Free Desert Spring by Michael Craft Page A

Larry flipped back through his notebook, reciting, “Spencer Wallace, a famed movie producer, aged sixty, died of apparent drowning under suspicious circumstances. He had nothing to eat tonight, and though he was known to drink heavily sometimes, tonight he drank only tomato juice.
The caterer’s maid who served him said his mood seemed off, and she described him as sickly. The victim’s permanent residence is near Los Angeles, but he’d lately spent most of his time at a second home in Palm Springs …”
    Grant turned and caught my eye as we simultaneously recognized that details of Larry’s summary were beginning to sound familiar. Then we both swung our gaze to the wall of photos.
    Larry continued, “Wallace was working on a movie script that will soon go into production. He was also spending considerable time in his home darkroom, working on his hobby, black-and-white photography.”
    Grant and I interrupted him with a shared gasp.
    â€œGood God,” said Grant.
    I blurted, “Photography!”
    Larry rose from the bench, bewildered. “What about it?”
    â€œ Photo Flash. The script,” I told him, stepping to his left side.
    Flanking Larry on the right, Grant explained, “Wallace’s screenplay was inspired by his hobby.”
    I added, “The plot focuses on the murder of a renowned photographer.”
    Larry’s head ping-ponged as Grant picked up the story again: “He was poisoned slowly, over time, in his darkroom.”
    I leaned close to tell Larry, “By cadmium poisoning.”
    Larry blinked. “Cadmium?” He began taking notes.
    â€œAn extremely toxic element,” said Grant. “But cadmium also has legitimate industrial uses.”
    I elaborated, “It’s one of the major toxins in fluorescent lighting tubes, for instance. More to the point, cadmium compounds are widely used in photographic materials.”
    â€œHold on a minute,” said Larry with a disbelieving chortle. “How do you two know all this?”

    â€œIt’s in the script!” we both told him.
    Grant continued, “In his screenplay, Wallace spells out exactly how the photographer was poisoned—with cadmium chloride—and exactly how the crime evaded detection.”
    â€œIt was all meticulously researched,” I assured Larry. “Spencer Wallace knew as well as anyone: when it comes to details, you can’t bluff a mystery audience.”
    With a touch of skepticism, Larry said, “I gather, then, you’ve both read the script.”
    â€œOf course.” I explained, “Tanner will be starring in the film. He asked me to read the script and sought my advice on various points of interpretation.”
    Grant told his brother, “I’ve read it too, here at Claire’s. Since Tanner needs to memorize the script, I’ve helped him by running lines, feeding him cues.”
    Larry nodded, making note of all this, then asked me, “Do you have a spare copy?”
    â€œI think so, yes.” Enticingly, I added, “Care to borrow it?”
    â€œPlease. It seems I have some brushing up to do with regard to cadmium poisoning. I’ll alert the coroner’s office to test for it at once.”
    My brow wrinkled. “Doesn’t it take weeks to get results of toxicology ?”
    â€œUsually, yes. But that’s when you don’t know what you’re looking for. If we know we’re looking for cadmium, the testing is straightforward.” He sat again. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to make notes on all this while it’s fresh.”
    â€œSure, Larry. Let me try to find that script for you.” I headed toward the bedroom hallway.
    â€œUh, Claire?” said Grant, following me a step or two.
    I turned. “Yes, dear?”

    He fingered the marabou collar of his—rather, my—robe. “I hate to impose, but I wonder if I might spend the