by Claire McNab
Ariana steepled her fingers and looked over them at me. "Your aunt maintains you're urgently needed to help run your mother's hotel. She mentioned duty more than once."
I winced. Aunt Millie knew the strings to pull for maximum effect. Her aim was to make me feel guilty for leaving Mum in the lurch. And it was working. I had qualms about staying away.
Ariana had been watching my face. "Be resolute, Kylie," she said. "Do what you want to do, not what others think you should."
"You don't think I'm resolute?"
"I think the family card is being played." Her tone was dry. "It's the high card in the pack, and it's a difficult one to resist."
We looked at each other across the desk. I said, flatly, "I'm staying in L.A."
Was that a quick flash of pleasure on Ariana's face? Perhaps I'd imagined it, because I was yearning to see it.
"Now the hard part," said Ariana, "is convincing Aunt Millie you really do mean what you say."
I nodded soberly.
I'd reported to Bob the details of my visit to Burbank, and we had agreed the time had come to have a strategy meeting with the Hartnidge twins and tell them everything we knew so far, which wasn't all that much.
Lonnie came in to our mini conference chomping on a fat cream bun. He finished it, leaving a trail of powdered sugar down his front. Licking his fingers, he reported he'd run into a dead end with his detailed background search for Ira Jacobs and Ron Udell. "This shouldn't happen," he told Bob and me. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to clean up these guys. It makes me wonder why."
We were sitting in Bob's office, which was rather messy, though not in Lonnie's clutter league. There was an old jukebox in one corner—I'd tried it and it worked—files all over the place, and a wall full of old movie posters. I admired the one for Laura. Gene Tierney had been a major babe.
"I'd like to know if either of these blokes have traveled to Australia recently," I said. "And would you check out Brother Owen at the same time? He told me he'd been Down Under in the past few months. If you could find out where he traveled internally, that'd be bonzer."
"Consider it done," said Lonnie.
After he'd brushed powdered sugar all over the place, Lonnie took himself off. I said to Bob, "Something's worrying me."
"Lonnie's diet?"
"Alarming though it is, no. We're breaking the law, aren't we, by not reporting those smuggled opals we've got in the safe to Customs, or to whatever other authorities should be involved?"
"We don't know they're smuggled. Not for sure," said Bob blandly.
"I thought ignorance was no defense in law."
Bob shrugged his narrow shoulders. "It'll fly."
"But—"
"Think this through, Kylie. There's absolutely no way the story will be kept quiet if the opals are reported. The Feds will be on it, some bright spark in Homeland Security will come up with the theory it's got something to do with terrorism, and so on. Alf and Chicka get to kiss the Lamb White movie goodbye, and worse, because of the draconian morals clause in their contract, they'll almost certainly be sued by the studio. Lonnie's already pointed out the Hartnidges are in a precarious financial position. This will ruin them. Get the picture?"
"I see what you mean," I said. "Our clients come first."
"Atta girl."
Alf and Chicka were due at ten, and as they were usually early for appointments, when ten came and went, I wondered what had happened. I went out to reception, thinking Melodie might have received a message and forgotten, in the excitement of her lunchtime Date With Destiny, to pass it on to me.
Chicka was there, in khaki shorts and shirt, both sporting multiple pockets. He was leaning over, talking to Melodie in agitated tones.
"What's up?" I said.
He turned an agonized face in my direction. "I walked here from the accident. It's down a block or so on Sunset Boulevard. Alf s still there."
"Is anyone hurt?"
"Just the pink Cadillac. It's got a pretty big ding. And so has the Hummer."
"The Hummer ran into the Cadillac?"
Chicka looked doleful. "The Cadillac ran into the Hummer. I told Alf, watch out for that hoon in the Hummer, driving like a maniac. Alf didn't watch out." He sighed. "He never takes my advice."
"So Alf's waiting for the car to be towed?"
Chicka shook his head. "It's drivable. Fact is, Alf got into a blue with the Hummer driver, and then the cops turned up."
"A blue is a fight," I translated for Melodie's benefit.
Eyes wide, she clasped her hands in entreaty. "Chicka! Your brother's been arrested?" I could imagine her as a character witness pleading with a judge for Alf's release.
"Dunno, love. Hope not. Alf's doing his best to talk his way out of it. I got a bit toey with the cops, so Alf told me to come here."
"Toey means excitable," I said to Melodie.
The front door was flung open, and Alf stomped in. "Stone the bloody crows!" he exclaimed. "Did Chicka tell you what happened? That arsehole driving the bloody Hummer deliberately bloody stopped in front of me. Then the cops give me a ticket." He took a deep breath. "Damn-bugger-bitch-bum!"
Chicka bit his lip. "Alf, not in front of the ladies."
"Oh, sorry," said Alf. "But it's bloody maddening. No one knows how to drive in this town."
A quarter of an hour later, calmed by several cups of tea, Alf and Chicka sat in Bob's office as we went over our investigation so far.
"Not Ira Jacobs," said Alf, clearly wounded. "He's a top bloke. You sure he's suss?"
"You sure?" repeated Chicka. "I never saw anything wrong."
"And it's Chicka's area, the financial side," said Alf, "so you'd think he'd notice."
I resisted rolling my eyes.
"Jacobs is more than suspicious," said Bob, "but we'll need an audit, both at the Aussie end and here in L.A. before we can be sure. And remember, Alf, Chicka, you can't act any differently toward him. OK?"
Alf wasn't happy. "All right, we'll try."
Chicka was woebegone about something else. "And Paula Slade's really Tami Eckholdt's sister, put there to spy on us? You sure about that?"
"Absolutely," I said. I trusted Lonnie to get it right.
"Don't breathe a word to Melodie," said Chicka, "but I was dead-set on asking Paula for a date. Suppose that's got the kibosh now."
"Chicka's a sheila magnet," said Alf with a touch of pride.
Chicka and Melodie had raised my eyebrows, but I could see what Chicka might see in her. Chicka and Paula/Patsy! Blimey!
"I almost forgot," said Alf, "but Tami's taken a real liking to you, Kylie. We've got a script conference at Lamb White this afternoon. Tami said if you were free, she'd love to see you."
I had serious misgivings about Tami Eckholdt, but this was another chance to get in with the Lamb White people, so how could I turn it down?
"I'm not tottering around in those high heels again," I said.
Alf looked quite disappointed. "No? You looked bonzer yesterday."
"Have you tried wearing them?" I said. "The really, really high ones? Instruments of torture."
"I know all about it," said Alf, with a world-weary manner.
Looking at his jumbo brown leather ankle boots, I said, "I very much doubt it."
"Alf's fair dinkum," said Chicka, grinning. "You should have seen him onstage in the chorus line at the Wollegudgerie Footy League Celebration Dinner. He was all got up in green chiffon and high heels. Laugh? I near wet myself!"
Fifteen
I was sitting in my office updating my notes on the Hartnidge case when the phone rang. It was Fran, who was manning the front desk, as she usually did when it was Melodie's lunch hour. "Kylie, something's wrong with Melodie."
"What's happened? Is she sick? An accident?"
"No idea," said Fran, who actually sounded concerned. "She just rushed in a minute ago, wearing dark glasses, and went directly to the bathroom. Didn't say hi. Didn't natter on about the audition."
"Nothing about her audition? That sounds serious. Do you mind staying at the front desk while I see what's up?" After Fran had assured me, with requisite sarcasm, that there was no place she'd rather be, I went off to locate Melodie.
Because our offices were in a converted house, the staff bathroom was just that—a bathroom with bath, shower recess, and toilet. I found Harriet outside the door, jigging up and down.
"Kylie," she said. "Thank God! You know what pregnancy does to your bladder? I've got to go, right now, but Melodie won't open the door."
"Use my bathroom. Meanwhile, I'll see if I can extract her from this one." I knocked gently on the door. "Melodie?"
I could make out someone inside wailing, "Go away."
"I'm not going away." I tried the handle. Locked, of course. "Melodie, open this door."
"I can't."
Good thing I had excellent hearing. The door was a substantial one, and Melodie's voice was faint. "You mean the door's jammed? Are you saying you want a locksmith?"
"No locksmith!" This was followed by loud sobs.
"Melodie, open this door, or I'll break it down."
"You wouldn't."
"I would!"
A pause was followed by the sound of the door being unlocked. I went in, closely followed by Julia Roberts, who'd been attracted by the commotion. Melodie plunked herself on the edge of the bath and buried her face in her hands. Sobs shook her slender body. Julia Roberts gave me a look that clearly said, It's your problem, before walking gracefully out of the bathroom.
"What the hell's the matter?" inquired Lonnie, putting his head around the edge of the door.
"If you want a bathroom, use mine." I sat beside Melodie and gave her a few comforting pats on the back. "There, there."
Lonnie came all the way into the room. Bending down to look closely at Melodie's hunched form, he said, "What happened? You blew the Refulgent callback?"
Melodie raised her head. I was ashamed to find myself relieved to discover that when Melodie sobbed, her skin became blotchy and her eyes got pinkish-red. Up to now I'd suspected I was the only one in L.A. who looked a wreck after crying. Not that I ever cried...
"I did not blow the Refulgent callback." Melodie was very indignant. "I'll have you know I've been cast in the Refulgent commercial. If you don't believe me, ask Larry, my agent."
"Then why all this weeping and wailing?" Lonnie asked.
Melodie bowed her head. "I didn't get the speaking part I was hoping for."
Lonnie put his hands on his plump hips. "You're telling me you're just an extra on the set?"
"An extra?" outraged, Melodie leapt to her feet. "I'm not just an extra. If you must know, Lonnie, I have an important role. I follow Beach Refulgent Girl and Amusement Park Refulgent Girl. I'm Laundry Refulgent Girl."
"But no dialogue."
"Will you shut up about the dialogue! It's not an easy role. I'm in this Laundromat, you see, and I have to wink at this good-looking guy, then toss back my head with a laugh"—she paused to give a pale shadow of the tinkling laugh she'd been perfecting for weeks—"and then I smile a Refulgent smile."
"But no actual dialogue?" said Lonnie.
I had to physically restrain Melodie, or I suspect there would have been blood on the floor.
Denting the pink convertible Cadillac had depressed Alf mightily. He drove the car with only a trace of his former verve. "I'll be returning this damaged beauty to the rental place," he said. "For LA. I need something tougher. Maybe a Hummer. What do you think, Chicka?"
Chicka wasn't for the Hummer. "How about a truck with a decent bullbar? That'd give you a fighting chance in the traffic around here."
Trucks seemed to be a favorite subject in the Hartnidge family. For the next twenty minutes I heard just about every possible comment one could make about a truck and its equipment. I let my mind drift, contemplating an interesting thought that had occurred to me. Although the Hartnidge twins were virtually indistinguishable, and dressed pretty close to identically, I'd always known who was Alf and who was Chicka. I'd never mixed them up.
"Who was born first?" I asked.
They broke off their truck talk to look at me. "I'm the eldest," said Alf. "Can't you tell? Chicka here's my baby brother."
"Only by ten minutes," he said.
"Being the firstborn changes you," Alf declared.
Chicka muttered something that sounded like, "And not for the better," but fortunately at that point our destination came into view.
The arch over the driveway into Lamb White's studios had the words lamb white: movies of integrity in scintillating blue letters on a silver background. The guards at the gate had the same words on their uniform jackets.
Each of us had to produce proof of identity. Our names were then checked off a list, and we were given visitor badges to wear. Our vehicle was searched. One guard shook his head over the state of the Cadillac's grille.
"A bloody Hummer, mate," said Alf in explanation. "A bloody Hummer."
"Backed into you, did it?"
"No, mate," said Alf. "The Hummer cut me off. Believe me, I've got reflexes like a tiger, but I still couldn't stop in time. Whacked right into the big bastard."
There was much head-shaking all round, then finally we were waved through.
The exclamation queen, Rachelle, was sitting at the reception desk, her curly black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her notable cleavage hidden by a demure blue outfit that proclaimed lamb white: we care so much across her left breast.
Rachelle flashed a professional smile our way, then did a double take, obviously recalling us from the barbecue. "Don't tell me! I know you! The twins! And you!"
"Kylie."
"And you, Kylie!"
A mousy woman in the same blue outfit, but bearing the words lamb white: purity in film, escorted us to a lift and took us up the executive suites. The script meeting was to be held in a conference room, and Tami Eckholdt was waiting outside. Her short copper hair seemed to have an even more metallic sheen than previously, and her tight green dress displayed her impressively fit body to advantage.
She gave a perfunctory greeting to Alf and Chicka but turned her full charm on me. "Kylie, so truly wonderful you could spare the time." She seized my hand in a tight grasp.
"Pleased to be here, Tami."
I reclaimed my fingers with difficulty. Tami gave me the once-over, and said, "You're looking very fit, Kylie. Do you work out?"
"Not so you'd notice."
"I do, myself. Regularly, every day. Lamb White has an executive gym. A healthy mind in a healthy body, you know."
"Interesting," I said.
"It is. Perhaps you'd like to come by someday?"
"Maybe someday," I said vaguely.
"Unarmed combat," said Tami.
I stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"
"Unarmed combat. It's a wonderful way to sharpen reflexes, improve balance, and energize one's self-image."
"I'll take your word for it."
Tami laughed as if I'd said something funny. "Oh, you Aussies!" she said. "I just love you to pieces!"
"I suppose we'd better join the others," I said, making moves in the direction of the conference room.
"Later, then, Kylie. Let's talk."
The conference room was over-the-top luxurious. The pale carpet was practically ankle deep; the walls were hung with what had to be original paintings; and the large, round conference table and accompanying chairs were sleekly expensive. Each leather place mat had a bound copy of the Oz Mob script precisely centered. Everyone was provided with a crystal water flask and a crystal glass. One side of the room contained a miniature kitchen setup with an espresso machine and a glass-fronted refrigerator containing a wide selection of fruit juices and other bottled drinks.
My skin prickled with alarm. I'd caught sight of a bloke already sitting at the conference table. Quip. He could blow my cover in ten seconds flat.
While Tami was barking commands at some underling—I noted she
had a much harsher tone when speaking to staff—I sidled up to Quip. "You don't know me," I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. "We've never met."
Quip grinned at me. "Why, hello," he said loudly. "I don't believe we've met." He got to his feet to shake my hand. "I'm Quip. Quip Trent."
"Kylie."
He grinned. "Lovely name. Australian, is it?"
"Shall we begin?" Tami asked. It wasn't a question.
There were seven of us—Alf, Chicka, Quip, Tami Eckholdt, and two young men, who stood back waiting, watching Tami like well-trained servants ready to leap to her command. One was dark and one was fair, but otherwise they seemed interchangeable.
"Tami's yes-men," whispered Alf with the closest thing to a sneer I'd ever seen on his face.
"Please note," said Tami, smiling at me, "the egalitarian round-table arrangement. This reflects Lamb White's charter: 'All for one and one for all.'"
"I think that's the motto of the Three Musketeers," I said.
Tami frowned. "I don't believe so. If these musketeers are using Lamb White's slogan, there'll be legal action, I'm afraid. We're very zealous in protecting our intellectual property."
Alf suddenly seemed to remember I was supposed to be his girlfriend, putting an arm around my waist and squeezing me till I yelped. "Sorry, love. Come and sit down by me."
"There's a chair here, Kylie," said Tami, "beside me."
Crikey, I was getting popular. They'd be fighting over me next. I ended up with Alf to my right and Tami to my left. Chicka sat on Tami's other side, and next to him was one of the nameless yes-men. The circle was completed by the other yes-man next to Alf, and Quip beside him.
Tami looked around the table with a complacent air. I had the sense she particularly liked meetings where she was in charge. "For those of you who don't know him, let me introduce Quip Trent, an experienced script doctor," Tami said. Quip nodded modestly.
Experienced? I happened to know Quip had written several screenplays but had never had one picked up.
Chicka, perturbed, cracked his knuckles. Alf glared at him. Tami looked pained.
"Why do we need a script doctor?" Chicka asked. "The thing's been rewritten by your people at least six times. Hardly any-thing's left of Vinnie Morgan's Aussie script, and I thought it was crash-hot."