Dante O’Donnell and Jazz Friendly make an unlikely pair of crime solvers, thrust together by iffy circumstances in the so-called paradise of sunny Palm Springs. He’s white and gay, a concierge at a vacation-rental outfit; she’s Black and straight, a private eye on the rebound from a failed marriage.
Maude Movay, a reclusive author of romance novels, is facing a tight deadline for a multimillion-dollar deal. So she checks in at one of Dante’s rentals intending to write a blockbuster—then checks out on a gurney, feet first. It was murder, all right, and Jazz steps in to help prove who’s guilty. Soon, though, a second tragedy strikes, this one much too close to home. For both Dante and Jazz, the race is on to name a killer, save a fortune—and rescue an innocent child.
Desert Deadline is the second book in the Dante & Jazz series, by Michael Craft, the author of 19 novels, four of which were honored as finalists for Lambda Literary Awards. He is the author of two produced plays, and his prizewinning short fiction has appeared in British and American literary journals. Craft grew up in Illinois and spent his middle years in Wisconsin, the setting for many of his books. He now lives in Rancho Mirage.
Here is an excerpt from Desert Deadline: A Dante and Jazz Mystery.
Early Friday morning, I phoned the Bruce Tucker Salon in Indian Wells. Assuming there would be no one there at that hour, I intended to leave a message, and at the sound of the beep, I did:
“Bruce, this is Dante O’Donnell. You might remember meeting me on Monday at the Payne estate. I’m taking a lady friend, Zola Lorinsky, to have lunch with Mrs. Payne today. The invitation was last-minute, and let’s just say that Zola could use a wash and blowout before lunch. Could you possibly accommodate her?” And I left my number.
Shortly after nine, my phone rang. “Of course I remember you, Dante,” said Bruce Tucker. “Things are a little crazy this morning, but since your friend Zola will be visiting Mrs. Payne, well … I think you’d better bring her in.”
I said, “We’re expected for lunch at 12:30. Could you take Zola at 11?”
“Eleven it is! Ta, Dante.” And he rang off.
I asked Zola to be ready to leave by 10:30, and she rapped on my door with two minutes to spare. She looked fabulous—stylish as ever, this aging priestess of pizazz. When I walked her out to my convertible, I offered to put the top up.
“Don’t even think of it,” she insisted, patting her purse. “And I brought a scarf for after the hairdo.”
On our way into Indian Wells, I parked at the salon and then, suppressing a laugh, helped Zola out of the car.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing, just a thought.” The windy drive had given Bruce plenty to work with.
We found the salon to be a busy place that morning, heading into a weekend in high season. Hair dryers howled, stylists gabbed and laughed with their clients, and show tunes thumped in the background. When we checked in with the receptionist, he handed Zola a folded smock and directed her to a changing room, telling us, “Bruce is expecting you.”
I took a seat near the front window, away from the fray, to wait and to get my bearings. I spotted Bruce at the farthest of four styling stations, working on a man’s hair, although all the other clients were women. With Bruce hovering over him, fussing, it was hard to get a good look at the client, but then I caught a clear glimpse of him in the mirrored wall he was facing.
Unless I was mistaken, the young man was Liam Heimlich, who worked at the art gallery that represented Jazz’s painter friend, Blade Wade.
Bruce gave Liam’s hair a finishing brush-and-blow before handing him a mirror and twirling the chair for an all-around inspection. Liam responded with a thumbs-up, stood, and removed the smock he’d worn over his shirt. Bruce brought him up to the front desk, talking all the way—rather earnestly, it seemed. Liam gave a credit card to the receptionist. When he turned back to Bruce, he noticed me sitting near the window, and the surprise on his face prompted Bruce to take a look.
A moment later we were all standing together, greeting each other, asking how we all happened to know each other.
The connection between Bruce and Liam was a charity group they were both involved with, Safe Palms Community Center, which provided counseling services and a place to hang out for at-risk gay youth. Liam explained, “That’s how I met Bruce—committee work on the annual fundraiser. And since the salon isn’t far from the gallery in Palm Desert, well—everyone needs a decent stylist.”
With mock umbrage, Bruce asked, “Decent?”
I laughed. “The way I hear it, Bruce is the best.”
“That’s more like it,” he said.
I told Liam, “Great haircut. But I couldn’t imagine what the two of you were doing together.”
Bruce clicked his tongue. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Dante. I’m far too old for this moppet. Besides, this was more than a haircut. It was an informal brainstorming session.”
I had already coached her to play dumb about the murder, as I wasn’t sure what, if anything, Bruce had heard about it. For that matter, I couldn’t yet eliminate the possibility that Bruce himself was the killer.
Liam nodded. “We’ve got a problem—with the fundraiser. It’s a charity drag show featuring a local lip-sync troupe in over-the-top costumes. It’s a big deal.”
“A gala,” I suggested.
“Yes,” said Bruce. “It sells out months in advance, and this year’s gala—we prefer to call it an extravaganza—is a week from tomorrow night at Apockalippso Dance Bar in downtown Palm Springs.”
“Sounds like fun. No more tickets, huh?”
“No, but that’s a good thing. The problem is Darla Midnight.”
Liam said, “In drag, she’s the troupe’s Black diva, and the show always builds to her big number. But she got into a pissing match with a couple other ‘ladies’ in the troupe and walked out on us at rehearsal last night—huge, hysterical screaming match. Texted us from the airport this morning, on her way to God knows where, to visit a sister for a month. And the others say that if she decides to come back—and if we let her onstage—they won’t go on.”
“So we’re down a diva,” said Bruce. “She was going to impersonate Grace Jones singing ‘La Vie en Rose.’ Fabulous costume, fabulous hair—very androgynous, very Jean-Paul Goude. But, alas, c’est la vie. The show, as they say, must go on—and it will. But without Darla, it just won’t be the same. We’ll have a heap of disappointed donors on our hands that night.”
Hmm.
The receptionist hung up his phone. “Bruce? Federico finished with your next client. Zola is washed and waiting for you.”
Liam said, “That’s my cue—gotta run.” He opened the door, but paused. “Stay in touch, Dante.” And he was gone.
I asked Bruce, “Can I introduce you to Zola?”
“Perfect. C’mon back.” He led me to his station, where he pulled over a side chair for me.
Zola was already in the adjustable styling chair. A towel was wrapped around her wet hair, and she wore a silky purple smock embroidered in flourishes with the signature Bruce.
After I properly introduced them, Bruce said to Zola, “I hear you’re on your way to Mrs. Payne’s for lunch.”
I had already coached her to play dumb about the murder, as I wasn’t sure what, if anything, Bruce had heard about it. For that matter, I couldn’t yet eliminate the possibility that Bruce himself was the killer.
Zola told him, “Marjorie and I have known each other forever—since she and the ambassador built the estate—and I think she just wanted to catch up.”
“That house,” said Bruce, combing and curling, “isn’t it fabulous? I mean totally to-die-for.”
After a tantalizing pause, Zola informed him, “I was the lead decorator. Thank you.”
They launched into an excited discussion of the estate’s various design elements, including—of course—the banana-leaf curtains, which gave me an opportunity to survey Bruce’s work area, cluttered with the various implements and unguents of his trade.
Propped up on the counter, leaning against the mirrored wall but partially concealed by a towel that had been tossed aside, was a book. From what I could see, it looked like Cynthia’s Wrath, sixth of the seven planned installments of Maude Movay’s best-selling romance series. On Monday, when Bruce went to the Payne estate to pick up Maude’s wigs at the guesthouse, he had brought the book along and left it for her to sign.
“No one,” said Zola, “and I mean no one, could do a hidden zipper like Lydia. I used her workroom for every pillow in that house.”
“And they’re still there!” said Bruce, flopping a hand to his bosom. “Talk about ‘investment’ decorating …”
Zola nodded gravely. “Sometimes, you do indeed get what you paid for. And trust me—Ambassador Grover Payne didn’t hesitate to pay for the very best.”
With a chortle, Bruce said into Zola’s ear, but loudly enough to be heard over the chorus of hair dryers, “I understand the ambassador paid for more than pillows.”
With a chortle, Bruce said into Zola’s ear, but loudly enough to be heard over the chorus of hair dryers, “I understand the ambassador paid for more than pillows.”
Zola tossed back her head for a hearty laugh.
“Ummm”—I leaned into the conversation from my chair—”are you saying the ambassador paid for … women?”
Zola and Bruce looked at each other, wide-eyed, then laughed with such gusto, they drew glances from everyone in the salon.
“Get real,” said Bruce. “It’s no secret that Grover Payne had a yen for men.”
This was news to me. I asked Bruce, “Did Mrs. Payne tell you this?”
“God, no.”
Zola added, “Marjorie never spoke of the matter—then or since. At the time, though, it was fairly hot gossip. It seemed everyone was in on it.”
“For instance,” said Bruce, “you know how they have that private entrance—back by the guesthouse?”
I nodded.
“Word is, that was built specifically for the ambassador’s—shall we say—assignations. The men, the boys, could come and go at all hours without the rigmarole at the main gate, and without the records. The ambassador, too—he could slip in and out whenever the need arose.”
Incredulous, I asked, “And Mrs. Payne never knew about this?”
“Marjorie isn’t stupid,” Zola assured me. “Surely, she must’ve known what was going on, but she never talked about it, not even in confidence to a trusted old friend—like me.”
“Obviously,” said Bruce, “she repressed it.”
“Obviously,” I agreed.
Bruce raised a pinky. “She’s a lady through and through—there are things one simply does not discuss.”
Zola said, “She may not discuss that, but get a few drinks in her, and she opens up about anything else.” Zola turned to tell me, “Marjorie’s a sucker for a Tom Collins. The ambassador never served them. I, however, did.”
I wondered if Zola was telling me that our luncheon that afternoon might not be the yawn I had anticipated. Meanwhile, I needed to shift the focus away from Marjorie Payne and back to Bruce Tucker, who didn’t know that my true purpose at the salon that morning had nothing to do with Zola’s hair—and everything to do with Bruce’s possible involvement in the demise of Maude Movay.
While Bruce continued working his magic on Zola, I stood and moved to the mirror, fussing with the hair at my temples.
Bruce glanced over, offering, “Happy to give you a quick blowout before you leave—won’t take a minute.”
“I’m fine, but thanks for—” I stopped short, as if noticing the book. “Oh? What’s this?”
He set his blow dryer back in its charging holster. Joining me at the countertop, he moved the towel and picked up the copy of Cynthia’s Wrath, holding it like a precious object, a sacred text. With a happy little sigh, he said, “I’ve been showing it off.”
“Why?” asked Zola.
“Because she signed it.”
Bruce opened the book to its title page and presented it to Zola. After reading it, she handed it to me. Its inscription was familiar:
To Bruce Tucker, my dearest chum and most devoted reader.
Yours forever, Maude Movay.
Excerpted from the book Desert Deadline: A Dante and Jazz Mystery, with permission. Copyright 2023, Michael Craft.