by Claire McNab
Strewth!
Eight
By the time I got back to the office, everyone was packing up to go home. "Any messages?" I said to Melodie. With icy disdain, she silently handed them to me. The first was from Ariana, saying she'd been delayed, but would definitely call in before she went home.
The second was a scrawled note from Brucie: Hitting hot spots with Melodie tonight. Woo-hoo! Discuss Dingo sitch tomorrow.
"Have a beaut time tonight," I said to her. Melodie gave a regal nod, her lips tightly compressed.
The third item was a hand-delivered letter addressed to both Ariana and me. There was no mystery about who it was from, as Norris Blainey's image, his smile close to a sneer, appeared under the return address. I reckoned this was the offer he'd mentioned. It didn't matter how large the sum, Kendall & Creeling would not be selling.
I had a fair idea I'd get hot under the collar if I read it, so I decided to wait and open the envelope with Ariana's cool presence to calm me.
Harriet paused on her way out. "What do you think of our new door chime?" she asked me.
"What new door chime?"
"Fran had it installed this afternoon. It plays a phrase from some Spanish song."
"Grenada," said Melodie to Harriet. "It's in keeping with the theme of the building."
Fran's Spanish mania was clearly out of control, As her humungous SUV hadn't been in the parking area when I'd arrived, I guessed she'd already left. I'd deal with her tomorrow.
Harriet said goodbye and maneuvered her hugely pregnant self out the front door. A second later she was back. "I forgot to ask, how did it go with Rosenblum?"
I didn't think it was fair to rub Melodie's nose in the fact I'd retained an entertainment lawyer, so I murmured, "Everything's jake, thanks."
This was to no avail. Melodie's eyes were mere slits. "Howie Rosenblum?" she inquired of Harriet in a tight tone. "The Howie Rosenblum?"
From Harriet's expression, she'd realized too late that this was a risky topic. "Gotta run," she said, moving out the front door as fast as her bulk allowed.
"I suppose I should be grateful you didn't try to take over Larry-my-agent," Melodie snarled.
This was progress. She was actually talking to me. "Fair dinkum," I said, "getting cast as Olive was because I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."
Melodie's eyes had gone from slits to wide-eyed outrage. "I've slaved at my craft for years. Years, Kylie. And yet you, with no training, no talent, and no burning drive to succeed in the biz…" She threw up her hands at the injustice of it all.
"I've got zero ambitions to be an actor."
"Oh, sure," said Melodie scathingly, "so that's why you went ahead with the audition." Using unnecessary force, she began to pack up her things, preparatory to leaving for the day. She paused to snap, "Just don't come crawling to me for help the first time you have to interpret the role and you fall flat on your face."
"I am a bit worried about that," I said.
She made a derisive sound. "What do you understand of the techniques for reaching deep within yourself to connect with your innermost primal store of fundamental emotions?" she inquired.
"Crikey, not much, so it's lucky I'm only in two episodes."
"Only two episodes, you say?" Melodie drew a shuddering breath. "Stellar careers have been launched on the strength of one episode in a series. And you have two. Two!"
Muttering to herself, she picked up her things and stomped towards the door. To placate her, I said, "No matter how many episodes Olive's in, there's not much risk of me launching a stellar career on Darken Come Home, is there?"
"None," said Melodie. "Less than none. Less than less than none." She paused to consider, then added, "A two-headed Martian with no experience in the performing arts would have a better chance of a successful acting career than you."
****
When everyone had gone, I went in search of Julia Roberts. It was odd that she wasn't in evidence, as she had an impressively accurate internal clock that never failed to alert her to the fact that her dinner time was fast approaching.
I even checked Lonnie's room, just in case she had managed to sneak in and hide herself. "Jules? Are you lurking in here somewhere?"
I thought I heard a muffled but indignant yowl back in the direction of the kitchen. "Jules?"
Guided by increasingly irritated cries, I found myself in front of the disaster supplies storage room. When I opened the door, Julia Roberts shot out like a tawny rocket.
"How did you manage to get yourself shut in?" I asked. Jules didn't deign to answer, being busy soothing herself with a quick wash, "Fran is very thingie about the disaster supplies," I pointed out, "and she's likely to throw a wobbly if she finds out you've been in there."
Jules stopped washing and gave me a thoughtful look. "OK," I said, "it can be our little secret, but don't do it again."
My heart gave a happy leap as I heard the unmistakable sound of Ariana's footsteps in the hallway. I went to meet her, Jules following behind with her tail held confidently high.
Ariana looked absolutely drained. There were dark smudges under her blue eyes and lines of strain on her face. Without even considering she might reject the embrace, I walked up to her and put my arms around her. She leaned into me and I held her tight, my sharp delight tempered with concern.
"It's Natalie," she said against my shoulder. "Yesterday morning she collapsed. A stroke. I've been with her at the hospital ever since."
"Ariana, I'm so sorry."
This was a perilous subject. I didn't dare say more, although my head buzzed with questions. Was the stroke catastrophic or mild? Was Natalie conscious? What was the prognosis?
Alzheimer's had robbed Natalie of her memories and left Ariana in a limbo where the woman she loved was still physically present, but only faint flickers of her personality remained. If you gave me the choice, I'd die rather than exist in a life of gray confusion. Did Ariana think that too? Now that Natalie had suffered an additional assault upon the tissues of her brain, did Ariana wish the shell that remained of Natalie would give up and quietly slip away?
Inexplicably, a line of poetry I remembered from English class at Wollegudgerie High came to me: I have been half in love with easeful Death. It was Keats, I thought, and I hadn't really understood it then-I did now.
I dropped my arms as Ariana stepped back from me. She answered one of my questions by saying, "It was a moderately severe stroke that's affected her left side. I waited to speak with her doctor about results of the latest tests. Natalie's heart is strong. He expects her to survive."
I ventured to ask, "Does Natalie have any family?"
"No living relatives. Thank God that years ago we thought to get medical power of attorney for each other. If I didn't have that, I wouldn't be able to see her, or have any say in her treatment."
Feeling there was nothing else I could safely ask, I said, "Would you like something to drink? I haven't got any hard liquor, but I've got wine."
She didn't demur, as I expected, but simply said, "Thank you, yes.”
Julia Roberts led the way to the kitchen, her ears at an impatient slant. I followed her with Ariana, thinking how bonzer it would be if I had a sitting area where the storage room now stood. If it existed, Ariana and I wouldn't have to perch on tall stools in the kitchen, but could luxuriate in comfortable lounge chairs. Blast Fran's obsession with Homeland Security's more alarmist recommendations. I approved of being prepared for unexpected crises, but not quite that prepared.
I must have muttered Fran's name, because Ariana said, "Fran? She's not still here, is she? When I was turning in through the gates, I thought I saw Quip sitting in a car on the other side of the road."
"She went home ages ago."
"Then I was mistaken. It wasn't Quip."
I'd left the letter from Norris Blainey on the kitchen counter, meaning to open it after dinner if Ariana hadn't come by. When I pointed the envelope out to her, she grimaced. "I'
ll fax the letter to Kenneth Smithson tomorrow. He'll be representing us in any communications with Blainey."
Julia Roberts had marched into the kitchen and made a bee-line for her dish. Now she was directing an implacable stare in my direction. I hastened to provide liver and chicken, simmered, the label assured me, in its own delicious juices.
"That smells good," said Ariana as I opened the can. "I must be hungry."
I knew she preferred red wine. "This is a tip-top Aussie Cabernet Sauvignon," I said, pouring two glasses.
Ariana rubbed her forehead and sighed. "This is going to knock me for a loop. I've had countless cups of hospital coffee, but I couldn't eat anything much."
"Steak and mashed potatoes? I can rustle that up in no time."
She gave me a tired smile. "That sounds wonderful."
While Ariana called her next-door neighbor to ask him to feed Gussie, Ariana's gorgeous German shepherd, I started dinner. I wasn't what you'd call a gourmet cook by any stretch, but I was OK with plain food.
I'd mastered the stove's griller, though oddly, the appliance booklet referred to it as a broiler. I had two filet steaks sitting in the refrigerator, as I'd bought them on the way home from meeting with Howie Rosenblum, thinking that I'd have to show Brucie some hospitality by cooking him at least one meal in the next few days. Brucie's loss would be Ariana's gain.
"I've only got frozen mashed potatoes to heat in the microwave," I said apologetically, "not the real thing made from scratch."
"Frozen is fine. I'm suddenly starving, so anything sounds appetizing to me."
Ariana wasn't joking. She devoured everything on her plate.
"That was great. Thank you very much, Kylie."
For some reason my name seemed to hang in the air between us. Was it because her thanks had been expressed so formally? I didn't expect her to use an endearment-she never had, even in those few intensely exciting times when we'd been in bed together.
Perhaps she was distancing herself because all her love and attention was focused on Natalie. I wanted to say, "Please don't push me away," but instead I remarked casually, "A lot's happened while you've been out of the office. For instance, I've joined the cast of Darken Come Home."
A rare look of astonishment appeared on Ariana's face. "You're kidding me."
"I'm fair dinkum. It's been an eventful time, including a blue with Fran about the Spanish furniture. Do you want the short and sweet version, or all the gruesome details?"
"Pour me another glass of wine, then start at the beginning."
I began with Fran and the secret commission she'd scored for the furniture she was ordering off her own bat for the office. "I know I should have waited for you, Ariana, so we could talk to her together, but Fran really got my goat, telling me I had to have a new desk, when I didn't need or want one."
I told Ariana about Quip's novel, I, Developer, and the money problems Fran claimed had forced her to take desperate measures, and how even Quip didn't know about Fran's deal with Maximum Spanish.
Ariana's expression was severe. "Fran has no excuse for this. Her job's on the line. I hope you told her that."
Feeling embarrassed, I said, "Fact is, Fran played me for a mug. I found myself feeling sorry for her, instead of concentrating on what she'd done wrong."
"I'll deal with Fran tomorrow," said Ariana in a steely tone.
Not wanting her to dwell on my abject failure at managing the Fran situation, I skipped onto seeing Dingo O'Rourke at Bellina Studios that morning, and how on the way out I'd managed, quite by chance, to snag the part of Olive, Timmy's long-lost Aussie sister.
That got a soft laugh from Ariana. She shook her head. "It's extraordinary the things that happen to you." Her smile faded. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't Melodie auditioning for that very part?"
"Unfortunately, yes." I detailed how I'd prevaricated too long, so the receptionists' network had swung into action and given Melodie the bad news before I could. "She was furious, and I could cope with that, but when she started crying, I felt a bit grim." I described the deep freeze that followed, which was not helped by the fact that, thanks to Harriet, I now had an entertainment lawyer of some repute.
Ariana said with cool logic, "Melodie has no right to blame you. She missed out simply because she wasn't the best one for the role. The director made the judgment that you were. End of story."
"Melodie makes it clear she thinks I'm going to fizzle as Olive, and she could very well be right."
Ariana warmed me by saying, "I wouldn't be so sure."
"You think I'll ace it, and be discovered as the new great talent from Down Under. Not bloody likely!"
I went on to tell her how Cousin Brucie was in town, and dead set on helping me investigate what was going on with Dingo O'Rourke. That reminded me of the call from Phyllis Blake about the two odd blokes who'd been hanging around Dingo's apartment building. Ariana suggested one possibility was that Dingo was reneging on a gambling debt and these were enforcers, sent to persuade him to pay up. As she pointed out, fear of the consequences of non-payment would explain why Dingo was holed up in the safety of the studio lot.
I deliberately didn't mention my mum's latest crisis at the Wombat. Why tell Ariana how Mum had implored me for the zillionth time to come back home, and run the risk that Ariana would break my heart by saying that she now agreed I should return to Oz and leave the running Kendall & Creeling to her? As my mum would say, let sleeping dogs lie.
The final event of the day worth mentioning was how Lonnie had intercepted me in the car park and somehow managed to get the idea that I'd be willing to talk to Pauline Feeney about how she might achieve her ambition to be the star wrangler who wrangled the reclusive Earl Garfield.
"I wasn't being a pushover," I said hastily, in case she thought it was another example of me being a soft touch. "Lonnie just mistook what I said, and he left before I could set him straight."
With a sardonic smile, Ariana said, "I imagine Lonnie knew exactly what you said, and deliberately misunderstood you."
I drooped a bit at that. "I haven't got a rep for being a softy at home, but I seem to have become a gutless wonder since I came to Los Angeles."
Ariana started to say something, but a blast of Grenada startled us both.
"What's that?" she asked.
"It's our new door chime. Fran had it installed this afternoon while I was out."
Grenada sounded again. Ariana said something under her breath and strode towards the front door, with me hurrying to keep up with her. Whoever it was had given up on Grenada and was now loudly knocking.
"It's Norris Blainey," he bellowed through the door. "I know you're in there, and I'm not leaving until I speak with you both."
Because I'd been living here by myself, Lonnie had recently installed a security camera. Ariana checked the screen. "It is Blainey. He's alone."
A red rage swept through me. How dare this bloke come pounding on our door. I turned the lock and flung the door open. "Stop that!"
Norris Blainey had his fist raised, about to renew his knocking. For a weedy bloke, he made quite a racket. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie. An unpleasant grin spread over his face. "Good evening, ladies. Let's have a nice little chat about the offer for your property I arranged to be delivered this afternoon. As you can see, I've been generous-probably too generous, if truth be told-so I imagine it's an opportunity you'll be keen to take. I must warn you, my offer is time-sensitive, so you'll need to act decisively while it's on the table."
"Shove off." I was so furious, my voice was shaking.
In a tone as cool as her face, Ariana said, "Kenneth Smithson is our attorney. Any communications between you and Kendall & Creeling will go through his office. Now, Mr. Blainey, I must ask you to leave. You're trespassing on our property."
Blainey kept right on smiling. "Surely we can talk this over without involving lawyers. They cost an arm and a leg, and you'll get no better deal than you had at the beginnin
g."
"Goodnight, Mr. Blainey," Ariana said, beginning to close the door in his face.
He moved quickly to shove it open again. "I haven't been successful in business by taking no for an answer," he said, stepping through the doorway.
I completely lost it. Blainey's grin disappeared as I grabbed him by his red silk tie, yanked him towards me, spun him around, and shoved his arm up his back until he squeaked. With a skill born of dealing with obstreperous drunks at The Wombat's Retreat-I only tried it with little blokes like Blainey-I marched him across the courtyard to his car, a big, showy Jaguar.
"You bitch," he said. "You'll pay for this."
I didn't say a word. Ariana joined me and we waited until he drove off.
We walked in silence back across the courtyard. Once inside, I said, "Sorry I did my nana…lost my temper. Do you think he'll have me for assault?"
Ariana gave me a small smile. "He refuses to leave when asked to, tries to force his way inside, and as a result is frog marched by a woman back to his car. I don't think Norris Blainey will be mentioning this to anyone, anytime soon."
Nine
Ariana was exhausted, and on top of that had had three glasses of wine. I didn't even try to persuade her to stay the night with me, but pointed out she was in no condition to get behind a wheel, so I would drive her home. After a token resistance she agreed to be chauffeured.
For security reasons the courtyard and parking area were brightly lit at night, so it would be impossible for Norris Blainey to lurk there undetected. Although I was sure he was long gone, he was a nasty piece of work, so I wouldn't put it past him to plot some form of revenge for his humiliation.
Ariana obviously had the same thought. As we walked to my car, I noticed her checking everything out, her hand in her pocket of her jacket.
"You carrying?" I said.
She grinned. "Great command of private-eye lingo. And yes, I am."
I knew that, having been a cop, Ariana hadn't found it too difficult to get a license to carry a concealed weapon. I had Buckley's chance, I reckoned, of being able to swing such a license, not that I was any good with handguns anyway. I'd grown up with rifles and shotguns and was a fair shot with both, but the law in Australia restricted the possession of handguns to law enforcement and a small number of private citizens with exceptional reasons to have such weapons.