by Claire McNab
"I'm doing a course in Italian cooking," Beth declared to the table. "This appetizer is sformato dipiselli e asparagus!"
"Asparagus and pea flan," Harriet translated.
"It didn't quite come out like the illustration in my cookbook," Beth said with the first tentative smile I'd ever seen on her face.
This had to be an understatement. The contents of the plate in front of me appeared to be afflicted by some dire tropical skin disease. I looked around the table. Others were eating, and no one had fallen off a chair, as yet. I took an experimental mouthful. It tasted OK.
Gary rushed around, pouring red Italian wine. Then he whisked away the appetizer plates from each of us. If he loved being a waiter, why wasn't he one? I was curious enough to ask him what he did.
"Teacher," he said. "Math."
"With LAUSD," said Harriet in tones of doom.
"What's that?"
"Los Angeles Unified School District," said Gary, topping up Beth's glass. She was drinking quite a lot, I'd noticed. Maybe it was anxiety about her cooking.
"Anyone who teaches in L.A. Unified deserves a medal," Harriet declared. "There are too many chiefs, not enough Indians, dilapidated buildings, and a large proportion of students who are functionally illiterate in English. Oh, and there's gang violence too."
"Gary's a wonderful teacher," said Maurice, "but he's close to burning out."
My opinion of Gary went up several notches. Teaching was a demanding profession at the best of times. In Gary's situation, it sounded close to impossible.
Beth, her forehead creased in concentration-or maybe panic-exited to deal with the main course. Gary followed after her. We were chatting about red wine versus white when a few horrified cries filtered through from the kitchen. "Stay here," said Harriet, getting up.
"Sounds like there's a problem with the entree," Chantelle said.
"Entree? We've already had the entree."
Maurice and Chantelle looked at me. "The first course," I told them. "The asparagus and pea thingy."
"That's the appetizer," said Chantelle. "Now we're waiting for the main course. The entree." She grinned at me. "You Aussies are so strange. Must be something to do with living upside down at the bottom of the world."
"Entree means entry," I pointed out. "So it's the first thing you have."
Maurice frowned at me. "If you Aussies call the appetizer the entree, what do you call the main course?"
"Funnily enough," I said, "the main course."
Harriet came in from the kitchen. "Beef filet with truffles and apples," she announced. I could see she was on the verge of hopeless giggles but was attempting to remain serious for Beth's sake.
Beth and Gary entered, carrying plates. Beth was unsmiling. "Filetto con tartufi e mele," she said without her usual verve.
My mum has a saying about Aunt Millie's cooking-not to her face of course. "When Millie cooks," Mum would declare, "it's either a burnt offering or a bloody sacrifice."
I examined my main course. On my plate sat my very own burnt offering.
Ten
As soon as I saw Melodie's gloomy expression Monday morning, I assumed the Saturday callback hadn't gone well. "Missed out, did you?" I said, sounding as sympathetic as possible.
"Not at all," said Melodie. "That was the first callback. I expect to get a second callback later this week. Larry, my agent, says not to worry-he just knows they loved me."
First thing every Monday morning a meeting was held in Ariana's austere office to report on all current cases. Everyone was expected to attend, except for Melodie and Fran. Up to this point I'd really only been a spectator, but now, even if I were under Bob Verritt's supervision, I had a case of my very own.
I'd found it was traditional for Ariana to supply doughnuts for the meeting, although I suspected it pained her to have crumbs scattered all about by Lonnie, who, nice bloke though he might be, was an awfully messy eater.
Everyone trooped in with coffee, except me (I had a good strong cup of tea) and Harriet (who insisted on drinking a peppermint concoction made with a Bliss Moments tea bag). We sat in a circle, with Ariana the focal point behind her desk.
Feeling incredibly pleased to be part of this group, I checked out my companions. Bob, thin as a rake, had folded himself onto his chair. Lonnie had dumped a stack of papers on the chair next to mine and had gone to inspect the selection of doughnuts in the cardboard box on Ariana's desk. Harriet, who took notes of these meetings and came up with an efficient two-page precis every week, was shifting around in her chair as though she couldn't get comfortable, probably something to do with being pregnant. Or maybe she just couldn't get comfortable. Ariana's furniture was rather severe, like Ariana.
I saved Ariana Creeling for last, just the same as I always saved the most delicious food for last, or the book I thought I'd enjoy the best, for last. My mum had never understood why I did it, and I never could explain to her why anticipating something made the pleasure better.
Ariana was sitting calmly behind her desk, very still, watching as people took their places. I remembered what a jolt her blue eyes had given me the first time I'd walked into her office. Familiarity hadn't diminished the affect at all. This morning, as she had been that first day, she was dressed all in black, and her pale blond hair was pulled back in a chignon.
Although Ariana was the same, my appearance had improved markedly. The day we'd first met, I'd been jet-lagged and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. This morning I had on a tailored navy suit and creamy silk blouse. And my new hairstyle still looked pretty good, even if I'd ruined Luigi's strenuous blow-drying by washing my hair under the shower, ignoring his advice on using a conditioner, and then letting it dry naturally.
After we'd all settled down, Ariana said, "I'd like to discuss a new client first, Nanette Poynter. There may be some impact on Bob and Kylie's Hartnidge case, as the problem she has involves Brother Owen of the Church of Possibilities."
"Nanette Poynter?" said Lonnie, spewing crumbs as he tried to swallow a mouthful of chocolate doughnut and talk at the same time. "The one who used to be Nanette Sullivan?"
"You want a serviette?" I said, handing him one of the flimsy paper ones that had come with the doughnuts.
He swallowed. "A what?"
"A serviette."
"We call them napkins."
Ariana frowned. We all came to attention. She said, "Yes, Lonnie, that Nanette Poynter."
"Trophy wife," said Harriet. "Used to be a model. Vernon Poynter's second, or is it third?"
"His third wife," said Lonnie. I guessed he must absorb everything available about the rich and famous, as he always seemed to know all about them. "She married him in her late twenties, but now she's pushing forty, rather long in the tooth for a trophy wife. Poynter himself's got to be in his eighties. You've got to wonder how he gets it up."
"You may not know, Lonnie," said Bob with a wicked grin, "but there's these little tablets…"
Lonnie snickered, then caught Ariana's eye. "Sorry."
"As Lonnie has pointed out," said Ariana, "Nanette Poynter is much younger than her husband. He's extremely rich, being the Poynter of Poynter and Yarnell, stockbrokers."
"What's the problem?" asked Harriet. "A prenuptial?"
Ariana shook her head-elegantly, of course. "Amazingly, no prenuptial agreement is in force. Apparently, against all advice, Vernon Poynter married her without one. What's worrying Nanette is that her husband has been sucked into the Church of Possibilities. Brother Owen is persuasive. He's got Poynter promising to give COP millions."
"There goes Nanette's inheritance," said Bob. "It doesn't seem fair, does it? She does her time in hell, and in the end doesn't get paid for it."
"Maybe she married him for love," I said.
Lonnie smothered a laugh. "Good one." Then he caught sight of my expression. "Kylie! Don't tell me you weren't joking!"
"Alzheimer's," said Harriet. "Have Vernon declared incompetent."
"That won't fly," sa
id Ariana. "Poynter's recently had a full checkup and he's mentally and physically in great shape."
"So what's she want Kendall & Creeling to do for her?" I asked.
"Not much," said Ariana sardonically. "She only wants us to find evidence that will open her husband's eyes to the confidence game Brother Owen is playing, preferably before the last red cent of her inheritance disappears into the church's coffers."
We discussed the case for a good while, deciding Lonnie was to research COP's finances and Harriet was to investigate pending and past lawsuits against the "church."
Ariana said to me, "I'd like you to sit in on a meeting I have with Nanette Poynter this afternoon. It may be valuable background for your case."
My case. In my imagination I sang a line or two of "My Girl," substituting "My Case."
"Kylie?"
"That'd be bonzer, if it doesn't clash with Alf and Chicka's appointment. They're due here at four."
Before going to Ariana's office this morning, Bob had told me he'd spoken to Alf, and both brothers were all for me going undercover. They were coming over this afternoon to finalize the details.
"That'll work," said Ariana. "Nanette Poynter will be here at two."
Then we discussed my case, my case-the song kept ringing in my ears like an endless audio loop. Lonnie gave us the results of his preliminary background checks of the Oz Mob staff. As he said he'd expect in any group like this, he'd turned up minor criminal records for some of them-drunk driving, possession of small amounts of drugs, and one domestic violence arrest.
However, there were three people of special interest. As well as Tami Eckholdt's sister, Patsy, working under a false name, Ira Jacobs and Ron Udell had apparently given up very senior positions in the Church of Possibilities to take lower-paying jobs with the Hartnidges' company.
"What did they do in the COP organization?" I asked.
"Ira Jacobs is an accountant, previously handling large sums of money for the church," said Lonnie. "Ron Udell was a hotshot in PR. Neither was fired."
"They've got to be there for some reason," Bob said.
"I've got to dig deeper," said Lonnie. "I'm sure there's much more about these guys, but it's well hidden, which is suspicious in itself."
I looked over at Harriet, who, even though she hadn't yet passed the bar exam, was really sharp about the law. "Harriet, what happens if Alf and Chicka violate the morals clause in their contract with Lamb White?"
"I'd have to see the contract, but at a guess, I'd say the movie deal would fall through for sure, plus there'd be a severe monetary penalty of some sort."
"You mean the Hartnidge brothers would be up for damages?"
"Considerable."
"Enough to wreck their company?"
Harriet pursed her lips. "Could be. I'd need to know their financial situation. They may be carrying insurance against such an eventuality."
"No insurance," said Lonnie. "I checked them out. Alf and Chicka are in a precarious financial position. They've put everything toward getting into the American market. If this deal with Lamb White falls through…" He made a throat-cutting gesture.
"Maybe that's it," I said to Ariana. "The smuggled opals may not be intended for sale here. What if their function is to trigger the morals clause?"
"Interesting scenario," said Ariana. "I suggest you and Bob follow up on it."
Speculations about the opals buzzed in my thoughts, so I hardly heard the rest of the meeting. I'd pick up anything important later in Harriet's notes, I told myself. Meanwhile, I'd concentrate on my case. My case.
"Are you singing something?" Lonnie hissed, looking at me as though I'd slipped a mental cog or two.
"I don't think so," I said, too loudly.
Everyone stopped talking and switched their attention to me.
"She was singing," said Lonnie.
I spread my hands. "What can I say? I'm a happy soul."
Later that morning, when I was in the kitchen, Fran stalked in and fixed me with an acid smile. "Well, if it isn't the songbird," she said. "What's your next selection to brighten up our lives? Something from The Sound of Music?”
Note to self: Strangle Lonnie.
I kept out of everyone's way until two o'clock, when Nanette Poynter was due in Ariana's office. I was there right on time, but she hadn't arrived. This gave me an opportunity to explain to Ariana.
"You know how Lonnie said I was singing this morning in the meeting?"
"Uh-huh." She seemed amused.
"I know I'm going to sound like a bit of a drongo, but it was because of my case."
"Is a drongo worse than a galah?" Ariana inquired.
"A drongo's really stupid-a galah's just a fool."
"I see." She looked solemn, but I was pretty sure she was laughing at me.
This was uphill work, but I forged ahead. "There's this song, 'My Girl.' You know the one?" I sang a line, to make sure she did.
Ariana nodded. Her lips were beginning to curve.
"So this morning, when you referred to the Hartnidge case, as 'my case'"-to make things clear, I pointed at myself-"for some reason it made me think of that song. And then the tune kept repeating in my head, and before I knew what was happening, I sort of hummed along with it."
She bent her head and covered her eyes.
Concerned, I said, "Crikey, Ariana, it's not that bad is it?"
She was still laughing when she answered the buzz of her phone. "Ms. Poynter's here? Send her in."
Nanette Poynter was, not surprisingly, a blond. A skinny blond. I reckoned these two things were probably required of anyone aiming to become a trophy wife. She moved like the model she once had been, with that odd leading-with-the-hips sort of walk, as if she were on an invisible fashion runway.
Ariana ushered her to the comfortable black leather client chairs nested around a white marble coffee table. There were only two lounge chairs, so I moved over one of the spindly ones for myself.
Nanette Poynter glided to her plumply upholstered chair and lowered herself into it with one smooth motion. She sat with her feet together, angled to one side. Her hands, neatly clasped, were placed on her knees. Her spine was straight, her shoulders held back, her head one-quarter turned. I figured when no one was there to look at her she most likely sprawled all over the place, with a glass of gin in one hand and a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. However, with an audience, she was a proper lady.
Ariana introduced me as, "My colleague, Kylie Kendall."
Nanette Poynter inclined her head in my direction but didn't speak. She was very good-looking in a glossy sense. Everything was smooth-her hair, her skin, her facial expression. Her jewelry was discreet but undoubtedly very expensive. She was like a beautiful life-size doll.
"Would you mind outlining the situation again, Ms. Poynter?" Ariana asked.
"Please call me Nanette. I don't stand on ceremony."
Her voice was a surprise. I was expecting a softly modulated tone to go with her appearance. Instead it was rather raspy, with a querulous note.
"Thank you, Nanette. I'm Ariana."
"In a nutshell here's the situation. My husband, Vernon, has never had time for anything even vaguely spiritual. When I married him he was hard-nosed and by-the-numbers. Then last year he fell into the clutches of that asshole, Brother Owen, and his cocka-mamie religion. In a few months he went from a strong, no-nonsense character to a pathetic weakling who totally believes the hog-wash the Church of Possibilities is pushing. That includes the neat idea that anyone who criticizes COP is in league with dark forces."
I was fascinated. Nanette's voice was full of emotion, but her face remained almost expressionless.
"Can you believe it?" she went on. "A tough, down-to-earth man like Vernon Poynter is sucked into what is so plainly a scheme to strip him of his money. My money."
"Have you seen the COP Web site?" I asked. "It's impressive from a psychological point of view, very cleverly playing on the feeling many people have that
they're not fully appreciated, not understood."
"What hooey!" Nanette Poynter snorted, loudly. Her face remained impassive.
Ariana took Nanette through the process Brother Owen's organization had taken to ensnare Vernon Poynter. I wrote down all the names she mentioned, both the COP staff and the members of the congregation Nanette knew. It was startling how many celebrities even I, a stranger in L.A., recognized. The Church of Possibilities had to be raking in a fortune every week.
At the end of the session, Ariana accompanied Nanette Poynter to the parking area. I tagged along too. Nanette model-walked to her car, a huge Bentley. It was a horrible brown color, with gold insignia. She slid into the seat, legs outside, feet together, slanted appropriately. Then, with one deft movement, she was in a driving position. Dark glasses on, she turned her blank face in our direction. "I'll hear from you soon?"
"We'll be in touch," said Ariana.
The Bentley purred out into the Sunset Boulevard traffic. I said, "She never had much expression on her face, did she?"
"Botox."
"Botox does that? I thought it was just for wrinkles."
"Used cosmetically, it paralyzes small facial muscles, and that removes lines," said Ariana. "It also smooths character out of your face. Some women have had so much in their foreheads, they can't lift their eyebrows."
I grinned. "Clearly, you haven't had Botox injections."
She raised one eyebrow. "Thank you, I think." Her tone was dry.
"I don't mean you have wrinkles," I said hastily. "You don't need Botox. And you can raise your eyebrows really well." I stopped to regroup. "What I mean is…"
"I'd quit while I was ahead," said Ariana.
Eleven
The Hartnidge twins, plus me and Bob Verritt, were in my office. Alf and Chicka wore blue jeans and identical T-shirts, each bearing the words oz mob over a cartoon of an insanely grinning kookaburra.
I glanced around my office with satisfaction. It had originally been my father's room before he died. On my desk was a photograph of Dad and me when I'd been a little girl. It had been taken when my parents had still been married and living in Los Angeles. Sometimes I liked to think Dad was still here in his office, watching over me. For that reason, I didn't like to change it too much, for fear he wouldn't feel at home.