Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  “Oh, no,” I groaned, utterly deflated.

  Kiki stood, moved toward the stage, and turned to me. “Nothing came of it. I’d played no direct role in what happened to Jennie, so there was nothing to prove. There were never any charges. The incident was noted in my school records, then buried.”

  I promised, “The secret’s safe with me. Don’t give it another thought.”

  She breathed a weak sigh. “Denial is a marvelous self-defense mechanism. And I did a fairly decent job of repressing the whole mess—until this past Januar y. That’s when I went to Cabo.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Mm-hm.” Kiki nodded slowly. “Spencer Wallace and I had some chemistry, as you’ve noted, and he enticed me down to his vacation home in the Baja for that lost weekend. It was spectacular—the house, the setting—and it might have been naughtily romantic. But there was a problem.” She paused, then told me bluntly, “It was you.”

  With a dumbfounded gasp, I rose. “What?”

  “Spencer wasn’t interested in me, Claire. He was interested in you.”

  Pacing past the front of the stage, hand to head, I recalled, “And his widow said he was after Tanner.” I turned to ask Kiki, “How do I fit into this picture?”

  “Tanner?” asked Kiki, herself confused. “Spencer must’ve wanted him for sex. But not you, Claire.”

  I stepped face-to-face with Kiki, exasperated. “Am I supposed to be relieved—or insulted?”

  She tsked. “Spencer was far too old for you. You wouldn’t have enjoyed him.”

  “But you would have? Kiki, you and I are the same age.”

  “Oh.”

  Reining in my emotions, I paced again, thinking aloud, “I’m no sweater girl, far from it. And I can live with that; my life has other priorities. But now and then it is difficult not to feel the slightest bit—shall we say—insecure?” I turned back to Kiki, expounding, “My own mother once called me ‘handsome,’ and now—”

  Kiki gasped. “She didn’t.”

  “She did. And now you’re telling me that Spencer Wallace, a shameless womanizer, a notorious lech, was more interested in my boyfriend than he was in me?” The pitch of my voice had slid beyond its normal range; I wasn’t so much speaking as squeaking.

  Stepping toward me, Kiki spoke in soothing tones. “Spencer was very interested in you, Claire. But not ‘that way.’” Meaningfully, she added, “He had other plans for you.”

  Tossing my arms, I asked, “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Kiki sat again in the first row, patting the cushion of the seat next to her. “Sit down, dear.”

  Warily, I did so.

  Kiki looked me in the eye. “Spencer admired you tremendously.”

  Hangdog, I recalled, “His wife told me that if he didn’t invite me to Cabo, it was a sign of ‘respect.’”

  “Yup.” Kiki nodded knowingly. “That was the very word he used. The entire weekend I was in Mexico, he yammered nonstop about his ‘respect’ for you. He felt your talents were being wasted here—in the desert—teaching college.”

  “Well.” I was suddenly huffy. “It’s good to know that someone—other than my own mother—saw fit to correct the course of my misguided life.”

  “Spencer felt your true destiny was still further west …” Kiki paused. “In Hollywood.”

  “Oh, Lord.” I laughed, but I was hardly amused. “How many times have I heard that? People who make movies seem so convinced that they’ve answered the ultimate calling, that anyone in his right mind would hotfoot away from legitimate theater at the first possible chance, joining the ranks of the glitterati who ‘do pictures.’” With a derisive snort, I added, “Have you ever noticed that? They never call a movie a ‘movie.’ It’s always a ‘picture.’ So self-important …”

  “And Spencer Wallace was the most important of them all. He wanted you, Claire—in his production company, in his studio. He wanted to make you a star director—of ‘pictures.’ He said you could make a fortune—for both of you.”

  Skeptically, I noted, “He never mentioned it to me.”

  “He was afraid to. He’d read your interviews. He knew only too well that you could be a tad defensive about”—Kiki cleared her throat, placed a hand over her bosom, and completed her statement with a highbrow delivery—“about the legitimate theater.”

  “Good.” I crossed my arms, smugly self-satisfied.

  “So his plan was to recruit me into helping recruit you for him.”

  “What?”

  Kiki nodded. “Spencer didn’t give a damn about me. The only reason he took me to Mexico was to brainwash me into advancing his scheme.”

  I patted her hand. “Well, I’m glad you refused.” As an afterthought, I asked, “You did refuse, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. But that wasn’t the end of it. A few weeks ago, Spencer phoned me, wanting to meet for drinks at the Regal Palms. I was skeptical, but he assured me his only purpose was to apologize for his presumptuous behavior on the trip. So I went.”

  “And … ?”

  “And he’d reserved a quiet corner booth in the hotel lounge, where he was waiting for me.”

  I wondered if it was the very booth where I’d lunched with Gabe Arlington only an hour earlier.

  Kiki continued, “As soon as we’d ordered our drinks and the waiter had left, Spencer made it apparent that his purpose was not to apologize, but to ratchet up the pressure. First he tried friendly persuasion, but when that failed to sway me, he took another tack. He produced a manila file folder, placed it on the table before me, and opened it. Even in the dim light of the bar, I knew at once what it was.”

  Apprehensively, flatly, I told her, “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it, Claire. Spencer had had me investigated. He’d done a complete background check and had managed to dig up copies of my files from Evans. In short, I was about to be coerced—blackmailed —into snaring you for his production company.”

  I couldn’t help thinking of Glenn Yeats’s similar campaign, two years prior, to recruit me onto his future faculty. He’d been aggressive, but he hadn’t been ruthless. “Christ,” I muttered. “Or else … ?”

  “Or else,” said Kiki, “Spencer would expose my past problems, very likely putting an end to my teaching career. He was in thick with various board members at Desert Arts College, which has a strict, zero-tolerance policy for drug offenses. Oh, I know, it’s mere posturing at best, a nod to the ruling conservative element, but no two ways about it—drugs is a far dirtier word today than it was thirty years ago. If Spencer revealed my previous arrest, coupled with Jennie’s death, there’s not a college in the land that would let me within a mile of its students. I’d be totally, irreversibly sca-rewed.”

  I heaved a big sigh. “God, Kiki. What’d you do?”

  She stood, recounting, “I begged—no soap. I pleaded—get real. At best, Spencer would only give me a little while to think things over and decide. So I was buying time.”

  I stood, grasping her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? I could have played along, helped you, then backed out on Spencer—screwing him.”

  Kiki shook her head. “Nice thought, but Spencer was too savvy. He stressed that he’d settle only for results, not appearances of cooperation. My other option was to go to the police, and I was tempted. But that would bare the very details I needed to keep hidden.”

  Looking into her eyes, I wanted to cr y. “Oh, Kiki, I’m mortified to know that I played some role in this—even unwittingly. I can’t imagine what you must’ve been going through. I’m remorsefully sorr y.”

  “Oh, well,” she said with unexpected breeziness, “all’s well that end’s well.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s dead, Claire. And I, for one, couldn’t be happier.” Kiki gave me a brisk nod, checked her watch, then headed for the stairs that led up to the stage.

  Following, I sputtered, “You, uh … didn’t … ?”

  Standing on the b
ottom stair, she turned to tell me, “Of course not. But somebody did, thank God, and that’s all that matters to me.”

  “I can understand your relief. And I appreciate that you’ve shared this with me. But don’t you think it’s time to fill Larry in?”

  “The police?” she asked, aghast, stepping down to the floor. “Whatever for?”

  “This is a previously unknown aspect of Spencer Wallace’s background; it could be important to the case. If he stooped to blackmail you, Kiki, there’s no telling how many others he’d victimized. As it stands, I’m on the suspect list, probably near the top, and I’d like to give Larry a little more to work with.”

  Kiki tossed her head. “It sounds as if you’re angling to substitute my name for yours on that list!”

  With equal umbrage, I retorted, “That’s nonsense. I merely want to give Larry a helpful new direction for his investigation.”

  Kiki planted a hand on her hip. “While deflecting suspicion from yourself …”

  I struggled to keep my anger in check, but just barely, telling her, “Sure. Why not? I know I didn’t kill the man. Why shouldn’t I nudge the police toward the same conclusion?”

  Kiki blew. “While pinning the murder on your best friend? Oops, sorr y, I forgot. I’m not your best friend, am I, Claire? No, I’m your OLDEST friend!” She huffed up the stairs.

  I followed her to the stage. “Kiki,” I said, mustering a conciliatory tone, “please, let’s try to keep everything in perspective. We go back too far together to be divided by misunderstandings and unfounded suspicions.”

  She spun toward me. “Then don’t expect me to … to ‘take the rap’ for you.”

  I grinned. “For heaven’s sake—I’m asking for no such thing.”

  She returned my grin with the slightest little pout, a moue. “Then don’t betray the confidence I shared with you. I have the right to expect that, if only out of friendship.”

  I paused before acceding, “Very well. If you insist.”

  “I do,” she said firmly.

  The thump of a backstage door provided a timely interruption to our conversation, which had grown tiresome and upsetting. As the door opened, a shaft of daylight spilled across the black floor. “Miss Gray?” called a voice, Morgan’s. “You still here?”

  “Yes, Morgan,” I answered, stepping off to the wing.

  He closed the door. “I thought I’d shut down all the lights, but if you ladies—”

  “No, Morgan, that’ll be fine. We’re finished here.”

  Kiki told me, “I really do need to run—that practicum class.”

  “And I have errands that shouldn’t wait.”

  We stepped to each other and, uncertainly, exchanged a good-bye kiss on the cheek.

  Then Kiki went her way.

  I went mine.

  13

  My bouncy mood had soured considerably by the time I crossed College Circle again. Heading away from the theater, toward the administration building, I wasn’t listening to the birds and going gaga over the weather. This time, I struggled with my mixed feelings about Kiki. I was angry, sorry, suspicious, and defensive; my thoughts were adrift in a jumbled stew of conflicting emotions.

  Entering the circular office building, I decided to keep my meeting with Glenn Yeats brief, spend a few minutes in my own office reconstructing my guest list, then go home to think things through. After seven months on campus, I had at last learned to navigate the confusing curved floor plan of the administration building without getting lost or retracing my steps, so moments after leaving the plaza, I found myself outside the gleaming mahogany doors that led to Glenn’s luxurious suite of offices—the inner sanctum.

  Stepping inside his reception room, I was struck, as always, by its understated elegance—and the arctic chill of its air-conditioning. I don’t know whether Glenn Yeats had some neurological problem with his body thermostat (I wasn’t brazen enough to ask), but I never managed to enter his windowless domain without fighting off a crop of goose bumps.

  “Ahhh, Ms. Gray,” cooed Glenn’s executive secretary, Tide Arden, a tall, ferocious-looking black woman with an incongruous voice of honey, softened further by the trace of a lisp. She had stepped out from her office, which in turn guarded the entrance to the holy of holies. “Always such a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to see Glenn. Is he in?”

  “He is, Ms. Gray, but I’m afraid he’s occupied right now.” She frowned an apology for delivering such crushing news.

  I suggested, “Perhaps you could give him a message.”

  “Of course. Let me write it down.” She led me to her desk, prinking atop spike heels that made her appear all the more Amazonian. As she moved, the long, ropy muscles of her thighs flexed beneath a tight leather miniskirt. As usual, she wore a halter top adorned with chromed studs and grommets, exposing a good deal of flesh—but no goose bumps. Was she, I wondered, warm-blooded? Or had she simply adapted to her boss’s frosty environment? When she had settled at her keyboard, flexing her mannish fingers with French-manicured nails, she asked, “And your message?”

  Recalling the last time my words had been transcribed, Saturday night by Kemper Fahlstrom, I paused to rehearse my message before Tide could commit it to paper. I then told her, “This is in regard to the summer theater workshop.” She pecked away, nodding, as I continued, “After due deliberation, I have decided, in the best interest of the school and of my program, that—”

  A nervous buzz interrupted us, issuing from Tide’s telephone, a many-buttoned instrument of titanic proportions. A red light blinked. We both halted.

  “Excuse me,” she said. She didn’t need to explain who was calling. Lifting the receiver, she answered, “Yes, sir.”

  I listened idly as she scratched a few notes and voiced one-word replies to various questions.

  Then she flipped a page of her gilt-edged desk calendar, saying, “No, Mr. Yeats. No other appointments this afternoon, but Ms. Gray does happen to be standing here right now.” She winked at me. “Of course, sir. I thought you’d want to see her.” Tide hung up the phone and stood, offering a huge smile.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve been admitted.”

  “Yes, Ms. Gray.” Her breathy tone carried such pride, one would have thought she’d cracked the gates to Oz. “This way, please.”

  I knew the way, but she seemed to take pleasure in escorting me, so I followed as she crossed the room, gripped the knob (I had no doubt she could have ripped the door off its hinges, if so inclined), and led the way to the inner office. She announced me: “Ms. Gray.” Then she slunk out, closing the door behind her.

  With a beaming smile, Glenn rose from behind his semicircular, granite-topped desk. Rows of computer monitors flickered behind him, set into a curved wall of creamy travertine. The Oz metaphor again traced through my mind. “Claire,” he gushed. “What an unexpected surprise.”

  “I’m delighted you’re so easily pleased.”

  “You know Lance Caldwell, of course.” Glenn gestured to one of the buttery-brown leather sofas that formed a U in front of his desk.

  As he did so, the faculty’s composer in residence rose and turned to me. “Good afternoon, Claire.” Forty-something, lanky, and long-haired, wearing a black turtleneck, he looked every inch the maestro at leisure. The sweater struck me as far too warm for April in the desert, but it struck me as just right in Glenn’s frigid office; I wished I’d worn one.

  “Hello, Lance,” I said. A handshake didn’t seem called-for—we were colleagues, and he’d visited my home on Saturday night—so we exchanged a casual nod. I told both him and Glenn, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s really not important. I can come back.”

  “Nonsense,” said Glenn. “Lance and I have been having a long discussion—too long—and frankly, we’re getting nowhere. Maybe you could help.”

  “I will if I can.”

  “Do have a seat, Claire. Make yourself comfortable.”

  As instructed, I se
ttled on a second leather sofa, facing Lance’s. Both the composer and the college president resumed their seats.

  “Now, then,” Glenn asked, “what can I do for you?”

  Brightly, I answered, “I don’t mean to sound egotistical, but it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, Glenn.” There was nothing egotistical about the message I had come to deliver, but the word seemed to pop from my lips. As soon as I’d said it, I understood why—Lance Caldwell had always struck me as the personification of an inflated ego. In all fairness, his musical talents were enormous, but so was his opinion of himself. This, coupled with his artistic leanings, gave him the air of the quintessential prima donna.

  “Well, now,” said Glenn, “isn’t that enticing? So tell me, Claire, what can you do for me?” He chortled.

  “It’s the summer theater program, the workshop.”

  “Ahhh.” His brows arched with interest.

  “In a nutshell, Glenn, I’d like to do it. If you still have interest in running the program, I’ll commit to it.”

  “Still have interest?” he asked, as if I were nuts. “Certainly, Claire. The more we can offer, the better; the more publicity, the better. I’ve wanted the workshop all along, but I’m amazed that you’re willing to put in the extra effort.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” I said objectively. “I don’t need to remind you, we’re losing Tanner. He’ll be hard to replace, but there’s other talent in the pipeline. I’m especially impressed with Thad Quatrain, who’s finishing his first year. He told me he’d attend the workshop if we held it, and that’s what swayed me.”

  Glenn nodded. “You think he’s the real deal?”

  “He might be. And if he is, he’ll be around for a while.”

  Slyly, Glenn said, “I like your thinking, Claire—so calculating, unflinching, and premeditated.”

  I laughed, asking, “That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it? You make it sound as if I killed someone.” Then my smile fell. The last thing I needed just then was to plant that idea in anyone’s head. I coughed, adding, “So if you want the program, you’ve got it.”