Tuesday morning I felt groggy from lack of sleep. Horribly aware that I'd been venturing into an emotional minefield, I'd left Ariana shortly after she had responded so negatively to my protest that a relationship between us was not, as she claimed, impossible. When I'd finally forced myself to go to bed, the whole scene kept replaying over and over in my head. And when I dozed, I dreamed disjointed, disturbing dreams, full of loss and grief.
To finish off a perfect evening, Mum had called me just before I turned out the light.
"Am I disturbing something, darling?"
"No, Mum, of course not."
"Are you sure?"
Sorry for myself, I wanted to snap, Yes, Mum, you're disturbing something-the day I found out I'm doomed to pine forever for a woman I adore so much it hurts. I said, "I'm sure."
"I got your letter today." Her tone was gloomy. "Your handwriting indicates you're not being entirely honest with me, Kylie."
I was short with her. "I don't see how it can, since I was."
"You may not realize you're not telling the whole truth," my mum conceded, "but handwriting never lies."
I didn't say anything but silently cursed the day my mother had decided to do that handwriting analysis course at Wollegudgerie High.
Mum cleared her throat, which usually signaled she was about to embark on a new subject. "I don't know if you realize how very disturbing it is for a mother to have her only child living in a dangerous place like Los Angeles."
Oh, groan!
To counterattack, I said, "Why didn't you tell me I was on an Australian TV show? I had to hear about it from someone else."
"Who?" Mum was obviously playing for time.
"Just someone," I said vaguely. I didn't want to mention Oscar's name, because if I did, I'd be duty bound to tell my mum that he was dead, and worse still, that he'd died violently.
"Frankly, Kylie," said Mum in a confidential tone, "the program was rather an embarrassment, so I didn't mention it."
I recalled that Oscar had thought it was called "Aussie Chicks Make Good." I asked Mum if that was the tide.
"Something along those lines," she said." 'Aussies O.S. Make Good,' I think it was, but it was a trashy show, not worthy of you, darl."
"How did they know about me in the first place?"
"Nephew Brucie," said Mum, obviously disgusted. "He took it upon himself to call the network when they ran an ad asking for stories of ordinary Aussies being successful overseas. And he supplied photos of you too. If I'd have known, I would've stopped him quick smart, but needless to say, Brucie wouldn't dream of checking with me."
Depressed though I was, a spark of interest made me ask, "Did you j record the show?"
Silence. Then, "I might have."
"Will you send it to me, please?"
My mother reluctantly agreed. Now I was definitely interested in what the program contained. "What did it say about me, Mum?"
"Oh, I don't know…something about you going to L.A. to run a private investigation company" she said vaguely.
"Was it complimentary?"
She dodged that question by saying, "It wasn't accurate. For one thing, it said you were taking steps to become a private eye yourself." lam.
Silence. If it was something Mum really didn't want to hear, she ignored it. At last she said, "I have to admit the item about you was very short, like all the others, but it was rather flattering. You know how those TV types like to put a gloss on things."
Now I had an inkling of the devious motive that had kept my mum quiet about the program. "You didn't mention me being on TV because you thought it might influence me to stay in America. Is that right?"
"It may have crossed my mind."
"Crikey, Mum, you must think I'm shallow."
"Not shallow, Kylie darling, but anyone's head can be turned."
Any other time I would have had a bit of a barney with her over this, but last night I'd felt too down in the dumps to bother. We'd chatted for a few minutes longer about what was going on at the pub, then I'd made the excuse I was tired, and we'd rung off.
In the morning I didn't feel much better. I couldn't stomach breakfast, so I skipped my usual kitchen routine. Besides, I couldn't face talking to anyone yet, especially Melodie or Fran, who were no doubt still warring over Quip's play. Showered and dressed, I vowed to myself that today I'd make progress on the case. Ariana might not desire me as a lover, but she was going to admire me as a business partner, or I'd die in the attempt.
Before I left I went to my office to check my e-mail, in the hope that Diana Niptucker had replied to my message, but there was nothing from her. My cell phone rang just as I picked up my things to go out to the car.
"Kylie, it's Quip. I'm outside in the backyard. I need to see you desperately. And for God's sake, don't let Fran know I'm here."
When I pushed open the back door, a perfect morning greeted me, warm but not hot, full of sunshine and joyous nature…and an agitated Quip. "What's up?" I said.
"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 sunny 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.