Desert Summer by Michael Craft

Author:Michael Craft
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

12

When Larry mused, “Imagine that,” I didn’t feel he was pondering a future with me, though it was easy to put such a spin on his comment. Rather, he seemed to find it funny that anyone could mistake us for a couple. I couldn’t decide which of these two possible attitudes was more troublesome, so I masked my confusion by joining him in a chuckle.

Setting aside this nascent dilemma (I needn’t—and couldn’t—resolve it there at lunch), I enjoyed my meal under the pines with him, indulging in conversation that rarely strayed from the mysterious circumstances of Felicia’s death. Odd, isn’t it, that murder could qualify as a topic for pleasant table chat?

As Larry had predicted, that afternoon’s drive down from Idyllwild was even more tense than the morning’s drive up, but it wasn’t only the accelerated momentum of the hairpin turns that goosed my anxiety. I was still mulling the meaning of “Imagine that.”

* * *

Wednesday morning, I dismissed my workshop students about a half hour early, as I needed to be on time for Felicia’s eleven o’clock memorial service, to be held at Glenn Yeats’s Nirvana estate. Paige Yeats, who was in my class, would also attend the ceremony at her father’s home and pay her respects, though she clearly felt little grief that Felicia was gone. Thad Quatrain would accompany Paige, a pattern that was becoming routine; attending the memorial with Paige had not been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but had been planned, as Thad was dressed more like an adult that morning and less like a college kid. Kiki, who was at the theater during our workshop session, would accompany me; though it was the dead of summer in the desert, she wore black bombazine.

“You’re looking very, uh … funereal today,” I told her as we got into my silver Beetle and pulled out of the faculty garage. With her hat and veil, it would have been more accurate to say she looked like a beekeeper.

“Thank you, dah-ling.” She knew no greater compliment than being told she was correctly costumed for the role at hand.

Zipping across the valley floor to Glenn’s mountain, we spoke of this and that, barely mentioning Felicia. Kiki kept steering the conversation back to our planned production of Rebecca, and I was grateful to be reminded of my true, current mission in life—student theater, not crime detection. Kiki’s interest, naturally, centered on the show’s costuming. “The masquerade scene should be great fun.”

Glancing over at Kiki, I noted, “The crazed Mrs. Danvers won’t be much of a challenge—your mourning getup suits her perfectly.”

“You think so?” Kiki laughed merrily, then leaned toward me, touching my arm. “As long as we’re on the subject of costuming, what do you think of Glenn’s wardrobe makeover?”

“From what I’ve seen, it looks promising.”

“Promising? My dear, it’s gone swimmingly!”

“Do forgive my faint praise. I should have known—swimmingly, of course.”

She paused, then gave me a broad wink that was visible even through the black netting of her veil. “I think he likes me.

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