Desert Deadline: A Dante & Jazz Mystery by Michael Craft

Author:Michael Craft [Craft, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Questover Press
Published: 2023-07-09T23:00:00+00:00

• Chapter 9

Mood swings could be dangerous for those afflicted with them—and dizzying for those trying to cope with the afflicted.

Zola had hoped to expose the root of Mrs. Payne’s problems by getting her sauced. She expected to confirm a hunch that Mrs. Payne’s decline was the result of Agnetha’s creepy domination of the household. Instead, she discovered—as I did—that Mrs. Payne’s distress, confusion, and unpredictable behavior stemmed from years of repressing the knowledge that her husband, the revered ambassador, had never genuinely, fully loved her. Rather, he had used her as a mask, a beard, an armpiece, enabling him to love others—many others, all men.

When Mrs. Payne erupted and finally spoke her truth, Zola was mortified by the ugliness of the scab she had picked. I, on the other hand, was simply shunned by Mrs. Payne, who now found it only too easy to equate my queerness with the predilections of the man who should never have married her.

Until that afternoon, my dealings with Mrs. Payne had always been cordial, and I would characterize her response to me as affectionate. Now, though, I was one of them, one of the he-devils that had tortured and humiliated her.

“I think you’d better go,” she told me, trembling—and I hadn’t even tasted my banana split.

I plucked one of the maraschino cherries from the ice cream, ate it, and flicked the stem onto the table as I stood. “Thank you for the extraordinary hospitality.”

I turned, left the house, got into my car, started the engine, and waited.

Within a minute, Zola joined me—in tears.

That evening, I was in no mood for socializing—and certainly not interested in listening to Isandro harangue me about going halfsies on a new home and a future together. So when he called to remind me that we were planning to “talk” that night, I made a lame excuse and apologized, suggesting, “Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

Saturday morning, I drove from Palm Springs to Indian Wells, where there would be a ten o’clock meeting at the guesthouse to reveal details of Lanford Endicott’s estate plan. Nearing Vanguard Ridge, I didn’t even consider using the private gate—for starters, I didn’t know if Guy or Ramil had managed to find or replace the lost clicker, but even if they had, it now seemed important to have all comings and goings recorded and accounted for.

So I continued along Highway 111 and turned in at the main entrance. The guard at the gatehouse didn’t bother checking his list as he waved me through.

When I parked the Karmann Ghia in the courtyard of the guesthouse, I saw that Jazz had already arrived. Normally, a black SUV could have been anyone’s, but not this one, with its fierce grille guard bolted to the front. Jazz and I had not ridden together because she’d taken her daughter, Emma, to early appointments that morning.

Two other vehicles were parked in the courtyard, a sleek silver Jaguar and an old Chevy hatchback, neither of which I recognized. Parked in the stalls of the

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