Claire McNab - Kookaburra Gambit

Maurice was very neat and reserved. I noticed he listened a lot more than he spoke. He looked as if he'd just that moment shaved and patted on some exclusive aftershave. Checking out his hands, I found his fingernails were manicured. He had short, dark hair and a hard, every-day-at-the-gym body, which he showed off with a very tight red T-shirt and snug black trousers. I liked his drawly voice.

"Super accent," I said. "What is it?"

"I'm a Southern boy. Louisiana." He gave me a quick smile. "I like your accent too."

"I don't have one," I said. "It's you lot that do."

That got everyone talking about accents, a subject about which Gary, Maurice's partner, had a lot to say. Gary was quite a contrast to Maurice. Where Maurice was neat and reserved, Gary was rumpled and loud. His hair was longish and he had a rather untidy mustache. Gary more sprawled than sat, and he kept up a stream of comments, some of them witty. It wasn't that I didn't like him-he seemed pleasant enough-but he was one of those people who just have to be the center of attention. Lucky for him, Maurice didn't appear to mind, being content to sit quietly and look at him affectionately every now and then.

When we went to the table, Gary insisted on helping Beth serve the meal. "I'm a thwarted waiter," he declared, placing a plate in front of me with a flourish.

I peered at it, puzzled. It would be rude to ask what the hell it was, but I wasn't keen on eating something that looked like this without some idea of its composition.

"I'm doing a course in Italian cooking," Beth declared to the table. "This appetizer is sformato dipiselli e asparagus!"

"Asparagus and pea flan," Harriet translated.

"It didn't quite come out like the illustration in my cookbook," Beth said with the first tentative smile I'd ever seen on her face.

This had to be an understatement. The contents of the plate in front of me appeared to be afflicted by some dire tropical skin disease. I looked around the table. Others were eating, and no one had fallen off a chair, as yet. I took an experimental mouthful. It tasted OK.

Gary rushed around, pouring red Italian wine. Then he whisked away the appetizer plates from each of us. If he loved being a waiter, why wasn't he one? I was curious enough to ask him what he did.

"Teacher," he said. "Math."

"With LAUSD," said Harriet in tones of doom.

"What's that?"

"Los Angeles Unified School District," said Gary, topping up Beth's glass. She was drinking quite a lot, I'd noticed. Maybe it was anxiety about her cooking.

"Anyone who teaches in L.A. Unified deserves a medal," Harriet declared. "There are too many chiefs, not enough Indians, dilapidated buildings, and a large proportion of students who are functionally illiterate in English. Oh, and there's gang violence too."

"Gary's a wonderful teacher," said Maurice, "but he's close to burning out."

My opinion of Gary went up several notches. Teaching was a demanding profession at the best of times. In Gary's situation, it sounded close to impossible.

Beth, her forehead creased in concentration-or maybe panic-exited to deal with the main course. Gary followed after her. We were chatting about red wine versus white when a few horrified cries filtered through from the kitchen. "Stay here," said Harriet, getting up.

"Sounds like there's a problem with the entree," Chantelle said.

"Entree? We've already had the entree."

Maurice and Chantelle looked at me. "The first course," I told them. "The asparagus and pea thingy."

"That's the appetizer," said Chantelle. "Now we're waiting for the main course. The entree." She grinned at me. "You Aussies are so strange. Must be something to do with living upside down at the bottom of the world."

"Entree means entry," I pointed out. "So it's the first thing you have."

Maurice frowned at me. "If you Aussies call the appetizer the entree, what do you call the main course?"

"Funnily enough," I said, "the main course."

Harriet came in from the kitchen. "Beef filet with truffles and apples," she announced. I could see she was on the verge of hopeless giggles but was attempting to remain serious for Beth's sake.

Beth and Gary entered, carrying plates. Beth was unsmiling. "Filetto con tartufi e mele," she said without her usual verve.

My mum has a saying about Aunt Millie's cooking-not to her face of course. "When Millie cooks," Mum would declare, "it's either a burnt offering or a bloody sacrifice."

I examined my main course. On my plate sat my very own burnt offering.

As soon as I saw Melodie's gloomy expression Monday morning, I assumed the Saturday callback hadn't gone well. "Missed out, did you?" I said, sounding as sympathetic as possible.

"Not at all," said Melodie. "That was the first callback. I expect to get a second callback later this week. Larry, my agent, says not to worry-he just knows they loved me."

First thing every Monday morning a meeting was held in Ariana's austere office to report on all current cases. Everyone was expected to attend, except for Melodie and Fran. Up to this point I'd really only been a spectator, but now, even if I were under Bob Verritt's supervision, I had a case of my very own.

I'd found it was traditional for Ariana to supply doughnuts for the meeting, although I suspected it pained her to have crumbs scattered all about by Lonnie, who, nice bloke though he might be, was an awfully messy eater.

Everyone trooped in with coffee, except me (I had a good strong cup of tea) and Harriet (who insisted on drinking a peppermint concoction made with a Bliss Moments tea bag). We sat in a circle, with Ariana the focal point behind her desk.

Feeling incredibly pleased to be part of this group, I checked out my companions. Bob, thin as a rake, had folded himself onto his chair. Lonnie had dumped a stack of papers on the chair next to mine and had gone to inspect the selection of doughnuts in the cardboard box on Ariana's desk. Harriet, who took notes of these meetings and came up with an efficient two-page precis every week, was shifting around in her chair as though she couldn't get comfortable, probably something to do with being pregnant. Or maybe she just couldn't get comfortable. Ariana's furniture was rather severe, like Ariana.

I saved Ariana Creeling for last, just the same as I always saved the most delicious food for last, or the book I thought I'd enjoy the best, for last. My mum had never understood why I did it, and I never could explain to her why anticipating something made the pleasure better.

Ariana was sitting calmly behind her desk, very still, watching as people took their places. I remembered what a jolt her blue eyes had given me the first time I'd walked into her office. Familiarity hadn't diminished the affect at all. This morning, as she had been that first day, she was dressed all in black, and her pale blond hair was pulled back in a chignon.

Although Ariana was the same, my appearance had improved markedly. The day we'd first met, I'd been jet-lagged and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. This morning I had on a tailored navy suit and creamy silk blouse. And my new hairstyle still looked pretty good, even if I'd ruined Luigi's strenuous blow-drying by washing my hair under the shower, ignoring his advice on using a conditioner, and then letting it dry naturally.

After we'd all settled down, Ariana said, "I'd like to discuss a new client first, Nanette Poynter. There may be some impact on Bob and Kylie's Hartnidge case, as the problem she has involves Brother Owen of the Church of Possibilities."

"Nanette Poynter?" said Lonnie, spewing crumbs as he tried to swallow a mouthful of chocolate doughnut and talk at the same time. "The one who used to be Nanette Sullivan?"