"So what's she want Kendall & Creeling to do for her?" I asked.
"Not much," said Ariana sardonically. "She only wants us to find evidence that will open her husband's eyes to the confidence game Brother Owen is playing, preferably before the last red cent of her inheritance disappears into the church's coffers."
We discussed the case for a good while, deciding Lonnie was to research COP's finances and Harriet was to investigate pending and past lawsuits against the "church."
Ariana said to me, "I'd like you to sit in on a meeting I have with Nanette Poynter this afternoon. It may be valuable background for your case."
My case. In my imagination I sang a line or two of "My Girl," substituting "My Case."
"Kylie?"
"That'd be bonzer, if it doesn't clash with Alf and Chicka's appointment. They're due here at four."
Before going to Ariana's office this morning, Bob had told me he'd spoken to Alf, and both brothers were all for me going undercover. They were coming over this afternoon to finalize the details.
"That'll work," said Ariana. "Nanette Poynter will be here at two."
Then we discussed my case, my case-the song kept ringing in my ears like an endless audio loop. Lonnie gave us the results of his preliminary background checks of the Oz Mob staff. As he said he'd expect in any group like this, he'd turned up minor criminal records for some of them-drunk driving, possession of small amounts of drugs, and one domestic violence arrest.
However, there were three people of special interest. As well as Tami Eckholdt's sister, Patsy, working under a false name, Ira Jacobs and Ron Udell had apparently given up very senior positions in the Church of Possibilities to take lower-paying jobs with the Hartnidges' company.
"What did they do in the COP organization?" I asked.
"Ira Jacobs is an accountant, previously handling large sums of money for the church," said Lonnie. "Ron Udell was a hotshot in PR. Neither was fired."
"They've got to be there for some reason," Bob said.
"I've got to dig deeper," said Lonnie. "I'm sure there's much more about these guys, but it's well hidden, which 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."