KK01 - Wombat Strategy

by Claire McNab

  When she paused, I said, "I'm Kylie Kendall."

  Melodie flashed me another smile. She seemed to have more teeth than most people. "Hi, Kylie." Then she did a sort of double-take. Halting at the front door of the building, she stared hard at me. "Kendall? Like, Colin Kendall?"

  "My dad."

  Melodie looked at me more closely. "You're from Australia. That's why you talk funny."

  "Too true."

  "I've always wanted to go to Australia, but it's such a long way." She tapped her forefinger against her lips thoughtfully. "Although, they are making a lot of movies there now." She had a set of perfect fingernails that couldn't be real, painted an odd sort of murky red.

  The brass-studded front door opened into a tiled area embellished with more cactus plants in large earthenware pots. Lonnie was sitting behind the reception desk, and he didn't look pleased. "About time," he said to Melodie. "You said you'd be back an hour ago."

  "Oh, sorry, but you know how it is." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You're such a sweetie to cover for me."

  He rolled his eyes.

  "This could be the one, Lonnie. My big break."

  "You say that every time."

  "This is different. I nailed the part, I really did. They loved me!"

  "You say that every time too."

  Melodie gave the kind of airy laugh I've never been able to pull off. "Don't worry, I'll still talk to you when I'm famous," she said.

  Lonnie sneezed, then glowered at her. "Julia Roberts has been in my room again."

  Melodie turned to me. "My cat," she said. "She loves Lonnie, which is real sad, because Lonnie hates her."

  "I don't hate Julia Roberts, I'm allergic to her."

  I blinked as it suddenly occurred to me that these two were my employees. After all, I did own fifty-one percent of the company, so fifty-one percent of the staff was mine. "Anyone else work here?" I said.

  They both looked at me, obviously wondering why I wanted to know. "There's Bob Verritt," said Lonnie, "and Harriet Porter, part-time."

  "And Fran," Melodie added.

  I would have asked more, but Lonnie said, "Ariana told me to tell you she'd like to see you in her office."

  "Right-oh."

  I felt a surge of enthusiasm. Maybe she was warming to the idea of having me as her business partner. I bounded down the hall and flung open her door. The handle slipped out of my hand, the door whacking hard against the white wall. It made quite a racket, so I had the undivided attention of the two people in the room—Ariana and the bloke in the pale gray suit I'd caught a glimpse of before. They were sitting opposite each other in the comfortable chairs.

  "Sorry to barge in like this." Jeez, I felt like a galah. I knew I was blushing.

  The gray-suited bloke hauled himself out of the depths of the black leather chair. "Ariana's been telling me all about you, Kylie Kendall. When I heard you were a fellow Aussie, I just had to say g'day."

  He was quite a specimen—tall, well-built, and handsome in a weather-beaten, squinting-at-the-horizon sort of way. His fair hair was thick, and he wore it in a casual windblown style that probably took quite a lot of effort to get just right.

  "G'day," I said back, wondering why I knew his face. A celebrity of some sort? It was L.A., after all. Then it struck me. The deer-doc on the white Rolls Royce convertible in the car park was the clue. This was Dr. Dave Deer, famous as the Aussie psychiatrist to the stars.

  Dr. Deer was flashing an electric smile. "Maybe you've heard of me," he said. "I'm Dave Deer."

  "I may have," I said.

  Of course I'd heard of him. The whole of Oz had. Even in remote Wollegudgerie we knew all about Dave Deer's success story—how he'd become a media star in Australia by treating everyone who was anyone when they went bonkers with his Slap! Slap! Get On With It therapy. Then he decided to help superstars overseas. I reckon he'd settled on California as a base because celebrities there seemed to suffer more than ordinary people. And they had money—lots of it.

  "Ariana tells me you're thinking of getting involved in the RI. business."

  I slid a glance in her direction. Why would Ariana be telling Dave Deer about my plans? Her face didn't show anything, but she was drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair. Nice hands, I thought.

  "Thought I might give it a bash," I said.

  "Good on you, mate! Then I'll be seeing you around." Checking his heavy gold watch, he said, "Gotta go. It's patients wall-to-wall this afternoon." He made a rueful face. "And you know how celebrities hate to be kept waiting."

  Thinking Dave Deer was a bit up himself, I said, "Is that so?"

  "They're not like ordinary mortals, I'm afraid. But they come to me for help, so what can I do?"

  I just looked at him. Dave Deer was a lot up himself, I decided.

  "I'll see you out," said Ariana, shepherding the doctor in the direction of the door. "Be back in a moment," she told me.

  My stomach growled. The airline breakfast I'd eaten somewhere off the coast of California was now a distant memory. In fact, the whole flight seemed remote. I put this down to jet lag, smothered a yawn, and decided I really did need a mug of coffee or I'd keel over any minute and fall asleep on the floor.

  Ariana came back, and like she'd read my mind, said, "I've told Melodie to order pizza for everyone. That okay with you?"

  "Too right! I could eat a horse and chase the rider."

  Her lips twitched, just a little. Fair dinkum, one day I might just get a smile out of her. I said, "What's Dave Deer here for? I reckon I can ask, being your partner."

  Ariana went behind her desk and sat down. She gave me a long, blue stare. A cold one. She really did have bonzer eyes. "Before I go into that, have you thought a little more about selling out to me? I'm willing to increase my offer substantially."

  "I'm not too keen on selling."

  I saw a muscle jump in her cheek. She was browned off with me, I could tell, but trying not to show it.

  "Los Angeles is thousands of miles from your home," she said, putting emphasis on "thousands."

  Home? A vision of my last scene with Raylene flashed in front of me like a movie. It wasn't pleasant—we both said things we shouldn't have. Raylene was a teacher at the local school, and Wollegudgerie being as small as it was, it was deadset I'd run into her all the time. She had pretty well shredded my heart, and I wasn't up for more punishment. What's more, she'd taken up with Maria at 'Gudge's one and only hairdressing salon, so where would I get my hair cut if I stayed?

  I shook my head. "I don't think I'll sell my share."

  In a reasonable tone, like she was talking to someone pretty dim, Ariana said, "This idea of yours of becoming a private investigator—it's not a piece of cake. It takes real commitment."

  "I'll do whatever it takes."

  She was making a real effort not to snarl at me. "I'm asking you, before you make a final decision, to sleep on it. Okay?"

  "Well, that's the thing," I said. "I haven't got anywhere to sleep. Like I told you, I just up and left. Didn't take time to book a hotel or anything."

  "You can stay here." She went on to explain how one of the advantages of having offices in a converted house was that a bedroom with adjoining bathroom was available for the odd overnight guest, or for someone who'd been on a stake-out all night and needed a place to get a couple of hours' sleep.

  I thanked her, not letting on I'd already scoped out the bedroom through the window, not wanting her to think I was a stickybeak. Then it hit me: Why was I thanking Ariana when half the place was mine?

  "Who's Bob Verritt?" I said. "And Harriet Porter? Oh, and Fran?"

  I was beginning to expect her answers to be crisp, and she didn't disappoint. "Bob's an experienced RI. He's out of town on a case. Back tomorrow. Harriet works for us part-time. She's putting herself through law school. Fran does filing, messages, that sort of thing. A general gofer."

  "Gofer?"

  "Go for this and go for that."


  I grinned at her. "Bit like a bitser."

  "You have me there."

  "What you'd call a mongrel dog—a bitser's a bit of this and a bit of that."

  The corners of Ariana's mouth curled just a little. One day I was going to get a full laugh out of her, but I wasn't holding my breath. She said, "I'd strongly advise you to avoid calling Fran a bitser."

  "I was commenting on the parallel construction," I said, prim-like. That made her blink, but then, she couldn't know I'd been terrific at English grammar at school.

  I found out why Ariana had given that advice about Fran when we all trooped down to the kitchen for pizza. Fran came in last. She was a little thing, a redhead with pale skin and quite a would-you-look-at-that bust that sort of stuck out like a shelf above her narrow waist and, frankly, sexy hips. She would have been quite good-looking but for the nasty scowl on her face.

  If my mum had been there she would have given some helpful advice about the danger of creating permanent frown lines and how whistling a happy tune was the way to go. I wasn't that pushy. I just said "G'day, I'm Kylie" and gave her a cheerful smile. Lead by example, my mum always says.

  "Fran," she growled in response.

  "Don't mind her," said Lonnie, grinning. "She's always like this, aren't you, Sunshine?"

  Fran shot him a look that could have dropped a crow clean out of the sky, and stomped over to the counter where unopened pizza boxes were piled, filling the air with mouthwatering smells. Switching her attention to Melodie, she said, "Did you order vegetarian? You know I'm a vegetarian."

  "I hope so." Melodie was clearly more concerned with her nail polish. "Rats! I got a chip," she announced, holding out a finger for inspection.

  Fran mumbled something unpleasant under her breath. I winked at Ariana. "I see what you mean," I said, with a nod toward Fran, who was opening each box in search of a suitable pizza. "She's not a bitser at all. More an attack dog."

  Ariana's expression didn't change, but I sensed she was softening a bit toward me. Of course, that was probably wishful thinking. She wanted me long gone. I'd just have to show her how I'd be a dinky-di asset to Kendall & Creeling. Then she'd warm to me.

  Or maybe not.

  THREE

  Full of pizza and with a slug of coffee to keep my eyes open, I went off to have that longed-for shower. Lonnie had kindly brought my battered old suitcase down from the front desk and shown me where the sheets and towels were kept.

  My room, at least for tonight, had bright throw rugs on the polished dark flooring, a queen-size bed with an elaborate carved headboard, and a brightly patterned bedspread that matched the curtains. There was a table by the bed and a huge, heavy dresser against one wall. A television set and combination video/DVD player sat on metal shelving, positioned for viewing from the bed.

  The place was also something of a storeroom, with a pile of cartons stacked against one wall and a sports corner containing two golf bags with clubs, several tennis rackets, and a tightly rolled exercise mat.

  I luxuriated under a very hot shower, washed my hair, and shaved my legs—the last not for any reason except it gave me an excuse to enjoy the spray drumming on my shoulders for a little longer. My hair was short, so it dried quickly. Changed into fresh clothes, and feeling delightfully clean, I thought I'd go back and talk things over with Ariana. But first I'd have a quick lie-down on the bed...

  "Wake up, sleeping beauty."

  I opened my eyes to Lonnie's cheeky smile. "What time is it?"

  "After six. Everyone's gone home, and I'm locking up. Just checking to see you've got everything you need. There's food in the kitchen, so help yourself."

  I followed his chubby body to the front door, feeling a little uneasy to be left alone in a strange house in a strange city. Lonnie didn't reassure me much when he said, "You're locked in tight. No one can get in. You should be safe."

  "Should be?”

  He pursed his lips. "Any neighborhood can be dangerous after dark, some more than others."

  "Is this a some, or an other?"

  He flashed his charming little smile again as he punched me on the arm, gently. "Just be careful, okay? Don't let anyone in, no matter how convincing a story they come up with."

  I must have looked a bit alarmed, because he rushed to assure me the outside was floodlit until sunrise, then gave me the number of the security service that checked the building at intervals during the night. "But call the cops if you think there's a real emergency—" He broke off to look over my shoulder. "Don't come near me, Julia Roberts!"

  The tawny cat I'd seen before was strolling in our direction, tail held high. "Does Melodie's cat live here?" I asked.

  Lonnie screwed up his face. "Unfortunately, for the moment, yes. Melodie's between apartments, and staying with a friend where pets aren't allowed." He added in a long-suffering tone, "The fact that I'm violently allergic to cat hair doesn't seem to matter to anyone except me."

  Seeing Julia still making a beeline for him, he backed out the front door. "I'm outta here. Sleep well."

  After he left, I did a circuit of the building, double-checking things were secure. In Wollegudgerie, most people didn't even bother to lock their front doors. It was different here. I'd seen enough American TV to know an unlocked door was an invitation for some yobbo to come on in.

  A quick squiz around the place showed me that not everyone had furnishings as stark as those in Ariana's office. Lonnie's area was so crammed with computers and other electronic thinga-mabobs that there was hardly room to turn around. Bob Verritt's room— I knew it was his from the framed diploma on the wall—was comfortably messy, with files spilling off his desk, an old-style jukebox in one corner, and a wall full of movie posters. One of them, The Shining, depicted Jack Nicholson, ax in hand, smiling maniacally through the splintered remains of a door at a screaming female. Crikey, I hoped that wasn't going to be me later on this night. Nah, it wouldn't be: I'd never screamed in my life, not even when my cousin Rob dressed up as the Whinging Lady and popped out of a wardrobe.

  "Will you protect me from intruders, Jules?" I asked. She'd been following me from room to room. If cats could shrug, that's what she would have done. Instead she yawned, then froze with eyes wide, like she'd heard something out of the ordinary.

  My heart flopped around a bit. "What can you hear?" I whispered, thinking I should have asked Lonnie if there was a gun anywhere. I mean, wouldn't there be firearms in any self-respecting P.I. office?

  Julia Roberts waited until I was checking Bob Verritt's desk for some sort of weapon, then she put one back leg in the air and started washing her nethers. Evidently any danger had passed.

  I couldn't help feeling she was playing with me. "Caught me once," I told her, "but next time I won't believe you."

  I made a quick call home to Wollegudgerie to tell Mum I'd arrived in one piece. She asked lots of questions, but I said I was tired and would call again later in the week.

  In the kitchen I investigated the contents of the refrigerator. Apart from the remains of pizza from lunch, there were the makings of an omelet—eggs and a packet of sliced ham that didn't look too ancient.

  "What's half-and-half?" I asked Jules. It appeared to be very runny cream, so I threw a good lot into the bowl with the eggs.

  Now that we were in the kitchen, Julia Roberts was acting a lot more friendly. It occurred to me that maybe no one had thought to feed her. I spied a couple of plastic dishes under the table, one with water, the other empty. Jules whipped up enough enthusiasm to speak. Having been brought up with cats, I could translate: "Forget what you're doing. Feed me. Now!"

  Fortunately I found tins of cat food in the second cupboard I tried. "Would you like turkey? Or tuna?"

  I gave her turkey. It seemed very American to me, and she was, after all, an American cat.

  After we'd both eaten we retired to the bedroom. Jules was perceptibly friendlier now that I'd demonstrated my worth. As a companion, she was nice to look at but rather unnerving. S
he had the habit of fixing her glowing green gaze at the corner of the room, or out the half-open door, as if someone or something were about to appear. I made a mental note to ask tomorrow if the house happened to have a resident ghost.

  Personally, I didn't believe in the spirit world, but Mum's pub, the Wombat's Retreat, is supposed to be haunted by the Whinging Woman, dressed all in white, who wanders around complaining loudly and walking through walls. I've never seen her, but there's plenty who say they have—usually booze artists after a session in the bar.

  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.