Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

I had a feeling I was being watched. Sure enough, there was a big, tawny cat sitting in the hallway looking blankly at me. "Hello, cat," I said.

It blinked at me slowly, twitched a whisker in a sneer, then got up and walked off, giving a little flick to its tail as it passed. Even the cat didn't like me.

Out of sight around a corner, I slumped against the wall. Things were grim. My dad was dead before I'd even got to know him. Back in Wollegudgerie was Raylene, the woman I'd believed was The One, but last week she'd given me the heave-ho for someone else. On top of that, Mum was getting married again, and three was going to be a definite crowd. Then on an impulse I'd hopped a plane and traveled to a country I didn't remember from my childhood, to find Ariana Creeling making it very clear I was a lot less than welcome. And to top it all, I was jet-lagged.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and straightened up. So today wasn't the best. I was bloody well not going to let it get me down.

From the little I knew of him, I thought my dad would be disgusted with me for being such a sook. I was guessing about that, because the only chance I'd had to spend any time with him, apart from when I was a really little kid living in Los Angeles, had been a couple of years ago when he'd lobbed into Wollegudgerie and given Mum the shock of her life, because she hadn't thought she'd ever see him again.

The way Mum told it, she'd fallen in love with a visiting Yank who was all man and then some, married him, and moved back to the States to set up house. A year later she had me. Dad joined the LAPD and everything was hunky-dory until he announced he'd realized he was gay and was in love with another bloke-a builder who'd been doing alterations to the house. Dad left the police and started a security business; Mum divorced him and moved back home to the 'Gudge, where she bought the local pub.

Mum always blamed the pollution for Dad turning gay. Said he'd never had ideas like that until they'd lived in the Los Angeles smog for a few years.

Opal mining is Wollegudgerie's main business, which means there's pretty well no pollution, so she couldn't blame the air quality when at 17 I told her I was sure I was gay too. Mum said it was a phase, and I'd grow out of it. I didn't.

Dad paid support for me until I was 16, but the money was sent direct to Mum's bank account. She'd heard nothing from him for years, and he never even remembered my birthdays, so it was quite a surprise when he appeared out of the blue. I'd only seen him in old photographs and wasn't prepared for this handsome stranger who looked a bit like me. I'd gotten my dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin from my mum, who's part Aboriginal, but now I could see I had my father's nose and hands and height.

Though a bit stunned, Mum was pleased to see him, because, as she said, it wasn't like he'd thrown her over for another woman. She asked him what had happened to Ken, the guy he'd fallen for, and he said they'd lived together until recently, when Ken died. I remember he got tears in his eyes when he said Ken's name.

Anyway, Dad and I got on like a house on fire, straight off. He told me all about the private-eye business, how he'd started Kendall Investigative Services as a loner but then taken in a partner, a woman who'd been a cop in the LAPD, so the company had been renamed Kendall & Creeling Investigative Services.

I was kicking myself now for not ever having asked him if Ariana Creeling was gay, but how was I to know I'd need that information? I'm just not good at the gaydar thing, and the only vibes I'd got from Ariana so far were pretty hostile. Could hardly blame her, with me suddenly turning up to throw a spanner in the works.

After his visit, Dad and I had kept in touch by phone and e-mail. As far as anyone knew, he was in perfect health, but then he'd had a sudden, fatal heart attack. He'd never even hinted that he was leaving me his share of the business, so his will came as a big surprise-but not half the surprise it must have been for Ariana.

I heard someone behind me and turned around. "Hi," said a bloke coming down the hall. He was trying to hide it, but he walked with a slight limp. He'd leave the kind of track in the bush that'd be child's play to follow.

He stared at me with open curiosity, then cocked his head and frowned, probably seeing some family resemblance. "Can I help you?" he asked.

I waved the mug. "Looking for the kitchen."

"Right here." He gave me the once-over. "I'm Lonnie. And you…?

"Kylie." I gave him the once-over back. He was a little shorter than me and rather chubby, with a roundish face complete with dimples. He had straight, floppy brown hair that fell over one eye, and I'd guess when he was a kid someone had told him he had an adorable smile, because he was giving me a little-boy grin that I had to admit was pretty disarming.

I grinned back at him. "My dad was Colin Kendall."

His smile disappeared. "I'm so sorry. Your father was a great guy. It was terrific working for him."

"What do you do here?"

"The technical side-computers, tuners, scanners, anything electronic. Want to know everything about a certain someone? You come to me. All I need is a name and a social security number and I'll tell you a person's finances, credit rating, driving record, any criminal charges…and that's just the beginning."

"Crikey. What happened to privacy?"

Lonnie laughed like I'd said something funny. "Long gone, honey. Long gone."

I opened a cupboard and gazed hopefully into it. "You think there's any decent tea around here somewhere?"

"The tea bags are right in front of you."

With growing revulsion I examined the brightly colored assortment: dandelion root, peppermint, strawberry, mint, ginseng. Not a genuine tea leaf in the lot. "These are flavored. Beats me how anyone can drink them."

Spooning coffee into a percolator, Lonnie said, "Fifteen minutes, tops, you can have some of this."

I usually don't drink coffee, but I was starting to wilt pretty badly, so a caffeine jolt sounded good. "Right-oh. I'll have a dekko while I'm waiting."

"Dekko?"

"A look around." I frowned at the heavy black wood of the kitchen door. The same as Ariana's office door, it was studded with fat brass buttons. So, I recalled, was the front door. And the building itself, clearly once a house, was a bright sort of pinkish-ocher color. I asked, "Is this place in some sort of particular style?"

"Spanish," said Lonnie, screwing up his face. "Pseudo-Spanish, actually. Very big in Southern California."

He leaned against the counter and crossed his ankles, looking like he was settling in for a long chat. I didn't feel like nattering on, so I said bye and went off exploring.

Finding the back entrance, I stepped out into the glare. This door was plain, made of metal painted dark brown. It was on a spring, and it slammed shut behind me, so I'd have to go around the front to get in again. The sun had a bite. It was late autumn Down Under, so it had to be late spring here. Half the yard was taken by a garage; the rest was filled by a couple of citrus trees- a lemon and a lime-plus a jacaranda, heavy with purple blooms, that hung half over the high back fence. The garage door was locked, and the back gate was barred with metal rods secured by padlocks. Standing on tiptoe, I could see a narrow laneway.

I turned around to survey the house. It sort of squatted there, its thick stucco walls supporting a roof of fat, curved terra-cotta tiles. High up, the dark brown ends of several beams protruded from the walls. There were dark brown shutters on each window, but they were fakes: They looked like they'd just been flung open but were really screwed into the wall as fixtures. Every single window at the back and down the side when I made my way there was barred, like the place was a prison. Good luck if there was a fire inside and you wanted to get out.