by Claire McNab
Melodie paused to look at the ceiling, as though her inspiration was being beamed from above. "Sometimes I just creep myself out, when I have these flashes from the future."
"Crikey," I said, "this could be dynamite in the wrong hands."
"What could be?" said Lonnie, sauntering into view.
"Melodie's psychic powers."
Lonnie gave a great shout of laughter. This did not go down well with Melodie. "Oh, go ahead and laugh, Lonnie," she snapped, "but it's true that sometimes—often—I can see the future."
"It's called precognition," I added helpfully.
"OK, Melodie," said Lonnie in a challenging tone. "You go right ahead and predict something that will happen in my future." Before she could respond, he continued, "You can't, can you? 'Cause it's all bullshit."
Melodie shot out her lower lip in a pout. When I did this, I looked pathetic. Predictably, Melodie looked bonzer. "I can predict something in your future, Lonnie," she said. "Something that will definitely come true."
Lonnie folded his arms. "I'm waiting."
"Let me concentrate," said Melodie, closing her eyes and swaying a little in her chair.
"It's bullshit," said Lonnie to me.
"I see Julia Roberts," said Melodie, opening her eyes. "I see Julia Roberts greeting you in your office every morning."
Lonnie gave a cry of pain. "Not the cat!"
Melodie gazed heavenward as she intoned, "Sometimes Julia Roberts will be in your chair—sometimes she'll be hiding. But she'll be there, somewhere."
"You know I'm allergic," said Lonnie, a pleading note in his voice. "Melodie, you wouldn't do it to me, would you?"
"Ah, Lonnie," said Melodie with a brilliant smile, "you can't escape your destiny."
SEVEN
I had a rather shabby canvas backpack that I thought might be what a uni student would be likely to have. In it I put my cell phone, a pair of binoculars, a digital camera, and a miniature recorder Lonnie had given me. I intended to keep spoken notes of anything important I observed on the campus of the University of California, Los Angeles. That title was quite a mouthful, but it sounded so impressive. UCLA didn't have quite the same aura.
Fully prepared for the task ahead, I set off in my gray Camry with a feeling of confidence. The Thomas Guide made it clear that getting to UCLA was going to be child's play, even for a directory-challenged Aussie like me. All I had to do was head west on Sunset Boulevard toward the ocean. First I'd go through the Sunset Strip, a narrow canyon of billboards and buildings pressed close against the roadway. Night and day, crowds of sightseers filled the narrow footpaths, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous, or, failing that, to be somewhere where the famous had previously been.
Sunset Boulevard changed dramatically as it entered Beverly Hills. Here it became a broad road with a wide grassy strip down the middle. The buildings were imposing mansions set back from the traffic so that everything felt more spacious and less hurried.
I'd pass the famous pink bulk of the Beverly Hills Hotel on my right, then Sunset would take a series of sharp curves. I'd have to keep a lookout as soon as I entered Westwood, because I needed to turn left into Hilgard Avenue. At that point I'd be at the northeast corner of UCLA.
Everything went to plan, although I almost missed the signpost for Hilgard Avenue, and had to execute a left turn in haste, which was never wise, as left turns were a challenge for me. It was at moments like this that I tended to revert to driving on the other side of the road, as we did in Australia. Fortunately, this time I stayed on the correct side, and drove sedately down to the Westholme Avenue entrance of the campus.
Safely parked in Parking Structure 2, my one-day permit displayed prominently as required—the guy in the entrance booth had warned me that UCLA parking people were pitiless when it came to infringements of the rules—I set off to explore.
UCLA has a huge, beautiful campus, shaped rather like Australia's island state, Tasmania. Pen Braithwaite had given me a map with all the buildings marked, but she hadn't said how elegant many of them were, or how the landscaped grounds were full of trees and bushes, a lot of them Australian natives. I felt a pang of homesickness when I saw a spreading Morten Bay fig, its huge roots spreading out above the ground like gigantic claws hooking the tree into the earth.
The place was teeming with people of all ages and races. Most of them were walking in small groups, chattering like starlings, or talking with animation into phones. A few strode along alone, their intent expressions possibly showing they were contemplating some arcane scientific problem—or maybe the meaning of life in general. I'd given that one a bit of thought myself.
My jeans and T-shirt were the right choice, as I fitted right in. No one paid the slightest attention as I wandered along, snapping photos and recording any comments that came to mind. Actually, I felt a bit self-conscious recording myself. I never knew quite what tone to take. I was the only person who would hear my words, but I couldn't get the right breezy, informative quality. To myself, I always sounded like a dork.
There was a dynamic atmosphere at UCLA that lifted my spirits. Scaffolding here and there demonstrated that much building and refurbishing was going on, but it wasn't just that. The whole campus was alive with people thinking, things growing, changes to the world being made. I felt a pang that I hadn't gone to university myself. Maybe I could have made some difference, like so many of these students and faculty had, or were going to in the future. How would that feel, to be the first at something?
I sat down on a stone bench to consider what I might have studied, if I had gone on to higher education. I'd aced English at Wollegudgerie High, so maybe something in the literature line. Then there was the environment and ecology, because I loved everything to do with nature. Or perhaps something closer to hard science...
"Excuse me."
I looked up at a good-looking bloke who obviously knew how good-looking he was: black hair, good tan, soulful dark eyes. He gave me an oily smile. Perfect white teeth, naturally. "Are you alone?"
I cast a glance at the empty stone bench. "No," I said. "I have a row of invisible friends."
With one slick move he was sitting beside me. "A sense of humor, I like that. By the way, my name's Clifford Van Horden III, but those close to me"—pause to widen smile—"call me Cliff."
"G'day," I said. "I'll have to ask you to move. You're squashing one of my friends."
Cliff's smile wavered for a moment, then he chuckled. "Very funny. Love your accent. What is it? English?"
This was a mortal insult. English people hated being labeled Australian as much as Australians hated being labeled English. Something to do with the Aussies' convict background.
"If you don't mind," I said, "I'm from Oz."
Cliff's smile definitely sagged. I could see from his expression that he was wondering if his luck was bad, and he'd been trying to pick up a total drongo. He recovered to nod knowingly. The Wizard of Oz, of course. You're playing Judy Garland's character?" A guffaw. "You're not in Kansas anymore!"
I pointed to the koala on the front of my T-shirt. "Oz is the diminutive form of Australia," I said.
He examined my bosom. I had nowhere near Fran's breastworks, but what I did have Cliff seemed to appreciate. "So you're an Aussie, are you?"
Stone the crows, this bloke was dense. And he couldn't pronounce Aussie properly either. "It's Auzzie," I said.
"Great, great. But you haven't given me your name."
I checked my watch. Yerks, I had to get moving, or I'd be late for my lunch with Pen Braithwaite and Professor Wasinsky.
I got to my feet. "Sorry, Clifford Van Horden III," I said, "but I have to leave you."
"But I still don't know your name."
"Call me Judy," I said. "I'll leave it to you to guess the rest of it."
The Ackerman Union was full of noise—chattering people, clattering plates, music blaring. I followed instructions and found myself in front of a heated glass counter containing many pizzas
, all looking mouthwateringly tasty. Mind you, they'd have to be good to equal Gino's Wollegudgerie Pizzeria.
When Pen Braithwaite had suggested meeting here, I'd asked if Professor Yarrow might see us together and later wonder why. She'd chortled at the suggestion. "Jack Yarrow be seen dead in a student union? Hah!" Apparently the chances were a snowball in hell's.
"Over here!" bellowed a familiar voice from a nearby table. Pen Braithwaite waved wildly. She'd pulled her hair back in a ponytail, but it seemed to have a life of its own, as many springy tendrils had escaped. She rather overwhelmed the man sitting beside her. He had a soft, cuddly body and wore a tattered brown cardigan. His face was long and amiable, reminding me of a particularly mild-mannered sheep.
"You've got to beat back the hordes around here to even get a sniff at a table," Pen declared, gesturing at the milling students. "Lunch is on me—no arguments. You and Rube hold the fort while I join the queue. Pizzas all round, eh?"
She marched off, then suddenly about-turned and marched right back. "You're not a vegetarian, are you?"
"Not lately."
"Good. Vegetarians are often quite odd. Perhaps you've noticed that." She marched off again.
"G'day, Dr. Wasinsky," I said. "I'm Kylie Kendall, your pretend graduate student."
Dr. Wasinsky shook my hand. His fingers were soft, but his grip was firm. "I go by Rube, no exceptions, even for respectful graduate students." His voice was light and melodious, and he sounded amused.
I slid onto an extremely heavy and uncomfortable metal chair. "Do you sing?" I asked.
He blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. "Why yes, in a choir. It's my secret vice."
"Tenor?"
"Indeed."
A burst of noise, overwhelming the general cacophony, erupted near the pizza area. Apparently an impatient student had been incautious enough to cut into the queue waiting to be served. Normally nothing much would have happened, I imagined, but this ferrety bloke had chosen Pen, perhaps thinking she wouldn't protest like someone younger would. Big mistake.
The ferrety student slunk off, Pen sent a triumphant look in our direction, and Rube said fondly, "She's a force of nature, Pen is."
"She is dynamic," I said diplomatically.
"Jack Yarrow hates her. He's a detestable individual, but I can hardly blame him. Pen takes every opportunity to mock the man, and Yarrow cannot abide being laughed at."
"No sense of humor?"
For a sheep, Rube suddenly looked quite fierce. "No sense of humor, no sense of honor, no sense of what's right and proper. That's why I was glad to offer my help. Yarrow's ridden roughshod over too many people. He deserves to be brought down a peg or two."
"If I can prove he plagiarized Oscar Braithwaite's quokka studies, what will happen to Professor Yarrow?"
Rube threw up his plump hands. "In a just world, it would impact negatively on Yarrow's reputation, but it isn't a just world, at least not in academia."
He leaned over the table, his expression severe. "You've heard of the recent accusations against respected historians? That they stole others' work and passed it off as their own?"
I vaguely recalled reading something about this, so I murmured "Hmm" encouragingly.
"So what happens?" Rube went on. "There's a brouhaha for a while. The academic in question wrings his hands and says lax attribution is the problem, not deliberate plagiarism—no, of course not!" He sat back in his chair, disgusted. "And Yarrow will brush it off the same way, and go on as before."
He brooded on this for a moment, then brightened to add, "But of course, his colleagues will know the truth. He'll be subtly damaged but damaged nonetheless."
"Pizza delivery!" Pen Braithwaite approached with a tray held high. She slapped down on the table a large plate absolutely loaded with pizza slices, then plunked down three red cans of Coke, paper serviettes and drinking straws. "Coke OK, Kylie? You don't go for the Diet stuff, do you?"
"Crikey, no. I drink Coke-Coke."
Pen whacked me on the shoulder hard. I'd check for a bruise later. "That's the ticket! None of that chemical muck." She sat down heavily, and snatched a slice of pizza. "Dig in, you two, or there'll be nothing left."
She wasn't kidding. The contents of the plate disappeared fast. Of course, Pen had a large body to fuel, but even so, I had to admire her ability to eat rapidly but quite neatly.
The last slice demolished, she sat back and grinned at me. Indicating Rube with a jerk of her head, she said, "What do you think of my man, eh?"
Rube got a bit pink. "Pen..."
"Dynamite," said Pen appreciatively. "And I'm an expert in the field."
Hell's bells! She had the expression of one about to fill in graphic details about her and Rube, details I was pretty sure I didn't want to hear. "About Professor Yarrow..." I said.
Pen's face darkened. "Bastard! If he did try to kill my brother, I'll have his guts for garters." She got to her feet. "Right, let's get to business.
I'll leave you two together to discuss the details. The sooner you get cracking, the sooner Yarrow bites the dust."
She strode off, with both of us looking after her. I glanced sideways at Rube Wasinsky. He wore a reminiscent smile. "Take my word for it," he said. "She's quite a woman."
The moment I opened Kendall & Creeling's front door, Melodie was on me. "Urgent message, Kylie. Your mom called while you were out. She's real upset."
I repressed a sigh. It was probably more problems with her fiance, Jack O'Connell, who was dead set on running the whole show at Mum's pub, The Wombat's Retreat. He wasn't much chop at the financial side of things, so my mum was on a campaign to get me back home to straighten things out.
"OK, I'll call her back."
"It's winter in Australia," said Melodie with the air of one telling me something I didn't know, "but it's summer here."
"You had a talk with Mum about the seasons?" I was surprised, because my mother wasn't one for idle conversation.
Melodie looked virtuous. "Like, it was the least I could do to chat for a moment about the weather, seeing she was so upset you weren't here to take her call."
Chantelle had pointed out to me that this was receptionist lore— weather was always perfectly safe topic for soothing conversation. "Thank you, Melodie," I said.
When she looked a little embarrassed to be thanked, an awful suspicion leaped into my mind. "What else did you talk about?"
"Oh, this and that," said Melodie with an airy wave of a hand.
"Explicitly what this and that?"
"We may have discussed freeway shootings."
This was not good. No doubt the recent random gunfire on the freeways of Los Angeles had made the evening news in Wollegudgerie. Melodie would have been delighted to add her quota of gruesome details. I fixed her with a gimlet stare. "Anything else?"
Melodie pursed her lips, as if in deep thought. "I may have mentioned Dr. Braithwaite's accident on Sunset Boulevard."
"Bloody hell!"
"She was very interested," Melodie declared, obviously stung by my reaction. "You mom said she likes to know everything about your life here in L.A."
I shook my head, lost for words. I could see a harrowing telephone conversation coming up. Wouldn't it rot your socks?
EIGHT
As it was Tuesday afternoon in Los Angeles, it was Wednesday morning in Wollegudgerie. A plumbing disaster at the Wombat's Retreat had just occurred when I got Mum on the line. "Kylie, can't talk now. Water's absolutely pouring through the ceiling in the bottom hallway and Jack's no bloody good at all. He's running around like a chook with its head chopped off. I've got an emergency call in for Danny P., but you know how reliable he is."
Saved from a lecture! I'd been ready to deflect Mum by bringing up the subject of the Aussie TV show where my name had been mentioned. I was going to demand to know why nobody had told me about it. But now I blessed the pub's bodgy plumbing, which failed regularly, though not quite in so spectacular a way.
I immediately fe
lt guilty. Disasters like this only seemed to occur when the place was chock-a-block with guests. And Danny Panopolous, Wollegudgerie's only plumber, was not fully dedicated to his trade. As Danny told anyone who'd listen, his real calling was in humorous writing.
At this point he'd always point at his truck, where the words THE PIPES OF PAN ARE CALLING appeared in large scarlet letters. "Get it?" Danny'd say. "The song, 'Danny Boy'? The pipes of Pan? Plumber Panopolous?" He'd shoot his heavy black eyebrows up and down. "Funny, eh?"
"Mum, I'll call you tomorrow," I said. "In the meantime, good luck with Danny P."
My mum snorted. "You know what I think—" she began, then broke off. In the background I could hear Jack shouting something about the ceiling collapsing. "Holy mackerel!" said Mum. "I've got to go. Hooroo, love." The line went dead.
I felt a jab of regret I wasn't there to help out, and that Mum had to rely on Jack. But then, she had chosen him as future husband material, and they were officially engaged, though my Aunt Millie didn't think Mum would ever actually marry him.
I'd better get back to work. Moodily, I opened the Yarrow file Lonnie had given me. Then I was struck by the fact that here was another Jack. Mum's fiance was Jack O'Connell: Oscar Braithwaite's nemesis was Jack Yarrow.
That got me musing about names. Jack had an abrupt, masculine sound. Kylie was softer, but it had a hard k to give it some weight. Ariana was perfect—elegant and contained.
Sometimes names didn't suit people. Sometimes they really did. Melodie certainly suited Melodie, and I couldn't imagine Lonnie called anything but Lonnie, but Fran was too mild for Fran. What would I rename Fran, if I had the power? Godzilla? Or some militant Teutonic name—say, Brunhilda. She didn't have the height for that moniker, but I could still visualize Fran as a pocket-size warrior queen, beaten-metal breastplate and all.
I grinned to myself as I elaborated on the picture in my mind, dressing my imaginary Fran for a leading role in a sword-and-sandal epic fantasy. On her red hair I placed a burnished copper helmet with horns. In one hand she held a round battle shield, in the other a sword with a gorgeously jeweled handle. Her face held a look of gloomy resolution, as she gazed, frowning, into a challenging future.