Wombat Strategy

SEVENTEEN

A bit singed, but happy and rather tired, I made my way home next morning. As it was Saturday, I wasn't expecting anyone except Jules to be there, so it was a surprise to find both Ariana's BMW and Dave Deer's white Rolls in the parking lot.

When I got near Ariana's office I could hear Dave Deer's agitated tones.

"Already I've had cancellations! And these are big names, Ariana, big names! They don't like scandal, they demand complete confidentiality. If it gets out that Perkins was being blackmailed, they'll run for the hills, they'll desert me. And after all I've done for mental health in this town!"

I stuck my head around the door to say I was there, and Ariana beckoned me in.

Dave Deer glanced at me and said, "Your face looks like hell." Then he was back on subject. "Ariana, I'm telling you. Any hint of blackmail is death to Deerdoc. Death!"

"No blackmail letter was found."

"You sure?"

"I spoke with the detective in charge. We go back a long way. I mentioned blackmail, and he said nothing was found."

"Shit! You mentioned blackmail to him? You should have kept that quiet."

"Dave, this is a murder we're talking about."

He stuck out his bottom lip, just like a big baby who'd been scolded. "The news says suicide."

"The LAPD are saying suicide too, because Perkins was shot with his own gun. But every instinct I have says it's not true. Perkins was murdered."

"Then you have to find out who did it. Money's no object here. You've got to do something before my practice disappears down the bloody gurgler."

Ariana indicated the fat envelope we'd taken up to the murder scene and then brought back with us. "The material we had for Perkins. You can take it back with you."

He looked as though she'd offered him a funnel-web spider to play with. "Keep it! I can't afford to have that stuff anywhere in the offices. If they start investigating a murder, there could be search warrants. Keep it here, safe."

When Ariana showed her surprise at the request, he explained, "Only two disks were taken from the file. In that envelope are records of other therapy sessions and my clinical notes. I'll put it this way-Perkins was very frank. There are names, events. If they got out…"

Ariana raised an eyebrow. Her skepticism drove Dave Deer to justify his judgment. "Lorelei Stevens, for example. Perkins caught her in bed with two underage kids, a precocious brother and sister, who happen to be stars themselves."

"Not Tad and Helena Prosser?" Even Ariana seemed startled. I vaguely remembered them as a brother and sister acting team who'd made a series of kid's movies where they played orphans who'd been trained as junior spies.

Dave Deer said bitterly, "They and their pushy mother are patients of mine!" He slapped his forehead with the heel of one hand. "And you wonder why I'm upset!"

I said, "But I heard Lorelei Stevens was going to star in the movie Perkins was about to make."

"At half her normal salary," Dave Deer declared. "Now why do you think that was?"

Taking a punt, I said, "In the sessions, did Perkins ever talk about stealing scripts from new writers? I was wondering if he mentioned someone called Rich Westholme."

Dave Deer made a dismissive gesture. "For God's sake," he said, "do you think I listen to their self-centered ramblings? Jesus! I'd go mad. Perkins mentioned lots of names. I paid no attention. The only reason I homed in on Lorelei is because she's a patient."

After he'd gone, Ariana and I repaired to the kitchen, Ariana for coffee, me for tea. Spooning grounds into the percolator, she said, "What's your take on this?"

"You mean what do I think? Well, first of all, Jarrod Perkins is the perfect victim. Everyone hated him."

"Agreed."

"I get the impression there's any number of struggling writers who claim he stole material from them."

"Happens all the time, but Perkins had it down to a fine art. For novice writers, the dice are loaded. Perkins, like other successful directors, is the one with the name, the clout, the studios behind him. Who's going to win if there's a dispute?"

She watched me heat the teapot and make sure the kettle was boiling again before pouring the bubbling water over the tea leaves. "Aren't tea bags easier?"

"Oh, please. Do you like instant coffee?"

"Point taken."

I was warming to this discussion. Every now and then I'd think, This is me, Kylie Kendall, discussing P.I. business. Like I really knew what the hell I was talking about.

"Sven could have killed him," I said. "I'd reckon Perkins would have been the boss from hell, and maybe Sven finally got totally jack of him. Then there's Randy Romaine." I touched my nose and winced. "I'd love him to be a murderer, though right now I can't think of why he'd bother. And I'm sure Lorelei Stevens would like to see Perkins dead."

"Not necessarily," said Ariana. "For all his faults, he was a very successful director. Lorelei's had a couple of under-performing movies lately. She needs a hit."

While I was digesting this information about the ways of the biz, Ariana said, "Have you considered the possibility that Jarrod Perkins was engineering the whole blackmail plot? He could have used it to extort money from Deerdoc. You know from this morning's conversation that Dave Deer is prepared to pay a great deal to keep his company viable."

I was mortified that I hadn't considered this possibility. But of course, Ariana had been at this a lot longer than me. "What about the bomb in the Hummer?"

"The crime lab's come up with the composition of the device. Pyrotechnics, used in movies."

"The stuff that blows up cars and things?"

"Exactly. And no problem for Perkins to get hold of it."

"What do the police think about the Hummer, now that Perkins is dead?"

"They don't think there's necessarily a connection. There are three theories: one, it was an accident, caused when improperly stored pyrotechnics ignited; two, someone with a grudge against Perkins destroyed the vehicle; three, Jarrod Perkins did it himself."

"Why would he do that?"

She shrugged. "It got attention. You can't buy that type of publicity. And did you notice how he mentioned his movie in every interview?"

Ariana poured her coffee, I poured my tea. We sat down at the bench. I said, "Bob Verritt hates Jarrod Perkins."

Ariana raised her eyebrows. "You're accusing one of our employees of murder?"

My heart took a little jump. One of our employees? Was Ariana coming around to the idea I was her partner? In business only, of course.

"Just trying to cover everything," I said demurely. "So how about Dave Deer? He's got a motive."

She nodded approval. "He certainly has-shutting Perkins up before he ruins Deerdoc."

"So what happens if our client turns out to be the murderer? Who pays the bill? Could we sue Deerdoc?"

"You know," said Ariana, "you're one of a kind."

Last night a play. Tonight an art gallery. Soon I'd be a cultured little Aussie. My second date in as many days. Maybe not a real date, but it would do for the moment. Ariana came back to the office to pick me up at six o'clock. She said to dress up a bit, so I put on my second-best clobber, one of the outfits Harriet had helped me buy for my extremely short career as personal assistant to Dave Deer.

The art gallery where Ariana's sister was exhibiting was in Santa Monica. I'd heard about Santa Monica in songs, and read about it in books, and seen it in movies, but I'd never been there.

When I told Ariana this, she said, "After the gallery, I'll give you a quick tour."

"That'd be bonzer."

The gallery was in a two-story building, and inside it was stark, off-white, echoing rooms with nowhere to sit, except for an odd stone bench here and there. The floor was bare, polished wood. Every wall I could see had widely spaced paintings displayed. A sculpture, looking like a woman with severe deformities, writhed on a pedestal just inside the entrance.

There were lots of people wandering around, some stopping to confer in front of paintings, others snaffling wine and cheese. We'd been there two minutes when we were greeted by a cold-faced woman in a severely cut red suit. She gave a chilly glance at me then recognized Ariana and immediately warmed up. "Ariana, darling!" Air kisses. "I'll tell Janette you're here."

I drifted over to the nearest painting and eyeballed it. It was quite eerie: an almost photographic depiction of a commonplace park with people sitting on benches and kids playing. But nobody had eyes. It was signed in a scrawling Janette and the date.

"What do you think?" said Ariana.

"Creepy."

Ariana cocked her head and looked at the painting through narrowed eyes. "Disconcerting," she said. "That's what Janette means to do. Disconcert you."

"Does she only use her first name, like Cher or Madonna?"

"Exactly like Cher or Madonna," said a laughing voice behind us.

Ariana and her sister embraced, then I was introduced. Just seeing her in a crowd, I would have guessed Janette was Ariana's sister. She had the same pale hair and blue eyes, but none of Ariana's taut personality. She was warm, friendly, and down-to-earth, and carrying quite a few kilos more than her sister.

"What do you think of my paintings?" she asked.

"I've only seen one."

"You must let me show you some more."

Some of her work was way past disconcerting-it was straight-out disturbing. One that particularly caught my attention showed a billiard table, meticulously rendered, sitting in a room with a glass wall, outside which was the blue water of a swimming pool. On the green baize of the table lay a human hand, fingers curled, the still-sticky blood indicating it had been freshly removed. And under the table, by one heavy wooden leg, a bare foot with painted nails was similarly amputated.

"Has it got a name?"

"Hand-Eye Coordination."

I frowned at her. "I don't get it."

Janette pointed to the rack holding the cues. I'd missed it at first viewing. Balanced on the top of one cue stick was an eye, newly torn from its socket.

"That's a bit sick," I said.

Janette laughed heartily. "It is, isn't it?"

"Frankly, my mother's certifiable."

"Fran, darling, you deigned to come," said Janette. "And Quip too. My cup runneth over."

"Certifiable and sarcastic," said Fran.

Quip grabbed his mother-in-law's waist and whirled her around, her feet off the floor, until she shrieked for mercy. "You're a horrible woman," he declared, releasing her. "When are you going to paint my portrait?"

"When you're famous."

"That'll be any day now," Quip declared, his handsome face lit with enthusiasm. He struck a hands-on-hips pose that was so gay I almost applauded. "I've got someone very interested in one of my scripts."

"He's gorgeous, Fran," I said to her. Her lips hovered on a smile but never quite made it.

"That's wonderful news." Janette put her arm through his. "We'll have to break out the champagne. Is it anyone I'd know?"

"Probably not. He's an up-and-coming director, been working with Jarrod Perkins. His name's Rich Westholme."

Beside me, Fran grunted. "Asshole," she murmured.

"Fuckwit," I said. We nodded acknowledgment to each other.

I didn't spend any time with Ariana, but I always knew where she was in the gallery. I chatted with various people, smiled cheerfully when the umpteenth one said "I just love your accent" or, for variation, "Australia? I've always wanted to go there, but it's such a long way…"

There were lots of red stickers on paintings, indicating they'd already sold. I wondered where I'd hang a painting of Janette's if I had one. The subject matter would be too weird for a bedroom. In fact, when I thought about it, I couldn't think of anywhere in a house I'd put a painting of hers.

The crowds were thinning, the wine drying up, the few chunks of uneaten cheese looking far from fresh. "Ready to go?" Ariana asked.

"Have you got any of Janette's paintings in your house?" I hadn't seen any in the living room or kitchen, but that didn't mean there weren't rooms crammed with artworks somewhere in the place.

She paused, as though she weren't going to answer, then she said, "One, in my bedroom."

"Your bedroom?" I was startled to think she'd hang one in there.

"It's an early work of Janette's, a watercolor of a mountain lake. Quite beautiful, really. And nothing like any of these."

In the end, we did have a sort of a date. Fran and Quip and Ariana and I went down to the Santa Monica Pier. I'd never seen anything like it. The pier, crowded with people, stretched out into the ocean. Quip said the pier was 2,000 feet long. I asked how much that was in meters. "Like I'd know," he said, laughing.

We ate hot dogs, examined the old merry-go-round with its carved wooden horses, rode on the Ferris wheel-I wouldn't risk my life on the roller coaster-and joined the people strolling along to the end of the pier and back again.

I didn't think of Raylene once. Well, maybe once, when I saw two girls wander along with their arms around each other. One of them reminded me of Raylene, I'm not sure why.

Later, when Ariana was driving me home, the fizz of the evening went to my head. I couldn't blame the wine-the gentle buzz from it was long gone-but I'd had such a good time on the pier I felt bold enough to say, "You're an enigma, Ariana."

"I'm not at all."

"Well, of course you'd say you weren't. Otherwise you wouldn't be one." I liked the word, so I said it again. "An enigma."

Silence. Then Ariana said, "You're only saying that because I don't talk about myself."

"Why don't you?"

She glanced across at me, her expression…an enigma. She said, "Why don't you?”

I felt a jab of indignation. "Fair crack of the whip! I do. My life's an open book."

"Is it? I don't recall your mentioning anything much about your life in Australia."

Oh, jeez. She had me there. How could I talk about Raylene, and the Wombat's Retreat, and how I'd been elbowed out by Jack, and…

"Forget I brought up the subject."

"Okay."

Wouldn't it rot your socks? This round to Ariana, no worries.