Free Desert Spring by Michael Craft

doorway, explaining, “The coffee’s ready.”
    â€œExcellent,” said Larry, waving her in. “I could use some.”
    As Erin moved to the coffee table with her tray, I sat in the chair next to Grant, who told the girl, “Just half a cup, please.” I seconded, “Yes, a splash for me as well.” Erin began pouring for us.
    Grant asked Larry, “So, then, was it a freak accident? Or murder?”

    â€œThe investigation has just begun. But you’ve asked the central question.”
    I couldn’t help musing, “All the elements of a neatly convoluted plot …”
    â€œUh-oh,” said Grant. “Milady sniffs a tantalizing whodunit.”
    â€œNonsense. It’s a regrettable tragedy.”
    Grant told Larry, “I don’t know if you’re prepared to take on a sidekick, O brother mine, but I have a hunch the great Claire Gray is willing to assist the investigation. As you already know, she has a uniquely theatrical perspective on perplexing death.”
    â€œOh, shush,” I told him.
    Erin was offering cream and sugar to each of us. Larry and I declined, but Grant fussed—pouring, spooning, stirring.
    Rhetorically, Larry said, “If it was murder, there had to be a motive.”
    â€œAnd a means.” I nodded. “And an opportunity.”
    â€œOf course,” agreed Larry, who had already drunk his coffee, setting down the empty cup, “but the motive tells all. I’ll need to look into Wallace’s family background, his business dealings, the works. You two were friendly, Claire. Off the top of your head, do you know if he had any conspicuous enemies? Perhaps a rival with an ax to grind?”
    Erin refilled his cup, then peeped into the smallish coffeepot. Deciding a refill was needed, she put things in order on the tray, then took the pot and stepped toward the kitchen.
    I told Larry, “Spencer Wallace was wealthy and powerful. He could—and did—make and break careers. Over the years, I think it’s safe to say he made plenty of enemies. And there was no shortage of jealous rivals. But would anyone stoop to kill the man—here, tonight, in my home? I can’t imagine that anyone felt an animosity toward him that was sufficient to provoke murder.”

    Erin, I noticed, had paused at the kitchen doorway, turning to watch me as I spoke. When my eyes met hers, she bit her lip and slipped out of the room. What, I wondered, was that all about?
    Larry was perusing his notes again. Without looking up, he asked, “Can you get me a complete list of everyone who was here tonight?”
    I rose, cup in hand. “I’ll try, Larry, but there were quite a few unfamiliar faces. I’ll pull together my guest list and get it to you tomorrow.” Crossing to the bar, I set down my cup and made a note to myself on a pad near the phone.
    Grant swallowed the last of his coffee, then said to his brother, “Don’t tell me you suspect everyone at the party.”
    With a menacing frown, Larry replied, “Anyone and everyone.” Then he laughed, explaining, “It’s a start. Every guest tonight presumably had the opportunity to engage in deadly mischief. The sooner I start eliminating those who had no conceivable motive, the sooner I can zero in on serious suspects.”
    Grant yawned, rose, and stretched a kink from his shoulders. He reminded Larry, “There were fifty guests. You’ll have your hands full.” An idle glance led his eyes to the photos over the mantel, and he stepped to the fireplace to study them.
    â€œThat’s the grunt work of police work,” Larry said vacantly, immersed in his notes and his thoughts.
    Immersed in my own thoughts, I strolled toward the bench where Larry was seated. “The killer’s motive—if there was a killer—is a total mystery. But what do we know about the victim?”
    â€œGood question. Let’s review.”