Claire McNab: Quokka Question

During the meeting with the Braithwaites this morning, I'd done most of the talking on the Kendall & Creeling side. Ariana had only interposed with an occasional question or comment. After we'd discussed the altered fee structure for the additional investigation of Oscar's dive into the traffic on Sunset Boulevard, we'd got down to nitty-gritty of just how I was going to be set up at UCLA as a visiting graduate student.

Dr. Penelope Braithwaite occupied the endowed chair of animal sexuality in the psychology department, which was part of the College of Letters and Sciences. The endowment had been bestowed by a reclusive multimillionaire who had developed an abiding interest in penguins while wintering in the Antarctic. He'd been particularly struck by their sexual behavior.

"Bang anything, penguins," Pen Braithwaite had declared with approval. "Randy little buggers. Many documented examples of gay male penguins bonding for life. Lesbian penguins too."

The Global Marsupial Symposium was being hosted by the biology department of the university. Pen had a good friend on the inside, a member of the biology faculty who despised Professor Jack Yarrow and would be delighted, Pen assured us, to do anything to discredit the man as long as it was vaguely legal.

At that point I'd said," 'Vaguely legal?'"

Pen had snorted with laughter. "Rube's a bit of a chicken heart, but he and I"-she winked meaningfully-"have what you'd call a close, very personal relationship." Another guffaw. "Get my drift?"

Dr. Rubin Wasinsky was willing to take me on in the role of a short-term graduate student visiting from the University of Western Australia. He would make sure I had access to anything necessary- another broad wink from Pen Braithwaite-and I'd automatically be granted a pass to the symposium sessions and various functions too.

At that point Pen had whipped out her phone, a tiny silver thing that was entirely lost in her big hand. She got Dr. Wasinsky on the line to set up a lunch date for the three of us later that day. "We'll meet at the Ackerman Student Union," she'd announced. "Food's cheap and not half bad."

I finished my notes, printed them out, and put diem in the new file folder. Then my mind obstinately went back to Ariana and Natalie Ives. Had they been lovers? Were they still lovers? Or maybe there was bad blood between them and they hated each other? Could this Ives woman be someone Ariana had arrested while she was still a cop? Was blackmail involved?

I had to stop obsessing about this. I snatched up the phone and punched in Chantelle's number. She was a receptionist, so she answered right away. "Good morning! United Flair Agency. How may I direct your call?"

"You can direct it to yourself. It's me."

"Honey, I was about to call you. Would you believe, I've got tickets to the premiere of Bloodblot Horror II. It's tonight. Can you come?"

Working for a talent agency as Chantelle did, she got quite a few perks, including free tickets for movies and theater productions. I was fond of Chantelle-we had a beaut, no-strings relationship with quite a bit of recreational sex thrown in-so I was more than happy to spend time with her.

Chantelle's taste in movies, however, didn't entirely agree with mine. She was a horror girl, the gorier the better. When the screen was awash with blood, I'd squint with distress, but Chantelle would watch the action with rather alarming gusto.

Although I knew the images on the screen weren't real, and just out of the frame a movie crew had been standing around while each ghastly, blood-soaked scene had been shot, I always got sucked in and let myself be scared silly. And I'd have awful nightmares later. Tonight, however, it'd be the perfect way to occupy my attention and drive away any thoughts about Ariana and the mysterious Natalie Ives.

I'd seen all the prepublicity for this R-rated splatter movie. Word was, members of test audiences had thrown up or fainted, or both. "Does it matter that I haven't seen Bloodblot Horror 7?" I inquired.

"Of course not," said Chantelle. "They have nothing to do with each other, apart from the title."

"So why is it called the second Bloodblot7"

"Hold, please." Chantelle disappeared to take another call. A few moments later she was back, answering my question as though we hadn't been interrupted. It was a skill I noted all good receptionists developed.

"Because the name is a franchise, Kylie. When the first one was a huge box office success, it was inevitable there'd be a sequel. Hold, please." The line went dead again. A moment later a click was followed by, "I guarantee there'll be Bloodblot III, IV, and V, if the audience holds up."

We made a time for Chantelle to pick me up that evening-she seemed curiously reluctant to have me drive-and I put down the receiver. Maybe I should call Ariana on her mobile-I mentally corrected myself-on her cell phone and ask, "Are you OK?"

That wasn't all that terrif an idea, I decided. She'd answer coolly that of course she was OK and why was I asking? There didn't seem to be any good reply to that question. I could say I was interested, or be really up-front and say I couldn't bear to see her upset. That'd go down like a lead balloon.

I'd just have to wait until tomorrow when Ariana came to work. In the meantime, I had the Braithwaite case to worry about. I reminded myself that my client, Oscar, might be in mortal peril, although I had to admit he was a bit of a whinger, and maybe had imagined an impatient push from a stranger was really an attempt on his life.

Lonnie, being our computer guy and expert in all things electronic, was researching Professor Jack Yarrow for me. I went along to his messy office to see how he was getting along with the task. Because of his severe allergy to cats, coupled with Julie Roberts penchant for his company, Lonnie kept his door closed. This was usually futile, as Jules considered the whole thing a game, and would lurk nearby, dashing in at any opportunity and heading straight for Lonnie's protesting body.

A quick check of the hallway showed no Julia Roberts in evidence, so I knocked on Lonnie's door, faux-Spanish dark wood with copper studs everywhere, and took the muffled response to mean I was to come in. I found Lonnie peering into a monitor, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the keyboard. "Be with you in a minute," he said without looking away from the screen.

Experience had taught me Lonnie's minute might last quite a long time, so I occupied myself assessing the possibilities of his room. Every surface, including the floor, was covered with an assortment of electronics, folders, papers, coffee mugs, and general debris. The room itself was quite large, and I mentally gathered up most of the stuff on the floor and put it into a series of spacious, imaginary cupboards I visualized taking up one wall. On another wall, a long bench could be installed to hold most of the electronic gizmos, and this would allow Lonnie's computer desk to be moved, so that anyone entering didn't immediately trip over him.

A touch of furnishing excitement generated more ambitious thoughts. If I could find places for everything in the storage room, plus Fran's disaster supplies, my dream of adding a sitting room to my accommodations could be realized. Floor-to-ceiling storage units in here might be the ticket…

"Why are you looking like that?" said Lonnie, pushing off from the desk so his battered office chair swung him round to face me. There was dire suspicion on his face.

"Looking like what?"

"Like you've got plans for this room."

I said vaguely, "Plans?"

Lonnie flipped back the lock of limp brown hair that usually fell fetchingly over one eye to give him a cute little-boy appearance. "I thought we agreed my room was off-limits."