The Dingo Dilemma

by Claire McNab

  I located Dingo's apartment building on Orange Grove Avenue-a misnamed thoroughfare if ever I saw one-and only had to circle the block a couple of times before I could snaffle a parking spot when someone pulled out.

  Dingo's building looked tired, as though it was sick of enduring the summer sun all day while breathing exhaust fumes from the relentless traffic. Sitting on the steps leading to the front entrance was an old lady, her thin silver hair in fat blue rollers. She was wearing a voluminous housecoat and worn pink slippers. She watched my approach with the keenest interest.

  "G'day," I said.

  "I'm waiting for the mail." She clicked her tongue with irritation. "Postal service they call it, but there's no service to speak off." Squinting up at me, she went on, "They don't care, you see. It's the benefits. Get the benefits whether the mail is delivered or not. Do you know how much a mail carrier makes, with the benefits and all?"

  '"Fraid not."

  "My first husband was a mail carrier." She paused, apparently waiting for me to respond.

  "Interesting," I said.

  "Interesting? Not Hugo. No one would call him interesting. Now sexy-some called him sexy. Not me, but some did. Divorced him when I found the basement stuffed with undelivered letters. Thousands of them."

  "Crikey, that must have been a bit of a jolt."

  She nodded acknowledgment. "You've no idea the blow it was. People thought I must have known about the letters, but I never went down into the basement. Creepy place. Anyway, what with all the stares and whispers, I had to leave town. I've never thought the same of mail carriers since." She stared off into the distance, no doubt contemplating Hugo and the undelivered letters.

  I sat down beside her on the steps. "I'm looking for Dingo O'Rourke. He has an apartment in this building. You don't happen to know him, do you?"

  "Dingo? I know him. Keeps to himself, but we have a few friendly words now and then." She gave me a shrewd glance. "Why are you asking about Dingo? You're not a bill collector, are you:

  "I'm his cousin, a few times removed."

  "Another Aussie, eh? Thought you talked funny."

  "I've been trying to call him, but had no luck. Left messages, but he doesn't get back to me."

  "Twenty-four/seven."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  She looked around, as if we were under surveillance. Then she leaned over and hissed, "Dingo's staying at the studio, twenty-four/seven. Has to, Darken being at risk, like she is." She clutched my arm and got even closer, until her breath was cooling my ear. "Dog-napping."

  "Dog-napping?"

  She looked uncertain. "Dingo-napping, maybe. Whatever, Dingo's there to make sure it doesn't happen."

  Five

  Maybe it was the threat to Darken that had made Dingo so unwilling to return my call. Or maybe he was just avoiding me. Mrs. Blake-she told me to call her Phyllis-took my business card and promised to contact me if Dingo turned up at the apartments.

  "Not much gets past me," she declared, tucking the card into the pocket of her housecoat. I reckoned that would be pretty well right, since it seemed she spent quite a bit of her time lurking at the entrance to the building.

  Phyllis Blake told me Dingo's apartment was on the third floor at the rear, so just in case he did come home somewhere along the line, I scribbled a note on the back of one of my cards and slipped it under his door.

  When I came out the front door, the mail had arrived and a large bloke holding a bunch of letters in one huge fist was listening with a resigned expression while Mrs. Blake outlined the shortcomings of the United States Postal Service.

  "Have a nice day," he said to me as I squeezed past him on the steps. Mrs. Blake stopped her harangue to wish me a nice day, too.

  I'd often wondered why Americans had such an obsession with wishing nice days, but I replied in kind. "Have a totally crash-hot day, yourselves, you two."

  They both appeared uncertain at this, so I added, "An excellent day, the sort you like to remember."

  She nodded, pleased. The mail bloke muttered something about Mrs. Blake and wishing he could forget. I had a fair idea what he meant.

  Driving back to Kendall & Creeling, I mused over how to get to Dingo O'Rourke. It was likely I'd have to go to the studio to catch up with him in person, since voicemails had no effect and he wasn't coming home to his apartment.

  Phyllis Blake had assured me that the danger to Darken was real and ongoing, and that the studio was deeply concerned-she described it as "running around with their asses on fire"-but I didn't recall anything in the news about threats to the show's namesake. Even if the story didn't make the LA Times or an evening newscast, surely a show business item like this would have turned up in the trade papers. Melodie scoured Variety and The Hollywood Reporter every day, so she would know if Darleen's safety was an issue.

  Presuming the story was true, it could be that everything was being kept deliberately quiet, although I would have thought it would be great publicity for the show. Maybe there was a lot more to it. Maybe Dingo was mixed up in something nefarious, and that was why he was playing hard to get. For Dingo's sake I'd be cautious, until I knew more.

  I turned into Kendall & Creeling's parking area determined to find some way to get onto the set of Darken Come Home. Dad's red Mustang made an untamed, hit-the-open-road kind of statement when I parked it next to my commonplace sedan, which was deliberately bland for tailing suspects. So far I'd only practiced tailing, but any day now I hoped to be pleased I was driving a vehicle so boring it was close to invisible.

  Pausing in the courtyard, I admired the little fountain and the other landscaping touches I'd organized. A bolt of resolve ran through me. Over my dead body would a real-estate developer like Norris Blainey replace this with a soulless block of buildings.

  I'd already decided not to ask Melodie about any mention of a threat to Darken in the trades. If there'd been no item about it, just my asking would activate the startlingly efficient receptionists' network, and in mere moments rumors of Darleen's pending napping would be all over town.

  Melodie wasn't there. Harriet, hugely pregnant, but looking as healthy and content as one could when so ungainly, was at the front desk.

  "Melodie promised me it was a vital audition," she said in explanation. "She pleaded with me to take over the phones."

  "And you fell for it?" Melodie had recently promised to attend auditions only in her lunchtimes or after work. Mid-afternoon did not fit the specifications.

  Harriet grinned at me. "I got my pound of flesh. She's promised to be available for future baby-sitting duties. Besides, how could I resist when Melodie revealed she'd be auditioning for a part in Darken Come Home? Her big chance, she assured me, to use her excellent Aussie accent."

  "Trust me, Melodie's Aussie accent is not much chop."

  "Say it isn't so!" said Harriet in mock horror. "Malcolm, Melodie's voice coach, has assured her it's the best he's ever encountered."

  The phone rang. Harriet picked up, and I heard her say, "Kylie? She's right here."

  I took the receiver, hoping it would be Ariana calling to explain why she'd dashed off earlier, obviously upset. Major disappointment. It wasn't Ariana-it was Cousin Brucie.

  "Kylie? This is Bruce. I'm here."

  "Great," I said, unable to inject much enthusiasm into my voice. "Did you have a good trip?"

  "No complaints."

  Maybe Brucie was at the airport, expecting me to pick him up. "Where are you?"

  "At a motel. Arrived at LAX early this morning and got a taxi here to the Gateway to the Stars Inn. It's not too far from Kendall & Creeling. Stroke of good luck, eh?"

  Fortunately he didn't wait for a reply. "Hang on a mo, Kylie. I've got the address right here somewhere…"

  Brucie read me off the phone number and address and I dutifully wrote them down. Summoning up my manners, I said, "Welcome to LA, Brucie."

  "Bruce," he said. "I'm dropping Brucie. Too childish. From now on I'm Bruce, like Bruce W
illis. More masculine."

  "Bruce. I'll try to remember."

  "So when can I lob in and meet everyone?"

  "You're not jetlagged?" I asked hopefully.

  "Naw. That's for people called Brucie. I'm Bruce, remember?"

  I blinked. Don't tell me Cousin Brucie actually had a sense of humor! I'd never noticed one before.

  It took a bit of persuasion, but I got him to agree not to visit Kendall & Creeling today. I promised to come around later and take Brucie out for an early dinner, since jetlag was sure to hit him mid-evening.

  "That was Brucie, Aunt Millie's son?" Harriet asked when I'd hung up.

  The very one.

  "I hear he has ambitions to work at Kendall & Creeling."

  I wasn't surprised Harriet knew this. "Melodie has spread the word, has she?"

  "She says she's looking forward to meeting an Aussie hunk."

  That was a laugh. "Cousin Brucie a hunk? Not likely!" I hadn't seen Brucie for a while, but I certainly didn't recollect any hint of hunkdom about him.

  A whole set of calls came through at once, so I left Harriet dealing with them and wandered off to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea and a cheese-and-pickle sandwich to see me through to dinner time. I was pouring the tea when Julia Roberts suddenly appeared. It was almost uncanny, the way she always seemed to know when I was in the kitchen and therefore available to provide nourishment on demand.

  "You had breakfast," I pointed out to her. "A substantial breakfast, as I recall. You can't possibly be hungry."

  Julia Roberts looked pointedly at the sandwich I'd just made. "Humans are different," I said. "Inferior to cats. We have to eat three times a day." She gave me a blank stare. I sighed. Standing up to Jules was more than I was fit for today. "Prawn and white-fish snacks? Will that be acceptable?"

  While she leisurely ate her snacks and I munched on my sandwich, I brooded over Ariana. Why hadn't I just gone ahead and asked her what was wrong when she'd said something urgent had come up? What sort of urgent thing could it be? A range of possible disasters presented themselves: there'd been a rockslide in the Hollywood Hills, and Ariana's beautiful cliff-top house was poised to plummet down the precipitous descent; a colleague from her days as an LAPD cop had been shot and was near death; Ariana had been told she had a serious medical condition; or perhaps Gussie, her gorgeous German Shepherd, had been hurt.

  There was one possibility I didn't want to think about, so of course I couldn't not think about it. What if it had something to do with Natalie Ives?

  Natalie, whom Ariana had loved for so many years-still loved. We'd never met. I'd only seen her in photographs, taken before early-onset Alzheimer's had clouded her mind to the point she'd been admitted to a full-care facility. Ariana saw her every week, even though Natalie only occasionally seemed to have an inkling of who Ariana was.

  "It's a triangle, but not a very romantic one." I said to Julia Roberts. She was occupied with washing her whiskers, but paused to give me what I took to be quite a sympathetic look. "In fact, it's pretty much a hopeless situation, Jules."

  I leaned over to stroke her, not for her comfort, but to soothe myself. Her sleek fur whispered under my palm as she arched her back. She whipped around in a graceful circle and came back for another caress. "Beerrow," she said, a mark of warm approval.

  For some reason her appreciation upset me. If I sat here any longer, I'd dissolve into a puddle of self-pity. I gave her a final stroke and took myself along to Lonnie's office. I knocked on his door and adroitly whisked through a narrow opening before Julia Roberts, who'd followed closely, could join us.

  "That psychopathic cat's lurking out there, isn't she?" said Lonnie glumly.

  "Fair dinkum, Lonnie, I've told you a thousand times she's teasing you. If you could bring yourself to totally ignore Jules, she'd start to lose interest fast."

  "You don't understand. She's possessed of an evil spirit."

  "You're joking, right?"

  He nodded reluctantly. "I suppose…but she's a devil cat." He brushed his hands together in a that's-that gesture. "I've wasted enough time on Julia Roberts. You've heard my last word on the subject."

  I hid a smile. There'd never be a last word. He was as obsessed with Julia Roberts as Julia Roberts was obsessed with him.

  Lonnie had moved the garden gnome he'd recently acquired from the floor by his chair to a position on his crowded computer desk. I gave the grotesque little figure the once-over. Although it had the characteristics of a standard gnome-garish red and green clothing, a long beard, and a ferocious scowl-it wasn't a roughly cast, mass-produced statue, but clearly handmade.

  "Pauline Feeney gave you this, didn't she?" I said in a burst of inspiration.

  Lonnie pinked up immediately. "Maybe."

  "Lonnie?"

  "Oh, all right. Yes, it was Pauline's gift to me."

  "It's beautifully made. Something quite out of the ordinary."

  Chuffed by my praise, Lonnie said, "Pauline's something quite out of the ordinary, too."

  "She certainly seems to be."

  "Best thing that ever happened to me." Lonnie's smile faded. He was obviously sorry that he'd let his guard down, so he went on briskly, "Did you want something in particular, or is this a social call?"

  I knew it was perfectly safe to raise the topic of Darleen's possible abduction with Lonnie, as long as I said it was confidential. "I'd rather you didn't mention this anywhere," I said. Lonnie mimed zipping his lips, so I continued, "I've heard a rumor there's some plot to abduct Darken the dingo, the star of Darken Come Home, for ransom. Have you heard anything?"

  Lonnie's expression showed his keen interest. "Not a word, but it could be true. The show's the biggest hit Bellina Studios have had since their slate of reality programs tanked. Darken would be well worth snatching, even though she's not the only dingo they've got."

  This was news to me. "There's more than one Darken?"

  "There's the main Darken, but there'll be one or two backups. You don't want shooting to grind to a halt because the star animal is sick, or has been hurt. It's a time-honored tradition. You don't think there was only one Lassie, do you? Or Rin Tin Tin, or Mr. Ed-"

  "Stop," I said. "I get the idea."

  "I'll ask around, discreetly of course. Bellina Studios run a tight ship, but there's always someone who'll leak any sensational news."

  Knowing how Lonnie spent a good part of his time online, I was confident if there was any chatter about an extortion scheme involving Darleen, Lonnie would find it.

  I told him about Dingo O'Rourke and how, because of distant family ties, I'd been compelled to investigate what was up with him. "I can't get Dingo to answer my calls, so I reckon I need to get onto the television set and front up to him face-to-face. The problem is, I don't know how to go about it."

  "Studio security."

  "Security is what's keeping me out."

  "Security's what will get you in. Talk to Ariana. She's sure to have a contact through the LAPD. Many ex-cops end up in security."

  I'd love to talk to Ariana, but not necessarily about security at Bellina Studios. I left Lonnie enthusiastically starting his search for information on possible dingo-napping and went back to my office. I tried Ariana's cell, but only got voicemail. I didn't leave a message. Then I called her house. The answering machine cut in after three rings.

  Feeling angry and apprehensive and helpless all at once, I called her cell again and left a message: "Ariana, it's me, Kylie. Please call me when you get a chance." I'd intended to say I was concerned about her, to ask if there was anything I could do, but I chickened at the last moment. It was probably a good thing I did, I decided. Ariana was so intensely private that she'd recoil if I got too pushy.

  I was so het up about everything that I couldn't sit still. I ran into Fran outside the storage room, now officially the disaster supplies room. She was in the process of affixing a sign to the door. It read:

  Designated Disaster Supplies. For use onl
y in a genuine catastrophe. any other use strictly PROHIBITED. If IN ANY DOUBT, CONTACT OFFICE MANAGER FOR A LIST OF ACCEPTABLE CALAMITIES.

  "Strewth!" I said. "Acceptable calamities? Wouldn't it be obvious even to blind Freddy when it was a total disaster?"

  Fran shot me a chilly look. "It might be obvious to blind Freddy, whoever he is, that a genuine catastrophe has occurred, but I'm more concerned with the likes of Lonnie. He's got no common sense, and is liable to raid the supplies just for some piddling accident."

  I was about to ask what the harm was if he did use some of the stuff in the event of an accident, when Fran said in a challenging tone, "Melodie tells me you're not keen on the Cordova. I particularly chose that model for you. However, if you'd prefer another desk, the Cadiz is very attractive. I can supply an illustrated catalog."

  That did it! To hell with waiting to consult with Ariana! "Fran, I want you in my office, now," I said. "We have to discuss this whole matter of the faux Spanish furniture."

  For a moment, Fran looked uncertain, then her diminutive form seemed to swell a little as her Amazonian persona reasserted itself. "I can give you a few minutes," she said with the air of one granting a favor.

  "You can give me as long as it takes."

  It would have been nice if Fran had meekly followed me to my office. Nice, but unrealistic. Instead she strode militantly ahead of me, arms swinging.

  As we reached my door, I said, "I'm surprised you're not whistling a happy tune."

  "What?"

  I sang her a few bars from The King and I. Fran rolled her eyes, snarled, "Oh, please," and then marched into my office, every line of her body suggesting she wasn't afraid.

  To bolster my authority-not that it needed much bolstering at this point, as my rage was taking care of that-I sat down at my desk and pointed to the visitor's chair on the other side. "Sit."

  Fran plunked herself in the chair and glared at me defiantly. "Well?"

  Making a real effort to be imperturbable, I said, "Your friends, Isabel and Spike, own Maximum Spanish."

  I thought she'd ask how I knew this, but all she said was, "So?"