Claire McNab: Wombat Strategy

Seeing Julia still making a beeline for him, he backed out the front door. "I'm outta here. Sleep well."

After he left, I did a circuit of the building, double-checking things were secure. In Wollegudgerie, most people didn't even bother to lock their front doors. It was different here. I'd seen enough American TV to know an unlocked door was an invitation for some yobbo to come on in.

A quick squiz around the place showed me that not everyone had furnishings as stark as those in Ariana's office. Lonnie's area was so crammed with computers and other electronic thinga-mabobs that there was hardly room to turn around. Bob Verritt's room- I knew it was his from the framed diploma on the wall-was comfortably messy, with files spilling off his desk, an old-style jukebox in one corner, and a wall full of movie posters. One of them, The Shining, depicted Jack Nicholson, ax in hand, smiling maniacally through the splintered remains of a door at a screaming female. Crikey, I hoped that wasn't going to be me later on this night. Nah, it wouldn't be: I'd never screamed in my life, not even when my cousin Rob dressed up as the Whinging Lady and popped out of a wardrobe.

"Will you protect me from intruders, Jules?" I asked. She'd been following me from room to room. If cats could shrug, that's what she would have done. Instead she yawned, then froze with eyes wide, like she'd heard something out of the ordinary.

My heart flopped around a bit. "What can you hear?" I whispered, thinking I should have asked Lonnie if there was a gun anywhere. I mean, wouldn't there be firearms in any self-respecting P.I. office?

Julia Roberts waited until I was checking Bob Verritt's desk for some sort of weapon, then she put one back leg in the air and started washing her nethers. Evidently any danger had passed.

I couldn't help feeling she was playing with me. "Caught me once," I told her, "but next time I won't believe you."

I made a quick call home to Wollegudgerie to tell Mum I'd arrived in one piece. She asked lots of questions, but I said I was tired and would call again later in the week.

In the kitchen I investigated the contents of the refrigerator. Apart from the remains of pizza from lunch, there were the makings of an omelet-eggs and a packet of sliced ham that didn't look too ancient.

"What's half-and-half?" I asked Jules. It appeared to be very runny cream, so I threw a good lot into the bowl with the eggs.

Now that we were in the kitchen, Julia Roberts was acting a lot more friendly. It occurred to me that maybe no one had thought to feed her. I spied a couple of plastic dishes under the table, one with water, the other empty. Jules whipped up enough enthusiasm to speak. Having been brought up with cats, I could translate: "Forget what you're doing. Feed me. Now!"

Fortunately I found tins of cat food in the second cupboard I tried. "Would you like turkey? Or tuna?"

I gave her turkey. It seemed very American to me, and she was, after all, an American cat.

After we'd both eaten we retired to the bedroom. Jules was perceptibly friendlier now that I'd demonstrated my worth. As a companion, she was nice to look at but rather unnerving. She had the habit of fixing her glowing green gaze at the corner of the room, or out the half-open door, as if someone or something were about to appear. I made a mental note to ask tomorrow if the house happened to have a resident ghost.

Personally, I didn't believe in the spirit world, but Mum's pub, the Wombat's Retreat, is supposed to be haunted by the Whinging Woman, dressed all in white, who wanders around complaining loudly and walking through walls. I've never seen her, but there's plenty who say they have-usually booze artists after a session in the bar.

Jet lag might have hit me like a mallet behind the ear this afternoon, but now that I was ready for bed, in my pajamas and with my teeth cleaned, I was about as wide awake as I could be. Jules and I snuggled up on the bed, the remote between us, to channel-surf.

I paused on Entertainment Tonight, not because I particularly watched the program-we got it in the 'Gudge via satellite very early in the morning-but because of the face on the screen. Dr. Dave Deer, leaning nonchalantly on a spade, was in a impressive, well-groomed garden. His gray suit had been replaced with a khaki shirt, brown cord trousers, and working boots. He'd even gone so far as to wear an Aussie Akubra hat.

"G'day," he said to the camera.

The interviewer was a glossy, super-thin woman-naturally- with lots of blond hair and a luminous smile. Cosmetic dentists, I reckoned, had to make a motza in this town.

"We're here in the beautiful Beverly Hills garden of Dr. Dave Deer, famous for his innovative Slap! Slap! Get On With It therapy, which has recently taken L.A. by storm."

"Bonzer to be here on E.T." Dave Deer said.

"Spectacular garden."

"It is, isn't it?" Modest grin. "Nature can be very healing."

The blond shook her head, apparently impressed by this insight, then said, "I wonder, Dr. Deer-"

"Dave, please!"

"I wonder, Dave, if you'd care to comment on the rumors that your famous clientele include luminaries such as Jim Carrey, Renee Zellweger, controversial Aussie director Jarrod-"

"I must ask you to name no more names! Patient privacy is paramount." Dave Deer looked pleased and indignant, all at once.

"So you wouldn't care to confirm a report that you met with a high member in the current administration-"

"Stone the crows! No comment." Then he added, almost with a wink, "But I can say everyone here in the States has been very open to new ideas, and that openness goes right to the top. I'm saying nothing more." Then he did wink.

The blond sent a meaningful look to the camera, then swung into her next question. "Is it true, Dave, that patients sign a release that allows you to actually slap them?"

"Again, that's confidential."

"What can you tell us, Dave?"

"My therapy can help anyone who sincerely wants to reach his or her full potential of happiness and achievement…"

I switched channels as he launched into the spiel he'd perfected back home in Oz. Jeez, if you believed Dr. Dave Deer, it didn't matter whether you were just a touch down in the mouth, or a zonked-out druggie, or straight-out mad as a two-bob watch-Slap! Slap! was the treatment for you.

I knew I shouldn't, but I then watched a horror movie about a bunch of people who insisted on wandering about this creepy old house, even though they were getting gutted one by one. "Doesn't it rot your socks," I said to Jules, "the way they never stick together? Someone's always saying to someone else, 'Wait here, while I investigate,' and then it's curtains for one of them."

After a while, even the shrieking of the victims didn't stop my eyelids from drooping. I hardly had time to punch the off button and turn out the light before I was asleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night, for a moment not sure where I was, but convinced something was wrong. Then it all came back to me with the unwelcome shock of a bucket of water in the face. I'd left Australia in a rush, believing my dad had wanted me to have the business so I'd arrive at Kendall & Creeling and be accepted straight off. It hadn't worked out that way.

Even though I'd closed the curtains tight, enough illumination filtered through from the floodlights outside for me to make out the time when I squinted at my watch. Early hours of the morning here, but back in the 'Gudge it was evening the next day.

It'd be busy in the Wombat. Marge and Sandy would be dishing out beers and smart-alec remarks from behind the bar, and Mum, along with Jack, her husband-to-be, would be chatting up the tourists and joking with the locals.