The Dingo Dilemma

by Claire McNab

Now Melodie was seriously peeved with me. "Receptionists shouldn't be judged by the companies they work for," she said sharply.

  "I wasn't judging Yancy. I want to talk to him. Will you put him through to my office, please?"

  The question of why I wanted to talk to Yancy trembled on Melodie's lips, but wisely she didn't put it into words.

  "I have to take a call," I said to Brucie. "Why don't you check on Lonnie?"

  When Melodie had appeared with the news that Quip had been hurt, Lonnie had hurried up to reception with everyone else. Big mistake. He'd taken one look at Quip slumped in a chair, his face covered with blood, had gone weak-kneed and had to be helped to a chair himself.

  When Lonnie had recovered enough to wobble his way to his office, Bob had kindly escorted him to his door and seen him safely settled at his computer. Since then, there'd been no sign of Lonnie at all.

  I expected Brucie to say something disparaging about Lonnie, along the lines that he was a sook for nearly fainting at the sight of blood, but Brucie was surprisingly sympathetic. "One look at a hypodermic and everything goes gray and I fall over. Just have to see a doc's white coat, and I feel woozy. It's embarrassing, but I can't help it. So I get what the bloke's been through."

  With Brucie safely dispatched in Lonnie's direction, I zipped into my office to take the call. Julia Roberts, who'd obviously been seriously inconvenienced by all the activity this morning, was curled up in my chair. She was quite put out when I gently tipped her onto the floor.

  "Yancy? This is Kylie Kendall."

  "Hi, Kylie. Quip's spoken about you," he said with professional receptionist enthusiasm. With a note of real concern, he added, "Melodie says he's been badly hurt."

  I visualized Yancy as Quip had described him-blond and good-looking. His voice didn't match my mental picture, though, as I always associated deep bass tones like his with dark hair.

  I described Quip's injuries. "Fran's with him. We'll know more later, when she calls from the hospital."

  "I warned him, you know. I said Blainey could be ruthless."

  "Can you be overheard?" I asked, thinking it wouldn't help Yancy's job security to be badmouthing his boss.

  "It's OK. I'm on my cell and I've ducked out of the building."

  "So you're sure Norris Blainey is behind this?" I asked.

  "Of course. Aren't you?"

  "I can't think of anyone else who would harm Quip."

  "Quip's such a rank amateur, as far as surveillance is concerned," Yancy said. "It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Of course, it could've been worse. He could be dead. That would shut him up for good."

  Bashing was one thing, murder quite another. "Are you fair dinkum? Norris Blainey would actually be involved in killing Quip just because Quip's writing a novel about him?"

  "Blainey's been involved in mysterious deaths before. Why not again?"

  Crikey, this was getting really hairy. "Yancy, you need to speak to the cops investigating Quip's bashing."

  "No way! No cops. And I'll deny I said anything to you at all, if you give my name to them."

  "But why?" Then I realized I was talking to myself. Yancy had hung up.

  Brucie, hands in pockets, strolled into my room. "Hey, Lonnie has some seriously cool stuff," he said. "He could set himself up as a spy, no worries."

  My phone rang. Maybe it was Yancy, calling back to say he'd had second thoughts about the cops.

  "Oh, hello, Aunt Millie."

  Brucie took his hands out of his pockets quick smart, and made frantic gestures to catch my attention. "Don't tell Mum I'm here," he mouthed.

  "Brucie?" I said. "Yes, I've seen him. He's looking good. Actually, Aunt Millie, you'll be pleased to hear your son's a hero. Saved someone being viciously attacked."

  Being a proud mother, albeit a pessimistic one-"Brucie could have been killed, maimed!"-my aunt demanded every last detail. I was well into a vivid depiction of Quip's beating and Brucie's bravery when I realized with dismay that Aunt Millie would rush to tell my mum about it, and in the process probably blow up the story into a full-scale battle. Major bummer! This was going to give Mum even more ammunition for her campaign to snatch me from the appalling dangers of Los Angeles and return me to the safety of outback Wollegudgerie.

  I remembered to ask about Mum's crisis in the Wombat's kitchen. This started my aunt on a tirade.

  "Jack O'Connell's a complete boofhead," she declared. "He lords it over the staff telling them how to do their jobs, when he's got no idea what he's talking about. Then he wonders why they get upset. I've told your mother, get rid of him. Jack's not worth the trouble. But will she?" Aunt Millie snorted. "Says she likes a man around the house. Jack's a poor excuse for a man, I told her. You can do better."

  When I finally got Aunt Millie off the phone, I became aware that Brucie was scowling at me. "I had to tell your mum how you saved Quip," I said. "She would have heard anyway. And besides, you really were terrific, coming to his rescue like you did."

  "It's not that," he snapped. "It's that I've had it with Brucie. The name's Bruce. Got it?"

  "Got it. Sorry, but you've been Brucie all my life." To lighten the mood, I added brightly, "Did you know before he changed it, Quip's name was Bruce?"

  "He went from Bruce to Quip?”

  "He's a writer. It was a marketing decision."

  "If I'd known," said my cousin, "I never would have saved him."

  ****

  "How are you going?"

  Lonnie looked up from his computer screen. "Your cousin Bruce is a great guy," he said. "Told me how he himself faints at the sight of a needle. Didn't feel quite such a fool, then."

  Hell's bells! Brucie-Bruce-was making favorable impressions left, right, and center. I couldn't possibly have been wrong about him all these years. Maybe he'd had a personality transplant.

  "What's the latest on Quip?" Lonnie asked.

  "Fran's going to call as soon as she knows."

  Lonnie shook his head. "I can't help thinking he set himself up for this. Quip's idea of how to conduct surveillance is laughable." Lonnie's expression became indignant. "And he wouldn't take my advice, and I am an expert in the field."

  "Did he tell you why he was following Norris Blainey?"

  "Some cockamamie idea about writing a novel. A novel! You're a screenwriter, I said, but Quip insisted he wanted total creative control and only a novel would give him that." Lonnie snorted. "Half the screenwriters in town want to write a novel, and half the novelists want to write a screenplay. Stick to what you know, I say!"

  For some reason, Lonnie was getting quite het up over the whole thing. To calm him down, I said, "What advice about surveillance did you give Quip?"

  "I said to him he didn't have to put himself in harm's way by getting so close to the subject. I even offered to set him up with a few basic things-a directional microphone to begin with, so he could pick up conversations at a distance. But would he? No. Quip had some idea he was like one of those old-time private eyes in a Raymond Chandler detective story."

  "A white knight walking the mean streets, fighting evil?"

  "Something like that," Lonnie said derisively.

  "I've been talking to someone who works for Norris Blainey," I said. "The word is that in the past, Blainey has somehow been involved in mysterious deaths. Could you check it out?"

  Lonnie frowned. "I seem to remember something…I'll get back to you."

  The phone burped. Being Lonnie, an ordinary ring was too boring, so he'd set his up to sound as if the handset had a serious digestive problem.

  "This will be Pauline," he said. "I told her to call before she saw you, so Julia Roberts could be safely locked away to protect Upton and Unity."

  The phone burped again. "Before you answer that," I said, "I didn't agree to see her today. You just wanted to believe I had."

  Lonnie's face went an unbecoming shade of puce. "Forgive me, Kylie. But you're not going to cancel, are you? Please, it means so m
uch to me."

  "Right-oh, I'll see her, but I'm not locking Julia Roberts away. It's her home, not the poodles'. Tell Pauline to walk around the building and meet me in the back garden." I added wickedly, "You can provide refreshments for us, Lonnie. And no flavored tea!"

  On my way to the back door, I looked into Ariana's room. "Any word from Fran yet?"

  Ariana glanced up from the folder she was reading. The blue of her eyes gave me a pleasant, familiar jolt. "Nothing yet."

  "Pauline Feeney's in the backyard with Unity and Upton."

  Ariana raised an eyebrow.

  "Her standard poodles. She claims Jules terrorized them on Tuesday, which is hardly fair. It is Jules's home, after all. If Pauline wants to see me, it's the backyard or nothing."

  Amused, Ariana said, "I see you're toughening up."

  "I'm following your example," I said. "You're sort of a role model in toughness for me."

  I was inordinately pleased when that made her laugh.

  ****

  "G'day," I said to Pauline Feeney. She inclined her head in acknowledgement. "G'day Unity," I said to the black poodle. "And g'day Upton," I said to the white. He had shaved patches on his neck and back, no doubt from his run-in with Jules.

  Pauline Feeney had seated herself at the redwood table I'd bought for the backyard. I'd referred to it as the back garden to Lonnie, but that was too grand a name for the area, which now, because of Fran's blasted disaster fixation, had a green shed housing all the office supplies displaced from the storage room.

  Today Pauline's black hair had a blond streak. Her face, as before, was dead white, and her lips hectic red, her long fingernails the same shade. She wore a tight black jumpsuit with very high heels. Both she and Unity had matching jeweled collars, but because of Upton's injuries, his neck was bare.

  "I've heard Quip Trent was in some sort of altercation," she said in her high, soft voice.

  "From your receptionist at Glowing Bodies?" I asked, sure of the answer.

  "Perhaps. Was he badly hurt?"

  "We're waiting to hear."

  She tilted her head reflectively. "His wife's an odd woman." Fran?

  "She came to me saying she was acting as an agent for her husband. Offered his services to Glowing Bodies. Said he had contacts we could use."

  From her expression I gathered the offer had been unacceptable. "You turned her down?"

  Pauline shrugged. "He knew lower-level celebrities only. No one we could use."

  The source of Fran's sudden animosity towards Pauline Feeney was now obvious.

  Lonnie came out the back door. He beamed at Pauline, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Coffee? Something to drink?"

  She indicated Upton, who was peering nervously through the open door. "Nothing for me, but iced water for Upton, please. His nerves are shot to pieces."

  "Be right back."

  "Upton has required psychological counseling," Pauline said to me. "Like most pure-bred poodles, he is exceptionally sensitive. The last thing he expected was an ambush by that cat of yours."

  "I've agreed to pay all Upton's vet bills," I said.

  "Intensive therapy is very expensive. And he's going to need it for some time."

  Stone the crows! How much was this going to cost?

  "But," said Pauline, "you don't have to pay a cent, if you do one small favor for me."

  "And that would be?"

  "Darken Come Home is a closed set. All I'm asking is you find some way to get me in. I'll do the rest."

  ****

  When I came back inside after seeing Pauline Feeney off in her Cadillac Escalade, Melodie said, each word an ice cube, "It's your entertainment lawyer calling."

  Yesterday, when I'd gone to his office in Century City, Howie had turned out to be super-friendly, in a snappy, let's-get-on-with-it sort of way. "Call me Howie," he'd said as he bounced over, smiling, and pumped my hand. "Love you Aussies! Had some great times fishing for marlin off the coast of Queensland."

  When he came on the line, Howie was just as briskly cheerful as the day before. He assured me how hard he'd fought on my behalf for a reasonable contract. The terms were now satisfactory, so he was having it delivered to Kendall & Creeling by courier this afternoon for my signature.

  I'd pretty much thrown myself on Howie's mercy yesterday, so he'd given me a rapid-fire description of series television, including who was who on a soundstage and what I was to expect as a member of the cast. It'd soon become obvious that I was totally out of my depth, so Howie arranged for one of his junior staff members to liaise with the studios on my behalf. Now he had my schedule, plus various must-know and must-do items, which he'd courier to me with the contract.

  "First up," Howie said, "you report Monday morning for a session with a dialogue coach to get your accent right."

  "But I've got a dinky-di Aussie accent already!"

  Howie laughed. "Roll with it, honey. Do whatever you're told. Don't argue."

  After he'd rung off, I sat with my head spinning with all the information I needed to get straight. A dizzying number of people seemed involved in getting a TV show made. Howie had advised me to concentrate on those people I'd deal with directly, and stay out of the way of everyone else. "And don't get on the wrong side of the crew," he'd said. "Things can get very nasty if you do."

  Maybe there was a TV industry equivalent to my PI bible, Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook. Because LA was the self-styled entertainment capital of the world, it stood to reason any big bookshop would have a section devoted to movies and TV. I was checking my watch, wondering whether I should nip out right now, when Ariana knocked.

  "I've heard from Fran," she said. "The news is good. Nothing life-threatening. Quip's concussed, but no broken ribs, just bad bruising, and no internal injuries. The hospital's keeping him overnight for observation, but only as a precaution."

  "I reckon we won't be hauling Fran over the coals today," I observed. Remembering how the normally unflappable Fran had been close to hysterical when she saw her wounded husband, I added, "Probably not for a good while, since she's so upset."

  "Her day of reckoning is briefly postponed, not cancelled," said Ariana emphatically.

  "I'm not being soft again," I protested.

  "You are," she said, but it was with a smile.

  Encouraged by her smile, I said, "About this weekend…"

  "I'll be seeing Natalie." Ariana's voice was cool.

  "I know you will be, but not twenty-four hours a day."

  My heart swelled with pity and with fear. Something must have showed on my face, because Ariana's expression changed.

  I thought, inconsequentially, I could drown in the blue of your eyes.

  I said, my voice hardly above a whisper, "Let me comfort you."

  “Kylie…”

  "Ariana."

  We stood looking at each other.

  "Thank you," Ariana said.

  Eleven

  Much to my surprise Mum didn't call on Friday, although I knew Aunt Millie wouldn't have been able to resist boasting about Brucie's heroism. I could only hope that my mother had become so desensitized by the apparently endless procession of violent events in Los Angeles featured in Aussie newscasts that Quip's bashing didn't particularly register.

  Melodie and Lexus were spending the weekend showing Brucie the LA sights, so I didn't have to worry about entertaining him.

  I spent a leisurely breakfast reading the fat Saturday morning edition of the Los Angeles Times. Darken the dingo's perilous situation had made the front page, and the entertainment section covered the story from the point of view of industry insiders. In one interview, Dustin Jaeger, who starred as Timmy in Darken Come Home, stated that he was "devastated and shocked" that anyone could even think of harming Darken, who was a sweet, affectionate dingo he was honored to count among his closest friends.

  After breakfast I returned to the big chain bookstore where I'd purchased my invaluable handbook on private eyeing, and discovered
they had a comprehensive section on television and movies. I spent ages going through the shelves, finding information and guidance covering every possible facet of the entertainment industry. The brightly colored covers fervently assured me that future success was certain, if I was to purchase the book. I could become a sought-after actor, or the writer of an award-winning screenplay, or the producer/director of a successful independent movie, no sweat.

  I finally settled on one of the less flashy offerings, titled A Beginner's Guide to Making TV Shows. I didn't want to make a total galah of myself on the Darken set, so by Monday I intended to have at least a rough idea of who did what in the making of a TV series.

  When I got home I made myself a cup of tea and sat down with Julia Roberts to study the material Howie had sent me and the book I'd just purchased. TV production seemed to involve an awful lot of people. Soon I was deep into the roles and responsibilities of the executive producer, show runner, head writer, director, unit production manager, story editor, director of photography, script supervisor… And many had designated assistants-the director had two who alternated. Then there was the crew-gaffers, best boys, boom operators, sound mixers, camera operators…

  "I'll never get all this stuff straight," I commented to Julia Roberts. She blinked, then yawned, the feline equivalent of a shrug. "You're so right, Jules," I said, "I will take Howie's advice, and roll with it."

  Ariana had said she would be spending most of the day at the hospital with Natalie, but that she'd be home in the late afternoon. Would I be happy watching a movie on DVD and eating pizza?

  Didn't she realize I'd be happy with anything, as long as I had her company?

  I accepted as casually as she had offered the invitation. "I'll be there."

  Ariana had said she'd be home by five at the latest. When I pulled into the parking area by her house at five-fifteen, I saw her sister Janette's white Volvo SUV. I heard a warning bark from Gussie as I got out of my car, then Janette opened the front door. Beside her Gussie grinned a welcome.

  "Kylie, come in. Ariana called, she's been delayed." She stepped aside to let me past. "I've just delivered Gussie home. I've had her with me all day running the legs off my dachshund, Dutch."