Claire McNab - Kookaburra Gambit

Nanette Poynter glided to her plumply upholstered chair and lowered herself into it with one smooth motion. She sat with her feet together, angled to one side. Her hands, neatly clasped, were placed on her knees. Her spine was straight, her shoulders held back, her head one-quarter turned. I figured when no one was there to look at her she most likely sprawled all over the place, with a glass of gin in one hand and a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. However, with an audience, she was a proper lady.

Ariana introduced me as, "My colleague, Kylie Kendall."

Nanette Poynter inclined her head in my direction but didn't speak. She was very good-looking in a glossy sense. Everything was smooth-her hair, her skin, her facial expression. Her jewelry was discreet but undoubtedly very expensive. She was like a beautiful life-size doll.

"Would you mind outlining the situation again, Ms. Poynter?" Ariana asked.

"Please call me Nanette. I don't stand on ceremony."

Her voice was a surprise. I was expecting a softly modulated tone to go with her appearance. Instead it was rather raspy, with a querulous note.

"Thank you, Nanette. I'm Ariana."

"In a nutshell here's the situation. My husband, Vernon, has never had time for anything even vaguely spiritual. When I married him he was hard-nosed and by-the-numbers. Then last year he fell into the clutches of that asshole, Brother Owen, and his cocka-mamie religion. In a few months he went from a strong, no-nonsense character to a pathetic weakling who totally believes the hog-wash the Church of Possibilities is pushing. That includes the neat idea that anyone who criticizes COP is in league with dark forces."

I was fascinated. Nanette's voice was full of emotion, but her face remained almost expressionless.

"Can you believe it?" she went on. "A tough, down-to-earth man like Vernon Poynter is sucked into what is so plainly a scheme to strip him of his money. My money."

"Have you seen the COP Web site?" I asked. "It's impressive from a psychological point of view, very cleverly playing on the feeling many people have that they're not fully appreciated, not understood."

"What hooey!" Nanette Poynter snorted, loudly. Her face remained impassive.

Ariana took Nanette through the process Brother Owen's organization had taken to ensnare Vernon Poynter. I wrote down all the names she mentioned, both the COP staff and the members of the congregation Nanette knew. It was startling how many celebrities even I, a stranger in L.A., recognized. The Church of Possibilities had to be raking in a fortune every week.

At the end of the session, Ariana accompanied Nanette Poynter to the parking area. I tagged along too. Nanette model-walked to her car, a huge Bentley. It was a horrible brown color, with gold insignia. She slid into the seat, legs outside, feet together, slanted appropriately. Then, with one deft movement, she was in a driving position. Dark glasses on, she turned her blank face in our direction. "I'll hear from you soon?"

"We'll be in touch," said Ariana.

The Bentley purred out into the Sunset Boulevard traffic. I said, "She never had much expression on her face, did she?"

"Botox."

"Botox does that? I thought it was just for wrinkles."

"Used cosmetically, it paralyzes small facial muscles, and that removes lines," said Ariana. "It also smooths character out of your face. Some women have had so much in their foreheads, they can't lift their eyebrows."

I grinned. "Clearly, you haven't had Botox injections."

She raised one eyebrow. "Thank you, I think." Her tone was dry.

"I don't mean you have wrinkles," I said hastily. "You don't need Botox. And you can raise your eyebrows really well." I stopped to regroup. "What I mean is…"

"I'd quit while I was ahead," said Ariana.

The Hartnidge twins, plus me and Bob Verritt, were in my office. Alf and Chicka wore blue jeans and identical T-shirts, each bearing the words oz mob over a cartoon of an insanely grinning kookaburra.

I glanced around my office with satisfaction. It had originally been my father's room before he died. On my desk was a photograph of Dad and me when I'd been a little girl. It had been taken when my parents had still been married and living in Los Angeles. Sometimes I liked to think Dad was still here in his office, watching over me. For that reason, I didn't like to change it too much, for fear he wouldn't feel at home.

The charcoal-gray carpet was the same, as were the gray metal desk, bookcase, and filing cabinets. To lift the somber tone a little I'd had twelve of my best wildlife photographs framed and arranged on one wall. I was really proud of those close-ups of birds, reptiles, and animals in the bush around Wollegudgerie. Photography was the one area where I had infinite patience. I could look at each of my photos and place where and when it had been taken.

"I like the jacky," said Alf, indicating a shot I'd got just after dawn one morning of a kookaburra whacking a small snake against a branch to kill it.

"Laughing jackass is another name for a kookaburra," I said to Bob, in case he needed to be reminded.

He didn't want to know. "Let's get to work," he said. "What's the cover we'll use to get Kylie into the Burbank office?"

"I'm thinking girlfriend," said Alf.

Chicka nodded. "Girlfriend would do it."

"Wasn't the idea that you were going to give me a job in the company?" I said. "That way I could snoop around on the sly."

"Nah," said Alf. "A stickybeak girlfriend should do it. That sort of sheila always has her nose in other people's business. I'll let slip I'm dating an Aussie I tripped across here in L.A. and that I'm head over-heels for her."

"One prob," I said. "I'm a lesbian. I've never had a boyfriend. I'd really have to struggle to act the part."

Alf slapped me on the back. "No worries, love! Myself, I'm bi, so I see it from both sides of the fence. You'll be right, trust me."

He must have picked up my speculative glance in Chicka's direction, as he added, "Not Chicka. He's the straight one in the family. Aren't you mate?"

Chicka blushed and bobbed his head. "You could say that."

"Lucky for Melodie, eh?" Alf slapped me on the back again. "Chicka's a devil with the ladies, you know."

Chicka blushed a deeper pink.

Impatient with all this chitchat, Bob said, "We need to go through the logistics. Where Kylie's supposed to live, what her cover story is, where you're supposed to have met up. All that stuff."

"She'll be apples," Alf declared.

"He means everything will be OK," I translated for Bob. He didn't look convinced.

Alf gave me a big, toothy smile. "How's about it, Kylie? You free tonight for a nosh-up?"

First Ariana, now me? "A dinner date? We don't need to practice, Alf. I can play your girlfriend in the office."

Chicka threw back his head and hooted. "Kylie thinks you're putting the hard word on her, mate."

"Jesus," Bob muttered. "I wish someone would speak English around here."

"Putting the hard word on is asking for sex," I said to Bob.

Bob glared indignantly at Alf. "May I remind you this is a professional relationship between Kendall & Creeling and your company. Sexual favors are not included."

"I wasn't asking for sex," Alf declared. He winked at me. "Not that I'd turn her down if Kylie here wanted to try it with a bloke."

"No, thanks," I said.

Alf put on a serious face. "Tonight's business, not pleasure. Tami Eckholdt of Lamb White is throwing Chicka and me a barbie to get together with some of her people." He jabbed a thumb in my direction. "Perfect op, don't you think? Kylie can come as my date. That gives her an in with the Lamb Whiters, doesn't it?"

Bob had to agree it did.