by Claire McNab
"Oh, look," said Melodie, on full alert. "There's something here about the Oz Mob."
"Where?"
"Lamb White's making a series of Oz Mob movies!" Melodie turned sparkling eyes to me. "Kylie! I'll be Penny Platypus in a series!" She thrust the paper at me, and assumed the stance of one leaning over a microphone. "Fair dinkum, Penny Platypus here. G'day. How yer goin' mate, orright?" She looked at me, pleased. "What do you think of my Australian accent? My voice coach says I've got the ear."
"Needs work." That was an understatement. It was hard to say what Melodie's accent sounded like, but it certainly was nothing like an Aussie.
"You could give me a few pointers, Kylie, so I could fine-tune my accent. Meryl said the Australian accent was one of the most challenging she'd tried." She added with a satisfied smile, "Funny, isn't it, because I haven't found it very difficult."
"You're comparing yourself to Meryl Streep?"
"Of course not. Meryl's an established star, near the end of her career. I'm just at the beginning of mine." She snatched Variety back from me and read the paragraph again. "It's fate that Chicka and I met. It's like I was meant to interpret Penny Platypus."
"Don't count your platypuses until they're hatched." Crikey, I was in a sour mood this morning. "What I mean is, Melodie, it's just a proposal. Lamb White isn't committed yet."
Melodie was feverishly slapping cream cheese on her bagel. "Tiffany will just die when she hears the news," she said, ankling the kitchen with bagel, coffee, and Variety under her arm.
I took my tea back to my office. Lonnie came wandering in, for once not eating, to tell me Ron Udell had visited Australia along with Brother Owen. He'd traced Brother Owen's movements with ease, as the leader of the Church of Possibilities was clearly drumming up as much publicity as possible about setting up a branch of COP in Queensland. This made sense. Queensland was a bonzer state, but the place did seem to attract more than its fair share of way-out religions.
Brother Owen had flown into Sydney with Udell, and then they'd apparently separated, with Brother Owen courting the media in the capital cities of Melbourne, Sydney, and Brisbane, and Ron Udell going off on his own. Lonnie hadn't found out where.
I felt quite smug when I told Lonnie I'd done a bit of detecting of my own, and knew the answer to that question.
After Lonnie had wandered back out again, I checked my take action! list, deciding to eliminate two items with one call. First, I needed the contract Alf and Chicka had with Lamb White faxed to our office. Second, I had to persuade the Hartnidges to initiate a full audit of their company in both Australia and here in the States.
I got Alf Hartnidge on the line. "Kylie, love! Marty-O's been chatting with me and Chicka at an early morning brekkie. He's a good bloke, you know. Wants the best for us." He added with a reverent tone, "Did you see we made Variety this morning? Variety!"
"I read the item, Alf. Now, Marty-O, what's he been saying?"
Alf and Chicka might be big, strapping Aussies, but even I could see that in L.A. they were babes in the wood.
"Marty-O explained how lucky we are that Brother Owen's so keen to use our Oz Mob in those Bible movies. Chicka's still dragging his feet, but I'm gung ho."
"Has Marty-O suggested you sign any new contracts with Lamb White?"
"He's drawing them up as we speak. Says we need to pin Brother Owen down quick smart, before he changes his mind."
The Hartnidges weren't babes in the wood. They were lambs to the slaughter. "Don't sign any contracts, Alf. Not until a lawyer looks them over."
"Why drag a lawyer into it? Marty-O knows what he's doing."
"He certainly does," I said. "That's your problem right there."
It took some fast talking, but I finally managed to get Alf to promise neither he nor Chicka would sign any documents without having them checked out. "I'll get Harriet to call you," I said. "She can give you the names of the best entertainment lawyers."
"If you really think it's necessary..."
"I do, Alf." I added, "And Marty-O will respect you for it." A good thing Alf couldn't see my cynical smile.
There was no problem getting Alf to agree to fax over the current contract he and Chicka had with Lamb White. The problem came with the audit. "But, mate, Ira Jacobs will be asking why we want an audit. It's like we don't trust him, isn't it?"
"You don't trust him."
"Yeah, but..."
I was beginning to wonder whether Alf might not have some other reason not to offend Jacobs. "Alf, level with me. Do you fancy Ira Jacobs?"
"I might."
"It's not a good idea to let personal feelings get in the way of business matters."
Crikey, I was sounding like my mother. And I was such a hypocrite. If Ariana ever said the word, I'd be in her arms like a shot, business or no business.
"It's not easy being bi," Alf complained. "If you think about it, you get double the temptations everywhere you go. It's bloody hard to say no."
Normally, Alf's sex life would be none of my business, but Ira Jacobs was a different matter. It was my professional duty, I decided, to find out if Alf was sleeping with the enemy. "I can see how Ira could be very enticing," I lied, "but have you resisted temptation so far?"
"Of course," said Alf with a touch of indignation. "I mean, he's staff. But still..." I was alarmed to hear yearning in his voice.
"Could I speak to Chicka, please?"
Chicka was much more resolute than his brother. He agreed a lawyer was an excellent idea and that an audit was essential. "No worries. I'll straighten Alf out. He tends to let people bamboozle him."
The iron had clearly entered Chicka's soul. I started to say, "You sound much more—"
"Tough? I am. Yesterday when we were getting pushed around by that Bible-basher, I said to myself, 'So what's ten bloody minutes?'"
"Pardon?"
"Ten minutes. Alf thinks being ten minutes older makes him top dog. That he can make all the decisions and I'll go along like a good little younger brother. No more!"
"What does Alf say to this?"
"He keeps on looking at me sideways, like he doesn't know what to make of it. I tell you, Kylie, I should have done this long ago. I'm bloody enjoying myself!"
Harriet said she'd look out for the fax from the Oz Mob offices and would discuss the contract with a lawyer friend who was in the entertainment business. She could also supply the twins with a list of reputable attorneys.
Bob wasn't in yet, so I went direct to Ariana with my news about Ron Udell being in Wollegudgerie the week before the opal heist. I sat in her office talking it over with her and trying not to look too pleased with myself, which was hard, because she told me I'd done well.
She sat across from me, so remote yet so desirable. I was careful not to act in any way other than a junior colleague would when speaking with a senior colleague. There was no way Ariana had any idea what I felt about her. And yet...
With a jolt it occurred to me that if a beginning private eye like me could learn how to detect lying, someone like Ariana should be able to do it without breaking a sweat. Not that we were talking about anything I'd lie about, such as whether I was in love with her. That wasn't a conversation we were likely to have.
But I was trying to hide something—the disturbing fact that, as far as she was concerned, I was besotted. Well, maybe not besotted. That was too close to infatuation. What I felt was more profound. I supposed it was love, though not like any love I'd felt before.
"Kylie?"
"Oh, sorry. I was thinking about—" I could hardly say what I was thinking about. "Thinking about things."
There went that elegant eyebrow again. "What things?"
My thoughts shot round in my head like startled chooks. I came up with, "How Alf and Chicka are going to be swindled out of their Oz Mob rights. I reckon that's what's going on with the smuggled opals."
"How do you see the scenario playing out?"
I looked at her mouth. We'd kissed, twice. T
hree times lucky? Jeez, I had to concentrate. "How do I see the scenario playing out?"
Whoops, I was repeating the question. I made a mental note not to do that again. I hurried to continue, before she noticed. "Harriet's going to have someone look at the fine print in the contract the Hartnidges have with Lamb White, but I'm sure it's the morals clause that's the key. I believe it will go like this: The opals will be discovered, Lamb White will be shocked, just shocked, that the Hartnidge twins are criminals. I'm guessing here, but I wonder if when the morals clause is activated, there isn't an option to take over the project completely. Something like that, to give Lamb White and the Church of Possibilities total control over the Oz Mob characters."
While I was talking, I ran a systems check. Points from the lying chapter scrolled in my head. Was I touching my mouth or nose? Smiling too much? Explaining too much? I'd only skimmed the last part of that particular chapter in my Complete Handbook. It covered how liars gave themselves away not so much by what they were saying but how they said it. I wished devoutly I could remember all of the details.
"I think you're right," said Ariana. "But proving it will be difficult."
Bob came in and I gave him a rundown of the situation so far, then I bolted back to my office to check my Handbook. It had proved itself a font of essential PI information. It was fate I'd found this particular volume in a bookshop. I grinned. Now I was sounding like Melodie.
Checking the last section of the lying chapter, I noted the characteristics a liar shows when speaking. They included long-winded explanations; using I, me, and mine much less frequently than truth tellers; a lack of contractions, so a liar says do not instead of don't; and last, because lying takes mental work, the interesting point that liars tend to speak more slowly while their brains race to get their stories straight.
I ran over my conversation with Ariana. I was pretty sure I hadn't fallen into any of these dead giveaways. A sudden thought occurred to me. What if it didn't matter? What if Ariana didn't care what I felt about her?
I told myself I'd just get on with my life and stop obsessing over someone I could never have anything but a business relationship with.
In the early evening I picked up Chantelle before collecting Aunt Millie at her hotel. As we drove through heavy—what else?—traffic, I said to her, "Do you think I have moxie? Be honest now."
Chantelle laughed. "Honey, you have so much moxie it's running out your ears."
I wasn't altogether sure this was quite what I wanted to hear, but that's what you get when you fish for compliments.
Aunt Millie, Chantelle, and I ended up at Heavenly Hamburger Steakhouse just off Sunset Boulevard. My aunt's choice—she said she wanted a genuine American hamburger, not any of that McDonald's rubbish. When Chantelle foolishly pointed out McDonald's was an American company, Aunt Millie said McDonald's was multinational, and everybody knew what that meant.
I kicked Chantelle under the table before she could ask what it was everybody knew. Years of conversations with Aunt Millie had taught me to be circumspect.
"How was Universal Studios?" I inquired, changing the subject. Another conversational skill Aunt Millie had taught me over the years.
"Interesting enough, although I can't see how anyone can be frightened by the rides. All that screaming and carrying on.
Quite uncalled for. And, of course, like Disneyland, the place is totally spoilt by kids running around everywhere, completely unsupervised. Pathetic how parents today refuse to discipline their offspring. A couple of times I was forced to show them how it's done."
"I bet that went down well," remarked Chantelle.
Aunt Millie fixed her with a gimlet look. "I don't do things to be popular, young woman. I do things to be right."
At that point our waiter came by to ask if everything was to our satisfaction. Poor choice of words. He was plainly unprepared for Aunt Millie's answer. The chef appeared, accompanied by the manager. Other patrons watched in fascination as my aunt pointed out shortcomings she'd detected in the service and the food. She was kind enough to add a remark or two about the restaurant's furnishings as well.
I glanced at Chantelle. She was past being astonished. Now she was trying vainly not to giggle.
When the restaurant staff had done their best to make amends, and we were left alone, Chantelle brought up the subject of Claudene's, the new lesbian bar that had just opened.
"You're suggesting I visit a lesbian bar?" asked Aunt Millie.
"It's just an idea," I said. "You'd probably hate it."
Aunt Millie beamed at Chantelle. "Excellent idea, young woman. You're a creative thinker."
"Aunt Millie," I said, "are you sure? You must be tired after your day at Universal Studios. And there's jet lag too."
"Rubbish. I've got more energy than the two of you put together."
So it was that we three came to Claudene's. It was still reasonably early in the evening, and I found a parking spot not too far away. As we walked toward the bar, I tossed up whether to warn my aunt she might see things not commonly in plain view in Wollegudgerie. But what the hell—if she was going to be shocked, so be it.
The bar wasn't yet as crowded as I was sure it would be later on, so, even though the lights were fairly dim, it was possible to see the decor. Claudene's was all black and chrome, with artful touches of dark red along the edge of the bar and on the barstool seats. The black and chrome was repeated in the tables and chairs that ringed the small dance floor, where a few couples were slowly rotating to soft, romantic music. I reckoned the hard beat would start later, when the place filled up, but for the moment you didn't have to shout to be heard.
"I thought you said it was a lesbian bar," said Aunt Millie accusingly. "I see several men over there."
"They're women," said Chantelle.
My aunt peered harder. "They look like men to me." Before I could stop her, she'd set off to investigate.
"I like your aunt," said Chantelle, watching her progress across the room. "She's feisty."
Feisty wasn't a word we use in Australia, but I'd got the meaning down, I thought. "You mean she's sort of pushy and high-spirited."
Chantelle gave me a grin. "I was thinking more along the lines of aggressive like a pit bull."
Aunt Millie was engaged in spirited conversation on the other side of the room. There was much hand waving, and then my aunt returned to us. "You're right. They're women." She glared across the room at one butch lesbian who, hands on hips, glared right back.
My heart sank, as it often did when I was with my aunt. "What did you say to her?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"That butch lesbian seems upset with you."
Ignoring this, Aunt Millie asked plaintively, "What has someone got to do to get a drink around here?"
"Aunt, you don't drink."
"I'm drinking tonight."
"Don't look now," said Chantelle, "but she's coming over."
I covered my eyes. "My Aunt Millie's going end up in a fight in a lesbian bar. Now I really can't go home again."
The butch woman had nearly reached us. She was older than I'd thought, and her short, dark hair was streaked with gray. She wore mostly black leather, plus a chain or two for embellishment, and had one of those strong, striking faces that are hard to forget.
"My aunt didn't mean—"
Her eyes on Aunt Millie, she said to me, "Excuse me. I'm not talking to you." She had a hoarse, too-many-cigarettes voice.
Chantelle, bless her, was poised to intervene, when the woman said to Aunt Millie, "May I have the pleasure of this dance?"
The evening went off well. Chantelle enjoyed herself, Aunt Millie certainly did, and I was fine, until I had an encounter that convinced me Aunt Millie's philosophy (if something bad can happen, it will) had something to it.
I was chatting with Chantelle at the bar while Aunt Millie was dancing up a storm on the floor, when something made me look toward the door. I clutched Chantelle's arm. "Leaping lizards
! That's Tami Eckholdt!"
"Who?"
"She mustn't see me."
"Too late," said Chantelle. "She's making a beeline for you. Just who is this woman?"
Tami was bubbling with delight. "Kylie! I didn't expect to see you here!" Her brief gold lame shorts and strapless black top displayed her muscular body to advantage. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet. Drugs? Alcohol? Or, dreadful thought, enthusiasm for my conquest? Yerks!
Tami's expression hardened as she took in Chantelle, who, bless her, was leaning against me with a possessive hand on my shoulder. "And this is...?"
"My girlfriend, Chantelle," I said, with a strong emphasis on girlfriend. "Alf knows," I added hastily. "He understands."
"Alf?" said Chantelle.
"I'll explain later," I said.
Alarmingly, a speculative smile had appeared on Tami's face. "I wouldn't have pegged him for a three-way kind of guy, but hey! Why not?"
As Tami was short, I was able to look hopefully over her head. "Surely you're not alone tonight, Tami?"
"I've come alone, but I don't intend to leave alone," said Tami, raising goose bumps on my skin as she stroked my arm.
"Hands off," said Chantelle.
Tami bounced on her toes, sizing up Chantelle. I had a horrifying vision of Tami seizing Chantelle and tossing her over the bar. The mirror would break, bottles would shatter, all in slow motion, in the appropriate movie fashion. It was my duty to shield Chantelle with my body. Surely Tami wouldn't throw me over the bar. That would be no way to win my love. Love! I shuddered.
"Later, sweetheart," Tami said, I'm not sure to which one of us. "I'll see you later."
"Where did she come from?" Chantelle asked, watching Tami swagger toward a knot of women at the other end of the bar. "She looks familiar. Is she in the industry?"
"Lamb White."
"Lamb White! She's a lesbian!"
"In the closet. Deep."
Chantelle nodded slowly. "I guess."
I was praying Tami would hook up with someone much more promising than me and wouldn't notice as Chantelle, Aunt Millie, and I slipped away. Fat chance.