Wombat Strategy

TEN

"Fran, it was, like, love at first sight, you know what I mean?" Melodie thumped herself on the chest with one clenched fist. I expected her to cough, but she didn't. "Straight to the heart, love's arrow hit me hard."

"Oh, yeah?" said Fran, leaning her slight form against the kitchen bench, arms folded. Her red hair and translucent skin made her seem like a painted porcelain doll with a D-cup bra and a bleak expression.

"Isn't that a line from your last audition, Melodie?" Lonnie sniggered. A glare from Melodie didn't quell him. He left the kitchen with his mug of coffee saying, "Love's arrow hit me hard? Oh, please!"

I stirred my porridge. "Is this someone new?"

"Oh, yes. Rich Westholme." She smiled reflectively. "Rich Westholme. Isn't that a great name? We met on Saturday night and hit it off right away." She paused, then said with deep significance, "He's a director."

"Never heard of him," said Fran. "What's he directed? A ten-minute short in film school?"

Melodie was indignant. "Rich's Ten Conversations With an Angry Man was shown at Sundance. And his latest movie, Slow-Slow Fast-Fast, will be on that cable show about young directors to watch out for. And Rich's got an A-list producer interested in his new project." She gave Fran a so-there glower.

"I've still never heard of him."

"Is he good-looking?" I asked, to deflect the coming explosion.

"Intense is how I'd describe Rich," said Melodie.

Fran sniffed. "That means no."

Ignoring this, Melodie said, "Rich and I spent all of Sunday together. It's just uncanny, the way we clicked. You know, I think he might be the one."

Fran raised a skeptical eyebrow. "He's offered you a part in one of his future masterpieces, hasn't he?"

Melodie tossed her head, causing her hair to fly around in an attractive arc. I'd bet quids she'd practiced that move in a mirror. "What if he has?"

"There's one born every minute," Fran said. "Every damn minute."

I looked over at Melodie and blinked. Her body language had abruptly changed to what I mentally labeled "extreme entreaty."

"Fran," she said in a wheedling tone, "my agent called, and there's an audition-"

"No," said Fran. "Ask Lonnie."

"Lonnie says he can't. Oh, please, Fran. It's only for a couple of hours this afternoon."

"A couple of hours? I've heard that story before. Forget it. I'm not doing it."

Melodie turned her wide-eyed gaze on me. "Kylie? Could you help me out here?"

"Sorry, I'm due at Deerdoc this morning."

An airy wave of her hand indicated this was no prob. "But you're just meeting Dr. Deer's assistant to get an idea of what the job's about. You'll be back here by lunchtime."

"So it's true what you said."

"What?"

"Receptionists know everything that's going on."

Only slightly discomforted, Melodie admitted, "I did overhear something…" Her grin grew cheeky. "So that means you can help me out."

I shook my head. "Sorry."

As I left the kitchen I heard Melodie say to Fran, "Is Harriet in yet…?"

Armed with driving instructions, I made it to Beverly Hills in good time, and on the correct side of the road the whole way. The Deerdoc building was on Roxbury Drive, and by good luck I found a parking meter nearby, fed it with coins, and bought myself a couple of hours before I'd score the attentions of the parking authorities.

I'd been sternly warned by, of all people, Fran, who gave me the good oil about Beverly Hills. Apparently it wasn't like other places in Los Angeles. For one thing, it had its own Beverly Hills cops, and they were fierce. "Don't talk back to them," Fran had said. "Pretend you're a tourist and you haven't got a clue." She laughed unkindly at that point. "Which would be true, because you haven't."

She'd advised me the parking officers were even more vicious than the cops, but had reserved her harshest comments for the matrons of Beverly Hills. "Run you down as soon as look at you," she declared. "Dressed to the nines and totally ruthless."

So far unscathed, I approached the Deerdoc Enterprises building, stopping on the way to give the once-over to a huge, lumbering vehicle I'd seen in advertised a zillion times on teev last night. It beat me how anyone could park one of these Hummers, let alone drive it without sideswiping cars in the adjacent lane.

The Deerdoc building had three stories and a graceful facade. A doorman in a dark-blue uniform allowed me to enter the mirrored lobby, which was dominated by a huge display of flowers in an alabaster vase. A second man in a similar well-tailored uniform stepped forward to check my credentials, murmured into a phone, then directed me to a thickly carpeted lift.

The doors shut with a well-mannered sigh. The walls here were mirrored too. I imagined many of Dave Deer's patients spent a good part of their lives fighting time's consequences with exercise, diets, and plastic surgery, so constant inspections in mirrors would be automatic. Not to be left out, I checked myself over. Dark hair: short, shiny. Face: the minimum makeup of powder and lipstick. Clothes: a plain, tailored blue dress. Jewelry: a watch and stud opal earrings.

The lift hissed open, DAVID DEER read the black lettering on the highly polished blue door facing me. Inside, someone had gone overboard with an Australian theme. The plush carpeting was the color of red earth; distinctive Aboriginal dot paintings were displayed on ocher walls; a didgeridoo at least two meters long was mounted on a stand; boomerangs somersaulted across a partition separating an alcove from the rest of the room.

There were two fish tanks, each dominating an entire wall. One was full of brightly colored fish. Tiny iridescent ones darted in little packs as larger, garish specimens swam lazily through columns of bubbles. A sign indicated these tropical fish were all natives of the Great Barrier Reef.

The second tank featured sharks, each small but deadly looking. They cruised with graceful menace.

"How may I help you?" The woman behind the rough-hewn slab that served as a desk had smooth dark skin, an elegant neck, and a pouting red mouth. A nameplate revealed her name to be Chantelle.

Someone coughed, and I realized there was a person in the alcove behind the screen.

"G'day. I'm Kylie Kendall. I'm here to see Noreen."

"Of course. You're Noreen's replacement while she's on vacation."

"That's about it," I said. "I'm here to get an idea of how things run." I directed a warm smile at her. "I've heard tell receptionists know everything that's going on in any business, so I reckon you'd be my go-to person."

Chantelle looked gratified. "It's true," she said in a near whisper, "but you'd be the first I've met who realizes it."

There was renewed coughing behind the screen, then the sound of a match flaring, followed by the unmistakable sigh as a smoker exhaled the first stream of smoke.

Chantelle's expression blended irritation and resignation. She clicked her tongue. "There's no smoking allowed in the building. State law." Even so, she made no move to rebuke the smoker.

"A celebrity?" I said, looking toward the dividing screen.

Chantelle's red lips formed themselves into a disapproving line. "Minor only. Major celebrities have their own private entrance."

"And the waiting room?" I indicated the row of chairs awaiting patients.

"Nonentities," she said, "but with money."

She pressed a button set into the surface of the polished slab. "I'll get Noreen to show you around."

After a moment a door, set so well into the wall behind Chantelle it was invisible, suddenly opened. A glossy blond wearing a tight pink dress and very high-heeled sandals appeared, smiling. "Kylie? Come this way." She had a soft, breathy, confiding voice. "I'm Noreen, Dr. Deer's personal assistant."

She took my arm. She only came up to my shoulder, even with her heels. She had blue eyes, a pale version of Ariana's. Her blond hair cascaded in curls down her back.

I said, "Fair dinkum, no offense, but there's an awful lot of blonds in L.A."

"Blonds have more fun," Noreen said, as though no one had ever said this before.

"That explains it, then."

She took me down a corridor, lushly carpeted. All I could hear was the faint hiss of air conditioning. "Every room is soundproofed," she said, "so primal screams cannot disturb other patients."

"Right-oh."

She patted my arm as though we'd been mates for yonks. "I'd show you Dr. Deer's room, but he has a patient with him at the moment."

"Where the fucking hell is Dave Bloody Deer?"

"Aw, shit!" said Noreen under her breath.

Jarrod Perkins, head lowered aggressively, had entered the hall behind us. He was dressed in the same clothes-jeans, T-shirt, and tweed jacket-he'd worn Saturday night.

"I've got a fucking bloody appointment," he snarled. "Where is the son of a bitch, eh?"

Hands fluttering, Noreen tottered on her high heels toward him. "Dr. Deer will be with you in a moment, Mr. Perkins. He wants you to know he has a medical emergency."

"Fuck that for a joke!" Perkins began striding toward us, his arms windmilling. "Get out of my way."

A man I recognized as the doorman materialized. "Anyone here own a Hummer? Yellow one? Parked in the handicapped zone in front of the building?"

Jarrod Perkins swung around. "That's mine. Forget about a bloody parking ticket. I never pay them anyway."

"It's not a parking ticket, sir."

"What then? The fucking bastards aren't trying to tow the rucking thing away, are they?"

"No, sir. Perhaps you'd like to come down. The police are here."

"What are the fucking police here for?"

"It's the Hummer, sir." He paused, and I swear I saw a smile flicker on his lips. "There appears to have been a bomb. Your Hummer's blown up. Completely destroyed."