Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ