Claire McNab: Kookaburra Gambit

Julia Roberts, being psychic, knew I was going to make myself comfortable on the bed before I called Mum, so of course she immediately plunked herself in the middle of the bedspread and began a complicated full-body wash. I perched on the edge and picked up the phone from the side table. The phone was new too, a deep blue number with lots of buttons for functions I'd never use.

"Mum? It's me."

"Kylie? Where've you been? I rang you hours ago."

"Sorry. I've just got back."

"Back from where?"

"Beverly Hills, actually."

"Beverly Hills? What were you doing there?"

"Nothing important."

Silence. My mum would make an excellent professional interrogator. You couldn't deflect her, no matter how hard you tried. She'd wait you out. It was easier to give in and tell her what she wanted to know. "I had my hair done in a beauty salon. And a manicure."

"That cost a pretty penny, I'd reckon."

I told her how much. She gasped.

Any moment now she'd be telling me how much cheaper haircuts were in Maria's salon in Wollegudgerie. Before Mum could get onto that dangerous topic, I said, "The message you left with Melodie mentioned a wombat crisis. Do you mean there's something wrong at the pub?"

Before I was twenty I was pretty well running the financial side of Mum's hotel, the Wombat's Retreat. Eventually I had all the accounts computerized, I'd built a Web site and had started to link up with travel sites all over the world.

Even with Raylene throwing me over and shredding my heart, I might still be there in the pub, if Mum hadn't fallen in love with Jack O'Connell. It's not that I didn't get on with Jack, but once he and my mum were officially engaged, he started throwing his weight around. It was obvious once they tied the knot, Jack intended to play boss cocky, even if he knew next to nothing about the hotel business.

The situation was enough to get me thinking about leaving the outback and having a go at living in a big city, probably Sydney. Then my dad died. Mum had divorced him when I was a little kid, so he was the American father I hardly knew. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I found he'd left me a chunk of money and his share of Kendall & Creeling.

"Things are crook at the Wombat without you, love," said my mum. "Jack's made a right mess of the accounts. You're needed here, darling. Come home."

"You don't need me, Mum. You need an accountant, that's all. Or a good bookkeeper. Someone who knows the hotel business."

"This is your home, Kylie. I don't want you living thousands of kilometers away from all your friends and family. It's not right."

"Mum, I'm not a child. I'm practically thirty."

"Twenty-eight, last time I looked."

"Speaking of family," I said, "what's my cousin, Brucie, up to these days?"

"Nephew Brucie?"

I grinned. Brucie was Mum's sister's son, and my mum had always irritated the hell out of him by calling him "Nephew Brucie."

"I was wondering, Mum, because it seems Brucie recommended me as a private eye to these two Aussie blokes, Alf and Chicka Hartnidge."

Mum snorted. "I told Nephew Brucie to stop it. Spoke to Millie about it too, not that his mother's ever had the gumption to discipline the boy. From the time he was a baby, he's got away with bloody murder. Spare the rod and spoil the child, I always say."

With misgivings, I asked, "What is it that Brucie has to stop?"

My mum gave another contemptuous snort. "Nephew Brucie's been telling anyone who'll listen that you've made a big splash in the States in the private eye area, and he's going to open your Aussie branch. He says you want him to move to L.A. to learn the business."

"Stone the crows!"

Temporarily silenced by the truly dreadful vision of my cousin lobbing in on me, I only half-listened as Mum went on. "As for Alf and Chicka, you know the family, the Hartnidges of Last Gasp Creek. Of course, the twins aren't at home anymore, but they visit often. There was a big crowd of Hartnidges at the footy final last year, remember?"

"Mum, you've got to make sure Brucie doesn't come to Los Angeles."

"He won't. Don't worry about that." The feeling of relief this gave me dissolved with her next words. "I can't leave the pub in Jack's hands-God knows what he'd get up to-and Nephew Brucie's going nowhere, believe me. So it's all up to Millie."

I got one of those cold feelings you read about in books, where a chill goes down your spine and your hands get clammy. "What's Aunt Millie got to do with it?" I held my breath.

"Someone has to go over there and talk some sense into you, Kylie. Millie and I discussed it last night. She'll be leaving next week."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Julia Roberts stopped washing and looked at me with interest.

Aunt Millie was coming to LA.

Aunt Millie who'd made sarcasm an art form.

Aunt Millie who made a lemon seem sweet.

Aunt Millie, who, unbelievable though it seemed, would make Fran look like Pollyanna.

Aunt Millie!

Chantelle was picking me up at eight to take me to Club Jabber, a nightclub that had just opened. Going there was part of my get-ting-to-know-L.A. campaign. Strewth, half the time I didn't know what people were talking about, and if I were to ace being a PI, I had to know the territory. That meant a crash course in everything, including local nightlife.

I had a quick shower, being careful not to muss my new hairstyle, then made myself a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and a cup of tea to tide me over. I served Julia Roberts tuna. For such an elegant cat, she wasn't what I'd call a delicate eater. She hoed into it like she hadn't had food for days, making rather disgusting slurping noises.

"We chew with our mouths closed in this house," I said, repeating the words my mum had said to me a zillion times when I was growing up. Jules ignored me.

I had some time to kill, so I went back to my room and sat down with Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook I was up to the chapter on how to tell when someone's lying to you. Liars, I read, tend to touch their mouths or noses when saying something untrue. I was so engrossed, I jumped when the phone rang.

"I'm outside, Kylie," said Chantelle. "And you're not. Where are you?"

"Got caught up in something. Be there in a mo."

I grabbed my things, said goodbye to Julia Roberts, and rushed out the front door. As soon as I appeared in the parking area, Chantelle, who was leaning against her red Jeep, gave my hair the once-over. "I like it." Then she gave the rest of me an up and down, and grinned. "That goes for the rest of you too."

I was wearing one of the outfits Harriet Porter had helped me buy, and if I say so myself, I didn't look too bad. "You're pretty crash-hot, yourself," I said, clambering into the passenger seat.

Chantelle was someone who could wear very bright colors and not be swamped by them. Tonight she looked terrific in an iridescent orange top and pants I would never even try to get away with. Maybe it was the contrast with her dark skin, but more likely it was all to do with the way she walked, her voice, her laugh, her mannerisms. Whatever it was, it added up to a personal style. That got me brooding. I reckoned I didn't have a personal style.

Chantelle glanced across at me. She had a really kissable, pouting red mouth. "What's the matter?"

"Not a thing. How's the new job?" Chantelle had just started as a receptionist at Unified Flair Inc., a talent agency. It had to be a big one, as even I had heard of it.

While Chantelle negotiated Thursday night traffic on Sunset, we chatted about the stars and near-stars and never-will-be stars she'd dealt with in the last few days.

"Delford Gunderson," Chantelle said, "is a sweetie, but I wouldn't give the time of day to Maria Flann."