I wriggled my shoulders. "You know," I said, "I think I do."
Elise discussed the spa for a few moments, stopped to point out she was sure she'd seen Barbara Walters in the adjacent massage room, then said, mega-casually, "How's the investigation going?"
"Investigation?"
"Oh, come on, Kylie. Don't play dumb with me. You know what I'm talking about. The whole Jarrod Perkins thing."
"Didn't Dave tell you all about it? He hired us."
Elise frowned heavily. "Dave won't discuss the matter. He's suddenly developed the old-fashioned idea that his wife should be protected from harsh reality."
"What harsh reality?"
"That's what I'd like to know," said Elise. "Frankly, I'm worried Dave is hiding something from me."
Feeling like a real detective, I weighed up what searching question I should ask. The best I could come up with was, "Do you think he had something to do with the murder?"
This amused Elise. "Dave kill someone? He hasn't got the guts. And even if he did, I could handle it. It's something a lot more serious."
More serious than murder? "What is it?" I asked.
"The most important thing in the world. Money. Think what the publicity could do to Deerdoc if the murder investigation gets too close."
"I thought any publicity was good publicity."
Elise made a face. "Not with Dave's clients." She dropped her voice so low I could hardly hear her above the bubbling water. "I'm not expecting you to break confidences, but one Aussie to another, I'm asking you to warn me if the shit's going to hit the fan in a big way. I want to get out with my finances intact, no matter what happens to Dave. Know what I mean?"
I knew what she meant.
NINETEEN
I spent the rest of the week working on my private eye skills. Harriet and Lonnie gave me preliminary lessons on using public records to background individuals, and showed me how to trace people who had skipped to avoid debt or responsibilities like child care payments.
This exercise got a bit more interesting when Randy Romaine skipped bail and disappeared.
Bob took me out in his car and demonstrated moving surveillance. It was fun learning how to follow someone without being noticed. Then I practiced on unsuspecting motorists. Mostly the techniques were common sense, like putting several cars between you and the subject, and driving by then doubling back if the subject turns into a service station. Some things, though, I'd never thought of before.
One was, Bob said with a wink, illegal. This was to get at the subject's vehicle when it was parked. Using a pen or screwdriver, a small hole was punched in one of the plastic brake light covers. This made the car much easier to follow, even in heavy traffic, as every time the driver braked a bright white spot of light blinked on.
I didn't see much of Ariana. She had a deposition in Nevada and then a court appearance in Santa Barbara.
My Aunt Millie called me on Wednesday. As soon as I heard her tart voice I could visualize her sharp-featured face. Aunt Millie was a vinegary soul with an unerring ability to find the negative in every situation.
I'd hardly managed hello before she started. "Kylie Kendall, you're trouble, pure and simple. I said it from the time you were born-that girl's trouble, I said."
"And how are you, Aunt Millie?"
"Not good, but a lot better than your mum."
I felt a thrill of alarm. "What's wrong with Mum?"
"You've broken her heart."
Relieved, I said, "Oh, is that all?"
"Is that all?" she repeated sarcastically. "Typical! Just take a look at your attitude, my girl."
"Aunt Millie-"
"I'd have thought you'd have had some consideration for your family before you went gallivanting over to the States. But no." She paused for me to absorb this. "You always were a headstrong, self-absorbed girl. Even as a child, I knew you'd bring heartbreak to your mother."
"Mum put you up to this, didn't she?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Aunt Millie indignantly.
"Then why are you calling me?"
"Isn't it obvious? You're needed back here at the Wombat's Retreat. Your poor mother is barely coping."
"What about Jack?"
"He's a man," said Aunt Millie. "He does his best, but well…"
Lonnie's birthday was on Saturday, and I was touched to be included in his birthday celebration, which was to be lunch at a restaurant of Lonnie's choice.
"Would you believe," said Melodie on Friday, "Lonnie's gone and picked Shel 'n' Hymie's again?. He's got no imagination."
"What's wrong with the place?" I asked.
"It's a deli. You don't have a birthday lunch at a deli, 'specially when Kendall & Creeling is picking up the tab."
"Are you talking about a delicatessen? A shop where they sell ham and cheese?"
"No, a New York deli. You know, like Nate 'n' Al's or Jerry's." She gave a discontented sigh. "Why couldn't Lonnie choose one of them? The stars go there."
Shel 'n' Hymie's Deli was in Studio City on Ventura Boulevard. Harriet volunteered to pick me up from Kendall & Creeling so I wouldn't have to find the place myself. We parked across the road in a supermarket lot, meeting up with Lonnie as we walked to the traffic lights. He beamed when we both wished him a happy birthday. "It's so great of you guys to come," he said.
On the other side of the road a faded sign on a nondescript building announced SHEL 'N' HYMIE'S DELI. A metal railing enclosed a few tables in the front, each bolted to the ground and with a grubby yellow umbrella. Traffic thundered past, perfuming the air with exhaust fumes. I couldn't imagine why anyone would sit out there, but most of the tables were occupied.
As we waited for the lights to change, Lonnie said approvingly, "Shel 'n' Hymie's is just like a genuine New York deli. They got it right-the ambiance, the in-your-face style."
"And the great food," said Harriet. "Don't forget the food."
The traffic ground to a halt, one huge truck hissing its air-brakes with irritation. We skipped across the road and through the utilitarian glass door. The ambiance Lonnie admired was provided by the cramped booths lining two sides and the Formica-topped tables filling the rest of the space. The floor was industrial gray, the walls a yucky shade of green. The place was crowded with people talking loudly, sometimes to their companions but frequently into cell phones.
Lonnie was obviously a regular customer. He asked Joyce, a tough-looking bottle-blond wearing a red checkered uniform and white apron, how she was today.
"The usual," she snapped. "I'd complain, but what would be the use?"
She marched us to a corner booth with a view of the traffic outside. It would just be big enough to squeeze in six people. Fran, glaring at a large, laminated menu, was already there. "Bob's going to be late," she said, looking up, "and Melodie is never on time, as we all know."
"Is Ariana coming?" I asked, aware that I'd be terribly disappointed if she wasn't.
Fran shrugged. "Last I heard, she was."
"You expecting more?" demanded an angular woman with a nasal twang. She was wearing the same uniform as Joyce and the same hard expression. The badge on her chest identified her as Dora.
"Three more on their way," said Lonnie. He beamed at her like a cheerful puppy. "Today's my birthday, Dora."
"Many happies," she said, without a change to her dour expression. She slapped menus down in front of us. "Something to drink?"
"Diet Coke," said Fran.
"The same," said Lonnie and Harriet in chorus.
Dora switched her gimlet gaze to me. "You?"
"May I have Coke Coke, please?" I asked. "The real stuff, I mean."
"Three diets and one regular." She spun on her heel and walked off.
"See what I mean about style?" said Lonnie appreciatively. "Dora's got that New York attitude."
"Abrupt, you mean?" I said.
"Rude," said Harriet. "They pride themselves on it."
I scanned the menu as the others chatted. The choice was huge: pastrami, corned beef sandwiches, cheese blintzes, potato pancakes, lox and scrambled eggs… I wasn't sure what half of them were, so I decided to play it safe and order something simple like a corned beef sandwich.