Claire McNab - The Dingo Dilemma

"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.

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?"