"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."
Silence. Then Ariana said, "You're only saying that because I don't talk about myself."
"Why don't you?"
She glanced across at me, her expression…an enigma. She said, "Why don't you?”
I felt a jab of indignation. "Fair crack of the whip! I do. My life's an open book."
"Is it? I don't recall your mentioning anything much about your life in Australia."
Oh, jeez. She had me there. How could I talk about Raylene, and the Wombat's Retreat, and how I'd been elbowed out by Jack, and…
"Forget I brought up the subject."
"Okay."
Wouldn't it rot your socks? This round to Ariana, no worries.
EIGHTEEN
Sunday I went shopping for garden furniture, having decided I'd spring for the cost, since I'd be the one using it. I had a beaut time choosing what to get, finally settling on a round redwood table with a hole in the middle for a shade umbrella, four chairs, and a reclining lounge with dark green all-weather cushions. The umbrella I ordered was dark green too. Delivery, the bloke assured me, would be next week.
I realized this was an awful lot of furniture just for me, but I reckoned I could lure some of the others out there too, once I'd gussied-up the backyard with plants, and maybe a pot or two.
That thought sent me in search of a nursery. It was amazing how many Aussie plants were there. I said so to one of the nursery people, and she said California had a similar climate to Oz, which made a lot of sense. I'd already noticed the gum trees everywhere, and they all seemed to be doing well.
Second-to-last stop was a pet store, where I bought Jules a couple of grooming brushes, a wire comb, and clippers to trim her claws. I felt a bit guilty doing this without asking Melodie if she minded, but it seemed to me Julia Roberts and I were destined to spend the foreseeable future together. Not that I could foresee very far.
Last stop was the supermarket. Hell's bells, the supermarkets in L.A., compared to Wollegudgerie, really were supermarkets. The 'Gudge Mart was a puny little thing compared to the one I was in, which was so vast and had so many choices I almost wished I'd brought a thermos with hot tea so I could have a reviving cuppa halfway through.
When I got home I called Chantelle, told her I'd had a terrific time on Friday, and sort of hinted I might be available for more of the same. Obligingly, she suggested we do something next weekend. My social life was looking up.
Monday morning I went to confess to Ariana I'd ordered garden furniture and to float the bright idea I'd had of putting a washer and a dryer in the storage room next to the kitchen. It'd be child's play, I'd explain, to knock down a wall and make the laundry an alcove to the kitchen. And any plumber could connect the clothes washer to the kitchen drain. Of course, there'd probably have to be an exhaust fan to get rid of the heat from the dryer, but no real probs.
When I knocked on her door I discovered Sven Larsen was there. His Mr. Universe body overwhelmed the chair in which he sat, and I had the thought that it might collapse at any moment.
"Come in, Kylie. Mr. Larsen's here to give his side of the story."
"The cops are stupid," Sven declared. "I know what they're thinking. That I killed Jarrod. Why would I do that, eh? Kill my meal ticket? I'd be a fool."
"The LAPD are saying it appears to be suicide," Ariana said.
"No one who knew Jarrod would believe that. He'd never kill himself, never in a thousand years."
"What's your scenario?"
The chair creaked despairingly as Sven leaned forward, his face intense. He really wanted Ariana to believe him. "Jarrod had a night shoot on Wednesday. A scene that didn't work in the final cut of Last Train to Hell and had to be redone. We were up until three a.m., so I knew he'd sleep in. I didn't get breakfast for him like I usually do but went straight to the gym."
He jerked his head in my direction. "He knew she was coming at ten, so he set his alarm for nine-thirty. After I left, someone came in and killed him. Made it look like suicide."
Ariana said, "Did you tell the detectives your theory?"
Sven scowled. "It's not a theory, lady! It's what happened. And yes, I told them. They said they were following every lead." He gave a derisive grunt. "Every lead? I don't think so."
"When you last saw Mr. Perkins, what sort of mood was he in?"