It was the sort of night that starts many a bad novel. Kit O'Malley was trying to decide whether to venture out into the midst of it or go back inside and have a long, cold, stiff drink. The rush of steamy, oppressive heat colliding with the unnatural cold of the air-conditioned hotel lobby as she opened the door told her that outside was still not the place to be.
Raising her arm through the thick and putrid air to block out the street light, she glared at the storm clouds which were still doing what they'd been doing every night for a week - just hanging around, heavy and threatening, taunting a parched and overheated city with the promise of relief only to piss off before midnight and drop their bundles over Bass Strait.
The distinctive smell of rain in the air was permeated with the sweat, tension and extreme irritability of an entire population which had had just about enough, thank you very much, but couldn't do a damned thing to escape.
Tonight did feel different though. The air was seriously full of something that indicated change. Kit hated that. It didn't necessarily mean a change in the weather; it would probably just be another downturn in the economy, a petrol strike or a sale at K-Mart.
Kit's mad friend Brigit would say it was bad vibes or ions, that there were negative emotions running rampant through the suburbs because the moon was almost full, or because it hadn't aligned with Mars or something. Whatever it was, it was producing a lot of shitty weather, not the sort a sensible person would want to be out in.
Kit was still trying to decide whether or not to go back and join Nick for a beer when a rogue wind, probably sent out as a scout for the raging gale that was almost certainly following, thwacked into the heavy door and pushed her back inside anyway.
'You know that light wind the Weather Bureau forecast would accompany the cool change?' she said to the two men in the small office off the hotel's foyer. 'Well, it's about to destroy the street.' She sat down heavily on a plastic chair and watched Nick and Simmons as they packed away their equipment.
'Is it raining yet?' Simmons asked.
'Don't be silly. It's either not going to happen or it's waiting till I'm half way across the street to my car,' Kit said, realising she should have known from the moment she'd woken up that this was not going to be one of her better days.
It should have been Sunday, a day to roll over stick your head under the pillow and pretend you couldn't hear The Cat demanding breakfast. Indeed it had felt like Sunday till that precious feline, yowling with a mouth full of something not quite dead, had leapt on top of her to show off the mangled catch of the day. Kit had launched herself from the bed, fighting off the effects of morning gravity, to chase The Cat out the back door. The daily newspaper had skidded across the patio and when Kit bent to pick it up she knew the day was not going to get any better. Thursday's Age meant one of two things: either it was Thursday or she'd been in a coma for four days.
So, what should have been Sunday got progressively worse as Thursday wore on, culminating in a four hour stake-out topped off by a meeting with a man who had nothing whatsoever to recommend him.
Not that Simmons is much better, Kit thought watching the dishevelled detective as he tried in vain to hoick his trousers up over a stomach not designed to be contained by them. He gave up, as he always did, and the belt buckle slipped from view beneath a belly barely covered by a shirt too tight for pride to have had anything to do with the man's dress sense.
'You may as well go Kit. We've got everything we need,' Nick Jenkins said, absently waving the cassette on which was recorded Kit's meeting with the contemptible Jimmy Kerman. 'We'll be able to pick up Manderson with this little lot.'
'Yeah. Well I hope you've got enough on that sleazebag Kerman as well. The only thing worse than a drug pushing pimp is a drug pushing pimp who betrays his friends because he thinks it'll help him get on in the world.'
Kit wanted nothing more right now than to wash off the stench of an hour spent with one of the most reprehensible human beings she'd ever had the misfortune to have to spend time with.
'Hey, you and I know from experience you don't have to be a certified sleazebag pimp to be a Judas.' Nick said slipping an arm around Kit's shoulders.
Kit grinned. 'Ain't that the truth. Got time for a beer before you go?'
'God, it's still like a sauna out here,' Nick said half an hour later when he and Kit emerged from the Criterion Hotel. The wind, which had wreaked havoc in the street, had all but died down. 'What a mess! Looks like a mad dog went through every bin in the street looking for leftover McDonalds.'
'It's more likely that it went mad and did this after finding leftover McDonalds,' Kit said, surveying the garbage that was strewn from one side of the road to the other. Emptied bins had been flung, rolled and battered, sandwich boards had deserted their posts to wrap themselves round telephone poles or leap through shop windows, and several parked cars no longer had windscreens. The footpath, where it could be seen beneath the collage of rotting refuse and flapping waste paper, was splattered with a few huge drops of rain, a sure indication that the black and heavy heavens were finally about to open.
'You going home now?' Nick asked, removing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder.
'I wish. I've got one last stop. A client in Toorak.'
'A client? It's after eight.'
'When you work for yourself Nicholas, your clients call the shots most of the time. The good thing about this deal is it's the last visit. You know, final meeting, give me the cheque, case closed.'
'Two in one day. That's not bad.' Nick followed Kit across the street to her car. 'But aren't we getting a bit above our station by having a client from Toorak?'
'Absolutely, my dear,' Kit said in her best posh voice. 'And what's more I've got a new one to see there first thing tomorrow. O'Malley Investigations is going up in the world.'
'I bet they don't pay any better, or on time,' Nick said with a grin.
'Not that I've noticed, no. But at least my new client should be entertaining. From what I've read in the society pages even the wealthy eccentrics around town think she is a little weird.' Kit opened her car door and threw her jacket onto the passenger seat.
'Listen, thanks for coming in on this tonight,' Nick said. 'You didn't have to. Even old Simmons appreciated it.'
'Sure. I could just see he was bursting with gratitude.'
'Hey, he bought you a drink. For him that means thanks from the bottom of his beer gut. My thanks, however, come from a little higher up,' Nick said placing his hand over his heart.
'I had unfinished business with Manderson, now it's over. Kerman also gave me info for another case I'm working. So it was no big deal, except that you guys were covering my tail.'
'God forbid that anything should happen to your cute little tail.'
'Ooh Nick. I bet you say that to all the boys.'
'Too right. Speaking of which, you may have a cheque waiting but I can hear a cocktail shaker being warmed up at my place. What's that noise?'
'What noise?' said Kit feigning deafness.
'Sounds like a blowfly in a bottle,'
'Oh, you mean that strangled blirp blirping. It's my mobile. I dropped it earlier and it went into hiding. It's Mum's ringtone.' Kit bent down and fished under the car seat. 'Shut up you pretentious piece of plastic,' she said pressing the loudspeaker as she slipped it into it cradle on the dashboard.
'...so I thought I'd take Diedre there. What do you think?'
Kit shrigged at Nick, who whispered, 'I believe Mrs O'Malley has been at the sherry again.'
'Are you there Katherine?'
'Yes Mum. What do I think about what?'
'About taking Diedre to that lovely little place we went to that time.'
'Which place Mum? You really should wait till I've answered the phone before you start talking to me.'
'Yes of course darling. But do you think she'd like it?'
'I don't know which place you're talking about.'
'Yes you do. You took me there. Or maybe it was your brother.'
Kit took the phone from her ear and glared at it as if it was responsible for her mother's mental leapfrogging.
'Mum, Michael has never taken you anywhere. He never has any money. He's starving in a garret, remember.' Kit shrugged her shoulders and leaned over to give Nick a kiss goodbye before climbing into her car. She switched the phone onto the speaker before starting the engine and pulling out.
'Well, there you are then. I knew it was you,' her mother was saying.
'Okay it was me. Where did we go?'
'That little Japanese place in Chapel Street of course. Why are you asking me Katherine? You took me there for lunch with Constance that day.'
'Mum, I think maybe Constance took you there for lunch.'
'Good heavens, so she did. You weren't there at all. It was Evelyn. Now how did I confuse you with Evelyn? You don't look anything like her.'
'I should hope not. Evelyn's a good quarter of a century older than me,' Kit said, taking off again as the lights turned green. 'By the way who's Diedre?'
'You know Diedre, darling.'
'Oh, OK, if you say so Mum,' she said shaking her head and making a left turn to run the gamut of Toorak Road traffic which tended to ignore all vehicles with a price tag below fifty grand.
Kit and her car were in dangerous territory now. This was where the locals, rather than walk around the corner from their fully serviced apartments to grab a fashionable sushi, spent 15 minutes getting sports cars out of maximum security garages just to give their personalised number plates an airing. The Range Rovers that cruised this street wouldn't be seen dead in the bush, the Stags were all driven by gallery owners, hair dressers and groupies, and the Mercedes always came in his and hers colour-coordinated pairs. Pedestrians were fair game in Toorak Road, no matter where they bought their clothes.
Two cars in front of her, a Volvo made an unsignalled U-turn while its driver adjusted his passenger's breasts, confirming the joke, the truth of which Kit had never doubted, that the only difference between a porcupine and a Volvo was that the porcupine had its pricks on the outside. Kit slammed on her brakes to avoid running into the back of a car that had obviously never ventured this far from the suburbs before. The driver of the maroon Torana festooned with bumper stickers boasting the sexual prowess of plumbers, was demonstrating a perfect example of completely wasted effort in this part of the world - hurling abuse at a Volvo driver from this part of the world.
'Mum, I've got to go now. I'm about to do battle with the porcupines,' Kit said.
Despite the weather, things here were as busy as usual for a Thursday night. The shops were open, spilling light and customers onto the footpath and sending subliminal messages out to Visa cards everywhere. Yuppies, dinks, professional groovers - whatever they were being called this season - were milling outside the right places to be seen, casually greeting or ignoring each other depending on whatever it depends on.
Kit figured most of them never actually got inside these nightclubs and cafes, but had to be seen to be trying, and those who did came straight out again with their boutique beer or iced orgasm because it was too hard to tell at such close quarters if they really wanted to stand so close to the person whose pelvis was thrust up against their backside.
Kit finally managed to find a car park three blocks from the restaurant owned by Enrico Conte. All she had to do was inform her client that she had tracked down his ex-partner and found him to be living quite well in Apollo Bay on the proceeds of the cappuccino machine, juke box, microwave and 30 tables he had stolen from Enrico, not to mention the two months' restaurant takings he had neglected to bank before disappearing with Enrico's second wife. Kit figured it would take about one cappuccino, from Enrico's new machine, to close the case.
She should have known that nothing is ever as easy as it should be. Enrico demanded to hear every single detail of the case three times over. He wanted to know what to do next about his ex-partner and, most of all, he needed Kit's womanly advice on how to get his wife back. Kit didn't have the faintest idea about the latter but as Enrico kept her prisoner with the best gnocchi in town she could hardly refuse his plea for a friendly ear. By the time she got home, however, it was after 3 a.m.
So, barely six hours later, she was driving down Toorak Road again, feeling decidedly grumpy from lack of sleep and suffering a slight case of deja vu. The harsh light of day had little affect on the air of pretentiousness that ran the length of this road. All the nightclubbers were sensibly home in bed but now their mothers were out in force, armed only with their credit cards and a readiness to display their best 'do I know you?' expression.
As she swung her car left off Toorak Road and down a couple of blocks she made a solemn vow never, ever again, to make any appointments before noon. Her prospective client's suggestion that they discuss the case over a late breakfast had seemed generous at the time. But 9 a.m. was not late. It was, in fact, without doubt, the most uncivilised time of the day to be out and about, no matter what the reason.
Kit was not at all in the mood necessary for trying to impress a new and wealthy client. As last night's storm had failed to eventuate, the weather was still muggy and the temperature was already in the high twenties. The inside of Kit's car, even with all the windows down, felt like a sauna. She could almost see the heat rising off the dashboard and the smell of overheated plastic was getting right up her nose.
'Oh God, I hate mornings!' she growled, as she tugged irritably at the skirt of her suit, knowing it would do little to prevent the hard-edged creases forming at every point where her sweating thighs and back were touching the car seat. So much for power dressing. So much for getting up early enough to drag the iron out from its hiding place at the bottom of the basket of clothes she never wore because they never got pressed.
She made a right turn into the very heart of old money territory - overstated mansions, tennis courts, electronically operated wrought iron gates with rampant lions on the bluestone posts, a Rolls and a Range Rover run-about in every sweeping drive - and then a final turn into McGill Crescent, typically tree-lined and quiet with high walls that no doubt hid more than a secret or two. The tally-ho set were alive and well in this neck of the woods spending their weekends riding innocent foxes to death and their weekdays working out ways to spend the extra money they'd made from the money they'd made the week before.
This was Kit's first call on Celia Robinson and her eclectic collection of bizarre statuary. It had only been two days since Celia had called to make this appointment, so there had been little time for Kit to carry out the thorough background research she usually did on prospective clients - well, at least on those clients who had the courtesy to make appointments and didn't just turn up at her office.
So, most of what Kit knew about this woman had been gleaned from the pile of Women's Weekly and New Idea magazines, along with back copies of the Business Review Weekly, that her friends Brigit and Del had dumped in her lap in answer to what Kit had thought was a perfectly innocent question. Everyone, it seemed, had heard of Celia Everton-Orlando-Robinson. Where had Kit been that she didn't know of the woman's highly successful Australian-based international publishing empire, her tireless work on behalf of every worthy charity in town and her legendary habit of donating positively ghastly statues to any institution that looked sideways at her. Although generous to a fault, Mrs Robinson, it appeared, was also a very strange woman or as Brigit had said 'definitely a Queen short of a royal flush'.
Kit parked her car in the shade and made her way across the driveway that encircled the manicured lawn which bordered the Olympic-sized fish pond.
Lucky fish, she thought, as she fought off the urge to take a swim with them. She put her jacket on instead, hoping it would hide most of the embarrassing creases.
Don't be silly, even rich people sweat! No they don't, she argued with herself. They have airconditioned cars and houses and business suits.
Kit stepped up onto the massive marbled portico, took a deep breath and reached for the bell. Her hand had barely touched it when the widest front door in Melbourne swung open expelling a blast of cold, fresh, rich people's airconditioning. Dracula's long-lost cousin, dressed in black trousers, a white collarless shirt and braces, stood on the inside looking out and down at her from the palest face she'd ever seen.
This is a very tall person in desperate need of vitamins or sunlight, she thought. Her first instinct was to run; her second was to adjust the collar on her jacket so Mr Anaemia wouldn't get any ideas about breakfasting on her neck.
If he says 'you rang' we are out of here O'Malley, Kit thought. She stuffed her hands in her pocket to keep them away from her throat and tried to smile.
'Ms O'Malley I presume,' he said gently with no trace of any Eastern European accent at all.
'Yes. I have an appointment with Mrs Robinson,' Kit said unnecessarily.
'Certainly. My name is Byron Daniels. Would you follow me please. Madam is waiting for you in The Forum.'
Madam? Kit followed the bloodless Byron along the marble-tiled, mirrored-lined hallway to a heavy curtain at the dimly-lit rear of the mansion.
'Would you care for champagne or coffee with your breakfast?'
'Coffee, thank you,' Kit replied.
He gave what appeared to be an approving nod, reached for the curtain and pulled it back to reveal double glass doors, one of which he opened.
'Mrs Robinson is outside,' he said, indicating that Kit should go through without him.
It took Kit a couple of seconds to adjust to the bright sunlight again but a little longer for the sight that was Celia Robinson to sink in. Swathed in a silk caftan of bottle-green splashed with crimson and yellow, with bare feet at one end and a sola topee atop a head of très bouffant yellow hair at the other, she stood, eye-level with a very large penis, and holding a silver goblet in one hand. The other hand was moving in a rapid circular motion accompanying the instructions she appeared to be giving to the body prone on the grass with its head in a fish pond.
All about her, as far Kit could see, were naked athletes, warriors, nymphs, dragons, gorgons, serpents and centaurs: hundreds of them standing, reclining and poised for action amid fountains, ornamental lakes, huge ferneries, lush rose gardens and flower-draped rockeries.
Kit wondered whether the heat and the ungodly hour of the day were making her hallucinate. She didn't quite know how she was going to contain the urge to roll about laughing - except to run away and hide till she could get control of herself. That could take months! She'd better get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
She put her sunglasses back on, raised a hand to her mouth to stop the smile that was ignoring her best intentions to appear calm and collected, and cleared her throat. Wrong! Celia Robinson swung around to face the patio reaching out to clasp the penis of Perseus to steady herself as the caftan swished around her stubby little legs threatening to knock her off her feet.
'Ah, the private eye,' she said grandly just as the head of the body on the ground came up for air - briefly. Kit was about to proceed down the cobbled steps to shake the woman's outstretched hand when she realised it was actually directing her towards the patio table, set for two. 'No shoes in The Forum please,' she said. 'The heels damage the lawn.'
Kit backed into a chair, unable to take her eyes off the scene before her. Celia Robinson had thankfully returned to the task before her, whatever that was, and didn't notice the fresh rolls tumble across the table and onto the ground as Kit clumsily sat down. Someone was watching though, as she made a dive for the bread. She noticed the curtains on the patio doors drop back into place just as she sat down again.
Get a grip, for god's sake O'Malley.
'Do you know anything about fountains?'
'Not a lot, no,' Kit replied when she realised the question was meant for her.
'Pity. Neither does Mr Burke here, I've just discovered.' Celia Robinson swept onto the patio pulling what appeared to be a small walkie-talkie from a pocket somewhere in the folds of the caftan. 'Byron. Byron. Come in Byron.'
'I'm right here Mrs Robinson'.
Kit had no idea how the walking corpse had materialised so silently behind her.
'Good. Be a dear and bring out the breakfast. Oh, you'd better tell Burke to give up before he swallows any more water. We'll have to get one of the plumbing people in to solve the problem.'
'What is the problem?' Kit asked as she watched Byron remove his shoes before venturing across the small patch of lawn. He tapped Mr Burke on the shoulder and waited till the man was sitting up and facing him before he spoke.
'Damned if I know,' Celia was saying as she settled herself amid miles of caftan in the chair opposite Kit. 'Every time we turn the fountain on the pond overflows. The outlet thingy must be blocked but Burke can't seem to find anything. The timer system also seems to have a mind of its own. The fountain comes on any old time it feels like it, which is a bit of a worry when the thingy is blocked.'
'Yes, I imagine it is,' Kit said, wishing she hadn't asked.
Byron appeared at the table with a tray. Kit nearly jumped out of her skin, as she hadn't even noticed him going back inside. Breakfast was fresh fruit, icy cold orange juice, toast and strong brewed coffee. Kit wasn't used to eating at this time of the day, but it kept her hands occupied and helped to fend off an attack of the killer giggles.
'I have never had the need for services of your kind before,' Mrs Robinson began, getting right to the point. 'I hope I am going about this the right way - by having you here rather than meeting in your office.'
'I doubt there's a right way of hiring a detective Mrs Robinson. It depends on the case and in this case your patio has a much better view than my office.'
'My thoughts exactly and, please, call me Celia. The idea of hiring someone to follow my husband seemed so tawdry at first. But what must be done... It was really my solicitor's idea.' Celia's gaze turned to the marble and stone multitude in her garden. She was obviously having difficulty dealing with this situation.
'Douglas wanted to organise this for me, but I told him if it had to be then I had to be in control of the situation. He would have hired some grubby little man in a trench coat to hide in dark doorways and spy on Geoffrey with telescopes and dark glasses. I thought hiring a woman would be less...well, less tacky.'
Celia looked Kit over as if her smart this-is-what-you-wear-to-meet-rich-Toorak-clients outfit somehow made tailing someone a classy affair, one that would be carried out in elegant surrounds with a glass of Oloroso in her hand. Kit usually knew how to make her clients feel, if not happy, at least comfortable in their decision to resort to 'services of her kind', but Celia Robinson was nothing like her usual run of clients. Short of promising to wear her best sequined evening gown should she have to hang around any darkened doorways, Kit doubted there was little she could say that would make Celia Robinson believe the situation was anything less than tacky. The woman was obviously more troubled about hiring a detective than she was about having a reason to do so.
'Well, I suppose there's nothing else to do but get this out of the way.'
'You want me to follow your husband,' Kit said, trying to help her out.
'Yes. You've no doubt done a certain amount of homework before keeping this appointment so you would know that Geoffrey is also one of my co-directors and the business manager of Orlando House, the publishing company founded by my first husband.'
Kit nodded. She had managed to find out that much.
'Well, the firm that looks after all the company's financial and legal business is headed by my solicitor Douglas Scott. When his accountant discovered some, shall we say, discrepancies in some recent financial transactions made by my husband, he naturally informed Douglas.'
'What sort of discrepancies?'
'Nothing alarming. By that I mean it hasn't been a great deal of money. Several thousand here and there, but all over the last eight months.'
Kit decided to up her fee. If several thousand wasn't alarming then her services must be worth at least twice what she usually charged. 'Did Mr Scott ask your husband about the money?'
'Well, not at first because after all it is Geoffrey's money. He can do with it what he likes. In fact saying that Douglas was informed of the discrepancy is not quite accurate. It was more a mention in passing over dinner one evening. To him, the accountant that is, it was simply a curious thing.'
'But surely if your husband's been spending money his accountant would have to know the details. I mean the books have to balance sooner or later.'
'True. But Geoffrey was apparently evasive when asked for those details. He claimed he was trying to cover the costs on some aborted deal he had allegedly made on behalf of the company in America last year. That wouldn't have surprised me, about the deal being aborted I mean. Despite being OHP's business manager for the last eighteen years Geoffrey lacks the necessary judgement to initiate anything much on his own. We don't usually let him do a lot by himself.'
'So Mr Robinson made a bad call and then tried to cover it personally so OHP would not have to take the flak?' Kit said.
Celia shrugged. 'Or more likely so that Mr Robinson would not have to take the flak, as you call it, when we discovered he had used the company name in an unsanctioned deal of some sort. I mean for all we knew then he could have been trying to buy a baseball team, a Republican candidate, or a fast food franchise.'
'With his own money though,' Kit said, starting to wonder what the fuss was about.
'Oh yes. Which as I said he is perfectly entitled to do, but not on behalf of Orlando House without the Board's knowledge. Anyway, Douglas did some investigating on the quiet, deciding to follow the figures a little further. He has always been suspicious of Geoffrey when money is involved and was particularly concerned about what this money was being used for. Oddly enough, he has so far been unable to find out where it went, although he did discover another large withdrawal just one month ago. Thirty-five thousand gone. Just like that.' Celia snapped her fingers to emphasise the point.
'I assume, said Kit,' that it was at that point your solicitor approached your husband with a few questions.'
'Over drinks, just in passing,' Celia smiled.
'Of course. So what was his story?'
'He claimed he was making an investment in a new publishing venture he was trying to get off the ground. He wanted to keep a lid on it until the matter was finalised at which stage, he said, OHP may be interested in joining him in the deal.'
'You don't believe that?' Kit said.
Celia raised an eyebrow as if to say, don't be ridiculous, who would?
'Keep a lid on it?' Kit said. 'I gather that means he asked Mr Scott not to tell anyone, including you, about this new venture.'
'Exactly. But Douglas is more than just my solicitor. We've been friends for forty years,' Celia said pursing her lips as she pushed a slice of cantaloupe into her mouth with one finger.
'But your husband would know that. I mean wouldn't he expect that you would find out?'
'One would think so, wouldn't one,' Celia said, raising an eyebrow. 'But he told Douglas he was planning this new venture as a surprise. So, Douglas agreed to keep it a secret.'
'And then told you anyway,' Kit said with a smile.
'Naturally.'
'Did your husband give any clues as to what the venture might be?'
'Compact disks, of the information kind,' Celia said in disgust. 'Honestly, the man should know that Orlando House is being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century. We publish books. On paper, between covers. We may use computers to facilitate their publication but that is as far as I am prepared to go. We will not publish literature or anything else on little round pieces of plastic.' She thumped the table and then looked quite surprised with herself. 'I am sorry, Katherine.'
Kit smiled. 'I gather your main concern is that your husband might be using the Orlando House name for his own purposes?' Kit said.
Celia held her hands out, palms up as if she was weighing something. 'Yes and no. As you gather I don't approve of this CD thing, whether he's using OHP as a front or not. More to the point, however, I don't believe that that is what he is up to. Neither does Douglas. Because he can't trace the money, it is his concern that this the so-called venture may be something OHP would quite simply not want to be involved in. I wish to discover what it is before Geoffrey can retreat or cover his tracks.' Celia left the hint of dirty dealings hanging in the air while she poked a strawberry into her mouth.
'Why doesn't Douglas just ask him straight out? He could threaten to reveal the big secret to you and then your husband would have to tell him.' Kit was starting to think this whole case was a little strange. Why was everybody else being so careful and secretive when it was Geoffrey's apparent skulduggery that was clearly the issue?
'My major concern is the integrity of Orlando House. If Geoffrey is involved in something legal then I will have less of a problem with it, obviously. It will just be something that has to be dealt with. If, as Douglas suspects however, it is something questionable or even illegal, then that is another matter altogether.'
Kit wondered if Celia had any love for the man she obviously had so little respect for. 'You don't think he's up to anything illegal, do you?' she asked.
'I believe my husband's sideline is a floozy,' Celia answered matter-of-factly, taking a sip of coffee and looking seriously at Kit. 'What do you think?'
Damn, was what Kit thought. All this for a floozy? She'd had the rising hope as Celia was talking that this was going to be a straightforward daylight job of chasing a money trail and investigating any suspicious business ventures or acquaintances that the untrustworthy Mr R. might be involved with. But, though it had taken her a while to get around to it, Mrs Robinson was indeed hiring Kit to hang around in darkened doorways with telescopes and dark glasses. The interesting stuff was obviously being left in the capable hands of the loyal Douglas Scott.
'I don't know Mrs Robinson. Celia,' Kit amended. 'Is there anything else that leads you to believe your husband has a...is having an affair?'
'I know my husband, Katherine. The amount of money involved doesn't seem, to me at least, to be enough for any kind of business venture - legal or otherwise. So what would that suggest to you?'
'Debts? Is he a gambler?'
'Only with my goodwill - as far as I know. Geoffrey married me for money Katherine. He had enough before, now he has more than enough.'
'Is it enough to him though?' Kit asked.
'Good question,' she gave a short laugh. 'Yes, perhaps it is a truth that a man in possession of a fortune must be in want of - more.'
Kit smiled as Celia seemed so delighted with her little twist of classic Jane Austen. Downing the rest of her coffee Celia reached for the pot. 'He already has a wife. I suspect he also has a mistress and that is not acceptable.'
'I don't imagine it is,' Kit said, holding her own cup out to the offered pot.
'Don't get me wrong Katherine. I don't actually care if he's being unfaithful,' she said, emphasising the 'un'. 'What I don't want to have to bother with, at any time, is a scandal. Or blackmail. I know how sordid these things can get. Men just can't seem to help themselves when it comes to sex, can they?' she asked, looking expectantly at Kit, who nodded - as expected.
'Maybe that is exactly what is happening,' Kit suggested. 'He may already be paying off a blackmailer.'
'Well the sooner we find out the better then,' Celia stated.
'There's no chance he is trying to take over OHP?' Kit asked. She realised this was a bit far-fetched but suddenly remembered that while doing her limited reading into Celia and OHP she'd come across an article about the clever take-over of Milson-Carter in Sydney. That company, publishers of coffee-table books for the armchair traveller and a range of home decorating magazines, had been literally taken apart and put back together by two very minor shareholders. While there had been speculation that the acquisition of shares had been achieved by coercion rather than free enterprise, nothing was ever proved. Rumours had been rife about some pretty weird skeletons in the closets of the Milson and Carter families but their minders had closed the wrought iron gates firmly in the face of the press to keep the old money in and the scandal-mongers out. Maybe that was what Celia feared. An unfaithful husband and a conniving mistress could do a great deal of damage if they set their minds to it.
'No my dear, I seriously doubt it,' Celia was saying. 'There is no way as far as Orlando House is concerned that my husband can get more than what he has.'
'What about the other shareholders? Could he buy them out? I was thinking of the Milson-Carter thing in Sydney,' Kit suggested hesitantly.
Celia laughed. 'My husband, though co-director, is only a junior partner. Granted so were the upstarts at Milson, but that company had a hundred or so shareholders. I am the majority shareholder of Orlando House and I do not expect that to change. I own seventy per cent, the remaining thirty is split equally between only three other people: Geoffrey, my daughter Elizabeth, and our publisher Miles Denning.
'So it is an unlikely scenario. I trust Miles implicitly, and hold him in the highest regard. And my daughter, well, Elizabeth is not much interested in the business at the moment. She has been living in England on and off for the last five years. She's trying to find herself, or something, away from the family influence or as she calls it 'interference'. She's been gone six months this time.'
'If she's not interested in the business...' Kit said vaguely. She regretted the implication immediately. Celia, on the other hand, didn't seem to find it inappropriate.
'Elizabeth would not sell her shares any more than I would, Katherine. They are her father's legacy and that means a lot to her. She may be stubborn, selfish and wayward but she would not abandon Orlando House and would certainly give nothing to Geoffrey. She does not approve of her step-father.'
Kit thought that 'abandon' was a pretty strange word to use. It appeared Celia Robinson didn't have much luck with those close to her. She wondered what Carl Orlando had been like. Kit started to apologise for her lack of tact but Celia interrupted with a wave of her hand.
'I have deliberated long on all of this. The questions you have raised give me confidence in your ability to deal with this matter efficiently and intelligently. That is all I ask. If my husband is having an affair I wish to be able to deal with him efficiently and intelligently. I shall probably want to kill him, though castration would be more fitting, but I will no doubt just manage to muzzle him for a while. If he's not having an affair then the answers to our questions lie elsewhere. One step at a time though. We begin with what I think is the most obvious.'
Celia pulled herself up from the chair and motioned to Kit to follow her. She stopped by a set of shelves, inset into the low wall that bordered one edge of the patio near the door, and rummaged amongst the large collection of shoes that filled all the available space. Slipping a pair of high-heels onto her tiny bare feet, she then opened the door and ushered Kit into the cool dark hallway. They made their way up a flight of stairs to a cedar-lined study furnished with two huge desks, a wall of books, several armchairs around an empty fireplace and the ghoulish Byron tapping away on a computer keyboard. His breathing was uneasy. Kit guessed he had just dashed up the stairs ahead of them.
'Is this your first husband, Celia?' Kit asked indicating the large oil portrait hanging over the unbelievably ornate mantelpiece. Even if Kit hadn't already known what Geoffrey Robinson looked like she would never have assumed the debonair, gentle-faced man staring down on her was the current man of the manor. Carl Orlando had been handsome indeed, his eyes showing a strength and integrity that could not have been simply imposed by the artist.
'It is,' she said gently, placing a hand on Kit's arm. Discounting the exaggerated hairdo, which tended to make her larger than life, Celia was a short person. Kit was five-seven and Celia didn't even reach her shoulder. And she was round. Not fat, just round, though she could have been any shape at all under the tent she was wearing. Kit looked up at the painting again and wondered what the two of them would have looked like together.
'I painted this in 1969, five years before he died,' she was saying.
'I'm impressed,' said Kit honestly, returning her attention to this surprising woman who still had hold of her arm.
'By Carl?' she asked, pleased.
'And your skill Celia.' There had been love in this house at one time then, Kit thought, wondering why it should matter to her. It did though, and she felt strangely pleased that that love was still here, watching over this room at least, captured in the warm intelligent eyes of a long-dead man.
'Come, have a seat Katherine. Let's get this tedious business out of the way.'
Kit seated herself in an ox-blood leather chair opposite Celia who pushed a manilla folder across the coffee table that separated them.
'Byron has provided you with a copy of my husband's social calendar for the next fortnight,' she said tapping the top sheet of paper. 'Geoffrey works till at least 7 p.m. every day except Friday. The dates marked with asterisks indicate the evenings when I know he will be home or at a social function with me. So you will have some nights free,' she smiled at Kit. 'The other evenings, of which there are four, he could be anywhere. Sometimes he comes home for dinner and then goes out to his club, sometimes he dines out with clients, colleagues, business associates or god knows who. I've never asked him. On three occasions he will be attending official dinners; what he does afterwards is also a mystery. As you will see there are also several times during the day when it may be necessary to keep an eye on him.'
'Well, it certainly looks like I'll be busy,' Kit said. And earning my money, she thought.
'I don't expect you to follow him day in day out, Katherine. Geoffrey is nothing if not organised. The periods marked will do for a start. We can decide in two weeks whether or not we need to change our tactics or even if we need to continue. Now I would like your first report in seven days. Perhaps we could meet again for lunch at noon on Friday. I would prefer that all information is exchanged in person. If you need to ask me anything and I'm not available you may talk to my personal secretary, Byron, and no one else, to arrange a meeting.'
'Friday will be fine Celia and I can't foresee any need for contact before then.'
'Good. Now, we have also included in this file a list of the friends or business associates that I know Geoffrey will be dealing with according to this schedule,' she said, again tapping the social calendar. 'And a recent photograph of my husband just in case you need to share the surveillance, I assume that's what you call it, with any of your staff.'
My staff? thought Kit, taken aback. Where did she get that idea? 'That will be useful, Celia, but I will be handling this personally.'
'Excellent,' she said. 'I was hoping you would say that. That just leaves your fee.' She turned her attention to Byron who obediently unfolded his sallow body from behind the computer screen and was at his mistress's side before she had uttered his name. He placed an envelope in her hand, which she in turn passed to Kit.
'Celia, I usually just agree on a fee and settle the account at the end of the case,' Kit said.
'This is an advance to cover you till our next meeting. Any costs you incur, in the line of duty so to speak, we can settle at the end if you keep a record of them. I am employing you for a service, Katherine. I have always found it to my own advantage to pay for what I want before I get it, then it becomes a matter of trust. I do not want you to be out of pocket before you start. Will it be sufficient?'
Kit flipped open the unsealed envelope and pulled the cheque out just far enough to read $3000. For one week! She fumbled it back into the envelope and tried to place it casually on top of the papers in the Geoffrey Robinson dossier, though she didn't actually want to let go of it. 'It's quite sufficient,' she managed to say.
'Good. Then you begin tomorrow evening and I shall see you again next week. I will show Miss O'Malley out Byron, you can carry on with, ah, whatever. Just carry on.'
Kit stood on the doorstep and shook Celia's offered hand. 'It has been a pleasure meeting you,' she said.
'And you too my dear. Despite the circumstances.'
'Can I ask how you came to choose my agency, Celia?' Kit said trying to make it sound like she did indeed have more staff than just herself and an insane black cat.
Celia Robinson's sudden smile was a tad disarming. There had been an attractive woman there somewhere before the hornets had made a nest on her head.
'I went to school with your mother,' she said. It was obviously of some amusement to her. 'Remember, young lady, it is always who you know in this life that counts.'
So, Lillian was responsible for O'Malley Investigations taking on Pinkertons' proportions, Kit thought as she got back into her car and headed it towards the office which would not, as Celia Robinson obviously thought, be abuzz with smartly-suited detectives to-ing and fro-ing on all manner of operations covert.