Claire McNab: Wombat Strategy

"I'm game," I said. "But my nose…you'll be gentle?"

Arms around each other, we laughed our way to her Jeep. I felt giddy, like I was a kid again, on the edge of something new and exciting.

Chantelle had an apartment in West Hollywood just off Santa Monica Boulevard. We made it through the front door before we kissed, quite gently, in the darkness. And then more insistently, until my skin tingled and the core of me began to melt.

Chantelle laughed against my lips. "Do you want to shower with me or go to bed with me?"

"Both, please." My knees were growing weak. "Bed first?"

Everything shook. The floor beneath us creaked, the window shutters rattled. Then it was still again.

"Stone the crows! What was that ?” "

Unconcerned, Chantelle nuzzled my neck. "Probably an aftershock."

"What the hell's an aftershock?"

"From L.A.'s last big earthquake. Aftershocks go on for years. Of course, it could have been a small earthquake in its own right."

I tightened my arms around her. What was it about danger pumping up one's sexual responses? I was living proof it worked. Trembling with both alarm and passion, I said, "Jeez, Chantelle, you're awfully casual about this. I mean, an earthquake!"

Another less violent shaking rolled through the apartment, dancing the shutters again. "Yerks!"

"Calm down. After you live in L.A. for a while, you'll get used to it."

I doubted it, I doubted it strongly. But I was finding Chantelle a delightful antidote to fear. The bed was super-size, the sheets were crisp, her body was lithe and strong, her skin like satin. Her mouth devoured me, her hands traced electric patterns on my willing flesh.

"You're pretty crash-hot," I breathed.

"That's good?"

"That's very good."

I was tight, I was liquid fire, I was flying. Sensations rippled, caught at my heart, exploded.

"Tell me what you want," she whispered.

"I want to fall into the flames."

A bit singed, but happy and rather tired, I made my way home next morning. As it was Saturday, I wasn't expecting anyone except Jules to be there, so it was a surprise to find both Ariana's BMW and Dave Deer's white Rolls in the parking lot.

When I got near Ariana's office I could hear Dave Deer's agitated tones.

"Already I've had cancellations! And these are big names, Ariana, big names! They don't like scandal, they demand complete confidentiality. If it gets out that Perkins was being blackmailed, they'll run for the hills, they'll desert me. And after all I've done for mental health in this town!"

I stuck my head around the door to say I was there, and Ariana beckoned me in.

Dave Deer glanced at me and said, "Your face looks like hell." Then he was back on subject. "Ariana, I'm telling you. Any hint of blackmail is death to Deerdoc. Death!"

"No blackmail letter was found."

"You sure?"

"I spoke with the detective in charge. We go back a long way. I mentioned blackmail, and he said nothing was found."

"Shit! You mentioned blackmail to him? You should have kept that quiet."

"Dave, this is a murder we're talking about."

He stuck out his bottom lip, just like a big baby who'd been scolded. "The news says suicide."

"The LAPD are saying suicide too, because Perkins was shot with his own gun. But every instinct I have says it's not true. Perkins was murdered."

"Then you have to find out who did it. Money's no object here. You've got to do something before my practice disappears down the bloody gurgler."

Ariana indicated the fat envelope we'd taken up to the murder scene and then brought back with us. "The material we had for Perkins. You can take it back with you."

He looked as though she'd offered him a funnel-web spider to play with. "Keep it! I can't afford to have that stuff anywhere in the offices. If they start investigating a murder, there could be search warrants. Keep it here, safe."

When Ariana showed her surprise at the request, he explained, "Only two disks were taken from the file. In that envelope are records of other therapy sessions and my clinical notes. I'll put it this way-Perkins was very frank. There are names, events. If they got out…"

Ariana raised an eyebrow. Her skepticism drove Dave Deer to justify his judgment. "Lorelei Stevens, for example. Perkins caught her in bed with two underage kids, a precocious brother and sister, who happen to be stars themselves."

"Not Tad and Helena Prosser?" Even Ariana seemed startled. I vaguely remembered them as a brother and sister acting team who'd made a series of kid's movies where they played orphans who'd been trained as junior spies.

Dave Deer said bitterly, "They and their pushy mother are patients of mine!" He slapped his forehead with the heel of one hand. "And you wonder why I'm upset!"

I said, "But I heard Lorelei Stevens was going to star in the movie Perkins was about to make."

"At half her normal salary," Dave Deer declared. "Now why do you think that was?"

Taking a punt, I said, "In the sessions, did Perkins ever talk about stealing scripts from new writers? I was wondering if he mentioned someone called Rich Westholme."

Dave Deer made a dismissive gesture. "For God's sake," he said, "do you think I listen to their self-centered ramblings? Jesus! I'd go mad. Perkins mentioned lots of names. I paid no attention. The only reason I homed in on Lorelei is because she's a patient."

After he'd gone, Ariana and I repaired to the kitchen, Ariana for coffee, me for tea. Spooning grounds into the percolator, she said, "What's your take on this?"

"You mean what do I think? Well, first of all, Jarrod Perkins is the perfect victim. Everyone hated him."

"Agreed."

"I get the impression there's any number of struggling writers who claim he stole material from them."

"Happens all the time, but Perkins had it down to a fine art. For novice writers, the dice are loaded. Perkins, like other successful directors, is the one with the name, the clout, the studios behind him. Who's going to win if there's a dispute?"

She watched me heat the teapot and make sure the kettle was boiling again before pouring the bubbling water over the tea leaves. "Aren't tea bags easier?"

"Oh, please. Do you like instant coffee?"

"Point taken."

I was warming to this discussion. Every now and then I'd think, This is me, Kylie Kendall, discussing P.I. business. Like I really knew what the hell I was talking about.

"Sven could have killed him," I said. "I'd reckon Perkins would have been the boss from hell, and maybe Sven finally got totally jack of him. Then there's Randy Romaine." I touched my nose and winced. "I'd love him to be a murderer, though right now I can't think of why he'd bother. And I'm sure Lorelei Stevens would like to see Perkins dead."

"Not necessarily," said Ariana. "For all his faults, he was a very successful director. Lorelei's had a couple of under-performing movies lately. She needs a hit."

While I was digesting this information about the ways of the biz, Ariana said, "Have you considered the possibility that Jarrod Perkins was engineering the whole blackmail plot? He could have used it to extort money from Deerdoc. You know from this morning's conversation that Dave Deer is prepared to pay a great deal to keep his company viable."

I was mortified that I hadn't considered this possibility. But of course, Ariana had been at this a lot longer than me. "What about the bomb in the Hummer?"

"The crime lab's come up with the composition of the device. Pyrotechnics, used in movies."

"The stuff that blows up cars and things?"

"Exactly. And no problem for Perkins to get hold of it."

"What do the police think about the Hummer, now that Perkins is dead?"