by Claire McNab
Jet lag might have hit me like a mallet behind the ear this afternoon, but now that I was ready for bed, in my pajamas and with my teeth cleaned, I was about as wide awake as I could be. Jules and I snuggled up on the bed, the remote between us, to channel-surf.
I paused on Entertainment Tonight, not because I particularly watched the program-we got it in the 'Gudge via satellite very early in the morning-but because of the face on the screen. Dr. Dave Deer, leaning nonchalantly on a spade, was in a impressive, well-groomed garden. His gray suit had been replaced with a khaki shirt, brown cord trousers, and working boots. He'd even gone so far as to wear an Aussie Akubra hat.
"G'day," he said to the camera.
The interviewer was a glossy, super-thin woman-naturally- with lots of blond hair and a luminous smile. Cosmetic dentists, I reckoned, had to make a motza in this town.
"We're here in the beautiful Beverly Hills garden of Dr. Dave Deer, famous for his innovative Slap! Slap! Get On With It therapy, which has recently taken L.A. by storm."
"Bonzer to be here on E.T." Dave Deer said.
"Spectacular garden."
"It is, isn't it?" Modest grin. "Nature can be very healing."
The blond shook her head, apparently impressed by this insight, then said, "I wonder, Dr. Deer-"
"Dave, please!"
"I wonder, Dave, if you'd care to comment on the rumors that your famous clientele include luminaries such as Jim Carrey, Renee Zellweger, controversial Aussie director Jarrod-"
"I must ask you to name no more names! Patient privacy is paramount." Dave Deer looked pleased and indignant, all at once.
"So you wouldn't care to confirm a report that you met with a high member in the current administration-"
"Stone the crows! No comment." Then he added, almost with a wink, "But I can say everyone here in the States has been very open to new ideas, and that openness goes right to the top. I'm saying nothing more." Then he did wink.
The blond sent a meaningful look to the camera, then swung into her next question. "Is it true, Dave, that patients sign a release that allows you to actually slap them?"
"Again, that's confidential."
"What can you tell us, Dave?"
"My therapy can help anyone who sincerely wants to reach his or her full potential of happiness and achievement…"
I switched channels as he launched into the spiel he'd perfected back home in Oz. Jeez, if you believed Dr. Dave Deer, it didn't matter whether you were just a touch down in the mouth, or a zonked-out druggie, or straight-out mad as a two-bob watch-Slap! Slap! was the treatment for you.
I knew I shouldn't, but I then watched a horror movie about a bunch of people who insisted on wandering about this creepy old house, even though they were getting gutted one by one. "Doesn't it rot your socks," I said to Jules, "the way they never stick together? Someone's always saying to someone else, 'Wait here, while I investigate,' and then it's curtains for one of them."
After a while, even the shrieking of the victims didn't stop my eyelids from drooping. I hardly had time to punch the off button and turn out the light before I was asleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night, for a moment not sure where I was, but convinced something was wrong. Then it all came back to me with the unwelcome shock of a bucket of water in the face. I'd left Australia in a rush, believing my dad had wanted me to have the business so I'd arrive at Kendall & Creeling and be accepted straight off. It hadn't worked out that way.
Even though I'd closed the curtains tight, enough illumination filtered through from the floodlights outside for me to make out the time when I squinted at my watch. Early hours of the morning here, but back in the 'Gudge it was evening the next day.
It'd be busy in the Wombat. Marge and Sandy would be dishing out beers and smart-alec remarks from behind the bar, and Mum, along with Jack, her husband-to-be, would be chatting up the tourists and joking with the locals.
A sudden shaft of homesickness closed my throat, and I snuffled as my eyes filled. Bloody hell! I wasn't going to lie here and bawl like a crybaby. I never cried. I turned on my back, annoying Julia Roberts, who clearly considered the bed her territory. Putting my hands behind my head, I took Mum's advice-be positive, not negative-as I considered the situation.
No one in L.A. would give a brass razoo that Raylene and I had split up. Not so at home, where everybody took a keen interest in everybody else's business. And some people would pity me, and I hated that.
Besides, if I stayed in Wollegudgerie, there wasn't much in the career line for me. I'd grown up in the pub, and when I was old enough, helped Mum run the place. It was me who installed an up-to-date computer system to keep track of the business, and me who persuaded Mum to let me organize a Web site to suck in the tourists.
But when Mum told me she was going to marry Jack O'Connell, I knew I couldn't stay. Don't get me wrong, Jack's nice, but he likes to think himself the boss, and after years of being my own boss there was no way I was going to be happy having him tell me, a twenty-eight-year-old sheila, what to do, particularly when I probably know the business a lot better than he does.
Even before the news about Dad's will, I'd been thinking of moving to the big smoke, probably Sydney. So why not Los Angeles instead?
Still, I should have researched what you did to become a private investigator in California. I'd ask Ariana tomorrow. Was there an exam? I'd always been good at them. Or maybe I could take some P.I. course online.
In spite of some bird outside who was running through a set of complicated vocal exercises, I drifted back into a half-sleep, thinking of online courses I'd taken. Mum had got me to take Advanced First Aid. She said it was a good idea to be prepared in case there was a particularly nasty fight in the bar one Saturday, always the worst night of the week for aggro.
Then I researched adult education sites run by various colleges and universities and decided on astronomy. In the Outback the stars are dazzling, because they aren't drowned by city lights. I bought a telescope from a catalog and enrolled in Astronomy I and II. For something different, I'd followed that with Conversational Italian, which I was practicing on Maria in the hairdressing salon. How was I to know she had her eye on Raylene, and worse, that Raylene had her eye on Maria?
I must have thrashed around a bit at this thought, because Julia Roberts started to complain. "Fair crack of the whip, Jules," I said to her. "You've got nothing to whinge about. You've got looks, a home, and people who love you."
That plunged me into further gloomy musings, and I'd almost decided to get up and make myself a cuppa-before I remembered there wasn't any decent tea in the place-when I slid into sleep again. The last thing I thought of was Ariana's blue eyes. And the fact that she wanted me gone-and I wasn't going.
The next thing, I was waking up to the sound of someone moving around outside in the hallway.
It seemed barely daylight, so I shot out of bed ready to confront the intruder. Looking around for a weapon, I spotted the sports stuff in the corner. I settled on a golf club. Julia Roberts was still curled up on the bed but roused herself to give me an odd look as I barefooted it toward the door, nine-iron raised for action.
I wasn't feeling brave, but I had no intention of cowering in the room, so I bounded out into the hallway thinking I'd have the advantage of surprise.
And surprise I did. The little bloke I confronted gave a shriek, dropped the wastepaper basket he'd been holding, and put up his hands to protect his head.
"No! No!" he cried, following that with a stream of words I didn't understand. They sounded vaguely like Italian, and I made a guess and said, "Spanish?"
"Si." He stared at me rather like the cat had a minute before. I had to look like a complete dingbat, standing there in my pajamas with a golf club.
"Sorry," I said, dropping my arm so he could see that I wasn't going to bash his brains in. "You're the cleaner?"
He nodded warily. "The cleaner," he repeated. Without taking his eyes from me, he took a step back.
<
br /> "G'day," I said in an effort to make him feel I wasn't a threat. "I'm Kylie. Kylie Kendall."
"Kendall." He nodded and took another step backwards. This was embarrassing. I could just see Ariana Creeling's frosty expression when she found out I'd terrorized the cleaner.
"I'll just get dressed," I said, and beat it back to my room.
I kept out of the cleaner's way, and he certainly kept out of mine. I heard the buzz of a vacuum cleaner, but it didn't come near my door, which I'd left wide open to prove I wasn't lurking behind it.
At about eight Ariana appeared in the doorway. "Luis tells me you threatened him with a golf club."
"How was I to know the cleaner came in at dawn? No one told me."
She paused to consider this. "You're right. Someone should have."
"Breakfast?" I said hopefully.
"I picked up a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on my way here."
Yerks! Doughnuts at this time of morning?
"I'm used to eating porridge every morning."
"We might have some instant stuff."
Instant porridge? My stomach rumbled. If I had to, I supposed I could eat it.
I followed Ariana to the kitchen, admiring her loose-hipped stride. All in black again, she wore tight leather pants. I wondered who she went home to. No one as attractive as she was would be alone…although she did seem to be a bit of a cold fish.
Lonnie had coffee on and was already chomping his way through a noxious yellow doughnut. Behind him pictures danced on a TV set, although the sound was muted.
"Put whatever you need on the list," Ariana said, indicating with her coffee mug a magnet notepad stuck to the fridge door. "Fran usually stocks the kitchen once a week, but you can write 'Urgent' next to an item and she'll get it that day."
I carefully printed loose tea (NO flavors) and URGENT. "And I don't suppose you have a teapot, either," I said to Lonnie, who was licking his fingers after swallowing the last of his doughnut.
"Ask Melodie," he said as she breezed into the room.
"Ask me what?"
"Teapot," said Lonnie, selecting another doughnut. "Kylie wants to know if we have one."
"Nope."
"Put it on the list," Ariana said over her shoulder on her way out of the kitchen. "And when you're ready, Kylie, come to my office."
Melodie had her long, blond hair up today, twisted into a sort of knot and skewered by a tortoiseshell comb. It should have looked untidy, or at least as if the whole arrangement was about to come down, but on her it gave a casual, stylish impression.
"Did Julia Roberts behave herself?" she asked.
"She was okay, but she kept on staring into space. Gave me the willies. This place isn't haunted, is it?"
"Haunted?" Lonnie chortled. "Probably rats in the foundation, or maybe a family of skunks. I'll set up sensors, if you like, to catch your ghost."
Melodie sent him a quelling look, then said to me, "Julia Roberts is very sensitive." She gave her perfect teeth an airing. "Or she could have been teasing you."
"We've got a ghost at the Wombat's Retreat," I said. When they both looked blank, I explained, "The pub my mum owns, back in Wollegudgerie."
"What's a wombat?" Lonnie asked.
I was used to explaining this to foreign tourists. "An Aussie marsupial, a tough little animal that digs burrows wherever it takes its fancy. No good trying to stop them-they're like furry steamrollers when they get their minds set on something."
I dug out a key ring from the pocket of my jeans. "This is what a wombat looks like." It had been my idea to have Wombat's Retreat key rings made as publicity for the pub, and it gave me a pang to see it in my hand, so far away from home.
"Sort of like a bear," said Melodie. "Would a wombat attack you?"
"No, but it might walk over you if you got in its way."
"Australia's got such cute animals," Melodie enthused. "I just love those cuddly koala bears. And birds. My aunt's got one of those big white cockatoos with the yellow crests."
"That reminds me," I said. "There was this bird in the middle of the night. Whatever it was, it had a real routine of clicking sounds, and trills, and snatches of birdsong. When it got to the end, there'd be a break, and then it'd start all over again."
"Mockingbird," said Lonnie. "They arrive here in spring and drive everyone mad for a couple of months." He wiggled his eyebrows at me. "Trying to attract the ladies, that's what they're doing. Each of them has his own individual song."
A man I presumed was Bob Verritt stuck his head through the kitchen door. "Lonnie, there's a messenger at the front with a package for you. Something from Dr. Deer." He caught sight of the carton. "Any left?" Then he caught sight of me. "Hello!" He came all the way into the kitchen. "So you're Colin's daughter. I'm Bob Verritt."
He was one of those very tall, thin, concave guys who are sort of curved over themselves. His blue suit hung on him like his shoulders had been replaced by a wire hanger. He had lank hair of no particular color, a long face with a beaky nose, and the nicest smile. He even had a chipped front tooth, which was a first for the dentally perfect people around here.
He seemed surprised when I put out my hand, but he shook it anyway, saying, "I can't tell you how sorry I am about your father. He was a regular guy."
"Thanks. I wish I could have known him better, spent more time with him."
"You take after Colin in one way-he could rattle Ariana's cage too."
"She's upset?"
That got a hearty laugh. "And then some. She's just told me how you dropped in out of the blue yesterday and have plans to stay. All I can say is when I left her office, she wasn't a happy camper."
"Whoa," said Lonnie. "If Ariana's on the warpath, I'm getting out of the way."
"Don't forget, the messenger's waiting," said Melodie.
Lonnie didn't seem in much of a hurry, wandering off with a mug of coffee and yet another doughnut.
Melodie turned her wide green eyes on me. "How come you've upset Ariana?"
Bob Verritt answered for me. "Kylie's aiming to become a P.I. and replace her dad in the business."
"No!" Melodie looked at me with admiration. "But it's so hard. And you'll have to get a green card and everything."
"I don't need a green card," I said. "I was born in Los Angeles. I'm an American citizen."
"I thought you were Australian." Melodie spoke in the reproachful tone of someone who'd been fooled. "You sound like one."
"I'm an Australian too. I've got dual citizenship."
"Cool!"
Something she'd said hit me. "What do you mean it's hard to become a P.I.?"
Bob said, "You haven't been a cop, have you? Or got a degree in law or criminology."
"That's a no to both."
"Well, since you're starting from scratch, after the FBI says you haven't got a criminal history, you have to put in three years as a trainee under the supervision of a licensed P.I."
"Crikey! Three years? I was hoping I'd just have to take some sort of exam."
My disillusionment seemed to amuse Bob. "The exam's after you've completed a total of six thousand hours-two thousand each year. And you have to be paid for your time, or it doesn't count."
This was turning out to be a bigger commitment than I'd bargained for. "Let me get this straight. I'm an apprentice for three years, then I take an exam, then I'm a true-blue PL? Right?"
"Unless you've got a criminal record."
Hoping my disappointment didn't show, as I hated it when anyone felt sorry for me, I grinned at him. "No record. They never caught me."
"I auditioned for a P.I. role once," said Melodie. "One of three girls working for this millionaire. Guy's Eyes, it was called. Glad I didn't get the part. The show never made it past the pilot episode."
"Major bummer," I said, being polite. Three years was buzzing around in my head. But hell's bells, I didn't have any concrete plans for the future. I could start off, and if I didn't finish, well, that was the way it went.
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It suddenly occurred to me that Ariana could stonker me completely by refusing to be my supervisor. "You're a licensed P.I., aren't you?" I said to Bob.
He put up his hands. "Oh, no, Kylie. I'm not going to be the meat in the sandwich between you and Ariana. Work it out with her."
"I'll do that."
No time like the present, as my mum always says. I'd need my strength, so I grabbed a plain doughnut and washed it down with coffee. Then I strode down the hall to Ariana's office, set on following yet another of my mum's pieces of advice: Start as you mean to continue. I was going to start off confident, sure of myself. Ariana would be begging to take me on as a trainee.
The door was open and Ariana was behind her desk, her blond head bent over something she was reading. "Got a mo?" I said.
She skewered me with her blue gaze. "Sure."
I felt my self-confidence leaking away a bit. Maybe I should chat her up first, approach the subject from the side, burble on for a minute or two about nothing in particular.
"Yes?" Ariana said.
"I want you to be my supervisor. Bob Verritt's explained the whole P.I. thing. I know about the three years and all that." When she continued to look at me, expressionless, I added hastily, "I'm really keen, dinkum I am. You won't be sorry."
"I get inquiries almost every week from individuals who think it would be great to be a private investigator. I tell them all the same thing: It's not enough to want the job. You have to have the skills."
I couldn't think of any particular skill that would help me here, so I said, trying not to sound defensive, "I'm interested in people. What makes them tick." Jeez, did that sound like I might be a bit of a stalker? "But I'm not what you'd call a real sticky-beak, so no worries there."
Ariana sighed. "Okay, Kylie, I'll ask you the questions I use for would-be interns."
I sat up straight. "Fire away."
She didn't look enthusiastic. "Do you have computer skills?"
"Yes."
That took her back a bit. "You do?"
I took a minute to detail how I'd set up the pub's system and how I'd learned a lot of different programs-word processing, accounting, home office printing, and so on. And then I remembered the courses I'd done, so I told her about them.