I tsk-tsked sympathetically.
Gesturing at the jumble in his room, he snarled, "And now she's back! Somewhere in here, Julia Roberts is hiding. Damn cat! I opened the door and she flew past me like a rocket and disappeared."
"Jules," I called to her, "fair go. You know very well that Lonnie's allergic. Come on out."
Lonnie tossed off a scornful laugh. "Get real, Kylie. Cats don't come when they're called. And especially not Julia Roberts. She's holed up, sneering at us both."
I could have told him what would happen next. Hearing Lonnie's disrespectful remarks about cats, Jules immediately took great pleasure in proving him wrong. There was a rustle in the middle of the room, a couple of small items shifted, and Julia Roberts emerged, tawny tail held high.
"Don't let her near me!" Lonnie implored.
Jules gave him a long, cool look, strolled over to me, paused to mark the leg of my jeans by rubbing it with her cheek and whiskers, then sauntered out the door and into the hall.
Lonnie leaped out of his chair to rush over and slam the door. He grumped back to his computer. "Damn cat. If I take any more antihistamine tablets, I'll fall unconscious at your feet."
"My cousin, Brucie, did a course of desensitization injections," I said. "They worked for his allergies. Maybe they would for you."
A look of pure horror filled Lonnie's face. "Injections?" he gasped. "I faint. I always have. All I need to see is the needle heading for my arm, and I'm gone. Out cold."
"There are nondrowsy antihistamines." Hadn't Lonnie seen the zillions of ads on teev for allergy remedies?
Lonnie dismissed my comment with a wave of his hand. "Prescription only. Too expensive." He fixed me with a calculating stare. "Kylie…"
"I'm not getting rid of Jules." I couldn't imagine living here without Julia Roberts for company.
"Get rid of is a bit harsh," said Lonnie. "I thought more relocate. Maybe Ariana could take her."
You've got Buckley's," I said.
"All right, I'll bite. What in the hell's Buckley's?"
"It comes from the Aussie saying, 'You've got two chances, Buckley's and none.' I reckon whoever Buckley was, he had the worse luck in the world, because it means you have no chance at all. A snowball in hell would be better off."
He rolled his eyes. "So Julia Roberts is staying?"
"Too right." Thinking I'd have to make Melodie promise not to open Lonnie's door, I added, "I'll do my best to make sure Jules stays out of your room."
"That's the best I can hope for," said Lonnie mournfully.
I had to get back to Ariana's office. "You left a note on my desk saying you'd found something interesting…?"
Lonnie brightened up. "I've turned up the name of an enforcer Yarrow's used before. It's possible he's the one who shoved Braithwaite into the traffic on Sunset."
"Who is it?"
"Jack Yarrow's brother-in-law. Name's Walter Easton. Known as Wally. You remember how Yarrow's divorce from his second wife, Fenella, was as nasty as it gets? Well, this guy, Easton, is her brother." "Yarrow was arrested for assaulting his wife, wasn't he?" "Sure was. Fenella threw him out of the house and filed for divorce right after that." Lonnie made a face. "Dirty business. Warring attorneys. Vicious accusations on both sides. And then Fenella was assaulted again-black eyes, broken nose. But this time it was her brother. She didn't press charges, said it was a family argument." "You think Jack Yarrow was responsible for this attack?" "Looks that way. Easton and Yarrow have remained thick as thieves. When Yarrow took Winona Worsack as his third wife, he married into a very wealthy family. I don't think it's a coincidence that once Yarrow had access to money, he set Wally Easton up in business, financing him in Wally's Strength & Health Club in Burbank. There've been rumors that Easton has been dealing in illegal steroids and the like, but he's never been convicted."
Lonnie gave me a printout detailing Wally Easton's career, and I took it along with me to Ariana's office, thinking I'd check with Oscar and Pen to see if either one was familiar with Yarrow's brother-in-law.
The moment I entered the office, I had an I-told-you-so moment.
Oscar was his usual hairy, untidy self, but Pen…
Pen was a substantial vision in a bright-turquoise outfit, which I thought the exact same shade as her little sports car. In Ariana's black-and-white room, she positively glowed. Her humongous sandals had been replaced with high heels. Her burnished hair was up, she wore dangling earrings, also turquoise, and a matching bracelet. She'd clearly taken some time applying makeup. Most alarming of all, she was smiling fondly at Ariana.
My gaze locked with Ariana's. I raised my eyebrows fractionally. She sent me a you-were-right resigned smile.
"Pen," I said, "you're looking bonzer. Got a big date tonight?" "I can only hope," said Pen, grinning meaningfully at Ariana. "I can only hope."
THIRTEEN
"Bloody stalker," snarled Oscar Braithwaite. "When I catch him I'll thrash him within an inch of his life."
With an obvious effort, Pen switched her attention from Ariana to her brother. Clearly irate, she said, "Oscar, how many times have I told you? Don't get involved. Leave it to the professionals."
Oscar glowered at her through a curtain of hair. "A good beating-that's what the bastard needs."
Pen gave an irritated sigh. "Honestly," she said to Ariana and me, "Oscar can be a pain, as you can see. He's been this way since we were kids, playing superprotective brother." She snorted. "As though I've ever needed much protection!"
"Stalkers are different," Oscar declared. "They're dangerous fanatics-stop at nothing."
"Precisely why we're here," said Pen. "Anyone who has an advice program like mine gets their share of obsessive fans, but this one's something else. For the past two months, he's left written messages everywhere I go, even in my university office. And of course, there's the constant delivery of flowers. I've got to the point that I shudder every time I see a florist's van."
"You've kept these notes?" Ariana asked.
Pen's mouth twisted with distaste. "Kept the notes? No way. I barely scan them before they hit the trash."
"Please keep any you get from now on and try not to handle them too much."
"All right, I'll do that, but I guarantee there won't be fingerprints," said Pen. "This one's too smart. For example, he uses a different florist every time. I tried a spot of detective work myself, and called a couple of florists to find out who'd ordered the flowers. Got nowhere."
Ariana's signet ring flashed as she picked up a ballpoint-black, of course. "I'd like the name of any florist you remember delivering flowers to you."
After Pen had named the three she recalled, Ariana said, "What about telephone calls?"
"I may have spoken to him. I'm not sure. Callers to my radio show are screened, so the real crazies never get through to me. As an additional safeguard, there's a ten-second delay on the broadcast, so if necessary I can cut the person off before anything objectionable goes to air. Lately, I've had a few odd calls that seem to be from the same man. He isn't initially screened out because he sounds a reasonable human being until he gets me on the line."
"What does he say?" Ariana asked.
Pen grimaced. "Like the notes, extreme violence. Sexual sadism. Nothing I haven't heard before, but it's different when it's directed at me, personally."
"What would you expect?" demanded Oscar, bouncing in his seat. "You openly encourage grubby little people to sprout grubby little stories about their bodily functions."
"Oscar has a few hangups," said Pen, smiling indulgently at her brother.
I braced myself for an explosion, but Oscar merely spluttered ineffectually and then subsided.
"What about calls to your home phone?" said Ariana.
"Nothing so far. The number's unlisted."
"That's no protection against someone determined to get to you. Let an answering machine pick up all your calls from now on."