Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

With the unerring instinct of a mother, Mum said, "I ran into Raylene yesterday at the drycleaners. She asked after you."

I could see Raylene as clearly as if she were standing in front of me. She had beautifully silky hair that fell straight to her shoulders and a mobile, expressive face. I'd always loved her laugh, an infectious, bubbling sound.

"How is she?" I said, as if I didn't care one way or the other.

"She's fine. Said she was planning a trip to Bangkok during the next school break. She and Maria."

That was a stab to the heart. Raylene and I had talked at length about visiting Thailand. We'd pored over maps and brochures and plotted our itinerary. And now she was going there with Maria.

"Kylie, it's no good running away from your problems." Mum was in her I'm-saying-this-for-your-own-good mode. "Stand and face them, I always say."

"I'm not running away."

Mum clicked her tongue impatiently. "Of course you are. Just because a relationship doesn't work, it's no reason to shoot through."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"America's a dangerous place." Mum was getting het-up. "I see it on the telly every night. People getting shot for no reason at all. You're not safe there. I want you back here in Wollegudgerie."

Suddenly furious that she was ordering me around like I was a child, I said, "I'm not coming back. Not yet."

"When, then?" My mum was great at pinning people down. "Next month? For Chrissie? When?"

"Jeez, Mum, give it a rest."

Mum changed tack. "I really need you here, you know. Running the pub's no picnic without you. Jack's doing his best, but he hasn't learned the ropes yet."

"He will."

Silence. Then Mum said brightly, "Let's not fight, darling. You'll come home when you're ready. I know that."

We chatted about safe topics for a few minutes, then said goodbye. I put down the phone with the resigned feeling that she hadn't given up yet. She never does. Tenacity should be her middle name.

After that conversation I felt hungry, so I went for a walk to a Kentucky Fried Chicken place I'd noticed earlier. I bought extra, just in case Julia Roberts felt like a change from tinned cat food.

Jules and I ate chicken, watched TV, and generally lazed around. I reckoned I'd need all my energy for the week to come, so I aimed on having an early night. Every now and then during the evening, Jules did her startled staring routine, but I told her she could bung it on all she liked, I wasn't falling for it.

I was getting used to the noises of this place: the odd sounds that belonged to the house itself, of floors settling and beams expanding or contracting; the whine of urgent sirens in the distance; the muted, rumbling roar of traffic; the scatter of little feet on the tiles, which I devoutly hoped were squirrels, not rats; the trills and vocal embellishments of not one but now two mockingbirds, each set on attracting a mate.

"Jules," I said, "tomorrow is the first day of my new career as private investigator. What do you think of that?"

I thought she smiled, just a little.

"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.