Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

Melodie clasped her hands for all the world like she was begging for her life. "Oh, please," she said. "Don't write me a ticket. I'm positive I put in enough quarters. Something must be wrong with the meter."

The woman tapped the offending meter. "Expired," she said. Then she made a big deal of checking the license plate and jotting it down on the gizmo she was holding.

Melodie wasn't giving up. "I can't have been more than a minute or two over. Oh, please. I got a ticket last week, and I can't afford to pay that one. And now…" Her shoulders drooped.

"Standing at an expired meter." This dame was having fun, I could tell.

"I'm begging you not to write me a ticket."

There was a sob in Melodie's voice. It was so convincing I decided maybe she did have a career in acting.

"Once I've started a ticket, can't stop. Regulations." She slapped the ticket into Melodie's hand. "Have a nice day."

"Damn!" Melodie said once we were in the car. "If it had been a guy, I'd have talked my way out of it. I've gotten away with it thousands of times."

When we drove into the office parking area, I felt a little thrill to read the name on the wall beside the gate, kendall & creeling investigative services. I couldn't claim the Kendall part referred to me. Not yet. I made a silent promise to myself I'd be able one day to point to it and say, "P.I. Kylie Kendall at your service."

"What the hell kept you?" demanded Lonnie from the reception desk. "I've been stuck here for hours answering the phones." A lock of his hair had fallen over one eye, and he looked quite endearing, rather like a plump toy.

While Melodie soothed Lonnie, I took the salads we'd bought down to the kitchen. I would have loved a cuppa, but there was no tea, no teapot, no strainer, and no Fran. I looked around for something to drink. A large water cooler brooded in one corner, and the fridge was full of bottled water, plus many cans of Diet Coke.

There was a rustle of plastic bags, and Fran tottered in. "You and your teapot," she snapped. "Had to search high and low, I can tell you."

"Is there something wrong with the tap water?" I inquired. "Doesn't anyone drink it?"

Before I could help, Fran had made her way across the kitchen and swung the shopping bags onto the counter. It must be a trial to be so short, I thought, looking at her diminutive form.

She answered my question in a withering tone. "Nobody I know drinks water from the faucet." Vinegary smile. "You can be the first."

I was fast getting the irrits with Fran and was ready to have it out with her right there and then, but a strange woman, who captured my attention entirely, chose that moment to come into the kitchen.

"Hi," she said. "You must be Kylie. I'm Harriet. Harriet Porter."

"G'day."

This one was a bit of all right. She had a honeyed contralto voice, a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, thick chestnut hair, and, for a change, she wasn't anorexic. Harriet Porter was one of those people who give the instant impression they're true blue. What you saw was what you got. At least I hoped so, as even in a severe business suit this was the sexiest woman I'd met for some time.

"Ariana tells me you're joining us as an intern," Harriet said. "Welcome aboard."

"I'm giving it a go."

Fran, noisily unpacking her bags, said, "You'd better be a quick study. Ariana's not famous for her patience."

"If Kylie's anything like her dad, she'll do just fine," said Harriet. To me, she added, "Colin was such a terrific guy. It's hard to believe he won't walk through the door any minute. Please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss."

"Here," said Fran, shoving a brown pottery teapot into my hands. "This what you ordered?"

Considering the way she'd snarled at me this morning, it was astonishing she'd come up with anything, but here was exactly what I wanted.

"Absolutely," I said, examining it. "Thank you, Fran."

"Strainer and tea." Fran dumped the items on the counter in front of me. She rummaged around and added a box with an illustration of a family ecstatic over breakfast. "And porridge. I figured you meant oatmeal. Too bad if you didn't, because that's what I got."

"Your blood's worth bottling, Fran." She grunted, but not with malice. Being friendly, I added, "You're Ariana's niece, aren't you?"

That got me a narrow look, like she thought I was needling her. "What's it to you?"

Harriet put an arm around Fran's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. "Lighten up, Fran. Kylie's just interested."

Astonishingly, Fran smiled. Grudgingly, to be sure, but it was a dinkum smile. Perfect teeth, naturally. "Yes," said Fran, almost pleasant. "My mom's Ariana's eldest sister."

This was the nicest I'd ever seen Fran. Harriet could obviously work marvels. Or maybe she and Fran… I dismissed that thought. My gaydar might be dodgy, but it wasn't that off.

"Fran's mom is an artist," said Harriet. "A very successful one, I might add. She's got an exhibition coming up, hasn't she, Fran?"

Fran, quite animated for her, nodded. "A gallery in Santa Monica."

"Do we all get invites?" I asked.

Fran's scowl reappeared. "The private showing's for selected guests." It was clear from her expression I had a snowball's chance of being one of these.

"Stone the crows! I wasn't trying to jump the queue."

Ariana's cool voice came from the doorway. "I didn't know you were interested in art, Kylie. If you're really keen, you can come to Janette's private showing with me." You re on.

"No big hurry, but after lunch I'd like to go through a few things with you."

"Right-oh."

Ariana poured herself coffee and left the room. I made a pot of tea, drank two cups black, with lots of sugar-I had to search for the sugar, as everyone else seemed to use artificial sweeteners- chomped through my salad, and then choofed off to Ariana's office.

"Dave Deer," I said before she could bring up anything else. "You never told me what he was doing here yesterday."

"It's a highly confidential matter."

"I won't be blabbing to anyone."

She gave me one of her long blue stares. "Dr. Deer has his consulting room set up to make discreet audiovisual records of each session with his patients. The individual disks are meticulously catalogued and put in the appropriate files, which are stored in a walk-in safe."

I could see where this was going. "A not-so-secure safe, is that it?"

She nodded. "Several disks are missing. They haven't been misplaced, as all the patients' records have been checked."

"Blackmail?"

Ariana leaned back and regarded me with a genuine smile. It was only a tiny one, but definitely more than a twitch of the lips. "Very good, Kylie. Blackmail it is. Two patients have session disks missing: Bart Toller, who's an up-and-coming actor, and Jarrod Perkins, who's-"

"The Aussie film director," I finished for her.

Jarrod Perkins had started off his career in Australia with a horror movie called The Dead! The Dead! I'd never forgotten it, because it had scared the living daylights out of me when I'd seen it at the Regal in Wollegudgerie. A couple of minutes into the story and I'd stopped noticing the spring in my seat digging into me, or that Raylene was holding my hand. Even the yobbos up the back of the cinema shut up when the body pieces started flying and the blood really began to flow.

That movie became a cult thing, and it made it overseas, so Perkins got larger budgets for his next movies. Soon Oz was too small for him, and he hit Hollywood in a big way with a weird musical called Shitstirrers' Spring, although I'd heard in the States it was advertised as S***stirrers' Spring.

In an interview on Entertainment Tonight Jarrod Perkins got all het-up and yelled, "What the shit is wrong with Shitstirrers' Spring as a name?" I remember reading he got his knickers in a real knot when it was broadcast as: "What the BLEEP is wrong with BLEEPstirrers' Spring as a name?"