I was brooding at my desk, trying to work out how to keep Aunt Millie occupied so she didn't have a chance to interact too closely with anyone, when Harriet cheered me up by popping in to ask if Chantelle and I were free for dinner the next night.
"Maurice and Gary will be there," she said. "I'd love you to get to know them."
Maurice was Harriet's unborn child's dad, by way of a syringe. Gary was his long-term partner. I'd met them fleetingly one time they'd called in to collect Harriet when her car had died.
I told Harriet it was a yes for me, but I'd have to check with Chantelle. One advantage of having a relationship with a receptionist is that you can always get them on the phone, even if there are constant interruptions from calls or the necessity to exchange super-nice remarks with clients drifting by.
"Hold please," said Chantelle to me after I'd only got three words out. I heard her say warmly, "A very good afternoon to you, Mr. Duddle. It's wonderful weather we're having, isn't it?"
"Was that Frank Duddle, who directed Afternoon of the Dancing Zombies?" I asked when she got back to me.
"That's the one. He's a little guy, with a head as bald as a billiard ball. Hold on…Good afternoon, Ms. Sarandon. It's wonderful weather we're having, isn't it?"
"Why do you keep mentioning the weather?" I asked when Chantelle came back to me.
"Safe topic of conversation. And everyone's got a set of weather phrases to use."
"So let's say Tom Hanks waltzes in. I suppose you'd chat with him about the catastrophic effects of global warming."
"Global warming's political." Chantelle's tone was severe. "A receptionist doesn't initiate discussion of politics or religion. And weather should never be controversial."
"Best to stick to 'It's not the heat, it's the humidity'?"
"You've got the idea," Chantelle said.
Having established she'd be delighted to dine at Harriet and Beth's place, I rang off. It was early Saturday morning at the 'Gudge-Aunt Millie had called at the crack of dawn there-so I had to wait at least an hour before calling Bluey Bates at home.
Bluey was Wollegudgerie's only lawyer, and he'd looked after all the stuff to do with my dad's will. His brother, Ralphie Bates, owned Ralphie's Opalarium, one of the jewelry stores making a good living selling opals to the tourists. A few months back, when I'd still been living at the Wombat's Retreat, the Opalarium had been burgled during a long weekend. Only the finest stones were taken, to a total value of a cool quarter of a million. The law in town, Sergeant Mucka Onslow, had been completely baffled. Not surprising, as most things baffled Mucka.
Maybe there was a connection between the Opalarium heist and the opals being smuggled into Los Angeles in the Kelvin Kookaburras. I wanted to sound Bluey out first, rather than his brother, because there'd been a pretty strong rumor that Ralphie had staged the whole thing to collect the insurance money.
I filled in the time before I could decently disturb Bluey Bates with Internet searches to turn up what I could on Brother Owen, the Church of Possibilities, and Lamb White. Google threw up countless responses on each one.
Naturally, the Church of Possibilities had its own Web page. And what a Web page it was! As soon as I clicked on, a notice appeared saying that any necessary software to view the COP Web site would be automatically loaded, if necessary. I already had video capability, so after a short pause, a chorus of cherubim and seraphim, wings wildly flapping, burst into song, while below them Brother Owen, one hand raised in blessing, stood smiling beneficently. He wore flowing white robes with a bright blue sash.
I knew it was Brother Owen because the cherubim and seraphim were chanting "Bro-ther O-wen" rather like a crowd might at a football match.
Another click brought me a close-up of Brother Owen's welcoming face. He seemed in his forties and was handsome in a well-fed, self-satisfied way. "Has anyone, ever, really understood you? The real vibrant you?" he inquired in a deep, warm voice.
After a pause for his audience to consider the question, he went on, "Have you been allowed to express fully the breathtaking talents that lie within you?"
Another pause. "Ask yourself, deep in your heart, are you really appreciated by those around you? Appreciated as your unique, astonishing self should be appreciated?"
Brother Owen allowed himself a small, sympathetic smile. "Do you wonder, in the dark hours before dawn, Is this all there is? "
Really long pause, then, "I am here to tell you there is more! More!"
The screen changed to a longer shot. Brother Owen's arms were extended as if he were about to step forward and embrace the viewer. "I am a harbinger of glory! I have been sent with wonderful tidings of great joy to all who will listen. Come to the Church of Possibilities! Discover the brilliant future that is your birthright! Cast off the shackles that have held you back, and rise to the heights you truly deserve!"
After this overload of Brother Owen, it was a relief to go to my e-mail. I deleted spam, answered messages from my friends back in Oz, and read the PI newsletter to which I'd recently subscribed, which had a fascinating but rather yucky article on bodily fluids. By then it was time to ring Bluey Bates.
"Kylie, mate! How the bloody hell are you?"
I could picture Bluey's freckled face and ginger hair. In the perverse Aussie way, redheads were often called Blue or Bluey. "Not bad, not bad at all," I said.
"Keeping the Yanks on their toes, are you?"
"More like they're keeping me on mine."
"So what can I do you for, mate?"
"This is confidential, Bluey."
"Lips sealed, Kylie, old love. Lips sealed."
"Has anything come of the investigation into the robbery at Ralphie's Opalarium?"
"Not a thing." Bluey's voice had hardened. He and Ralphie didn't see eye-to-eye over most subjects. "My brother's a lucky bastard, Kylie. The insurance company's going to pay up."
"You don't think they should?"
Bluey's snort came clearly over the line. "Let's put it this way, I reckon Ralphie's fairy godmother had to bust a gut to keep him out of the hands of the boys in blue."
"You believe Ralphie had something to do with the burglary?"
"Too right, I do, but I haven't said a word about it to Mucka. I'm not about to dob in my own brother." He snorted again. "Pity I've got gold-plated scruples, eh, Kylie?"
We discussed the burglary for a bit, then I asked Bluey if he knew the Hartnidge brothers. "Top blokes, both of 'em," he declared. "Done a bit of legal work for their Oz Mob company. Alf and Chicka pay on time and in full. You can't ask for much more than that."
"You certainly can't." I knew Bluey was struggling to carve out a decent living in Wollegudgerie, which had to make him even madder about his brother's possible insurance rip-off.
Bluey paused, then said, "I'm getting the strong feeling you're seeing some sort of connection between Ralphie's missing opals and the Hartnidge twins. Would I be right?"
I trusted Bluey implicitly. He'd handled legal work for Mum's pub, and he'd looked after me and my inheritance. He had a rep for being as honest as the day is long. I told him everything I knew.
Bluey whistled. "So that's the explanation for the city bloke who's been sniffing around. He's a private investigator. You can tell the Hartnidges he's not much chop. He won't get much out of anyone here in the 'Gudge. No one likes a nosy parker."
Bluey went on to give me the latest gossip, including my cousin Brucie's claim that I was begging him to join Kendall & Creeling. I set Bluey straight on that. We said goodbye, with Bluey promising to call me if he heard anything interesting to do with the stolen opals.
I'd scribbled notes as we'd talked, so I typed them up and put them in the new folder I'd started, tided hartnidge, alf & chicka.
I grinned to myself as I put the folder in my near-empty filing cabinet. Crikey, for a moment there I'd felt like a real PI!
It had become very clear to me that I had to prepare everyone at Kendall & Creeling for Aunt Millie's arrival. It just wouldn't be fair to have them caught unawares. First, my partner in the business had to be advised that someone was coming to town who'd give Fran a run for her money, and then some. Hell, she'd do Fran like a dinner.
Ariana was putting papers in her briefcase, ready to leave for the weekend. I knew she lived alone, apart from her gorgeous German shepherd, Gussie. I'd visited her house in the Hollywood Hills once, accompanied by Bob Verritt. It had been strictly business, worse luck.
The house was like her-elegant and self-contained. It had a fabulous view over Los Angeles. Maybe she often sat there with someone, admiring the city lights. Did she ever have dinner parties, like Harriet and Beth? Could Ariana even cook? There were so many things I didn't know about her-for example, the significance of the heavy gold signet ring she always wore.
"Got a mo?" I said. "My Aunt Millie from Wollegudgerie is lobbing in on Wednesday."
Ariana raised an eyebrow. It was a talent I didn't have but envied madly. "Have you always been able to raise one eyebrow, or did you have to practice?" I asked.
That got Ariana's other eyebrow into play. Then she laughed and shook her head.
"What?" I said.
"I dimly remember practicing as a kid," she answered, still smiling. "I thought it was an incredibly sophisticated thing to do."
That gave me a little thrill. Ariana was sharing something about her life with me. But I couldn't dwell on that; I had to give her an Aunt Millie alert.
"My aunt's flying in on Qantas."
"You've already said she's coming to town."
I knew I was stalling, so I made myself take the plunge. "Fact is, Ariana, she's what you'd call a bit of a character."
"Seems to run in the family," Ariana remarked.
"I didn't mean a good character."
"Your aunt's a criminal?" Ariana was grinning.
"No, but she has a very direct manner."
"An excellent quality."
"Don't laugh at me. This is serious."
Ariana's smile disappeared. "What's worrying you about your aunt's visit?"
"Aunt Millie prides herself on speaking her mind, and since she's dead-set down on most things, that means she's usually upsetting someone."
"You means she's a pessimist?"
"I mean nothing ever seems to please her."
Ariana chuckled. "I can hardly wait to see Millie and Fran meet up."
"I'm hoping to keep them apart."
Ariana looked at me thoughtfully. "This is a vacation for your aunt, is it?"
I debated whether to tell her the real reason behind Aunt Millie's trip. Maybe secretly Ariana still wanted to get rid of me and would be delighted to learn a family member was on the way to persuade me to come home.
My mum always says honesty is the best policy-she's big on clichés-so I said, "Mum wants me back at the Wombat's Retreat. Says she needs me to help run the pub. She and Aunt Millie have been talking."
"You mean your aunt's visit is to convince you to return to Australia?"
"Something like that."
Ariana didn't appear to be chuffed with this news. Actually, she was frowning. "What are your thoughts on this, Kylie?"
"I'm thinking Aunt Millie's trip is going to be a failure. And she won't be pleased."
"Well, that's her problem, isn't it?" Ariana picked up her briefcase. "Enjoy your weekend, and try not to worry about pesky relatives."
"I'll try," I said, without much hope I'd succeed.
I found Fran, Harriet, and Melodie in the kitchen. As I entered, Melodie was saying, "Chicka's real nice, but he didn't even try to get to first base. He's shy, you know. So sweet!"
"I'd call it boring," said Fran.
"Sounds refreshing to me," said Harriet.
"Chicka's not boring," declared Melodie emphatically, tossing her hair around. I'd always admired how she could do that without getting a mouthful. "He's a producer."
Fran glowered. "Any fool can call themselves a producer. Quip meets with phonies calling themselves producers all the time."
Melodie put her hands on her hips and glowered right back at Fran. "Chicka Hartnidge is not a phony. He's practically guaranteed I can voice one of the puppets in his Oz Mob movie."
"Really?" said Harriet, who unaccountably had missed out on this momentous news. "Which one?"
"Chicka hasn't actually said yet."
"A puppet's voice?" said Fran, lifting one side of her rosebud mouth. Great sneerer, Fran. "Won't you be overextending your artistic range, Melodie?"
There could be violence any minute, so I stepped in. "News flash, everyone. My Aunt Millie's coming to town next Wednesday. She's inclined to be critical and have a dark view of life. I'm telling you this so you won't take offense if she says something derogatory."
"I for one," said Fran, "will take offense. I loathe negativity." I couldn't help a hoot of laughter. Knowing I'd regret it, I cheerfully gave into temptation. "Fran, old matey," I said, "you've single-handedly made negativity an art form." Glower meltdown!