Part 12 (1/2)
”What's Tiffany do?” I asked.
Melodie pouted. ”She's a professional gift buyer. Like, she could take time off easily”
”What's a professional gift buyer?”
”Tiffany works for Superior Gifts Plus. She shops for stars but never meets them. Like, the movie studios, the producers, and the talent agencies all give gifts to their actors on special occasions like the start of a new movie, or an Oscar nomination, or signing a big contract.”
”She gets paid for buying presents for people?”
Melodie nodded. ”The sky's the limit. Tiffany can spend what she likes. The studios spend millions of dollars on gifts for talent throughout the year. Someone's got to buy them. That's where Tiffany and Superior Gifts Plus comes in.”
”I'd never do that job,” I said. ”I'm not all that keen on shopping.”
Melodie's eyes widened. ”You're not?” She considered my failure in this area for a moment, then, recalling her situation, said mournfully, ”Tiffany was my last hope.”
”I'll answer the phone for you this arvo.” When she looked puzzled, I translated. ”Afternoon. The phone. I'll answer it.”
Transformed, she leapt to her feet. ”You will! Oh, Kylie, I owe you one!” Apparently fearful I might change my mind, she grabbed her things and galloped for the front door.
”You're leaving already?” I called, but she was gone.
I settled down with my book, keeping a Hollywood Reporter handy to conceal it should anyone come along. I'd be red-faced if peoplea”well, Ariana mainlya”thought I needed extra help, but it couldn't hurt to do some studying on the side.
Several calls came through, but the phone set-up was chickenfeed compared to the pub, so I aced it without any prob. I put a call through to Bob, and he chuckled when he heard my voice. ”Melodie won out, did she? Watch out, Kylie, this won't be the last time she asks you.”
I was really into a chapter on industrial espionage when a voice said, ”Whatcha reading?”
I closed my book and covered the t.i.tle with my hand. ”Nothing.”
”Looks like something to me.” It was a delivery bloke in a daggy outfit of brown shorts and s.h.i.+rt. He slapped the package he was carrying down on the desk and gave me an overly familiar smile. ”Where's Melodie? Auditioning again?”
”That's right.”
He was one of those mega-annoying friendly types who can't mind their own business. ”Good book?” he asked. ”I'm a reader myself. Spy stuff. Techno-thrillers. Tom Clancy. Read him?”
”Not lately.”
”You should.” Before I could react, the twerp had reached over and grabbed my book. ”Well, well,” he said, grinning. He read the t.i.tle in a loud voice. ”Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook.”
”Give me that!” I s.n.a.t.c.hed it back from him.
Too late. Fran was on the scene. And she was smiling.
TWELVE.
”I'm throwing myself on your mercy,” I said, shoving the book into my bag.
”Oh, yeah?” Fran was still smirking.
I looked around. The coast was clear. The delivery bloke had left, whistling cheerfully, not giving a thought to the fact he'd given Fran a weapon to king-hit me with.
”You know how you've aced this gofering thing...” I began.
Fran's smile vanished as though it had never existed. ”What? What thing?”
”Ariana said you were a gofer, so I suppose when you're doing it, you're gofering.”
It was impossible, but her hair seemed to suddenly flame a deeper red. ”I'm not a gofer,” she ground out. ”I'm the office manager.”
”Good-oh. Well, you know how you've aced this office managering thing?”
Fran narrowed her eyes to slits. ”Yes?” she said, drawing the word out.
I was going to have to be a real bulls.h.i.+t artist to pull this one off, but I'd give it a go. ”It's sort of like you're an inspiration to me. I want to ace private-eyeing the way you ace your job. That's why I'm studying on the sly. Don't want anyone to think I'm not a natural at this P.I. stuff.”
I paused to see the effect of my words. Not encouraging. Fran wasn't frowning, but she wasn't looking receptive either. Blast her. I wasn't going to beg.
”Let me put it this way, Fran. I'd be really embarra.s.sed if it got out I was reading a book on how to be a P.I. So I'm asking you to forget you saw it.”
”Okay.”
”Okay? You won't say anything?”
”Not a word. But you owe me. And believe it, I'll collect.”
The front door opened, and in came a tallish bloke wearing ancient jeans and a red T-s.h.i.+rt with the words slow-slow fast-fast across the front in purple letters. He didn't fit Melodie's description of intense, having a putty face and a blob of a nose, although I noticed in contrast his thin-lipped mouth was set in a hard line. I took a punt and said, ”G'day. You'd be Rich Westholme.”
He glared at me suspiciously. ”Who told you that?”
”She's training to be a P.I.,” said Fran, with a touch of malice.
I indicated his chest. ”Melodie mentioned that was the t.i.tle of one of your movies.”
His dark frown lightened. ”Yeah,” he said. ”You can catch it on cable next month.”
Julia Roberts came stalking down the hallway, then leapt with great grace up on the desk. He recoiled. ”Jesus, get her away from me.”
Jules, sensing someone who was repulsed by her feline self, walked delicately in his direction. I took pity on him, scooped her up, and deposited her on my side of the desk. She gave me a disgusted glare, then walked off, her tail snapping with irritation.
”Thanks. I can't stand cats.” Rich Westholme peered around as though Melodie might be crouching beneath the desk. ”Melodie here?”
”Audition,” said Fran. She put her hands on her hips, which shoved her spectacular bosom out another centimeter or so. ”You've missed her.”
I got the impression she'd taken an instant dislike to Westholme, though with Fran it was hard to tell. She didn't look on anyone with much approval.
On the other hand, Rich Westholme was giving Fran, and her bosom, the glad eye. ”Call me Rich. And you are...?”