Free Desert Spring by Michael Craft Page B

night here. My clothes are wet, it’s late, and—”
    â€œOf course, Grant. Not another word. In fact, I’d rather not be alone tonight. I’m sure you’re bushed; God knows I am. Let’s get you fixed up in the guest room.” I led him down the hall.
    â€œThanks, doll,” he told me when we reached the extra bedroom. He paused outside the door to give me a good-night kiss. “If I wake up early, I’ll try not to disturb you.”
    â€œI appreciate that, but somehow, I have an inkling I won’t be sleeping late tomorrow morning.”
    He breathed a little sigh of understanding. “Just try to get some rest.” Then he retreated into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
    Stepping to the next door, I entered my own room, the one I’d shared with Tanner for several months. Tonight, I realized, the room seemed suddenly, depressingly empty. Ignoring that issue, I crossed to the dresser and opened one of the drawers. I found Tanner’s copy of the bound screenplay at once; it was dog-eared from repeated handling, with his lines marked in yellow highlighter. Digging deeper, I found a second copy of the script, the one I’d studied. Taking the script, I closed the drawer and stepped across the bedroom toward the hall. Near the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in a dressing mirror and realized, with sagging spirits, that my new red dress was probably ruined by the cognac I’d spilled from chest to knee.
    Ah, well, I thought. An excuse to shop.
    Walking the hall from the bedroom to the living room, I heard Larry’s voice and thought he might be using his cell phone. Not exactly eavesdropping, I slowed my pace—the better to hear—when I realized he was conversing with Erin.
    â€œSure, thanks,” he said.

    â€œCream or sugar?” she asked, leading me to conclude she was serving more coffee.
    â€œNo, black, please.”
    For some reason, I stopped, delaying my return to the living room. At this point, I concede, I was indeed eavesdropping.
    There was a long moment of silence, then Larry told Erin, “They’re finished.”
    â€œHmm?” Her voice had a vacant air.
    â€œMiss Gray and my brother—I’m sure they’re finished with their coffee.” I heard him set down his cup, mumbling, “It is late.”
    There was another pause. Then Erin said with a tone of resolve, “I wonder if I might have a word with you, Detective.” She set down the pot with a decisive clack.
    â€œCertainly. That’s why I’m here. What is it?”
    â€œIt’s about … it’s about Miss Gray.”
    Needless to say, I was now on full alert. I may have stopped breathing, for fear of detection.
    â€œYes?” asked Larry, intrigued.
    â€œEarlier, when I first brought out the coffee, you were all discussing what happened tonight. You were talking about possible motives, and you asked Miss Gray if she knew of anyone who might’ve had a reason to kill Mr. Wallace.”
    Larry riffled through the pages of his notebook. “And she replied that while Wallace had both enemies and rivals, she doubted that any of them would stoop to murder.”
    â€œI, uh … I think Miss Gray neglected to tell you something.”
    â€œSomething”—his footsteps approached her as his voice lowered—“something like what?”
    â€œAt the party tonight, after most of the guests had left, I was cleaning up—here, in this room—and Miss Gray was talking to Mr. Griffin.”
    Larry clarified, “Tanner? Miss Gray’s … ‘friend’?”

    â€œYes. They were discussing his move to Hollywood, and Miss Gray was getting all worked up.”
    Oh, no, I thought. Should I interrupt this? Or should I stay put so Larry could react candidly? Though tempted, I didn’t move.
    Larry asked, “She was angry?”
    â€œWhen Mr. Griffin said it was time for him to