Claire McNab: Wombat Strategy

"They don't think there's necessarily a connection. There are three theories: one, it was an accident, caused when improperly stored pyrotechnics ignited; two, someone with a grudge against Perkins destroyed the vehicle; three, Jarrod Perkins did it himself."

"Why would he do that?"

She shrugged. "It got attention. You can't buy that type of publicity. And did you notice how he mentioned his movie in every interview?"

Ariana poured her coffee, I poured my tea. We sat down at the bench. I said, "Bob Verritt hates Jarrod Perkins."

Ariana raised her eyebrows. "You're accusing one of our employees of murder?"

My heart took a little jump. One of our employees? Was Ariana coming around to the idea I was her partner? In business only, of course.

"Just trying to cover everything," I said demurely. "So how about Dave Deer? He's got a motive."

She nodded approval. "He certainly has-shutting Perkins up before he ruins Deerdoc."

"So what happens if our client turns out to be the murderer? Who pays the bill? Could we sue Deerdoc?"

"You know," said Ariana, "you're one of a kind."

Last night a play. Tonight an art gallery. Soon I'd be a cultured little Aussie. My second date in as many days. Maybe not a real date, but it would do for the moment. Ariana came back to the office to pick me up at six o'clock. She said to dress up a bit, so I put on my second-best clobber, one of the outfits Harriet had helped me buy for my extremely short career as personal assistant to Dave Deer.

The art gallery where Ariana's sister was exhibiting was in Santa Monica. I'd heard about Santa Monica in songs, and read about it in books, and seen it in movies, but I'd never been there.

When I told Ariana this, she said, "After the gallery, I'll give you a quick tour."

"That'd be bonzer."

The gallery was in a two-story building, and inside it was stark, off-white, echoing rooms with nowhere to sit, except for an odd stone bench here and there. The floor was bare, polished wood. Every wall I could see had widely spaced paintings displayed. A sculpture, looking like a woman with severe deformities, writhed on a pedestal just inside the entrance.

There were lots of people wandering around, some stopping to confer in front of paintings, others snaffling wine and cheese. We'd been there two minutes when we were greeted by a cold-faced woman in a severely cut red suit. She gave a chilly glance at me then recognized Ariana and immediately warmed up. "Ariana, darling!" Air kisses. "I'll tell Janette you're here."

I drifted over to the nearest painting and eyeballed it. It was quite eerie: an almost photographic depiction of a commonplace park with people sitting on benches and kids playing. But nobody had eyes. It was signed in a scrawling Janette and the date.

"What do you think?" said Ariana.

"Creepy."

Ariana cocked her head and looked at the painting through narrowed eyes. "Disconcerting," she said. "That's what Janette means to do. Disconcert you."

"Does she only use her first name, like Cher or Madonna?"

"Exactly like Cher or Madonna," said a laughing voice behind us.

Ariana and her sister embraced, then I was introduced. Just seeing her in a crowd, I would have guessed Janette was Ariana's sister. She had the same pale hair and blue eyes, but none of Ariana's taut personality. She was warm, friendly, and down-to-earth, and carrying quite a few kilos more than her sister.

"What do you think of my paintings?" she asked.

"I've only seen one."

"You must let me show you some more."

Some of her work was way past disconcerting-it was straight-out disturbing. One that particularly caught my attention showed a billiard table, meticulously rendered, sitting in a room with a glass wall, outside which was the blue water of a swimming pool. On the green baize of the table lay a human hand, fingers curled, the still-sticky blood indicating it had been freshly removed. And under the table, by one heavy wooden leg, a bare foot with painted nails was similarly amputated.

"Has it got a name?"

"Hand-Eye Coordination."

I frowned at her. "I don't get it."

Janette pointed to the rack holding the cues. I'd missed it at first viewing. Balanced on the top of one cue stick was an eye, newly torn from its socket.

"That's a bit sick," I said.

Janette laughed heartily. "It is, isn't it?"

"Frankly, my mother's certifiable."

"Fran, darling, you deigned to come," said Janette. "And Quip too. My cup runneth over."

"Certifiable and sarcastic," said Fran.

Quip grabbed his mother-in-law's waist and whirled her around, her feet off the floor, until she shrieked for mercy. "You're a horrible woman," he declared, releasing her. "When are you going to paint my portrait?"

"When you're famous."

"That'll be any day now," Quip declared, his handsome face lit with enthusiasm. He struck a hands-on-hips pose that was so gay I almost applauded. "I've got someone very interested in one of my scripts."

"He's gorgeous, Fran," I said to her. Her lips hovered on a smile but never quite made it.

"That's wonderful news." Janette put her arm through his. "We'll have to break out the champagne. Is it anyone I'd know?"

"Probably not. He's an up-and-coming director, been working with Jarrod Perkins. His name's Rich Westholme."

Beside me, Fran grunted. "Asshole," she murmured.

"Fuckwit," I said. We nodded acknowledgment to each other.

I didn't spend any time with Ariana, but I always knew where she was in the gallery. I chatted with various people, smiled cheerfully when the umpteenth one said "I just love your accent" or, for variation, "Australia? I've always wanted to go there, but it's such a long way…"

There were lots of red stickers on paintings, indicating they'd already sold. I wondered where I'd hang a painting of Janette's if I had one. The subject matter would be too weird for a bedroom. In fact, when I thought about it, I couldn't think of anywhere in a house I'd put a painting of hers.

The crowds were thinning, the wine drying up, the few chunks of uneaten cheese looking far from fresh. "Ready to go?" Ariana asked.

"Have you got any of Janette's paintings in your house?" I hadn't seen any in the living room or kitchen, but that didn't mean there weren't rooms crammed with artworks somewhere in the place.

She paused, as though she weren't going to answer, then she said, "One, in my bedroom."

"Your bedroom?" I was startled to think she'd hang one in there.

"It's an early work of Janette's, a watercolor of a mountain lake. Quite beautiful, really. And nothing like any of these."

In the end, we did have a sort of a date. Fran and Quip and Ariana and I went down to the Santa Monica Pier. I'd never seen anything like it. The pier, crowded with people, stretched out into the ocean. Quip said the pier was 2,000 feet long. I asked how much that was in meters. "Like I'd know," he said, laughing.

We ate hot dogs, examined the old merry-go-round with its carved wooden horses, rode on the Ferris wheel-I wouldn't risk my life on the roller coaster-and joined the people strolling along to the end of the pier and back again.

I didn't think of Raylene once. Well, maybe once, when I saw two girls wander along with their arms around each other. One of them reminded me of Raylene, I'm not sure why.

Later, when Ariana was driving me home, the fizz of the evening went to my head. I couldn't blame the wine-the gentle buzz from it was long gone-but I'd had such a good time on the pier I felt bold enough to say, "You're an enigma, Ariana."

"I'm not at all."

"Well, of course you'd say you weren't. Otherwise you wouldn't be one." I liked the word, so I said it again. "An enigma."