Claire McNab - The Dingo Dilemma

"I'm pretty sure it's the same two who turned up here with the story that Kendall & Creeling had won an award for disaster preparedness. They gave their names, after a bit of persuasion, as Morgan and Unwin."

"So?"

"They claimed to be from the Department of Homeland Security."

Dingo swore, and before I could say anything else, he'd disconnected.

I looked at the phone in my hand. I wanted to call Ariana, not just to tell her what had happened with Dingo, but simply to hear her voice. I felt our relationship had reached a new level, but still I hesitated. Things between us were too new and fragile to put at risk.

Realizing I was hungry, as I hadn't eaten since lunch in the studio commissary, I decided to make myself a toasted cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. After that I'd think about calling Ariana.

I turned on the kitchen TV and found a cable channel running a news crawl along the bottom of the screen. Darleen's disappearance featured prominently. I learnt in quick order that: Earl Garfield, reclusive award-winning writer and director, was too upset to comment in person but had released a statement saying he was "deeply disturbed"; details of a substantial reward to be offered for Darleen's safe return would be released tomorrow; the head of security at Bellina Studios admitted she was "completely baffled" as to how Darken had been smuggled out of the complex; the ASPCA, the Humane Society, and other animal welfare groups combined to deplore the use of an innocent animal in an apparent extortion plot; famed animal psychic Jessica de Lyons had been in extrasensory contact with Darleen and pronounced her "well, but unhappy and confused."

My cheese sandwich was history and I was pouring a second cup of tea when the phone on the wall rang. One line was switched through to handsets in the kitchen and my bedroom when the office was closed, but since I'd got a cell phone, most people I knew called me on it.

"Kylie? It's Fran. Is Quip there?"

With perfect truth, I said he wasn't. Crikey, where was Quip? He'd had plenty of time to get back before Fran arrived.

A frantic note surfaced in Fran's voice as she went on, "Quip can barely walk, and his face is a mess. I left him watching television. When I got home a few minutes ago, he wasn't here."

A quiver of fear touched my skin. Could Blainey have gotten to Quip and Yancy after they'd left me? Were they lying dead, tumbled in a gutter somewhere?

"Perhaps he's with a neighbor," I said, hoping against hope it would turn out to be true.

"I've been to every apartment in the building, but no one's seen him. I've called everyone I could think of. I can't get hold of Mom or Ariana, so I've left them both messages to get back to me. I'm about to start calling the local hospitals."

Even if Quip were perfectly OK and off having a fine time with Yancy, as long as there was a chance he had run into Blainey's thugs again, I had to dob him in.

"Quip was here earlier this evening."

"He was! With yew?" Her tone was deeply suspicious.

Stone the crows! Did Fran think Quip and I were having an affair? "We weren't alone. Yancy was here."

"Who?"

"Norris Blainey's receptionist, Yancy. I don't know his last name. He's been supplying Quip with inside information for his book."

There was a dangerous silence for a moment, then Fran said, "He? Blainey's receptionist is a male?"

"That's right."

"Start at the beginning," said Fran, her voice chillingly cold, "and tell me every last detail. Leave nothing out."

"Something could have happened to them. Perhaps we should call the police."

"Every last detail," Fran ground out. "Every last damn detail."

By the time I got Fran off the phone, I was stonkered. While I'd been talking with her, I'd imagined the worst that could have happened to Quip and Yancy. It was possible they were lying wounded in the laneway that ran behind the buildings in our block. There were no lights, and in the evening it was deserted, except for an occasional homeless person looking for somewhere to spend the night.

So, exhausted as I was, I resolved to check it out. If I didn't, I'd never rest easy. With a look of incredulity, Julia Roberts watched me arm myself with a golf club-the one I'd inadvertently intimidated Luis with when I'd first arrived-set my cell phone on vibrate and clip it to the waistband of my sweats, and grab a heavy flashlight that could double as a weapon if need be.

"Wish me luck, Jules."

"You're on your own," her expression seemed to say.

I let myself out the back door, holding it so its strong spring didn't crash it shut with a bang. Originally you'd be locked out once it closed and have to go around the front to get in, but I'd had a combination lock installed, so it could be opened by punching in the correct code.

There was a steady hum from the traffic on Sunset Boulevard, but otherwise the night was quiet. There was no moon, but it wasn't pitch dark because the millions of Los Angeles lights provided a constant diffuse glow in the sky. I opened the garage door and peered out into the lane. Something moved, and my heart did a somersault, but it was only some small nocturnal animal. When I'd first arrived in LA, Lonnie had alarmed me with stories of huge rats living in palm trees, but I persuaded myself I'd just seen a cat, and not some horrendous rodent.

A few minutes ago when I was safely inside, searching the laneway had seemed a perfectly reasonable step to take. Now I was out in the darkness, it occurred to me it was actually a pretty dumb thing to do. I reminded myself Quip or Yancy could be bleeding to death while I dithered.

Gritting my teeth, and with the golf club at the ready, I turned on the flashlight and, reminding myself that looking hesitant branded one a potential victim, I strode with apparent confidence down the lane, investigating any nook or cranny where a body might be slumped.

I saw nothing except the occasional reflection from some small creature's eyes. My patrol finished, I returned to the open garage quite weak with relief. Remembering to check to make sure no one had snuck in and was lurking behind the Mustang, I closed the main door and let myself out into the welcome familiarity of the back yard.

I punched in the code and opened the back door. Heartwarmingly, Julia Roberts was waiting there for me.

"Back safely, Jules," I said. She twitched her whiskers to indicate her delight with the news. I was bending over to stroke her when my cell vibrated at my waist.

"Kylie? It's Janette."

"Fran got hold of you, then."

"About Quip? I'm sure he'll turn up. That's not why I called. I'm with Ariana at the hospital. She asked me to tell you that this evening Natalie had a second, massive stroke."

"Oh, Janette…"

"She's not expected to live."

"And Ariana?"

"She's devastated, of course."

I felt utterly at sea. What should I say? Do? What would help Ariana the most-my presence, or my absence?

"Janette, tell me what's best for Ariana. Should I be there at the hospital?"

Her voice gentle, she said, "Natalie's dying is between Natalie and Ariana. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"Let her come to you, when she's ready."

How could I even imagine the grief Ariana must be feeling?

My eyes filled with tears. "Tell her-" I broke off, not knowing how to continue.

"It's hard, isn't it, to find the words?" Tanette's voice was warmly sympathetic. "I'm her sister, and I don't know what to say.

"Would you please tell Ariana that I'm here. That's all. Whenever, however she wants me-I'm here."

Before I went to bed I called Fran to see if Quip had been found. She sounded tightly wound, but more composed than earlier. Quip still hadn't turned up, but when, after checking hospital emergency rooms, she called the police, she was told Quip had been gone for far too short a time for the cops to consider him a missing person.