The Dingo Dilemma

'Bonzer.'

Melodie clasped her hands and looked to the ceiling. Starry-eyed, she exclaimed, 'Something up there is telling me this is my big chance to break into series television.'

I glanced at the ceiling too, but it remained blank. 'Some psychic connection has given you the news?'

'Fate, Kylie. You do believe in fate, don't you?'

A vision of Cousin Brucie danced in front of my mind. Fate had had a bit of a snigger, making him my rello. 'I reckon I do,' I said gloomily. 'I reckon I do.'

****

I went off to see Ariana to set her straight on Fran's Spanish phase, but she was just leaving her office as I got there. 'Sorry, Kylie, something urgent has come up. I've got to go.'

Her face was ashen. Concerned, I said, 'Ariana?'

'I can't talk now.'

This clearly wasn't the time to ask what was wrong. 'No worries,' I said. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

I looked after Ariana as she left. She had a lovely graceful stride, even when she was rushing, as she was now. I wanted to hurry after her and ask what was it that had upset her. A lover could do that. I felt my shoulders droop. I wasn't even a poor excuse for a lover. As far as Ariana was concerned, I wasn't a lover at all.

Before I could sink further in gloom, I went back to my office and tried Dingo's number again. I left a second voicemail message, a little more urgent than the first.

Soon Mum would be on the phone again asking what steps I'd taken to establish what the problem was with Harry and Gert's son. Merely leaving telephone messages for him wouldn't impress her. Obviously I had to do something more.

No way could I pick a blue with Fran before I told Ariana about the furniture situation, so that particular confrontation was on hold. I got out my Thomas Guide and looked up Dingo O'Rourke's address. It wasn't too far away, and driving there would give me something to concentrate on, other than the dire circumstances of my romantic life. Dingo almost certainly was at work on the set of Darken, but maybe I could find someone to give me some idea of when he might be home.

Dad's red Mustang was a challenge to drive, seeing as it wasn't an automatic, therefore I had to change gears while trying to remember to stay on the right-hand side of the road. In Australia, we drove on the left, like Britain, so I had to say 'Keep right!' to myself, especially when making left turns at intersections.

I located Dingo's apartment building on Orange Grove Avenue-a misnamed thoroughfare if ever I saw one-and only had to circle the block a couple of times before I could snaffle a parking spot when someone pulled out.

Dingo's building looked tired, as though it was sick of enduring the summer sun all day while breathing exhaust fumes from the relentless traffic. Sitting on the steps leading to the front entrance was an old lady, her thin silver hair in fat blue rollers. She was wearing a voluminous housecoat and worn pink slippers. She watched my approach with the keenest interest.

'G'day,' I said.

'I'm waiting for the mail.' She clicked her tongue with irritation. 'Postal service they call it, but there's no service to speak off.' Squinting up at me, she went on, 'They don't care, you see. It's the benefits. Get the benefits whether the mail is delivered or not. Do you know how much a mail carrier makes, with the benefits and all?'

''Fraid not.'

'My first husband was a mail carrier.' She paused, apparently waiting for me to respond.

'Interesting,' I said.

'Interesting? Not Hugo. No one would call him interesting. Now sexy-some called him sexy. Not me, but some did. Divorced him when I found the basement stuffed with undelivered letters. Thousands of them.'

'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.'

Five

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