Rebecca set down her wineglass and her celery stalk. Flicking imagined grime from her fingers, she said, “Don’t make him out to be a saint, Claire. He wasn’t.”
“No, apparently not.”
As I spoke, Erin entered quietly from the kitchen with a small tray bearing a cocktail shaker and a fresh martini glass. She moved to Kiki, leaned to let her take the glass, then poured from the shaker. When the glass was filled to the brim, Erin left with the shaker on her tray.
I continued, “It seems I’m the only one in this room who truly thought Spencer a friend. And yet, someone here tonight has gone out of his way to implicate me in this crime.”
From the bar, Grant said, “They’d have to be nuts to think they could get away with it. We all know you didn’t kill Wallace.”
“Really? Do you?” I moved to the center of the room. “I was overheard on Saturday night saying I could kill him. I was quoted in Sunday’s paper making fist-shaking threats against him. And just this afternoon, Grant, you discovered a stash of deadly cadmium chloride hidden in my sugar canister.”
“How preposterous … ,” Kiki sputtered over the rim of her drink.
Larry told us, “We ran the bottle through forensics. It did indeed contain cadmium chloride. As expected, it was clean of fingerprints, other than Grant’s—he pulled it out of the sugar.”
Tanner asked, “How would anyone get ahold of such awful stuff?”
I recalled, “Cadmium compounds have legitimate industrial uses. They’re easily obtainable over the Internet, or even by mail order, using a fake letterhead. It’s right in the script, as are so many aspects of Spencer’s death. Don’t you remember, Tanner?”
“Duh”—he thumped his forehead—“the screenplay.”
“You’re not the only one familiar with the script.” Meaningfully, I added, “Everyone in this room has read it.”
Brandi piped in, “I haven’t.”
“I stand corrected. Everyone else in this room has read the script.”
Referring to his notes, Larry said, “And according to the profile we’ve developed, the killer had read the script.”
Bryce raised a finger. “Remember, though: many others, not present in this room, have also read it.”
Larry nodded. “Duly noted.”
Seated at the bar, Gabe asked, “What else do we know about the killer?”
I enumerated, “We know the killer was present at Saturday night’s party. We suspect the killer also had access to Spencer’s darkroom. And I’m sure the killer has been inside my kitchen—at least once. What’s more, it simply stands to reason that the killer had a strong motive to want Spencer dead. In short”—I moved toward the fireplace—“the killer could be anyone here tonight. Except Larry, of course.” I patted his shoulder.
Looking up at me from his chair, he asked in an odd tone, “What makes you so sure of that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I explained naively, “You represent the law, Larry.”
“So do I,” said Bryce, sounding left out and defensive.
“Do I hear you correctly?” said Glenn, stepping to my side. “You think it’s possible that I killed Spencer Wallace?”
“Or I?” echoed Lance, sounding huffy.
Though tempted, I refrained from cracking a smile. “Perish the thought that either of you fine gentlemen would stoop to such an act. But is it possible? Of course it is. It’s logistically feasible that either one of you was responsible.”
“Just a moment, Claire.” Rebecca straightened her spine. “If the killer was at Saturday’s party, that rules me out. I wasn’t there.”
“Apparently, Rebecca, but I don’t know that with certainty. There was a crowd here on Saturday, including a number of guests I didn’t recognize. Spencer would have recognized you, so if you’d come for ill purposes, you might have worn some simple disguise—say, a wig and glasses.”
She rolled her eyes. “Very well, that’s a stretch, but I suppose it’s plausible. However, I have never been inside your kitchen.”
“Bryce has, though. When you arrived at the house yesterday, you asked him to get you some water.”
“So?” asked Bryce. “Why would I be a part of this? I’m merely an adviser to Mrs. Wallace.”
“Oh, please,” said Grant with a loud tsk. “It’s common knowledge that you and Rebecca are romantically involved. That would give both of you ample motive to want Spencer dead. And working as a team, you just might have pulled it off.”
Bryce warned, “Watch yourself, Mr. Knoll. Your words could easily be construed as slander. And from you, of all people—you had your own score to settle with Spencer.”
“So a deal fell through.” Grant flicked a wrist. “What of it? It was nothing.”
Brandi cleared her throat. “It was a half-million dollars, Grant.”
Larry wagged his head, mourning his own losses.
“Why, Grant,” said Tanner, turning to face him from his bar stool. “I’m impressed—I didn’t realize you had that kind of money to play around with.”
“You will too, lad, once that movie of yours goes into production.” Grant sniffed Tanner lovingly, telling ever yone, “I smell box-office gold.”
“And,” I noted, moving toward the bar, “as both Gabe and Tanner have pointed out, the publicity buzz over Spencer’s death will only serve to hype the film, boosting the careers of everyone involved.”
Gabe set his empty cocktail glass on the bar. “I hate to sound mercenary, but sure, that’s true.”
Tanner nodded. “A ‘big film’ just got much bigger.”
Erin returned from the kitchen and began circulating with her tray of appetizers.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Rebecca said coyly, “the young man may have had more than a mercenary motive to want my husband dead.” She declined hors d’oeuvres with a wave of her hand, but Bryce took a few, arranging them on the plate balanced on his knees.
With an uncertain laugh, Tanner asked Rebecca, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I loathe telling naughty tales,” said Rebecca, not loathing it at all, “but Spencer made no secret of his lust for Hollywood’s soon-to-be hottest heartthrob. Unless I’m mistaken, he was all over Mr. Griffin, which mortified our young hero, I’m sure. Did those advances enrage Mr. Griffin? Who knows?”
Grant stood. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Tanner gets plenty of pawing from me, God knows. I’ve had these queer eyes trained on this straight guy for months, and he always takes it in good humor.”
Matter-of-factly, Tanner told us, “I’m used to it.”
“Of course he is.” Grant gave Rebecca a brisk nod—so there. Then he grabbed several radishes as Erin passed by with her tray. Sitting again, he began munching one of them.
“Really, Rebecca,” said Kiki, amused by the woman’s lack of insight. “We theater folk are far more open-minded than that.” She laughed airily. Then, catching Erin’s eye, she tapped the rim of her martini glass, empty again.
With a nod, Erin returned to the kitchen.
Rebecca folded her hands in her lap. “Then we’re at a stalemate. It seems everyone here tonight harbored something against my husband.”
Returning to the fireplace, I said, “But not everyone here tonight has been to the Baja. Specifically”—I gestured toward the framed photo propped on the mantel—“Spencer’s little getaway in Cabo San Lucas.”
Rebecca looked away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Kiki cleared her throat with a nervous laugh, turning in her chair to look up at me. “Really, Claire. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t ‘go there.’”
Rebecca turned to Kiki, face-to-face. “You’ve been there?”
“That’s not what I meant—not exactly.” Kiki wriggled in her seat. Fortunately for her, Erin returned at that moment with the cocktail shaker and, blocking Rebecca, refilled Kiki’s glass.
Taking my own glass from the mantel, I swirled the bit of wine remaining in it. “Spencer Wallace didn’t mean to send us a �
�message from beyond,’ I’m sure, but the photo from Cabo tells us all we need to know.”
As the others turned to whisper among themselves, speculating on the meaning of my words, Erin finished serving Kiki, who carefully raised her full glass to her lips and sipped. Noticing the empty glass in my hand, Erin stepped near and asked, sotto voce, “More wine, Miss Gray?”
“No, thank you, Erin, nothing else.”
She nodded, turned, and moved toward the kitchen.
“Uh, Erin?” I said, reconsidering.
She stopped behind the leather bench and looked back to me.
“It was, uh … it was you who killed Spencer Wallace, was it not?”
Erin froze where she stood, wild-eyed. Larry instinctively rose from his chair. Simultaneously, Grant spit a whole radish halfway across the room, Bryce dropped his plate to the floor, and Kiki sprayed a mouthful of her martini, dousing Rebecca.
Kiki blurted, “You mean the goddamn maid did it!?”
Rebecca shot up from the bench, snarling and brushing gin from her dress. She moved toward the front door, followed by Bryce. Grant, Tanner, and Gabe rose from their bar stools and took a step toward Erin. Brandi and Lance rose from the long hassock, completing a loose circle around the girl.
“Miss Gray,” said Erin, taking a tentative step in my direction, “I … I don’t … you can’t possibly …” Stunned, she began to teeter near Kiki’s chair.
Fearing that Erin might drop the martini shaker, Kiki reached up and took it from her hands, then refilled her own glass and set the shaker on the floor.
I moved toward Erin; Larry followed. Shaking my head gently, I told her, “I never would have guessed, but you gave yourself away tonight—it was such an innocent slip. When Kiki mentioned cadmium fluoride, you corrected her, telling her the poison was cadmium chloride. You said you recalled hearing it Saturday night, and your memory of this detail seemed plausible, as you’ve had some theatrical training. But so have I, Erin, and I recall with absolute certainty that you were not in this room on Saturday when Grant and I discussed cadmium chloride with Detective Knoll. So I could only conclude that you knew about cadmium chloride because you’d read the screenplay of Photo Flash. Then everything else fell together.”
Kiki burbled, “Boffo, Claire. How clever.” Then she cocked her head, confused. “Uh, what fell together?”
“Miss Gray,” Erin pleaded, “you’re jumping to conclusions …”
“Indeed I am,” I agreed. “Perfectly logical conclusions, consistent with everything we know about Spencer’s death. You see, I hadn’t realized until tonight that you had an interest in theater. You seem to idolize me, so I assume you idolized Spencer Wallace as well—or at least saw him as an avenue to the career you dreamed of. You’ve worked at his home, at catered parties, and that’s how you met. You ingratiated yourself, made your ambitions known, and he led you on—to the proverbial casting couch and then, I fear, to Cabo. That’s you in the photo, correct? You’ve streaked your hair and played the dumb blonde, but otherwise, the dark-haired figure could easily be you.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, Miss Gray. I was never there.”
Kiki looked up at me. “Nonsense, darling. I’ve already told you—that’s me in the picture.”
“What?” demanded Rebecca, hands on hips.
“Oops.” Kiki slurped her martini.
I told Erin, “Regardless of who’s in the photo, I’m reasonably sure Spencer had flown you to Cabo, where he arranged to take care of a ‘little fix’ he’d gotten you into. Did something go wrong in Mexico, Erin? You implied earlier that you can’t have children.”
Rebecca muttered with quiet disgust, “Oh, my God …”
I continued, “A few other details from Saturday night now make perfect sense. You served Spencer tomato juice all evening, which is acidic. You could easily have spiked it with the fatal doses of cadmium chloride. You’ve been in my kitchen more than I have, so you had ample opportunity to plant the incriminating compound in the sugar. What’s more, during cleanup after the party, Tanner thought he knew you from somewhere. Grant dismissed this as flirting, but in fact, Tanner had seen you before—perhaps at a casting call for Photo Flash, or more likely, at Wallace’s home in Palm Springs, where you were well acquainted with not only the bedroom, but the darkroom.”
Tanner looked at her with fresh, unbelieving eyes. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “I should have realized …”
Erin’s head dropped back as her mouth opened and disgorged a loud sob. Larry moved from behind me and positioned himself on the opposite side of Erin.
I told her, “The incident that should have tipped me off immediately, though, took place right after you’d ‘discovered’ the body in the pool. Grant dove in and made an attempted rescue, but before he’d gotten the body out of the water, you screamed, ‘It’s Spencer!’ Grant himself didn’t recognize him until after you’d said that, and just as damning, you referred to the victim by his first name. Detective Knoll, Tanner, and I have all invited you to use our first names, but you’ve been only too proper, steadfastly addressing us as Detective, Mr. Griffin, and Miss Gray. In the excitement of the moment, why did ‘Mr. Wallace’ become ‘Spencer’? Because you’d been intimate with the man.”
“That was his name,” insisted Erin. “What’s the difference?”
“Finally, when my back was turned, while I’d gone into my bedroom to look for a copy of the script, you told Detective Knoll that I’d threatened Spencer’s life. It was an empty threat, and you knew it. But you recognized a handy means of deflecting suspicion from yourself while steering the investigation down a false course.”
Gaining some composure and starting to feel feisty, Erin challenged me, “Miss Gray, I’m sure this all makes sense in your mind, but it’s pure speculation. You can’t prove a word of this.”
Bryce told me, “She has a point.”
I’d heard about enough from Brycey-boy. “Oh, sure—I don’t have proof, but we can easily get proof. If Erin was recently in Cabo, returning by air, presumably through Los Angeles, there will be passport records of her visit to Mexico. That alone should be sufficient evidence to prove the entire sordid scenario.”
Knowing she was sunk, Erin heaved a long, low wail, buried her head in her hands, and slumped.
“You’d better sit down,” said Larry, guiding her to the leather bench. Erin sat, looking out vacantly, as if beyond the walls of the room. Larry sat next to her, took out his notebook, and clicked his pen.
I stood directly behind the girl. Tanner stepped to my side and held me by the waist. Glenn moved to my other side and placed his hand on my shoulder.
Looking gaunt and drained, Erin began to speak. She seemed to direct her rambling words, her recollections, to no one but herself.
“I thought I’d struck gold. I thought I could skip a few hurdles along the road to stardom. It seemed like the easiest shortcut in the world when Spencer Wallace sort of fell into my lap—or should I say, I fell into his.
“Yes, he made promises; yes, he got me pregnant. He insisted on an abortion, but I refused. So he struck a deal with me: If I’d go to Mexico with him, he would have everything taken care of, safely and discreetly. Then, when we returned, he swore he’d cast me in his new film, Photo Flash. He even gave me the script to study.
“Well, things didn’t go quite as planned. The doctor needed tequila—to calm his nerves—then botched the procedure, not in some back room, but right there at the house.” Erin turned and looked at the photo on the mantel.
Becoming aware of her silent, gaping audience, she explained, “I was lucky to recover at all, but I’ll never have another chance at motherhood. Then—I should have seen it coming—as soon as we got home, Spencer was ‘terribly sorry’ and all, but he just didn’t think I was right for his picture. I was incensed, but what could I do?”
She paused, then grinned. “Well, he’d spelled out the plan for me in his own script. He still wanted to see me
at the house in Palm Springs now and then, so I had plenty of time to explore his darkroom, spike the baths, and rig the fans. Then, on Saturday—Miss Gray was right about the tomato juice at the party. When Spencer staggered out to the terrace, the party was winding down and there was no one else out there. I saw my chance—and gave that fucker just the slightest nudge.” Erin smiled. “That’s all it took.”
The girl looked Rebecca in the eye. “I wish I could say otherwise, but I’m glad he’s dead.”
Numbly, the widow told her, “So am I, dear.”
“Erin?” Larry stood. “I think we should continue this outside.”
“Yes, Detective. I suppose we should.” Erin stood. Larry grasped her arm. She turned to me. “Miss Gray? I do regret dragging you into this. I’m sorry.”
Stepping away from Glenn and Tanner, I moved to Larry’s side and told Erin without rancor, “If you hadn’t dragged me into it, I’d have merely wondered how Spencer Wallace died. Once I’d been cast under suspicion, I had to prove how it happened.”
Larry began leading Erin to the front door. I followed. Rebecca and Bryce moved aside to let us pass.
Pausing at the door, Larry told me, “I’m glad you got involved, Claire. Cops generally frown on ‘meddling laymen,’ but I have to admit—your theatrical perspective on criminology, while unconventional, proved right on the money.” He opened the door.
“Happy to help, Larry. Stay in touch.”
With a wink, he assured me, “I will.” Then he escorted Erin out into the darkness.
After a moment of dead silence, Rebecca moved to me at the open door, extending her hand for a curt shake. “I suppose I, too, should thank you,” she said without emotion. “I’m not sure I appreciate the dirty laundry that was aired tonight—to say nothing of the innuendo targeting Bryce and me—but the case is closed now. That’s all that matters. On balance, I’m a happy woman.” She didn’t sound happy.
“And I’m happy for you, Rebecca,” I told her politely, but with a certain distance. “Good night.”
Bryce said, “Good evening, Miss Gray,” nodded, and escorted Rebecca out.
Standing at the open door, I watched them walk to the street. With no intended sarcasm, I softly wished them, “Pleasant dreams.”
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