arriving home—truly home. Then, crossing the vast, plush expanse of carpet, I felt my pulse rush in anticipation of entering the auditorium itself. I had walked into theaters surely thousands of times. Each time, it was new again. It was magic.

  Passing through the double doors from the lobby to the theater, I saw that the strike crew had nearly completed its work. The Traders set had been completely removed, as had most of the furniture; an odd chair or two remained. Striding down the aisle, I hailed the crew foreman, “Yoo-hoo! Morgan.”

  “Howdy, Miss Gray.” He waved to me from the edge of the stage. “Just finishing up.” With a hearty laugh, he added, “Bring on the next one!”

  “Soon enough, Morgan. Soon enough.” I climbed a set of rehearsal stairs that led from the auditorium floor to the stage apron.

  Hearing my voice, Kiki appeared from the wing, stage right. “Claire, darling, I hope there’s no rush—I’ve barely recovered from this production.” Though she was joking, she did seem frazzled that afternoon. She carried an armload of costumes that I didn’t recognize, period dresses that would have looked absurdly anachronistic in the contemporary setting of Traders. She handed them off to a student assistant, explaining to me, “Amazing how things pile up. I found a whole rack of misplaced gowns from the Christmas choral program.” With a grand flourish, she directed the student, “To
the costume vault!”

  The kid lumbered away, lost in a heap of flounces and petticoats.

  Morgan helped one of the lighting technicians move a tall ladder offstage, and suddenly, the job looked complete. He asked me, “Do you want those chairs put away?” Without them, the stage would be empty.

  “Thanks, Morgan, but just leave them.” A bare stage has always struck me as sad and lifeless.

  Morgan and his remaining crew stowed some tools, locked their storage bins, switched off the backstage work lights, and left through a freight door, closing it with a thud that echoed through the empty theater.

  I turned to Kiki, who stood alone with me onstage. “Well,” I told her with a shrug, “another shining moment in theatrical history … is history.”

  She heaved a big, dramatic sigh. “Blood under the bridge, darling.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “It’s good to be with you, Kiki. Need to run?”

  She checked an oversize wristwatch with a mile-wide black patent-leather band. “Not yet. My practicum class starts at two.”

  “And they can’t very well begin without you.”

  “They dare not.” Kiki laughed. “Ah, how I love teaching—like playing God.” She plopped herself onto one of the two armchairs, center stage.

  “Teaching isn’t a power trip, Kiki. It’s about molding young minds. At least it’s supposed to be.” I sat in the other chair, near her.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She was unconvinced.

  I mimicked her nasal tone. “‘Yeah, yeah, yeah’? Not very sophisticated—dah-ling.”

  “Why, Claire, I hardly need to keep up pretenses with you.”

  I wondered aloud, “Why keep up pretenses with anyone?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Nothing.” I reached and patted her hand. “I’m grateful for the company. Keeps my mind off … you-know-what.”

  Kiki whirled a hand, stabbing at an answer. “Murder?”

  I nodded. “The investigation intrigues me, but I never thought it would take this particular turn. I’m an active suspect.”

  She flicked a wrist dismissively. “In a technical sense. Maybe. But Larry won’t be giving you the rubber-hose treatment—at least I doubt it.”

  Grimly, I observed, “That’s reassuring.”

  “Claire—forget the murder. He’ll figure it out. It had nothing to do with you. Case closed.”

  “Hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.”

  I stood, took a step downstage, and looked out over the empty rows of scarlet velvet seats. With a contented little sigh, I said, “We should do this more often—take time to talk.”

  “Just like the old days.”

  I turned to her. “Did you ever think, thirty-odd years ago, when we met at Evans College, that we’d end up here—today—thick as thieves?”

  “Ah,” she said wistfully, “we’ve come a long way from idyllic little Evanstown.”

  “Mm-hm,” I agreed. “Three thousand miles.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Kiki, wagging a hand. “I mean … life. The ‘journey.’”

  “I know.” With a warm smile, I sat next to her again.

  “Now here we are again, full circle, back at college together.”

  “Except, now, we’re on the opposite coast.”

  “And,” Kiki stressed, leaning near, “we’re running the show.”

  Laughing, I asked, “You really do love it, don’t you?”

  With matter-of-fact innocence, she replied, “Absolutely. It’s my life.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “No, Claire.” Kiki’s look turned serious. “Your life is theater. Mine is academia. I’d be utterly adrift without it, and my position here is the fulfillment of a fantasy. But you, Claire—this was never what you had in mind.”

  Mulling her assertion, I realized she was largely correct. “Still,” I said, “now that I’m here, I have no regrets. When I made the decision to suspend my career on Broadway, I saw it as an adventure, not a goal. I guess I was lured by the prospect of starting over.” With a soft laugh, I added, “At my age …”

  Kiki rapped my hand. “At our age. But, hey”—she sat erect, with mock defensiveness—“we’re not old.”

  “Hell, no!” I said, miming her tone and posture.

  She sat back. “My point, Claire, is that you have options; you always have. Good God, gal, you’re at the top of your profession. You’ve not only established a rock-solid reputation as one of the greatest directors in American theater—enough in itself—but you’ve written a top-notch play of your own, you’ve launched countless new actors’ careers, and I can’t even guess how many times you’ve had featured interviews in Newsweek, The New Yorker, you name it.”

  I named, “The Los Angeles Tribune.”

  “Ugh, well, forget that one. All I’m saying is this: if things don’t work out for you here, or if you simply get bored with it, you’ll move on to something else. And you’ll knock ’em dead again and again.” She leaned forward. Her tone turned flatly realistic, not whining. “I don’t have those options, Claire. For me, being here, now—this is what I do. This is all I do. And it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  I repeated her earlier assertion: “It’s your life.”

  “But getting here … well, it wasn’t easy.” She flumped back in her chair, dangling one arm.

  I didn’t intend to sound condescending, but perhaps my tone was too kindly as I told her, “Let’s just say you hit a rough spot along the way. That’s behind you now. It was a long time ago, Kiki.”

  “Not long enough. It never will be.” She fidgeted with her empty hand, picking at her nails. “Aarghh! Why did I quit smoking?”

  Pointedly, I answered, “For the same reason that you battled your way out of those other bad habits.”

  She rose, strolling downstage. “Yeah, yeah, yeah …”

  Through an exaggerated, nasal twang, I echoed, “Yeah, yeah, yeah …”

  With a little spit of laughter, she turned to me. “I hardly ever talk about it, but with you, it’s easy.”

  “What are friends for?”

  Kiki paused, turned to the imaginary audience, and delivered a gossipy spiel, as if giving a tell-all interview on a TV talk show. “Well, ya see,” she began, sounding chatty, “it was back in the seventies—the sizzling seventies. Everyone was doing it, and I developed this little problem. Designer drugs were all the rage, and—never one to miss out on a trend—I was there, baby. Drugs were big among the theater crowd back then; still are, I guess. And they never went out of style on campus, so I got the proverbial double whammy. I’d just returned to Evans, my alma mater, as a lowly instructor in the costume shop, and well, I was having a ball.”

  She took a breath. When she continued, her tone was less glib. “I was having a ball—I thought. Until one night when things got out of control at a party. It wasn’t on campus, but there were plenty of faculty there and some students, too. Somehow, the notion of a ‘raid’ seemed absurdly cliché and remote. But sure as shit, it happened.”

  Kiki’s shoulders slumped. Her flat inflection turned sober and pensive. “The local cops issued some fines, and they were happy. The school, needless to say, was not happy, and they made noises about a mass dismissal, but there were simply too many faculty involved. So we were formally ‘censured,’ whatever that means. Eventually the whole hoo-ha seemed to go away, buried in the dusty files of the halls of ivy.”

  I rose and stepped to her, saying gently, “Meanwhile, you confronted your demons and managed to escape a self-destructive spiral.”

  Kiki turned to me, lifted her chin, and struck a flamenco pose. “No worse for wear, I daresay.” Her wacky appearance belied her statement.

  “The jur y’s still out on that.” Seriously, I added, “The point is, dear, what’s done is done. You can’t undo the past, so live for the future. Besides, those ancient indiscretions hardly strike me as all that grievous. If
everyone who’d ever experimented with drugs at college were ‘brought to justice,’ half the nation would be behind bars.”

  “You’re right, I imagine.” Kiki slowly turned away. “And I appreciate the moral support. But I’m afraid there’s more to this story—a trifling footnote I’ve never had the nerve to confide in you.” She stepped from the stage and down the stairs to the auditorium, settling in one of the first-row seats.

  I followed down the stairs. “If you’re trying to pique my interest, you’ve succeeded.”

  “This isn’t easy.” Kiki swallowed. “The night of the party and the drug bust, a young woman died—of an overdose.”

  “How horrible,” I mumbled, sitting in the seat next to Kiki’s.

  “It’s worse,” she told me. “The kid was a student—of mine. She was a senior theater major with an emphasis in costuming, extremely talented, with a promising career ahead of her. That fall, we had clicked instantly. Throughout the year, she thought of me as a mentor.”

  Wide-eyed, I asked, “Good Lord, Kiki, you weren’t trafficking drugs to her, were you?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No, Claire, absolutely not. She had her own habit, her own source. But still, she looked up to me. She saw me as a role model, and I made a poor one. That night at the party, she lost all sense of judgment. Lots of us lost control, including me, and she followed my example. To this day, I often wonder if—in some sense—I killed Jennie.” Kiki bowed her head, clarifying, “That was her name.”

  I touched my friend’s arm. “I’m so sorr y, Kiki. Why haven’t you shared this with me before?”

  “It’s just not the sort of thing you ‘share.’ I could barely deal with it myself.”

  “Was there any … fallout?”

  “There was. With so many people at the party, lots of them knew that Jennie and I were student and teacher—and close friends. Rumors started flying that I had been pushing drugs to her, that I was responsible for the overdose. There was a police investigation.”