The new wall was to be dedicated to the imagination: to the world of goddesses, mythical she-beings, the female heroes of legend and, woo-hoo, contemporary pop culture.
"I only know half of these mythological and fictional women," Angie was saying, "so your special-girl is not going to recognise many of them at all, is she Kit?"
"Hey, we're getting there," Kit said. "But introducing a grown women with no concept of TV or movie culture to our known-universe is a very slow process. Alex does recognise Xena, Gabrielle and Buffy now - so it's a start."
"There she is Angie - that's Seven of Nine," Brigit said, tapping a 'women of Star Trek' photo. "That's a great one of Emma Peel, ooh and Ripley."
Kit was torn between curiosity and a job or two that needed doing. Bummer, the jobs won.
"I'm going out to tackle the media now," she announced.
"Be nice Katherine," Del prompted.
"I'll do my best, Delbridge," Kit nodded, bracing herself for the thirteen-ringed circus outside. On her way out - just for luck - she stroked the perfect, left bum-cheek of one of the four life-size stone caryatids whose eternal task it was to hold up the cupola over the Terpsichore's ridiculous foyer-fountain.
CHAPTER FOUR
As she did a bit of care less leaning against a large tree of a kind she couldn't identify, Kit pondered the only use she could think of for being a smoker: it gave good cover. Being exiled to the great outdoors to inhale fresh air with one's ciggie, while the non-smokers inside were breathing the ever-mutating germs recycling through air-con systems that only operated at minimum efficiency now they didn't have any smoke to expel, meant that anyone with a cigarette in their hand had a valid reason for standing around pretending not to stare at people.
Being a non-smoker, however, meant that Kit had to appear nonchalantly disinterested without a handy prop; no small task when Journo McThing kept glancing at her, possibly tossing up whether it was safe to approach yet or not.
Make a note, O'Malley, she thought. Buy a packet of smokes so you can intentionally loiter anywhere with no apparent intent. She also noted that the side-show crowds outside Angie's had thinned a little. Only half of Rabbit's band of curt-remarksters were still there firing jibes at the fewer-in-number but still chanting HeteroGodsters, and the two remaining uniform cops were trying to ignore the reduced jackal-pack of reporters. Cathy had apparently made good her escape, and the DQs had gone wherever camp divas go in the noon-day sun.
Kit turned her attention to their interloper, the possible spy, the dubious-dyke. McThing was full-figured but not overweight, about five-five tall, naturally red-headed if the fair skin and freckles were any clue, and dressed in black jeans, boots, white shirt and green jacket.
Kit didn't think she'd fessed-up, within Carrie's earshot yesterday, to being a PI but felt sure - given the circumstances - that her profession would've been on Rabbit MacArthur's customary lowdown on all things in the community. Rabbit was a formidable presence: tall, large-breasted, trunk-thighed and loud. She was also a treasure - once you got beyond the somewhat scary spiked hair and demonic tattoos crawling from the sleeves of the tight T-shirts she wore under her trademark black overalls. She had a heart of gold and a mission to make everyone feel welcome; so there was no doubt the questionable queer knew everything there was to know about everyone she'd seen in these parts in the last two days.
A journo worth her salt, Del had said of McThing not revealing her sources. Well ditto for a journo marching up to a PI and demanding to know what the PI knew about everything. So why hadn't she? Why was she still seemingly searching for whatever it was she needed to gird those young loins? Oh. It dawned on Kit that the PI may have frightened the reporter.
Yeah sure, O'Malley. You're not that scary. Just because she - well, everyone actually - heard you berating the deluded duo offering the frisbee-ride to redemption, doesn't mean a thing.
On the other hand, Kit acknowledged, Ms McDermid's attention was ping-ponging between her and the couple who'd relocated with their dodgy sign to the other side of the lawn after Kit had asked them who the fallen were and what would they know if they got up.
"The women who gather together in this place have fallen from grace," Mr Dogmatist had informed her. "Unless they repent their ways, the lord will forever look on them as the abominations of his gift of life."
"Why?" Kit had asked.
"Without the guiding hand of a mortal man, made in god's own image, these women are forever damned and excluded from his light," Mrs Dogmat elaborated.
"The light of man or the light of god?" Kit had queried.
"The light of god through man," Mr Doggydoo proclaimed.
"Really?" Kit frowned. "I don't know about this spooky male light business, but I have been in the dark of true evil, pure and bloody, and I can tell you it was totally man made."
"Where there's dark there's light," god's-image insisted.
"I doubt that's scientifically true but if you want to believe it, go right ahead. I'll let you in on a secret, though: there are more goddesses in that place," Kit pointed at the Terpsichore, "than there are genuine reps of any even half-way-decent god out here on this lawn."
Mr Doodoo recoiled. "This is a house of sin; a faithless den of sex, debauchery, harlotry."
"Harlotry?" Kit snorted. "Listen mate, it can only be your secret stash of porno magazines that would generate that kind of wishful thinking."
"This is indeed a den," Mrs Doo had wailed, as if 'den' was the really important word. She crooked an accusing finger before continuing, "It's frequented by fornicating lesbians."
Ah, den goes with fornicating; that makes it a noun to be reckoned with, Kit thought, amazed at how creatures so chockers with bile could look so much like normal humans.
How come the church, any church, never burned twisted nutters like these at the stake?
Mr was still at it: "Nakedness and licentiousness, sex and..."
"Blimey!" Kit had exclaimed, "you god-fearing breeders are amazing. All you ever think about is sex. Believe me, very little naked fornicating goes on in that piano bar.
"And where the hell are your priorities anyway, you lunatics? The married man whose dead body was left in there was a known philanderer, a drug dealer and a murderer, yet you two are out here protesting against us. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is and how petty you are? That's actually a rhetorical question. Please don't answer, because I really don't care to be assaulted by anything else that might be festering in your sad little minds."
Mr and Mrs had endeavoured to make another sad point but Kit had crossed her wrists in front of her face and backed away, growling: "No, aagh; get away strange people."
Returning to the here and now, Kit realised that McThing's face was responding questioningly to the stare that she was unconsciously levelling in the reporter's direction. Ooh, we are getting bold, she thought, offering a tiny affirmative raise of her chin.
Carrie's standing-start to racing-walk response was immediate; as was Kit's negative finger-pointing motion aimed at dissuading the tag-along photographer.
"Kit O'Malley, right? We met briefly yesterday," McThing said, still on the approach but on her own now. "I'm Carrie McDermid."
"Carrie," Kit nodded, shaking the offered hand. "You weren't a journalist yesterday."
She