The cop, probably a rookie considering how young he appeared, looked at Matt. “That’s what Animal Services is here for, isn’t it?”
“Partly. But—” Before he could finish, he was interrupted by a voice from behind us.
“The American Humane Association, too.” I turned to see Grant Jefferly behind me, wearing his American Humane vest and a grim expression. “I heard on the news about trouble on this site, so I came right away.”
I met his eyes. I hadn’t paid much attention to their light blue color before, but their angry gleam now took me aback. I felt he was almost daring someone to accuse him of killing Hans—probably a silly reaction on my part.
Even so, I couldn’t help recalling his last discussion with the director, at least the last that I had heard. They had not been at all cordial with one another.
I’d recently figured out the culprits in several murders. That didn’t make me an expert. It didn’t make me a cop or an investigator, or even someone who wanted to be in the position of figuring out a killer’s identity either.
Besides, I liked Grant’s attitude about the dogs. We’d gotten along well at this site before the filming started. I didn’t want him to be Hans’s killer.
“Is there some trouble here?” A man in a suit joined us, holding out a badge. “I’m Detective Maddinger. And you are…?”
In the three other situations where I’d been involved with a murder investigation, the detective on two of them had been Detective Stefan Garciana, and Detective Joy Greshlam had worked on the third. I’d managed somehow to not tread too strongly on their toes, and both had been relatively civil to me—most of the time.
If I got involved in this one—not that I intended to be more than a curious bystander—I’d have to check with Detective Antonio Bautrel to see what he thought of Detective Maddinger. Antonio was with the LAPD Gang and Narcotics Division and was also the boyfriend of HotRescues’ head of security, Brooke Pernall.
I took a quick scan of Maddinger. He was African American, a bit chubby, and had a thick head of gray hair over a skeptical expression that included a quizzical frown.
“I’m Captain Matt Kingston of Los Angeles Animal Services,” Matt said before either Grant or I could introduce ourselves. “I was here yesterday observing the filming, and I was told that some other Animal Services officers are already here checking on the dogs’ welfare. This is Lauren Vancouver, who represents one of the film’s producers, and Grant Jefferly, the representative of the American Humane Association assigned to this production.”
“We’re sorry to hear about what happened to Mr. Marford,” I said, “but we’re all concerned with making sure that the animals are still being well treated.”
“Er…right. Okay, follow me. You can’t get near the area under investigation, but the dogs have all been moved into one of the vacant stores in that strip mall. First thing, though—were all of you here yesterday during the filming?”
“That’s right,” I acknowledged.
“I’ll take you first to look in on the dogs. Then we’ll need each of you to answer a few questions.”
I’d been interrogated before in homicide investigations. A young female detective was assigned to question me. Her name was Detective Wast, and she appeared to be all cop with no sense of humor. Nor did she seem to have any love for animals that I could detect. But I didn’t have to like her to cooperate with her.
We stood outside the coffee shop in the busy parking lot, not far from the empty store where the dogs were crated. I’d seen the dogs but hadn’t had time to get close to them. I encouraged the detective to hurry so I could start walking some of them as soon as possible. I hadn’t seen any handlers or anyone else who might have been able to feed or exercise them that morning.
On the other hand, their crates looked clean, so they must have had some accident-preventing care.
“Okay, take me through yesterday, as you remember it, Ms. Vancouver. What time did you arrive here?”
Her voice was shrill, almost childlike, but there was nothing sweet about her attitude. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with short, black hair and small gold earrings in her earlobes. Her skin was pale, suggesting no makeup, which meant her thick eyelashes were her own.
I did as she asked but answered her questions succinctly, volunteering no additional information. I’d learned how to deal with this kind of situation the hard way.
“And were there any other people there besides Mr. Jefferly, Mr. Kingston, and you who were particularly interested in animals? I assume you’d be interacting mostly with them.”
I pondered that for a moment. I didn’t really want to involve Carlie in this. Though she and the director had exchanged a few harsh words, she wouldn’t have killed him.
But even if I didn’t mention her presence, someone else would. And they’d undoubtedly be less discreet about it.
“You mean besides the film crew types—the trainers and handlers and all?” I wanted to make it clear that there were others involved with the dogs in case they zeroed in on concern for the animals’ welfare as a motive to kill the director.
“That’s right.”
“Well, the American Humane Association did urge that there be a veterinarian on the set at all times. A vet from The Fittest Pet Veterinary Hospital was here yesterday.”
“And who would that be?” The detective poised her pen over her notebook.
“Dr. Carlie Stellan.”
“You mean the star of that reality show Pet Fitness?” Detective Wast smiled for the first time, and I smiled back. She might like animals after all if she knew about the show.
“That’s right,” I said.
Since she knew who Carlie was, surely she wouldn’t suspect—
“If she thought some dogs were potentially in danger, I doubt there’s anything she wouldn’t do to save them. Some people I’ve talked to said there were concerns about how yesterday’s filming was handled. I need Dr. Stellan’s contact information, if you have it.”
As soon as I could get away from the detective, I stood on the main street with a finger in one ear to ward off the sound of traffic. With my smartphone at my other ear, I called Carlie.
She didn’t answer so I left a message. “It’s about the filming of Sheba’s Story. Hans Marford was killed near where the movie was filmed yesterday. Call me. We need to talk.”
I wanted to give her a heads-up about what was going on and that she was as likely to be interrogated as I’d been. I hoped she’d return the call soon.
Meanwhile, I stayed near the crime scene. I wouldn’t look for clues or interfere in the cops’ gathering of evidence. But I wanted to make sure that Sheba, her miscellaneous poodle versions, and the other dogs were well cared for.
When I saw Detective Maddinger walking inside the yellow crime scene tape, I motioned for him to join me. To my surprise, he did.
“Yes, Ms. Vancouver? Did you think of something else to help our investigation?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’d really like your okay to take the dogs out of their crates and walk them. We humans may hate what happened here but at least we know what it was and its seriousness. All the dogs know is that something is going on, and they’re being ignored.”
“I’ve got a pit bull mix at home,” said the detective, and his usually skeptical face went all gooey. “A really nice guy, never been used for fighting, of course. Ebby is really gentle.”
Ah, another animal lover. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take advantage of that—and actually hoped I wouldn’t need to. I had no intention of getting involved in this investigation.
But realistically? I already was involved.
I made a mental note about Ebby in case knowing about him came in handy someday.
At least the detective cared about animals enough to give me an okay to help take the dogs for walks. Apparently the initial interrogation of the animal handlers was also complete, since they, too, were in the building where the dogs were crated w
hen I got there.
I threw the strap of my purse over my shoulder and borrowed an extra leash from Jerry. He, Elena, and I set off down the noisy main street with the dogs—not the quieter side street where Hans had been killed.
We passed the row of huge white trucks used to transport filming equipment. Evidently the show must go on—or at least no one had told the film crew to remove its stuff. Maybe filming would resume sometime soon. I’d heard mention of an assistant director to whom Hans was giving orders. Maybe whoever that was would take over.
“This is all so weird,” Jerry said. I’d considered him an eager young kid before. Now, his sandy hair looked askew and his long face was pale and drawn. Everything about him, appearance and demeanor, was obviously strained.
In his charge was Sheba Number One, the poodle whose name really was Sheba. I had a younger white poodle—Blanca, who was used in the puppy shots. Elena walked another adult poodle, Stellar, who was trained more for rolling over and acting scared than the other Sheba lookalikes.
“This is only the second film where I’ve been involved in production, though I’ve also worked on a few TV shows,” Jerry continued as we passed the last truck and could finally see the street. “I can’t believe what happened.”
The traffic was backed up. Was it because the restaurants and clothing and gift shops to our right were busy, or because looky-loos were trying to see what they could about the nearby death? I wasn’t sure.
“It’s an omen,” Jerry went on. “That’s what some people would say. All of us who’re working on Sheba’s Story may be doomed. Not the dogs, though. I hope.”
“Don’t be silly,” Elena said softly. “Relax, Jerry. It’s okay.” She patted his arm, and he visibly seemed to calm down.
I assumed Elena was a wannabe star like so many involved in the production—or at least she looked pretty enough to go in front of a camera. She was of moderate height, slim and busty with a smooth complexion and full, pink lips. “Whatever happened to Hans, no matter how he was killed, the only effect it’ll have on the rest of us people—and dogs—will be how our filming schedule gets changed. They’ll have to name a new director, but this film has already gotten a lot of good media hype. It’ll go forward, you’ll see. And we’ll all be fine. Especially you, Stellar.” She knelt and hugged the poodle at the end of her leash.
Wannabe actor or not, Elena appeared good at her current assignment. Stellar thought so, too. She rose on her hind legs and gave Elena a doggy kiss right on the nose.
“Maybe.” Jerry didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t seem nearly as tense as he dropped back to walk beside me. “Do you have any poodles at your shelter, Ms. Vancouver?”
“I’m Lauren,” I told him, appreciating his politeness but wanting to seem friendly to these kids. “There aren’t any poodles at HotRescues right now, but we sometimes rescue them and have them available for adoption just like all our dogs and cats. Poodle mixes, too. And every type of poodle—miniature, toy, and standard sizes of all colors, not just white like this crew. Do you know anyone who’s interested in adopting?”
That was a question I asked often in almost any circumstance. It was always fascinating to hear how many people said yes—and some even referred people to us who did eventually take a pet home. After I approved their situation, of course.
“I might myself,” Jerry said. “Assuming Elena’s right and I do survive this filming. I’ve worked with animals a lot lately since that’s where there’s been a need on some of the productions I’ve helped with. I’ve always liked dogs but haven’t had one since I was a kid. My apartment building allows pets—and I may just want to take one of these guys home with me. Especially since they shouldn’t be in any dangerous scenes now.”
“I applaud you, then.” I clapped my hands despite holding the end of the leash in one. “I understand that at least some of the dogs who’re appearing in Sheba’s Story were rescued expressly for the purpose of filming them but they won’t be returned to the public shelters—not with all the bad publicity that would generate. They’ll be needing homes when the production’s done. I may be asked to help.” In fact, that was something I knew Dante would insist on. “Maybe I can help you adopt one later.”
“Really? Oh, thank you.” The young guy stood still, grinning at me, and I wondered if I was about to get a hug. Not appropriate here, but if it helped to get a needy dog a new home I’d be glad to oblige.
Instead, he started walking again. So did Elena and I, and our three white poodles strutted in front of us. I saw smiles on faces of other pedestrians along the street and smiled back. No doubt we made a fun appearance.
“How about you, Elena?” I asked. “Do you have any pets?”
“Not right now.” She was on my other side, and when I glanced toward her she didn’t meet my gaze. I gathered that adoption wasn’t currently something she planned.
“Well, if you ever—” I began, but my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket. It was Carlie.
“Hi,” I said. “Guess where I am right now.”
“I don’t give a damn, Lauren. How could you?”
I stopped walking, feeling my eyes burn as I held my young poodle, Blanca, back with one hand and clutched the phone with the other. “How could I what?” I hated that my voice rasped, but I felt almost as if Carlie had struck me.
It only got worse—when she hit me with, “You told the cops that I argued with Hans Marford. That I could have killed him. Why would you do that, Lauren? I thought you help to clear your friends of allegations of murder, not accuse them yourself.”
Chapter 5
I was flabbergasted. Should I apologize to Carlie?
I wasn’t good at apologies. Besides, I hadn’t done anything wrong. I certainly hadn’t accused her.
I tried to tell her so. “I’m not sure who you talked to, Carlie, but if they said—”
I got no further. I realized the line was dead. She had hung up.
And I felt terrible.
I called Dante as soon as I got into my car a few minutes later, ignoring how bad I felt about Carlie and her unwarranted anger toward me.
I also ignored the crowd of people who milled around obviously hoping for insight into what had gone on here last night. Some were probably just curious. Others were clearly reporters for who-knew-which media—probably all of them, considering how many cameras were wielded. The news was never quiet about anything that could be sensationalized, and a killing on a movie set would undoubtedly keep the media jackals howling for a long time.
Dante had already heard the news. “I just got out of a meeting,” he said as I looked out my windshield to find I was being stared at. I almost wanted to shout that I was nobody and I wasn’t involved. Which in a way was only half true. “I was going to call you,” he continued. “Glad you got to me first. What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly, wishing I had some hot coffee. Better yet, something stronger.
It was mid-afternoon, so I could possibly justify a medicinal glass of wine to calm my sparking nerves. Not when I was about to drive my car, though. I just sat back in the driver’s seat and closed my eyes.
“Things got a little tense here yesterday,” I said, “when it looked like Hans was going to ease up on some of the protective measures that had been agreed on to make sure the dogs weren’t hurt, but the actual filming was executed relatively safely—although I had concerns about the last take.”
“Who did he argue with?” Dante was always perceptive. I hadn’t mentioned an argument. There hadn’t really been one. But there had clearly been some disagreement.
“No one, not exactly. But the American Humane representative and Hans faced off a little. I don’t see that as being a motive for murder.”
“Anyone else in the argument…er, disagreement?” I could almost see the ironic smile on Dante’s nice-looking face—or at least it was nice looking when he wasn’t frowning his irritation at someone who was causing him trouble or argu
ing with him. He liked being in charge and wasn’t afraid to show it.
I hated to bring up Carlie again, especially after the way she had reacted earlier. But this was Dante, my boss. And, as I said, he was astute. He might be peeved if he later learned from another source about Carlie’s presence during the disagreement. “Well…Carlie wasn’t thrilled about the direction Hans appeared to be taking. But I wouldn’t say she exactly argued with him.” I wouldn’t say that she didn’t exactly, either.
“I was actually referring to you. You’re not about to become a murder suspect again, are you, Lauren?”
My eyes popped wider. “Heavens, no!” At least I didn’t think so. I hoped not. I had never wanted to be in that position the first time, let alone a second…or third.
“Just checking. Okay, keep me informed if you learn anything. Especially…” His voice trailed off, but I knew that was a cue he expected me to react to.
I inhaled deeply as I said, “Especially what?”
“Especially if you decide to stick your nose into this situation and try to sniff out a murderer again. In fact, since I’ve got money tied up in this production, I wouldn’t discourage it. Not with your success rate.”
He hung up before I had an opportunity to shout out, “No way!”
I drove home to get Zoey. I’d left her there by herself that morning when I’d dashed off to the crime scene—after letting her outside and feeding her, of course. But she was used to a lot more attention than that.
After I changed into my blue HotRescues shirt, I took Zoey out for a very brief walk, and then she accompanied me to my shelter. We got there as fast as I could safely drive. No matter what had happened regarding the filming of Sheba’s Story, and no matter what Dante’s position was, I had responsibilities there—ones that might even help to take my mind off Hans’s apparent murder.
Of course the word was out. When I walked into the welcome room, Nina was behind the desk. “What happened, Lauren?” She stood and looked at me with concern. Zoey dashed over to say hi and Nina knelt briefly to pat her, still watching me with sympathy from beneath her straight brown bangs.
Oodles of Poodles (A PET RESCUE MYSTERY) Page 4
