LITMIR.BIZ

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getting a civil answer. You do the arts for heaven's sake."

      "Kit, darling," Rebecca said mockingly, "you obviously have no idea how many charlatans there are in the arts world. Admittedly most of them are administrators, which usually means they don't have an artistic bone in their bodies, but..." Rebecca wound her hands around in circles, implying she'd have a few tales to tell if there wasn't something more important on the table. She pushed the something over to Kit who picked up the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper covered in the standard letters cut from three different copies of probably the TV Week, and read:

      Sluts like you give hores a bad name

      Putting all loyal women to shame, to shame

      Stand back, stay away, keep your pussy well hid

      Or Dr Death will visit you and do what I bid.

      "Oh my god, that is awful," Kit exclaimed.

      "It's okay, I recognise the need to laugh when I see it," Rebecca smiled.

      "Good," Kit snorted. "Because it really is the worst poem I have ever read," she laughed.

      "So, what?" Rebecca shrugged. "You think I should ignore it?"

      "No. I wouldn't disregard this at all," Kit stressed. "I assume this person is not talking about your cat," she added.

      "I don't think so," Rebecca said, "but who would know?"

      "Sluts, whores, loyalty," Kit mused under her breath. "Did the other notes say the same sort of thing?"

      "No. They were a little more, I don't know, polite. And this is the first poem - such as it is. The other notes told me to stay away or die, without any mention of sluts or cats."

      "Stay away from what?" Kit queried.

      "I've no idea," Rebecca shrugged. "I'm more accustomed to fan mail that says I should be boiled in oil for giving Joe Bloggs a bad review. And that usually comes from Joe's mum or Aunty Gladys. It would be nice if these whackos could be more specific."

      "Nah, it's their job," Kit said. "It is the duty of all whackos to be obscure and misleading. If they came right out and said, 'stay away from my Pekingese' then we'd be able to narrow the field of suspects in no time. And where's the fun in that?"

      "This isn't much fun," Rebecca stated glumly.

      "It's not meant to be fun for you," Kit said. "Okay, first things first. Given the tone of this note, I have to ask, are you having an affair with a married man?"

      "Definitely not," Rebecca asserted. "I am in a perfectly stable and loving relationship."

      "Good. I take it that means you're also not cheating on your own someone with someone else who isn't married."

      Rebecca pressed a finger to her lips while she sorted that out. "No. Yes," she replied. "I'm not."

      "Good," Kit said, slipping the note back into the envelope.

      "Oh yeah, it's great," Rebecca said, waving her arm to attract Adrienne's attention. "It means I'm getting death threats from an unknown lunatic instead of a mad someone I might know."

      "Your dinner is on its way, " Adrienne announced, appearing at Kit's side.

      "Bugger the food," Rebecca declared. "I'll have another drink. A double this time."

      Kit waited for Adrienne to leave again before continuing. "It still may be someone you know. We can't discount that. Any ideas?"

      "Well, I did consider my ex-husband, for a brief moment, but it's not really his style. Besides I checked and Steven is on a romantic cruise of the Caribbean with betrothed number seven."

      "Colleagues?" Kit asked.

      "I suppose it's possible, anything is possible, but I doubt it. I mean why wait till I'm here in Melbourne?"

      "That's a good point. How many people came with you from Sydney?"

      "Everybody. Heart and Soul is produced by an independent company. We sell a finished program to the TV network. So we've quite literally brought everyone to Melbourne for six weeks."

      "How many is everyone?"

      "Seven, including me. We are using a few technical people from the studios here though."

      "OK. I'll need details on the other seven - their names, what they do and how long they've been working with you," Kit requested. "Plus, the names of the tech staff and everyone you've seen socially or interviewed since you've been in Melbourne, especially anyone who might be pissed off with you for any reason."

      "That's a tall order," Rebecca sneered.

      "We have to start somewhere."

      "That's everywhere."

      "That's a good place too," Kit said. "What's on your agenda for tomorrow?"

      "I'm redoing an interview with Darian Renault at 10 am and then..."

      "Is that the writer who isn't what he claimed to be?" Kit interrupted.

      Rebecca pursed her lips and tried not to grin. "Allegedly, his autobiography is fiction."

      "Why do you have to redo it?" Kit asked. "And when did you do what needs redoing?"

      "Two weeks ago. Darian had to rush his girlfriend to hospital, just as we were getting to the interesting bit. A false labour, as it turns out. So we're going again tomorrow."

      "Two weeks? Was that before or after the first note?" Kit asked.

      "Um, before - I think. I'm not really sure though. But why would Darian...?"

      "Do you know him? I mean had you met before this interview?"

      "No."

      Kit shrugged. "There's a posse of reporter types trying to get the juice on whether or not this guy's for real. Do you know anything they don't?"

      "I don't think so."

      "Did you let him think you did?"

      Rebecca shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

      "And you don't think that might be a motive for a bit of extracurricular creative writing?" Kit suggested, pushing the envelope back across the table.

      "It's a bit of an overreaction to threaten my pussy with Dr Death," Rebecca protested.

      "Yeah, well a degree in overreacting is also listed on the CV of every garden variety whacko," Kit observed. "I think Mr Renault deserves some attention. Can I come with you?"

      "Ah, yes of course. I'm not asking for a bodyguard though."

      "I'm aware of that. But I need to know what you know and the best way to do that is follow you around for a couple of days so that I can see who you see, or rather see who sees you, especially if you're revisiting people."

      "Okay. Who will you be?" Rebecca asked.

      "What do you mean?"

      "Who shall I say you are? I can't tell the truth, obviously."

      "Oh. We can work that out in the morning. How about I meet you in the Café in your hotel. I'll bring my contract for you to sign, while I look at the other letters and the list which you will have prepared for me by then," Kit proposed.

      The front doors of the Terpsichore, Melbourne's longest running full-time women's venue and Kit's home away from home, burst open as the entire Spangles baseball team and their hangers-on spilled out on to the street. Kit stood aside to let them pass, agreeing that 'yes they were, without a doubt, the greatest.'

      Kit paused for a few seconds, just in case there were some straggling Spanglettes bringing up the rear, and then pushed open the door of the piano bar-restaurant-disco more commonly known as Angie's. She stopped dead, hoping that it had in fact been Angie or her partner Julia's idea to apply purple and gold paint to the faces of the four goddess statues in the foyer pond or - greatest or not - the Spangles would be banned

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