KK01 - Wombat Strategy

by Claire McNab

  "Is that what's upsetting you?" Raylene said. "We can plan a trip together after you get back."

  Part of me still loved her, but I knew I'd never trust her again. "I'm not coming back."

  "You don't mean that, Kylie. You're just angry with me, and so you should be. I've told you I'm sorry."

  I'm sorry too," I said, "but it's over."

  "I don't believe you."

  I felt an awful sadness run through me. "Raylene, why did you do it?"

  "I don't know." She sounded genuinely puzzled. She sighed. "I want it back like it used to be. You and me, together."

  "It's gone," I said, and because I didn't want her to hear me crying, I hung up the phone.

  Julia Roberts watched me sob, her ears angled in the equivalent of a feline frown. Then she came over and let me hug her, without protesting too much. "You're all I've got, Jules," I said.

  She didn't look impressed.

  TWENTY

  I had a miserable Sunday night, reliving the conversation with Raylene and thinking of all we'd meant to each other. Scenes from our life together kept popping into my mind.

  Twice I picked up the phone to call her back, but I didn't. It was over. Although I missed her so much, I knew we could never recapture the feelings we'd had for each other.

  It was a relief to wake up on Monday morning and hear Luis vacuuming the hallway outside my door. I jumped out of bed full of resolution. It was time to take my Wombat Strategy seriously. I would set my goal and plow my way through any obstacle that got in the way. I'd throw myself wholeheartedly into the PI. business. Maybe solve Jarrod Perkins's murder. That would take my mind off my troubles.

  When Bob Verritt came in I trotted after him into his office. "Bob, can I ask you a question?"

  "That depends what it is."

  "Lonnie said the police interviewed you about Jarrod Perkins and the Reece Quinn script."

  Bob folded his length into his chair and leaned back to give me a thoughtful look. "You can't run before you can walk," he observed.

  That sounded like something my mother would say. "I'm fine-tuning my questioning techniques," I said.

  Bob grinned at me. "You've got a lot of work to do."

  "About Jarrod Perkins..."

  "Alibi," said Bob. "I've got an alibi. It checks out, so you can cross me off your list."

  I left him chuckling to himself.

  Outside, Fran was waiting for me. She took me into my office, closed the door, and said, "What do you know about Rich Westholme?"

  "Nothing much. He's a director, or that's what he claims to be. Why?"

  Her frown was even darker than usual. "He's been promising Quip too much, for no reason I can see. And I think it's to get to me."

  I looked at her, astonished. "He's putting the hard word on you? Of all people, Fran, you should be able to deal with someone like Rich Westholme."

  She shook her head impatiently. "No, it's not that. Of course I'd rip his balls off. What he's doing is sniffing around anything to do with Jarrod Perkins. I don't know what he's after, but I don't like it."

  "Did you say anything to him?"

  Fran rolled her eyes. "Quip doesn't want me to upset Westholme, because he thinks he's going to be his meal ticket to the big time."

  She glared at me as though somehow all this was my fault. "Now you know."

  "What do you want me to do about it?"

  Her wicked smile flashed on for a moment. "You're the P.I. I'll leave it all to you."

  I decided to front Melodie about Rich Westholme, but she brought up the subject herself. "Kylie, I'm not convinced Rich is really supportive of my career." She jutted her jaw resolutely.

  "We're going out tonight, and I'm going to have it out with him."

  I sat on the edge of the reception desk and put on a sympathetic, interested expression. "Why do you say he isn't supportive?"

  "He told me that first weekend that I'd have a part in Primal Appetites"

  "You're talking about a movie? Or was that the menu for the weekend?"

  Melodie gave her tinkling laugh. "That's so funny." Then her face grew stern. "This is so tragic. My chance to be in a movie with Jarrod Perkins attached. Like, how often does that happen?"

  I clicked my tongue in empathy. "That's awful for you. But how was Perkins involved, exactly?"

  "Rich told me Jarrod Perkins just loved his Primal script. Said it needed some work but that he was willing to put his name behind it. To produce it while Rich directed!" She sighed dolefully. "Then something went wrong."

  "What happened?"

  "I'm not sure, but I know Rich is very, very angry. He said he hadn't trusted Perkins from the beginning. That he'd had insurance that Perkins couldn't back out of the deal."

  "What did that mean?"

  "I don't know. When I asked, he yelled at me."

  "I'd dump him," I said.

  Melodie was appalled. "Kylie! He's a director."

  Thinking of my conversation with Fran, I said, "Has Rich been asking questions about anything in particular?"

  A shadow of guilt crossed Melodie's face. "Maybe he has."

  "About Jarrod Perkins?"

  "I didn't see the harm in telling him we were keeping some stuff here."

  "You mean the therapy sessions from Deerdoc."

  She bit her lip and nodded. "Don't tell Ariana, will you? She's very strict about things like that." She wriggled her shoulders. "Anyway, what does it matter if Rich knows? He had a lot to do with Perkins. Why wouldn't he be interested?"

  I went away and thought about it, then just as Melodie was collecting her things I came back to the reception desk. She gave me a sunny smile. "I'm leaving early tonight, okay?"

  Slapping down a fat manila envelope I'd sealed with multiple strips of packing tape, I said with authority, "I think it's better if we send those records back to Deerdoc."

  I hadn't checked with Ariana, but she giving a deposition in San Francisco and I'd rationalized it was better not to disturb her.

  Melodie stared at the envelope, fascinated. "Is that what we were talking about before?"

  "Jarrod's therapy sessions." We both looked at the envelope as though Perkins might materialize and hover over it. I thought it unlikely, though, since the envelope contained blank computer disks and sheets of paper. The real material was secure in Kendall & Creeling's safe.

  "It's a bit late for a pickup," said Melodie, checking her watch. What she really meant was she was keen to get out of there.

  "Tomorrow morning's fine. There's no real hurry."

  I knew, as sure as my name was Kylie Kendall, that Melodie would not be able to resist telling Rich Westholme about the envelope. I was betting that tomorrow morning Rich would make some excuse to turn up here early. He would see it as his only chance to get those disks.

  And why? Because according to my theory, the insurance Rich had said he had was blackmail. He'd paid Randy Romaine to get the material on Perkins from the Deerdoc files. And now he'd probably paid Randy to go into hiding.

  Ariana was coming home tonight. I'd call her later and tell her what I'd done. Then she could be here when Rich Westholme incriminated himself.

  But by the time everyone had gone and I'd checked that the building was secure, I'd had second thoughts about my plan, which had seemed so smart that afternoon. Imagining myself telling Ariana about it, I blushed. She'd say, "What does it prove if he does go for the envelope?" She'd be right. Rich could talk his way out of it easily.

  I was out of my depth here. Training for a few days wasn't enough to make me a RI.'s bootlace. Disgusted with myself, I retrieved the envelope, emptied out the contents, tore it up, and put the pieces in the nearest wastepaper basket.

  I'd have to come clean with Ariana. I'd tell her tomorrow, and she'd laugh at me.

  "I'm a total fuckwit," I said to Julia Roberts. She just blinked.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Embarrassment made me thirsty, so I made a pot of tea. While waiting the four minutes it
took to get strong enough, I selected Julia Roberts's dinner. Tonight I was serving chicken. I hoped she'd approve. The illustration on the can made it look quite delicious.

  Suddenly I sensed someone was looking at me. Rich Westholme stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

  I jumped. "Jeez! You gave me a fright." I looked past him without much hope and said, "Is Melodie with you?"

  This couldn't be good. He must have let himself in with Melodie's keys. The way Rich stood, balanced on the balls of his feet, was menacing enough to set my heart racing.

  "Would you like a cup of tea? I've just made it."

  He didn't bother answering. "Melodie tells me you've been asking questions about my work." He narrowed his eyes. "A lot of pushy questions."

  "Primal Appetites” I said.

  He glared at me. "My script. What of it?"

  "Melodie said you were developing it with Jarrod Perkins. That the agreement was he'd produce and you'd direct. She was thrilled because you told her she'd have a part. But it never happened."

  "That stupid bitch." I thought how she'd hate to hear the scorn in his voice. "Christ, I'm so sick of hearing her chatter on about her fucking career."

  "The latest project Perkins was developing is called Primitive Obsessions." I sounded quite calm, though inside I wasn't. "He mentioned it in every interview he gave after his Hummer exploded."

  "So?"

  "So Primal Appetites and Primitive Obsessions are awfully similar. I'm thinking maybe they're the same script with different names."

  "You're a stupid bitch, like Melodic You can't keep your mouth shut."

  Right now I was tending to agree. What did I think I was doing, needling him like this? I'd persuade him to leave, then call Ariana, the cops, pizza delivery, anyone who'd come.

  "Look, Rich," I said reasonably, "it's been nice chatting with you, but I think you should go."

  His smile wasn't reassuring. "Do you? You think I should go?"

  "Well, yes. You obviously don't have a high opinion of me, so why spend more time in my company than necessary?"

  "I'm here to collect something. An envelope."

  "If you come back tomorrow, I'm sure someone can find it for you."

  He shoved me hard against the counter. "Shut up."

  The physical confrontation with Randy Romaine had taught me the disadvantages of being without a weapon. I scanned the counter but saw nothing promising. I'd keep him talking, maybe get him off guard so I could make a run for it. "I saw the Hummer after it was blown up. Perkins was totally spaz."

  "Was what?"

  "He lost it completely. He was raving mad." Rich's momentary look of satisfaction encouraged me to add, "You planted the bomb, didn't you? Pyrotechnics from a film set?"

  "Smart little bitch, aren't you?"

  Shaking my head with fake admiration, I said, "You were taking a hell of a chance."

  He shrugged. "If you look like you know what you're doing, nobody pays any attention. Perkins never locked the Hummer. I just opened the door. I was fifty yards away before it blew."

  "Why bother?"

  Rich laughed. "To put the motherfucker on edge," he said, "so he'd roll over when I upped the ante."

  Julia Roberts came into the kitchen; it was her dinner time. It was quite unfair. I knew Rich abhorred cats, but she was totally minding her own business when Rich saw her. An expression of deep loathing crossed his face. He aimed a kick that connected with her ribs. Jules did a sort of somersault and landed on her feet, hissing.

  "Get outta here!"

  Julia got.

  That was the final straw. Julia Roberts did not deserve this treatment. I fair dinkum looked for a weapon this time. Something substantial enough to wipe the smirk off this bastard's face. The TV set? Too heavy. There were knives in the drawer, if I could get to them. And cans in the cupboard. Kitchen cleaners under the sink...

  "Bitch! Answer me!"

  "What?"

  "I'm asking you once more, and that's it. The recordings of the sessions Perkins had with that quack, Deer—where are they? Melodie said they were in an envelope at the front desk, waiting to be picked up by UPS. There's nothing there."

  I spread my hands. "Can't help you."

  He reached into the pocket of his jeans. The flick knife made an obscene little click as it sprang open. "Wrong answer."

  My gaze was drawn magnetically to the gleaming blade. Rich jabbed at my face. I recoiled. He laughed.

  "Get the hell out of here!" I yelled, not having much hope that he would.

  "The envelope."

  I shrugged. He moved like a striking snake. Blood sprang from my left breast where he'd pricked me, spreading a bright red stain on my white T-shirt. It wasn't deep, but it stung like hell.

  "Fair crack of the whip," I said. "It was only last week I got a black eye and a bloody nose. Now you're stabbing me?" I heard the tremor in my voice.

  So did he. "Gee, Kylie," he said mockingly, "am I scaring you?"

  I was backed up against the counter. Jammed against me was one of the kitchen stools. I slid my right hand behind me and tried to get a good grip on it. To distract him, I said, "During his therapy, Jarrod Perkins said something about stealing your movie concept, didn't he? Probably discussed how you'd threatened him."

  "Smart little cunt, aren't you?" I shrank back as he took a step closer to me. "Last chance," he said. "Where's the envelope?"

  "Rich, think this through. If you stop now, it isn't too serious. If you really hurt me, you're in big trouble."

  Rich chuckled—not a nice sound. "Sweetheart," he said, "I've done two. Three won't make any difference."

  "Randy Romaine's dead?"

  "Romaine was a disaster from the get-go. I paid him to take disks of Perkins's sessions, but he got creative and took some of Bart Toller's too. Then the bastard thought he'd go into business for himself, so he swiped Lorelei Stevens's file. He was getting to be a real liability, and he knew far too much about me." I ducked as Rich again jabbed at my face. "Like you," he said.

  "And you killed Jarrod Perkins?"

  "You want the details?" He showed his teeth in a smile that gave me the willies. This bloke was having fun.

  I nodded.

  "It wasn't difficult. I waited until his assistant left, then walked in on Perkins getting dressed. I gave him one last chance to cut me into the deal he had for Primitive Obsessions. I was more than generous, since it was my story and my script. The prick laughed at me. So I mentioned the disks and told him I was also asking for a substantial up-front payment. He told me to go to hell and lunged for the gun he kept in his bedside table. No trouble to take it from him."

  I tightened my grip on the stool. I'd only have one chance...

  "It was fun," said Rich, "watching him beg for his life. He didn't think I had the guts to go through with it. Like you, he thought he'd play along and get away with it."

  "And afterward you swiped all the scripts that were on his desk."

  "Of course. If the cops didn't buy his death as suicide, then the missing scripts would throw suspicion on all the poor suckers he's recently stolen script ideas from."

  Rich made a wide, graceful arc with the knife, slashing across the top of my other breast. I gasped and looked down at the line of red, which widened as I stared. "Such a pity," he said. "Some sexual deviant breaks in and hacks you to pieces. No one will be all that surprised. Bad things happen all the time in this town."

  I like to think Julia Roberts came back into the kitchen to help me, although I have to admit her primary purpose may have been her dinner. Whatever Julia's motive, her timing was excellent. I had a firm one-handed grip on the kitchen stool behind me. When Rich, seeing the cat, made a sound of disgust and went to deliver a second kick, two things happened: Julia Roberts skipped out of the way with great agility, clearly having learned from experience, and I swung the kitchen stool at Rich's head as hard as I could.

  When it connected there was a satisfying thwack! Rich went down on
one knee. Then he was up again, swearing, his knife flashing like a deadly extension of his hand. I took another swing, but he deflected it with an upraised arm then wrenched the stool from me.

  Blood was pouring down his face. "I'll kill you, you fucking bitch."

  He was staggering, dazed but still terribly dangerous. He slashed at me and I leapt backward to avoid the blade. If I could make the door and escape...but he was blocking the way.

  I made a silent apology to Fran, picked up my prized pottery teapot with both hands, and brought it down on his head.

  The teapot shattered. Rich fell with a crash to the floor at my feet, lying motionless in a pool of tea and tea leaves.

  The police, sirens wailing, arrived the same time as the paramedics. Then Ariana. Then Bob Verritt. Then Harriet.

  I'd been perfectly calm up until then, but this was like my family arriving to support me. This thought made me sniffle a bit, but fortunately no one knew why.

  I blew my nose and answered the cops' questions as best I could, until I was drooping with the combination of shock and lack of food. That reminded me of poor Julia Roberts, who had never got her chicken dinner. Bob grinned at me and said he'd take care of it.

  Rich had been carried out on a stretcher, alive and swearing and accompanied by a cop.

  While Ariana and Bob dealt with the situation, Harriet took me to the nearest emergency hospital, where we waited for hours until a harried young doctor had time to dress my wounds.

  It was daylight by the time Harriet drove me back. Ariana was the only one there. "I'll look after her," she said to Harriet. "You go on home."

  "I'm fine," I said, once we were inside. "I'm starving, though. Lunch was the last meal I ate."

  "I'll scramble you some eggs. Can you face being in the kitchen?"

  "No worries." Even so, I peered around the door before I entered. I thought there might be police tape, but everything had been cleaned up. There was no blood on the floor, no tea or shards of pottery. I looked mournfully at the spot on the counter where I'd kept my teapot.

  "Fran will buy you a new one," said Ariana.

  "It won't be as good," I said. "They never are."

  She was smiling when the building shuddered. "Whoa," she said. "Earthquake. Get in the doorway. It's the safest place."