Kookaburra Gambit

Four

Feeling light-headed, in more ways than one, I reclaimed my generic rental sedan from a nearby parking structure. The notice at the entrance proclaimed first two hours free! but my mini makeover had taken rather longer than that, so I had to pay on my way out.

Although I'd only been in L.A. a few weeks, I'd already found driving in the shopping area of Beverly Hills held particular challenges. Herds of tourists, necks hung with cameras, wandered along, eyeballing all the famous retailers, no doubt hoping to see a celebrity popping into Gucci or being ushered out of Giorgio Armani.

I'd discovered tourists had to be watched closely. Apparently bemused by the heady influence of the conspicuous consumption surrounding them, they often wandered off the footpath and onto the roadway, or crossed against don't walk signals.

Things were made even more interesting by the drivers of luxury cars and fat SUVs. I wished I could multitask like they did. It seemed child's play for Beverly Hills denizens to negotiate the crowded streets, all without actually running into another vehicle or mowing down a tourist, at the same time carrying on an animated cell phone conversation, spying a rare parking spot, ignoring the furious horns of inconvenienced motorists, and reversing into the spot.

When I ground to a halt outside Yves Saint Laurent I realized I'd made a poor decision to use Rodeo Drive to get to Santa Monica Boulevard. Rodeo was so clogged with traffic, vehicular and human, that I was doomed to stop-start, with a predominance of stop, all the way. However, this did give me opportunities to steal looks at my new hairstyle in the rearview mirror. Of course I'd seen myself in the salon, but now that I was out in the real world I wanted to reassure myself my initial impressions were right and that people wouldn't break into helpless laughter when they saw the new me.

The mirror being small, and my head quite large, I had to rotate this way and that to build up a visual jigsaw of my hairdo. I had to hand it to Luigi-I did look different.

He'd spent ages evaluating, lips pursed, before seizing his scissors and beginning to cut infinitesimal amounts off here, there, and everywhere. It took forever. He snip-snip-snipped until I got restive, then he blow-dried until I got really twitchy, then he snipped some more. I'd been about to whinge that my nether regions had pins and needles, when he'd stood back to admire his work.

"Bellisimo," he'd said, crinkling his eyes attractively. He made a sweeping gesture in my direction. "L’una bella donna."

"Grazie.”

I'd been told the thing to do was to give Luigi's check and tip to him unobtrusively, but I couldn't see why one had to be underhanded about it, so I gave it to him straight. He slipped it quickly into his pocket without even looking.

"What if I haven't paid you enough?" I said.

He gave me a big grin. "In that case, I'll have your legs broken."

I smiled back. Of course he was joking, but then again, he was Italian.

Then it had been Perdita's turn to have a lash at improving me. She was one of the manicurists I'd passed on my way to the basins. Perdita wore a pink smock and had a disturbingly intense stare. She sat knee to knee with me, the tiny manicure table between us, and turned her piercing gaze onto my fingernails. I held my breath. I had a nasty feeling the verdict would not be good.

Perdita peered more closely. Then she blinked rapidly. It was only a minor version of Luigi's horror at the state of my hair, but I felt defensive anyway. "I've never had a professional manicure," I said.

Perdita had been too polite to announce this regrettable fact was obvious, but her expression had said it for her.

"I've got good, strong nails," I'd announced, as if this might excuse the inexcusable.

"Your cuticles!" Perdita's face had contained a mixture of revulsion and grief. She'd shaken her head. "Your cuticles…"

Now, stuck at yet another red light, this time outside Cartier, I snuck a look at my hands. My cuticles were exemplary. It'd been a battle, but I'd persuaded Perdita I didn't want nail polish, even the clear stuff. Hiding her contempt, she'd buffed my nails furiously, until they shone.

Something was ringing. I was puzzled for a moment, then realized it was my mobile. Making a mental note to call it a cell phone like Americans did, I flipped it open.

Chantelle said in a rush, "Kylie? How did it go? Do you look totally adorable?"

I didn't ask how Chantelle knew where I'd been. Back at the office, Melodie had tapped into the amazing outreach of the receptionists' network. Possibly thousands of people in L.A. were now aware I'd recently challenged the creative abilities of Luigi of Beverly Hills.

"Doesn't look too bad," I conceded.

Chantelle chuckled. She had a dusky, warm laugh that went with her smooth, dark skin. "This I've got to see. Tonight?"

"Ripper idea!"

Chantelle suggested where and when, and I rang off, cheered because I needed some no-strings-attached romantic action. Lately I'd found myself brooding entirely too much about Ariana Creeling.

From the moment I saw her, I realized Ariana was a woman no one would ever forget. It wasn't her extraordinary blue eyes, startling though they were, or that she was astonishingly beautiful, because although Ariana was attractive, she wasn't clutch-at-your-throat gorgeous. It was something indefinable, perhaps to do with her cool, contained manner and her aura of unattainability.

And yet, just once, she'd kissed me.

I'd taken so long at the beauty salon, and the traffic on Sunset Boulevard was so jammed, that by the time I got back to the office the parking area was half empty.

Technically, as I was co-owner of Kendall & Creeling Investigative Services, the people who worked there were my staff too, although I was pretty sure none of them thought of me as the boss. After all, I was so green I was apprenticed to Bob Verritt to learn the ropes.

Still, in a sense they did work for me, even if Ariana Creeling was clearly in charge, so I checked out who was still there. Ariana's deep-blue BMW was parked in its designated spot. Next to it, a snazzy red convertible indicated Melodie was still more or less manning reception. I noticed Lonnie Moore, who handled everything electronic, including all the latest spy devices, had parked his battered brown Nissan in Fran's spot. Luckily, Fran's oversize SUV wasn't in evidence, or there would have been a nasty scene. Fran was very territorial.

Bob Verritt's silver Toyota was missing, as was Harriet Porter's black VW Beetle-the new model, not the lawn mower-engined one on which I'd learnt to drive yonks ago, back in Wollegudgerie. Harriet was working for the company part-time while putting herself through law school. On top of that, she was pregnant. And she still looked like a million dollars. It wasn't really fair.

As I parked my rental car, I thought that soon I'd have to decide whether to buy or lease a vehicle. The alternative was to drive my dad's lovingly restored 1960s Mustang, at present parked in a garage at the rear of the building.

The Mustang was a gorgeous red, and its engine had a wonderful throaty roar, but it wasn't an automatic. In Australia we drive on the other side of the road and change gears with the left hand. I'd tried driving the Mustang in L.A. traffic and had found it more of a challenge than I'd expected, what with shifting gears and staying on the right side of the road at the same time.

Besides, Ariana had pointed out that one of the tasks a PI often faced was tailing someone in traffic. No way could a vehicle like my dad's blend in with other cars. I sighed. It looked like I'd have to get some boring neutral-colored sedan.

I did a final check in my mirror, then, feeling rather self-conscious, got out of the car and headed for the front door, stopping in the middle of the courtyard to check on the fountain. It was spurting water as heartily as one could wish, which was gratifying, as its overhaul had cost rather more than I'd expected.

"Plumbers," Fran had said with bitter scorn as she'd viewed the invoice. "They make more than brain surgeons." She'd fixed me with a beady look. "This was the lowest quote?"

"They were the only company that said they were fountain specialists."

"Specialists?" Fran had snarled. "Every Tom, Dick, and Harry's a specialist. Run it by me first, Kylie, before you do anything like this again. After all, I am the office manager."

"Right-oh." I'd inwardly smiled. Somewhere along the line, Fran had bestowed the title of office manager upon herself, even though her job was more general assistant, or, as I'd had it explained to me, a gofer.

I took a deep breath. Enough of this shilly-shallying around. I made for the front door.

"Awesome!" exclaimed Melodie, examining me from behind the reception desk. "I love your bangs."

"My what?"

"Bangs." When I still didn't comprehend, she added, "The hair hanging over your forehead, Kylie. Bangs."

"You mean my fringe?" I guess so.

I grinned at her. "Back home, you wouldn't say that."

"You Aussies talk real funny," Melodie observed. "So what's a bang? I'd like to know, in case Chicka says it."

That made me laugh. "You'd better know what he means if he uses the word."

"Well? What does it mean?"

"How to put this delicately?" I said. "A bang is…doing it."

Melodie looked at me with delighted astonishment. "You mean…?"

"Yes, going all the way."

"No! So every time someone mentions your bangs to you…" She dissolved into giggles.

"I'm afraid so," I said.

Melodie's amusement faded as she noticed my hands. She frowned accusingly at my naked fingernails. "Where's the Dark Desire?"

"Where indeed?" said Lonnie Moore, on his way out. "I ask myself that all the time."

"Oh, funny," muttered Melodie. I knew she was down on Lonnie at the moment, because I'd overheard him refusing to cover the phone for her tomorrow morning, when Melodie planned to be off on what seemed to be her ten-thousandth audition.

"Whoa," said Lonnie, getting a gander at my new hairstyle. "What have we here?" He put down his things and circled me with a critical expression on his chubby face. Then he gave me the full blast of his little-boy smile, dimples and all. "Not bad," he said.

I felt myself blush. "Thanks."

My heart gave a skip when I heard the cadence of Ariana's footsteps. She had a graceful, loose-hipped stride that was absolutely unmistakable. She was carrying a briefcase and was obviously in a hurry. She didn't pause, but as she passed me, she put out a finger and brushed my cheek. "Looking good," she said. Then she was gone.

I knew I was blushing even more. "This is embarrassing," I announced, hoping to hide the effect just one light touch had had on me. Hell's bells, if one fingertip could do this, what would…

My imagination short-circuited. Suddenly I became aware that Melodie was flashing a particularly ingratiating smile in my direction.

"Can't do it. Sorry," I said.

Melodie's lower lip shot out. "I haven't asked you for anything yet.

"Oh, but you will," said Lonnie, with the weariness of one who knew this from long experience. He was usually sunny-natured, but Melodie had the knack of bringing out his dark side. "Don't fall for it, Kylie. You've been here long enough to know Melodie always says this audition's her One Big Chance." He glared at her. "And you're away for hours and hours, but it never pans out."

"Is this the audition you've been practicing your laugh for?" I asked.

"That's the one." Melodie tinkled a giggle to demonstrate.

"Oh, Jesus!" Lonnie muttered.

"I'll look after the phone for you," I said with a noble expression, "but only if you swear never to laugh that laugh again."

Put out, Melodie said, "But, Kylie, it's part of my laughter repertoire. An actor must have the full range. Run the gamut- guffaw, chuckle, snigger-"

"Oh, Lord!" Lonnie looked at the ceiling. "Take me now."

"Laughter's real subtle," snapped Melodie. "Not that you'd appreciate that, Lonnie. There's a world of difference between a snicker and a hoot, you know."

Lonnie didn't hear her, having caught sight of Julia Roberts, who, tail erect, was making a beeline for him. "Get away from me, cat!"

I was convinced it amused Jules to inflame Lonnie's allergies. "You're only encouraging her," I said. It was obvious Lonnie didn't understand feline psychology. "The more you reject Julia Roberts, the more she wants to be with you."

"I'm outta here," said Lonnie, grabbing his things and skipping through the front door before Julia Roberts could get to him.

"Don't worry, Jules," I said, stroking her. "I love you."

"I was wondering about that," said Melodie. "See, Kylie, it's like this. Lexus has asked me to move in with her permanently. And you know her apartment building has a rule against pets. Do you mind if Julia Roberts stays here with you?"

"You mean for good?"

Melodie nodded hopefully. "Uh-huh."

"All right," I said, secretly chuffed. I get on well with cats because I acknowledge their superiority immediately. They like that. "You're flatting with someone called Lexus? I thought her name was Cathy."

"Cathy's so commonplace. She decided to change it to something more exclusive."

"Rather like a luxury car?" I said.

"Well, yes."

"You're not thinking of changing your name to Mercedes, are you?" I had a bit of a grin at that. "Or what about Porsche or Ferrari?"

She didn't smile. "Larry, my agent, says Melodie Davenport is the perfect name for me."

I found it quite endearing that Melodie always referred to Larry Argent as "Larry, my agent." It was obviously a point of pride for an actor to have an agent, even if she never got any acting work. I'd never set eyes on the man. Maybe he didn't even exist, but if he did, he'd be pleased to know his name was constantly on Melodie's lips.

"This agent of yours," I said. "Has anyone here ever met him?"

"Quip knows Larry, my agent," Melodie said. Quip was Fran's husband, a top bloke.

I was going to ask more, but Melodie was feverishly gathering up various shopping bags she had hidden under the desk. "Gotta go, Kylie. I'm running late. Thanks for looking after things tomorrow morning. I'll be in as soon as I can."

She paused at the door. "Oh, there was a message for you. Your mom called."

"Did she say why?"

Melodie gave an airy wave. "Something about a wombat in crisis." She looked back over her shoulder as she opened the door. "She sounded real upset. Said it was urgent."

"Then why did you wait till now to tell me?" I demanded, but Melodie had gone.

I checked my watch. Back in the 'Gudge it would be late morning of the next day. Before calling, I locked the front door and checked that everything in the building was secure. Julia Roberts came with me on my safety patrol. "Looks like it's you and me, Jules," I said to her. "Melodie practically said you were mine."

Julia Roberts gave me a cool look. Cats don't belong to anyone but themselves. "Sorry," I said.

Satisfied we were secure, I headed back to my room to call Mum. Jules came too, although she did linger for a moment or two outside the kitchen. Her philosophy about food was to eat early and often, and it was a source of annoyance to her that I didn't share her views.

"You don't want to be a fat cat," I said. With a vexed snap of her tail she stalked after me.

Along with the fountain and the installation of a laundry alcove off the kitchen, I'd spent a fair amount of money on my bedroom. The cartons of papers and the odd assortment of sports equipment I'd found there had been relocated. I'd kept the queen-size bed with its beaut carved headboard, but I'd got rid of the humongous dresser, which took up too much space, and replaced it with something smaller.

The original bedspread and curtains had had an identical pattern of garish geometric shapes. My new bedspread had soothing shades of blue. The deepest hue was picked up in the thick throw rugs on the polished dark flooring. I'd ditched the curtains altogether and gone for wooden slat blinds.

When I'd first arrived, the television and DVD player in the room had been housed in ugly metal shelving. Now they sat in an elegant wall unit that included a music setup and flat-screen computer. I love books, so I'd had shelves built in. Because I'd left Wollegudgerie with the minimum of luggage, the shelves were pretty well bare, except for a street directory and a how-to book I'd bought, Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook. Once Mum calmed down about me living in L.A., I was going to ask her to ship over all my favorite books.

Julia Roberts, being psychic, knew I was going to make myself comfortable on the bed before I called Mum, so of course she immediately plunked herself in the middle of the bedspread and began a complicated full-body wash. I perched on the edge and picked up the phone from the side table. The phone was new too, a deep blue number with lots of buttons for functions I'd never use.

"Mum? It's me."

"Kylie? Where've you been? I rang you hours ago."

"Sorry. I've just got back."

"Back from where?"

"Beverly Hills, actually."

"Beverly Hills? What were you doing there?"

"Nothing important."

Silence. My mum would make an excellent professional interrogator. You couldn't deflect her, no matter how hard you tried. She'd wait you out. It was easier to give in and tell her what she wanted to know. "I had my hair done in a beauty salon. And a manicure."

"That cost a pretty penny, I'd reckon."

I told her how much. She gasped.

Any moment now she'd be telling me how much cheaper haircuts were in Maria's salon in Wollegudgerie. Before Mum could get onto that dangerous topic, I said, "The message you left with Melodie mentioned a wombat crisis. Do you mean there's something wrong at the pub?"

Before I was twenty I was pretty well running the financial side of Mum's hotel, the Wombat's Retreat. Eventually I had all the accounts computerized, I'd built a Web site and had started to link up with travel sites all over the world.

Even with Raylene throwing me over and shredding my heart, I might still be there in the pub, if Mum hadn't fallen in love with Jack O'Connell. It's not that I didn't get on with Jack, but once he and my mum were officially engaged, he started throwing his weight around. It was obvious once they tied the knot, Jack intended to play boss cocky, even if he knew next to nothing about the hotel business.

The situation was enough to get me thinking about leaving the outback and having a go at living in a big city, probably Sydney. Then my dad died. Mum had divorced him when I was a little kid, so he was the American father I hardly knew. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I found he'd left me a chunk of money and his share of Kendall & Creeling.

"Things are crook at the Wombat without you, love," said my mum. "Jack's made a right mess of the accounts. You're needed here, darling. Come home."

"You don't need me, Mum. You need an accountant, that's all. Or a good bookkeeper. Someone who knows the hotel business."

"This is your home, Kylie. I don't want you living thousands of kilometers away from all your friends and family. It's not right."

"Mum, I'm not a child. I'm practically thirty."

"Twenty-eight, last time I looked."

"Speaking of family," I said, "what's my cousin, Brucie, up to these days?"

"Nephew Brucie?"

I grinned. Brucie was Mum's sister's son, and my mum had always irritated the hell out of him by calling him "Nephew Brucie."

"I was wondering, Mum, because it seems Brucie recommended me as a private eye to these two Aussie blokes, Alf and Chicka Hartnidge."

Mum snorted. "I told Nephew Brucie to stop it. Spoke to Millie about it too, not that his mother's ever had the gumption to discipline the boy. From the time he was a baby, he's got away with bloody murder. Spare the rod and spoil the child, I always say."

With misgivings, I asked, "What is it that Brucie has to stop?"

My mum gave another contemptuous snort. "Nephew Brucie's been telling anyone who'll listen that you've made a big splash in the States in the private eye area, and he's going to open your Aussie branch. He says you want him to move to L.A. to learn the business."

"Stone the crows!"

Temporarily silenced by the truly dreadful vision of my cousin lobbing in on me, I only half-listened as Mum went on. "As for Alf and Chicka, you know the family, the Hartnidges of Last Gasp Creek. Of course, the twins aren't at home anymore, but they visit often. There was a big crowd of Hartnidges at the footy final last year, remember?"

"Mum, you've got to make sure Brucie doesn't come to Los Angeles."

"He won't. Don't worry about that." The feeling of relief this gave me dissolved with her next words. "I can't leave the pub in Jack's hands-God knows what he'd get up to-and Nephew Brucie's going nowhere, believe me. So it's all up to Millie."

I got one of those cold feelings you read about in books, where a chill goes down your spine and your hands get clammy. "What's Aunt Millie got to do with it?" I held my breath.

"Someone has to go over there and talk some sense into you, Kylie. Millie and I discussed it last night. She'll be leaving next week."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Julia Roberts stopped washing and looked at me with interest.

Aunt Millie was coming to LA.

Aunt Millie who'd made sarcasm an art form.

Aunt Millie who made a lemon seem sweet.

Aunt Millie, who, unbelievable though it seemed, would make Fran look like Pollyanna.

Aunt Millie!