KK04 - Dingo Dilemma

by Claire McNab

  Harriet chortled. Melodie said with dignity, "We're talking hypothetical scenarios here, Kylie."

  "Besides," said Harriet cheerfully, "there's always Lexus. She might be keen enough to marry him, too."

  "Wouldn't that be bigamy?" I asked. Harriet chortled some more.

  "Can I do something for you?" said Melodie pointedly.

  I couldn't help grinning. "Don't marry Brucie."

  Melodie put up her chin. "No one's going to tell me who I can or can't marry," she announced. "If it happens to be Bruce, it's no business of yours."

  "If you marry Brucie, Aunt Millie becomes your mother-in-law."

  "Oh," said Melodie.

  ****

  I was still grinning when I ran into Ariana on my way back to my office. We stopped outside her door.

  "You're very cheerful," she said.

  I told her about the unlikely—I hoped!—union of my cousin and Melodie, and how the mention of Aunt Millie as a future mother-in-law had thrown a romantic spanner into the works. "Melodie went quite ashen."

  Ariana smiled, then sobered. "Kylie, about Saturday night... again, thank you for your company. And thank you for listening."

  "Any time," I said. "I really mean that." Impulsively, I put a hand on her arm. "I wish I could do more."

  "Just be there." Abruptly, she seemed embarrassed. "I don't know why I said that. I've no right to make demands."

  "Demand away," I said lightly.

  Lonnie, chomping on a pastry, came ambling along from the direction of the kitchen. "Have you brought Ariana up to speed on Blainey?" he asked me. To Ariana he said, "Dangerous SOB. Involved in suspicious deaths. Owns a piece of Darken Come Home, so I told Kylie to look out for herself."

  I checked my watch. Blimey, I was running out of time, and I prided myself on never being late for appointments. "Lonnie will tell you all about it, Ariana. I've got to get a move on."

  On my way out I said to Melodie. "If you want me urgently, you can get me on my cell. I'll be at Bellina Studios."

  Melodie's green eyes did their narrowing act. "You'll be at Bellina Studios?" she ground out. "Bellina Studios!"

  "That's what I just said."

  "I hope you don't break a leg."

  As I knew in entertainment circles 'break a leg' was actually an oddly expressed wish for someone to have good fortune, it followed that Melodie had just expressed the hope I'd come a gutser in the acting area.

  I summoned up my Pollyanna persona, practically guaranteed to sicken. "How typical of you to always be thinking of others, Melodie," I said in sugary tones. "Thank you so much. I do appreciate it."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "Oh, don't be so modest!"

  I skipped out the front door in good spirits. By the time I made it across the courtyard my mood had gone into full reverse. Odds were Melodie's assessment was right. I would make a fool of myself. I had the depressing image of people all over the soundstage sniggering to themselves.

  Driving along, I thought about Norris Blainey's financial interest in Darken Come Home. Lonnie had explained to me how a huge concern like Bellina Studios would provide accommodation on the lot for selected independent production companies, with the understanding that Bellina would have first right of refusal for projects that seemed likely to be successful.

  Blainey had invested heavily in Darken Productions, owned by writer-director Earl Garfield. When the show became a major hit, Blainey seemed to be on a sure-fire winner. Things hadn't been so rosy recently. Ratings had been falling, and the principal cast members had been demanding renegotiated contracts for considerably more money.

  I made surprisingly good time to the studios, so arrived early. This was fortunate, because there was kafuffle going on outside Bellina's main entrance. Helicopters circled overhead and a considerable crowd of onlookers waited to be entertained. People were milling around waving placards and shouting slogans. Strangely, most of them seemed to be young and very good-looking. I wondered why. Perhaps LA provided a better standard of demonstrator?

  There seemed to be two distinct groups—the pro-dingo set and the pro-collie set. The cops were there in force, trying hard to keep them apart and at the same time make sure the entrance to Bellina remained open.

  "Collie! Collie! Collie!" shouted one side.

  "Dingo! Dingo! Dingo!" shouted the other.

  Apart from the helicopters egg-beatering overhead, there were media trucks disgorging reporters and camera operators. This story was going to make the news tonight in a big way.

  I found myself in a queue of cars waiting to get into Bellina Studios. Remembering that the Collie Coalition was supposed to have links to Al Qaeda, I scanned the crowd of onlookers for Secret Service types, who could be expected to be observing a demo like this. There were several who could fit the image I had of such an agent—a solemn-faced, dark-suited individual with a watchful manner. I thought they'd probably work in pairs and would talk without looking at each other, as their attention would be on the potential enemies of the country.

  The head of Bellina security, Eppie Longworth, was at the boom gate with a mob of guards, who were giving each vehicle a complete going over, including using mirrors on long metal arms to check for bombs underneath each car.

  "A fair bit of excitement," I said to her as I handed over my new ID card that had been in the package of stuff Howie had sent me.

  Eppie used a handheld device to read the barcode on my card. "Rent-a-crowd," she said.

  "Sorry?"

  "Rent-a-crowd," she repeated. "Most of them are out-of-work actors. They get paid by the hour to demonstrate."

  I looked back at the turmoil outside the studio gates. "Bonzer publicity," I said.

  Her quick grin illuminated her face. "You'd pay millions to get this much exposure, but the media are obligingly doing it for free."

  "So the media people don't realize it's a set up?"

  "Oh, they know," said Eppie. "They don't care."

  ****

  "No! No! No! Try it again: Ow-ah-ya-mate?"

  "It's mite" I said. "Mate is pronounced mite if you're speaking broad Australian."

  Felicity Frobisher drew herself to her full height—not very much—and glared at me. Her masses of black, curly hair seemed to expand with her rage. "I've been a dialogue and voice coach for many years," she said in an icy tone, "and in all those years I have never, never had an actor correct me in this fashion."

  "Sorry," I said, "but I am an Aussie, so of course I know how they speak."

  Felicity Frobisher sighed dramatically. Spreading her hands, she asked the ceiling, "Why? Why me?"

  I remained respectfully silent.

  After gusting another sigh, she said, "Let me try to explain it simply enough for you to grasp the concept. You will be speaking an artistically modified version of the Australian accent, suitable for American ears. Otherwise, the dialogue would require explanatory subtitles running across the bottom of the screen."

  "Crikey," I said, "You're not giving the audience much credit."

  Felicity Frobisher folded her arms. "We're a happy little family here on the Darken set. We don't make waves, we get along together. That means we don't argue with professionals who are, after all, the experts in each field, be it technical or artistic. My profession is particularly demanding, as it requires me to master both the technical and the artistic."

  She paused to let this sink in, then asked, "Is it too much to ask for your cooperation?"

  "Ow-ah-ya-mate?" I said.

  Two hours later I was dizzy from meeting people. Through it all I concentrated on keeping straight when and where I needed to be for the shooting of my first scene the next day. If Melodie had this part, no doubt she'd be preparing by reaching deep within herself to touch the primal essence of Olive as she meets her long-lost brother, Timmy, after many years. Having no idea how to do this, I was reduced to panicking over how I'd memorize all this dialogue.

  I'd found a seat in a relatively quiet corner,
and was having a lash at learning a line or two, when a voice said, "And who are you?

  "Kylie Kendall," I said. "G'day."

  I knew who the speaker was. Apart from the huge billboard at the entrance to Bellina Studios, over the past few days every story about Darken and her threatened abduction had featured shots of the show's Hardestie family with Dustin Jaeger up front, his arm around Darken. In person, Dustin seemed about twelve. He was small for his age, but he had a compact little body and an appealing face complete with endearing dimples when he smiled.

  He wasn't smiling now. "The role," he said. "Who are you?"

  "Olive, Jimmy's sister." I indicated the script I'd been reading. "We have a scene together."

  "Dustin Jaeger will be instructing Earl to edit your lines. The emotional center of the scene is Timmy, not Olive."

  I stared at the kid. Why was he referring to himself in the third person? "Aren't you Dustin Jaeger?"

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then reached into a satchel and extracted a large headshot of himself inscribed: With every warm wish from Dustin Jaeger. "Something for you to treasure," he said, handing it to me.

  A harried young woman came rushing up to us. "Dustin, Earl's waiting! Darleen's on the set, and you know how she gets if she's there too long."

  "That fucking dingo! You go tell the bloody wrangler that if that animal snaps at Dustin Jaeger again, he can start looking for another job."

  Hopping up and down with agitation, she said, "Earl sent me to get you. Everyone's waiting!"

  "Dustin Jaeger will be there after he has had a hot drink to lubricate his vocal chords."

  The young woman and I watched him stroll off in a lordly fashion. "What's it with the third person?" I asked her.

  She rolled her eyes. "Surely you realize Dustin's a major star. It's his cute little way of showing how superior he is to mere mortals like us."

  "Totally up himself," I remarked.

  She wasn't listening. With an expression close to terror, she squeaked, "I've got to tell Earl that Dustin isn't ready yet."

  "Earl won't take it well?"

  "He'll kill me! Or worse, he'll fire me."

  "I'll deliver the bad news, if you like."

  She stared at me with astonishment. "You will?" Then she frowned. "Why would you do that?"

  "I would like a bit of a favor in return. I've been trying to get hold of Dingo O'Rourke since I got here today, but I haven't had any luck. Is there any way you can arrange for me to have a quiet word with him after this scene's finished?"

  "Sure. That's easy."

  "Right-oh," I said. "We have a deal. Point me in Earl Garfield's direction."

  We could hear the director before we got there—a tirade of blue language delivered at a near shriek.

  "Crikey," I said, "he'll blow a gasket if he isn't careful."

  The set—a country kitchen—was brightly illuminated. Darleen, looking bored, was sitting beside Dingo O'Rourke. In the shadows many people silently watched as Earl Garfield marched up and down, chucking a mental. Fair dinkum, these artistic types were self-indulgent.

  I stepped into the light in front of him. He halted and glared at me. "What in the hell do you want?"

  "Message from Dustin. He's getting a hot drink, but will be here soon."

  "That little S.O.B.!"

  "There was a murmur of agreement from the shadows.

  Earl Garfield's face was puce. He opened his mouth, perhaps to fire me for being the bearer of bad tidings, but Dustin chose this moment to saunter onto the set, a steaming mug in one hand.

  "Dustin Jaeger is ready," he said.

  Thirteen

  I expected people to be leaving for the day when I got back to Kendall & Creeling, but the car park was almost full. I saw with a twinge of disappointment that Ariana's BMW was missing. A gleaming black limousine sat in one of the extra spots, a stream of cigarette smoke wafting through a half-open window indicating someone was in the driver's seat.

  The angst I'd caused Melodie was apparently forgotten, as she flashed a brilliant smile at me the moment I walked through the door. "Kylie, guess what! Fran's going to be honored with an award from Homeland Security!"

  "Homeland Security gives awards?"

  "Well they must, because Fran's getting one. The Homeland Security people are here now, inspecting her selection of disaster supplies."

  Bob Verritt appeared, shaking his head. "Jeez, talk about a waste of taxpayers' money."

  He folded his long, thin body into one of the new visitors' chairs—faux Spanish, thanks to Fran—and stretched his skinny legs out in front of him. "It's hard to believe, but apparently our Fran has shown superior civilian response to government catastrophe-preparedness guidelines. It seems that she's a glowing example of American get-up-and-go in the face of terrorist threats."

  The black limo outside had reminded me of Phyllis Blake's run-in with the blokes at Dingo's apartment building. "How many are here from Homeland Security?"

  "Two guys," said Melodie.

  "Names?"

  Melodie looked disconcerted, then irritated. "I didn't need to know who they were. Fran was the one they wanted."

  Bob sat up. "So you didn't see any ID?"

  Melodie, who'd clearly learned from Fran that attack was often the best defense, snapped, "I didn't need to. Why would they lie about being from Homeland Security?"

  Bob and I looked at each other. "Why indeed?" Bob said.

  "Is Lonnie with them?" I asked.

  "No, he's in his office. He took a call there a few minutes ago." She scowled at me. Obviously I was back in her bad books again.

  "Would you get Lonnie on the phone for me, please?"

  After he'd had a sneezing fit—I gathered from Lonnie's muffled curses that Julia Roberts was somewhere in his room again—I asked Lonnie if he could photograph the two Homeland Security blokes without them knowing. "Consider it done," he said.

  Bob and I walked casually down the hall, discovering Fran outside the storage room detailing the disaster preparedness items she'd amassed, while Harriet and two blokes wearing dark suits and white shirts looked on admiringly.

  "I had an even more comprehensive supply of sterile field dressings," Fran was saying, "but there was an unfortunate contamination problem with a cat, and then dressings were required for a genuine emergency last Friday, when my husband was badly injured outside in the parking area."

  "G'day," I interrupted, putting out my hand to the closest one, a beefy bloke with thick white skin that apparently burnt easily, as his nose was peeling. He had his hair cut so short it was a reddish stubble on his skull. "I'm Kylie Kendall."

  He shook hands without enthusiasm and mumbled something. "Sorry," I said, "I didn't get the name."

  "Morgan."

  "Mr. Morgan, g'day." I thrust my hand at the other dark suit. "Kylie Kendall. And you are...?"

  He touched my fingers very briefly. "We're from Homeland Security. That's all you need to know." His voice was very soft and had a slippery, just-between-us tone. He had a long, mournful face and very deep-set eyes that seemed to be peering at the world from the back of his head.

  "We're private investigators," Bob declared with his engagingly crooked grin, "so we have this need to put a name to a face."

  "Unwin," whispered the bloke.

  Lonnie came wandering along, a bag of jelly beans in his hand. "Want some?" he asked in a general invitation. "The black ones are the best, though I'm quite partial to the red." There were no takers.

  Harriet had a quizzical, what-the-hell-is-going-on expression. She said to the blokes, "Just for the record, do you have any official identification?"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake!" Fran glowered as only she could. "These gentlemen are kind enough to be considering us for official recognition for the steps we've taken to prepare for the worst." She forced a smile. "I believe mention was made of a Homeland Security Golden Plaque Award."

  "I'm sure I can speak for my colleague when I say w
e're impressed enough to consider awarding a Platinum Plaque," murmured Unwin.

  Fran's gratified expression vanished when Harriet persisted. "I'd still like to see something to prove you're who you say you are."

  "It's not customary for Homeland Security to show identification," said the one who claimed to be Morgan. "It only aids terrorists who hate America because of our freedoms."

  "That doesn't make sense," I said.

  Morgan and Unwin began to edge away from us. "We'll be in touch," Morgan said to Fran.

  "Wait! There's much more to show you." Fran gazed forlornly after Homeland Security's rapidly departing representatives, then turned savagely on us, her diminutive form trembling with rage. "Now see what you've done!"

  ****

  When I compared the notes I'd taken of Phyllis Blake's detailed descriptions of the two strange men at Dingo's apartment building, it was no surprise to find Morgan and Unwin were dead ringers.

  With Ariana absent—I presumed she was with Natalie—I decided that Bob, Lonnie, and I should discuss the whole matter and decide what, if anything, to do about it. Lonnie insisted that we meet in his messy office.

  He was clearing bits and pieces off two chairs so Bob and I could sit down, when Julia Roberts, yawning, appeared from behind a pile of electronic equipment. I expected the usual fireworks from Lonnie, but he merely opened the door, said, "Goodbye, cat," and closed it behind her after she had leisurely exited.

  "That's the way to treat Jules," I said approvingly. "Play it cool, and she'll lose interest in teasing you."

  "There's something a lot more important to worry about than that damn cat," said Lonnie. "I'm sure this room is clear, as I only said hello to those guys, and then came back here to work, but I want to sweep the rest of the building for bugs."

  "Would they have had any chance to plant listening devices?" Bob asked. "Fran stuck to them like glue the moment she realized a Homeland Security award was in the air."

  "Trust me, the whole place could be bugged. The latest surveillance devices are so small you could be looking right at them and not notice they were there. The safest thing is to act as if every word outside this room can be overheard."

  "But why would anyone bug our building?" I asked.