by Claire McNab
"Now, don't tell Rube," said Pen, smiling girlishly at me. "He can get quite jealous at times, although we do have an open relationship."
"There's nothing to tell Rube," I pointed out. "Lonnie just installed a surveillance unit for you."
Pen's smile widened. She gave me an affectionate, one-armed squeeze that pushed most of the air out of my lungs. "Little you know!" she said, following this with a hoot of laughter.
Could she mean it? Lonnie had written: "Dr. Penny! Cool!" on the bottom of his note to me about the camera installation. But, Lonnie and Pen Braithwaite? Quite unexpected pictures danced in front of my eyes.
"I hope you'll be very happy together," I declared.
"Speaking of happy," said Pen, peering closely at me, "you look positively sated, Kylie. Some wonderfully sensual experience?"
I knew I was blushing. "Fair," I said, offhand. "Nothing to write home to Mum about."
And that was true. My mum would never hear a word about my night with Ariana.
Thankfully at this moment the lift arrived with a tired wheeze, and Pen swept me into it. She jabbed the floor number multiple times. "Come on," she said, "Come on!" The lift doors creaked arthritically closed.
"Bloody elevators," said Pen. "Got stuck in this one the other day. And I was by myself, worse luck. Now, if it gives up the ghost right now, it'll be you and me, Kylie, all alone. What do you say to that?"
"Help?"
"Love it," said Pen, chuckling, "that Aussie sense of humor."
Heeding my urgent prayer, the lift opened on the correct floor. "Better luck next time, eh?" said Pen, striding in the direction of double doors with an illuminated ON AIR sign.
We passed a window through which I could see a bloke at a console speaking animatedly into a microphone, although we could hear nothing until we entered the control room, where his voice was fed through speakers. He was giving news headlines: high-speed police pursuit of a carjacked SUV, influence peddling scandal in City Hall, gang-related shootout in one of the poorer L.A. areas, top movie star checks into upscale substance abuse clinic.
"Same old, same old," said Pen.
In quick succession, she introduced me to several preoccupied people, each of whom said. "Hi," then went straight back to preparing for the coming program. One called Roger seemed to be in charge. Then I was bundled into a cramped studio, seated in a high-backed leather chair, and fitted with cumbersome earphones. "Can you hear me?" boomed in my ears. I gestured to the sound engineer to indicate I could.
Then there was a lull in proceedings. Through the window between the control room and the studio, I could see Pen waving her hands around as she spoke to a diminutive woman who for some reason reminded me of an aristocratic whippet. If she'd been larger, I reflected, it'd have been a greyhound.
With nothing to distract me, my thoughts boomeranged back to Ariana. This morning we'd breakfasted together, and Ariana had been quiet but not cold. If anything, she'd been pensive, even sad. I'd silently admonished myself not to say too much. Any declaration of love, for example, was definitely not on the schedule. Both of us scrupulously avoided discussing our night together, and I managed not to impulsively blurt anything out about undying devotion over my porridge.
The rot had set in when I'd walked Ariana to her dark-blue BMW. She said a casual goodbye, slid into the driver's seat, shut the door, started the engine.
I tapped gently on her window. She slid it down and gazed inquiringly at me. "Something you forgot?"
"To tell you that I love you."
Ariana looked away. "Don't say that, please."
"Why not? It's true."
"Please."
"Right-oh," I'd said, "but it won't make any difference. I'll still love you."
We hadn't exchanged another word. I'd stepped back, and she'd put the car in gear and driven away.
Pen broke into my thoughts by barging through the studio door.
The room seemed suddenly smaller. In the space of a couple minutes, she'd dumped the compilation of questionable calls in my lap, flung herself into a chair opposite mine, slapped down a bunch of typed pages, whacked on her earphones, fiddled with switches, and adjusted the hanging microphone to her liking. This was followed by a sound-level check.
All this accomplished, she leaned back and grinned at me. "If the guy calls, and I'm betting he will, Roger's on the ten-second delay, and the program will go to station identification while I keep him talking."
Roger came through the earphones to say it was sixty seconds to airtime.
"Have you listened to my program before?" Pen asked me.
I had to admit I'd missed that pleasure.
Pen chortled. "Be ready to be surprised."
I said I would be.
"Emily screens the calls," said Pen, indicating the whippet woman, who was seated on the other side of the dividing window, earphones dominating her narrow head. "She's got a talent for voices, and will recognize Creepy Guy-that's what we've taken to calling him-if he's on the line. I've told her to put him through like a regular caller." She rubbed her hands together. "Creepy's starting to be a bit of a challenge. I always like a challenge."
"No, you don't," I said, having read much more about stalking and stalkers since last we'd talked. "True stalkers are much more than a challenge. They're unhinged, unpredictable individuals who can go from being a mere nuisance to becoming a murderous threat."
Pen seemed ready to argue, but I went on, "Did you read through the list of preliminary steps that Ariana gave you?"
She waved a dismissive hand. "All just common sense. Besides, being a celebrity of sorts, I've already got more than half of them in place."
The basic safety precautions to take when being stalked were, as Pen said, common sense: block your address at the DMV and voter registration; get a post office box for mail; screen all calls with an answering machine; get an additional, unlisted number and only give it to family and very close friends; never accept delivery of a package unless you personally ordered the item; shred all receipts and statements; keep a cell phone by your side at all times, even inside your home, because a stalker can cut telephone wires; get a watchdog; install a security system including video surveillance of entry points; be aware of exactly where the nearest police station is; establish where twenty-four-hour stores are situated; inform neighbors, coworkers, and friends that you are being stalked so they won't innocently provide information; take a class in self-defense; consider changing your address.
I'd opened my mouth to emphasize that taking a stalker for granted had been a fatal mistake for some victims when a voice in our earphones started the countdown. The program was about to go to air. The theme music, I found, was the old Cole Porter song "Anything Goes." I had a feeling this would prove to be an entirely appropriate choice.
The music faded, and an announcer, his resonant delivery full of joyful enthusiasm, exclaimed, "Welcome to Sexuality Unchained, Dr. Penny's award-winning advice column of the air, covering all issues of adult sexuality!" He dropped his voice to add in a serious tone, "A warning: this is for adults only. Some material discussed may offend some listeners." Another burst of Anything Goes was followed by: "And here's Dr. Penny!"
I recalled that Harriet had said Dr. Penny began her program with a statement that sex was her great passion. Harriet wasn't wrong. "Sex is my great passion!" Pen exclaimed. "My great passion! A life not filled to the brim with healthy sensuality is no life at all! For those listeners new to Sexuality Unchained, let me promise you an unbridled, unrestrained, candid exploration of adult sexuality in all its wonderful diversity."
The calls began. Leaping lizards! There were some uninhibited people out there! I was no prude, but a couple of times my mouth literally fell open. Pen took it all in her stride, even the bloke who'd had a surprising experience while swimming with dolphins.
"Dolphins," said Pen approvingly. "Sexy beggars and opportunists too. You wouldn't be the only case of a cross-species romp."
"But it was male dolphin!" the bloke exclaimed in some distress. "And I'm not gay."
"Three possibilities," said Pen. "A bisexual dolphin, a homosexual dolphin, or a heterosexual dolphin with poor eyesight."
This observation generated a positive firestorm of calls, and perspiration began to run down Emily Whippet's face. Pen was obliged to state emphatically that she did not subscribe to bestiality as a way of life.
"There is no homosexuality in the animal kingdom," declared one irate woman. "These are all God's creatures, and each and every one follows God's design for natural, normal behavior."
Pen snorted at mat. "Homosexual and bisexual behavior is common. In fact, it's more common in other species than in humans. Read up on bonobo chimpanzees. It'll curl your hair."
The woman snorted right back at Pen. "I doubt anything you could say would curl my hair," she sneered.
"Wrap your ears around this," said Pen with a ferocious grin. "Bonobo chimpanzees are among humankind's closest relatives. All the bonobos that have been closely observed turn out to be one hundred percent bisexual." She paused for that to sink in. "You got that? Every last chimp swings both ways."
An inarticulate cry, and the caller disconnected.
"And that, listeners, is the sound of hair curling," said Pen with satisfaction.
It was half an hour into the program that Pen's stalker called. Whippet Emily gestured from behind the glass that she had something, then, in the next commercial break, she came on through our earphones. "Creepy Guy's the call after next-calling himself 'Robert of Agoura Hills.' I'm sure it's him."
"Put him through first, as soon as the break ends." Pen looked over at me, triumphant. "I knew he'd call."
The seemingly interminable commercials finally ended. "You're listening to Sexuality Unchained. And we're back with Dr. Penny…"
Pen purred into the microphone, "And our next call is from Robert of Agoura Hills. What do you have for us, Robert?"
"It's what I have for you, Dr. Penny."
Although masculine, it was a high-pitched, slippery voice with an unpleasant note of insinuation.
"You have a problem with your sexuality?"
"I have a problem with you, you ball-breaking bitch."
Emily made a cutthroat gesture to indicate the ten-second delay was in operation and the caller was off the air before listeners could hear his last words.
"Do women intimidate you, Robert?" Pen inquired sweetly.
He ignored that, saying, "You'll be getting a message soon-a very lethal message. You should learn from it." He sniggered. "I wish I could see your face when it's delivered."
There was a click, and he was gone.
Disappointed, Pen sat back in her chair. "That was a bummer," she said. "He hardly said a thing."
My imagination was buzzing with possible meanings of a very lethal message. "It was a threat, Pen. The message he mentioned could be a bomb, anthrax-"
"Kylie, I've heard much worse than that from callers," said Pen with a shrug, "and nothing's ever happened."
"Five seconds," said Roger.
As cheerfully outrageous as ever, Pen continued with depressed callers suffering premature performance problems, premature rejection problems-"You must be making a lousy first impression," Pen remarked at one point-as well as upbeat callers who readily shared the most intimate particulars of their sexual experiences in surprising detail.
Near the end of the program, Pen was busily quizzing a woman who claimed to have discovered some amazing techniques while traveling in Tibet, when a movement in the control room caught my eye. I was astonished to see Rube Wasinsky, his face haggard, staring through the glass at Pen.
She saw him too. "What's wrong?" she mouthed, while the caller burbled on about secret Tibetan sex arts.
When he put his face in his hands, Pen turned back to the microphone. She interrupted the woman, with, "I'm so sorry, but we're out of time," then she rapidly wrapped up the show.
Pen and I took off our earphones as Rube came into the room. "Oh, Pen," he said. "Oh, Pen."
She stared at him, white-faced. "What is it?"
"It's Oscar."
Pen leaped up. "He's hurt?"
"He's dead, Pen. Oscar's dead."
SIXTEEN
Ariana arrived at UCLA before Pen, Rube, and I did. I had volunteered to drive, as Pen was so shaken and Rube was so distracted that they would have been a danger on the roads. Rube knew Oscar's body had been found near one of the university buildings presently being extensively renovated. I'd become familiar enough with the campus to make an educated guess where this might be.
As it happened, we didn't have to search for the site, as the irritating strobing of the emergency lights of several patrol cars and the white glare of spotlights made it obvious. As the death had occurred on campus, UCLA's police force was also involved. I parked quite illegally next to sign that read NO PARKING AT ANY TIME and had scarcely stopped the car before Pen was out and rushing toward the lights. Rube and I caught up with her when she slowed suddenly at the edge of the crowd that had gathered. I was sure I knew why. Pen was imagining, like I was, the horror mat would be waiting for her.
Spectators, mainly students, watched everything with avid eyes. They were clustered outside the scaffolding enclosing a red-brick and sandstone four-story building. They were held back from the action by police tape, which was strung around the floodlit area.
Ariana was just inside the police tape talking with a heavily built man with a world-weary expression. Everything on his face had a downward droop)-his eyelids, his cheeks, his long nose, the corners of his mouth, the flabby jowls that blurred the definition of his jaw.
Ariana gestured for us to join them. The curiosity of the crowd was aroused when we were allowed to duck under the tape. Ariana introduced us to Detective Lark, a name that seemed singularly inappropriate for him. As Lark made a perfunctory statement of sympathy, Pen looked past him and shuddered.
I felt like shuddering too. It wasn't like the movies or TV-Oscar's body hadn't been decently covered. I recalled reading somewhere that contamination of a crime scene often occurred when bodies picked up fibers from the material used to hide them from curious eyes. Oscar lay facedown, his limbs splayed. Around his bushy head a dark stain- surely blood-had seeped into the dry earth.
Pen swayed, and seized Rube's arm for support. Obviously fearing she might collapse, Lark took her other arm and together he and Rube helped her to the nearest patrol car.
"Pen shouldn't have seen that," I said.
"Could you have stopped her from coming here?"
I shook my head. "Of course not."
Ariana looked grim. "As next of kin, she'll be asked to identify the body anyway."
I had the unreal feeling I was a character in a script in a TV crime show and that any moment the director would yell, "Cut!"
I said, just as my TV character would, "What happened?"
Indicating the scaffolding looming above us, Ariana said, "It appears Oscar fell from somewhere up there."
I could see figures on the roof silhouetted by the flashlights they were using. "What could Oscar possibly be doing on a building site?"
Ariana shrugged. "As a cop, I found people do the strangest things," she said. "Without a thought of personal danger, they get themselves into hazardous situations. Sometimes it's fatal."
My gaze was drawn magnetically to Oscar's body. If he would only get up, and laugh, and say, "I fooled you, didn't I?" But he would never shake that shaggy head again or exclaim, "Bloody Yarrow!"
"Ariana, are you saying this is just a stupid accident?"
"It's much too early to come to any firm conclusion, but I get the impression Ted Lark is leaning that way."
"You know Detective Lark?"
"Very well. We worked together several times when I was on the force."
I looked over to the patrol car. Rube and Pen were in the backseat, and Detective Lark was leaning through the open door, talking to them. "Some
thing happened tonight that maybe he should know. Pens stalker called the program and said she'd be getting a lethal message."
My skin tingled as Ariana touched my arm. "Can you tell me exactly what he said?"
I repeated the call as best I could remember. "It's recorded, of course."
"I'll tell Ted."
As she went to walk over to the patrol car, I said, "Isn't the question to ask whose advantage it is that Oscar's dead?"
Ariana turned back to me. "You're thinking Jack Yarrow? You see the eminent professor luring Oscar to the top of this building, men shoving him over?"
"Well, yes," I said. "I can, actually."
I didn't get upset until I was back home at Kendall & Creeling. It was almost dawn, and I felt as though I hadn't slept for days. Julia Roberts was my undoing. If only she hadn't purred the moment she saw me. I swept her up in my arms and buried my face in her fur. "Oscar Braithwaite's dead," I told her. Then the tears came.
"I don't know why I'm crying," I sniffled to Jules, who was being remarkably good about the whole thing. "It's not mat I knew him well, but Oscar was my client. And he died in a horrible way."
A vivid picture of Oscar's sprawled body kept appearing in my mind. How long would it take to fall four stories? Only a second or two. Did Oscar have time to realize he was about to die, or be terribly injured? Were his last thoughts for himself, or did he think of his sister?
I'd stuck around and finally driven Pen home while Ariana drove Rube to the radio station to collect Pen's car. Pen had been beside herself with grief. It was somehow shocking to see someone usually full of bold life now so distraught. I'd stayed with her until Rube arrived, feeling totally inadequate. What could I say to comfort her? Not a thing. For want of anything else to do, I'd made her a cup of tea.
I squeezed Jules a little tighter. "Poor Pen," I said to her. "Can you even imagine how she feels?"
Jules yawned. Empathy wasn't her strong suit.
When she struggled politely, I put her down. After Jules had groomed her wet fur into a semblance of order, and I'd managed to pull myself together, and was contemplating a hot shower before I fell into bed, Ariana called.