when she'd lobbed over from Wollegudgerie to persuade me to go home to Australia and help run Mum's pub. 'She says she's done New York. Now she's on her way to London on a round-the-world trip.'
My spirits lifted immediately. 'You beaut! That's bonzer news.'
Lonnie's smile widened. 'But she says she had such a great time here, she coming back real soon.'
My spirits sank. 'How soon?'
'She didn't say.'
This was not good. I took myself off to the kitchen for comfort food-a peanut butter sandwich and a good strong cup of tea. Julia Roberts stalked in while I was spooning Twining's Ceylon Orange Pekoe into the teapot. She watched me for a moment, then gave a single plaintive meow to indicate her near starvation.
'Jules, you had breakfast not that long ago.'
A look of deep displeasure appeared on Julia Roberts's tawny face. She hated to be crossed.
'Oh, all right,' I said, looking in the cupboard for her prawn-and-tuna treats. I only put six into her bowl, not wanting to ruin her appetite for dinner. Jules inspected the six closely, gave me a triumphant wiggle of her whiskers, and walked off, leaving the bites untouched. Score one to Julia Roberts, nil to Kylie Kendall.
I took my tea and sandwich back to my office and sat down to go through the accounts. As part owner of Kendall & Creeling, I took an interest in the day-to-day running of the place. Back in Australia, I'd handled all that side for Mum's pub, Wollegudgerie's Wombat's Retreat, so I knew my way around anything financial. This last month I'd noticed a big jump in the amount spent on office supplies, so I started to go through the invoices to find out why.
'Blimey,' I said, coming upon an invoice for forty one-gallon plastic containers of water.
Time to find Fran. She'd bestowed on herself the title office manager and had taken it as one of her duties to handle most of the ordering, so she was the one to explain why we needed these large quantities of water, plastic sheeting, and tape.
There was still no Melodie to be seen, and Lonnie had disappeared, but Fran was standing at the front desk, arms folded. She was smiling as she surveyed a large pile of boxes. It was always a surprise how pretty she was when not surly.
Standing beside Fran, my least-favorite delivery bloke in the world was surreptitiously surveying her cleavage. This wasn't surprising, as Fran had a spectacular bust line that was shown off to advantage with a tight scarlet top that rather clashed with her red hair.
'I'd like nothing better than to help you out,' the delivery bloke was saying, 'but my job description says I deliver goods inside the front door. Not one inch more.'
Fran's smile vanished as though it had never existed, and her customary scowl darkened her face. 'What? After all the business we give your company, you can't meet a simple request?'
'Look at it from my point of view. Moving this stuff to your storage room is above and beyond-'
He broke off as he saw me, and a nasty smile appeared on his face. 'And how's the trainee gumshoe today? Putting the wind up the bad boys?'
This bloke was just a smart aleck in a yucky brown uniform who thought I was fair game for a bit of chiacking ever since he'd caught me studying
'Rip-snorting,' I said.
'Rip-snorting?' He chortled suggestively. 'What're you saying? That you Aussie chicks are hot stuff?'
'Dream on,' said Fran. 'Rip-snorting means excellent.' When I looked at her, surprised, she added, 'I'm good at obscure foreign languages.'
Of course she was having a go at me, but I didn't rise to the bait. 'When you've got a free minute,' I said, 'I'd like to go over some invoices with you.'
Fran's dark expression got distinctly darker. 'And which particular invoices would those be?'
'Why did you order forty gallons of water?'
'Disaster supplies.'
'Forty gallons?'
Fran was like Julia Roberts-she didn't take kindly to being crossed. 'Yes, forty gallons,' she said in a cold tone, 'and that may not be enough.'
'Enough for what?'
There was a pause while Fran decided whether or not to fill me in. At last she said, 'Each person needs at least one gallon of water per day for drinking and sanitation purposes.'
The delivery bloke, who'd been listening closely, sniggered. Hooking his thumb in the direction of the boxes he'd delivered, he said, 'If you want disaster supplies, you've got 'em right here. Military food rations, battleground medical kits, disposable face masks, sleeping bags…'
'You're setting up an army hospital?' I inquired of Fran.
'Oh, go ahead and joke, but a cataclysmic event could occur at any moment,' she snapped. 'For example, take a terrorist attack. It could be nerve gas, smallpox, or anthrax, or radiation from dirty bombs, sabotage of food and water-the list goes on. And that's not to mention natural disasters-earthquake, flood, fire, volcanic activity, tsunamis, meteor strikes, tornadoes. Victims who don't die in the first few seconds often linger on to suffer dreadfully.'
She looked quite chuffed at this last statement. Fran really did enjoy the gloomy side of life. 'Suffer dreadfully' she repeated. 'Beg for death.'
Even the delivery bloke looked a bit taken aback. 'It all sounds pretty hopeless, doesn't it?' he said.
'It's un-American to be hopeless,' Fran declared, not impressed with his attitude. 'Homeland Security asks every citizen to be optimistic, but at the same time be fully prepared for the worst. That's what I'm doing. Being optimistic about the future, but preparing for disaster.'
I managed not to remark that optimism was the last quality Fran could claim. 'You're storing all this stuff in the room next to mine?' I asked.
'That a problem?' Fran's tone indicated it better not be. 'It is the office storage room.'
I had had plans for that particular area, at the moment full of office supplies. My accommodations in the Kendall & Creeling building had a grand total of two rooms: a bedroom with bathroom attached. This adjacent storage area would make a wonderful sitting room, once I had a door installed in the dividing wall.
Obviously not interested in whether it was a prob for me or not, Fran was off and running. 'Apart from ordering emergency supplies,' she said, 'as office manager, it's my responsibility to bring everyone up to speed as far as disaster is concerned. Later today I'll be putting up easy-to-read diagrams clearly showing escape routes from the building in the event of a catastrophe.'
'Bit of a waste of time,' I said, 'as there's not much choice. Like, you go out the front door, or you go out the back door. And they've both already got illuminated exit signs. I reckon we don't need a diagram.'
Fran's eyes narrowed to slits. Opposition didn't sit well with her.
'I'm out the front door,' said the delivery bloke hastily. He'd seen Fran on the warpath before.
She watched him leave, then turned to me. 'Coming from the center of Australia, like you do, you can't be expected to appreciate the terrorist situation in the way an American would.'
'Oh, I think I could have a lash at it. Empathy's my strong suit.'
'You don't have a clue.'
'I may have a ghost of an inkling,' I said cheerfully.
I wondered how Fran would go if she were dropped in the harsh Outback. I was sure I could live off the land and survive. I was guessing Fran wouldn't be so lucky, though when I thought about it, she really was one tough sheila. I could imagine her running down a kangaroo and dispatching it with her bare hands.
'What are you thinking about?' Fran asked, glaring at me suspiciously.
'I was wondering about the plastic sheeting and duct tape.'
Fran assumed an I'll-tell-you-but-you'll-never-get-it expression. 'In a terrorist attack, you need to protect yourself from germ warfare and deadly gases by sealing off all entry points. We'll use the plastic sheeting and duct tape to close everything off. And, as an added precaution, we'll all wear face masks.'
'What about Julia Roberts?'
Fran gave me a sour smile. 'If you can fit Julia Roberts with a face mask, good luck.'
