Quokka Question

by Claire McNab

  "You know what's up!" He clutched my shoulder. "You've got to help me out, Kylie. Fran and Melodie are at daggers drawn-and I'm in the middle." His handsome face was contorted with anguish. "How could I have been so stupid?"

  "Casting Fran was a bad idea?"

  "Omigod, like, total disaster. What was I thinking!"

  "They're both mad as cut snakes," I said, "but it'll blow over."

  Quip's wide shoulders drooped-he had a crash-hot body from going to the gym every day. "Fran's upset. Melodie's upset. Casting Laughter Under Luna is at a standstill…" He shook his head. "Being a playwright shouldn't be this much of a hassle. And I thought screenwriting was hard. Hello?"

  I was sympathetic but had to get to work. Businesslike, I inquired, "Is there a part for Melodie?"

  "Only Ethel/Ethelbert, and Melodie says that's a supporting role, not worthy of her talents."

  "And you don't want to move Fran from Lucy/Lucas?"

  Quip tossed off a mirthless laugh. "Move Fran? Not if I want to continue living." He gave me an earnest you-can-solve-it look. "I don't mind telling you, I'm tearing my hair out here. Help me, Kylie."

  In my head I heard the Beach Boys singing, Help, help, help me, Kylie. I had to admit Rhonda sounded better. "Would you be willing to lie?" I asked Quip.

  "Lie? I'd sell my firstborn, if I had one."

  Melodie believes she's a bit psychic," I observed.

  "Well, wow! That's a tremendous help," Quip said with a sardonic smile and a flip of his wrist. "I can't thank you enough."

  Quip really was delightfully gay, but he and Fran seemed to have a happy marriage-if happy was ever a word one could associate with Fran.

  I gave a quick glance at my watch. I couldn't be late two days in a row. "I really should go."

  "Then leave!" he said, superdramatic, the back of his hand held to his brow. "But remember, my blood will be on your head!"

  "Crikey, I couldn't cope with the guilt."

  "So what's the plan?"

  "You take Melodie aside and tell her you're speaking in the strictest confidence-and that Fran must never know what you are about to reveal."

  "What am I about to reveal?" Quip asked.

  "That you've never admitted it before, even to yourself, but there's a hidden, supernatural side to your creativity. When the inspiration of the play came to you, you had a dinkum psychic flash about the dynamics between the characters." I stopped to consider possibilities. "I reckon you could have been channeling the person who played Ethel in I Love Lucy."

  "Vivian Vance. She's dead."

  "So you had this psychic link with Vivian Vance in the afterlife, and she set you straight." I repressed a smile. There was nothing straight about Quip. "All the time Lucy/Lucas thinks she/he is the main character, it's really Ethel/Ethelbert who's totally pivotal to the deep underlying themes." I paused briefly to do a quick edit. "Deep universal themes would be better."

  Quip gave me a half-hopeful, half-doubtful look. "Go on."

  "You haven't wanted to admit your psychic side to anyone, knowing you'd be mocked, but secretly you've been hoping Melodie would be willing to play Ethel/Ethelbert. That's why you cast Fran as Lucy/Lucas. You wanted to save the truly important role for Melodie."

  Skeptical, Quip said, "And you think Melodie will swallow this?"

  "Bonzer chance she will, as long as you remember to mention how talented she is." I didn't feel like a hypocrite saying this, because I'd seen Melodie use her acting abilities on several occasions-none of them onstage or on-camera-and she was talented.

  "I can do that," declared Quip, enthused. "I'll make Melodie believe me." He gave me a big smile, showing the thousands of dollars for his tooth veneers had been well spent. "Hitchcock was right, you know. Actors are like children."

  "Who are like children?" It was Fran, glowering from the back door. She switched her glare to me. "What are you doing out here with Quip?"

  "He'll explain," I said, squeezing past her. "I really must go."

  I'd just parked my car at UCLA and was on my way to the biology department, when my cell phone rang. It was Melodie. "Ariana asked me to tell you Dr. Penny's coming into the office at five-thirty today for a progress report. Ariana says if you can make it too, it'd be good."

  I thanked Melodie and clicked off, mega-mopey. Ariana could have called me herself, but she clearly didn't want to speak with me. How depressing was that?

  I drooped along for a bit, then straightened my shoulders. Bloody hell! I was going to show Ariana how I could solve a case single-handedly.

  I was striding along when I heard, "Judy!" It was Clifford Van Horden III heading in my direction. "I've been looking for you everywhere," he said, his smoothly handsome face creased with chagrin that I'd been able to evade him.

  "Been hiding from you," I said, quite truthfully. Frankly, I couldn't see what there was about me that was attracting this bloke. I certainly hadn't encouraged him in any way-quite the contrary.

  Maybe that was it: Rejection was a turn-on for Clifford Van Horden III.

  "Why have you been looking for me?" I inquired.

  He treated me to a charming, luminescent smile. "Why does a man go looking for that one particular woman?" he asked roguishly.

  "High hopes of mind-blowing sex?"

  He blinked, simultaneously turning off his smile. Then he fired it up again. "I love it! You Aussies are so direct. It's refreshing. Different."

  He went to put his arm around my waist, but I stepped nimbly out of reach. "I have an appointment," I said. "Urgent, vital, pressing. Must run."

  "I'll walk you there."

  "No need," I said, breaking into a trot. Van Horden III kept up quite easily.

  "When will I see you again, Judy?" he asked. "Are you free this evening?"

  "Sorry, no. Packed social schedule."

  Too late I realized this was probably the wrong thing to say. His sort would want me all the more if he thought I was in demand.

  "I don't give up easily," he said.

  "I can see that."

  If I'd had the time, I would have headed to some decoy building just so he wouldn't know where I was located on campus, but if I did that, I'd be late.

  I skidded to a stop outside my destination, put out my hand and shook his. "Bonzer to see you again, Clifford Van Horden III."

  "But-"

  "I'll keep an eye out for you." And I would so I could avoid him.

  When I reached Georgia Tapp's office, there was a long line of people waiting for assignments, chatting cheerfully to each other. The exception was Zoran Pestle, who was pacing up and down, his face dark.

  Spying me, he came over to snarl, "The Tapp woman's too busy to deal with the likes of us. Typical! She's in with Yarrow. 'Urgent matters,' she said. It doesn't seem to occur to her that our time's valuable." He cast a searing look at the other members of staff, who, oblivious of his disapproval, were trading indecent jokes. "At least my time is."

  Georgia herself appeared at Yarrow's door, her plump hands fluttering in agitation. She looked the perfect lady in her floral dress, sensible heels, and discreet jewelry. "So sorry, so sorry," she cried. "A most urgent procedural matter, most urgent."

  She hurried into her office, reemerging a moment later with a sheaf of papers in her hand. "Today's schedule," she announced, distributing pages with alacrity. People began to wander off. "Speed is of the essence," she called after them. "So much remains to be done."

  When she came to me, Georgia paused. "Ah, Kylie. Professor Yarrow wants to see you immediately."

  "Right-oh."

  Yarrow was sitting bolt upright behind his desk, his thin lips set in a tight line. He was not alone. Winona Worsack, medievally garbed, sat primly in a chair; Wally Easton's considerable bulk lounged against the windowsill.

  Yarrow managed an excuse of a smile. "Kylie, sit down."

  I nodded to the other two-both ignored me-and plunked myself in the chair he indicated. "What can I do for you, Prof?" I asked with a s
unny smile.

  No one returned it. Easton swiveled his shaved head to look out the window. Winona stared at me as though I were an insect on a slide. I checked out her wheels and was quite disappointed to find she actually had long, slender feet. Maybe there were tiny wheels attached to the soles of her shoes.

  Yarrow seemed pained at my contraction of his title, but deciding to ignore it, he said, "You're on friendly terms with Erin Fogarty, and that's what she desperately needs at the moment, a friend. I'm hoping you'll help us keep an eye on her."

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  Yarrow sighed. "Frankly, I'm very concerned about Erin. She called me last night at home, quite hysterical, saying the police believe she was the one who pushed Dr. Braithwaite off the roof."

  "Crikey," I said. "Do you think she did?"

  Winona Worsack broke in with a terse "It was an accident."

  "Yes," said Yarrow, "a dreadful accident. But contrary to what Erin says, I'm afraid that she may well have been there when it happened. Apparently, she sent a text message to Braithwaite's phone, setting up the time and place."

  "Doesn't sound good for her," I said.

  Yarrow did a rueful head shake. "I'm afraid it doesn't, and I'm worried she's so stressed by the situation that she might do something stupid."

  "Like what?" I asked, wide-eyed.

  Yarrow looked very grave. "Hurt herself in some way."

  "Commit suicide?"

  My blunt words elicited a grimace from Yarrow and a sharp look from Winona, who said, "The girl's clearly emotionally unbalanced, but hardly suicidal. If we believed she was at risk, steps would be taken to admit her immediately to a hospital."

  A monstrous idea was forming in my mind. Could it be that Yarrow intended to plant the idea that Erin might be suicidal, so that later she could be killed? And if her body was found with a note accepting responsibility for Oscar's death, so much the better.

  "Maybe Erin does need to see a doctor," I said. "I'd be glad to go with her."

  Over at the window, Easton turned his head to look at me. He had a flat, reptilian stare that prickled my skin.

  "That won't be necessary," said Yarrow emphatically. "This morning I had a long, intimate chat with Erin, and she's calmed down considerably, knowing I'm taking a fatherly interest in her welfare."

  I glanced at Winona, expecting she'd be browned off to have her husband burbling on about an intimate conversation with a female student, but Winona was impassive.

  "Erin needs peer support," said Winona, who surely didn't give a brass razoo whether Erin had support or not. "We're asking you to be her friend. Let her talk things through. Find out what's she thinking. Help us to understand her problems."

  "I reckon her main problem is she might be charged with murder."

  Shaking his head, Yarrow got to his feet. "A tragic situation for everyone. We can only hope the authorities decide it was misadventure and nothing more." He made an attempt at a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, Kylie. I do appreciate your help with Erin. If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if at the end of each day you report how Erin is faring to my assistant, Ms Tapp."

  "Right-oh."

  He took my arm to lead me to the door. "And please, at any time I'm available if you have particular worries about Erin's welfare."

  I glanced back to see Winona glowering at her husband. She clearly didn't trust him as far as she could throw him, and from the way he was massaging my arm with his fingers, she was right.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Georgia had put me back to work collating stuff for the symposium attendees, and when I got to the room, Erin was already there, wandering from desk to desk, listlessly collecting a page from each neat pile. Apart from us, the room was empty.

  "G'day," I said.

  "Oh, hi, Carol."

  "Kylie."

  "Sorry. Kylie."

  For a change, she wasn't crying, but sniffs punctuated the silence every few moments. After a particularly loud sniff, Erin said to me, "Have the cops interviewed you yet?"

  "About Dr. Braithwaite? Why would they want to? I don't know anything."

  Erin's eyes immediately filled with tears. "You're lucky," she wailed. "I've been interviewed twice, and they don't believe me when I'm telling God's honest truth."

  "That's rough," I said.

  Erin grabbed my arm-she was turning into a bit of a clutcher. "You said I was being set up," she said, "and you were right. I told the detectives that Georgia Tapp was lying when she said she'd never spoken to me about Dr. Braithwaite, but they just said it was my word against hers."

  "I'm sure they'll find out the truth in the end," I said soothingly.

  "That's what Jack said this morning." Erin had given up any pretense of calling him Professor Yarrow. She released my arm to blow her nose on a tattered Kleenex. "Jack said he'd have a word with Georgia, and find out what was going on."

  "So he believes you. That's good."

  Whoops! She'd re-clutched my arm, and her eyes were brimming with tears again. "He wants to," she cried, "he really does, but the scientist in him forces him to say he doesn't know what to believe."

  "Let's go over it again," I said, "right from the very beginning, when you were working with Oscar Braithwaite in Australia…"

  As instructed, before I left UCLA in the afternoon, I reported to Georgia. She was tapping away on her keyboard, and looked up with a rosy face when I knocked.

  "Kylie! Come in." Obviously Yarrow had told her to be friendly and welcoming, because she bestowed a bright smile on me. "Professor Yarrow told me to expect you. You're here to report on Erin?"

  I gave her back my warmest smile. "Crikey, you work hard," I said admiringly. "All that work organizing people for the Global Marsupial Symposium as well as keeping up with your own job-I don't know how you do it."

  Georgia looked gratified. "Working for an eminent professor is demanding," she agreed. "But it's so rewarding." She gestured toward the papers beside her computer. "Truly, I feel I'm part of scientific history, setting down the words of the extraordinary keynote address Professor Yarrow will deliver to the symposium on Friday."

  "The one on quokkas that Dr. Braithwaite was going to do?"

  A shadow crossed her well-fed face. "Tragic death, of course, but almost like fate had stepped in to save Professor Yarrow from an unwarranted attack upon his reputation." She lay a hand flat on the pile of papers. "These contain the professor's groundbreaking and entirely original research. He's calling it 'The Quokka Question.'"

  My eyes were riveted on the pages under her hand. This had to be the only existing version of Oscar's work, stolen by Yarrow. No doubt he'd rewritten some of it, but the basic elements would be the same. If I could only get my hands on those pages…but then I had nothing to compare them with. Erin had told me she'd destroyed all copies Oscar had before she'd left for the States.

  "And how is little Erin Fogarty?" Georgia inquired. "Professor Yarrow is so worried about her emotional state."

  "Bearing up surprisingly well under the circumstances." I'd decided no matter what state Erin was in, I'd give a positive report. I was working on the principle that Yarrow would not be inclined to fake a suicide, if that was his intention, while Erin appeared to be coping with the situation.

  "Indeed?" said Georgia, rather surprised. "I gathered she was, as the saying goes, falling to pieces."

  "She's rallied," I said. "I think Professor Yarrow taking an interest in her welfare has made her feel much better."

  "It's so typical of the man," said Georgia, starry-eyed. I watched her stacking the pages I coveted and placing them in a folder. She closed the file on the computer, and turned it off. "Academic meeting," she said. "The professor likes me by his side, taking notes on important points."

  She put the quokka folder in the bottom drawer of her desk, then locked with a key she took from the top drawer of her desk. This wasn't, I was pleased to observe, my idea of security.

  Georgia picked up her notebook,
pen, and purse; she ushered me out of her office and locked the door with a key she returned to her purse. Obviously, if I wanted a look at Yarrow's keynote address, it would have to be when the office door was open, perhaps sometime tomorrow.

  I'd left plenty of time to get back to Kendall & Creeling for Pen's meeting with Ariana. For once, the traffic was flowing well, so I had twenty minutes to spare when I pulled into our parking area.

  Fran was just about to clamber into her SUV. Naturally, it was one of those bulky, looming vehicles-would Fran have anything else?- so it was a struggle for someone as short as she was to make the driver's seat.

  "Want a leg up?" I said.

  Fran was preoccupied and didn't hear me. "Something's wrong with Melodie," she said.

  "What sort of wrong?"

  Fran gave me a puzzled scowl. "She's being nice to me."

  " 'Strewth, that is a worry."

  "She actually said she was glad I was to play Lucy/Lucas. Can you believe it?"

  I shook my head. "Amazing."

  "Of course I asked Melodie why she'd had a change of heart. She said she'd had a psychic flash about the casting." Fran made a derisive sound. "Like, I believe that."

  I shook my head again. "Strange things happen."

  With an effort, Fran got herself into the SUV's driver's seat. She put down the window and leaned out to say, "Speaking of strange things, Quip told me what you two were talking about this morning."

  "Oh?" I said, wondering what story he'd come up with.

  She tossed off a scornful laugh. "Kylie, as if you could play Ethel/Ethelbert!"

  "Quip told you I was aiming to audition for the part?"

  "I had to drag it out of him, but yes."

  "Hell's bells," I said, "you've got to aim high in life, you know, Fran. Fortunately, Quip let me down gently, pointing out this was way too high. He's a bonzer bloke."

  Fran turned the ignition, and her behemoth roared to life. "Quip's all mine," she yelled above the noise. "Don't you ever forget it."

  My smile faded as I ambled across the courtyard to the front door. In a few minutes I'd face Ariana, and I wasn't sure how I'd cope. She'd be chilly toward me; that was certain. I'd forced her to tell me something so deeply personal that each word must have hurt. Then I berated myself. What right did I have to whinge? Ariana was the one with tragedy in her life, not me. Perhaps she feared there'd be pity in my eyes. I was sure she would hate that as much as I would.