by Claire McNab
"Nah," said Alf. "A stickybeak girlfriend should do it. That sort of sheila always has her nose in other people's business. I'll let slip I'm dating an Aussie I tripped across here in L.A. and that I'm head over-heels for her."
"One prob," I said. "I'm a lesbian. I've never had a boyfriend. I'd really have to struggle to act the part."
Alf slapped me on the back. "No worries, love! Myself, I'm bi, so I see it from both sides of the fence. You'll be right, trust me."
He must have picked up my speculative glance in Chicka's direction, as he added, "Not Chicka. He's the straight one in the family. Aren't you mate?"
Chicka blushed and bobbed his head. "You could say that."
"Lucky for Melodie, eh?" Alf slapped me on the back again. "Chicka's a devil with the ladies, you know."
Chicka blushed a deeper pink.
Impatient with all this chitchat, Bob said, "We need to go through the logistics. Where Kylie's supposed to live, what her cover story is, where you're supposed to have met up. All that stuff."
"She'll be apples," Alf declared.
"He means everything will be OK," I translated for Bob. He didn't look convinced.
Alf gave me a big, toothy smile. "How's about it, Kylie? You free tonight for a nosh-up?"
First Ariana, now me? "A dinner date? We don't need to practice, Alf. I can play your girlfriend in the office."
Chicka threw back his head and hooted. "Kylie thinks you're putting the hard word on her, mate."
"Jesus," Bob muttered. "I wish someone would speak English around here."
"Putting the hard word on is asking for sex," I said to Bob.
Bob glared indignantly at Alf. "May I remind you this is a professional relationship between Kendall & Creeling and your company. Sexual favors are not included."
"I wasn't asking for sex," Alf declared. He winked at me. "Not that I'd turn her down if Kylie here wanted to try it with a bloke."
"No, thanks," I said.
Alf put on a serious face. "Tonight's business, not pleasure. Tami Eckholdt of Lamb White is throwing Chicka and me a barbie to get together with some of her people." He jabbed a thumb in my direction. "Perfect op, don't you think? Kylie can come as my date. That gives her an in with the Lamb Whiters, doesn't it?"
Bob had to agree it did.
We got all the details straight, then Alf and Chicka got up to go.
"Chicka," I said, "can I ask you a serious question?"
He looked wary. "What question would that be?"
I was pretty sure he was stringing Melodie along. I didn't want her embarrassed. She was already telling all her friends she had a guaranteed part as a puppet voice. The longer it went on, the worse it would be.
"Did you offer Melodie a part in your Oz Mob movie?" I expected him to say no, and was poised to read all the signals he was lying.
Alf scowled at his brother. "Chicka, are you doing this again ?"
Chicka got red. It must be a trial to blush that easily. "I might have mentioned something like that to Melodie," he said.
I was getting quite riled. "It's not right to get Melodie's hopes up that way." I was pleased to see that Bob's expression was irate too.
Alf patted my shoulder. "Don't get het-up, love. If Chicka's promised it, she's got the part." He frowned ferociously at his brother. "But this is the last time you do this, Chicka. All right?"
Chicka wilted a bit. "All right," he said.
I could see one looming problem that I hadn't mentioned to Bob or the Hartnidge brothers. After they'd left my office, I called Chantelle.
"Good afternoon! United Flair. How may I assist you?"
"It's me. This call is business, not pleasure."
"I'll hide my disappointment as best I can."
I loved Chantelle's sense of humor, but this was no time for light conversation. "Do you know the receptionist at Lamb White, the movie company?" I asked.
"Sure do. Rachelle's her name. Excitable type. I've never met her, but we've often spoken. The talent agents here frequently have clients auditioning for parts in Lamb White movies."
"Here's my situation," I said. "I know how incredibly efficient the receptionist network is."
Chantelle murmured approval of my assessment. Everyone likes to be praised. So—
"Hold on, Kylie. Call coming through... Good afternoon! United Flair. How may I assist you?"
Chantelle took several calls, one after the other, then came back to our conversation. "You were saying how efficient receptionists were..."
"That efficiency may be a problem. This is absolutely between us, Chantelle. Top secret. Confidential. Hush hush—"
"Honey, I get the picture!"
"I'm going undercover for a case—"
"No! Like last time?" I'd met Chantelle during my first attempts at learning private eyeing, so she knew I'd had somewhat of a rocky start.
"I hope things will go much smoother."
"Amen," said Chantelle with a giggle.
"Can we be serious for a moment? I'm worried the receptionist at Lamb White will realize who I am. I reckon everybody on the network got an earful about what happened last time."
"You can relax," said Chantelle. "Rachelle's new in town. Just moved here from the Midwest. She's playing in the big leagues now and still trying to get up to speed."
"So if a little Aussie broad called Kylie turned up, Rachelle wouldn't make the connection?"
"No way," said Chantelle with certainty. "Besides, Rachelle's not the sharpest pencil in the box. She's nice enough but tends to get flustered."
I'd picked up from Chantelle and Melodie that receptionist flusterdom was judged very harshly. It was unprofessional to lose your head, whatever crisis came up.
"I'd speak to Melodie, if I were you," Chantelle advised. "She's your weak link."
"Melodie's a weak link?"
"Normally, she's very professional," Chantelle hastened to say. "Lately, however, Melodie's head's been turned with her tooth-whitening callbacks. And now the puppet voicing. She'd never mean to give you away, Kylie, but there's always an outside possibility."
"Melodie's got a second callback for the tooth commercial?"
"Just a few minutes ago," said Chantelle. "We're all very happy for her."
Armed with this information, I wasn't surprised to find Melodie on the phone, the air around her head thick with exclamations. "Amber! It's happened! The second, the final Refulgent callback! Larry, my agent, is over the moon! Damn. Another call coming through. Hold on, Amber... Good afternoon. Kendall & Creeling... Courtney! I got it! The final Refulgent callback!"
I cleared my throat.
"Gotta go, Courtney. Get back to you...Amber? Sorry, gotta go. Call you later."
"Congratulations, Melodie," I said. "That's wonderful news."
"It is, isn't it?" Melodie clasped her hands and did her looking-at-the-ceiling thing. "You slave to perfect your craft, and then your One Big Chance comes along and makes it all worthwhile."
"So you'll be leaving Kendall & Creeling?"
Melodie stared at me, amazed. "Haven't you heard the saying, 'Don't give up your day job?'"
I had, but it didn't seem something Melodie would apply to herself. "Isn't that advice for people who aren't very good?"
"It's true, I am good," said Melodie, "but until the residuals start rolling in, I won't consider myself secure enough to give up this job."
"Speaking of which," I said, "I've something to discuss, but it's off the record, not to be disclosed, confidential—"
"I get it, Kylie!"
I explained the situation. Melodie listened with close attention...or perhaps she was acting like she was paying attention.
Whatever, she kept her big green eyes on me until I'd finished, then said, "You've got another problem."
"I have?"
"The Church of Possibilities. They own Lamb White." I wasn't surprised Melodie knew this, not only because she'd been dating Chicka, but because I'd take bets she was familiar with e
very film company, every producer, every director in Los Angeles.
"It's Lamb White I'll be dealing with," I pointed out.
"Maybe so," said Melodie, "but I happen to know the church keeps a very close eye on everything." When I raised my eyebrows, she added, "Nicole, the receptionist before Rachelle, told me. It drove her mad."
I had to ask. "What happened to Nicole?"
"Married a COP missionary and moved to the Cook Islands." Melodie shook her head. "Such a waste. Basic phone system only."
Tami Eckholdt, head of Lamb White, had avoided being famine thin, which was a change. She had an athlete's body, tight and well-muscled. She wasn't tall, but she looked resilient, as though you could knock her down and she'd get right up again.
"Hello," she said, eyeing me with open curiosity. Her very short hair was a metallic copper that couldn't possibly have been natural.
"My girlfriend, Kylie," said Alf, a proprietary arm around my shoulders. He gave me a squeeze hard enough to bruise. "Knew you wouldn't mind if I brought her along."
"Not at all." Tami flashed a very white smile, fully worthy of a Refulgent girl, though in her case I reckoned it was probably a cosmetic dentist's work. She didn't seem the do-it-yourself type. She took my hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't get the name?"
"Kylie." We'd decided it would be easier to stick to my real moniker, although if anyone asked, my last name was going to be Kennedy, not Kendall.
"Welcome, Kylie." She linked her arm through mine. "Alf can look after himself for a while. Let me introduce my wonderful Lamb White team."
The patio we ended up on was crowded with people talking loudly. At one end, chefs in full getup, including those white, puffy hats, labored over two huge gas barbecues. My stomach rumbled. Lunch had been yonks ago.
"March, this is Kylie. Kylie, March is one of our wonderful directors." March flicked a look at me and lost interest immediately. "And this is..."
In no time flat, I was dizzy from names. It wasn't that I failed to pay attention—it was Tami Eckholdt's machine-gun delivery.
Spying another guest arriving, Tami said, "Steve will look after you, Kylie," and handed me off to a weedy bloke with big teeth, too large for his mouth. He had slightly protruding eyes and a prominent Adam's apple. He made me nervous by looking around all the time in an overanxious manner, as though everything we were saying was being recorded for later examination.
I was rather hoping to head for the barbecue area, but as no one else appeared to be eating yet, I advised my stomach to stop complaining and turned my whole attention to the weedy bloke. To start the ball rolling, I said, "You work for Lamb White, Steve?"
"I'd describe myself as Tami's right-hand man."
I couldn't think of a suitable rejoinder to this, so I kept quiet. An uneasy silence fell between us. Finally, I broke it with, "This place is really something."
I'd hit the conversational jackpot. Steve was delighted to show me the house and grounds while keeping up a running commentary. I'd realized this part of Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills was exclusive, but, Steve said, in COP's catalogue of buildings, this one was a jewel. The building's style, Steve told me authoritatively, was French provincial tweaked for American tastes. In short order, I knew more about French provincial architecture than I'd ever intended.
If the front of the place was imposing, the backyard was even more so. It had been elaborately landscaped as a sort of miniature Versailles gardens, Steve declared, a small version of the famous grounds where Marie Antoinette used to stroll.
"Why in the world would you copy Versailles in Beverly Hills?" I asked.
Steve stared at me. No one, he assured me, had ever asked him that question.
I was rescued from Steve by Alf, who flung his arm around my shoulders yet again and gave me another hard squeeze. I made a note to speak to him about that. "Kylie, old love," he boomed, "was wondering where you'd got to. Come and meet Rachelle. She's a ripper sheila."
Rachelle was almost certainly the new Lamb White receptionist. She turned out to be a breathless brunette with an impressive cleavage and masses of dark, curly hair.
"That Alf's such a card!" she squealed, as he was claimed by Tami and whisked away from us.
"Alf is one of a kind."
"One of a kind? Oh, that's so perceptive of you!"
Perhaps she always spoke in exclamations. I gestured toward the champagne she held.
"Nice champagne?"
"Nice! Oh, yes, of course! Cristal!"
"And that's good?"
She tinkled a laugh Melodie would have envied, then nudged me with her elbow, surprisingly hard. "Oh, you!"
I signaled to Chicka, who was standing forlorn with a champagne glass clutched in one large hand. "Over here, Chicka."
"Omigod!" exclaimed Rachelle. "Am I seeing double?"
Chicka came over and smiled down her cleavage. "G'day."
"You're twins, you and Alf!"
Chicka conceded that they were.
He looked astonished when Rachelle nudged him in the ribs the way she had me. She should register that elbow as a lethal weapon. "Omigod!" she shrieked. "You know what they say about twins!"
Alas, I was never to know what the word on the street was about twins, as Tami Eckholdt had turned up again. "Sorry to drag you away, Kylie, but there's someone Alf insists you meet. Someone special."
On these last two words her voice took on a reverent tone, so I wasn't too surprised to find a face familiar from the Web site. Brother Owen.
Alf was standing beside Brother Owen, and from his expression, was rather impressed by the man. I could imagine why he might be. Brother Owen did have an aura about him. Or maybe it was his cologne. I could smell a faint, musky scent.
He wasn't in his flowing white televangelist robes today but in a beautifully cut dark suit. Brother Owen's tie, I noticed, had little trumpet-blowing cherubs woven into the design. As he had on television, he looked sleek and well-fed. His neck bulged a little over the collar of his shirt, and the superb tailoring of his suit didn't quite disguise the extra weight he was carrying.
"God bless," Brother Owen said in a velvety bass voice. He put out his hand. His skin was soft and somehow creepy. Not sure whether I was supposed to bob a curtsy or maybe even kiss the fat emerald ring on his finger, I decided to shake his hand instead. "G'day. I'm Kylie."
"An Australian," he said approvingly. "Yours is a wonderful country."
"You've been Down Under?"
He smiled. Standard sparkling teeth, of course. "As it happens, just in the past few months, my dear. The Church of Possibilities is setting up a ministry in Australia."
Now this was interesting. "Really?" I said. "Where in Oz?"
"We're examining several sites, in both urban and country areas."
"Have you heard of Wollegudgerie?" I asked. "Alf and Chicka's family live near there. Opal-mining town."
"Wollegudgerie? I don't believe I ever have."
My Complete Handbook was quite stern about relying on gut feeling alone, but I was sure, absolutely sure, Brother Owen was lying.
Twelve
My Aunt Millie arrived in Los Angeles late on Wednesday morning. I was at the international terminal at LAX to greet her. She wasn't hard to spot. She came out of customs pushing her luggage cart so pugnaciously that even seasoned travelers scattered before her.
I waved with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. "Aunt Millie. Over here."
She steered in my direction, narrowly missing an Italian family noisily reuniting. Aunt Millie was usually a ball of belligerent energy, but today she seemed subdued, tired. There was none of the usual fire in her voice as she looked me up and down and then declared, "You've lost weight. Doesn't suit you. Need meat on your bones."
"You look exactly the same, Aunt Millie."
And she did. Short, stocky, cantankerous. Her skin, still smooth and soft, was a much darker shade than mine. Her hair was graying, but her eyes were the same beautiful liquid brown. Right now they w
ere squinting at me critically.
"Are we going to stand here all morning?"
I indicated no. We set off for the parking structure with me pushing the luggage cart and my aunt stomping along beside. "Good flight?" I inquired.
"Good? You're asking someone who's spent hours cooped up in a metal cylinder, squashed into a tiny airline seat, if it was good?"
I sighed. My chats with Aunt Millie rarely went swimmingly. "Did you manage to get any sleep?"
My aunt snorted. "Oh, yes, slept like a baby," she said with deep sarcasm. "Who wouldn't, with people clambering over you every five minutes to go to the loo, or trying to start idiot conversations?"
I spared a moment to send a sympathetic thought to Aunt Millie's traveling companions. They would quite possibly be vowing never to fly again.
We came to my boring rental car. Aunt Millie regarded it without favor. "Thought you'd have a convertible, Kylie. What's the point of living in Southern California if you don't have a convertible?"
"I can't imagine what I was thinking. I'll rush right out and get one."
That got a glimmer of a smile from Aunt Millie. Fortunately, underneath her snarl there lurked at least a ghost of a sense of humor.
"You do that," she said. "And make sure it's red. I like red cars."
She did actually, having a rather battered red sedan herself. My mum always said it was fortunate her sister had chosen a bright color, as Millie was the world's worst driver and people needed to see her to get out of her way.
"I'm taking you straight to your hotel, so you can freshen up," I said, darting into a tiny break in the traffic that seemed to roar around and around LAX's many terminals in an unending loop of frustrated drivers.
"You're not taking me to meet those Kendall & Creeling people you'd rather be with than your own family?"
"I'm saving that for later."
When we made it to the freeway, it was, as always, clogged with vehicles. "Humph. The traffic's worse than the last time I was here," my aunt observed. "Much worse."
I looked at her in surprise. I had no idea she'd ever visited the States. I knew she'd been to Fiji with her husband, Uncle Ken, before he died, but I couldn't remember her traveling much more than that.