by Claire McNab
"What do you mean?"
"It's Quip. He's writing a novel. It's taking up every moment of his time."
I knew that Quip, even though he'd never had a movie produced, still managed to make a living consulting as a script doctor. And there was the stage play he'd written and directed. When I mentioned this, Fran gave a bitter laugh.
"The play ran at a loss. In fact, we borrowed to pay for the theater, and the box office nowhere near covered our costs."
Fran looked so embarrassed to be telling me this, I felt a pang of pity. "Maybe Quip's novel will be a big success. What's it about?"
"At first Quip was going to write about the dark underbelly of Hollywood. How the entertainment industry grinds you up and spits you out."
Even an outsider like me thought this sounded awfully familiar. "It's a theme that's been covered lots of times before, hasn't it?"
"That's what I told him—Hollywood underbelly stories are a dime a dozen." Fran's expression lightened and a smile appeared on her lips. "Quip's so talented. He came up with a new concept almost immediately."
"A coming-of-age novel, perhaps?" I inquired.
Fran's smile disappeared. "Are you trying to be funny? Everyone knows coming-of-age novels are a dime a dozen too."
"Crikey, Fran. Spit it out. What's he writing?"
"Quip was going to base his novel on the career and times of Donald Trump, but then he had a revelation, and switched to Norris Blainey. It's called I, Developer."
"The Norris Blainey who's aiming to tear down this building and ruin the neighborhood?"
"The very one. The novel's a searing expose of Blainey's dirty dealings and ruthless tactics, but in Quip's novel he's called Morris Rainey."
"I've got to give it to Quip," I said. "Not in a million years will Norris Blainey tumble to the fact it's him."
"Of course everyone will know it's Blainey," said Fran with ill-disguised impatience. "That's the point."
"And he won't sue for defamation?"
"Blainey's a public figure. Unless Quip makes up outrageous lies that destroy what little reputation the man still has, Blainey can't sue him."
It sounded a bit dicey to me—I'd got the impression Norris Blainey would be an enemy you'd rather not have—but I said stoutly, "I'm sure I, Developer will be a rip-snorter of a novel."
"I know it will be. Quip's a wonderful writer."
I'd always admired—and envied—Fran's total belief in Quip and his talents. She loved and supported him unreservedly. I was musing on how bonzer it would be if Ariana felt this way about me, when I became aware that Fran had an expression on her face I had never seen before. It threw me for a moment, then I realized it was her version of entreaty.
"Kylie, please don't tell anyone about our money problems." She paused, then with a struggle, forced out the words, "I'm begging you."
"You don't have to beg me. Does Ariana know about this? I'll have to tell her."
Fran shook her head. "No one knows."
"Not even your mother?" Ariana's sister was a successful artist. I found Janette's paintings rather disturbing, but they sold well, so I presumed she was in a position to help out.
"Mom doesn't know. Quip's proud. He doesn't want to ask for charity."
"He'd rather you sneaked commission on the sly?"
Another new expression crossed Fran's face. Could it be mortification? I thought it was.
"Quip doesn't know anything about the commission," she said. "Isabel and Spike agreed to keep it secret."
I found this new, unsettled Fran disconcerting. I wanted the old, acerbic, warrior-princess Fran back. "I'd be surprised if you wanted my advice, but I'll give it anyway. Discuss all this with Ariana."
This got a grudging nod from Fran. She got to her feet. "Is our little talk over?" she asked, with a flash of her usual caustic self.
"If you agree to no more Spanish furniture."
She nodded reluctantly. "OK."
Lonnie came shooting through the door as Fran was leaving. "Watch it!" she snarled.
He waited until she'd gone, then said to me. "The Collie Coalition."
"What's that?"
"The shadowy group threatening to snatch Darken. They're outraged that a dingo is playing the role that Lassie the collie made famous."
I grinned. "The Collie Coalition? What a joke."
Lonnie wasn't laughing. "Homeland Security have them pegged as a terrorist group," he said.
Six
The next morning I was up with the birds, keen to get the Dingo situation sorted out. Ariana had called me last evening while I'd been getting ready for my dinner date with Brucie. Her voice had been subdued, her usual crisp tones blurred with fatigue. "I'll be in the office tomorrow afternoon," she said before I could ask any leading questions. "In the meantime, is there anything I should know about?"
"Nothing that can't wait. Oh, except for one thing." I'd told her how I needed to get into Bellina Studios to see the elusive Dingo O'Rourke. "Lonnie says it's possible you might know an ex-cop working in the studio security unit."
"I can do better than that. The present head of security is Eppie Longworth. She and I worked together in the LAPD and we've kept in touch. I'll call her and get back to you."
I hadn't expected Ariana to do anything about it until the next day, so I'd been surprised when fifteen minutes later she was on the line again. "Your name will be on the entry list at the gate. Eppie will be expecting you. She's on duty from eight tomorrow morning."
"Ariana?"
I'd heard her sigh. "Don't ask, Kylie. Tomorrow, OK?"
The sigh stung. Feeling defensive, I'd said, "I'm not trying to be a pest. I'm worried about you."
"Don't be."
Fair dinkum, loving someone could be a real downer at times!
Meeting Brucie for dinner was somewhat of an anti-climax, as I was distracted because of my conversation with Ariana, and Brucie, despite his protestations, had been hit hard by jetlag and could barely keep his eyes open. I picked him up at the seriously seedy Gateway to the Stars Inn and took him to a nearby Italian restaurant.
He'd changed since I'd last seen him, but I couldn't immediately put my finger on how. For one thing, I hadn't remembered Brucie as being particularly good-looking; however, a dispassionate assessment of his physical self—dark curly hair; smooth coffee skin like his mother; a lean, taut body—added up to something quite close to handsome.
Handsome or not, as far as I was concerned, Brucie's character had always been the problem, although my mum always said it was a two-way street, with the clash of our personalities fueling the fire.
Over dinner Brucie—I had to fight to call him Bruce—chatted in a desultory way about family news. Astonishingly, we didn't get into an argument, which was a first for us. In the past we'd be at daggers drawn within minutes of running into each other.
He asked me about Dingo O'Rourke, and I told him I was hoping to get onto the Darken Come Home soundstage the next morning. Naturally, Brucie wanted to come too, which caused our first disagreement of the evening.
I finally conceded that if he turned up at Kendall & Creeling tomorrow afternoon he could meet everyone, plus I would undertake to fill him in on my hoped-for face-to-face with Dingo at Bellina Studios.
****
While I was having my breakfast of porridge, toast, and tea, Melodie came bouncing into the kitchen. "I know I'm early," she announced to my raised eyebrows. She added virtuously, "Like, I'm making up time, since I had a can't-miss audition yesterday afternoon."
"That's ambiguous," I observed. "Is it a can't-miss audition because it's important? Or is it a can't-miss audition meaning you've aced it and you can't miss out on the role?"
Melodie frowned at me. "You can be real puzzling at times, Kylie." Her face cleared as she went on, "But since you ask, Larry-my-agent says I'm a sure thing for Olive."
Abruptly, her expression changed to one of emotional overload and she began to wring her hands. "Oh, Timmy," she cried wi
th an excruciating nasal accent, "is that really you? Strike me lucky! Leaping lizards, it's my fair dinkum baby brother! Whoops-a-daisy! By gum, to think we've been torn asunder all these yonks, with me Down Under and you here, in Texas, and never a cooee between us. And Darken, how chuffed I am that you've been dinky-di faithful to Timmy."
"Hell's bells, is that a good example of the show's dialogue? Sounds crook to me."
The frown was back on Melodie's face. "What do you mean, crook?"
"It's no good. In fact, it's laughably bad."
"You're in no position to judge these things, Kylie. Screen dialogue is an artistic rendition of conversation. Like, it's not real!'
"It certainly isn't. No Aussie wrote that rubbish."
My scathing tone seriously irked Melodie. "You being a total outsider and all, I don't suppose you've even heard of the writer/ director of Darken Come Home, Earl Garfield. He's had so many successful series, he's like, a god in this town. Quip says he's a scriptwriter's scriptwriter. The best."
I knew who Earl Garfield was, having done some online research into the show yesterday. Years ago Garfield had been the TV industry's boy wonder. Now I guessed he'd be the industry's middle-aged wonder. "This Garfield bloke writes every script, does he?"
"He wouldn't have time to do that and direct," said Melodie with the tone of one talking to someone terminally dim, "so he employs a team of writers. But he'd read every word. There's nothing gets by him. He's famous for controlling every facet of his show."
"Crikey, he's not controlling the quality of the scripts if what I just heard is any indication."
A dreamy look appeared on Melodie's face. "It was one of my best auditions, Kylie. I shone! Although it's only for two episodes at the moment, I'm hoping once they see me in action, the character will be written into further episodes. Larry-my-agent told me the casting director was just bowled over by my Olive, so I expect to be meeting Earl Garfield soon. Of course, he has the final word on the cast."
She mused on this happy event for a moment, then said, "I mean, not just anybody meets him. Garfield's a famous recluse, who won't give interviews or socialize. Like Bette Davis."
"I think you mean Greta Garbo."
Melodie flapped a hand. "Whatever."
"There's a fair chance I'll be seeing Mr. Garfield this morning."
That got Melodie's wide-eyed attention. "You're visiting your dingo wrangling relative today? On the set of Darken Come Home?"
"I'll give it a burl."
She wrinkled her nose at me. "Like it'd be nice if you spoke plain English for a change."
"I said I'm going to attempt to see Dingo."
"Don't move." Melodie rushed off, her high heels beating a rhythm down the hall. A couple of moments she was back, a large photo in her hand. "It's my best headshot," she said, shoving it at me. "If you could just get Timmy to sign it, or failing that, anyone else in the cast, that would be awesome!"
The first time I'd been asked to do this I'd been working undercover at a celebrity doctor's offices. At the time I'd thought it very odd to ask for a star's autograph on someone else's photograph. Now I knew nothing was too strange for the entertainment industry.
"I'll try," I said, "but no guarantees."
Melodie gave me a quick hug. "You're the best, Kylie. Of course, the chances are I'll soon be on the set myself as Olive, Timmy's sister. Still, I never like to miss an opportunity, just in case."
"Too true," I said, "some sheila might snatch the part from you.
Melodie smiled complacently. "Larry-my-agent says I'm the closest he's ever seen to a sure thing."
****
I drove my unexciting, anonymous wheels to Bellina Studios. The address was in a semi-industrial part of Los Angeles and I got lost a couple of times while avoiding huge trucks that seemed determined to squash my car like a tin can.
Finally I located my destination. Bellina Studios covered a considerable area, and comprised a collection of industrial buildings, all slightly shabby but serviceable. Huge billboards advertised the shows made there. Darlene Come Home held pride of place, with the Hardestie family grouped together, their smiles impossibly warm, while Darken—more sleek than any dingo I'd seen in the wild—sat beside them staring nobly into the distance.
I turned through the entrance gates and obediently rolled to a stop at a Stop Here sign. The truculent guard in a pale gray uniform stepped out of the booth and eyeballed me. "Name?"
"Kylie Kendall." His first name appeared on his chest, so I said, "G'day, Desmond."
"Trunk."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Trunk." When I stared at him, puzzled, he said, each word distinct, "Open your trunk."
Now it was clear to me what Desmond meant. "Oh, you mean the boot"
He didn't reply, but marched to the back of my car. I pressed the release. After a moment he slammed down the lid. He came back to me, squinted at his list, ticked off my name, handed me a clip-on that proclaimed Authorized Visitor, and directed me to the furthest corner of the parking lot.
Before I set off, he pointed to nearby sliding glass doors. "Park and lock your vehicle, then come back here and go through those doors to security, where you'll collect your host."
"I don't just get a map of the place with an X marking the spot?" I asked with a grin.
"All visitors have to be accompanied by designated hosts while on the studio grounds," he said. He added, after a meaningful pause, "I'll be watching you."
He wasn't kidding. From the time I got out of the car and headed back across the lot, he had binoculars trained on me. I gave him a cheerful wave before I disappeared inside. He didn't wave back.
I went up to the reception desk and gave my name to a blond woman who was pretty much a clone of Melodie, only not so good-looking. Eppie Longworth, Ariana's erstwhile colleague, came out of her office to greet me. She was wearing the same pale gray uniform as the guard at the gate, but hers sported a badge reading Head of Security. She was medium height, with a stocky build and a no-nonsense air. She had a crash-hot smile, which transformed her rather plain face into something close to beautiful.
"Call me Eppie," she said, shaking my hand. "Ariana tells me you're keen to become a licensed private investigator."
"I'm giving it a go."
"Pity you've never been in law enforcement. As an amateur, you've got quite a few more supervised hours to accumulate than an ex-cop."
"Too true," I said. "Thousands." I added quickly, in case she thought I was a no-hoper, "But I'm going to stick it out, no matter what."
She laughed. "Ariana said as much."
It gave me a ridiculous little thrill to think Ariana had mentioned something personal about me. I only just stopped myself from looking like a total galah by asking, "What else did she say about me?"
Eppie took me through to the back of the building where dozens of electric carts were lined up. Several people were lounging about, chatting. I took it they were the hosts the guard at the gate had mentioned.
"I'll take you to the Darken soundstage myself," said Eppie, sliding into the driving seat of the nearest cart. I got in beside her.
As we jolted along a cobblestone street—I vaguely recognized the facades around us as belonging to some series I'd seen on television—Eppie said, "I gather Doug O'Rourke is a relative of yours?"
"Distant. Dingo's a cousin removed a few times."
"This isn't a social call?"
"Not really." I told her how Harry and Gert O'Rourke had become worried when he'd become uncharacteristically uncommunicative. "I'm here to say g'day and find out if anything's wrong with him."
She flicked a quick look at me, then said, "O'Rourke had a full background check before he was employed by Bellina. Passed with flying colors."
This was mildly surprising, as Dingo had always been a bit of a wild bloke, though he'd never been in the slammer.
Being as Eppie was head of security, and should know what was going on, I said, "Have you heard of the
Collie Coalition?"
"I don't believe so," she said, her tone dismissive.
"There's a rumor going around that Darleen the dingo's likely to be taken for ransom."
Eppie's face went blank. "There are always rumors circulating in television. It comes with the territory."
"So there's no truth in this particular one?"
"I guarantee Darleen isn't going anywhere," she said firmly.
This wasn't really an answer to my question, but before I could probe further, Eppie brought the electric cart to a stop outside a large, windowless building.
"This is it, Kylie. I'll take you in and introduce you, then I've got work to do. Tell them to call me when you're ready to leave."
Inside it was organized chaos. The place was crammed with equipment and sets and cameras and lights. Cables ran everywhere on the floor. People were rushing to and fro, seemingly intent on urgent tasks, while others lounged around talking.
Eppie cut a path through to an inoffensive-looking bloke who was standing by himself earnestly checking through items on a clipboard. "Freddie, this is Kylie Kendall. She's here to see Dingo O'Rourke."
He didn't seem at all put out to be interrupted in this way. "Right. Follow me."
I said goodbye to Eppie, then hurried to keep up with Freddie, who moved with deceptive speed. He took me through a dizzying array of sets then down a long hallway to a green door bearing the stern commandment to keep it closed at all times. "Through here."
Behind it was a large room fitted with three spacious mesh runs. One of them, I guessed, held the famous Darken.
Dingo was slumped in a chair, smoking. He looked up as we entered, his face far from welcoming. "What do you want?"
"Dingo," I said. "G'day."
Freddie said, "I'll leave you to it," and disappeared.
"Jesus, Kylie, what are you doing here?"
"Just dropping in to say hello."
Dingo dropped the butt of his cigarette on the floor and ground it out under the heel of his boot. "It's not a good time."
He was thinner and more drawn than I remembered. His sandy hair was lank and lifeless. Even his mustache drooped listlessly. He still had a hard, muscled body, but his usually tanned face was pale and there was a tremor in his hands.