Pen's face darkened. 'Bastard! If he did try to kill my brother, I'll have his guts for garters.' She got to her feet. 'Right, let's get to business.
I'll leave you two together to discuss the details. The sooner you get cracking, the sooner Yarrow bites the dust.'
She strode off, with both of us looking after her. I glanced sideways at Rube Wasinsky. He wore a reminiscent smile. 'Take my word for it,' he said. 'She's quite a woman.'
The moment I opened Kendall & Creeling's front door, Melodie was on me. 'Urgent message, Kylie. Your mom called while you were out. She's real upset.'
I repressed a sigh. It was probably more problems with her fiance, Jack O'Connell, who was dead set on running the whole show at Mum's pub, The Wombat's Retreat. He wasn't much chop at the financial side of things, so my mum was on a campaign to get me back home to straighten things out.
'OK, I'll call her back.'
'It's winter in Australia,' said Melodie with the air of one telling me something I didn't know, 'but it's summer here.'
'You had a talk with Mum about the seasons?' I was surprised, because my mother wasn't one for idle conversation.
Melodie looked virtuous. 'Like, it was the least I could do to chat for a moment about the weather, seeing she was so upset you weren't here to take her call.'
Chantelle had pointed out to me that this was receptionist lore- weather was always perfectly safe topic for soothing conversation. 'Thank you, Melodie,' I said.
When she looked a little embarrassed to be thanked, an awful suspicion leaped into my mind. 'What else did you talk about?'
'Oh, this and that,' said Melodie with an airy wave of a hand.
'Explicitly what this and that?'
'We may have discussed freeway shootings.'
This was not good. No doubt the recent random gunfire on the freeways of Los Angeles had made the evening news in Wollegudgerie. Melodie would have been delighted to add her quota of gruesome details. I fixed her with a gimlet stare. 'Anything else?'
Melodie pursed her lips, as if in deep thought. 'I may have mentioned Dr. Braithwaite's accident on Sunset Boulevard.'
'Bloody hell!'
'She was very interested,' Melodie declared, obviously stung by my reaction. 'You mom said she likes to know everything about your life here in L.A.'
I shook my head, lost for words. I could see a harrowing telephone conversation coming up. Wouldn't it rot your socks?
EIGHT
As it was Tuesday afternoon in Los Angeles, it was Wednesday morning in Wollegudgerie. A plumbing disaster at the Wombat's Retreat had just occurred when I got Mum on the line. 'Kylie, can't talk now. Water's absolutely pouring through the ceiling in the bottom hallway and Jack's no bloody good at all. He's running around like a chook with its head chopped off. I've got an emergency call in for Danny P., but you know how reliable he is.'
Saved from a lecture! I'd been ready to deflect Mum by bringing up the subject of the Aussie TV show where my name had been mentioned. I was going to demand to know why nobody had told me about it. But now I blessed the pub's bodgy plumbing, which failed regularly, though not quite in so spectacular a way.
I immediately felt guilty. Disasters like this only seemed to occur when the place was chock-a-block with guests. And Danny Panopolous, Wollegudgerie's only plumber, was not fully dedicated to his trade. As Danny told anyone who'd listen, his real calling was in humorous writing.
At this point he'd always point at his truck, where the words THE PIPES OF PAN ARE CALLING appeared in large scarlet letters. 'Get it?' Danny'd say. 'The song, 'Danny Boy'? The pipes of Pan? Plumber Panopolous?' He'd shoot his heavy black eyebrows up and down. 'Funny, eh?'
'Mum, I'll call you tomorrow,' I said. 'In the meantime, good luck with Danny P.'
My mum snorted. 'You know what I think-' she began, then broke off. In the background I could hear Jack shouting something about the ceiling collapsing. 'Holy mackerel!' said Mum. 'I've got to go. Hooroo, love.' The line went dead.
I felt a jab of regret I wasn't there to help out, and that Mum had to rely on Jack. But then, she had chosen him as future husband material, and they were officially engaged, though my Aunt Millie didn't think Mum would ever actually marry him.
I'd better get back to work. Moodily, I opened the Yarrow file Lonnie had given me. Then I was struck by the fact that here was another Jack. Mum's fiance was Jack O'Connell: Oscar Braithwaite's nemesis was Jack Yarrow.
That got me musing about names. Jack had an abrupt, masculine sound. Kylie was softer, but it had a hard
Sometimes names didn't suit people. Sometimes they really did. Melodie certainly suited Melodie, and I couldn't imagine Lonnie called anything but Lonnie, but Fran was too mild for Fran. What would I rename Fran, if I had the power? Godzilla? Or some militant Teutonic name-say, Brunhilda. She didn't have the height for that moniker, but I could still visualize Fran as a pocket-size warrior queen, beaten-metal breastplate and all.
I grinned to myself as I elaborated on the picture in my mind, dressing my imaginary Fran for a leading role in a sword-and-sandal epic fantasy. On her red hair I placed a burnished copper helmet with horns. In one hand she held a round battle shield, in the other a sword with a gorgeously jeweled handle. Her face held a look of gloomy resolution, as she gazed, frowning, into a challenging future.
'What's so funny?' demanded the object of my flight of imagination. She had none of the accoutrements of a warrior queen, except maybe for the combative attitude and the frown.
'Not a thing, Fran. Just trying to be cheerful.'
Fran gave a derisive grunt. Blimey, this sheila might be good-looking in a glum sort of way, but elegant she wasn't. She leaned over my desk to slap down a bunch of envelopes. 'Mail.'
'Thank you.'
I sorted through them. Somehow, magically, the fact I'd moved to Los Angeles seemed to have got out into the world, and I was starting to get offers I supposedly couldn't refuse. It was amazing how many credit card companies found me worthy of special attention, and how many banks yearned to serve me in every possible financial way. Charities I'd never heard off begged for donations in heartbreaking terms.
'Ahem!' I became aware that Fran was still there, arms folded.
'Fran?'
'Storage of our disaster supplies,' she said. 'What have you done about it?'
'Fair go,' I protested. 'Why's it my job to find somewhere to store the stuff? You're the office manager, after all.'
'There'd be somewhere, if you weren't here, Kylie.' She pursed her lips, looking around my office reflectively. 'For one thing, this room would be available. And then there's your bedroom-'
'Stop right there!'
Fran stopped, but her determined expression didn't change. We had a bit of a staring contest which Fran won because a vision of her as Brunhilda superimposed itself on the real person, and I had a bit of a giggle.
'I'm working hard to save all of our lives in the event of a terrorist attack or natural disaster,' said Fran with affronted dignity. 'Somehow you seem to find that amusing.'
'Put it down to hysteria,' I said. 'These are trying times.'
Fran tapped her foot. Clearly she was going nowhere until I came up with a storage plan of some sort. 'Garden shed,' I said. 'You know, one of those green metal numbers. There's room in the backyard for it.'
Fran's expression didn't lighten. 'In the event of a gas attack, you'd go outside and die before you got to the
