Claire McNab: Kookaburra Gambit

I'd discovered tourists had to be watched closely. Apparently bemused by the heady influence of the conspicuous consumption surrounding them, they often wandered off the footpath and onto the roadway, or crossed against don't walk signals.

Things were made even more interesting by the drivers of luxury cars and fat SUVs. I wished I could multitask like they did. It seemed child's play for Beverly Hills denizens to negotiate the crowded streets, all without actually running into another vehicle or mowing down a tourist, at the same time carrying on an animated cell phone conversation, spying a rare parking spot, ignoring the furious horns of inconvenienced motorists, and reversing into the spot.

When I ground to a halt outside Yves Saint Laurent I realized I'd made a poor decision to use Rodeo Drive to get to Santa Monica Boulevard. Rodeo was so clogged with traffic, vehicular and human, that I was doomed to stop-start, with a predominance of stop, all the way. However, this did give me opportunities to steal looks at my new hairstyle in the rearview mirror. Of course I'd seen myself in the salon, but now that I was out in the real world I wanted to reassure myself my initial impressions were right and that people wouldn't break into helpless laughter when they saw the new me.

The mirror being small, and my head quite large, I had to rotate this way and that to build up a visual jigsaw of my hairdo. I had to hand it to Luigi-I did look different.

He'd spent ages evaluating, lips pursed, before seizing his scissors and beginning to cut infinitesimal amounts off here, there, and everywhere. It took forever. He snip-snip-snipped until I got restive, then he blow-dried until I got really twitchy, then he snipped some more. I'd been about to whinge that my nether regions had pins and needles, when he'd stood back to admire his work.

"Bellisimo," he'd said, crinkling his eyes attractively. He made a sweeping gesture in my direction. " L’una bella donna."

"Grazie.”

I'd been told the thing to do was to give Luigi's check and tip to him unobtrusively, but I couldn't see why one had to be underhanded about it, so I gave it to him straight. He slipped it quickly into his pocket without even looking.

"What if I haven't paid you enough?" I said.

He gave me a big grin. "In that case, I'll have your legs broken."

I smiled back. Of course he was joking, but then again, he was Italian.

Then it had been Perdita's turn to have a lash at improving me. She was one of the manicurists I'd passed on my way to the basins. Perdita wore a pink smock and had a disturbingly intense stare. She sat knee to knee with me, the tiny manicure table between us, and turned her piercing gaze onto my fingernails. I held my breath. I had a nasty feeling the verdict would not be good.

Perdita peered more closely. Then she blinked rapidly. It was only a minor version of Luigi's horror at the state of my hair, but I felt defensive anyway. "I've never had a professional manicure," I said.

Perdita had been too polite to announce this regrettable fact was obvious, but her expression had said it for her.

"I've got good, strong nails," I'd announced, as if this might excuse the inexcusable.

"Your cuticles!" Perdita's face had contained a mixture of revulsion and grief. She'd shaken her head. "Your cuticles…"

Now, stuck at yet another red light, this time outside Cartier, I snuck a look at my hands. My cuticles were exemplary. It'd been a battle, but I'd persuaded Perdita I didn't want nail polish, even the clear stuff. Hiding her contempt, she'd buffed my nails furiously, until they shone.

Something was ringing. I was puzzled for a moment, then realized it was my mobile. Making a mental note to call it a cell phone like Americans did, I flipped it open.

Chantelle said in a rush, "Kylie? How did it go? Do you look totally adorable?"

I didn't ask how Chantelle knew where I'd been. Back at the office, Melodie had tapped into the amazing outreach of the receptionists' network. Possibly thousands of people in L.A. were now aware I'd recently challenged the creative abilities of Luigi of Beverly Hills.

"Doesn't look too bad," I conceded.

Chantelle chuckled. She had a dusky, warm laugh that went with her smooth, dark skin. "This I've got to see. Tonight?"

"Ripper idea!"

Chantelle suggested where and when, and I rang off, cheered because I needed some no-strings-attached romantic action. Lately I'd found myself brooding entirely too much about Ariana Creeling.

From the moment I saw her, I realized Ariana was a woman no one would ever forget. It wasn't her extraordinary blue eyes, startling though they were, or that she was astonishingly beautiful, because although Ariana was attractive, she wasn't clutch-at-your-throat gorgeous. It was something indefinable, perhaps to do with her cool, contained manner and her aura of unattainability.

And yet, just once, she'd kissed me.

I'd taken so long at the beauty salon, and the traffic on Sunset Boulevard was so jammed, that by the time I got back to the office the parking area was half empty.

Technically, as I was co-owner of Kendall & Creeling Investigative Services, the people who worked there were my staff too, although I was pretty sure none of them thought of me as the boss. After all, I was so green I was apprenticed to Bob Verritt to learn the ropes.

Still, in a sense they did work for me, even if Ariana Creeling was clearly in charge, so I checked out who was still there. Ariana's deep-blue BMW was parked in its designated spot. Next to it, a snazzy red convertible indicated Melodie was still more or less manning reception. I noticed Lonnie Moore, who handled everything electronic, including all the latest spy devices, had parked his battered brown Nissan in Fran's spot. Luckily, Fran's oversize SUV wasn't in evidence, or there would have been a nasty scene. Fran was very territorial.

Bob Verritt's silver Toyota was missing, as was Harriet Porter's black VW Beetle-the new model, not the lawn mower-engined one on which I'd learnt to drive yonks ago, back in Wollegudgerie. Harriet was working for the company part-time while putting herself through law school. On top of that, she was pregnant. And she still looked like a million dollars. It wasn't really fair.

As I parked my rental car, I thought that soon I'd have to decide whether to buy or lease a vehicle. The alternative was to drive my dad's lovingly restored 1960s Mustang, at present parked in a garage at the rear of the building.

The Mustang was a gorgeous red, and its engine had a wonderful throaty roar, but it wasn't an automatic. In Australia we drive on the other side of the road and change gears with the left hand. I'd tried driving the Mustang in L.A. traffic and had found it more of a challenge than I'd expected, what with shifting gears and staying on the right side of the road at the same time.

Besides, Ariana had pointed out that one of the tasks a PI often faced was tailing someone in traffic. No way could a vehicle like my dad's blend in with other cars. I sighed. It looked like I'd have to get some boring neutral-colored sedan.

I did a final check in my mirror, then, feeling rather self-conscious, got out of the car and headed for the front door, stopping in the middle of the courtyard to check on the fountain. It was spurting water as heartily as one could wish, which was gratifying, as its overhaul had cost rather more than I'd expected.

"Plumbers," Fran had said with bitter scorn as she'd viewed the invoice. "They make more than brain surgeons." She'd fixed me with a beady look. "This was the lowest quote?"

"They were the only company that said they were fountain specialists."

"Specialists?" Fran had snarled. "Every Tom, Dick, and Harry's a specialist. Run it by me first, Kylie, before you do anything like this again. After all, I am the office manager."