by Claire McNab
I grinned at him, rather pleased. "I suppose I am."
"Chicka took her to a British pub down in Santa Monica. Packed to the rafters with Brits. Melodie said she sang rugby songs, tried a lot of different beers, and played darts."
I found this difficult to visualize, though what did I know of the intimate details of Melodie's social life? It was unlikely, but for all I knew, singing rugby songs, drinking beer, and playing darts was second nature to her.
Lonnie went on, "Melodie says Chicka's promised she can voice one of the characters in the puppet movie he and his brother are making with Lamb White."
I was aghast. "You're kidding me!"
Amused, Lonnie said, "I kid you not."
"But all the characters in the movie are Australian animals. They'll speak with Aussie accents."
"I pointed that out, but Melodie declared if Meryl could do an Aussie accent, so could she." He sent me one of his charming, dimpled smiles. "In fact, I believe Melodie's going to ask you to coach her. After all, you speak Aussie quite fluently, don't you?"
I headed for reception. I was going to front up to Melodie and tell her she had a snowball's chance in hell of having me coach her in Aussie. But she wasn't there. Harriet was sitting behind the desk. This was too much.
"Melodie's off on an audition again?" There was an edge in my voice.
Harriet's expression was grave. "I'd say she wished she was. Ariana's got Melodie in her office, and she's reading her the riot act."
"Oh." Ariana had come in while I was still covering reception this morning, and, although all she'd said to me was "Good morning," her expression had made it clear she wasn't pleased to find Melodie absent and me there.
"Oh, indeed." said Harriet. "You haven't seen Ariana on the warpath, Kylie. I have. Believe me, it's scary."
I reckoned I didn't need to ask what Ariana was on the warpath about, but I did wonder why it had taken her so long to get jack of Melodie's constant absences.
My expression must have given me away. Harriet said, "Why's it taken Ariana so long? You couldn't know, but there's some history between them."
My imagination leapt around wildly. Was Melodie Ariana's love child? She'd have had to be a child herself when she had Melodie if that were the case…
"Ariana knew Melodie's mother," said Harriet, canceling out that particularly alarming scenario. "I'm sure you know that Ariana used to be an LAPD cop. She served with Sharon Schultz at the same station, and they became very close friends."
How close? My imagination got ready to jump again.
Oblivious to this, Harriet went on, "Sharon was a single mother, totally estranged from her ex-husband, and with no family of her own. When she was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, she begged Ariana to keep an eye on Melodie, should the worst happen."
"And the worst happened?"
"Eventually, after a long, bitter battle against the cancer. Melodie was in her mid teens when her mother died. Fortunately, her father entered the picture again, not that he was much use, but better than nothing. He encouraged Melodie to go for a career in show business, but as you know, that rarely pays the bills, so a couple of years ago Melodie approached Ariana and begged her for a job to tide her over until she made the big time. The agreement was that Melodie could go to auditions, but she had to schedule them at lunchtime or after work."
I had many questions but no chance to ask them, because at that moment Melodie appeared, her face anguished. "My career may be over," she announced. She didn't actually put the back of one hand to her forehead in the proper tragic fashion, but heartbreak was in every drooping line of her body.
"You won't be a receptionist anymore?"
Melodie broke out of her misery to give me an irate glare. "My acting career, Kylie."
Harriet grinned. I said, "My mistake."
"Besides," said Melodie, "being a receptionist isn't what I'd call a career. It's more a filler. Something you do until you're discovered."
"What happens if you're never discovered?" I inquired.
Irritated, Melodie clicked her tongue. "It's the bees who are never discovered. I'm not a bee."
The phone rang. Harriet gestured to Melodie to take the call. Glowering at this unwarranted interruption, Melodie snatched it up. She really could act. Her voice full of warm interest, she said, "Good morning, Kendall & Creeling. How may I be of help to you?"
Harriet and I had turned away, when we were jolted by a shriek from Melodie. "Larry! Larry! Awesome!"
Melodie, the receiver pressed to her bosom, gazed at us wide-eyed. "Larry, my agent, says I have a callback tomorrow! He says they've told him I'm practically a sure thing! I'm going to be a Refulgent girl!"
To make sure we got the picture, Melodie tinkled her Refulgent laugh.
"Will I kill her, or will you?" Harriet asked.
Hand raised to knock, I stood outside Ariana's brass-studded door. I felt a touch of trepidation, even though I'd rehearsed what I was going to say. I'd remain calm and speak with measured, cool tones, as I reminded Ariana that she and I were co-owners of Kendall & Creeling. That being so, any discipline of staff-in this case, Melodie-should have involved me too.
Ariana would be likely to point out that it was me who had made it easy for Melodie to skip off to the audition, because I volunteered to answer the phone for her. Better to bring this up myself, before Ariana did.
Also, I'd had a bright idea for the Hartnidge case and wanted to run it by her. I was expecting some opposition, which was understandable. Last time I had a lash at an undercover role, I'd got a black eye for my trouble, but this time would be different. I'd be super cautious. Besides, I was more experienced now.
Thinking about that, I decided not to mention experience. I had made a bit of a hash of things in the past, and but for Julia Roberts, might not be around at all.
I took a deep breath, knocked sharply, then opened the door. It s me.
"So I see," said Ariana, looking faintly amused. "Come on in."
I came in and sat down. Ariana leaned back in her black chair behind her black desk. As usual, she herself was wearing black. I had the sudden thought that maybe Ariana was in long-term mourning for Melodie's mother, Sharon Schultz. Though if that were so, it would be years… But then, Queen Victoria wore widow's black for the rest of her long life, after Prince Albert died.
"Kylie?"
I became aware that Ariana was waiting for me to speak. In a rush, I blurted out, "Melodie's got a callback for the Refulgent commercial."
"She's had plenty of those before."
"Ah, but this time Larry-my-agent says she's a sure thing."
A crease appeared between Ariana's elegant eyebrows. "Larry is your agent?"
"No, he's not, of course. But haven't you noticed how Melodie always calls him Larry-my-agent, like it's one word? It's sort of sticks in my mind that way."
I was making a complete galah of myself. I hadn't kept to my plan, and this was the sorry result. I'd pretend this bit of the conversation hadn't happened, and start again.
"Ariana," I said, "I've got something important to discuss with you."
"Before you do, I want to apologize. I should have consulted you before I spoke with Melodie about the time she's spending at auditions when she should be here, doing her job. Seeing you sitting at the reception desk this morning, answering the phone, was the final straw."
Feeling a jab of guilt that Melodie was taking all the blame, I said, "It's not like Melodie made me do it. I volunteered."
"You're a partner in the company. Melodie had no right to presume on your good nature."
Half of me rejoiced that Ariana was speaking of me as her business partner. The other half was embarrassed at how pliable I'd been. "I should have been tougher. I'm just a pushover."
"No way are you a pushover, Kylie." Ariana's tone was dry, in fact, pretty close to sardonic. "Life would be much easier if you were." Before I could ask her what she meant, she went on, "You said you have something importan
t to discuss with me?"
"I reckon I could go undercover at Alf and Chicka's business. Maybe I come in as a personal assistant, or an expert in PR, or something like that."
As I'd expected, Ariana looked skeptical. "And you'd be doing what?"
"Basically snooping around. No one would suspect me. Why would they? I'd just be an Aussie established in L.A., who'd be happy to pick up some work with an Australian company."
Ariana's phone rang. "Excuse me." She listened for a moment, then said to me, "Your Aunt Millie's calling from Wollegudgerie. Do you want to take it here?"
Considering the fact that I was about to make a strenuous effort to talk my aunt out of coming to L.A., I said, "I'd better take it in my office."
On the way down the hall, I marshaled all my arguments. It was to no avail. Aunt Millie's mind was set in concrete. "I'll arrive next Wednesday," she said. "And Kylie, I expect to see you waiting for me at the airport."
Wouldn't it rot your socks?
Eight
I was brooding at my desk, trying to work out how to keep Aunt Millie occupied so she didn't have a chance to interact too closely with anyone, when Harriet cheered me up by popping in to ask if Chantelle and I were free for dinner the next night.
"Maurice and Gary will be there," she said. "I'd love you to get to know them."
Maurice was Harriet's unborn child's dad, by way of a syringe. Gary was his long-term partner. I'd met them fleetingly one time they'd called in to collect Harriet when her car had died.
I told Harriet it was a yes for me, but I'd have to check with Chantelle. One advantage of having a relationship with a receptionist is that you can always get them on the phone, even if there are constant interruptions from calls or the necessity to exchange super-nice remarks with clients drifting by.
"Hold please," said Chantelle to me after I'd only got three words out. I heard her say warmly, "A very good afternoon to you, Mr. Duddle. It's wonderful weather we're having, isn't it?"
"Was that Frank Duddle, who directed Afternoon of the Dancing Zombies?" I asked when she got back to me.
"That's the one. He's a little guy, with a head as bald as a billiard ball. Hold on…Good afternoon, Ms. Sarandon. It's wonderful weather we're having, isn't it?"
"Why do you keep mentioning the weather?" I asked when Chantelle came back to me.
"Safe topic of conversation. And everyone's got a set of weather phrases to use."
"So let's say Tom Hanks waltzes in. I suppose you'd chat with him about the catastrophic effects of global warming."
"Global warming's political." Chantelle's tone was severe. "A receptionist doesn't initiate discussion of politics or religion. And weather should never be controversial."
"Best to stick to 'It's not the heat, it's the humidity'?"
"You've got the idea," Chantelle said.
Having established she'd be delighted to dine at Harriet and Beth's place, I rang off. It was early Saturday morning at the 'Gudge-Aunt Millie had called at the crack of dawn there-so I had to wait at least an hour before calling Bluey Bates at home.
Bluey was Wollegudgerie's only lawyer, and he'd looked after all the stuff to do with my dad's will. His brother, Ralphie Bates, owned Ralphie's Opalarium, one of the jewelry stores making a good living selling opals to the tourists. A few months back, when I'd still been living at the Wombat's Retreat, the Opalarium had been burgled during a long weekend. Only the finest stones were taken, to a total value of a cool quarter of a million. The law in town, Sergeant Mucka Onslow, had been completely baffled. Not surprising, as most things baffled Mucka.
Maybe there was a connection between the Opalarium heist and the opals being smuggled into Los Angeles in the Kelvin Kookaburras. I wanted to sound Bluey out first, rather than his brother, because there'd been a pretty strong rumor that Ralphie had staged the whole thing to collect the insurance money.
I filled in the time before I could decently disturb Bluey Bates with Internet searches to turn up what I could on Brother Owen, the Church of Possibilities, and Lamb White. Google threw up countless responses on each one.
Naturally, the Church of Possibilities had its own Web page. And what a Web page it was! As soon as I clicked on, a notice appeared saying that any necessary software to view the COP Web site would be automatically loaded, if necessary. I already had video capability, so after a short pause, a chorus of cherubim and seraphim, wings wildly flapping, burst into song, while below them Brother Owen, one hand raised in blessing, stood smiling beneficently. He wore flowing white robes with a bright blue sash.
I knew it was Brother Owen because the cherubim and seraphim were chanting "Bro-ther O-wen" rather like a crowd might at a football match.
Another click brought me a close-up of Brother Owen's welcoming face. He seemed in his forties and was handsome in a well-fed, self-satisfied way. "Has anyone, ever, really understood you? The real vibrant you?" he inquired in a deep, warm voice.
After a pause for his audience to consider the question, he went on, "Have you been allowed to express fully the breathtaking talents that lie within you?"
Another pause. "Ask yourself, deep in your heart, are you really appreciated by those around you? Appreciated as your unique, astonishing self should be appreciated?"
Brother Owen allowed himself a small, sympathetic smile. "Do you wonder, in the dark hours before dawn, Is this all there is? "
Really long pause, then, "I am here to tell you there is more! More!"
The screen changed to a longer shot. Brother Owen's arms were extended as if he were about to step forward and embrace the viewer. "I am a harbinger of glory! I have been sent with wonderful tidings of great joy to all who will listen. Come to the Church of Possibilities! Discover the brilliant future that is your birthright! Cast off the shackles that have held you back, and rise to the heights you truly deserve!"
After this overload of Brother Owen, it was a relief to go to my e-mail. I deleted spam, answered messages from my friends back in Oz, and read the PI newsletter to which I'd recently subscribed, which had a fascinating but rather yucky article on bodily fluids. By then it was time to ring Bluey Bates.
"Kylie, mate! How the bloody hell are you?"
I could picture Bluey's freckled face and ginger hair. In the perverse Aussie way, redheads were often called Blue or Bluey. "Not bad, not bad at all," I said.
"Keeping the Yanks on their toes, are you?"
"More like they're keeping me on mine."
"So what can I do you for, mate?"
"This is confidential, Bluey."
"Lips sealed, Kylie, old love. Lips sealed."
"Has anything come of the investigation into the robbery at Ralphie's Opalarium?"
"Not a thing." Bluey's voice had hardened. He and Ralphie didn't see eye-to-eye over most subjects. "My brother's a lucky bastard, Kylie. The insurance company's going to pay up."
"You don't think they should?"
Bluey's snort came clearly over the line. "Let's put it this way, I reckon Ralphie's fairy godmother had to bust a gut to keep him out of the hands of the boys in blue."
"You believe Ralphie had something to do with the burglary?"
"Too right, I do, but I haven't said a word about it to Mucka. I'm not about to dob in my own brother." He snorted again. "Pity I've got gold-plated scruples, eh, Kylie?"
We discussed the burglary for a bit, then I asked Bluey if he knew the Hartnidge brothers. "Top blokes, both of 'em," he declared. "Done a bit of legal work for their Oz Mob company. Alf and Chicka pay on time and in full. You can't ask for much more than that."
"You certainly can't." I knew Bluey was struggling to carve out a decent living in Wollegudgerie, which had to make him even madder about his brother's possible insurance rip-off.
Bluey paused, then said, "I'm getting the strong feeling you're seeing some sort of connection between Ralphie's missing opals and the Hartnidge twins. Would I be right?"
I trusted Bluey implicitly. He'd handled legal
work for Mum's pub, and he'd looked after me and my inheritance. He had a rep for being as honest as the day is long. I told him everything I knew.
Bluey whistled. "So that's the explanation for the city bloke who's been sniffing around. He's a private investigator. You can tell the Hartnidges he's not much chop. He won't get much out of anyone here in the 'Gudge. No one likes a nosy parker."
Bluey went on to give me the latest gossip, including my cousin Brucie's claim that I was begging him to join Kendall & Creeling. I set Bluey straight on that. We said goodbye, with Bluey promising to call me if he heard anything interesting to do with the stolen opals.
I'd scribbled notes as we'd talked, so I typed them up and put them in the new folder I'd started, tided hartnidge, alf & chicka.
I grinned to myself as I put the folder in my near-empty filing cabinet. Crikey, for a moment there I'd felt like a real PI!
It had become very clear to me that I had to prepare everyone at Kendall & Creeling for Aunt Millie's arrival. It just wouldn't be fair to have them caught unawares. First, my partner in the business had to be advised that someone was coming to town who'd give Fran a run for her money, and then some. Hell, she'd do Fran like a dinner.
Ariana was putting papers in her briefcase, ready to leave for the weekend. I knew she lived alone, apart from her gorgeous German shepherd, Gussie. I'd visited her house in the Hollywood Hills once, accompanied by Bob Verritt. It had been strictly business, worse luck.
The house was like her-elegant and self-contained. It had a fabulous view over Los Angeles. Maybe she often sat there with someone, admiring the city lights. Did she ever have dinner parties, like Harriet and Beth? Could Ariana even cook? There were so many things I didn't know about her-for example, the significance of the heavy gold signet ring she always wore.
"Got a mo?" I said. "My Aunt Millie from Wollegudgerie is lobbing in on Wednesday."
Ariana raised an eyebrow. It was a talent I didn't have but envied madly. "Have you always been able to raise one eyebrow, or did you have to practice?" I asked.
That got Ariana's other eyebrow into play. Then she laughed and shook her head.