KK03 - The Quokka Question

by Claire McNab

"Visitors to the building may not know the location of the exits," she said with her usual cool logic.

  I had to concede she was right. An outraged meow brought my attention back to the most important item on the agenda, breakfast for Jules. She watched intently as I poured a moderate measure of tuna-and-whitefish bites into her bowl. I swear she was counting the little fish-shaped things. Apparently the total wasn't to her liking, because she narrowed her eyes.

  "A larger helping, Jules? Of course. What could I have been thinking of?"

  Ariana gave a small laugh. "You need to acquire a dog, Kylie. Gussie treats me with great respect, firmly convinced I'm the head of the household."

  Ariana's German shepherd was the perfect combination of strength, intelligence, and grace. Gussie was fiercely protective of Ariana, but to those she knew and trusted, there couldn't be a sweeter, more even-tempered dog. And Gussie had a bonzer sense of humor. I'd seen her grin when she found something amusing.

  "What's that saying about dogs and cats?" I remarked, filling my kettle at the tap. "To dogs, humans are absolute monarchs, but to cats, they're servants?"

  "Something like that." Ariana looked at me over the rim of her coffee mug. Her face was so pale that her eyes, if it were possible, seemed even bluer than usual. "You must be curious."

  She didn't need to elaborate. "I confess I am," I said.

  Ariana grimaced. "I don't blame you. I overreacted and made it seem more significant than it really was."

  I didn't say anything.

  Ariana said, "Would you do something for me?"

  I looked at her warily. "Possibly. What?"

  "Don't pursue it, Kylie, please. It's better for both of us if you forget the whole thing."

  I gazed at her for a long moment. "I didn't Google her name. I didn't do anything to find out who she was."

  "Thank you for that."

  "But I'd be lying if I said I'd forget. Obviously whoever Natalie is, she's important to you. That makes her important to me."

  I was jolted to see tears in Ariana's eyes. She blinked rapidly, then took a breath. Whatever she might have been about to say was lost when Melodie bounced into the kitchen, having arrived at work astonishingly early by her standards.

  "Quip's written a play!" she announced. "It's going to be staged in a little theater on La Cienega Boulevard. That's just the beginning. Quip's thinking off-Broadway." She paused, smiling, to let us absorb this, then added, "Fran's coming in before work with audition scripts so I can go over them before tonight!"

  Melodie fanned her blond hair fetchingly in a head toss she'd got down to a fine art. "The stage is real acting," she declared. "You and the audience magically bond in a profound dramatic relationship. Live theater challenges an actor to dig deep, to reveal the hidden depths of her craft."

  "Good morning, Melodie," I said.

  "Oh, hi, Kylie. Hi, Ariana. Isn't it great news?"

  "Very exciting," said Ariana, picking up her mug from the counter. She turned at the doorway to say, "Kylie, when you get back from your first day at UCLA I'd like to hear how it went."

  "Right-oh," I said, offhand.

  I wanted to follow her to her office. I wanted to say, "Tell me, Ariana. Tell me what it is that makes you cry." I wanted to, but I wouldn't because pushing her that way could destroy the tentative relationship that was growing up between us.

  "You're going undercover today?" Melodie clasped her hands as if in prayer. "College types are real smart, Kylie."

  "You mean they'll see through me?"

  Melodie considered this for a moment. "You're not born to act, like me. Larry, my agent, says it's in the blood."

  "Acting is genetic?"

  "Well, there's natural talent, of course. Fortunately I have that in spades. But it's not enough. Talent has to be honed, techniques perfected. Dance classes, speech classes, movement classes..." She shook her head." 'Fraid you're behind the eight ball, Kylie, before you even start."

  "Hardly seems worthwhile to even try," I said, shaking my head in turn.

  Melodie patted my arm consolingly. "It's real lucky you're an Aussie," she said. "Like, you're foreign, and you talk funny."

  "That's exactly what Snap-on Ashlee said to me last night."

  "Ashlee was at the Bloodblot premiere?" Melodie seemed seriously irked.

  "She was. Accosted Chantelle and me on the red carpet."

  A scowl darkened Melodie's face. "Ashlee swore to me she couldn't get passes. She lied. And she knew how much I wanted to go."

  Wondering how Ashlee would have access to these prized tickets to premieres, I asked where she worked.

  "She's a receptionist at Crucial Casting, Incorporated," said Melodie moodily. "Ashlee knows I'm a major fan of Sigfried Smithey's. She could have helped a sister receptionist out—but no!" Melodie sagged against the kitchen counter. "Why? I ask myself, why?"

  "Bad apple," I said, adding with a grin, "Probably rotten to the core."

  "Damn," Melodie said, suddenly invigorated. "I'd do anything to stop her hearing about the auditions for Quip's play." She stamped her foot in vexation. "It's too late to put a gag order out."

  "The receptionist network can censor information?"

  Melodie tsk-tsked. "It's not censorship. That would be un-American. It's more a selective hush-up."

  "What does it matter if Ashlee hears about the auditions anyway?" I inquired.

  "She thinks she can act," said Melodie with deep derision. "Act! Even you'd be better than Ashlee."

  "Thank you, Melodie."

  Melodie ignored my sarcastic tone. "It may not be too late after all," she said thoughtfully. "A careless-with-the-truth strategy might still work."

  "Receptionists lie?"

  "Oh, please," said Melodie. "It's a basic requirement. You don't think it's always a good morning or a good afternoon, do you? And when we say someone's in a meeting, do you really believe that's always true?"

  While I was digesting this, Melodie caught sight of Jules, who was washing her whiskers. Fastidious things, cats. Melodie put both her hands to her head in a dramatic gesture. "I feel a psychic moment coming on."

  Jules halted the whisker cleaning to look at her with a quizzical expression. "Julia Roberts!" Melodie exclaimed. "I sense Lonnie's door is open. Why don't you mosey down the hall and make yourself comfortable in his chair? He'll really appreciate it." "You opened Lonnie's door?" Melodie smiled meltingly.

  "Could you doubt it?"

  "You're dinky-di evil," I said.

  I'd sussed out exactly where the biology department was on my first visit to UCLA, so I didn't have to wander around looking lost but could make a beeline straight to the building. The interior was what I mentally labeled "institution decor." The long corridors were lined with anonymous doors, each with a glass panel of frosted glass. The flooring was that grayish composite stuff everyone knows has been selected because it doesn't show the dirt that much and is easy to clean.

  Every now and then there was a notice board on the wall. I stopped at one to read instructions for actions to take in the event of a major earthquake. Thoroughly unsettled by this information, I made for Dr. Rubin Wasinsky's office.

  I don't mind admitting my nerves were snapping like old rubber bands, but Rube smoothed the way. He introduced me to the people in the biology department as someone fresh off the plane from Western Australia and quite jet-lagged. This gave me a reasonable excuse if I made some awful slipup, such as making a total hash of a biological term, or giving some marsupial the wrong Latin name.

  Actually, I was aiming to steer clear of scientific names as much as possible, as my Latin was pretty well limited to nil desperandum, tempus fugit, caveat emptor, and carpe diem. Although I could imagine there might be opportunities to casually comment on not despairing, the tendency of time to fly, the warning for buyers to beware, and the philosophy of seizing the day, I sensed that occasion was not now.

  Yesterday, Rube had given me a rundown on who was who in the department, so my
main role today was to try to fit names to faces. One person with whom Rube said it was vital I cultivate a working relationship was administrative assistant, Georgia Tapp. She was a plump, motherly woman with faded brown hair, a cloyingly sweet expression, and dimples to rival Lonnie's. Then I met Zoran Pestle, thin and intense, a colleague of Rube's who was on the committee running the symposium.

  "And this is Erin Fogarty," said Rube. "Erin, meet Kylie Kendall, visiting doctoral student from Australia."

  "G'day," I said, regarding her with interest. This was the graduate assistant who had upped and shot through on Oscar Braithwaite, only to turn up later here at UCLA, working with Jack Yarrow.

  Erin Fogarty was a gangling young woman with a weak chin and high color. Her best feature seemed to be her short, curly hair, which shone with copper highlights.

  "Hi," she said, eyeing me narrowly. "Will you be working with Professor Yarrow?"

  "Kylie is here for ten weeks to work on a research paper with me," said Rube.

  "Great," Erin said, visibly perking up. It was clear she wanted no competition as far as Professor Yarrow was concerned.

  I'd assumed Erin would be an Aussie, since she'd been working out in the field with Oscar in Western Australia, but obviously I was wrong, as this sheila had a twangy American accent.

  Rube resumed the introductions to the members of the faculty, with me trotting along compliantly the way I thought a jet-lagged overseas student would. Professor Yarrow himself I glimpsed from afar, rushing along as though on very important business.

  "Always in a hurry, like the White Rabbit in Alice," Rube remarked disparagingly.

  "Probably not as lovable," I said.

  "Whoa. Bonus person," said Rube, catching sight of someone down the hall. I was beginning to really appreciate his wit. "You're in luck, Kylie. Here comes Winona Worsack, Yarrow's wife, paying an unannounced connubial visit."

  "Unannounced? She doesn't trust the bloke?"

  Rube's smile had a touch of malice. "Not as far as she can throw him. She routinely nurses dark suspicions about any young woman with proximity to her husband."

  As befitting a medievalist, Winona Worsack wore a floor length, flowing dress and had her dark hair loose on her shoulders. She sort of glided along, hands clasped at waist level, as though on hidden wheels. When she got close to us, she switched on a brief smile. "Rubin."

  "Winona."

  She gave me an appraising once-over and put the brakes on. "Hello," she said, "I don't believe we've met."

  "G'day. Kylie Kendall's the name."

  "Just visiting?"

  "For ten weeks," I said, "working with Dr. Wasinsky."

  "With Rubin? Excellent."

  "But I hope to learn so much from Professor Yarrow too," I said with warmth. "He's such a wonderful man."

  Winona Worsack raised her eyebrows. "Indeed?"

  It's possible some of Melodie's evil had rubbed off on me, because I found myself continuing in the same breathless tone, "It's a dinkum honor to meet such a world-renowned authority on marsupials. I can hardly believe it's happening to me, a little sheila from Oz."

  "Kylie's seriously jet-lagged," said Rube, giving me a warning glance. "Arrived from Australia this morning."

  Yarrow's wife looked as if something decidedly rotten had been thrust under her nostrils. She got herself in gear and started to move off. "Delightful to meet you, Kylie," she murmured, not meaning a single word of it.

  "It was bonzer meeting you too," I called after her.

  Rube gave me a severe look, then broke into a wide grin. "Bad Kylie," he said.

  TEN

  Today Rube had abandoned his brown cardigan, and was wearing wrinkled brown trousers and an old tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. I was in student garb, jeans and T-shirt. Things were going swimmingly for me at the Department of Organismic Biology, Ecology and Evolution. Of course I'd hooted when Rube told me that was the full title of the biology department, but he'd assured me it was true.

  So far this morning I'd met a whole lot of people, and hadn't put my foot in my mouth once. This was probably because I limited myself to "G'day" and a shy, modest smile. At least, I started off with my version of a shy, modest smile, but between introductions Rube Wasinsky chortled and said it made me look startlingly simple-minded. I then switched to an expression of thoughtful gravity.

  Rube and I were heading back to Professor Yarrow's office to see if he was in residence so I could finally meet him, when the sounds of a loud altercation rang down the corridor.

  "It's a crime against nature!" exclaimed a shrill voice. "Unnatural!"

  "Codswallop! You're an abysmally stupid woman."

  "Uh-oh," said Rube. "Pen's on the warpath."

  "Homosexuality is a perversion! A gay animal is a sinful animal!"

  We rounded the corner to find Pen and Georgia Tapp toe-to-toe, but not nose-to-nose, as Pen Braithwaite loomed over the administrative assistant. Height was not the only contrast between them. Georgia wore a neat pink dress, stockings, and moderate high heels. Pen had on ancient jeans and man's shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  A small crowd had collected, and some were calling out comments and helpful advice.

  Hands on hips, her well-upholstered form rigid with outrage, Georgia threw back her head, flared her nostrils, and declared, "Any homosexual animal should be put to death before it can pervert others of its breed."

  Pen snorted, her nostrils similarly flared. Her tawny hair seemed almost to put out sparks. "Put plainly, you're an idiot. Do you think a lesbian sheep says to herself, 'I'm a bad, wicked sheep. I'll turn to the dark side and seduce that innocent ewe over there.'"

  "How disgusting," spluttered Georgia.

  Pen thrust her chin out with even more belligerence. "Open your closed, ossified mind, Georgia, and read the research. Homosexuality, bisexuality—it's a normal part of nature."

  Shaking her head violently, Georgia declared, "I'll never believe that. Never!"

  "Believe it. It's been documented—well-documented. There are homosexual ostriches. There are homosexual walruses. There are homosexual sage grouse. There are homosexual—"

  "Arrgh!" Georgia clapped her hands over her ears. "Stop this filthy talk."

  "What's going on here?" demanded an imperious voice. It was Jack Yarrow himself, his expression a blend of ire and indignation. He gaze swept the assembled spectators. "Show's over, ladies and gentlemen," he said with a sardonic sneer. "Back to work." No one moved.

  I compared the man with the photographs I'd seen in the file Lonnie had given me. They'd clearly shown Yarrow's domed forehead with its Roman Empire hairstyle vainly attempting to hide his growing baldness. His small, flatfish nose was the same, as were his prominent washed-out blue-gray eyes and thin-lipped mouth. What hadn't been indicated was his excellent physique. He had a well-muscled, flat-stomached body with wide shoulders and narrow waist. And in person his skin was peculiar, being thick and white and somehow creepy, as though if I put a finger out and pushed his cheek, my finger would leave a distinct crater. Errk!

  "Oh, Professor Yarrow," twittered Georgia, "Dr. Braithwaite viciously attacked me because of my deeply held beliefs."

  Yarrow flicked a contemptuous look at Pen, who, arms folded, was leaning serenely against the wall. "I'm sure you held your ground against Dr. Braithwaite, Georgia. Her arguments are often fallacious."

  "Is that so?" said Pen, straightening up.

  "Have you got a moment, Jack?" Rube interposed hastily. "I'd like you to meet Kyle Kendall, my new graduate student, who'll be pitching in to help us with the Global Marsupial Symposium."

  Yarrow glanced at me, then took another look. A smile appeared on his mouth—his eyes remained cold. "My wife mentioned meeting you. Do come into my office and we can have a chat about your time with us."

  When Rube went to come too, Yarrow said, "I'll send her back to you later."

  Rube looked worried, which mirrored how I felt. This was the c
rucial test, where I fooled Yarrow into believing I was who I said I was. Stone the crows, I wished I'd studied the biology stuff more closely. This bloke could trip me up without really trying. And my mind had gone blank. Blimey! What was the exact name of the research paper I was supposed to be involved in? I'd have to find some way to deflect him from asking too many pointed questions.

  I meekly followed Professor Yarrow into his room, which was very well-appointed, with a thick maroon carpet, a heavy desk which was obviously not standard issue, and walls lined with custom-made bookshelves.

  He closed the door behind us, then sat down behind his desk and waved me to a chair. "Welcome to UCLA, Kylie."

  "G'day, Professor Yarrow."

  A small, frosty smile on his lips, he gave me a slow once-over. He nodded. "Well, well, some good does come out of the antipodes."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  He looked surprised. "You may read it as such. Why?"

  "Just wondered if I would thank you, or take offense and counterattack."

  "I believe I'd prefer a thank-you," he said drily. "University of Western Australia, is it?"

  "That's right."

  "Then you'd know Howard Leadbeater."

  Trick question. Good thing I'd thought to ask Lonnie to research the faculty for past and present VIPs in the world of biological science. "I know of him. He's a world authority on marsupials, but of course I never had the chance to meet him. He'd fallen off the perch long before I got there."

  "Fallen off the perch?" His mouth twisted in a most unpleasant way. "How quaint."

  "Thank you, Professor Yarrow."

  The deep sincerity in my voice brought a slight frown to his pale forehead. "Australians as a race are admirable," he intoned, "except for your propensity to use diminutives and excessively colorful colloquialisms."

  "Hang on a mo," I said. "Fair crack of the whip. Aussies save a lot of time with those shortened words. Like, would you mind if I called you Prof?"

  "I believe I would."

  "Right-oh," I said. "Professor it is."

  "Now, the research paper you're working on with Dr. Wasinsky... ?"

  I put my hand to my mouth to cover a fake yawn. "Sorry, Professor Yarrow, just got to L.A., so I'm a bit jet-lagged."