Inside looked a bit chaotic. Lots of people and equipment filled the periphery of the room, not unlike other sets I’d visited recently.
But its center was exactly the way Morton had described. A row of shoddy and not very clean kennels was lined up and filled with dogs, which included three white poodles.
Our timing was perfect. As the door closed behind us, I saw Mick Paramus emerge from the side of the set and gesture toward the kennels. I couldn’t quite hear what he said, but in a few minutes a scene was shot that was definitely heartrending. The character played by Lyanne dashed into the kennel area and stopped as she saw the enclosed dogs. The ones on either side of the poodles leaped at the wire doors, but the poodles just sat and looked mournful.
“I found you!” Lyanne’s voice carried since the place was silent. “I’m so glad. I’ll get you out of here soon, I promise. You’ll become my family.”
“Cut!” yelled Mick.
“Good one,” said Morton. “Let’s go talk to Mick to reassure you, Dante.”
Just like that, the filming was interrupted, and no one seemed to care. In fact, Mick Paramus seemed delighted to stop and chat with Dante—and Morton, of course. Mick’s assistant, R. G., was right behind him, electronic notepad in hand, and she, too, edged her way into the conversation.
I had little doubt but that the studio sorts would convince co-producer Dante that the show did indeed go on well despite the loss of Hans.
But suspicious person that I was, I wondered how Morton and Hans had gotten along. Was there a place for the studio executive on my suspect list?
While they chatted, I saw Grant Jefferly standing at the side of the pseudo-kennel area and wandered over. Or maybe not so pseudo. The dogs were, in fact, confined inside, at least for now.
“So are any animals being harmed in this scene?” I asked Grant in his usual American Humane vest.
He beamed at me. I smiled back, glad to see him.
But before he answered, a female voice from behind him said, “Not if we can help it.” Elena emerged with a smile on her pretty and cheerful face. She wore a Solario Studios T-shirt over her jeans. “But I need to take some of those pups for a walk to make sure they keep their environments clean.”
“I’ll second that,” Grant said. “Need any help?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Winna and Jerry and some of the others are around, I’m sure.”
“I’ll help,” I said impulsively. I’d talk to Dante later about his discussion with the director and the head of the studio, but doubted they’d be conversing about who might have killed Hans Marford. I hadn’t approached the dog handlers on that subject yet, though, so I decided to take this opportunity.
Especially since I’d also be doing something I enjoyed—taking care of animals.
I was pleased to be given the leashes of the main Sheba plus a second poodle. Elena took a third white poodle as well as a terrier mix and one that was part pug. “Here.” She handed me a couple of biodegradable poop bags.
“Thanks.”
The crowd moved out of our way as we took the dogs outside the building and let them sniff and roam and evacuate. “This is fun,” I said. “Do you enjoy working on movie sets?”
I expected the pretty young lady to say yes, but that she really aspired to be on camera instead of way behind it. I wasn’t disappointed. “I love it,” she gushed, looking at me with big, shiny green eyes. “So much that I want to do it all the time. Different aspects, too. Maybe I could learn to do what Grant Jefferly does for American Humane. Better yet—well, I’m taking acting lessons.”
“Sounds like fun. Did you think about trying for a role in Sheba’s Story?”
She looked away as if one of her dog charges had yanked on his leash. I’d seen a sad expression in her eyes first, though. “Sure,” she said, “but it didn’t work out this time.”
“What do you think of the change in directors?” This young lady’s emotions weren’t hard to see on her face, even if I couldn’t rely on my own interpretations. But she looked more pensive than anything when she turned back to me.
“I really think Mick Paramus is a better director, especially for this kind of film. And I believe he cares more about the animals and their well-being. It’s a shame, though, that the change had to be because of what happened to Mr. Marford.”
Mick Paramus versus Mr. Marford? The difference in how she referred to them suggested a difference in how she thought of them, too.
“I agree that it’s a shame,” I said. “Hans Marford was a wonderful director. And despite how much I worried about his filming of that street scene, he didn’t allow any animals to be harmed by it. I’ve nothing against Mick Paramus, but I’m wondering if Sheba’s Story might have had a better chance of excelling if Hans Marford had remained in charge.” I made that up as I went along, not really believing it—but wanting to see her reaction. She’d have discussed at least some of this with her fellow crew members, so I might get a sense of the general feel around here from her.
“No.” She almost spit the word at me. Her glare made me want to take a few steps back—only the poodles I was walking had wrapped me up in their leashes. Where had this venom come from? But then she laughed. “Okay, you’ve caught me. I was so scared for the dogs during that street scene that I’d have kicked Mr. Marford off the film if I’d been in charge. Which I wasn’t. But you’re right. It came out well for the dogs. And I bet that scene will be really exciting on screen. I really am sorry that we won’t get the opportunity to see what else Mr. Marford might have done with this film. But I’m really looking forward to it now, with Mick in charge.”
I watched two more takes of that scene with Lyanne’s character finding the dogs at the shelter. I stood beside Dante off to the side of the observing crew members, and way behind Morton Lesque who, unsurprisingly, had a prime front-row spot.
But when the crowd broke for a while, I was delighted to be invited to join Dante and Morton for coffee—in Morton’s office, no less.
I probably wouldn’t get an opportunity to chat with Morton alone, but that was okay. I didn’t need to hide my nosiness from Dante. He’d probably find it amusing—as long as I did it in an inoffensive way that wouldn’t insult Morton or Solario Studios.
Morton’s office was a penthouse suite—well, at least it was on the top floor of the five-story office building on the studio lot. We walked through his secretary’s domain and into a room that was large but sparsely furnished. Maybe that was to call attention to the glass-enclosed shelves along the wall behind the uncluttered mahogany desk.
It’s probably not hard to imagine what was on those shelves. Solario Studios was known for the awards it won for all kinds of movies. Some were emotional tearjerkers like Sheba’s Story promised to be. Others were wild, blockbuster thrillers like director Erskine Blainer’s interpretation of The Devil and Daniel Webster. In all, there were a lot of photos and plaques and replicas of the awards won by its producers and directors for a variety of films over the past fifteen years of its existence.
I noticed an empty area just to Morton’s stage right after he sat down behind the desk. Was that where he anticipated keeping awards for Sheba’s Story?
That was a premature assumption on my part, but unsurprisingly I loved the idea and script and hoped I’d adore the finished movie.
Was that empty space a reason why Hans Marford was dead? If so, who’d decided to change the production in such a drastic way?
I wasn’t going to suggest that—not directly. But after Morton’s efficient-looking secretary, who appeared even older than my mid-forties, served Dante and me coffee and chocolate chip cookies, I was ready to start my inquisition.
I couldn’t right away, though. Morton and Dante were engaged in a friendly testosterone battle over who did better running their respective businesses. I couldn’t compete—not since they were hinting at the huge amounts of money they brought in.
But at a lull in the conversation, I managed to pat myse
lf on the back another way. “I’ve had a lot of success, too, guys. I save lives.”
Dante laughed. “You sure do, Lauren.” In case Morton didn’t know who I was, Dante managed to impart to him a recap of my background, especially over the past several years as chief administrator of HotRescues.
“Then you’re just the person I’ve been wanting to talk to,” Morton said, surprising the heck out of me.
Not, apparently, Dante. “That’s for certain, my friend. So how many lives can Lauren save around here?”
Chapter 17
They weren’t, however, talking about how I might have been able to save Hans Marford. Not that I figured I’d had the possibility of doing that, either.
But it turned out that Solario Studios really did want to put a plan into effect before they had to implement it—one to ensure that the rescued dogs who played Sheba and her many film cohorts would find loving homes and happily-ever-afters once the shooting ended.
“A few of our trainers, staff, and even cast members have said they want to adopt one or another of the dogs.” Morton looked at me earnestly from beneath his straight, ebony-dark brows, which went so well with the black vest he wore. His hair was sparse, but what was left of it was also black. So were the frames of his glasses. “But we’ve got a cast of thousands of dogs.” He held up a well-lined hand. “Not literally, of course. But a dozen or more. All were rescued from shelters and trained specially to be in Sheba’s Story. Obviously for the sake of making certain our film does well and is perceived in a positive light, we have to make sure they’re not only unharmed but that they also have wonderful new homes.”
“That’s great!” I couldn’t help exclaiming, particularly since this saved me one of the conversations I’d wanted to initiate. “I’ve already been considering how to do that—assuming that was what you wanted.” If it hadn’t been, I’d have found a way to shame the studio into it. And now I could try to ensure that the assistant handler Jerry got his choice of pets. “One question to start with: Who owns those dogs now?”
If he said no one did, that they were just stray dogs who happened to be prospective film stars, I’d have to tweak his manner of thinking. But perhaps Dante had already cued him on how to address this.
“Solario Studios does,” Morton asserted without even an iota of hesitation.
“Excellent! Solario is here in Woodland Hills, which is a part of the City of Los Angeles. HotRescues is a private shelter that’s licensed in L.A., and we’re allowed to take in owner relinquishments. We can talk about it further, but when the time comes, if you want to turn over any dogs remaining unadopted to me, HotRescues can take them in and find them new homes. Please give me whatever warning you can about the timing, though. We’ve expanded our facility recently”—I smiled at Dante, who grinned back—“but I’ll still want to make sure we’ve plenty of room for whatever pups you ask us to rehome. And if we don’t, I have contacts in other good shelters who can help.”
“We sure will,” Morton said. “It won’t be far off. I don’t think our filming of Sheba’s Story is going to be delayed by our loss of Hans Marford as director. Mick Paramus has stepped right in as if he was always in charge.”
“Looks like he’s doing a good job,” Dante inserted. “At least, I was impressed this morning.”
“So far so good,” Morton agreed. “I was curious about what you’d think. I’d heard about Hans’s last day of filming, of course, and how a lot of people were worried about whether the dogs actually were being put in harm’s way.”
He was looking at Dante, but I was the one who’d been there that day. “As it turned out,” I said, watching as both men’s gazes moved from each other’s onto me, “no dogs actually were harmed. Hans Marford had promised that would be so, even while filming that last take. He claimed that all the drivers were skilled and the scene had been choreographed well.” I paused for dramatic effect—not that I was any kind of actor, nor did I want to be. “But I’m with all those people you heard from, Morton, who were appalled by the dangerous possibilities.” Now was the time to ask some of the questions that had been percolating inside me even before I had this opportunity to speak with the head of the studio. “I’d love to know who else agreed with me. Of course, I knew that Grant Jefferly of American Humane was as upset as I was. Maybe even more so.”
“Aren’t you friends with that vet Dr. Stellan who’s got her own pet-oriented TV show?” Morton asked. “I heard she really argued with Hans about it. Maybe even killed him over it.”
I groaned inside, wondering how he knew about my friendship with Carlie. In any event, that wasn’t the direction I’d hoped to go.
“I’m aware that the police consider her a person of interest.” I kept my voice level despite wanting to shout that, yes, I knew her, she was my friend, and regardless of whatever she’d felt about Hans she surely couldn’t have killed him. But notwithstanding what Dante knew or believed, I had no intention of telling this studio executive that I had unfortunately taken on an investigation into this murder to help a friend.
I recognized that my life had turned into a potential screenplay, and I absolutely didn’t want Morton Lesque to come up with any ideas in that direction.
Plus, I was the one who wanted information and he hadn’t given me anything very helpful so far.
“I think it would be a really interesting thing for Solario Studios to turn this whole fiasco into a movie someday,” I therefore continued, and I believed what I said—as long as I wasn’t involved. “In mysteries I’ve read, the perpetrator is always the last person anyone would consider to be a suspect. I know both Grant and Carlie argued with Hans about that last scene, which makes them too obvious as killers. Who else criticized him to you, Morton? Is there anyone else you know of who despised Hans, whether because of that scene or any other reason?”
Unexpectedly, he laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re a closet screenwriter are you, Lauren? You obviously have a good imagination.”
That elicited a guffaw from Dante. We’re close business associates more than friends, but he vetted me well before giving me the HotRescues position, and we’ve gotten to know each other even better over the years.
He knows that I have a limited imagination, especially when it comes to something other than pet rescue.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m sure that Solario Studios has dozens of screenwriters at its beck and call. That’s never been an aspiration of mine.”
“But finding the killer is, isn’t it?” This came from Morton, who had a shrewd expression on his face. “Don’t look so surprised. As you can imagine, I have a lot of people on the Solario payroll, and I get them to check out nearly everyone who visits the lot. Others, as well.”
Not surprising, and it might be how he knew of my friendship with Carlie.
“I’ve seen online media references,” he continued, “about how you solved murders in the past, Lauren. Are you working on this one?”
I wanted to turn into a molten puddle of goo and ooze out of the room. But I don’t shrink from adversity or even embarrassment. Instead, I pasted a too-bright grin on my face. “What do you think? Of course I am. Yes, Carlie is my friend, and I know she didn’t do it. That means I have to figure out who did. So, a couple more questions for you, Morton. The first one should be easy. Did you kill Hans Marford?”
The smugness on his face turned to shock, then anger…followed by a smile and a guffaw that echoed Dante’s. I wondered if he had ever acted. He certainly had an expressive appearance.
“No, Ms. Vancouver, it wasn’t me. Let’s see. I’ll guess what your next questions will be.” He stuck the point of his index finger below his chin and looked up at the ceiling, while I glanced at Dante.
I couldn’t read his expression, which wasn’t a good thing. He was hiding what he thought, and that didn’t bode well for me.
But surely he wouldn’t fire someone as skilled and successful at rehoming pets as I was, just because I was being a bit outspok
en here. He knew I was the outspoken type anyway.
“Got it,” Morton said. He looked straight into my face. “You’ll want to know if I’m aware of any other people who argued with Hans. The answer is yes. Next, you’ll ask who they were. Well, Hans wasn’t exactly the kind of man who got along with everyone. He was a good director, and that was what counted. The last person I know he actually argued with, though, was Erskine Blainer, because they both wanted to direct a particularly exciting upcoming film: A Matter of Death and Life. I was leaning toward Erskine anyway, and since Hans is gone, it’s clear now that Erskine will be directing it. Did he kill Hans? I don’t think so, but why don’t you ask him? In fact, I’ll figure out an excuse and set up a meeting for you.”
That turned out to be surprisingly easy. Or maybe not, considering that head honcho Morton was the one to call Erskine as we sat there.
“Oh, you’re headed toward the studio anyway?” Morton, still sitting behind his desk, grinned at Dante and me. “Yes, that’s right. You and I have been wanting to talk some casting strategy about A Matter of Death and Life and one or the other of us has always had something to do instead. But I’ve got about a half hour to get us started. Oh, and there are a couple of people I want you to meet.”
He hung up after a few platitudes and smiled even more broadly. “He undoubtedly thinks I’m going to introduce him to some people I want him to add to his cast. I’ll bet he’s already thinking up excuses why he won’t select you for those roles. Unless, of course, you’re exactly the actors he already has in mind for them.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Thanks,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to have to waste your time just so I can get an idea about his guilt or not, but—”
“We genuinely have been putting off this meeting,” Morton said with a dismissive wave. “Besides, I want to see you in action with someone you undoubtedly really consider to be a suspect. At least, I hope you didn’t really consider me to be one. And the sooner we get past all these accusations, the better.” His stare again looked cutting and even cold.
Oodles of Poodles (A PET RESCUE MYSTERY) Page 12
