Kookaburra Gambit

Nine

On Saturday morning a phone call from Bob Verritt interrupted my reading of the L.A. Times. Ariana had just called him about my suggestion of going undercover into the Hartnidges' Oz Mob operation in Burbank.

"My view is, it could work out well," Bob said. "Having someone on the inside could be a real advantage, if Alf and Chicka agree."

"Ariana isn't too keen on the idea, is she?"

"I'm afraid not. She brought up the beating your face took last time you went undercover."

Really indignant that Ariana clearly didn't believe I was capable of learning from my mistakes, I said, "If she thinks I'm going to cower in the corner, she's got another thing coming."

Bob chortled. "She's convinced you'll do quite the opposite to cowering. That's the problem."

"But she's not going to try and stop me?"

This seemed to amuse Bob even more. "Ariana doesn't fight battles she knows she'll lose."

Well, blow me down! It gave me a tingle of pleasure to think that just for once I had one up on Ariana.

We discussed the ins and outs of the undercover role I might play, then Bob rang off, saying he'd try to get hold of Alf and Chicka to sound them out about the idea.

My Saturday routine was to do laundry before I went out to stock up on provisions. Usually I took a moment to admire the washer and dryer setup I'd had installed, but this morning there were other things on my mind. I threw clothes into the washer with unnecessary force. It really irked me that Ariana didn't trust me not to be reckless.

This case was so important to me. For one thing, it had opals involved. And Aussies. I felt a momentary sisterhood with Melodie and her One Big Chance. This was my OBC. I could prove I had the makings of a private investigator if I brought the Hartnidge case to a successful conclusion.

I said to Julia Roberts, who I'd found sleeping on the dryer, "I've a good mind to give Ariana an earful. What do you say, Jules? Should I?"

Julia Roberts uncurled herself, stretched, then sat down, looking thoughtful. She blinked at me, once. I took this to mean yes. Before I could change my mind, I went back to my room, picked up the phone, and punched in Ariana's number, which I knew by heart, not that I'd ever needed to use it much.

She answered on the second ring with a cool "Hello."

"It's Kylie."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Well, yes."

There was a pause. I was cursing myself. I should have worked out exactly what to say, before going off half-cocked.

Ariana said, "Are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Bob's just rung. You think I'm reckless, don't you?"

"Impetuous, perhaps."

"I'd prefer spontaneous," I snapped.

"How about impulsive?" Ariana laughed. "Shall I fetch the thesaurus? We can have dueling words at ten paces."

I had to smile. "I'm being a galah, aren't I?"

"I'm not quite sure what that is."

"It's a pink and gray cockatoo. Not the brightest bird on the branch. Essentially, I'm saying I'm a dumb cluck."

"You're not dumb. And perhaps you should be annoyed. I'm not treating you like my business partner. We should discuss all these issues and come to joint decisions."

Stone the crows! Two concessions from Ariana in twenty-four hours?

"Maybe you're right," I said. "I have to admit all I know about being a private eye could be written on the head of a pin in large letters."

She didn't rush to contradict me.

"So," I went on, "I promise to run things past either you or Bob before I do anything rash, hasty, hotheaded, foolhardy, spur-of-the-moment, devil-may-care, or precipitous."

I was grinning to myself, thinking how being first in my English class at school was paying off years later, when Ariana said, "I concede. You win. Duel over."

My day was all mapped out. After the laundry was in the dryer, I sallied forth to the nearest big supermarket. It had taken me a while, but I was getting used to the different brand names and the way Americans referred to biscuits as cookies, soft drinks as sodas, and lollies as candy.

I'd got a bit carried away shopping, so, laden with many bags, I had to make several trips from my car across the courtyard and in the front door. I kept a wary eye out for intruders. It'd been drummed into me that L.A. could be a dangerous city and that at any given moment violent crime was happening all over the place.

Julia Roberts helped me unpack things. Like all cats, she quite lost her dignity over bags and boxes, and leapt in and out of them like a kitten.

I had a wholesome avocado salad for lunch-rather spoiling the health side with lashings of mayonnaise-then I gave Julia Roberts a good grooming. Since I'd adopted her, I'd made several trips to pet stores in search of suitably upmarket combs, brushes, and clippers. Only the best for Jules. She hated her feet being touched, so she objected strongly to the clippers, but that was too bad, as being mostly an inside cat she didn't wear her claws down.

Julia Roberts pretended she didn't like being fussed over, but it was a lie. She loved it. It probably helped that I assured her she was beautiful as I brushed her. On this point we were in complete agreement.

Then I heard a sound. Julia Roberts immediately went on wide-eyed alert. Had someone broken in? I looked around for a weapon. I'd kept the golf club with which I'd menaced Luis a few weeks ago, so I grabbed that.

"Kylie? It's me, Lonnie," a voice called out.

I put the golf club down. Lonnie would laugh if he saw me with it. Followed by Jules, I trotted out into the hall. Lonnie grinned at me. "Just catching up on some work. For you, actually-the backgrounds for the Oz Mob people you wanted."

He was in ancient jeans and a once-white T-shirt. His stomach bulged over the waistband. One of the reasons for this was in his hand: a bag bearing the McDonald's golden arches. Lonnie was notorious for being a fast-food junkie.

"Want some fries?" he said.

"No, thank you. No chips for me." We had McDonald's in Australia, complete with golden arches, but no way would they ever persuade me to call chips french fries.

It was funny how the atmosphere was different when someone other than just me was there. Knowing Lonnie was down the hall in his messy office changed the atmosphere subtly. And during the working week, it was different again. I wondered if energy fields around people charged the air in some way.

Mid afternoon, I went to ask Lonnie if he wanted a cup of tea. Julia Roberts had long deserted me, and I found her exploring Lonnie's cluttered room.

"Can you get that cat out of here?" he demanded, looking up from his computer screen. "I've asked her nicely, but she pays no attention."

"If you beg her to keep you company, she won't. Your mistake is to tell her to get lost."

Lonnie grunted. "I haven't got time to indulge in cat psychology."

"I've come to ask if you want a cuppa."

He was back peering at the screen. "Tea, you mean?"

"Yes, I've just made a pot."

"Hot?"

"Of course."

Lonnie looked at me over his shoulder. "I'd prefer iced tea. There's some in the fridge."

I shuddered. "That stuff is yours?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's flavored \"

Lonnie nodded. "Passion fruit and mango. Delicious."

I was thinking how my mother always says there's no accounting for tastes, when Lonnie squinted at me. "You should chill out," he said. "You're getting way too emotional over tea."

"Thank you for your advice, Lonnie."

My heavily sarcastic tone passed him by. "That's OK," he said.

Definitely time to change the subject. "How's it going?" I said, indicating the folder holding the names of Oz Mob's American staff.

He rubbed his chin. "What do you know about Tami Eckholdt?" he asked.

"She runs Lamb White for the Church of Possibilities. She helped Alf and Chicka get staff for their office."

"Tami Eckholdt's got her sister working for the Hartnidges but under a false name." He tapped the screen. "Look here. She's using the correct social security number but calling herself Paula Slade instead of Patsy Eckholdt."

"Why would she do that?"

Lonnie grinned at me. "You're the detective, remember?"

I got Lonnie his revoltingly flavored iced tea and took my own proper tea back to my office. Soon I was deep in Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook. The chapter on lying had me fascinated. I was up to the section describing how unconscious body movements give liars away. I would have thought fidgeting and fiddling were signs someone wasn't being truthful, but it turned out to be quite the opposite. Good liars tend to make fewer gestures, because they know such actions could signal they're worried about being found out. They don't touch their hair, or scratch their heads, or rub their hands together. They repress these movements.

But most fascinating of all, liars still give themselves away with bodily cues. While they're busily controlling hands, arms, and faces, they forget about the lower part of their bodies. It's the legs and feet that betray them. Even small adjustments unconsciously made can indicate tension and guilt.

Now, Ariana didn't make a lot of gestures, but in her case I thought it was simply that she was that kind of person-controlled, cool, constrained.

I made a mental note at the next opportunity to check out her lower body, anyway. The thought made me smile. I could imagine Ariana's reaction, should she catch me at it. "What are you doing?" she'd say. She wouldn't roll her eyes, but it'd be a close thing.

I visualized her lower body. Flat stomach, taut legs…

"That way lies madness," I remarked to Jules, who'd just strolled in the door. She yawned.

I was really looking forward to going to Harriet and Beth's that evening. They rented a house in Van Nuys. It was in the valley, or "over the hill" as I was learning to say.

I'd embarrassed myself the first time I'd had a stab at pronouncing Van Nuys, but now I confidently said "Van Eyes" with the best of them. Actually, having never learnt Spanish, I was rather at a disadvantage with some of the street and place names in Los Angeles. I hadn't yet fully mastered Cahuenga or Tujunga, and people had been known to giggle when I had a try at Camarillo.

It was my turn to drive, so I'd closely studied my Thomas Guide during the afternoon, intending to impress Chantelle with my grasp of L.A.'s geography. I was fine on the Hollywood Freeway, but once we hit the surface streets, I got into a complete pickle.

"I'm a total no-hoper at this navigating thing," I said to Chantelle, after she'd set me straight and we were heading more or less in the correct direction. "No probs at home in the 'Gudge, but here…" I shook my head.

"Just how many streets does your hometown have?" Chantelle asked.

I had to admit Wollegudgerie was pretty small.

"And how many streets do you think are in Los Angeles?"

"Couldn't even hazard a guess."

"I rest my case," said Chantelle. "I believe we take a left here."

Left turns were still a challenge for me, as I tended to head for the left side of the road instead of the right, but this time I accomplished the feat relatively smoothly-Chantelle only covered her eyes for a moment-and soon we were drawing up in front of Harriet and Beth's house.

It was a compact house, white stucco with a red tile roof and a great big oak tree in the front. Harriet opened the front door before we got to ring the bell. "Any trouble finding us?"

"None," said Chantelle. I had to love the woman.

Maurice and Gary were already established in the living room, drinks in hand. We all did the welcoming routine, then Harriet pointed us to the little bar in the corner and said to help ourselves. Even though I'd spent most of my life in a pub, I wasn't what you'd call a hardened drinker, so I poured myself a glass of white wine. Chantelle hit the vodka.

Beth, who was obviously the cook for the evening, came in from the kitchen to greet us. She was a tall, rangy woman who bubbled with laughter most of the time. I'd met her at the office on several occasions and never saw her less than cheery, even when she encountered Fran.

"Kylie! Chantelle! How wonderful to see you!"

I said it was bonzer to see her too but couldn't help wondering if Beth ever had a down day. Did she ever grump around the house? Did gloom ever slump her shoulders? Could she possibly always be this upbeat?

I had a vision of Harriet barking, "For God's sake, Beth, stop laughing and be serious!" But then, Harriet was a cheerful sort too. They were probably perfectly suited, which was fortunate, since they were to be parents in a few months.

Maurice was the sperm donor for the child Harriet was carrying, and I recalled her saying he was genetically superior.

While everyone was chatting about how unbelievably expensive homes were in L.A., I picked up that Maurice was a real estate agent. I considered him closely. Would I buy a house from this man?

Maurice was very neat and reserved. I noticed he listened a lot more than he spoke. He looked as if he'd just that moment shaved and patted on some exclusive aftershave. Checking out his hands, I found his fingernails were manicured. He had short, dark hair and a hard, every-day-at-the-gym body, which he showed off with a very tight red T-shirt and snug black trousers. I liked his drawly voice.

"Super accent," I said. "What is it?"

"I'm a Southern boy. Louisiana." He gave me a quick smile. "I like your accent too."

"I don't have one," I said. "It's you lot that do."

That got everyone talking about accents, a subject about which Gary, Maurice's partner, had a lot to say. Gary was quite a contrast to Maurice. Where Maurice was neat and reserved, Gary was rumpled and loud. His hair was longish and he had a rather untidy mustache. Gary more sprawled than sat, and he kept up a stream of comments, some of them witty. It wasn't that I didn't like him-he seemed pleasant enough-but he was one of those people who just have to be the center of attention. Lucky for him, Maurice didn't appear to mind, being content to sit quietly and look at him affectionately every now and then.

When we went to the table, Gary insisted on helping Beth serve the meal. "I'm a thwarted waiter," he declared, placing a plate in front of me with a flourish.

I peered at it, puzzled. It would be rude to ask what the hell it was, but I wasn't keen on eating something that looked like this without some idea of its composition.

"I'm doing a course in Italian cooking," Beth declared to the table. "This appetizer is sformato dipiselli e asparagus!"

"Asparagus and pea flan," Harriet translated.

"It didn't quite come out like the illustration in my cookbook," Beth said with the first tentative smile I'd ever seen on her face.

This had to be an understatement. The contents of the plate in front of me appeared to be afflicted by some dire tropical skin disease. I looked around the table. Others were eating, and no one had fallen off a chair, as yet. I took an experimental mouthful. It tasted OK.

Gary rushed around, pouring red Italian wine. Then he whisked away the appetizer plates from each of us. If he loved being a waiter, why wasn't he one? I was curious enough to ask him what he did.

"Teacher," he said. "Math."

"With LAUSD," said Harriet in tones of doom.

"What's that?"

"Los Angeles Unified School District," said Gary, topping up Beth's glass. She was drinking quite a lot, I'd noticed. Maybe it was anxiety about her cooking.

"Anyone who teaches in L.A. Unified deserves a medal," Harriet declared. "There are too many chiefs, not enough Indians, dilapidated buildings, and a large proportion of students who are functionally illiterate in English. Oh, and there's gang violence too."

"Gary's a wonderful teacher," said Maurice, "but he's close to burning out."

My opinion of Gary went up several notches. Teaching was a demanding profession at the best of times. In Gary's situation, it sounded close to impossible.

Beth, her forehead creased in concentration-or maybe panic-exited to deal with the main course. Gary followed after her. We were chatting about red wine versus white when a few horrified cries filtered through from the kitchen. "Stay here," said Harriet, getting up.

"Sounds like there's a problem with the entree," Chantelle said.

"Entree? We've already had the entree."

Maurice and Chantelle looked at me. "The first course," I told them. "The asparagus and pea thingy."

"That's the appetizer," said Chantelle. "Now we're waiting for the main course. The entree." She grinned at me. "You Aussies are so strange. Must be something to do with living upside down at the bottom of the world."

"Entree means entry," I pointed out. "So it's the first thing you have."

Maurice frowned at me. "If you Aussies call the appetizer the entree, what do you call the main course?"

"Funnily enough," I said, "the main course."

Harriet came in from the kitchen. "Beef filet with truffles and apples," she announced. I could see she was on the verge of hopeless giggles but was attempting to remain serious for Beth's sake.

Beth and Gary entered, carrying plates. Beth was unsmiling. "Filetto con tartufi e mele," she said without her usual verve.

My mum has a saying about Aunt Millie's cooking-not to her face of course. "When Millie cooks," Mum would declare, "it's either a burnt offering or a bloody sacrifice."

I examined my main course. On my plate sat my very own burnt offering.