Claire McNab: The Dingo Dilemma

Blimey, this sheila knew a lot more about me than was comfortable. Lonnie had obviously been gasbagging.

Almost as though my thoughts had materialized him, Lonnie came rushing through the door. Red and perspiring, he exclaimed, "Pauline! I saw your car, and realized you'd arrived early. So sorry I wasn't here."

"Well, you're here now," she said, taking his arm.

"Hold my calls, Melodie," said Lonnie in an authoritative tone as he and Pauline set off in the direction of his office, with Upton and Unity trotting along behind.

"Watch out for Julia Roberts," I called after them.

'"Hold my calls,' he says," muttered Melodie to herself. She gave a snort worthy of Aunt Millie. "Lonnie's just trying to impress her."

"I reckon she's going to be impressed by the state of Lonnie's office."

This thought cheered Melodie. But then her expression grew speculative. "Is it true what Pauline Feeney said-that you own more of Kendall & Creeling than Ariana does?"

"Forty-nine to fifty-one percent. Didn't you know that?"

"I never liked math," Melodie said with an airy gesture. She frowned. "No offense, but it's hard to believe you have more say than Ariana."

I knew exactly what she meant. Ariana radiated cool, controlled authority. I wasn't altogether sure what I radiated, but it wasn't that.

"What do you see when you look at me?" I asked.

Melodie frowned. "It's obvious, isn't it? I see you, Kylie."

"Imagine you were auditioning me. What would you see then?"

Melodie's expression cleared. "I get what you mean." She cocked her head, considering me. "Nice hair, much better styled than when you came, but you should consider color. I mean, dark brown is boring, don't you think? Good skin, but you've got no clue about makeup. And you have to drop some pounds. That's a definite. As for your clothes-"

Pandemonium broke out down the hallway. Shouts, barking, and then a series of frantic yelps were followed by the sight of Upton speeding towards us, Julia Roberts, her claws hooked into his curly white coat, grimly riding him like a jockey.

"Just how many people are we planning to save?" asked Lonnie, staggering under the weight of a large carton.

Fran, who was superintending the removal of the office supplies to a shed just erected in the backyard and the re-stocking of the storage room with disaster supplies, snapped, "The Department of Homeland Security has made it very clear that citizens cannot be too prepared. Terrorists could strike at any time."

"You're not answering the question," Lonnie pointed out, depositing the carton where Fran indicated. "You must have enough stuff here for scores of people, and last time I looked, there were only seven of us in the building. You, me, Kylie, Ariana, Bob, Melodie, and Harriet. And Harriet will be on maternity leave any day now."

"Don't forget Julia Roberts," I said.

Lonnie glared at me. "Forget Julia Roberts? Would that I could!"

I felt duty bound to speak up for her. "She was just defending her territory yesterday."

"Defending her territory by lacerating the back of an innocent poodle who was peacefully minding his own business?"

"Jules obviously felt threatened. After all, there were two standard poodles, and they're large dogs."

Lonnie put his hands on his pudgy hips. "Since Julia Roberts is yours, I'm expecting you to cover the vet bills."

By all accounts it seemed that Jules had started the whole debacle, so I said, "Fair enough."

"It'll cost you," Fran observed. "The Feeney woman goes to Dr. Stanley Evers, veterinary surgeon to the stars."

"How do you know that?" Lonnie demanded. "You haven't even got a pet."

"It's none of your business, Lonnie, but if you must know, Quip happened to mention it."

Bob Verritt came around the corner hefting two large cartons, one under each arm. His extremely tall, skinny frame didn't seem substantial enough to handle anything really weighty, but from the thud when he set the cartons down, they were really heavy.

"What in the hell is in these?" he asked.

"Disaster supplies," snarled Fran. "How many times do I have to tell you people?"

"We're stocking up enough to rescue the whole neighborhood?" Bob inquired.

"Of course not," Fran said. "I've taken into account there may be clients in the building when the catastrophe occurs. Besides that, some of us have dear ones we would want to save."

In Fran's case that would be Quip, her husband. The person most dear to me was Ariana. Harriet had Beth. As far as I knew, Bob had no one special, nor did Melodie.

"Would that include poodles?" Lonnie asked. "Pauline won't go anywhere without her poodles."

Fran's pale face was suddenly suffused with red. "No poodles," she ground out, "and certainly no Pauline Feeney. That's final."

I looked at her with surprise. Yesterday in the kitchen, when the star wrangler's name had first come up, Fran hadn't shown any reaction. Now she was positively hostile.

Lonnie glowered at Fran. "Right," he said, throwing up his hands. "If that's your attitude, I've moved my last disaster supply."

Fran shrugged as he marched off with injured dignity in every step. "Touchy, touchy," she said.

"Fair dinkum, Fran, you can't expect Lonnie to be pleased when you refuse to offer aid to his girlfriend."

Fran responded with a contemptuous grunt.

"What have you got against this woman, anyway?" Bob asked.

"She dissed Quip."

"How?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Fran surveyed the storage room, which was already almost half full. "I'm hoping we can fit everything in, otherwise I'll be forced to continue using a corner of your office, Bob."

"That's not an option, Fran!"

Bob was usually so mild-mannered, it was startling to hear him so emphatic. Fran knew when to concede. "OK," she said, "so we'll have to fit it all in here."

"All right, then," said Bob, semi-mollified, "but don't try and pull a fast one on me, Fran."

Fran looked injured. "As if I would."

Bob tossed off one of his braying laughs. "Give you an inch, you take a mile."

"Someone has to take responsibility for safety in these dangerous times," said Fran, affronted. "As the Office Manager, I see it as my duty."

This got another laugh from Bob, but wisely, he didn't comment. Everyone knew that Fran had bestowed the title Office Manager upon herself, but given her volatile nature, no one was foolish enough to call her on it, even Ariana.

"I'll get the rest of the stuff you have cluttering up my room," Bob announced.

Before collecting my next load of supplies, at present jammed in the janitor's broom cupboard, I gave a sad glance into the storage room. It was next to my bedroom, and I'd had my eye on the space for my own little living room. It would've been simple, I thought, to knock down a couple of walls-provided they weren't load-bearing-and create a much more comfortable area for myself.

A withering look from Fran sent me on my way. I returned with an armful of small boxes, each labeled Caution: Medical Supplies in red. "What sort of medical supplies?" I asked, putting the boxes on the shelf Fran's imperious forefinger indicated.

"Various antibiotics for smallpox, anthrax, cholera, and typhoid," said Fran, "and antivirals for bird flu. And of course pre-loaded syringes with morphine for those sustaining major injuries in a quake or explosion."

"Crikey," I said, "is that legal? Having morphine hanging about the place, I mean."

Fran's eyebrows did a dive in an annoyed V. "So you'd prefer to writhe in dreadful pain, would you, Kylie?"

"Well, no, but I wouldn't want to run foul of the authorities either."

"In the middle of a cataclysm, no one's going to be checking the fine print."

Bob suddenly appeared, without cartons, his pleasantly homely face transformed by a dark scowl. "Who ordered a faux Spanish desk for my office?" he demanded. "There are guys at the front from some place called Maximum Spanish trying to deliver it to me. The blasted thing's as big as an aircraft carrier."