“Hi,” I said brightly, looking at the three remaining people. “Mind if I join you? I’m Lauren Vancouver. I’m a pet rescuer, plus I’m kind of acting as Dante DeFrancisco’s part-time representative for the filming of Sheba’s Story.”
They all knew who Dante was and might even know who I was, since I’d been hanging around the filming now and then. I was welcomed, and I sat down beside the directorial assistant.
“I’m R. G. Quilby,” she said. “That’s R. G., not Argee.” She spelled them out. “It’s short for Rhonda Gwen.” She spoke by rote, as if this was her standard explanation.
I got the others’ names, too, but was more interested in their roles with the filming. The guy and girl were both set production assistants, and surprisingly they both reported to the very young-looking assistant director R. G.
“Since I need to keep Dante up to speed about what’s going on with the filming,” I said to R.G., “can you tell me if it will take awhile for Mick Paramus to catch up to what Hans Marford was doing? I hate to sound crass about that poor man’s death, of course.” I watched R. G.’s face as I referred to Hans as a “poor man.” Her lips tightened, and I got the impression that she would have called him something else. “But as I’m sure you’ve all been saying, ‘The show must go on,’ and ‘Time is money,’ and all those old platitudes.”
“Mick’s smart.” R. G. took a sip of her drink as if it might contain something stronger than soda—even though the strongest they sold here was beer. “He’ll catch up just fine.” As she raised her head, her long hair flipped forward, and she used her hands to flick it back. Her nails were well-groomed, long, and polished in green.
“Great. Do you think—Okay, I know I sound like a jerk, but I’m protective of my boss.” That was pretty much how I thought of Dante. Even though I was chief administrator of HotRescues, his input—and funds—were critical. “Is Mick in any danger? I mean, what’s the scuttlebutt about who’s rumored to have killed Hans?”
I figuratively gritted my teeth, hoping they weren’t all assuming the police had the right suspect in custody.
“I don’t really know,” R. G. said slowly. “Either of you have any idea?”
The other two didn’t.
“I’m aware that they think that nice lady veterinarian is a possibility,” R. G. said, “since she argued with Hans that day before he died. But so did almost everyone around here.”
“Any one more than the others?” I asked, hoping to deflect her interest in Carlie.
“Well, the American Humane guy, Grant, for one. And he was right, the way Hans was treating those animals. You know all about that, though, if you’re in pet rescue.”
I nodded. But I didn’t want the killer to be Grant, either.
“But you know what I really think?” she said.
“What?”
She motioned me closer, obviously not wanting the others to hear. “Not for general knowledge,” she whispered, “but I was one of Hans’s assistants, too. I heard a rumor that he was in negotiations to direct another film after Sheba, and apparently the producers were also talking to someone else about the same film. He supposedly had a big fight—well, an argument—with the other director about it. But it might have turned into a physical fight, too. Or maybe the guy was mad enough to kill Hans over it.”
“Is this something you or anyone else would have mentioned to the police?” I asked her.
She pulled back, looking shocked. “I’m not in any position to say anything about it. I wasn’t involved, and, like I said, it was just a rumor. I have no idea whether anyone who really was involved said anything. Even assuming that the rumor was true.”
Interesting possibility, I thought: two directors arguing over who’d direct a new film, resulting in the death of one of them.
Sounded like a perfect motive.
Chapter 12
To my surprise, Winna was still there when the filming resumed at around one thirty. The head animal trainer hadn’t gone back to the studio with the dogs but was hanging out on the street.
I stood not far from where I’d been that morning. This time, though, Dr. Cyd wasn’t with me, and Niall and Grant weren’t around.
In fact, other than Winna, I saw no one who was particularly concerned about the dogs. Which made sense, since the canines weren’t around, either.
Metal light stands were being rearranged to aim not directly at the street, but toward the end, where a bunch of cars and vans were being lined up. So were the stationary cameras.
These vehicles wouldn’t chase real dogs, although I still assumed it would be made to look that way on screen. This seemed much better to me than the way Hans Marford had been setting things up in that last shot.
Maybe some catch-up was needed to get this production back on Hans’s schedule, but it hadn’t stopped. Not at all.
Right now, a lot of production staff milled around on the sidewalk. Some watched the setup. Others removed equipment I didn’t recognize from rows of baskets in a tall cart. Another person thumbed through old-fashioned paper files in a container that sat on the ground.
I edged my way around most of them until I reached Winna, who stood with arms crossed, staring toward the cars. “This looks like a good way to do things, doesn’t it?” I asked.
She looked up at me. Her bright red hair was askew but her expression appeared relaxed. I hadn’t really noticed before, but Winna sort of resembled old pictures I’d seen of the comedienne Lucille Ball, with high cheekbones, full lips, and arched eyebrows.
Appropriate that she would be in the movie industry, I supposed. But she was a dog handler, not an actor. “I’ll admit I’m a lot more relaxed than I was during the last filming in the Hans Marford regime.” She smiled. But then her expression grew more serious. “Even so, I hate what happened. It may mean extra box-office time for the film, but Sheba’s Story is supposed to be about saving animals and redemption. It’s not a murder mystery—although Hans’s death will turn it into one.”
I mentally shuffled the computer pages with her as a suspect to somewhere near the bottom of my file. “You’re right.” And then we were all ordered to be quiet as the filming began.
Cars zoomed past us from the end of the street. Lights zoomed in on them, as did the cameras. I watched the open vehicles in which guys holding filming equipment both preceded and followed the cars. I saw Mick Paramus on an elevated stand on the opposite sidewalk watching and moving his arms and speaking into some kind of radio set, clearly directing who did what when.
I could visualize where the poodles would be at the front of the line, dashing ahead and between the automobiles that caught up with them—digitally and safely.
That was how Hans Marford’s initial scenes had been, too, more or less. But that last one…
Well, I hadn’t wished him dead and still didn’t. But I thought his inability to direct this film now would keep its dogs safer.
The scene was going to be filmed again. The cars were apparently going around the block to be set up in the same lines as for this shot. Everyone here was engaged, even if I’d figured out who to talk to about the argument between Hans and the other director that R. G. had told me about—which I hadn’t.
Presumably, there was one less car than there had been before, when Hans was in charge of the filming—the one that had been used to kill him.
After watching once more, I finally decided it was, at last, time for me to return to HotRescues.
I said good-bye to Winna first. “When’s the next time the dogs will be involved in a shoot?” I asked.
“Not sure, but here’s my card. Give me a call and I’ll let you know.”
I had other sources to check, but I took her card anyway. “Thanks,” I said. “See you again soon.”
Going to the film set had exhausted me even though all I had done was observe. After the short drive back, I dragged myself into HotRescues but perked up the moment I walked into the welcome room.
Two people, a man a
nd woman, sat at the table under the window filling out an application.
“Hi,” I greeted them. “You’re interested in adopting?”
“That’s right.” The woman, in her twenties and wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt, smiled up at me. “We absolutely fell in love with Slinker.”
Slinker was a gray cat with a beautiful face and fuzzy coat. He’d been an owner relinquishment several months ago. Another kitty who’d been given up at the same time had been adopted a while back, and I was thrilled at the possibility of Slinker finding a home.
I looked at the guy, about the same age as the woman and also casually dressed. I suspected he was a little less in love—with the kitty—but he glanced adoringly at his companion before smiling back at me. “Can we take her home with us today?”
I glanced toward Nina, who stood behind the desk smiling. “Dr. Mona was here before. And I helped to show them Slinker in the first place.” She looked at the couple. “This is Lauren Vancouver, the director of HotRescues. She makes the final adoption decisions.”
I suspected, with the vote of confidence by both Mona and Nina, that my response would be positive. I’d need to see their completed form before I could say yes or no, though. “Why don’t you finish the application and come into my office so we can go over it? Then we’ll see.” I hoped my return smile looked optimistic, although I couldn’t assure them till I’d gone over what they said. Would the cat be kept indoors? That was a big thing. We didn’t adopt to people who wanted their cats to roam their neighborhoods and just come home to eat—assuming they weren’t made a meal of by a coyote or hit by a car.
I hurried into my office, where I was greeted effusively by Zoey. Nina would have put her in there while the welcome room was otherwise occupied by potential adopters.
My smartphone rang as I booted up my computer. I checked the number.
Matt.
“Hi,” I said, figuring he could hear the grin in my tone.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he said. “An update on Hope in exchange for making up tonight for our missed dinner. Oh, and I’m still waiting to hear about the background on Sheba’s Story. I’ve only gotten pieces of it from you.”
“I’ll agree on one condition.” I glanced down at Zoey, who sat on the floor beside my desk looking winsomely up at me.
“What’s that?”
“We go someplace with a dog-friendly patio.”
“Done. I’ll bring Rex, too.”
I looked forward to dinner for the rest of the afternoon—but that didn’t stop me from being thrilled that Slinker was going home with a really nice couple—Bob and Faye.
I enjoyed speaking with them in my office. Zoey was pleased to have more people around, too.
Bob and Faye were married, had no kids yet, and wanted to dote on a household pet. Faye had had cats before but her husband hadn’t. She promised to show Bob everything he needed to know—and he seemed delighted at the prospect.
“Slinker will sleep in our room, naturally,” Faye answered almost indignantly when I asked. “Unless he wants to sleep somewhere else. But we won’t let him out of the house.”
Good answer, I thought. In fact, all of their answers were good ones.
Which meant they left that same afternoon with Slinker, a crate, some food, and toys—from Dante’s HotPets stores. Slinker had had all necessary shots and vet checkups, and he was, of course, neutered, as all our animals were, as soon as they were old enough.
The adoption delayed my usual walk through HotRescues on my arrival. But it was worth it. And I finally got my opportunity to tour my shelter.
I smiled at everyone—staff, volunteers, and of course our resident animals, and they smiled back.
It had turned into a very good day. But would that continue?
I wasn’t sure. For one thing, I had to call Dante. There were a couple of serious things we needed to discuss. Zoey and I soon returned to my office after our walk-through and visits to a bunch of kennels and the cat house. Then, sitting at my desk, I made the call.
“Hi, Lauren,” he answered right away. “Good timing. I was planning on calling you in a while.” Which with Dante could have meant anything from a minute to an hour or two. With his fingers in so many animal-related businesses and causes, he was a busy man.
“Great. How are things in the Midwest?” I pushed a key to wake my aging desktop computer from sleep mode. I’d had a deluge of e-mails but wasn’t going to even look at who they were from till my conversation with Dante was over.
“They were resolved and I returned to L.A. late last night.”
The break-in was resolved? Nothing Dante did ever surprised me, but I had to ask, “What happened, and how did you fix it?” I leaned back in my chair, waiting for an interesting recap.
He laughed. “Long story short? The kids the cops originally found around the warehouse after the break-in hadn’t done it, but they had seen something suspicious. A homeless guy was responsible.”
“Did he take anything?”
“Some food for his dog. And this wasn’t his first break-in. I’d been worried about an inside job. Instead, it was a guy who really needed dog food.”
“Oh.” I pictured some poor, scruffy man and his poor, scruffy dog, just trying to eat. And then I pictured that poor, scruffy dog at a public shelter somewhere, about to be euthanized for lack of a good home or someone to care about him while his owner was in jail. Yes, I’ve said I don’t have much of an imagination, but when it comes to worrying about animals my mind sometimes goes wild.
Unnecessarily, in this case. “So I didn’t press charges,” Dante continued. “Instead, I gave the guy a job helping with stock at the warehouse—under strict supervision of my manager, who will also let me know if the guy doesn’t attend the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings I had him join. I also made sure he rented a room from one of the AA meeting leaders, a place where he could keep his dog. He’s required to volunteer a few hours a week at a local pet shelter. I didn’t stay long enough to make sure he was following through with everything, but I know my manager pretty well and he’ll keep an eye on the guy and report any problems to me.”
As with my imagination, I downplay any effusiveness in my personality. But I realized just then that, if Dante had been anywhere nearby, I’d have given him nearly as big a hug as I’d done with Zoey.
I looked down at my dog, who lay on the brown woven area rug I’d bought a while back so she wouldn’t have to lie on the bare office floor. She seemed to sense my attention despite having her eyes closed and her muzzle on stretched-out paws. She wagged her fluffy tail and I smiled even more broadly.
After that, my conversation with Dante returned to L.A. and the film business. I reported where things stood, including a description of today’s dog-free scenes.
“Sounds like things are progressing even without Hans,” he said. “I still want to visit when they’re filming a scene with the poodles. If you hear of any good time for that, let me know. I’ll also check with Niall.”
That provided a good opening for what I really wanted to talk about. “Great,” I said. “And while you’re talking to Niall, or anyone else involved with the production, could you check to see if they know about what Hans Marford’s next film project was supposed to be—and who the director is now?”
A pause. Then Dante said, “You’re still trying to figure out who killed Marford, aren’t you, Lauren?”
“What makes you say that?” I made sure no defensiveness seeped into my tone.
“Why else would you ask about what other projects he was scheduled for? I’m not complaining, but what precipitated that question?”
Dante was always an ally, so I told him what R. G. had said about an argument between Hans and another director over a potential upcoming project.
Dante’s resulting laugh sounded more ironic than amused. “So you’re hoping it’s this unknown director who decided to kill Marford to get him out of the picture—pun intended, by the way. Could
be. And that would be a lot better than your friend Carlie remaining a suspect, or anyone else connected with Sheba’s Story. I like it. Yes, I’ll use my connections and see what I can find out. I’ll call you either way, but I hope I can learn who that shady director is.”
Chapter 13
A couple of hours later, Zoey and I joined Rex and Matt at a cozy restaurant that served mostly Greek food. The whole place was crowded, and our dogs weren’t the only ones sitting on the concrete patio with noses in the air inhaling the delightfully spicy aromas.
I selected a Greek salad and beef kabob. Matt ordered hummus for us both as an appetizer, then chose falafel as a main course. We both decided on ouzo as our drinks, along with water.
Then it was time to talk.
“You know,” I said, “Hope is still at The Fittest Pet. I talked to one of the vets and she seems fine. I’d like to bring her to HotRescues.” I looked straight into Matt’s face. That had been a question, though it wasn’t phrased that way.
“I don’t suppose Brooke has learned anything about Hope’s origins—like whether our revered City Councilman Guy Randell was lying and actually owned a dog who looks like Hope.” Matt was dressed casually that night in a bronze polo shirt over jeans. He looked good in it. He also looked good in his Animal Services uniform. And in much less, now and then, too.
“No, and no one from the councilman’s office has called me, either, about whatever he claimed to be checking into.”
I also was dressed casually, but I’d come right from HotRescues so I wore an open navy print cotton shirt over the regular shelter staff T-shirt.
“I’ll talk to Brooke,” I continued, “but I’d imagine she’d have let me know any juicy details she’d come across.”
Matt smiled. I liked his smile. He looked handsome anyway, but there was a glint in his eyes that suggested he was fond of me, too, when he smiled like that.
“No doubt,” he agreed. “Why not check with her now to see if she’s made any progress?”
Oodles of Poodles (A PET RESCUE MYSTERY) Page 9
