Claire McNab - Kookaburra Gambit

Then I heard a sound. Julia Roberts immediately went on wide-eyed alert. Had someone broken in? I looked around for a weapon. I'd kept the golf club with which I'd menaced Luis a few weeks ago, so I grabbed that.

"Kylie? It's me, Lonnie," a voice called out.

I put the golf club down. Lonnie would laugh if he saw me with it. Followed by Jules, I trotted out into the hall. Lonnie grinned at me. "Just catching up on some work. For you, actually-the backgrounds for the Oz Mob people you wanted."

He was in ancient jeans and a once-white T-shirt. His stomach bulged over the waistband. One of the reasons for this was in his hand: a bag bearing the McDonald's golden arches. Lonnie was notorious for being a fast-food junkie.

"Want some fries?" he said.

"No, thank you. No chips for me." We had McDonald's in Australia, complete with golden arches, but no way would they ever persuade me to call chips french fries.

It was funny how the atmosphere was different when someone other than just me was there. Knowing Lonnie was down the hall in his messy office changed the atmosphere subtly. And during the working week, it was different again. I wondered if energy fields around people charged the air in some way.

Mid afternoon, I went to ask Lonnie if he wanted a cup of tea. Julia Roberts had long deserted me, and I found her exploring Lonnie's cluttered room.

"Can you get that cat out of here?" he demanded, looking up from his computer screen. "I've asked her nicely, but she pays no attention."

"If you beg her to keep you company, she won't. Your mistake is to tell her to get lost."

Lonnie grunted. "I haven't got time to indulge in cat psychology."

"I've come to ask if you want a cuppa."

He was back peering at the screen. "Tea, you mean?"

"Yes, I've just made a pot."

"Hot?"

"Of course."

Lonnie looked at me over his shoulder. "I'd prefer iced tea. There's some in the fridge."

I shuddered. "That stuff is yours?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's flavored \"

Lonnie nodded. "Passion fruit and mango. Delicious."

I was thinking how my mother always says there's no accounting for tastes, when Lonnie squinted at me. "You should chill out," he said. "You're getting way too emotional over tea."

"Thank you for your advice, Lonnie."

My heavily sarcastic tone passed him by. "That's OK," he said.

Definitely time to change the subject. "How's it going?" I said, indicating the folder holding the names of Oz Mob's American staff.

He rubbed his chin. "What do you know about Tami Eckholdt?" he asked.

"She runs Lamb White for the Church of Possibilities. She helped Alf and Chicka get staff for their office."

"Tami Eckholdt's got her sister working for the Hartnidges but under a false name." He tapped the screen. "Look here. She's using the correct social security number but calling herself Paula Slade instead of Patsy Eckholdt."

"Why would she do that?"

Lonnie grinned at me. "You're the detective, remember?"

I got Lonnie his revoltingly flavored iced tea and took my own proper tea back to my office. Soon I was deep in Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook. The chapter on lying had me fascinated. I was up to the section describing how unconscious body movements give liars away. I would have thought fidgeting and fiddling were signs someone wasn't being truthful, but it turned out to be quite the opposite. Good liars tend to make fewer gestures, because they know such actions could signal they're worried about being found out. They don't touch their hair, or scratch their heads, or rub their hands together. They repress these movements.

But most fascinating of all, liars still give themselves away with bodily cues. While they're busily controlling hands, arms, and faces, they forget about the lower part of their bodies. It's the legs and feet that betray them. Even small adjustments unconsciously made can indicate tension and guilt.

Now, Ariana didn't make a lot of gestures, but in her case I thought it was simply that she was that kind of person-controlled, cool, constrained.

I made a mental note at the next opportunity to check out her lower body, anyway. The thought made me smile. I could imagine Ariana's reaction, should she catch me at it. "What are you doing?" she'd say. She wouldn't roll her eyes, but it'd be a close thing.

I visualized her lower body. Flat stomach, taut legs…

"That way lies madness," I remarked to Jules, who'd just strolled in the door. She yawned.

I was really looking forward to going to Harriet and Beth's that evening. They rented a house in Van Nuys. It was in the valley, or "over the hill" as I was learning to say.

I'd embarrassed myself the first time I'd had a stab at pronouncing Van Nuys, but now I confidently said "Van Eyes" with the best of them. Actually, having never learnt Spanish, I was rather at a disadvantage with some of the street and place names in Los Angeles. I hadn't yet fully mastered Cahuenga or Tujunga, and people had been known to giggle when I had a try at Camarillo.

It was my turn to drive, so I'd closely studied my Thomas Guide during the afternoon, intending to impress Chantelle with my grasp of L.A.'s geography. I was fine on the Hollywood Freeway, but once we hit the surface streets, I got into a complete pickle.

"I'm a total no-hoper at this navigating thing," I said to Chantelle, after she'd set me straight and we were heading more or less in the correct direction. "No probs at home in the 'Gudge, but here…" I shook my head.

"Just how many streets does your hometown have?" Chantelle asked.

I had to admit Wollegudgerie was pretty small.

"And how many streets do you think are in Los Angeles?"

"Couldn't even hazard a guess."

"I rest my case," said Chantelle. "I believe we take a left here."

Left turns were still a challenge for me, as I tended to head for the left side of the road instead of the right, but this time I accomplished the feat relatively smoothly-Chantelle only covered her eyes for a moment-and soon we were drawing up in front of Harriet and Beth's house.

It was a compact house, white stucco with a red tile roof and a great big oak tree in the front. Harriet opened the front door before we got to ring the bell. "Any trouble finding us?"

"None," said Chantelle. I had to love the woman.

Maurice and Gary were already established in the living room, drinks in hand. We all did the welcoming routine, then Harriet pointed us to the little bar in the corner and said to help ourselves. Even though I'd spent most of my life in a pub, I wasn't what you'd call a hardened drinker, so I poured myself a glass of white wine. Chantelle hit the vodka.

Beth, who was obviously the cook for the evening, came in from the kitchen to greet us. She was a tall, rangy woman who bubbled with laughter most of the time. I'd met her at the office on several occasions and never saw her less than cheery, even when she encountered Fran.

"Kylie! Chantelle! How wonderful to see you!"

I said it was bonzer to see her too but couldn't help wondering if Beth ever had a down day. Did she ever grump around the house? Did gloom ever slump her shoulders? Could she possibly always be this upbeat?

I had a vision of Harriet barking, "For God's sake, Beth, stop laughing and be serious!" But then, Harriet was a cheerful sort too. They were probably perfectly suited, which was fortunate, since they were to be parents in a few months.

Maurice was the sperm donor for the child Harriet was carrying, and I recalled her saying he was genetically superior.

While everyone was chatting about how unbelievably expensive homes were in L.A., I picked up that Maurice was a real estate agent. I considered him closely. Would I buy a house from this man?