Kookaburra Gambit

is suspicious in itself.'

I looked over at Harriet, who, even though she hadn't yet passed the bar exam, was really sharp about the law. 'Harriet, what happens if Alf and Chicka violate the morals clause in their contract with Lamb White?'

'I'd have to see the contract, but at a guess, I'd say the movie deal would fall through for sure, plus there'd be a severe monetary penalty of some sort.'

'You mean the Hartnidge brothers would be up for damages?'

'Considerable.'

'Enough to wreck their company?'

Harriet pursed her lips. 'Could be. I'd need to know their financial situation. They may be carrying insurance against such an eventuality.'

'No insurance,' said Lonnie. 'I checked them out. Alf and Chicka are in a precarious financial position. They've put everything toward getting into the American market. If this deal with Lamb White falls through…' He made a throat-cutting gesture.

'Maybe that's it,' I said to Ariana. 'The smuggled opals may not be intended for sale here. What if their function is to trigger the morals clause?'

'Interesting scenario,' said Ariana. 'I suggest you and Bob follow up on it.'

Speculations about the opals buzzed in my thoughts, so I hardly heard the rest of the meeting. I'd pick up anything important later in Harriet's notes, I told myself. Meanwhile, I'd concentrate on my case. My case.

'Are you singing something?' Lonnie hissed, looking at me as though I'd slipped a mental cog or two.

'I don't think so,' I said, too loudly.

Everyone stopped talking and switched their attention to me.

'She was singing,' said Lonnie.

I spread my hands. 'What can I say? I'm a happy soul.'

Later that morning, when I was in the kitchen, Fran stalked in and fixed me with an acid smile. 'Well, if it isn't the songbird,' she said. 'What's your next selection to brighten up our lives? Something from The Sound of Music?”

Note to self: Strangle Lonnie.

I kept out of everyone's way until two o'clock, when Nanette Poynter was due in Ariana's office. I was there right on time, but she hadn't arrived. This gave me an opportunity to explain to Ariana.

'You know how Lonnie said I was singing this morning in the meeting?'

'Uh-huh.' She seemed amused.

'I know I'm going to sound like a bit of a drongo, but it was because of my case.'

'Is a drongo worse than a galah?' Ariana inquired.

'A drongo's really stupid-a galah's just a fool.'

'I see.' She looked solemn, but I was pretty sure she was laughing at me.

This was uphill work, but I forged ahead. 'There's this song, 'My Girl.' You know the one?' I sang a line, to make sure she did.

Ariana nodded. Her lips were beginning to curve.

'So this morning, when you referred to the Hartnidge case, as 'my case''-to make things clear, I pointed at myself-'for some reason it made me think of that song. And then the tune kept repeating in my head, and before I knew what was happening, I sort of hummed along with it.'

She bent her head and covered her eyes.

Concerned, I said, 'Crikey, Ariana, it's not that bad is it?'

She was still laughing when she answered the buzz of her phone. 'Ms. Poynter's here? Send her in.'

Nanette Poynter was, not surprisingly, a blond. A skinny blond. I reckoned these two things were probably required of anyone aiming to become a trophy wife. She moved like the model she once had been, with that odd leading-with-the-hips sort of walk, as if she were on an invisible fashion runway.

Ariana ushered her to the comfortable black leather client chairs nested around a white marble coffee table. There were only two lounge chairs, so I moved over one of the spindly ones for myself.

Nanette Poynter glided to her plumply upholstered chair and lowered herself into it with one smooth motion. She sat with her feet together, angled to one side. Her hands, neatly clasped, were placed on her knees. Her spine was straight, her shoulders held back, her head one-quarter turned. I figured when no one was there to look at her she most likely sprawled all over the place, with a glass of gin in one hand and a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. However, with an audience, she was a proper lady.

Ariana introduced me as, 'My colleague, Kylie Kendall.'

Nanette Poynter inclined her head in my direction but didn't speak. She was very good-looking in a glossy sense. Everything was smooth-her hair, her skin, her facial expression. Her jewelry was discreet but undoubtedly very expensive. She was like a beautiful life-size doll.

'Would you mind outlining the situation again, Ms. Poynter?' Ariana asked.

'Please call me Nanette. I don't stand on ceremony.'

Her voice was a surprise. I was expecting a softly modulated tone to go with her appearance. Instead it was rather raspy, with a querulous note.

'Thank you, Nanette. I'm Ariana.'

'In a nutshell here's the situation. My husband, Vernon, has never had time for anything even vaguely spiritual. When I married him he was hard-nosed and by-the-numbers. Then last year he fell into the clutches of that asshole, Brother Owen, and his cocka-mamie religion. In a few months he went from a strong, no-nonsense character to a pathetic weakling who totally believes the hog-wash the Church of Possibilities is pushing. That includes the neat idea that anyone who criticizes COP is in league with dark forces.'

I was fascinated. Nanette's voice was full of emotion, but her face remained almost expressionless.

'Can you believe it?' she went on. 'A tough, down-to-earth man like Vernon Poynter is sucked into what is so plainly a scheme to strip him of his money. My money.'

'Have you seen the COP Web site?' I asked. 'It's impressive from a psychological point of view, very cleverly playing on the feeling many people have that they're not fully appreciated, not understood.'

'What hooey!' Nanette Poynter snorted, loudly. Her face remained impassive.

Ariana took Nanette through the process Brother Owen's organization had taken to ensnare Vernon Poynter. I wrote down all the names she mentioned, both the COP staff and the members of the congregation Nanette knew. It was startling how many celebrities even I, a stranger in L.A., recognized. The Church of Possibilities had to be raking in a fortune every week.

At the end of the session, Ariana accompanied Nanette Poynter to the parking area. I tagged along too. Nanette model-walked to her car, a huge Bentley. It was a horrible brown color, with gold insignia. She slid into the seat, legs outside, feet together, slanted appropriately. Then, with one deft movement, she was in a driving position. Dark glasses on, she turned her blank face in our direction. 'I'll hear from you soon?'

'We'll be in touch,' said Ariana.

The Bentley purred out into the Sunset Boulevard traffic. I said, 'She never had much expression on her face, did she?'

'Botox.'

'Botox does that? I thought it was just for wrinkles.'

'Used cosmetically, it paralyzes small facial muscles, and that removes lines,' said Ariana. 'It also smooths character out of your face. Some women have had so much in their foreheads, they can't lift their eyebrows.'

I grinned. 'Clearly, you haven't had Botox injections.'

She raised one eyebrow. 'Thank you, I think.' Her tone was dry.

'I don't mean you have wrinkles,' I said hastily. 'You don't need Botox. And you can raise your eyebrows really well.' I stopped to regroup. 'What I mean is…'

'I'd quit while I was ahead,' said Ariana.

Eleven