Kylie Kendall Mystery: The Wombat Strategy Part 20

"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 gla.s.s door. The ambiance Lonnie admired was provided by the cramped booths lining two sides and the Formica-topped tables filling the rest of the s.p.a.ce. 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 ap.r.o.n, 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 tw.a.n.g. 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 c.o.ke," said Fran.

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

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

"May I have c.o.ke c.o.ke, 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 att.i.tude."

"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 a.s.sess 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 polis.h.i.+ng 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 witha"no surprisea""Diet c.o.ke, 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."

My pulse gave a little jump when I looked up to see Ariana approaching. Black jeans, black s.h.i.+rt, with a glint of gold at her throat. Wow.

"Happy birthday, Lonnie," she said, handing him an envelope. I'd learned it was office policy to have everyone put in for a present. Lonnie had wanted some obscure bit of electronic equipment and was getting a check so he could buy it himself.

Ariana slid into the booth, Dora materialized, and we all ordered. When our meals came I blinked at the size of my corned beef sandwich. Huge slices of bread, enough corned beef to choke a horse, salad, coleslaw, and pickles. I could stretch this serving to two mealsa"maybe three.

Joyce herself brought the birthday cake that had been specially ordered. We all sang "Happy Birthday," more or less in tune. Lonnie blushed with pleasure. "Oh, you guys!"

Dora appeared. "Cawfee?" she asked in her grating voice. She stood with one hand on her hip, daring anyone to order.

"Cappuccino, please," I said.

Dora looked at me as if I had crawled out from under a rock. Fran smirked.

Perhaps it was my Aussie accent. I tried again. "Cappuccino?"

"Cappuccino," said Dora with scorn. "Cappuccino? We serve cawfee here.

Cawfee?

"Oh," I said, "then in that case, I'll have coffee, please." Lonnie shook his head as Dora stomped off. "You've gotta love them," he said, "those New York waitresses."

On Sunday Raylene called. My stomach turned a somersault at the sound of her voice. "Kylie? Your mum gave me your number."

I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Kylie?"

"I didn't expect to hear from you."

"I'm so sorry I hurt you."

I was furious to feel tears sting my eyes. "It's a bit late for that, Raylene."

"I want you to know, I know I made a big mistake."

I shrugged, although of course she couldn't see me.

"Come on, sweetheart," said Raylene, her voice soft, "don't make me beg. I shouldn't have done what I did. I was wrong. I should never have thrown you over for Maria. Please forgive me." She waited for a moment, then said, "Kylie?"

I'd been longing to hear these words. I'd dreamed of her saying them. Now they seemed strangely flat. "It's too late," I said.

"What do you mean? Do you want me to crawl? I'll do it. I was stupid and thoughtless."

"What does Maria think of this turnabout?"

"Don't worry about Maria. She's okay."

"Mum told me you and Maria were planning to go to Bangkok."

"Is that what's upsetting you?" Raylene said. "We can plan a trip together after you get back."

Part of me still loved her, but I knew I'd never trust her again. "I'm not coming back."

"You don't mean that, Kylie. You're just angry with me, and so you should be. I've told you I'm sorry."

I'm sorry too," I said, "but it's over."

"I don't believe you."

I felt an awful sadness run through me. "Raylene, why did you do it?"

"I don't know." She sounded genuinely puzzled. She sighed. "I want it back like it used to be. You and me, together."

"It's gone," I said, and because I didn't want her to hear me crying, I hung up the phone.

Julia Roberts watched me sob, her ears angled in the equivalent of a feline frown. Then she came over and let me hug her, without protesting too much. "You're all I've got, Jules," I said.

She didn't look impressed.

TWENTY.

I had a miserable Sunday night, reliving the conversation with Raylene and thinking of all we'd meant to each other. Scenes from our life together kept popping into my mind.

Twice I picked up the phone to call her back, but I didn't. It was over. Although I missed her so much, I knew we could never recapture the feelings we'd had for each other.

It was a relief to wake up on Monday morning and hear Luis vacuuming the hallway outside my door. I jumped out of bed full of resolution. It was time to take my Wombat Strategy seriously. I would set my goal and plow my way through any obstacle that got in the way. I'd throw myself wholeheartedly into the PI. business. Maybe solve Jarrod Perkins's murder. That would take my mind off my troubles.

When Bob Verritt came in I trotted after him into his office. "Bob, can I ask you a question?"

"That depends what it is."

"Lonnie said the police interviewed you about Jarrod Perkins and the Reece Quinn script."

Bob folded his length into his chair and leaned back to give me a thoughtful look. "You can't run before you can walk," he observed.

That sounded like something my mother would say. "I'm fine-tuning my questioning techniques," I said.

Bob grinned at me. "You've got a lot of work to do."

"About Jarrod Perkins..."

"Alibi," said Bob. "I've got an alibi. It checks out, so you can cross me off your list."

I left him chuckling to himself.

Outside, Fran was waiting for me. She took me into my office, closed the door, and said, "What do you know about Rich Westholme?"

"Nothing much. He's a director, or that's what he claims to be. Why?"

Her frown was even darker than usual. "He's been promising Quip too much, for no reason I can see. And I think it's to get to me."