Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

As soon as Ariana put down the receiver, I rushed in with it. "I've been thinking, nobody knows me at Deerdoc Enterprises except Dr. Deer himself. And Lonnie said there were other Aussies there. So why couldn't I go in undercover? I could suss out the place, no worries."

I half expected I'd finally get a laugh out of her, but it wouldn't be the sort I'd enjoy. That didn't happen. She regarded me thoughtfully, smoothing her pale hair with one hand. This was the first edgy gesture I'd seen her make, apart from drumming her fingers yesterday when I said I was set on becoming a P.I.

At last she spoke. "Maybe that's not a bad idea." There was another long pause while she thought some more, then she said, "I'll call Dave Deer back and tell him you're coming with me tonight, and I'll run the idea past him. It's for dinner, so don't ruin your appetite beforehand."

With a ghost of a grin, she added, "That is, if you're available…"

"Oh, I'm available."

"For actors, the right name is vital," Melodie advised. She paused to answer a call, then went on, as though nothing had interrupted, "Yours, for instance, would be a good one."

"What? Kylie Kendall? You're joking."

I'd come up front to the reception area to ask Melodie if there was an iron around, as I had to make something in my sparse wardrobe look presentable for dinner at the Deers' place.

"Of course, I had to change mine."

"Your name's not Melodie?"

She frowned. "Not the Melodie, the Schultz. Now I ask you, does Melodie Schultz make you think star?"

I had to admit it didn't.

"So I took Davenport as my professional name. How do you think that sounds? Melodie Davenport?" She paused as if listening for an echo.

"Ripper name," I said. When she looked at me with doubt, I went on, "Like, it's absolutely excellent."

Julia Roberts, who had been curled up in a tight ball on the reception desk, pleased me by waking up, stretching, and coming over to be adored.

"She likes you," said Melodie. "Julia's real choosy, so you should be flattered." Then she was back on topic, clearly into deep musing over monikers. "Julia Roberts is a terrific name, but Bob Verritt couldn't be a success in the biz with his. The Bob's the problem. If he used Robert, he might make it. And Lonnie Moore? No way. Not that he's star material in any case."

Another call came through. "Kendall & Creeling…I'll put you through to Mr. Verritt." That done, Melodie moved onto Harriet Porter, commenting that although Harriet was an old-fashioned name, it might be okay, being as there weren't that many Harriets in competition.

I put my search for an iron on hold, and asked, "What do you think of Ariana Creeling as a name? Got possibilities?"

Melodie wrinkled her nose, managing to look attractive doing it. "Don't like the Creeling."

"It's not her married name, is it?"

My casual question earned a casual shrug. "No idea."

Did that mean Ariana was married, or that Melodie didn't know one way or the other? "You mean you don't know if she's married or not?"

"Maybe she has been, maybe not. She's a very private person. All I can tell you is she lives in the Hollywood Hills. I've been to her place. It's lovely. Got a great view."

Someone took this moment to dial Kendall & Creeling's number. Melodie glared at the phone. "Look, people, it's Friday afternoon. Give me a break."

This call turned out to be much more welcome, as it was from one of Melodie's friends. Before she and Tiffany could get too deeply into plans for the weekend, I interrupted with, "I'm looking for an iron. Any ideas where I might find one?"

"Hold on," she said to Tiffany. Melodie then gave me the bad news. "You'll have to ask Fran. She's the only one who'll know."

In the BMW, Ariana and I went west along Sunset toward Beverly Hills. Sunset Boulevard was obviously the place to be on Friday night. Twin streams of cars, many of the occupants shouting and tooting, clogged the roadway. The footpaths were crowded with people walking, talking, and standing in queues to get into places. Several of the billboards lining the road didn't just sit there, they scintillated and flashed and boomed with music and sound effects.

Ariana drove the way I expected: smoothly, competently, and with patience. This last quality I admired, not having all that much of it myself.

"That's the House of Blues," she said, gesturing to an awkward-looking building on the left. I didn't have the faintest what the House of Blues was, but I said "Right" as if I did. It was clear to me I needed a crash course on this sort of stuff if I was ever to get anywhere as a P.I. I resolved to quiz Melodie about Sunset nightlife and so on, working on the principle that she'd certainly be in the know.

We swept around a corner and down a hill, and abruptly everything changed. Gone were the crowds, the gesturing motorists, the gaudy lights. A discreet sign indicated that we were entering Beverly Hills. The traffic jams disappeared as the roadway widened. Vehicles sped along, minding nobody's business but their own. I caught glimpses of large houses and luxurious gardens behind concealing walls.

After we'd driven a couple of kilometers, Ariana turned right off Sunset and onto a narrow, winding street. Houses crowded both sides, but no one was out walking the dog or taking an evening stroll. Because there were hardly any streetlights and lots of trees, it was a bit like driving through a leafy tunnel.

I glanced over at Ariana. Illuminated by the lights from the dash, her profile was serene, but I reckoned that inside she couldn't be. "This case is really important, isn't it?" I said.

"Every case is important."

"Fair go, you know what I mean. Dave Deer's a big shot. If things go wrong, he'll cut up rough. It'll be our fault, not his."

She glanced over at me. "What makes you say that?"

"Back in Oz, before he ever came to the States, there was this big fuss when one of Dave Deer's patients, a TV personality, used a shotgun to murder his wife and his mother, then blew himself away. The word got out that in therapy sessions-some with Dave Deer and some with another therapist who worked for him-the bloke had talked about what he was planning, but nothing was done about it. For a while it looked like Dave Deer was in for it, but then, all at once it was entirely the other doctor's fault and Dr. Deer was totally off the hook."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying if things go down the gurgler, Dr. Deer won't get sucked in. It'll be someone else's fault, never his. And if he has to blame Kendall & Creeling, trust me, he will."

"Thanks for the warning."

I got the impression she wasn't taking my advice all that seriously, and that made me bring up something that'd been nagging at me since she'd agreed to let me get involved in the case. "I want it straight, Ariana. Are you going to recommend to Dave Deer I go undercover just so you can get me out of your hair?"

She gave an amused snort. "It'd be a lot easier to take you for a one-way ride to the Angeles National Forest."

While I was deciding how to reply to this, she took a sharp right, then a sharp left. Turning into a driveway, we pulled up at fancy wrought-iron gates. Tall walls stretched off on either side. The gates looked substantial enough to stop a tank. I noticed a movement at the top of one gatepost, as a camera swiveled around to stare at us.

Ariana slid down her window, and when a disembodied voice asked for identification, said, "Ariana Creeling and Kylie Kendall. Dr. Deer's expecting us." I liked the way she said my name. Her American accent made it sound exotic.

Silently, in a mega-spooky manner, the massive gates swung open. I twisted around to look back as we went up the driveway. They were swinging closed behind us. "What if the power goes out?"