Desert Getaway: A Dante & Jazz Mystery by Michael Craft

Author:Michael Craft [Craft, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brash Books
Published: 2022-05-01T16:00:00+00:00

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During the drive, Emma busied herself with a few toys from the backpack that leaned next to her seat. She improvised quiet conversation between the stuffed cat and a Barbie doll in a ballerina dress. The four-legged cat seemed highly impressed that the two-legged doll could dance on her toes.

Up in the front seat, Jazz glanced over at me from behind the wheel. “Arcie Madera called—asked if we could meet and talk sometime tomorrow. I suggested my office at ten. She agreed. How about you?” Jazz already knew I was clear for the whole week.

“Sure. Any idea what she wants?”

“Didn’t say, but her tone was sorta glum.”

A few minutes later, as we approached the eastern edge of Palm Springs, Jazz steered the SUV into the right lane of Highway 111 and turned onto a side street that ran through a cluster of high-end car dealers, then narrowed as it led back toward the mountains. We arrived in an area I’d heard of but had never seen.

The neighborhood had a bohemian, arty feel, with a laid-back conglomeration of studios, galleries, consignment shops, whatever. Though the purpose of the area was commercial—there was a good-size parking lot—some of the artists also lived there, in their studios or in ramshackle lofts that nudged up the mountainside behind the street-level storefronts.

Jazz parked in the lot. I got out and waited while she untangled Emma from the safety seat. Standing in the full sun, I scanned the long row of buildings, which resembled a strip mall. Jazz locked the SUV and stepped over to me with Emma, who brought her stuffed cat. Jazz told me, “Blade said his entrance is just a door, letter H, between a couple of shops.”

Approaching the buildings from the parking lot, we quickly found door H, which had darkly tinted glass. We stepped inside. The hot, tiny vestibule contained a second, solid door. Above the buzzer was a sign on stretched canvas, painted in bold brushstrokes: WADE STUDIO. Ring and Wait.

Jazz lifted Emma to press the buzzer. We waited and baked.

When the door finally opened with a rush of chilled air, Blade Wade said, “Hi there, folks. Sorry to take so long—it’s a trek from the studio. C’mon in.”

With no further discussion, he led us back through a winding hallway, then up a long flight of stairs. Emerging into a huge open space, he turned to tell us, “Welcome. And who is this little darlin’?”

I watched while Blade and Emma introduced themselves. Back when I first laid eyes on Blade, at the pool party, I thought he looked like a thug or a quarterback. He had that build. Couple that with his Blackness, and I’m ashamed to admit that I found him fearsome. But Skip had clued me that he was in fact a man of the arts, and following Jazz’s first conversation with Blade, she’d proclaimed him “cool.” Now he hunkered down on his massive thighs to chat with four-year-old Emma, whose laughter affirmed that their enchantment was mutual.

He stood to tell Jazz, “You’ve got a real charmer there.

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