Kylie Kendall Mystery: The Wombat Strategy Part 18

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 a.s.sistant 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 s.p.a.ced 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 n.o.body had eyes. It was signed in a scrawling Janette and the date.

"What do you think?" said Ariana.

"Creepy."

Ariana c.o.c.ked 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 disconcertinga"it was straight-out disturbing. One that particularly caught my attention showed a billiard table, meticulously rendered, sitting in a room with a gla.s.s 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. "a.s.shole," she murmured.

"f.u.c.kwit," 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 wheela"I wouldn't risk my life on the roller coastera"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 winea"the gentle buzz from it was long gonea"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?a 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.

EIGHTEEN.

Sunday I went shopping for garden furniture, having decided I'd spring for the cost, since I'd be the one using it. I had a beaut time choosing what to get, finally settling on a round redwood table with a hole in the middle for a shade umbrella, four chairs, and a reclining lounge with dark green all-weather cushions. The umbrella I ordered was dark green too. Delivery, the bloke a.s.sured me, would be next week.

I realized this was an awful lot of furniture just for me, but I reckoned I could lure some of the others out there too, once I'd gussied-up the backyard with plants, and maybe a pot or two.

That thought sent me in search of a nursery. It was amazing how many Aussie plants were there. I said so to one of the nursery people, and she said California had a similar climate to Oz, which made a lot of sense. I'd already noticed the gum trees everywhere, and they all seemed to be doing well.

Second-to-last stop was a pet store, where I bought Jules a couple of grooming brushes, a wire comb, and clippers to trim her claws. I felt a bit guilty doing this without asking Melodie if she minded, but it seemed to me Julia Roberts and I were destined to spend the foreseeable future together. Not that I could foresee very far.

Last stop was the supermarket. h.e.l.l's bells, the supermarkets in L.A., compared to Wollegudgerie, really were supermarkets. The 'Gudge Mart was a puny little thing compared to the one I was in, which was so vast and had so many choices I almost wished I'd brought a thermos with hot tea so I could have a reviving cuppa halfway through.

When I got home I called Chantelle, told her I'd had a terrific time on Friday, and sort of hinted I might be available for more of the same. Obligingly, she suggested we do something next weekend. My social life was looking up.

Monday morning I went to confess to Ariana I'd ordered garden furniture and to float the bright idea I'd had of putting a washer and a dryer in the storage room next to the kitchen. It'd be child's play, I'd explain, to knock down a wall and make the laundry an alcove to the kitchen. And any plumber could connect the clothes washer to the kitchen drain. Of course, there'd probably have to be an exhaust fan to get rid of the heat from the dryer, but no real probs.

When I knocked on her door I discovered Sven La.r.s.en was there. His Mr. Universe body overwhelmed the chair in which he sat, and I had the thought that it might collapse at any moment.

"Come in, Kylie. Mr. La.r.s.en's here to give his side of the story."

"The cops are stupid," Sven declared. "I know what they're thinking. That I killed Jarrod. Why would I do that, eh? Kill my meal ticket? I'd be a fool."

"The LAPD are saying it appears to be suicide," Ariana said.

"No one who knew Jarrod would believe that. He'd never kill himself, never in a thousand years."

"What's your scenario?"

The chair creaked despairingly as Sven leaned forward, his face intense. He really wanted Ariana to believe him. "Jarrod had a night shoot on Wednesday. A scene that didn't work in the final cut of Last Train to h.e.l.l and had to be redone. We were up until three a.m., so I knew he'd sleep in. I didn't get breakfast for him like I usually do but went straight to the gym."

He jerked his head in my direction. "He knew she was coming at ten, so he set his alarm for nine-thirty. After I left, someone came in and killed him. Made it look like suicide."

Ariana said, "Did you tell the detectives your theory?"

Sven scowled. "It's not a theory, lady! It's what happened. And yes, I told them. They said they were following every lead." He gave a derisive grunt. "Every lead? I don't think so."

"When you last saw Mr. Perkins, what sort of mood was he in?"

Sven smiled sourly. "He was like always, only louder. He chewed me out in front of the crew on the shoot."

"Chewed you out, how?"

"He fired me. But he was always doing that. I paid no mind to it. And it wasn't me he was mad at, it was Deer. He said he'd tear his b.a.l.l.s off and push them down his throat. Blamed him for the whole blackmail thing."

Feeling left out, I said, "Did you see the blackmail letter?"

Sven gave me an irritated glance. "He told me about it. Half a million. For that he'd get the recordings back."

"Would Mr. Perkins have paid?" Ariana asked.

Sven laughed harshly. "You kidding me? Jarrod was a mean motherf.u.c.ker. He wouldn't pay a cent."

I said, "Was anything missing from the house?"

Sven swung his heavy head around. "What?"

"Was anything missing?"

He frowned. "Only scripts. Jarrod always had his desk piled with movie scripts. But they were gone. I figured the police..."

He heaved himself to his feet. The chair seemed relieved. "I know you're working for Deer. I wanted you to hear my side of the story." His face contorted with anger. "f.u.c.king cops. Once they think it's murder, it'll be me. Easy target. Dumb bodybuilder. They won't look any further."

There was something almost pathetic about Sven as he leaned forward earnestly and said to Ariana, "I didn't do it. Please believe me."

After he'd gone, Ariana said, "I'd hate to think he's right, but if murder's on the table, Sven La.r.s.en's the easy target, with opportunity and motive. Why look any further?"

"Why would anyone take scripts?" I asked. "What would be the point?"

Ariana looked thoughtful. "That's a good question."

We discussed it for a few minutes, then I changed the subject. "I've ordered some garden furniture. I'm paying."

"Fine." She tilted her head. "I've got a feeling there's something more."

"I do have this idea..."

Wary, Ariana said, "Yes?"

I explained my vision of a laundry room. Ariana listened without comment. When I ran out of steam, she said, "So you've given up on the idea of an apartment? You're going to stay here instead?"

"In the short term, yes."

"And in the long term?"