Sisters on the Case

Animal Act by Claire McNab

‘‘G’day,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m Kylie Kendall. I’m here to see Arnold.’’

The bloke who’d opened the door of the flamboyant Beverly Hills mansion looked at me without enthusiasm. ‘‘Oh, yes. The Australian. Lisette told me you’d be coming by.’’

With his thick, curly black hair, deep brown eyes, straight nose, and jutting jaw, he was handsome, and he knew it. ‘‘Where’s the blonde?’’ he asked. ‘‘She’s the one who usually does the inspection.’’ His expression warmed slightly as he added, ‘‘Good-looking woman.’’

He was referring to my partner in Kendall & Creeling Investigative Services, Ariana Creeling. ‘‘She’s out of town on a case,’’ I said. ‘‘You’ll have to make do with me.’’

He grunted and stood aside. ‘‘I suppose you’d better come in.’’

I blinked at the entrance area. Two stories above, light flooded in from a huge circular stained-glass window set into the ceiling. Multicolored patches of light were splashed over the black marble floor and chalk white walls. A wide curving staircase with bloodred carpet led to the next floor. Scattered, apparently at random, were life-size sculptures of various animals- dogs, cats, a llama, a potbellied pig-displayed on white marble bases. The one closest to me depicted a huge bear rearing up on its hind legs. Engraved on the pedestal were the words LEONARD, DANCING.

‘‘Crikey,’’ I said.

I became aware the bloke was watching me with a sour smile. It was apparent he wasn’t intending to introduce himself, so I said, ‘‘And you’d be Paul Berkshire.’’

‘‘Proper little detective, aren’t you?’’

Actually, I wasn’t. I’d inherited fifty-one percent of Kendall & Creeling from my father, but wasn’t a private eye’s bootlace yet, just a trainee. There was no need to blab this to Paul Berkshire, of course.

He set off for the rear of the house down a wide hallway, not bothering to see if I was following. Even from the back he was a bonzer-looking bloke, with a strong neck, wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Paul Berkshire was the nephew of Rhea Berkshire, who before her death had been a crash-hot animal trainer for movies and TV. She’d been a heavy drinker, and six months ago-just before I came to the States- had died from an accidental overdose of bourbon and sleeping tablets. The very specific provisions she’d made in her will for her menagerie of animals at her ranch outside LA ensured that all went to good homes, many with other professional trainers. The ranch itself was sold, the proceeds going to animal charities.

One of her charges, however, received special treatment. This was Rhea’s most adored and successful subject, Arnold. Her will specified that no expense was to be spared. Her nephew, Paul, was to ensure that Arnold lived a life of luxury in Rhea’s Beverly Hills estate for the rest of his days.

Everyone knew Arnold’s story. Rescued from a shelter when just a puppy, he was what we Aussies call a bitser-a bit of this and a bit of that. He was a pepper-and-salt charmer, incredibly photogenic and very smart. And he loved performing. He’d become a household word as the cute psychic dog-also called Arnold-in the paranormal hit comedy series Professor Swann’s Spooks. Even before I’d come to the States, I’d been a fan of the show. Most people in my outback hometown, Wollegudgerie, watched the program on Wednesday nights. Even my mum, who wasn’t what you’d call a fan of television-addled your brains, she always said darkly-always made sure the program was on the screen above the main bar of her pub, the Wombat’s Retreat.

Ahead of me, Paul Berkshire had reached a black lacquered door, and was looking impatiently over his shoulder. ‘‘I haven’t got all day.’’

I suppose in his place I’d resent being regularly checked to ensure that the conditions set out in his aunt’s will were being followed to the letter. Rhea Berkshire had cause to use Kendall & Creeling’s services long before I turned up on the scene. She’d become a fast friend of my father’s, so she’d instructed her lawyers, Frogmartin, Frogmartin & Flye, to include in her will a generous payment to our company to visit Arnold once every two months-or more often if it seemed indicated-to make certain he was being treated in the manner a megarich canine should expect. We were to liaise with his vet, his walker, his dietician, his groomer, and his round-the-clock companion, Lisette, who had been in Rhea’s employ for many years. And Paul Berkshire, of course, as he had inherited his aunt’s business and so was Arnold’s trainer.

I’d heard a new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks was in the works, and was going to ask if that was true-Mum would love to know-when the bloke threw open the door. ‘‘Arnold’s beauty parlor,’’ he said with a bit of a twist to his lip. As he spoke, I noticed these three words were engraved in ornate script on the door’s lacquered surface.

‘‘Gets up your nose, does it?’’ I said.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Not sure I approve, myself. Not very macho, is it?’’ He looked at me blankly, so I added, ‘‘I reckon a dog like Arnold would prefer something more masculine. How about ‘sprucing room’? What do you think?’’

‘‘I think Arnold can’t read,’’ he said, ‘‘so he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what the room’s called.’’ Opening the door, he said, ‘‘Lisette? This is the Kendall from Kendall and Creeling, here to check we’re not mistreating the dog.’’

He’d said ‘‘the dog’’ with such a flat tone that I looked at him with surprise. Recently I’d read an article in Hollywood Reporter where Berkshire had spoken glowingly of Arnold’s sweet nature and his ability to master new routines.

‘‘Lisette will call me when you’re finished,’’ he said, turning away and stalking off back down the hallway before I could respond.

I stepped into the room, and found myself grinning at Arnold, who cocked his head and waved his stubby little tail. Even more adorable in person than on the screen, he was standing patiently on a table while a young bloke with a pale face and lifeless fair hair groomed him.

‘‘G’day, Lisette,’’ I said to the woman who was smiling at me warmly. ‘‘I’m Kylie.’’ She was much older than I expected, small and wiry, with a cloudburst of white hair.

‘‘Hello, dear. Ariana’s told me all about you.’’ She had the faintest suggestion of an English accent.

‘‘Crikey. All good, I hope.’’

‘‘Mostly,’’ said the young bloke with a bit of a smirk.

Lisette introduced him as Gary Hartnel. ‘‘G’day, Gary,’’ I said. I couldn’t resist adding, ‘‘And g’day to you, too, Arnold.’’ Arnold blurred his little tail.

‘‘Friendly,’’ I remarked.

‘‘Not to everyone,’’ Gary declared. ‘‘Arnold has his likes and dislikes.’’

‘‘Righto,’’ I said, whipping a folder out of my bag. ‘‘I’ve got a checklist here. Let’s go through it and then I’ll get out of your way.’’

Lisette took me to meet the rest of the staff. Arnold came, too, trotting along beside us with a delightfully cheerful demeanor. As we walked down the hall’s thick carpet, I said to her, ‘‘Does he miss Ms. Berkshire, do you think?’’

‘‘Rhea? I’m sure he does. Look at him.’’

When she said her late employer’s name, Arnold’s tail drooped and he gave me such a pitiful look my heart turned over.

‘‘I’m sorry I mentioned it.’’

‘‘That’s okay, dear. Arnold’s very sensitive. We found him snuggled up in bed with Rhea, her being dead and all and him softly whining. He was in mourning. Near brought me to tears.’’

Soon I knew rather more about Arnold’s day-to-day schedule than I’d ever intended to know-his dietician went into such detail about the measurement and preparation of Arnold’s food that my eyes glazed over, and his walker insisted on describing at length the variety of routes Arnold covered every week.

‘‘Is everything satisfactory?’’ Lisette asked when I’d finished going through her duties as Arnold’s companion.

‘‘Too right,’’ I said, giving her the thumbs-up. ‘‘She’s apples.’’

She shook her head. ‘‘You Aussies.’’

Lisette, Arnold, and I headed back to the front of the house. ‘‘All I need to do is to check a few things with Mr. Berkshire.’’

‘‘Paul will be in his office-no, wait, here he is now.’’

I’ve got pin-drop hearing, or I wouldn’t have heard the soft growl Arnold gave. I looked down at him. He was staring fixedly at Paul Berkshire. His body language was a puzzle-I’d heard a growl, but he wasn’t stiff with aggression; he was unnaturally still, waiting. Then he glanced up at me, with the oddest expression on his face.

‘‘You’re done?’’ Berkshire asked me.

‘‘I’ve got a few more areas to cover with you.’’

‘‘Lisette, take Arnold to his gym. He doesn’t need to tag along with us.’’

When I looked back over my shoulder, Arnold hadn’t moved.

The bloke’s office was huge, being more what I’d call a library, with shelves and shelves of impressive-looking books and lots of maroon leather furniture. Paul Berkshire plunked himself behind a massive antique desk and answered my questions about Arnold’s training regimen with cool economy. It seemed there was to be a new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks and Arnold was already learning new routines for the show.

‘‘Nothing too risky?’’ It was one of our duties to make sure Arnold was never involved in hazardous situations.

‘‘Of course not. Arnold has a stunt double who looks exactly like him.’’

‘‘But not as talented?’’

Berkshire gave me a thin smile. ‘‘More talented, in my professional opinion. A pleasure to work with the animal. Dopp is Arnold without the attitude.’’

‘‘Dopp for doppelganger?’’

Berkshire raised his eyebrows. ‘‘My little joke.’’

I raised my eyebrows right back at him. ‘‘I’m surprised you say Arnold has an attitude. I found him a bonzer dog.’’

‘‘He’s temperamental at times. Difficult. Could be he’s getting close to the end of his performing life.’’

‘‘Maybe he’s grieving for your aunt.’’

A fleeting emotion flickered across Berkshire’s face. Just that morning at breakfast I’d been reading in my invaluable reference source, Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook, about microexpressions. These only lasted for a split second, but exposed the true feelings of a person before they could hide them. In this case, I reckoned he’d revealed a pretty disturbing mix-sneering anger, tinged with arrogant triumph.

‘‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll get Gary to escort you to your car,’’ he said, clearly wanting to get rid of me.

Gary, a limp strand of pale hair flopping over one eye, arrived. Once outside the front door, he gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘‘I don’t know if you’re the one I should go to, but lately Arnold’s been trying to tell me something. I swear he has.’’

‘‘What sort of something?’’

‘‘You know about Rhea-her dying like that? Well, of course it was a stupid accident, but it’s odd how Arnold’s changed. Like, he used to love Paul, but lately he just goes quiet when Paul comes in the room. Arnold watches him, weird-like, if you get what I mean. And then Arnold looks at me…’’

‘‘What do you think he’s trying to tell you?’’

‘‘I’m not sure.’’ He glanced around furtively. ‘‘Gotta go.’’

Gary went. I climbed into my car, feeling a bit weird-like myself. I couldn’t shake the idea that Arnold had tried to tell me something, too. Something bad.

Earlier I’d seen Dr. Stanley Evers, veterinary surgeon to the stars-Arnold was one of his most valuable celebrity clients-so I had everything I needed to write my report for Frogmartin, Frogmartin & Flye.

Turning off Sunset Boulevard I got my customary little thrill when I drove through the gates and past the sign reading KENDALL & CREELING INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES. I still had thousands of hours of supervision ahead of me, plus an exam, but one day I’d become a fully fledged PI, and be worthy of my dad’s company.

Our building was a pseudo-Spanish house converted into offices. I still wasn’t quite used to its pinkish ocher color, but I rather liked the black, brass-studded front door.

‘‘G’day, Melodie,’’ I said to our receptionist-at least until her acting career took off.

Green eyes wide, Melodie gave a practiced swirl of her long blond hair. ‘‘Kylie! It’s real urgent!’’

‘‘Not Mum again?’’ My mother was always trying to persuade me to return to the outback and help her run the pub.

‘‘No, not your mom. It’s Lonnie. Julia Roberts has been in his room for the fourth time this week. He says he’s desperate. This time he means it-he’s calling the authorities.’’

I was outraged. ‘‘What? And have her taken away, just because he sneezes?’’

‘‘Lonnie says it’s impacting his quality of life. He’s real serious, Kylie.’’ She clasped her hands and added soulfully, ‘‘He says it’s him or Julia Roberts.’’

As we were speaking, Julia Roberts herself sauntered into view, her tawny tail held high. She was followed by the plump, indignant form of Lonnie Moore, our technical wizard and sufferer of severe feline allergies.

‘‘Jules, have you been wicked again?’’ I asked her. ‘‘You know very well you’re not supposed to go into Lonnie’s office.’’ Julia Roberts gave a quick, contemptuous flick of her tail. She never took criticism well.

Lonnie sneezed, blew his nose on a tissue he snatched from Melodie’s desk, then declared, ‘‘Either that cat goes, or I do.’’ His soft face was grim. ‘‘I really mean it.’’

This was a true dilemma-I loved Jules dearly, but Lonnie was absolutely invaluable to Kendall & Creeling. I had talked Lonnie around before, but this time his militant expression showed I had my work cut out for me.

‘‘Injections,’’ I said.

Lonnie looked horrified. ‘‘I don’t want her killed- just out of my hair.’’

‘‘I’m talking about desensitization. For you. It’s a course of injections giving you a tiny bit of what you’re allergic to, and your body gets used to it so you don’t get a bad reaction anymore. I’ll spring for the cost, and any time off you need, if you give up the idea of getting rid of Jules.’’

‘‘Kylie, you know I don’t like anything medical. I can’t stand the sight of blood.’’

‘‘There won’t be any blood. You’ll hardly feel a thing.’’

‘‘Well…’’

Melodie said helpfully, ‘‘And Lonnie, you wouldn’t have to be looking out for Julia Roberts every moment of the day, and you wouldn’t be sneezing all the time and you wouldn’t-’’

‘‘All right! All right! I’ll do it.’’ He glanced at Julia Roberts, who had one foot up in the air as she washed her nethers. ‘‘It’s not that I hate her or anything. It’s her rotten personality. I swear it amuses her to torment me.’’

‘‘Speaking of personality,’’ I said, ‘‘I was at the Berkshire mansion this morning, checking on Arnold. He’s a bonzer little dog.’’

‘‘Love that show!’’ Melodie exclaimed. ‘‘Larry, my agent, says when auditions open for the new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks, he guarantees I’ll get a part. Like, with my psychic abilities, I’ll be in sync with Arnold.’’

‘‘Arnold is no more psychic than you are,’’ Lonnie snorted. ‘‘He’s just a dog doing whatever his trainer tells him to. Anyway, I hear he’s on the way out. Taking early retirement.’’

‘‘I am too psychic,’’ Melodie snapped. ‘‘And Arnold’s so cute, no one could replace him.’’

Lonnie was an authority on showbiz gossip, so he probably had the good oil. I had a sinking feeling that Arnold was in danger. ‘‘He’s got a stunt double called Dopp,’’ I said. ‘‘Paul Berkshire spoke very highly of him when I was there this morning.’’

Lonnie smiled cynically. ‘‘If that’s the case, I don’t need to be clairvoyant to predict that Arnold’s retirement will be a short one. And when he dies, the Beverly Hills estate and all the funds dedicated to Arnold’s welfare will go to Berkshire. The sooner the guy bumps the dog off, the sooner he gets his hands on it.’’

Melodie, scandalized, said, ‘‘Are you saying he’s going to murder Arnold?’’

‘‘As long as Arnold is unique, and working in the biz, he’s raking in the dollars big-time, so Berkshire can afford to wait. But if Arnold can be replaced- it’s good-bye doggie.’’

I told them about Arnold’s change of attitude towards Paul Berkshire.

‘‘Awesome,’’ said Melodie, impressed. ‘‘Like, it’s practically mystic.’’

‘‘So what about Rhea?’’ I asked Lonnie. ‘‘Is it definite her death was accidental?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘At the time there was lots of smoke but no fire. It could have been an accident-she was a heavy drinker and could have got confused about how many sleeping tablets she’d taken. Maybe the dog knows for sure, but he’s the only witness, and he can’t tell anyone.’’

‘‘I think he’s been trying to,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m going back there, right now.’’ They both stared at me. ‘‘Premonition,’’ I announced. ‘‘Psychic flash.’’

Melodie nodded wisely. ‘‘I have those all the time.’’

I left Lonnie chortling and marched back to my car. ‘‘I’m coming, Arnold,’’ I said.

When Berkshire opened the front door he was scowling. ‘‘Forget something?’’

‘‘ ’Fraid so. I missed filling out a whole page of my checklist. Can’t write my report until I’ve got all the info.’’

‘‘Jesus,’’ he said, ‘‘can’t anyone do anything right these days?’’

‘‘Sorry. I’ll only be a mo.’’

‘‘Lisette!’’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘‘Get up here, fast.’’

He beckoned me in and closed the door. ‘‘I’ll be upstairs if you want me, but I’m not expecting you to.’’

I watched him mount the long curving stairway. It was like something out of Gone with the Wind, except, of course, Clark Gable had been even more good-looking.

‘‘Yes, dear?’’ said Lisette, hurrying up to me. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘Do you get the feeling Arnold’s been trying to tell you something?’’

She seemed uncomfortable. ‘‘It’s just my fancy.’’

As she spoke, Arnold appeared, trotting down the hall towards us. He had a determined, focused manner, and when he reached us, he sat down and fixed us with an unblinking stare.

‘‘Would Arnold be telling you something about what happened to Rhea?’’

Lisette’s lips trembled. ‘‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried sick about it all. I took Rhea’s death hard- we’d been together for so many years-so I think I’ve exaggerated things in my own mind, to the point of believing Arnold was a witness to murder.’’

She said the last word in a harsh whisper. It was almost melodramatic, the way we both looked up the stairway. On cue, Paul Berkshire appeared at the top. ‘‘What the hell’s going on?’’

‘‘Arnold,’’ I said, ‘‘I’m sorry. I can’t do anything. If only there’d been someone else there to bear witness.’’

Arnold shook himself, as though he’d been dunked in water, then dipped his head at me. Paul Berkshire had started down, swearing. ‘‘Get the hell out of here.’’

Arnold sighed, then shot like a furry bullet up the stairs. Paul Berkshire yelled, ‘‘Fuck!’’ then tumbled down, a flaccid doll bouncing obscenely until he came to rest on the marble floor, his neck at an unnatural angle.

Lisette rushed over to him. ‘‘Oh, my God! He’s dead!’’

Arnold came down at a leisurely pace, stopped to sniff the corpse, then came over to me. I said, ‘‘That wasn’t an accident, was it, Arnold?’’

Fair dinkum. That little dog cocked his head-and smiled at me.