Читать книгу Bleeding Hearts - Lindy Cameron - Страница 6

"So, what is it we're doing here?"

"For goodness sake Brigit, I explained it in the car on the way over."

"I wasn't listening then, Del. You know I switch off whenever you mention that dreadful Miranda Prentice. Where is she, anyway?"

"She's over there. I'm going over to say hello. You don't have to come."

"Good. Kit and I will stay here with the real people. Do give Miranda my regards though, and tell her I'm just dying to catch up. I'll be leaping off the balcony if she wants to say hello."

Del scowled at Brigit and then smiled sweetly at Kit. "If she even looks like getting off that bar stool, could you do me a favour and knock her out."

"Sure," Kit replied, slipping her arm affectionately around Brigit's shoulder.

Del turned on her heel and tried to weave her way casually through the crowd of over-dressed, barely-dressed and oddly-dressed guests towards the front of the Gallery Bar Gallery where Miranda Prentice was holding court with the evening's special guest artist, Frankie Diajo.

"I'd like to hire you to waste that bitch," Brigit snarled.

"Who? Del?" Kit asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. I mean Miranda."

"Brigie, I'm a PI not a hit person."

"I'm willing to pay top dollar," Brigit offered, swivelling around on the stool. "I'm serious."

"I'm sure you are. What is it with you and Ms Prentice anyway?"

"Bite your tongue, Katherine," Brigit exclaimed, slapping her hand on her ample bosom. "There's absolutely nothing with me and Princess Snooty-Britches. She just takes up valuable space on the planet, that's all. And with the ozone layer being the way it is, we could do with the extra oxygen that her not breathing any more would provide. Ah, a barman," she added, swinging round to face the bar. She ordered two glasses of champagne and then turned back to Kit. "Will you tell me why we're here?"

Kit leaned in and whispered in Brigit's ear. "We're on the lookout for a pickpocket."

"In this crowd?"

Kit shrugged. "The bar, as you know Brigit, is open every night but these special function nights for painters, sculptors, poets and whatnot are only on Tuesdays. And every Tuesday night for the last month several people have 'lost' their wallets or phones. So Miranda asked if I could find out who's responsible."

Brigit narrowed her eyes. "You mean Miranda asked Del to ask you to do her a favour."

"No, actually I don't mean that. Miranda..."

"Oh, you're hopeless, Kit," Brigit interrupted. "How do you expect to make a living if you keep doing love jobs - and for Señorita Skinny-Lips of all people. If these yuppies want to spend their evenings having wanky conversations about these objet not so d'art then they deserve to lose their money."

"I don't think they're yuppies, Brigit," Kit said. It was time to try and change the subject.

"Oh? What are they?

"I'm not sure," Kit replied, gazing around the crowded room. "They might be New Age Bohemians."

"Good god!" Brigit stated, putting her glasses on so she could peer around the room and actually make out people's features. "Why aren't they all wearing berets?"

"Why would they?" Kit asked.

"Isn't that what bohemians do? Wear berets, drink lots of wine and coffee, and have impenetrable conversations that resemble English only in as much as you might find the words in the Oxford dictionary but you need a PHD in something obscure to be able to understand the spaces between them?"

"Ah, no," Kit smiled thoughtfully. "I think it's postmodern deconstructionists that do that. Or maybe Scottish partisans."

"Have the Scots taken up arms? Who are they fighting?" Brigit asked, enthusiastically clenching her fists.

"They're not fighting anybody. Have you had too much to drink?"

"Probably. Actually I must have, because I think that bohemian over there is making eyes at me." Brigit pressed her palm to her cheek. "Oh, silly old me, what was I thinking? It's you she's ogling."

Kit turned and glanced towards the two people standing beside the Gallery Bar Gallery's spiral staircase, an alleged work of art that went nowhere and did nothing, except be what it was. "She's not a bohemian Brigit, she's a journalist. And I think she needs rescuing from that earnest-looking human."

Erin Carmody, reporter for and editor of the St Kilda Star, was looking resplendent in a blood red crushed velvet dress that highlighted her auburn hair and clashed with her purple runners. She was also wearing the glazed and desperate expression of someone who was being bored stupid by an 'expert' in something-in-particular or nothing-much-at-all - in this case a slim, bald man in a dark green frock-coat and white trousers.

Kit sidled up to them just as the - ah, art expert - was explaining to Erin the meaning of a huge painting of sweeping multicoloured brush strokes, entitled Schrödinger's Cat.

"The depth and repetition of colour suggests the movement of time into space," he said.

"It looks more like alternate universes to me," Kit commented.

"Really?" the expert asked, snidely.

"But Stuart," Erin asked, casting a grateful glance at Kit, "who is Schrödinger, and why is there no cat in the picture?"

"You've not heard of Schrödinger?" Stuart asked. "He discovered a now-legendary equation that proved the Big Bang theory."

"Did he really?" Erin exaggerated, as if it was the most amazing thing she'd ever heard.

"Yes. The..."

"No he didn't, actually," Kit interrupted, as politely as possible. "Schrödinger devised a theory that involved a box, a radioactive atom, a phial of poison and a cat. It was an imaginary experiment to show that the everyday laws of physics do not work in the world of quantum mechanics."

Stuart's eyes widened and he began to fiddle with his collar.

"What was the poison for?" Erin asked, getting ready to look appalled.

"To kill the cat," Kit explained. "But only if the atom decayed and the reaction broke the phial."

"That's awful," Erin stated.

"She's a cat person," Stuart said hastily, casting a warning glance at Kit, while Erin tried not to laugh. "It's okay, Erin dear," he cooed. "The cat wasn't hurt."

"There was no cat," Kit said. "It was just a theory, the point of which was that you would never know what had happened in the box unless you looked; hence proving that nothing is real, or has any reality, unless it is observed."

"Aah, I get it," Erin exclaimed, raising her palms to the painting as if she'd had an epiphany. "That explains why the scarlet is not repeated."

"Exactly," Kit agreed, simply because she could.

Stuart looked from Erin to Kit and back to Erin. "Would you excuse me for a second," he said, getting ready to escape into the crowd. "I've just seen Martin."

"Thank you, Kit," Erin sighed with relief. "So, were you baffling the boring-as-batshit little man with a different variety of bullshit?"

"No," Kit smiled. "It's all true, I swear. And there really was no cat - I promise. And yes, Schrödinger was a sick bastard. He could have put himself in his imaginary box and his theory would've worked just as well. As for the 'alternate universe' theory, that I got from the artist himself who just happens to be my brother Michael."

"Well I never; so it is," Erin laughed as she peered at the signature. "Interesting."

"Yeah, it's out there," Kit acknowledged. "Somewhere. Let's go get a drink, there's some people I'd like you to meet."

"Grand idea," Erin agreed.

"Hold it right there, Dufus-Brain!"

Oh no! Kit thought. She swung around to face the bar just in time to see Brigit leap off her stool and throw a jug of water, ice blocks and all, into the path of a rapidly moving waiter.

The leap itself had been remarkable for one who, by her own admission, was built for comfort not speed, but the never-to-be-confused-with-Buffy vampire-slaying stance was a truly perception-altering sight, especially as it was enhanced by a bizarre kind of ululation. Kit knew she would never be able to look at dear sweet Brigit the same way again.

In the meantime, the waiter slipped, fell and skidded across the floor on his bum. When he came to a rest, with his feet tangled in the legs of a chair, Brigit sat on him and poked him in the chest.

"You ain't goin nowhere, Scumbag," she added unnecessarily.

"Anywhere; he ain't goin anywhere," Kit corrected. She stood with her arms akimbo gazing questioningly at the pile of drunken friend and crumpled waiter. "Brigit honey, why are you sitting on this nice man?"

"You check his apron pocket before you go alleging any kind of niceness," Brigit pronounced as she rolled off him and clambered to her feet.

"What the hell is going on?" Miranda bellowed, as she pushed her way through the growing circle of spectators. She knelt on the floor and patted her fallen employee's brow with her right hand while her left, obviously by accident, squeezed his inner thigh. "Tony, darling! Are you okay?" she asked, full of concern until she realised her silk trousers were getting wet. She stood up and looked concerned from there.

"Oh no, Brigit," said Del. "What have you done, and what on earth was that yodelling?"

"It was my Xena call," Brigit said, flouncing back to her barstool. "And as for what I was doing," she added, shifting her gaze between Miranda and Tony, "I was demonstrating why your friend there didn't have to hire a private detective to catch a thief. Although hire is not really the right word seeing no money entered the equation. All you had to do, Miranda, was pay attention."

"What are you talking about?" Miranda demanded, using her extra-special, double-barrel 'how dare you' tone.

"Am I right, Kit?" Brigit queried sweetly.

"Yes, you are quite right," Kit announced. She turned to the waiter. "Are you going to take all that stuff out of there, or shall I ask my Muscle Girl to empty your pockets?"

"I'm not touching him again. I've an idea of where he's been, now," Brigit remarked. "Miranda, you really should stop bonking the hired help."

"Brigit Wells," Miranda stated firmly, "I do not bonk."

"Ooh, that could cause problems," Brigit said. "But with any luck, you'll just explode from sheer sexual tension one day."

"Oh my god, Brigie," Del moaned.

"Four mobile phones, three wallets and a lovely little Glomesh purse." Kit itemised the loot as Tony removed it from his apron pocket. "Oh, and a condom. Shall I call the cops, Miranda?"

"Um," her client hesitated, as she glanced down at Tony. A simple nostril flare, Kit noticed with interest, was all it took to transform the hint of regret in Miranda's otherwise cold-as-stone expression into a suggestion of complete disgust and loathing. Her earlier-stated preference for playmates of the young, adoring and unattached variety obviously had its delinquent downside.

"Yes please," she replied crisply. "By all means, call the police."

"We'll wait here," Kit said. "Let me know when they arrive and I'll take Tony out the back door."

"Oh good. Thank you, Kit." Miranda faced the audience they had gathered and made shooing movements with her arms. "The sideshow is over folks, the main event is happening down the front. The Hojo Blues Quartet is about to perform."

Once the 'folks' had done as they were told, Miranda stepped over the wet and worried Tony as if he was nothing more than a puddle on the floor. "And thank you for the sideshow, Brigit," she said. "It was, ah, revealing - to say the least."

Brigit shrugged and smiled, but said nothing.

"Fine. Well, I'd better get back to it," Miranda said. "Oh by the way," she added, putting her hands on her knees so she could loom over Tony, who had only just managed to sit up. "You are fired, you pencil-dicked traitorous little shit."

Kit, Brigit, Erin and Del burst into laughter as soon as Miranda was out of earshot. Kit waved her hand over the pile of mobile phones, chose one at random and used it to call the local police.

"Can I get up out of this water now?" Tony asked.

"Yeah sure," Kit replied. "Go sit at the end of the bar, against the wall, next to my friend Brigit."

"Christ! Do I have to?"

"Yes," Kit snapped.

Tony did as he was told, and Kit dragged a table in front of the bar, so that if the waiter-toyboy-pickpocket tried to make a run for it, he'd have a lot of things to clamber over. Then she ordered a round of drinks, including a coke for the thief and a special double martini for the thief-catcher.

"That was very heroic," Erin commented, raising her glass to Brigit.

"Thank you," Brigit smiled. "And you are?"

"Oh sorry," Kit said. "Erin - the journalist, this is Brigit and Del - the publishers, that is Tony the phonejacker, I am Kit the PI, and the waiting barman is...um, Victoria Bitter, according to his hat."

"Phil," said the barman.

"Phil," Kit repeated, handing him a fifty and hoping there'd be some change. "Have you got a plastic bag I could have for the evidence?"

"Sure. I'll find you one from somewhere," he said obligingly, pretending he didn't know, had never known and didn't want to know the now-ex-waiter sitting morosely at the end of his bar.

"No, the local paper," Erin was saying to Del. "The St Kilda Star."

"You may be interested to know that Brigit mistook you for a Bohemian earlier," Kit said. "Mind you, she also thought you were ogling her."

"Brigit Wells, I do not ogle," Erin said, catching the Miranda-nuance quite well. "However, had I known how good you were at dealing with unwanted men I would have made an exception."

"She's in training for the 'knock down a waiter' event for the Gay Games," Del said, putting a loving arm around Brigit's shoulders. "In her next class they learn how to pick up two at a time and slam dunk them into a giant ice bucket."

"Only the very bad ones," Brigit snarled at Tony. "So Erin," she added, "what's with all the news?"

"What do you mean?" Erin asked.

"You know, the news - why is it always bad?"

Erin laughed. "Buggered if I know. But you obviously haven't seen the front page of the latest St Kilda Star - or you wouldn't say that."

"They live in Hawthorn and work in Richmond," Kit explained, giving a nod of thanks to Phil for the plastic bag he handed her.

Erin shrugged. "I'm sure you'd all still appreciate the sweet justice embodied in this particular front page photo because it's a known fact that every local council has its own Thorough-Going Bastard. We have a perfectly composed, unposed irate pic of our TGB, or rather a pic of our irate TGB and the truckload of cow shit that was dumped on his front lawn - courtesy of a wonderfully disgruntled ratepayer. It made my day. That man is such a prick."

"Want me to deal with him for you?" Brigit asked sweetly, punching her fist into her palm.

"Oh would you? That would make my year."

"Well I never! It's Katherine," a now very familiar voice called out from across the bar. "Imagine meeting you twice in one day."

"Yeah, small world. Um...?" Kit replied, snapping her fingers, as if to jog her memory. She smiled at Rebecca Jones, Sally Shaw and Carmel Fisher while she snapped and mumbled "undercover" to Brigit, who was now doing her own ogling.

"Rebecca," said Rebecca, with a half smile. "You remember Carmel, from lunch? And this is my friend Sally."

Kit gave a wave.

Brigit said, in awe: "You're Rebecca Jones," and then turned to Kit. "How could you not..."

Kit plunged her hand between Brigit's thighs, which shut her friend up quick smart.

"What's her problem?" Sally asked Rebecca, with a nod in Kit's direction.

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Maybe we'll catch up later, Katherine," she suggested, recognising the cover-blowing potential of the situation. Carmel, luckily, was busy talking alcohol with Barman Phil. Rebecca smiled and dragged Sally away. Hopefully, Kit thought, to have serious words with her.

"Are you playing with my woman?" Del asked Kit.

"Not exactly," Kit replied, trying to remove her hand. "Your woman has very strong thighs though. You can let go now, Brigie."

"Oh," Brigit sulked. "I thought my luck had changed. But what's with you? How come you didn't recognise Rebecca Jones? Come to think of it, how come she did recognise you?"

"Sorry, it's a need to know situation, Brigie," Kit grinned. "I tried to tell you I was undercover, but being gobsmacked apparently makes you deaf."

"Undercover? Wow! Are you investigating her?" she whispered.

Kit sighed. "No Brigit darling, I'm not. But I can't tell you what I am doing, so don't ask. Please."

"Okay. But you know her, right? And she knows you. You know each other."

"Yes, yes and yes," Kit replied. "Oh look, a policeman. Evening Officer."

"O'Malley," growled a dishevelled and unshaven man, modelling the very latest in shouldn't be worn by anyone, ever, suits.

"Everyone, this is Detective-Sergeant Simmons; Simmo this is everyone. The bad guy is Tony the pencil-dick in the corner," Kit said, pointing at the wet waiter who was now starting to look really depressed.

"Oh," she added, "just in case he tries to sue me for unnecessary verbal abuse or something later, the genital reference is not an insult - well, it is - but it's also a description of the offender given by a pretty reliable eyewitness. But enough of that, why are you here Simmo? This should be a uniform job."

"I'm here because you are O'Malley. I was at the desk when the call came in, I had to see if the O'Malley was you."

"Well, as you can see - it is," Kit acknowledged, raising her hands and wiggling her fingers. "And it's good to see you too."

Simmons laughed. "Yeah, right. So what gives?"

"Well, this is the evidence," Kit explained, handing Simmons the plastic bag of stolen goods. "Tony there was caught red-handed with these items, all stolen from the patrons this evening who will no doubt want them back ASAP. You'd better speak to the owner of the gallery, one Miranda Prentice, who will, I'm sure, lodge a complaint against this perp for prior instances of similar theft on other Tuesday evenings."

Simmons tugged on his trousers to pull them up but, as he'd neglected to do any exercise for at least 15 years, the action only achieved a jelly-wobble of his beer gut. His pants went nowhere.

"Good show then, O'Malley," he said.

"Actually, it was Brigit here who witnessed the theft and apprehended the Tony," Kit explained.

"We'll need a statement," Simmons said to Brigit. "The uniform guys out the front can take it now, if you like."

"I'm happy to oblige," Brigit pronounced, sliding off her stool.

Simmons beckoned to Tony. "Do I need to cuff you?"

"No, sir, Detective. Um, no," Tony replied, approaching cautiously.

"Good. Because I'm really serious about this: don't try anything stupid - like making a run for it," Simmons drawled. "I hate crooks that run. If you run, I won't chase you; I'll just shoot you. You got that?"

"Yeah. I swear I won't run. But you're not the one I'm worried about." Tony glared at Brigit.

"Good," Simmo said. "Thanks again, O'Malley. Ah, Brigit is it, if you'd come with me."

"Friend of yours?" Erin asked, as she, Kit and Del watched Brigit clear the way to the front door for Simmons and his charge. They took a detour via Miranda and escorted her outside as well.

"Ex-colleague," Kit replied. "Simmo's actually one of the force's finest. He just can't dress himself," she added, shaking her head in ongoing disbelief.

Erin glanced at her watch, then scowled at the crowd. "I dunno," she said softly. "What's the world coming to when you can't even trust a snitch to turn up for some money?"

"Is that why you're here?" Kit asked.

"Yeah. That's also why I'm wearing purple sneakers," Erin stated. "I trust, my dear, that you did not think this was a fashion statement. Nor that I came here to have my artistic tastes challenged, or to be picked up by men half my size."

"Of course not, " Kit lied.

"Who would know, in this company?" Del asked, waving her arm about. "About the fashions, I mean."

"True," Erin said. "But these," she waggled one foot, "were specifically requested by my new and mysterious informant as a condition of us meeting face to face. The jerk is an hour late and I feel ridiculous, so if he turns up now I shall probably shove these shoes up his bottom."

"What was he going to inform you about?" Kit asked. "Or can't you tell us?"

Erin hesitated for only a second, said 'shit' and then laughed. "I wish, like yours, my situation was a 'need to know' kind of thing," she added. "But, as I don't know the situation or the guy - hence the variation on the red carnation in the lapel thing - and he is, so far, fifty per cent unreliable, I don't mind telling you that he was going to tell me about the cow shit I mentioned earlier. Actually, I suspect he is Mercury, but seeing as how he hasn't turned up I may never know."

"Mercury?" Kit asked.

"The disgruntled doodoo-delivering ratepayer," Erin smiled. "For some reason, known only to himself, he calls himself 'Mercury'. My so-called informant, who may or may not be Mercury, rang for the first time on Wednesday and told me that 'shit was going down at Cr Higgins' joint' - literally; which is how we got the photo opportunity. Jack himself certainly wouldn't have wanted anyone to know about it. When Mr Deep-Throat-He-Ain't rang again this morning, saying he had info on Mercury's next offensive, I asked to meet him. So here I am, and he isn't."

"Maybe he was Stuart," Kit suggested. "Or should that be: maybe Stuart was he?" Kit looked questioningly at Del. "Him?"

"Don't look at me," Del said. "I've only just worked out what split infinitives really are, and why we shouldn't get our nickers in a twist over them."

"I don't think so," Erin was saying emphatically. "Stuart was definitely working his way around, very bloody tediously I might add, to the subject of human fluid exchange - his and mine. He was not here to discuss bovine dung delivery schedules."

"Well, that is a perfect note on which to take my leave," Kit announced. "I think I've had more than enough excitement for one night."

"It's only a little after ten," Erin stated.

"That's probably true," Kit nodded. "But if I go home now, I might be able to take my muse by surprise. If I can coax it out of the microwave, or wherever it's hiding, I might just get some writing done tonight."

"So you are still working on your book." Del sounded pleased.

"Yeah," Kit shrugged. "I are, in between not."

"Not what?"

"Not writing," Kit replied.

"What are you not writing?" Erin asked, looking only slightly confused.

"I'm not writing a detective novel," Kit said. "I'm up to chapter nine."

"That's great news Kit, really," Del said, raising her voice over the band, which had just started up a very loud and rambunctious blues number. "I thought you might have given up on it, seeing there was all that real lust and love, not to mention mystery, in the air."

Kit shrugged.

"Hair? Whose hair?" Erin queried. "What?"

"Mine," Kit shouted. "I've got mysterious lust in my hair, but I do not wish to talk about it."

"How about tomorrow arvo, after the lust returns home?" Del raised her eyebrows suggestively.

"Are you making sense?" Erin asked.

"Not really," Kit admitted.

"Seldom," Del stated.