Claire McNab: The Dingo Dilemma

"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."

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 Willis. 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.