Desert Spring by Michael Craft Page A

make me swoon, even under such vexing circumstances. He cut in on Kiki’s hug, planting a light kiss on my lips. “So considerate,” he said, “finding yourself at the center of a murder investigation and worrying about interrupting my packing.”
    Vacantly, I protested, “I’m not quite at the center of the investigation.”
    â€œI only meant that Wallace died here, at your home.”
    â€œOh.”
    Grant asked Tanner, “Then you haven’t heard the corker?”
    â€œ Corker ?” blurted Kiki. “There’s a corker?”
    I explained how the catering maid had overheard my exaggerated threat against Spencer at the party and had later reported it to Larry Knoll.
    â€œOh, dear,” said Kiki, fingering her lips. Leaning close, she asked, “You didn’t do it, did you?”
    With a laugh, Tanner answered for me, “Of course not, Kiki. Last night, when Claire said she ‘could kill Spencer Wallace,’ she was speaking to me—I remember those words verbatim. I recall their tone as well. It was obviously an empty threat.”
    â€œHey!” said Grant. “Maybe the maid did it.” His tone was jocular.
    But he’d raised a valid point. “Maybe she did,” I allowed. “Or the cook, or one of the other servers—or anyone else who was here last night. Point is, the threatening words were mine, and in retrospect, they are highly incriminating. Larry made note of them.”
    Tanner said, “It’s a good thing Grant’s brother is on the case. He knows you too well to suspect you of foul play.”

    â€œLet’s hope so,” I said under my breath.
    â€œAnd with any luck,” said Grant, “he’ll wrap this up fast.”
    Kiki nodded, telling Grant, “When you said ‘corker,’ I assumed you meant the headline in this morning’s Trib. ” She pointed to a copy of the Los Angeles paper that she’d brought over. It was on my coffee table, spread open to the interview.
    With slumped shoulders, I noted, “There were two corkers.”
    â€œBy the way, Kiki,” said Grant, trying to sound an upbeat note, “you’re looking resplendent this morning. As usual.”
    â€œOh, pish, darling.” She tittered. “But thank you—I do try. Sometimes I fear I almost overdo it.” That morning, she had almost overdone it in a bizarre outfit that resembled a transparent choir robe over zebra-print leotards—her Sunday look, perhaps. “It’s a curse,” she added, “my penchant for costuming.”
    â€œHardly a curse,” Tanner told her. He then asked any of us, “Can I get you something to drink?” He returned to the pass-through and picked up the glass he’d poured for himself.
    Kiki eyed his glass, horrified. “What are you drinking?”
    â€œTomato juice. Can I get you some?”
    Slyly, she asked, “Nothing stronger?”
    â€œEverything’s put away from last night.”
    I offered, “I can find you something.”
    â€œUgh!” said Kiki grandly. “Never mind. Don’t bother, love.” To Tanner, she added, “A shot of orange juice would be splendid, thank you.”
    He poured it, then handed it to Kiki, asking over his shoulder, “Claire? Grant? Something for you?”
    I declined.
    Grant told Tanner, “No, thanks. Not much appetite this morning.” He failed to mention that he and I had already gorged ourselves at the Regal Palms.
    Shaking his head, Tanner commiserated, “I’m sure. Rough
night, huh? I understand you played the would-be hero. Good going, Grant.”
    â€œShucks, doll-cakes, it was nothing.” With exaggerated humility, Grant joined his hands in the fig-leaf position. “Duty called; I answered. Unfortunately, the poor devil died.” He heaved a big sigh. “If you’ll all excuse me, I want to make sure I didn’t forget