At the conclusion of the meeting I saw the Braithwaites out to Kendall & Creeling's parking area. Pen Braithwaite drove one of those little Mazda sports cars that look like toys. It was turquoise in color, and with her size, she seemed to wear the vehicle rather than sit in it. I politely waited until they left, Oscar glum, Pen waving a cheerful goodbye, then came back into the building wondering what to do about Ariana. Not sure what the best course of action might be, I lingered at the front desk, where Fran and Melodie were chatting.
"Ashlee's getting snap-on teeth," Melodie was saying to Fran.
"Snap-on teeth?" I said. "What is Ashlee-a vampire?"
"Funny," said Melodie, not amused.
"Whose teeth?" Fran asked. "Not Gwyneth's, I hope. Those big square ones would be too much for Ashlee's little mouth." She paused to reflect. "Ashlee's mean little mouth."
"She chose Halle Berry's," said Melodie. "I think it's a big mistake. Everyone's got Halle Berry's."
"You've lost me. What's this all about?"
"I'd have thought," said Melodie, quite kindly, "that after you've been in the States this long, Kylie, you'd have a better grasp of what's going on."
"Fair go," I said. "I've only been in L.A. a few months."
"Years could go by," Fran observed, "and I doubt Kylie would be any more on the ball than she is now."
Blimey! This sheila worked for me, but I wasn't getting what you'd call much respect. Being the majority owner of Kendall & Creeling, I could give Fran the order of the boot, no worries. But she was Ariana's niece, so firing her probably wasn't a realistic option.
"Nice one, Fran," I said warmly, popping into the Pollyanna persona I knew drove her to distraction. "Thank you so much for your helpful criticism. I do so value your opinion."
Fran winced. Supersweetness really got to her. It was a little victory, but I savored it.
"In this town you've got to have a million-dollar smile," said Melodie. "There's the hard way and an easy way to get it. Ashlee's taken the easy way: snap-on, snap-off celebrity teeth. Myself, I believe in veneers."
"What is it with you lot?" I asked. "You're all tooth-obsessed."
"Veneers are excellent," said Fran, "but pricey. Quip's just had his front ones replaced. Cost a cool two thou a tooth."
I looked at her, gobsmacked. "Two thousand dollars each tooth!"
"It's an investment, Kylie. Quip needs to present well when he's pitching a script."
I visualized Quip, Fran's husband. He was a top bloke, and tall and handsome with it. And his smile, as I recalled, was pretty close to perfect. I said so to Fran.
She looked pleased. I reckoned she really did love him, though what a sunny person like Quip saw in Fran the Morose completely beat me.
"Veneers only last ten years," said Melodie. She rummaged around in her voluminous makeup bag and found a compact. Snapping it open, she bared her teeth for close examination in the mirror. "I wonder if my veneers need replacing."
The three of us gave Melodie's mouth the once over. "Looks grouse to me," I said. They both looked at me. "That means good," I said. "Excellent fangs, Melodie."
I had pretty good teeth myself, but came by them naturally. Good choppers ran in the family.
"You know Bob's front tooth, the chipped one?" said Melodie.
"Bonding," said Fran. "A few hundred dollars, and he'd have a great smile."
"I like Bob's smile the way it is," I declared. Bob Verritt was one of my favorite people, and I wouldn't change a thing about him.
Melodie rolled her eyes. "It's presentation, Kylie."
Ariana appeared, briefcase in hand. She gave us all a curt nod. "I won't be back today," she said, and left.
"What's eating her?" Fran asked.
I shrugged, wishing I knew.
SIX
I went back to my office feeling mega-low. If this kept up, Fran would have competition in the morose stakes. I fired up my computer and punched in www.Google.com. Then I hesitated with my cursor on the GO button. It would be just a matter of punching in a name and asking the Internet search engine to scan a zillion references and come up with possibilities.
But it was sneaky somehow to go behind Ariana's back and try to find out who Natalie Ives was. Of course, for all I knew, typing in that particular name might give me thousands of hits, and how would I know which ones referred to the Natalie Ives who had something to do with Ariana?
Perhaps I shouldn't bother. We were friends, weren't we? Perhaps tomorrow Ariana would get it off her chest, feel free to tell me all about this woman.
I snorted at this fantasy. That particular scenario was as likely as looking up to find tiny pink pigs circling the room with wildly flapping wings.
A quick check showed no pigs, pink or otherwise.
One of my mum's favorite sayings echoed in my ears: "Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today." She usually paired this with "He who hesitates is lost." I paused, irresolute. Don't put it off. Just do it. But what would Ariana think of me if I said to her, "I Googled 'Natalie Ives' and now I know who she is"?
Another of my mum's bits of life advice seemed appropriate. I should look before I leaped. So I shouldn't do anything, just wait and see what happened. After all, if Ariana had wanted me to have that information, she'd have told me, wouldn't she? But then, what chance did she have to do that before she left?
What if I'd gone straight back to Ariana's office after seeing the Braithwaites out, instead of stopping at the front desk? Ariana might have said to me, "I suppose you're curious about Natalie Ives." I would have replied supercasually, "Maybe a little interested." And Ariana would have said…
I sighed. Said what? I told myself to get a grip. I was blowing this out of proportion. It could simply be that Ariana disliked personal questions, and that was why she'd given Pen Braithwaite the big freeze this morning.
Then I remembered Ariana's tight, white face and her icy voice when she said, "This is not a matter for discussion."
I shoved back my chair and stood up. I wasn't Googling "Natalie Ives" today. Tomorrow, maybe…
I paced around my office, then forced myself to sit down and type up my notes on the Braithwaite meeting for my files. I squinted at my scrawl, which was more indecipherable than usual, because I'd been thrown by Ariana's reaction to Pen Braithwaite. In fact, I'd again clean forgotten to ask Oscar what the quokka question was. This was annoying, because the question of what the quokka question might be kept popping into my mind at odd moments.
During the meeting with the Braithwaites this morning, I'd done most of the talking on the Kendall & Creeling side. Ariana had only interposed with an occasional question or comment. After we'd discussed the altered fee structure for the additional investigation of Oscar's dive into the traffic on Sunset Boulevard, we'd got down to nitty-gritty of just how I was going to be set up at UCLA as a visiting graduate student.
Dr. Penelope Braithwaite occupied the endowed chair of animal sexuality in the psychology department, which was part of the College of Letters and Sciences. The endowment had been bestowed by a reclusive multimillionaire who had developed an abiding interest in penguins while wintering in the Antarctic. He'd been particularly struck by their sexual behavior.
"Bang anything, penguins," Pen Braithwaite had declared with approval. "Randy little buggers. Many documented examples of gay male penguins bonding for life. Lesbian penguins too."
The Global Marsupial Symposium was being hosted by the biology department of the university. Pen had a good friend on the inside, a member of the biology faculty who despised Professor Jack Yarrow and would be delighted, Pen assured us, to do anything to discredit the man as long as it was vaguely legal.