Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

"What did you think of Dave Deer?" Melodie asked.

"How did you know I'd met him?"

Melodie gave me a knowing smile. "First rule any P.I. should learn: Ask the receptionist. We know everything that's going on."

She didn't seem to notice when I turned the question around. "What do you think of Dave Deer?"

Melodie took a white-toothed snap at the doughnut. It was, I noticed, dripping with chocolate icing. Chocolate's one of my weaknesses. "I went out with him once," she said indistinctly.

Now this was interesting. Ariana still hadn't told me what Deer had been doing in her office yesterday, and in the excitement of discussing what I'd be paid and confusing stuff like health insurance and social security, I'd forgotten to ask her.

"You only went out with him once?"

She swallowed the last of the doughnut. "My acting. Dave wasn't all that interested."

I folded my arms and sat on the edge of the desk. "No? That's a surprise."

"I can't date anyone who isn't supportive of my career. I mean, it's a jungle out there. Do you have any idea how many hicks bus into L.A. every day expecting to be discovered?"

"How many?"

Melodie frowned at me. "A real lot," she said. "Every audition's a zoo."

"When do you hear about yesterday's audition?"

"I haven't even got a call-back yet. That reminds me, I've got to get hold of Larry and see if he's heard anything." She added with a hint of satisfaction, "My agent. Larry Argent. That's the first step in an acting career. You've got to have an agent, and they don't take just anyone. You have to have talent, looks, and," she gave me an intense stare, "that star quality…"

"So no probs for you, Melodie."

This got me an indulgent laugh. "You're so cute!" She sobered. "There's a million would-bes with talent and looks and star quality. You gotta have luck too. Be seen by the right people." She sighed. "It's real hard work, I can tell you."

I'd opened my mouth to ask what reason Dave Deer would have to be a client of Kendall & Creeling when Fran, her expression dark, came into view. "You write this? About the tea?" She flapped the list in my face.

"That would be me."

"You're asking for a teapot."

Melodie watched with interest as Fran looked me up and down. "A teapot," Fran repeated. "A teapot? What's wrong with tea bags?"

"Can't live without a teapot. And I forgot to ask for a tea-strainer too, please."

Fran cocked her head at me and smiled a truly cynical smile. "Let me get this straight. You want me to get a teapot and a tea-strainer?"

"Yes, please. And tea. A packet of the loose stuff. And make it fair dinkum tea, not those yucky tea bags with flavors."

"Hey," said Melodie, "when I'm stressed after an audition, black currant tea is just about the only thing that can calm me down."

Fran rolled her eyes. "Stressed? Give me a break."

"Could I add something to the list?" I asked.

"And that would be? Russian caviar? Truffles, maybe?"

She reminded me strongly of my Aunt Millie, who's as sour as a lemon and has a line in sarcasm that could wrinkle paint.

"Porridge," I said. "And not the flavored sort-"

"Yadda yadda yadda."

"I beg your pardon?"

Fran made an elaborate act out of adding porridge to the list. "Satisfied?"

"This is just bonzer of you, Fran," I said, with the warmest smile I could manage. "I'm ever so grateful." I continued to grin at her benevolently.

My Pollyanna act was practically guaranteed to irritate most people, and Fran was no exception. "Oh, Jesus," she said. "I'm gone." She paused at the entrance to say to Melodie, "Dentist first, then shopping. Don't expect me before lunch." She slammed the door behind her.

"I suppose you wonder how Fran keeps her job," said Melodie.

"It had crossed my mind."

"She's Ariana's sister's daughter."

Ariana had a sister? I found myself deeply interested and was about to ask a few questions when Bob Verritt interrupted with, "Melodie, I've got an urgent integrity check. The client's getting antsy. You can take Fran along."

"No can do. Fran's at the dentist."

"Again? She's as bad as you."

"Cosmetic dentistry's an art," said Melodie, clearly stung by his comment. "It can't be rushed."

"I suppose you'll have to take Lonnie, then."

I piped up, "I can go instead of Fran."

Bob looked me over. "You'll have to change your top. That T-shirt won't hide the camera lens."

"Good as done."

Melodie laughed. "You don't have a clue what this is about, do you?"

"Not a clue. But I'm here to learn the ropes."

"Excellent," said Bob, although I could tell he had reservations. That made me a bit niggly. I'd show him I was a quick learner.

Half an hour later, Melodie and I were getting into her little convertible. Naturally I headed off to the wrong side because I expected the steering wheel to be on the right, where it would be in Oz.

"We drive on the other side of the road in Australia," I said as I went round to the passenger seat.

"That must be real strange."

Melodie leaped in, started the engine, shoved it into reverse, and stamped on the accelerator in one continuous movement. We shot out backwards onto Sunset Boulevard, were narrowly missed by a bus, and then zoomed forward, all before I could get my seat belt fastened.

The traffic was, well, unbelievable. I'd had a taste of it in the taxi yesterday, but this morning it seemed even worse. I couldn't remember even the cousin of a traffic jam in the 'Gudge, except once when our footy team won the Country Challenge Cup for the first, and probably only, time. Here in LA. there seemed to be a zillion vehicles driven by people all busting to get somewhere fast.

We drove along Sunset, with me twisting my neck around to see all the sights and memorize street names. We turned right at Fairfax and picked up a bit of speed. Melodie was singing along with a golden-oldies radio station as the wind whipped her blond hair behind her like something out of a shampoo ad. Mine, being shorter, just churned around on my head.

I had to admire the way she drove, zipping her sports car around larger vehicles and into tiny gaps, leaving blaring horns behind her. "There's a lot of four-wheel drives," I observed.

"Four-wheel drives?" When I pointed at one, she got what I meant. "We call them sport utility vehicles, SUV for short."

"Don't you ever signal?" I asked after she changed lanes for the umpteenth time.

Melodie broke off in the middle of the chorus of "Pretty Woman"-it was hardly fair she could sing, on top of her looks-to say, "What for?"

"Oh, I don't know. So other drivers would have some idea what you were going to do, maybe?"

"They know," said Melodie. "No one's run into us yet, have they?"

"Crikey, a few were close."

"Ah!" Melodie swiveled her hand around in a gesture I presumed meant I shouldn't get my undies in a knot.

Without warning she suddenly turned the wheel and we shot into a crammed parking area fronting a shabby row of little shops. "That's the one."

cardsharp cards announced the sign above the door.

Melodie had taken the lone parking spot, snaffling it from a bloke in an old Yank tank, who'd been approaching from the other end of the lot in a cloud of gray exhaust. He screeched to a halt behind us, leaned out, and went completely off his nana.

"I'll set that hoon straight," I said, reaching for the door handle.

Melodie grabbed my arm. "No hassles. "We're on a job, remember? Besides, he could have a gun."

The bloke yelled a final insult, then took off. As practice for my budding career in private investigation, I memorized his plate number, then got out to survey the scene. Cardsharp Cards was jammed between a fast-food chicken place and a frozen yogurt shop. This wasn't a bustling shopping area; the activity was provided by a few stray bits of paper blowing around. A shopping cart piled with odds and ends was abandoned near the Cardsharp entrance. I suddenly realized what I'd taken to be an untidy bundle of clothes next to it was actually a person sitting on the ground, smoking. It was a woman, not old, but thin and withered, as though most of the moisture had been sucked out of her.