Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

Relieved, I said, "Oh, is that all?"

"Is that all?" she repeated sarcastically. "Typical! Just take a look at your attitude, my girl."

"Aunt Millie-"

"I'd have thought you'd have had some consideration for your family before you went gallivanting over to the States. But no." She paused for me to absorb this. "You always were a headstrong, self-absorbed girl. Even as a child, I knew you'd bring heartbreak to your mother."

"Mum put you up to this, didn't she?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Aunt Millie indignantly.

"Then why are you calling me?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're needed back here at the Wombat's Retreat. Your poor mother is barely coping."

"What about Jack?"

"He's a man," said Aunt Millie. "He does his best, but well…"

Lonnie's birthday was on Saturday, and I was touched to be included in his birthday celebration, which was to be lunch at a restaurant of Lonnie's choice.

"Would you believe," said Melodie on Friday, "Lonnie's gone and picked Shel 'n' Hymie's again?. He's got no imagination."

"What's wrong with the place?" I asked.

"It's a deli. You don't have a birthday lunch at a deli, 'specially when Kendall & Creeling is picking up the tab."

"Are you talking about a delicatessen? A shop where they sell ham and cheese?"

"No, a New York deli. You know, like Nate 'n' Al's or Jerry's." She gave a discontented sigh. "Why couldn't Lonnie choose one of them? The stars go there."

Shel 'n' Hymie's Deli was in Studio City on Ventura Boulevard. Harriet volunteered to pick me up from Kendall & Creeling so I wouldn't have to find the place myself. We parked across the road in a supermarket lot, meeting up with Lonnie as we walked to the traffic lights. He beamed when we both wished him a happy birthday. "It's so great of you guys to come," he said.

On the other side of the road a faded sign on a nondescript building announced SHEL 'N' HYMIE'S DELI. A metal railing enclosed a few tables in the front, each bolted to the ground and with a grubby yellow umbrella. Traffic thundered past, perfuming the air with exhaust fumes. I couldn't imagine why anyone would sit out there, but most of the tables were occupied.

As we waited for the lights to change, Lonnie said approvingly, "Shel 'n' Hymie's is just like a genuine New York deli. They got it right-the ambiance, the in-your-face style."

"And the great food," said Harriet. "Don't forget the food."

The traffic ground to a halt, one huge truck hissing its air-brakes with irritation. We skipped across the road and through the utilitarian glass door. The ambiance Lonnie admired was provided by the cramped booths lining two sides and the Formica-topped tables filling the rest of the space. The floor was industrial gray, the walls a yucky shade of green. The place was crowded with people talking loudly, sometimes to their companions but frequently into cell phones.

Lonnie was obviously a regular customer. He asked Joyce, a tough-looking bottle-blond wearing a red checkered uniform and white apron, how she was today.

"The usual," she snapped. "I'd complain, but what would be the use?"

She marched us to a corner booth with a view of the traffic outside. It would just be big enough to squeeze in six people. Fran, glaring at a large, laminated menu, was already there. "Bob's going to be late," she said, looking up, "and Melodie is never on time, as we all know."

"Is Ariana coming?" I asked, aware that I'd be terribly disappointed if she wasn't.

Fran shrugged. "Last I heard, she was."

"You expecting more?" demanded an angular woman with a nasal twang. She was wearing the same uniform as Joyce and the same hard expression. The badge on her chest identified her as Dora.

"Three more on their way," said Lonnie. He beamed at her like a cheerful puppy. "Today's my birthday, Dora."

"Many happies," she said, without a change to her dour expression. She slapped menus down in front of us. "Something to drink?"

"Diet Coke," said Fran.

"The same," said Lonnie and Harriet in chorus.

Dora switched her gimlet gaze to me. "You?"

"May I have Coke Coke, please?" I asked. "The real stuff, I mean."

"Three diets and one regular." She spun on her heel and walked off.

"See what I mean about style?" said Lonnie appreciatively. "Dora's got that New York attitude."

"Abrupt, you mean?" I said.

"Rude," said Harriet. "They pride themselves on it."

I scanned the menu as the others chatted. The choice was huge: pastrami, corned beef sandwiches, cheese blintzes, potato pancakes, lox and scrambled eggs… I wasn't sure what half of them were, so I decided to play it safe and order something simple like a corned beef sandwich.

"Before Bob gets here," said Lonnie in a conspiratorial tone, "I have to tell you the cops interviewed him last night. About Jarrod Perkins."

"How do you know that?" asked Fran.

"Because," said Lonnie, "they interviewed me too." He added in a pleased tone, "I told them everything I knew about Reece Quinn."

Harriet looked disgusted. "That is such old news. I can't believe it's come up now."

"Who's Reece Quinn?" I asked.

"Bob's big chance to make the big time." Fran's tone was caustic.

"A couple of years ago," said Harriet, "Perkins claimed he was being stalked, and Bob was hired to assess security at his house. And, like every second person in this town, Bob had an idea for a movie and didn't want to miss this opportunity to offer it to a director."

"Dumb move," said Fran.

Lonnie took up the story. "Bob had a draft script based on his experiences as a P.I. He called the character Reece Quinn."

I could see where this was going. "Jarrod Perkins stole the script?"

"Perkins strung Bob along for a while," said Harriet, "getting his hopes up. Bob spent a lot of time polishing the script. After about six months Perkins lost interest, and the whole thing lapsed."

"Imagine Bob's surprise," said Fran, "when the word leaked out that Jarrod Perkins had a big-time scriptwriter working on an original idea Perkins had come up with. By sheer coincidence, the character and plot points were just like Bob's Reece Quinn script."

"So what happened?"

"Bob had it out with Perkins, but it didn't get him anywhere. There's no copyright on ideas, and Perkins told him to get lost."

I caught sight of Bob Verritt's tall, lanky form through the window. "Here he comes," I said.

Bob slid into the booth beside me. I looked at him sideways, wondering what he'd told the police. He'd just moved up higher on my mental list of suspects, although I couldn't imagine Bob killing anyone, not even Jarrod Perkins.

At that point Melodie arrived in a cloud of explanations of how she'd just had to stop at a couple of sales on the way. "Would you believe," she cried, bundling herself and several shopping bags into the booth, "I got a pair of Manolo Blahnik for half price! Just like the ones Sarah Jessica Parker wore to the awards the other night."

"How much?" Fran asked.

"Three hundred. Marked down from five." Melodie dove into one of the bags and came up with a pair of black stilettos with very high heels.

"Crikey," I said, "people pay that much for shoes?"

"Kylie, they're Manolo Blahnik," said Melodie. "I mean, Madonna wears them."

Dora appeared with our drinks. "Three diet. One regular." She slapped them down, then glowered at Melodie and Bob. "Drinks?"

Melodie responded with-no surprise-"Diet Coke, please." Bob asked for iced tea. Dora grunted and departed.

"Dora's not all that happy in her work," I said.

"Nonsense," said Lonnie. "I know for a fact she loves being here at Shel 'n' Hymie's."

Bob grinned. "She told you that?"

"Perhaps not in those words," said Lonnie. "But Dora's been here for years. She wouldn't stay if she didn't love the place."