Kookaburra Gambit

investigator if I brought the Hartnidge case to a successful conclusion.

I said to Julia Roberts, who I'd found sleeping on the dryer, 'I've a good mind to give Ariana an earful. What do you say, Jules? Should I?'

Julia Roberts uncurled herself, stretched, then sat down, looking thoughtful. She blinked at me, once. I took this to mean yes. Before I could change my mind, I went back to my room, picked up the phone, and punched in Ariana's number, which I knew by heart, not that I'd ever needed to use it much.

She answered on the second ring with a cool 'Hello.'

'It's Kylie.'

'Is something wrong?'

'No. Well, yes.'

There was a pause. I was cursing myself. I should have worked out exactly what to say, before going off half- cocked.

Ariana said, 'Are you going to tell me what it is?'

'Bob's just rung. You think I'm reckless, don't you?'

'Impetuous, perhaps.'

'I'd prefer spontaneous,' I snapped.

'How about impulsive?' Ariana laughed. 'Shall I fetch the thesaurus? We can have dueling words at ten paces.'

I had to smile. 'I'm being a galah, aren't I?'

'I'm not quite sure what that is.'

'It's a pink and gray cockatoo. Not the brightest bird on the branch. Essentially, I'm saying I'm a dumb cluck.'

'You're not dumb. And perhaps you should be annoyed. I'm not treating you like my business partner. We should discuss all these issues and come to joint decisions.'

Stone the crows! Two concessions from Ariana in twenty-four hours?

'Maybe you're right,' I said. 'I have to admit all I know about being a private eye could be written on the head of a pin in large letters.'

She didn't rush to contradict me.

'So,' I went on, 'I promise to run things past either you or Bob before I do anything rash, hasty, hotheaded, foolhardy, spur-of-the-moment, devil-may-care, or precipitous.'

I was grinning to myself, thinking how being first in my English class at school was paying off years later, when Ariana said, 'I concede. You win. Duel over.'

My day was all mapped out. After the laundry was in the dryer, I sallied forth to the nearest big supermarket. It had taken me a while, but I was getting used to the different brand names and the way Americans referred to biscuits as cookies, soft drinks as sodas, and lollies as candy.

I'd got a bit carried away shopping, so, laden with many bags, I had to make several trips from my car across the courtyard and in the front door. I kept a wary eye out for intruders. It'd been drummed into me that L.A. could be a dangerous city and that at any given moment violent crime was happening all over the place.

Julia Roberts helped me unpack things. Like all cats, she quite lost her dignity over bags and boxes, and leapt in and out of them like a kitten.

I had a wholesome avocado salad for lunch-rather spoiling the health side with lashings of mayonnaise-then I gave Julia Roberts a good grooming. Since I'd adopted her, I'd made several trips to pet stores in search of suitably upmarket combs, brushes, and clippers. Only the best for Jules. She hated her feet being touched, so she objected strongly to the clippers, but that was too bad, as being mostly an inside cat she didn't wear her claws down.

Julia Roberts pretended she didn't like being fussed over, but it was a lie. She loved it. It probably helped that I assured her she was beautiful as I brushed her. On this point we were in complete agreement.

Then I heard a sound. Julia Roberts immediately went on wide-eyed alert. Had someone broken in? I looked around for a weapon. I'd kept the golf club with which I'd menaced Luis a few weeks ago, so I grabbed that.

'Kylie? It's me, Lonnie,' a voice called out.

I put the golf club down. Lonnie would laugh if he saw me with it. Followed by Jules, I trotted out into the hall. Lonnie grinned at me. 'Just catching up on some work. For you, actually-the backgrounds for the Oz Mob people you wanted.'

He was in ancient jeans and a once-white T-shirt. His stomach bulged over the waistband. One of the reasons for this was in his hand: a bag bearing the McDonald's golden arches. Lonnie was notorious for being a fast-food junkie.

'Want some fries?' he said.

'No, thank you. No chips for me.' We had McDonald's in Australia, complete with golden arches, but no way would they ever persuade me to call chips french fries.

It was funny how the atmosphere was different when someone other than just me was there. Knowing Lonnie was down the hall in his messy office changed the atmosphere subtly. And during the working week, it was different again. I wondered if energy fields around people charged the air in some way.

Mid afternoon, I went to ask Lonnie if he wanted a cup of tea. Julia Roberts had long deserted me, and I found her exploring Lonnie's cluttered room.

'Can you get that cat out of here?' he demanded, looking up from his computer screen. 'I've asked her nicely, but she pays no attention.'

'If you beg her to keep you company, she won't. Your mistake is to tell her to get lost.'

Lonnie grunted. 'I haven't got time to indulge in cat psychology.'

'I've come to ask if you want a cuppa.'

He was back peering at the screen. 'Tea, you mean?'

'Yes, I've just made a pot.'

'Hot?'

'Of course.'

Lonnie looked at me over his shoulder. 'I'd prefer iced tea. There's some in the fridge.'

I shuddered. 'That stuff is yours?'

'What's wrong with it?'

'It's flavored '

Lonnie nodded. 'Passion fruit and mango. Delicious.'

I was thinking how my mother always says there's no accounting for tastes, when Lonnie squinted at me. 'You should chill out,' he said. 'You're getting way too emotional over tea.'

'Thank you for your advice, Lonnie.'

My heavily sarcastic tone passed him by. 'That's OK,' he said.

Definitely time to change the subject. 'How's it going?' I said, indicating the folder holding the names of Oz Mob's American staff.

He rubbed his chin. 'What do you know about Tami Eckholdt?' he asked.

'She runs Lamb White for the Church of Possibilities. She helped Alf and Chicka get staff for their office.'

'Tami Eckholdt's got her sister working for the Hartnidges but under a false name.' He tapped the screen. 'Look here. She's using the correct social security number but calling herself Paula Slade instead of Patsy Eckholdt.'

'Why would she do that?'

Lonnie grinned at me. 'You're the detective, remember?'

I got Lonnie his revoltingly flavored iced tea and took my own proper tea back to my office. Soon I was deep in Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook. The chapter on lying had me fascinated. I was up to the section describing how unconscious body movements give liars away. I would have thought fidgeting and fiddling were signs someone wasn't being truthful, but it turned out to be quite the opposite. Good liars tend to make fewer gestures, because they know such actions could signal they're worried about being found out. They don't touch their hair, or scratch their heads, or rub their hands together. They repress these movements.

But most fascinating of all, liars still give themselves away with bodily cues. While they're busily controlling hands, arms, and faces, they forget about the lower part of their bodies. It's the legs and feet that betray them. Even small adjustments unconsciously made can indicate tension and guilt.