by Claire McNab
I would have pointed out to Ariana that a walloper was a police officer, but she clearly got the picture. "Wallopers are out," she said without a ghost of a smile.
Pen was eyeing Ariana speculatively. "I've placed you," she said. "We have met before, once a long time ago."
"I'm sorry, I don't recall."
The atmosphere in the room had subtly changed. I looked at Ariana. Her face was pale. Her shoulders stiff. A niggle of apprehension tickled my stomach.
Pen Braithwaite frowned, then her expression lightened. "Of course," she said triumphantly, "Natalie Ives. That's the connection, isn't it?" Silence. Then Ariana said, each word an ice cube dropped into the room, "This is not a matter for discussion."
Fortunately, before things could become even more awkward, Harriet knocked on the door with the tea and coffee, and after she left the meeting resumed with no reference to what had gone before.
I tried to concentrate, but, crikey, my mind was a bunch of whirling thoughts. Who was Natalie Ives? And why was Ariana acting this way? Usually, she was cool and reserved, but this morning, after Pen's mention of the name, Ariana had become positively arctic.
At the conclusion of the meeting I saw the Braithwaites out to Kendall & Creeling's parking area. Pen Braithwaite drove one of those little Mazda sports cars that look like toys. It was turquoise in color, and with her size, she seemed to wear the vehicle rather than sit in it. I politely waited until they left, Oscar glum, Pen waving a cheerful goodbye, then came back into the building wondering what to do about Ariana. Not sure what the best course of action might be, I lingered at the front desk, where Fran and Melodie were chatting.
"Ashlee's getting snap-on teeth," Melodie was saying to Fran.
"Snap-on teeth?" I said. "What is Ashlee—a vampire?"
"Funny," said Melodie, not amused.
"Whose teeth?" Fran asked. "Not Gwyneth's, I hope. Those big square ones would be too much for Ashlee's little mouth." She paused to reflect. "Ashlee's mean little mouth."
"She chose Halle Berry's," said Melodie. "I think it's a big mistake. Everyone's got Halle Berry's."
"You've lost me. What's this all about?"
"I'd have thought," said Melodie, quite kindly, "that after you've been in the States this long, Kylie, you'd have a better grasp of what's going on."
"Fair go," I said. "I've only been in L.A. a few months."
"Years could go by," Fran observed, "and I doubt Kylie would be any more on the ball than she is now."
Blimey! This sheila worked for me, but I wasn't getting what you'd call much respect. Being the majority owner of Kendall & Creeling, I could give Fran the order of the boot, no worries. But she was Ariana's niece, so firing her probably wasn't a realistic option.
"Nice one, Fran," I said warmly, popping into the Pollyanna persona I knew drove her to distraction. "Thank you so much for your helpful criticism. I do so value your opinion."
Fran winced. Supersweetness really got to her. It was a little victory, but I savored it.
"In this town you've got to have a million-dollar smile," said Melodie. "There's the hard way and an easy way to get it. Ashlee's taken the easy way: snap-on, snap-off celebrity teeth. Myself, I believe in veneers."
"What is it with you lot?" I asked. "You're all tooth-obsessed."
"Veneers are excellent," said Fran, "but pricey. Quip's just had his front ones replaced. Cost a cool two thou a tooth."
I looked at her, gobsmacked. "Two thousand dollars each tooth!"
"It's an investment, Kylie. Quip needs to present well when he's pitching a script."
I visualized Quip, Fran's husband. He was a top bloke, and tall and handsome with it. And his smile, as I recalled, was pretty close to perfect. I said so to Fran.
She looked pleased. I reckoned she really did love him, though what a sunny person like Quip saw in Fran the Morose completely beat me.
"Veneers only last ten years," said Melodie. She rummaged around in her voluminous makeup bag and found a compact. Snapping it open, she bared her teeth for close examination in the mirror. "I wonder if my veneers need replacing."
The three of us gave Melodie's mouth the once over. "Looks grouse to me," I said. They both looked at me. "That means good," I said. "Excellent fangs, Melodie."
I had pretty good teeth myself, but came by them naturally. Good choppers ran in the family.
"You know Bob's front tooth, the chipped one?" said Melodie.
"Bonding," said Fran. "A few hundred dollars, and he'd have a great smile."
"I like Bob's smile the way it is," I declared. Bob Verritt was one of my favorite people, and I wouldn't change a thing about him.
Melodie rolled her eyes. "It's presentation, Kylie."
Ariana appeared, briefcase in hand. She gave us all a curt nod. "I won't be back today," she said, and left.
"What's eating her?" Fran asked.
I shrugged, wishing I knew.
SIX
I went back to my office feeling mega-low. If this kept up, Fran would have competition in the morose stakes. I fired up my computer and punched in www.Google.com. Then I hesitated with my cursor on the GO button. It would be just a matter of punching in a name and asking the Internet search engine to scan a zillion references and come up with possibilities.
But it was sneaky somehow to go behind Ariana's back and try to find out who Natalie Ives was. Of course, for all I knew, typing in that particular name might give me thousands of hits, and how would I know which ones referred to the Natalie Ives who had something to do with Ariana?
Perhaps I shouldn't bother. We were friends, weren't we? Perhaps tomorrow Ariana would get it off her chest, feel free to tell me all about this woman.
I snorted at this fantasy. That particular scenario was as likely as looking up to find tiny pink pigs circling the room with wildly flapping wings.
A quick check showed no pigs, pink or otherwise.
One of my mum's favorite sayings echoed in my ears: "Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today." She usually paired this with "He who hesitates is lost." I paused, irresolute. Don't put it off. Just do it. But what would Ariana think of me if I said to her, "I Googled 'Natalie Ives' and now I know who she is"?
Another of my mum's bits of life advice seemed appropriate. I should look before I leaped. So I shouldn't do anything, just wait and see what happened. After all, if Ariana had wanted me to have that information, she'd have told me, wouldn't she? But then, what chance did she have to do that before she left?
What if I'd gone straight back to Ariana's office after seeing the Braithwaites out, instead of stopping at the front desk? Ariana might have said to me, "I suppose you're curious about Natalie Ives." I would have replied supercasually, "Maybe a little interested." And Ariana would have said...
I sighed. Said what? I told myself to get a grip. I was blowing this out of proportion. It could simply be that Ariana disliked personal questions, and that was why she'd given Pen Braithwaite the big freeze this morning.
Then I remembered Ariana's tight, white face and her icy voice when she said, "This is not a matter for discussion."
I shoved back my chair and stood up. I wasn't Googling "Natalie Ives" today. Tomorrow, maybe...
I paced around my office, then forced myself to sit down and type up my notes on the Braithwaite meeting for my files. I squinted at my scrawl, which was more indecipherable than usual, because I'd been thrown by Ariana's reaction to Pen Braithwaite. In fact, I'd again clean forgotten to ask Oscar what the quokka question was. This was annoying, because the question of what the quokka question might be kept popping into my mind at odd moments.
During the meeting with the Braithwaites this morning, I'd done most of the talking on the Kendall & Creeling side. Ariana had only interposed with an occasional question or comment. After we'd discussed the altered fee structure for the additional investigation of Oscar's dive into the traffic on Sunset Boulevard, we'd got down to nitty-gritty of just how I was going to be s
et up at UCLA as a visiting graduate student.
Dr. Penelope Braithwaite occupied the endowed chair of animal sexuality in the psychology department, which was part of the College of Letters and Sciences. The endowment had been bestowed by a reclusive multimillionaire who had developed an abiding interest in penguins while wintering in the Antarctic. He'd been particularly struck by their sexual behavior.
"Bang anything, penguins," Pen Braithwaite had declared with approval. "Randy little buggers. Many documented examples of gay male penguins bonding for life. Lesbian penguins too."
The Global Marsupial Symposium was being hosted by the biology department of the university. Pen had a good friend on the inside, a member of the biology faculty who despised Professor Jack Yarrow and would be delighted, Pen assured us, to do anything to discredit the man as long as it was vaguely legal.
At that point I'd said," 'Vaguely legal?'"
Pen had snorted with laughter. "Rube's a bit of a chicken heart, but he and I"—she winked meaningfully—"have what you'd call a close, very personal relationship." Another guffaw. "Get my drift?"
Dr. Rubin Wasinsky was willing to take me on in the role of a short-term graduate student visiting from the University of Western Australia. He would make sure I had access to anything necessary— another broad wink from Pen Braithwaite—and I'd automatically be granted a pass to the symposium sessions and various functions too.
At that point Pen had whipped out her phone, a tiny silver thing that was entirely lost in her big hand. She got Dr. Wasinsky on the line to set up a lunch date for the three of us later that day. "We'll meet at the Ackerman Student Union," she'd announced. "Food's cheap and not half bad."
I finished my notes, printed them out, and put diem in the new file folder. Then my mind obstinately went back to Ariana and Natalie Ives. Had they been lovers? Were they still lovers? Or maybe there was bad blood between them and they hated each other? Could this Ives woman be someone Ariana had arrested while she was still a cop? Was blackmail involved?
I had to stop obsessing about this. I snatched up the phone and punched in Chantelle's number. She was a receptionist, so she answered right away. "Good morning! United Flair Agency. How may I direct your call?"
"You can direct it to yourself. It's me."
"Honey, I was about to call you. Would you believe, I've got tickets to the premiere of Bloodblot Horror II. It's tonight. Can you come?"
Working for a talent agency as Chantelle did, she got quite a few perks, including free tickets for movies and theater productions. I was fond of Chantelle—we had a beaut, no-strings relationship with quite a bit of recreational sex thrown in—so I was more than happy to spend time with her.
Chantelle's taste in movies, however, didn't entirely agree with mine. She was a horror girl, the gorier the better. When the screen was awash with blood, I'd squint with distress, but Chantelle would watch the action with rather alarming gusto.
Although I knew the images on the screen weren't real, and just out of the frame a movie crew had been standing around while each ghastly, blood-soaked scene had been shot, I always got sucked in and let myself be scared silly. And I'd have awful nightmares later. Tonight, however, it'd be the perfect way to occupy my attention and drive away any thoughts about Ariana and the mysterious Natalie Ives.
I'd seen all the prepublicity for this R-rated splatter movie. Word was, members of test audiences had thrown up or fainted, or both. "Does it matter that I haven't seen Bloodblot Horror 7?" I inquired.
"Of course not," said Chantelle. "They have nothing to do with each other, apart from the title."
"So why is it called the second Bloodblot7"
"Hold, please." Chantelle disappeared to take another call. A few moments later she was back, answering my question as though we hadn't been interrupted. It was a skill I noted all good receptionists developed.
"Because the name is a franchise, Kylie. When the first one was a huge box office success, it was inevitable there'd be a sequel. Hold, please." The line went dead again. A moment later a click was followed by, "I guarantee there'll be Bloodblot III, IV, and V, if the audience holds up."
We made a time for Chantelle to pick me up that evening—she seemed curiously reluctant to have me drive—and I put down the receiver. Maybe I should call Ariana on her mobile—I mentally corrected myself—on her cell phone and ask, "Are you OK?"
That wasn't all that terrif an idea, I decided. She'd answer coolly that of course she was OK and why was I asking? There didn't seem to be any good reply to that question. I could say I was interested, or be really up-front and say I couldn't bear to see her upset. That'd go down like a lead balloon.
I'd just have to wait until tomorrow when Ariana came to work. In the meantime, I had the Braithwaite case to worry about. I reminded myself that my client, Oscar, might be in mortal peril, although I had to admit he was a bit of a whinger, and maybe had imagined an impatient push from a stranger was really an attempt on his life.
Lonnie, being our computer guy and expert in all things electronic, was researching Professor Jack Yarrow for me. I went along to his messy office to see how he was getting along with the task. Because of his severe allergy to cats, coupled with Julie Roberts penchant for his company, Lonnie kept his door closed. This was usually futile, as Jules considered the whole thing a game, and would lurk nearby, dashing in at any opportunity and heading straight for Lonnie's protesting body.
A quick check of the hallway showed no Julia Roberts in evidence, so I knocked on Lonnie's door, faux-Spanish dark wood with copper studs everywhere, and took the muffled response to mean I was to come in. I found Lonnie peering into a monitor, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the keyboard. "Be with you in a minute," he said without looking away from the screen.
Experience had taught me Lonnie's minute might last quite a long time, so I occupied myself assessing the possibilities of his room. Every surface, including the floor, was covered with an assortment of electronics, folders, papers, coffee mugs, and general debris. The room itself was quite large, and I mentally gathered up most of the stuff on the floor and put it into a series of spacious, imaginary cupboards I visualized taking up one wall. On another wall, a long bench could be installed to hold most of the electronic gizmos, and this would allow Lonnie's computer desk to be moved, so that anyone entering didn't immediately trip over him.
A touch of furnishing excitement generated more ambitious thoughts. If I could find places for everything in the storage room, plus Fran's disaster supplies, my dream of adding a sitting room to my accommodations could be realized. Floor-to-ceiling storage units in here might be the ticket...
"Why are you looking like that?" said Lonnie, pushing off from the desk so his battered office chair swung him round to face me. There was dire suspicion on his face.
"Looking like what?"
"Like you've got plans for this room."
I said vaguely, "Plans?"
Lonnie flipped back the lock of limp brown hair that usually fell fetchingly over one eye to give him a cute little-boy appearance. "I thought we agreed my room was off-limits."
"We did?"
He used his dimples to advantage. "Come on, Kylie," he said persuasively, "you know I can't work in anything but this organized chaos. Besides, it's excellent security—no one but me can find anything." He made a sudden dive at a pile of manila folders on the floor, seized one and thrust one into my hands. "See! You wouldn't know to look for info on this Jack Yarrow guy down there, but I did."
My vision of storage cupboards shimmered, then disappeared. Lonnie could be awfully stubborn. I might be biting off more than I could chew here. It was a shortcoming of mine Mum had pointed out countless times. "Let's discuss it later," I said.
Lonnie swung himself back to his computer. "Let's never discuss it."
Back in my office, I gave the Yarrow folder a quick flick-through, then checked my watch. I wanted to arrive at the UCLA campus early so that I could have a good look aro
und and establish the lay of the land. I opened my copy of The Thomas Guide for Los Angeles County.
This street directory had been my salvation more than once. Each weekend, I'd ventured out alone, often driving Dad's red Mustang, to familiarize myself with freeways and surface streets. Each excursion, I'd managed to get more or less lost. But, I assured myself, I was getting better, although last weekend I'd found myself in the wilds of Chatsworth, and taken hours to find the way home. And even then I wasn't quite sure how I did it.
After much narrow-eyed study, I thought I had the route mapped out. Pen had advised me to dress like a student, so I changed into jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt with a koala on the front waving a flag that said: LAND OF oz, tucked The Thomas Guide under one arm, and headed for the front desk to tell Melodie I'd be out until mid-afternoon.
She was on the phone. "And, Chloe, you'll never guess!" Melodie was saying, "Dr. Penny herself—What? Yes, that Dr. Penny. Anyway, she was real interested in me—What?" Melodie giggled. "Not interested that way, though she did ask me about my sex life—oh, hold on, I've got another call. Kendall & Creeling—Ashlee! You'll never guess who was here this morning—Dr. Penny!"
I cleared my throat. Melodie glanced back over her shoulder. "Ashlee? Gotta go. Call you back.... Chloe? Gotta go. Call you back."
"So Ashlee of the snap-on teeth is a receptionist," I said.
Melodie looked surprised. "How did you know?"
I didn't explain how now I always recognized the receptionist network in action. "Must be that I'm psychic," I said.
Melodie's surprise changed to keen interest. "Are you, Kylie? Me too."
"You're psychic?" I tried to hide my skepticism but obviously didn't do a crash-hot job, since an expression of deep hurt appeared on Melodie's face.
"Just because I never mention it doesn't mean I don't have the power. It's real personal, this sixth sense."
"How does this sixth sense manifest itself?"
Melodie looked at me distrustfully. I raised my eyebrows in an encouraging tell-me manner.
"Not that I see dead people or anything gruesome like that," she confided. "Mine's more in the premonition area. Knowing things ahead of time. For instance, I just knew the Refulgent commercial was to be mine. Somehow, I was aware through all the setbacks I endured, that it was my destiny to be a Refulgent girl."