by Claire McNab
I was fast getting the irrits with Fran and was ready to have it out with her right there and then, but a strange woman, who captured my attention entirely, chose that moment to come into the kitchen.
"Hi," she said. "You must be Kylie. I'm Harriet. Harriet Porter."
"G'day."
This one was a bit of all right. She had a honeyed contralto voice, a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, thick chestnut hair, and, for a change, she wasn't anorexic. Harriet Porter was one of those people who give the instant impression they're true blue. What you saw was what you got. At least I hoped so, as even in a severe business suit this was the sexiest woman I'd met for some time.
"Ariana tells me you're joining us as an intern," Harriet said. "Welcome aboard."
"I'm giving it a go."
Fran, noisily unpacking her bags, said, "You'd better be a quick study. Ariana's not famous for her patience."
"If Kylie's anything like her dad, she'll do just fine," said Harriet. To me, she added, "Colin was such a terrific guy. It's hard to believe he won't walk through the door any minute. Please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss."
"Here," said Fran, shoving a brown pottery teapot into my hands. "This what you ordered?"
Considering the way she'd snarled at me this morning, it was astonishing she'd come up with anything, but here was exactly what I wanted.
"Absolutely," I said, examining it. "Thank you, Fran."
"Strainer and tea." Fran dumped the items on the counter in front of me. She rummaged around and added a box with an illustration of a family ecstatic over breakfast. "And porridge. I figured you meant oatmeal. Too bad if you didn't, because that's what I got."
"Your blood's worth bottling, Fran." She grunted, but not with malice. Being friendly, I added, "You're Ariana's niece, aren't you?"
That got me a narrow look, like she thought I was needling her. "What's it to you?"
Harriet put an arm around Fran's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. "Lighten up, Fran. Kylie's just interested."
Astonishingly, Fran smiled. Grudgingly, to be sure, but it was a dinkum smile. Perfect teeth, naturally. "Yes," said Fran, almost pleasant. "My mom's Ariana's eldest sister."
This was the nicest I'd ever seen Fran. Harriet could obviously work marvels. Or maybe she and Fran... I dismissed that thought. My gaydar might be dodgy, but it wasn't that off.
"Fran's mom is an artist," said Harriet. "A very successful one, I might add. She's got an exhibition coming up, hasn't she, Fran?"
Fran, quite animated for her, nodded. "A gallery in Santa Monica."
"Do we all get invites?" I asked.
Fran's scowl reappeared. "The private showing's for selected guests." It was clear from her expression I had a snowball's chance of being one of these.
"Stone the crows! I wasn't trying to jump the queue."
Ariana's cool voice came from the doorway. "I didn't know you were interested in art, Kylie. If you're really keen, you can come to Janette's private showing with me." You re on.
"No big hurry, but after lunch I'd like to go through a few things with you."
"Right-oh."
Ariana poured herself coffee and left the room. I made a pot of tea, drank two cups black, with lots of sugar—I had to search for the sugar, as everyone else seemed to use artificial sweeteners— chomped through my salad, and then choofed off to Ariana's office.
"Dave Deer," I said before she could bring up anything else. "You never told me what he was doing here yesterday."
"It's a highly confidential matter."
"I won't be blabbing to anyone."
She gave me one of her long blue stares. "Dr. Deer has his consulting room set up to make discreet audiovisual records of each session with his patients. The individual disks are meticulously catalogued and put in the appropriate files, which are stored in a walk-in safe."
I could see where this was going. "A not-so-secure safe, is that it?"
She nodded. "Several disks are missing. They haven't been misplaced, as all the patients' records have been checked."
"Blackmail?"
Ariana leaned back and regarded me with a genuine smile. It was only a tiny one, but definitely more than a twitch of the lips. "Very good, Kylie. Blackmail it is. Two patients have session disks missing: Bart Toller, who's an up-and-coming actor, and Jarrod Perkins, who's—"
"The Aussie film director," I finished for her.
Jarrod Perkins had started off his career in Australia with a horror movie called The Dead! The Dead! I'd never forgotten it, because it had scared the living daylights out of me when I'd seen it at the Regal in Wollegudgerie. A couple of minutes into the story and I'd stopped noticing the spring in my seat digging into me, or that Raylene was holding my hand. Even the yobbos up the back of the cinema shut up when the body pieces started flying and the blood really began to flow.
That movie became a cult thing, and it made it overseas, so Perkins got larger budgets for his next movies. Soon Oz was too small for him, and he hit Hollywood in a big way with a weird musical called Shitstirrers' Spring, although I'd heard in the States it was advertised as S***stirrers' Spring.
In an interview on Entertainment Tonight Jarrod Perkins got all het-up and yelled, "What the shit is wrong with Shitstirrers' Spring as a name?" I remember reading he got his knickers in a real knot when it was broadcast as: "What the BLEEP is wrong with BLEEPstirrers' Spring as a name?"
"So what's happening?" I asked.
"Yesterday a letter came through the mail claiming to have the material from the files and indicating a large sum of money will be required for the return of the audiovisuals. No specific sum was mentioned. This was the first anyone knew anything was missing."
I'd seen enough blackmail stories to know what to ask next. "Who could have got to the files?"
Ariana gave an exasperated click with her tongue. "That's the point. Before this happened, security was slapdash. The door to the walk-in safe was frequently left open during the day."
"You're looking at an inside job, then?"
Again, Ariana almost smiled. "Nice use of P.I. lingo. And, yes. Almost certainly someone in the organization."
"Dave Deer didn't call the cops, did he? Too much publicity."
"Exactly. He can't afford to have his celebrity clients learn their deepest, darkest secrets may not be safely locked away. If this got out, he could kiss his successful practice goodbye."
"I reckon Jarrod Perkins is screaming blue murder."
"Mr. Perkins doesn't know anything about it." Her tone was neutral, so I couldn't tell if she approved or disapproved.
"Blimey. What if he gets a blackmail letter direct?"
With a wry quirk of her lips, she said, "I imagine things will get very interesting."
I was finding her mouth very interesting. Hell, I was finding all of Ariana interesting. And a few minutes ago I'd set eyes on Harriet Porter and thought she was crash-hot, too. All this so soon after Raylene had mashed my heart.
Was I fickle? Not so, I decided. This was a search for an antidote to the pain Raylene had inflicted. Then I had a little smile to myself: I could rationalize anything.
"Something amusing?"
I became aware Ariana was contemplating me with raised eyebrows. "Oh, sorry. Off with the fairies for a minute." I put on my best grave, paying-attention look.
Picking up her phone, she said, "Dave Deer sent over a demo disk of his Slap! Slap! technique as background for our investigation." She punched in a couple of numbers. "Lonnie? Ten minutes. I want to see the Deer demonstration disk. Get Harriet in too. Okay?"
She got up in one fluid movement. Harriet might be super-sexy, but Ariana was fascinating, in an unsettling sort of way. "Come with me," she said, walking into the hall. I puppy-dogged after her.
"This was Colin's office." She opened the door just down from hers. I remembered this room from my security patrol last night. It'd been the only one with wall-to-wall carpet—a charcoal-gray color.
The furnishings were pretty spartan—a lighter gray metal desk, with matching bookcase and filing cabinets. There was a flat-screen computer on the desk. A small pile of cartons sat on the floor. As there were no identifying photos on the wall, I hadn't known until now that it had been my father's office.
Ariana pointed to the cartons. "I packed Colin's things away, figuring I'd be sending them on to you." She opened the top drawer of the desk. "I was going to package this separately."
It was a framed photograph of me and Dad I'd never seen before. It had to have been taken in L.A., before my parents broke up. The background was a suburban garden. Dad was sitting on the grass with me, a little girl, standing within the circle of his arms. I was squinting into the camera because of the bright sunshine. In the photo he was looking at me with such affection that seeing it now, my eyes filled with tears. I stood the photo up on the desk, took out my hanky, and blew my nose. "Dust," I said.
"This can be your office."
"I get my own office?"
Ariana seemed mildly amused. "There's a problem?
"No prob, but won't the others think I've got a bit of a swelled head, having this when I'm only a trainee?"
"You need the tools to be a P.I., and a space you can use as a base is one of them. Another is a car. You can't exist in L.A. without one. For surveillance you don't want a vehicle that people remember, and you certainly must avoid anything that looks like a police car. A four-door sedan in a dark shade would be perfect."
"I've already got a car. Dad left me his, but I don't know where it's kept."
There was an odd pause, then Ariana said, "In the garage at the back."
"Good-oh. Then I'll drive that."
Ariana blanched a little. "That car was your father's pride and joy. It's a fully restored classic Mustang."
I had no idea what that was, but her tone said it was something special. "Gears or automatic?" I asked.
"Stick shift, I'm afraid." Ariana seemed pleased to tell me this. "You'll be needing an automatic. You don't want the distraction of changing gears while you're driving in an unfamiliar city."
"Not just that—it's also the other side of the road to what I'm used to."
Her expression showed she thought the matter was settled. "That's all the more reason why a stick shift's a bad idea."
"I'll see how I go. It was Dad's car, after all. Driving it will make me feel a bit closer to him, I reckon."
Plainly Ariana wasn't delighted. "What color is it, by the way?" I asked her.
"Red."
"You beaut! Never had a red car."
"It's not a color I'd recommend for surveillance."
"What did my dad drive when he was on a job?"
"He borrowed my car or used a rental."
"Can't I do that too?"
Ariana sighed. "We can discuss this later."
On the way to Lonnie's room, she said to me, "If at any time you change your mind, my offer's still on the table."
I opened my mouth to say I'd never change my mind but then shut it again. For all I knew, I might find being a P.I. wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Maybe I'd be pleased to sell out. "Fair enough," I said. "If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know."
Lonnie had an alcove in his work area set up for viewing, which was a good thing, as there was hardly any clear space anywhere else. Harriet was already in place, head bent over a textbook. "Got an exam tomorrow," she said in explanation. "Torts."
"Everyone who sees this demo has to sign a confidentiality agreement," said Lonnie, passing Ariana a clipboard.
I was curious to see the others' signatures, so I made sure I got it last. Ariana Creeling's name was in clear angular script; Lonnie's was a long scrawl with a couple of dots floating above it; Harriet had scribbled her initials.
I began to read the document.
"Kylie, what's taking you so long?" Lonnie demanded.
"I never sign anything till I know what it is."
"It's the standard form," said Lonnie. I didn't look at him, but he sounded like he was rolling his eyes.
Harriet hadn't even glanced at the form before she initialed it, but she still rushed in to defend me. "I think it very wise to read a document before signing."
"Finished." I handed the clipboard back to Lonnie.
"Okay," he said, punching a button. "This is the demo sent to therapists committed to buying a Slap! Slap! franchise from Deerdoc Enterprises."
It started with a blare of classical music, followed by warnings of dire consequences if any portion of the following program were to be copied or viewed by unauthorized persons. Then Dr. Dave Deer himself appeared in a white coat, which nicely set off his tan.
"What you are about to view," he intoned, "is a demonstration of my innovative therapy, Slap! Slap! Get On With It. I must emphasize this is a simulation. The patient is an actor. His responses are an amalgam of those most often encountered in a real-life session. That said, the technique itself is exactly as used with genuine patients, with the proviso that slight adjustments may be necessary to suit the specific needs of individuals."
The view switched to a white-and-black windowless room. The thick carpet and ceiling were white; the walls and sparse furniture were black. On one wall hung a large flat-screen TV. There were two straight-back chairs facing each other in the center of the room. An uncomfortable-looking couch was placed diagonally across one corner.
In voice-over Dave Deer said, "Black and white, the essential noncolors, and also the absolutes, provide a paradigm of the patient's worldview. During therapy, the illuminating realization—white and black combine to make shades of gray—will flower in the patient's essential inner self."
I thought I heard Ariana snort, but when I glanced her way her face was blank.
The picture now showed the room with Dr. Deer in his starched white medical coat and the actor playing the patient seated facing each other. "You will note the patient has a clear view of the screen," Dave Deer commented in voice-over, "and I, sitting in the opposite chair, have my back to it. This arrangement of the chairs is vital."
The actor playing the patient was a hollow-cheeked, intense sort of bloke with dark, burning eyes behind little oval-shaped specs. He wriggled around a bit in psychological agony. "Doctor, I'm deeply troubled." Pause. "Deeply, deeply troubled."
"Don't lose your day job," Lonnie advised the actor.
Dr. Deer's face was impassive. "You're deeply troubled," he agreed. "Deeply, deeply troubled."
The patient nodded. "Deeply. I have fame, fortune, but inside I'm empty. A husk of a man."
"You have fame, fortune, but inside you're a husk of a man. An empty husk."
Harriet hooted. "Who wrote this dialogue? I could do better myself."
The patient opened his mouth to speak but was transfixed by the screen behind Deer's head, upon which had appeared in block letters: don't come the raw prawn with me. I smothered a laugh.
"What's that for?" the patient said.
The screen went blank. Dr. Deer looked behind him, then back at the patient. "There's nothing there. Do you believe you saw something?"
"There were words up there on the wall. Something about a prawn."
Dr. Deer had another look. "I don't see anything. Possibly an electronic malfunction..." He gave the patient a meaningful stare. "Or a projection of your troubled, inner child."
SOOKS NEVER PROSPER.
"There it is again!" exclaimed the patient. "What's a sook?"
I answered him. "A crybaby."
The words had obligingly disappeared by the time Dr. Deer looked over his shoulder. "Have you had hallucinations before?" he asked.
Harriet said, "What's coming the raw prawn?"
"Aussie slang," I told her. "Means don't try to trick me, slip something past me, like putting a raw prawn in with all the cooked ones."
Dr. Deer's patient was becoming more and more agitated and didn't cope well when no hide, no chrissie box appeared.
The bloke lea
pt to his feet, screaming, "Look at the mother-fucking wall! And don't tell me I'm seeing things!"
The action froze, and Dave Deer's voice-over remarked, "You will note these Australian colloquial sayings, presented to the patient, have a function something akin to Zen koans, which challenge the audience to make sense of nonsense. The patient's struggle to discern meaning facilitates the development of a potential that dwells in all of us—that is, the perception of true selfdom."
A close-up of the patient's contorted face, caught in mid bellow, appeared. "Note the frustration, the lack of control, the almost childlike behavior of the patient," said Dr. Deer. "This marks the seminal, the determining, the shaping point of my therapy."
The frozen picture jerked into life. The patient, spluttering with rage, confronted his therapist, still sitting relaxed on his chair. "I've paid a small fortune for this...for this..."
As words failed him, Dr. Deer stood, drew himself to his full height, slapped the patient very hard on one cheek, then backhanded him equally hard on the other, while saying in a loud, commanding voice, "Slap! Slap! Get on with it!"
"You hit me! You physically assaulted me!"
Dr. Deer smiled, warmly, compassionately. "Your terminology is faulty. What you experienced was not assault. It was, in fact, an enlightening, freeing, clinically controlled, physical gestalt."
"Say what?"
Deer bent to pick up the patient's specs, which had been sent flying at the first hearty slap. "How do you feel?" he asked solicitously, handing them over. "What thoughts are arising from your deepest, innermost, most profound self?"
"That you're an asshole."
Dr. Deer beamed. "Excellent. Your healing process has begun."
SIX
As the screen went blank, Lonnie said, "I know I'm going to be sorry I asked, but what does 'No hide, no Chrissie box' mean?"
"It's a bit complicated," I said. "See, the day after Christmas is Boxing Day. In England it was the day the lord and lady of the manor came around to give food and other goodies to the peasants. See? They handed out Chrissie boxes."
"I'm already sorry I asked," said Lonnie.
"You've lost me," said Harriet. "What's this to do with hiding?"