KK01 - Wombat Strategy

by Claire McNab

  I left her calling the receptionist hotline.

  "What am I letting myself in for?" I asked Elise. "I've never been to one of these spa places. You'd better tell me what to expect."

  She flashed me a smile. "I'd like it to be a complete surprise."

  "I'm not too sure I'm ready for it."

  "Trust me," she said. She ran a light and turned left to a chorus of horns. "I just know you're going to love Pampering Hands. When I'm tense and tired, there's nothing better. I try to go at least once a week."

  We glided down Rodeo Drive, Elise's blood-red Rolls Royce convertible getting plenty of stares. She patted the pale cream leather of her seat. "Birthday present from Dave. Sensational car, isn't it?"

  I smiled at her, warmed by her unaffected pleasure in luxury. "Terrif," I said, "but I'd worry every time I parked, in case someone scratched it."

  Elise gave a airy wave. "When I'm out I never park the thing myself. There's always valet."

  The proof of this statement was demonstrated when we drew up at the curb in front of a gorgeous little building made to look like a miniature Greek temple. Almost before we'd stopped, two blokes wearing black jumpsuits with the words pampering hands spa on their chests had our doors open.

  "Ms. Deer! Welcome to Pampering Hands!"

  We were met at the door by a slim young woman wearing a white tunic and sandals. "Ms. Deer! How wonderful to see you again."

  She turned her smile on me. It wavered for a moment when she saw my black eye, which was now an interesting shade of khaki, and my still-swollen nose. Even so, I thought she might still say it was wonderful to see me too, but she didn't. "And your guest...?"

  "G'day. Call me Kylie," I said.

  "What a lovely name."

  "It's Aboriginal for boomerang."

  The woman seemed a bit thrown by this. "How fascinating."

  She glided off toward a big stone altar affair and consulted a screen set into its surface. "Ah!" she exclaimed with professional delight. "Ms. Deer, I see you've chosen for yourself our ultra-detoxifying mud wrap, followed by a Ayurvedic Shirodhara. And for your friend..."

  "Kylie," I said.

  "And for Kylie you've chosen a salt exfoliation, followed by the Pampering Hands full-body massage. An excellent regimen for one's first visit to our wonderful spa. And then, of course, both of you will complete your pampering with a relaxing Pampering Hands mineral salts spa bath."

  As she led us down a white marble corridor, I said to Elise, "I can make a stab at what a mud wrap might be, but what's the thing you're having after it?"

  Overhearing me, the young woman said in reverent tones, "Ayurvedic Shirodhara is a wonderful, ancient East Indian ritual. Warm sesame oil is poured over the third eye in one's forehead, followed by an Indian head massage. We highly recommend it, to release blocked energy and to clear the mind."

  "Sounds wonderful," I said, with just a touch of mockery.

  She gave me a patronizing smile. "Would you like me to explain your salt exfoliation and full-body massage?"

  "Please don't. Let's leave it as a wonderful surprise."

  I was left alone in a candlelit room, furnished with a massage table. I felt its surface and found it was heated. Beside was a chrome bench covered with a multitude of exotically shaped bottles containing lotions and oils. I discovered they were warmed too. My skin prickled: Someone was watching me.

  A short, tunic-clad woman with alarmingly muscled arms had soft-footed it into the room. "I'm Veeda," she hissed, peering at me with an evaluating stare. "Your first time here at Pampering Hands Spa?"

  "Too right."

  "Please disrobe completely."

  "What? Everything?"

  "Everything."

  I met up with Elise again in the mineral salts spa bath. "Phew," I said, slipping into the bubbling water beside her. "I'm exfoliated and massaged to the billy-oh. There isn't a bit of me that hasn't been pounded and squeezed."

  "You didn't absolutely love every moment?" She seemed astonished.

  "I'm not used to total strangers getting quite that intimate with my body," I said.

  "Who was your masseuse?"

  "Veeda."

  "Oh, Veeda. I've had her." Elise chuckled. "She has a particularly vigorous approach and a firm touch."

  "Crikey, she sure does."

  "But don't you feel relaxed?" Elise asked. "Renewed?"

  I wriggled my shoulders. "You know," I said, "I think I do."

  Elise discussed the spa for a few moments, stopped to point out she was sure she'd seen Barbara Walters in the adjacent massage room, then said, mega-casually, "How's the investigation going?"

  "Investigation?"

  "Oh, come on, Kylie. Don't play dumb with me. You know what I'm talking about. The whole Jarrod Perkins thing."

  "Didn't Dave tell you all about it? He hired us."

  Elise frowned heavily. "Dave won't discuss the matter. He's suddenly developed the old-fashioned idea that his wife should be protected from harsh reality."

  "What harsh reality?"

  "That's what I'd like to know," said Elise. "Frankly, I'm worried Dave is hiding something from me."

  Feeling like a real detective, I weighed up what searching question I should ask. The best I could come up with was, "Do you think he had something to do with the murder?"

  This amused Elise. "Dave kill someone? He hasn't got the guts. And even if he did, I could handle it. It's something a lot more serious."

  More serious than murder? "What is it?" I asked.

  "The most important thing in the world. Money. Think what the publicity could do to Deerdoc if the murder investigation gets too close."

  "I thought any publicity was good publicity."

  Elise made a face. "Not with Dave's clients." She dropped her voice so low I could hardly hear her above the bubbling water. "I'm not expecting you to break confidences, but one Aussie to another, I'm asking you to warn me if the shit's going to hit the fan in a big way. I want to get out with my finances intact, no matter what happens to Dave. Know what I mean?"

  I knew what she meant.

  NINETEEN

  I spent the rest of the week working on my private eye skills. Harriet and Lonnie gave me preliminary lessons on using public records to background individuals, and showed me how to trace people who had skipped to avoid debt or responsibilities like child care payments.

  This exercise got a bit more interesting when Randy Romaine skipped bail and disappeared.

  Bob took me out in his car and demonstrated moving surveillance. It was fun learning how to follow someone without being noticed. Then I practiced on unsuspecting motorists. Mostly the techniques were common sense, like putting several cars between you and the subject, and driving by then doubling back if the subject turns into a service station. Some things, though, I'd never thought of before.

  One was, Bob said with a wink, illegal. This was to get at the subject's vehicle when it was parked. Using a pen or screwdriver, a small hole was punched in one of the plastic brake light covers. This made the car much easier to follow, even in heavy traffic, as every time the driver braked a bright white spot of light blinked on.

  I didn't see much of Ariana. She had a deposition in Nevada and then a court appearance in Santa Barbara.

  My Aunt Millie called me on Wednesday. As soon as I heard her tart voice I could visualize her sharp-featured face. Aunt Millie was a vinegary soul with an unerring ability to find the negative in every situation.

  I'd hardly managed hello before she started. "Kylie Kendall, you're trouble, pure and simple. I said it from the time you were born—that girl's trouble, I said."

  "And how are you, Aunt Millie?"

  "Not good, but a lot better than your mum."

  I felt a thrill of alarm. "What's wrong with Mum?"

  "You've broken her heart."

  Relieved, I said, "Oh, is that all?"

  "Is that all?" she repeated sarcastically. "Typical! Just take a look at your attitude, my g
irl."

  "Aunt Millie—"

  "I'd have thought you'd have had some consideration for your family before you went gallivanting over to the States. But no." She paused for me to absorb this. "You always were a headstrong, self-absorbed girl. Even as a child, I knew you'd bring heartbreak to your mother."

  "Mum put you up to this, didn't she?"

  "I don't know what you mean," said Aunt Millie indignantly.

  "Then why are you calling me?"

  "Isn't it obvious? You're needed back here at the Wombat's Retreat. Your poor mother is barely coping."

  "What about Jack?"

  "He's a man," said Aunt Millie. "He does his best, but well..."

  Lonnie's birthday was on Saturday, and I was touched to be included in his birthday celebration, which was to be lunch at a restaurant of Lonnie's choice.

  "Would you believe," said Melodie on Friday, "Lonnie's gone and picked Shel 'n' Hymie's again?. He's got no imagination."

  "What's wrong with the place?" I asked.

  "It's a deli. You don't have a birthday lunch at a deli, 'specially when Kendall & Creeling is picking up the tab."

  "Are you talking about a delicatessen? A shop where they sell ham and cheese?"

  "No, a New York deli. You know, like Nate 'n' Al's or Jerry's." She gave a discontented sigh. "Why couldn't Lonnie choose one of them? The stars go there."

  Shel 'n' Hymie's Deli was in Studio City on Ventura Boulevard. Harriet volunteered to pick me up from Kendall & Creeling so I wouldn't have to find the place myself. We parked across the road in a supermarket lot, meeting up with Lonnie as we walked to the traffic lights. He beamed when we both wished him a happy birthday. "It's so great of you guys to come," he said.

  On the other side of the road a faded sign on a nondescript building announced SHEL 'N' HYMIE'S DELI. A metal railing enclosed a few tables in the front, each bolted to the ground and with a grubby yellow umbrella. Traffic thundered past, perfuming the air with exhaust fumes. I couldn't imagine why anyone would sit out there, but most of the tables were occupied.

  As we waited for the lights to change, Lonnie said approvingly, "Shel 'n' Hymie's is just like a genuine New York deli. They got it right—the ambiance, the in-your-face style."

  "And the great food," said Harriet. "Don't forget the food."

  The traffic ground to a halt, one huge truck hissing its air-brakes with irritation. We skipped across the road and through the utilitarian glass door. The ambiance Lonnie admired was provided by the cramped booths lining two sides and the Formica-topped tables filling the rest of the space. The floor was industrial gray, the walls a yucky shade of green. The place was crowded with people talking loudly, sometimes to their companions but frequently into cell phones.

  Lonnie was obviously a regular customer. He asked Joyce, a tough-looking bottle-blond wearing a red checkered uniform and white apron, how she was today.

  "The usual," she snapped. "I'd complain, but what would be the use?"

  She marched us to a corner booth with a view of the traffic outside. It would just be big enough to squeeze in six people. Fran, glaring at a large, laminated menu, was already there. "Bob's going to be late," she said, looking up, "and Melodie is never on time, as we all know."

  "Is Ariana coming?" I asked, aware that I'd be terribly disappointed if she wasn't.

  Fran shrugged. "Last I heard, she was."

  "You expecting more?" demanded an angular woman with a nasal twang. She was wearing the same uniform as Joyce and the same hard expression. The badge on her chest identified her as Dora.

  "Three more on their way," said Lonnie. He beamed at her like a cheerful puppy. "Today's my birthday, Dora."

  "Many happies," she said, without a change to her dour expression. She slapped menus down in front of us. "Something to drink?"

  "Diet Coke," said Fran.

  "The same," said Lonnie and Harriet in chorus.

  Dora switched her gimlet gaze to me. "You?"

  "May I have Coke Coke, please?" I asked. "The real stuff, I mean."

  "Three diets and one regular." She spun on her heel and walked off.

  "See what I mean about style?" said Lonnie appreciatively. "Dora's got that New York attitude."

  "Abrupt, you mean?" I said.

  "Rude," said Harriet. "They pride themselves on it."

  I scanned the menu as the others chatted. The choice was huge: pastrami, corned beef sandwiches, cheese blintzes, potato pancakes, lox and scrambled eggs... I wasn't sure what half of them were, so I decided to play it safe and order something simple like a corned beef sandwich.

  "Before Bob gets here," said Lonnie in a conspiratorial tone, "I have to tell you the cops interviewed him last night. About Jarrod Perkins."

  "How do you know that?" asked Fran.

  "Because," said Lonnie, "they interviewed me too." He added in a pleased tone, "I told them everything I knew about Reece Quinn."

  Harriet looked disgusted. "That is such old news. I can't believe it's come up now."

  "Who's Reece Quinn?" I asked.

  "Bob's big chance to make the big time." Fran's tone was caustic.

  "A couple of years ago," said Harriet, "Perkins claimed he was being stalked, and Bob was hired to assess security at his house. And, like every second person in this town, Bob had an idea for a movie and didn't want to miss this opportunity to offer it to a director."

  "Dumb move," said Fran.

  Lonnie took up the story. "Bob had a draft script based on his experiences as a P.I. He called the character Reece Quinn."

  I could see where this was going. "Jarrod Perkins stole the script?"

  "Perkins strung Bob along for a while," said Harriet, "getting his hopes up. Bob spent a lot of time polishing the script. After about six months Perkins lost interest, and the whole thing lapsed."

  "Imagine Bob's surprise," said Fran, "when the word leaked out that Jarrod Perkins had a big-time scriptwriter working on an original idea Perkins had come up with. By sheer coincidence, the character and plot points were just like Bob's Reece Quinn script."

  "So what happened?"

  "Bob had it out with Perkins, but it didn't get him anywhere. There's no copyright on ideas, and Perkins told him to get lost."

  I caught sight of Bob Verritt's tall, lanky form through the window. "Here he comes," I said.

  Bob slid into the booth beside me. I looked at him sideways, wondering what he'd told the police. He'd just moved up higher on my mental list of suspects, although I couldn't imagine Bob killing anyone, not even Jarrod Perkins.

  At that point Melodie arrived in a cloud of explanations of how she'd just had to stop at a couple of sales on the way. "Would you believe," she cried, bundling herself and several shopping bags into the booth, "I got a pair of Manolo Blahnik for half price! Just like the ones Sarah Jessica Parker wore to the awards the other night."

  "How much?" Fran asked.

  "Three hundred. Marked down from five." Melodie dove into one of the bags and came up with a pair of black stilettos with very high heels.

  "Crikey," I said, "people pay that much for shoes?"

  "Kylie, they're Manolo Blahnik," said Melodie. "I mean, Madonna wears them."

  Dora appeared with our drinks. "Three diet. One regular." She slapped them down, then glowered at Melodie and Bob. "Drinks?"

  Melodie responded with—no surprise—"Diet Coke, please." Bob asked for iced tea. Dora grunted and departed.

  "Dora's not all that happy in her work," I said.

  "Nonsense," said Lonnie. "I know for a fact she loves being here at Shel 'n' Hymie's."

  Bob grinned. "She told you that?"

  "Perhaps not in those words," said Lonnie. "But Dora's been here for years. She wouldn't stay if she didn't love the place."

  My pulse gave a little jump when I looked up to see Ariana approaching. Black jeans, black shirt, with a glint of gold at her throat. Wow.

  "Happy birthday, Lonnie," she said, handing him an envelope. I'd learned it w
as office policy to have everyone put in for a present. Lonnie had wanted some obscure bit of electronic equipment and was getting a check so he could buy it himself.

  Ariana slid into the booth, Dora materialized, and we all ordered. When our meals came I blinked at the size of my corned beef sandwich. Huge slices of bread, enough corned beef to choke a horse, salad, coleslaw, and pickles. I could stretch this serving to two meals—maybe three.

  Joyce herself brought the birthday cake that had been specially ordered. We all sang "Happy Birthday," more or less in tune. Lonnie blushed with pleasure. "Oh, you guys!"

  Dora appeared. "Cawfee?" she asked in her grating voice. She stood with one hand on her hip, daring anyone to order.

  "Cappuccino, please," I said.

  Dora looked at me as if I had crawled out from under a rock. Fran smirked.

  Perhaps it was my Aussie accent. I tried again. "Cappuccino?"

  "Cappuccino," said Dora with scorn. "Cappuccino? We serve cawfee here.

  Cawfee?

  "Oh," I said, "then in that case, I'll have coffee, please." Lonnie shook his head as Dora stomped off. "You've gotta love them," he said, "those New York waitresses."

  On Sunday Raylene called. My stomach turned a somersault at the sound of her voice. "Kylie? Your mum gave me your number."

  I couldn't think of anything to say.

  "Kylie?"

  "I didn't expect to hear from you."

  "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

  I was furious to feel tears sting my eyes. "It's a bit late for that, Raylene."

  "I want you to know, I know I made a big mistake."

  I shrugged, although of course she couldn't see me.

  "Come on, sweetheart," said Raylene, her voice soft, "don't make me beg. I shouldn't have done what I did. I was wrong. I should never have thrown you over for Maria. Please forgive me." She waited for a moment, then said, "Kylie?"

  I'd been longing to hear these words. I'd dreamed of her saying them. Now they seemed strangely flat. "It's too late," I said.

  "What do you mean? Do you want me to crawl? I'll do it. I was stupid and thoughtless."

  "What does Maria think of this turnabout?"

  "Don't worry about Maria. She's okay."

  "Mum told me you and Maria were planning to go to Bangkok."