KK01 - Wombat Strategy

by Claire McNab

  "Not hiding. Having a hide. Like a rhinoceros. You, know, being thick-skinned, so you don't get discouraged easily."

  They looked at me blankly. This was uphill work. "Okay," I said, "here it is in a nutshell. If you're not pushy, you don't get a reward. Got it? No hide, no Chrissie box."

  "Then I guess you get a lot of Chrissie boxes, Kylie," said Lonnie with a grin.

  "Let's get on with it," said Ariana.

  Her cool voice got Lonnie moving fast. He rapidly handed out stapled pages to Ariana, Harriet, and me. "This is a staff list, including social security numbers, for Deerdoc Enterprises in L.A. Thirty people are either on the payroll now or were recently employed by Deerdoc."

  His look of disapproval plain, Lonnie went on, "Before these people were employed, there were very cursory background checks, or in some cases none at all." He squinched up his face as though in pain. "I keep asking myself, when will they ever learn?"

  Ariana said, "We need to dig a great deal deeper."

  "You've got that right. Harriet, you take the first fifteen, I'll take the last. There are some Australian nationals, and we could have some difficulty with them because most of their personal information will be in that country."

  "The usual info?" Harriet asked.

  Ariana nodded. "Contact previous employers and anyone who gave personal references. Look for criminal arrests and convictions, property transactions, credit ratings, bankruptcies, any involvement in civil cases, including divorce. And double-check educational qualifications, especially for anyone claiming a medical degree. We all know how often people lie about their credentials."

  A telephone rang. Lonnie had to hunt around to find the handset under the stuff he had piled on top of his desk. "It's Dave Deer for you, Ariana."

  "Tell Melodie I'll take the call in my office." She beckoned to me to come with her.

  On the way down the hall, I said, "I wouldn't be all that keen on being slapped across the face, specially by a big bloke like Dave Deer. It's a wonder that any of his patients come back for more."

  "They come back, all right. He has no trouble keeping his clientele. In fact, he's so much in demand, new patients can expect to wait months for a first appointment."

  "You mean if someone like Nicole Kidman rang Dave Deer and said she'd go stark raving mad unless he saw her right away, he'd tell her, 'Sorry Nic, no can do?'"

  "I imagine he'd take Nicole Kidman without delay," she said dryly.

  In her office, she motioned for me to take a seat as she picked up the receiver. "Dave, it's Ariana." She listened calmly as he spoke. Even from where I was sitting I could pick up on the agitated tone in his voice.

  "You're absolutely right," said Ariana. "We have to be proactive. We should meet." She listened. "Yes, excellent. Your house at eight."

  An idea was rocketing around in my head. Ariana'd probably give it the big thumbs-down, but like my mum says, you don't know it's a goer till you give it a go.

  As soon as Ariana put down the receiver, I rushed in with it. "I've been thinking, nobody knows me at Deerdoc Enterprises except Dr. Deer himself. And Lonnie said there were other Aussies there. So why couldn't I go in undercover? I could suss out the place, no worries."

  I half expected I'd finally get a laugh out of her, but it wouldn't be the sort I'd enjoy. That didn't happen. She regarded me thoughtfully, smoothing her pale hair with one hand. This was the first edgy gesture I'd seen her make, apart from drumming her fingers yesterday when I said I was set on becoming a P.I.

  At last she spoke. "Maybe that's not a bad idea." There was another long pause while she thought some more, then she said, "I'll call Dave Deer back and tell him you're coming with me tonight, and I'll run the idea past him. It's for dinner, so don't ruin your appetite beforehand."

  With a ghost of a grin, she added, "That is, if you're available..."

  "Oh, I'm available."

  "For actors, the right name is vital," Melodie advised. She paused to answer a call, then went on, as though nothing had interrupted, "Yours, for instance, would be a good one."

  "What? Kylie Kendall? You're joking."

  I'd come up front to the reception area to ask Melodie if there was an iron around, as I had to make something in my sparse wardrobe look presentable for dinner at the Deers' place.

  "Of course, I had to change mine."

  "Your name's not Melodie?"

  She frowned. "Not the Melodie, the Schultz. Now I ask you, does Melodie Schultz make you think star?"

  I had to admit it didn't.

  "So I took Davenport as my professional name. How do you think that sounds? Melodie Davenport?" She paused as if listening for an echo.

  "Ripper name," I said. When she looked at me with doubt, I went on, "Like, it's absolutely excellent."

  Julia Roberts, who had been curled up in a tight ball on the reception desk, pleased me by waking up, stretching, and coming over to be adored.

  "She likes you," said Melodie. "Julia's real choosy, so you should be flattered." Then she was back on topic, clearly into deep musing over monikers. "Julia Roberts is a terrific name, but Bob Verritt couldn't be a success in the biz with his. The Bob's the problem. If he used Robert, he might make it. And Lonnie Moore? No way. Not that he's star material in any case."

  Another call came through. "Kendall & Creeling...I'll put you through to Mr. Verritt." That done, Melodie moved onto Harriet Porter, commenting that although Harriet was an old-fashioned name, it might be okay, being as there weren't that many Harriets in competition.

  I put my search for an iron on hold, and asked, "What do you think of Ariana Creeling as a name? Got possibilities?"

  Melodie wrinkled her nose, managing to look attractive doing it. "Don't like the Creeling."

  "It's not her married name, is it?"

  My casual question earned a casual shrug. "No idea."

  Did that mean Ariana was married, or that Melodie didn't know one way or the other? "You mean you don't know if she's married or not?"

  "Maybe she has been, maybe not. She's a very private person. All I can tell you is she lives in the Hollywood Hills. I've been to her place. It's lovely. Got a great view."

  Someone took this moment to dial Kendall & Creeling's number. Melodie glared at the phone. "Look, people, it's Friday afternoon. Give me a break."

  This call turned out to be much more welcome, as it was from one of Melodie's friends. Before she and Tiffany could get too deeply into plans for the weekend, I interrupted with, "I'm looking for an iron. Any ideas where I might find one?"

  "Hold on," she said to Tiffany. Melodie then gave me the bad news. "You'll have to ask Fran. She's the only one who'll know."

  In the BMW, Ariana and I went west along Sunset toward Beverly Hills. Sunset Boulevard was obviously the place to be on Friday night. Twin streams of cars, many of the occupants shouting and tooting, clogged the roadway. The footpaths were crowded with people walking, talking, and standing in queues to get into places. Several of the billboards lining the road didn't just sit there, they scintillated and flashed and boomed with music and sound effects.

  Ariana drove the way I expected: smoothly, competently, and with patience. This last quality I admired, not having all that much of it myself.

  "That's the House of Blues," she said, gesturing to an awkward-looking building on the left. I didn't have the faintest what the House of Blues was, but I said "Right" as if I did. It was clear to me I needed a crash course on this sort of stuff if I was ever to get anywhere as a P.I. I resolved to quiz Melodie about Sunset nightlife and so on, working on the principle that she'd certainly be in the know.

  We swept around a corner and down a hill, and abruptly everything changed. Gone were the crowds, the gesturing motorists, the gaudy lights. A discreet sign indicated that we were entering Beverly Hills. The traffic jams disappeared as the roadway widened. Vehicles sped along, minding nobody's business but their own. I caught glimpses of large houses and luxurious gardens behind concealing walls.r />
  After we'd driven a couple of kilometers, Ariana turned right off Sunset and onto a narrow, winding street. Houses crowded both sides, but no one was out walking the dog or taking an evening stroll. Because there were hardly any streetlights and lots of trees, it was a bit like driving through a leafy tunnel.

  I glanced over at Ariana. Illuminated by the lights from the dash, her profile was serene, but I reckoned that inside she couldn't be. "This case is really important, isn't it?" I said.

  "Every case is important."

  "Fair go, you know what I mean. Dave Deer's a big shot. If things go wrong, he'll cut up rough. It'll be our fault, not his."

  She glanced over at me. "What makes you say that?"

  "Back in Oz, before he ever came to the States, there was this big fuss when one of Dave Deer's patients, a TV personality, used a shotgun to murder his wife and his mother, then blew himself away. The word got out that in therapy sessions—some with Dave Deer and some with another therapist who worked for him—the bloke had talked about what he was planning, but nothing was done about it. For a while it looked like Dave Deer was in for it, but then, all at once it was entirely the other doctor's fault and Dr. Deer was totally off the hook."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying if things go down the gurgler, Dr. Deer won't get sucked in. It'll be someone else's fault, never his. And if he has to blame Kendall & Creeling, trust me, he will."

  "Thanks for the warning."

  I got the impression she wasn't taking my advice all that seriously, and that made me bring up something that'd been nagging at me since she'd agreed to let me get involved in the case. "I want it straight, Ariana. Are you going to recommend to Dave Deer I go undercover just so you can get me out of your hair?"

  She gave an amused snort. "It'd be a lot easier to take you for a one-way ride to the Angeles National Forest."

  While I was deciding how to reply to this, she took a sharp right, then a sharp left. Turning into a driveway, we pulled up at fancy wrought-iron gates. Tall walls stretched off on either side. The gates looked substantial enough to stop a tank. I noticed a movement at the top of one gatepost, as a camera swiveled around to stare at us.

  Ariana slid down her window, and when a disembodied voice asked for identification, said, "Ariana Creeling and Kylie Kendall. Dr. Deer's expecting us." I liked the way she said my name. Her American accent made it sound exotic.

  Silently, in a mega-spooky manner, the massive gates swung open. I twisted around to look back as we went up the driveway. They were swinging closed behind us. "What if the power goes out?"

  I didn't need to explain. Ariana said, "I imagine there's a manual release. Besides, my guess is there'll be an emergency generator up at the house."

  I guessed she was right. The place was a mansion and a half.

  After the darkness of the streets, the huge house was so bright it hurt the eyeballs. There were two stories, laid out in an "E" plan with the center part facing us. Every window of every room appeared to be lit. The entrance area was so brightly illuminated it seemed more like a stage set than anything else. Three shallow steps led up to a front door that had to have been snaffled from a castle somewhere. This enormous door was framed by two columns, each with lots of fussy stonework at the top. Lighting fixtures looking like gigantic, swollen lanterns were set into the wall on either side.

  "Crikey," I said. Then I shut up. I didn't want Ariana to think I was a little bushie who'd never been close-up to anything like this in her life.

  It wouldn't have been a surprise if a butler in full uniform had opened the door, but instead it was Dave Deer himself. He was dressed in what I'd call upmarket casual. His fair hair gleamed, his teeth gleamed, the gold watch he was wearing gleamed. I felt dull beside him.

  "Come in, Ariana. Kylie, delightful to see you again."

  Inside the door there were more columns, ornately carved, bracketing the entrance into the main part of the house. Our feet clacked on the parquet flooring. I was wearing heels tonight, not too high, and my best dress, plain and a sort of plum color. Fran, after a pause to whinge, had dug up an iron, and I'd unpacked everything and had an orgy of ironing to make my clothes presentable.

  Ariana—surprise—was wearing a black skirt and frothy black blouse. I figured if I had her coloring, I'd wear black too. The contrast made her blond hair blonder, her blue eyes bluer.

  A woman in a short, lacy dress came down the curving stairs, like she'd been cued to appear. Dave Deer said, "My wife, Elise. Elise, you know Ariana, of course. And this is Kylie Kendall."

  I already knew he was married to Elise Patterson. She was an Aussie and had been a professional tennis player—good but not top-ten material. The best ranking she'd had, I recalled, was somewhere in the low twenties. A few years ago, with her tennis career on the way down, she'd met and married Dave Deer. They'd had a big society wedding in Sydney that'd been splashed over all the popular magazines and made the front pages of most newspapers.

  Elise wasn't blond—I'd say her husband wouldn't want the competition—but mid-brown with red highlights. And she was really friendly, taking my arm and leading me through an arched doorway into a living room that dwarfed the furniture and all of us.

  "Big, isn't it?" Elise said, as I gazed around the room. Seeing me look up at the two heavy chandeliers suspended from the ornate gold-painted ceiling, she laughed. "I always think the buggers will come crashing down, but so far they haven't."

  We had drinks and chit-chat seated on two red couches placed on a fluffy white carpet that floated in a sea of parquet flooring. Between the couches a low table had a huge marble ball balanced in the middle as decoration.

  The conversation turned to the likelihood of a major earthquake giving LA. a good shake-up. Apparently there'd been a couple of minor quakes the week before I arrived, and this had got "the big one," as Ariana called it, on the agenda. "Do you get any warning before an earthquake happens?" I asked hopefully.

  When everyone agreed such disasters struck out of the blue, I spent the next few minutes waiting for the chandeliers poised above us to fall or the marble ball to roll off the table and squash someone's foot.

  A maid, dressed in a black dress and white apron, just like in some old movie, came in to say dinner was served. We all got up and headed out the arched doorway, which I noticed also had columns, these ones painted gold. As I passed the maid I said "G'day." She gave me a funny look. "Good evening, madam."

  "We're in the smaller of the two dining rooms," said Elise.

  The other one must have been humongous, as this dining room was pretty big. A wall of glass looked out over a swimming pool. Underwater lighting turned it into a glowing blue-green rectangle.

  At one end of the room was a fireplace with a highly wrought metal screen. I hid a smile at the portrait above the mantle, an oil painting of Dr. Dave Deer himself, gazing self-importantly out of the heavy gold frame.

  "Don't blame me for the decor," Elise said once we were seated at a large glass-topped dining table with metal legs and black metal chairs padded with cushions embroidered in gold and black. "We're renting this place, fully furnished. I wanted something somewhat less grand, but Dave insisted," she sent him an indulgent smile, "we needed room to entertain."

  "Speaking of entertaining," he said, beaming, "we're having a party tomorrow night. I know it's short notice, but Elise and I would love to have you both attend. And of course, bring a guest if you wish."

  "Thank you," said Ariana. "I'll come alone."

  I wasn't sure whether Ariana would want me at the Deers' party, but when everyone looked my way I had to say something. "Sounds bonzer to me."

  The maid, accompanied by a twin of herself also in black with a white apron, came in with the first course, a complicated salad with slices of smoked salmon. The first sip from my wineglass widened my eyes—this wasn't bad plonk at all. In fact, I had to admit it was pretty good.

  "An excellent Australian wine," said Dave Deer. "Per
haps you recognize it, Kylie."

  Oh, sure, like I'd ever have the money to buy top-of-the-line stuff. "Chardonnay," I said. "Margaret River area of Western Australia?" I'd cheated, of course. Having ripper eyesight, I'd read the district on the bottle's label.

  "Very good." He looked impressed.

  I felt embarrassed to have fooled him, so I said, "I didn't really know. I read the label."

  Instead of being offended, he was amused. "You'll find honesty isn't always the best policy, Kylie."

  "Dave and I have been talking about the idea of you going undercover at Deerdoc," Elise said to me. "We think it might work. We've got a cover story. You're to be my cousin, looking for a temporary job while you're in L.A. On Monday Dave's going to tell his assistant to take a couple of weeks' vacation, so you can fill in for her."

  "Kylie can't be seen to be associated with Kendall & Creeling," said Ariana.

  "We've thought of that," said Dave Deer. "Kylie can move in here with us. That's what Elise's cousin would do, if she existed." He sent a toothy grin my way. "We've got plenty of room, I assure you."

  I felt a pang of alarm. Had Dave Deer always had a shark's smile?

  SEVEN

  After Ariana dropped me off, I did my security rounds, had a shower, and then Julia Roberts and I had a good night's sleep. I only woke briefly when Jules had a full wash at three o'clock. By eight in the morning I was dressed, well breakfasted with porridge and tea, and had studied a street directory called the Thomas Guide. I was ready to brave the streets of Los Angeles.

  Ariana had mentioned that both Lonnie and Harriet would be in later. Even though it was Saturday, background checks on Deerdoc staff had to be finished. She said she'd be in the office by eight-fifteen to show me the ins and outs of the Mustang. True to form, she was there on the dot.

  Ariana opened the garage, and I saw the car she'd called my father's pride and joy. No way did its vibrant red self look almost 40 years old. Ariana stood with her hand resting on the hood, rather like she was soothing some thoroughbred animal, as she explained how she'd turned the engine over every week or so to keep the battery charged. Then she drove the Mustang out into the lane and painstakingly took me through everything she thought I should know.