Oodles of Poodles (10 page)

At least I didn’t have to wait long before our overnight security guru, Brooke, arrived.

I realized that I’d subconsciously planned for Zoey and me to wait till she got here. I needed to talk to the former P.I.

Even more, I wanted to talk to her significant other, Detective Antonio Bautrel of the LAPD.

Brooke popped in right on time, at six o’clock. Zoey and I went to greet her in the welcome area.

Brooke looked bright and energetic and happy, the way she usually did these days despite her earlier health issues. The narrowness of her face was pretty, not gaunt, and her highlighted brown hair created an attractive frame for it. She wore a uniform consisting of a traditional black T-shirt that read
SECURITY STAFF
over matching black jeans.

She’d brought her golden retriever Cheyenne, and Zoey hurried over to trade sniffs.

One look at me, though, and Brooke’s smile fell into a concerned frown. “What’s wrong, Lauren?”

“Any possibility of Antonio coming to see you this evening?”

“He’s on his way. Is there a police matter you want to discuss with him?”

I motioned for her to follow me to the small kitchen, where I handed her a bottle of water from the fridge and took one for myself. We returned to the small table in the welcome area where prospective adopters filled out applications. After closing the window blinds, I sat on one side and Brooke took the other. She remained patient, but her expression was full of concern.

“You know my friend Carlie,” I said. Like most people here, she now used The Fittest Pet veterinary clinic for her own pet.

“Yes. Is she—” Her phone beeped. She pulled it out and read the text message. “It’s Antonio. He’s in the parking lot.”

“Go let him in,” I said. “It’ll be better if I tell you both at the same time.”

She unlocked the door from the welcome room to the parking lot, and Antonio strode in.

Antonio Bautrel was an LAPD detective in the Gang and Narcotics Division. He must have just come from work since he was in a dressed-down suit, wearing nice trousers and a shirt but without jacket or tie. He wasn’t a traditionally handsome man, since his nose was rather large and he
had a jutting brow, but his demeanor was arresting—in more ways than one.

He gave Brooke a kiss in greeting. They broke away after several long, intense seconds, and he then looked at me.

“Hi, Lauren.” Antonio’s deep voice was breathless, edged in laughter.

“Hi, Antonio.” I smiled back. “Hey, have a few minutes? I need to run something by you.” The recollection popped the balloon of lightness around me, and I motioned for them to join me at the table.

They were both aware, of course, of my affiliation with the
Sheba’s Story
filming. They’d also both heard about director Hans Marford’s death. Antonio, like Brooke, knew Carlie socially, thanks to me, and professionally thanks to accompanying Brooke and Cheyenne to The Fittest Pet now and then.

I told them the latest about Carlie.

I also considered mentioning her earlier relationship with Hans to get Antonio’s reaction but didn’t want to make that revelation if Carlie was able, somehow, to downplay—or even hide—it. Besides, what she’d told me was probably some kind of legal hearsay, the way I understood it. I’d heard her say it, but it wasn’t my own knowledge.

“Want me to find out what’s going on with her?” Antonio asked.

“Yes,” I said in relief. “Please.”

“Then excuse me.”

Brooke and I left Antonio alone in the welcome area while I joined her initial walk-through of HotRescues for the evening. Just knowing I had someone with clout on my
side, someone who’d at least tell me what he could without breaching the official confidentiality shroud of the LAPD, made me feel better. I stopped in a few of the kennels and cleaned them as needed. I also spent some pleasant minutes hugging and playing with a few of our dogs while Brooke continued through to ensure that all looked secure.

That meant I was first to spot Antonio come through the door from the main building.

I quickly hugged the dog I was playing with, the Rottweiler mix Hale, and hurried to the pathway to meet Antonio.

“Did you learn anything?” I said eagerly. But my mood tensed and flattened just at the look on his face.

He nodded, his expression hard beneath his short, black hair, and I expected the worst.

And got it, or at least a close facsimile.

“I’m very sorry, Lauren.” His tone was formal. “Here’s the little I now know, and you’ll need to keep it to yourself. Evidence is still being collected so Carlie is not under arrest, at least not yet. It sounds as if there weren’t useful fingerprints in the vehicle that hit Marford—one connected with the filming—but it could have been wiped clean or the driver might have worn gloves. They are investigating this homicide as a probable murder. And there’s a witness who’s come forward about a relationship Carlie once had with the victim, one that apparently didn’t end well. She’s definitely at least a—”

“Person of interest,” I finished harshly as Brooke joined us once again. “But she didn’t do it.”

“I hope you’re right, but the investigation is ongoing.”

Who was the witness? How much did he or she really
know? Could it have been one of the people at The Fittest Pet who’d admitted knowing about the prior relationship—like Dr. Cyd Andelson?

Had things between Hans and Carlie been even worse than she’d said?

No. I had to trust her. I
did
trust her.

Didn’t I?

“You don’t know for sure that she’s innocent, Lauren,” Brooke said.

“Please stay out of it,” Antonio said to me. “I know you’ve gotten involved in other cases lately and had good results, but—”

“But Carlie’s my friend,” I said. “And she’s asked for my help. I promise to keep you informed about everything I learn, Antonio”—at least all in her favor—“and I’ll be careful, but—well, thanks for the info. Hey, let’s order a pizza, shall we?”

As far as I was concerned, the discussion was over.

But I had a film shoot to visit tomorrow.

Chapter 10

Filming that Thursday was to take place just down the road from where the scenes for
Sheba’s Story
had been shot on Monday. It was in the same mostly commercial area, but less of the street was available for cars chasing dogs—whether real or set to be dubbed in later.

One block was still cordoned off with crime scene tape.

This scenario was actually pretty handy for me. In situations before when I’d tried to figure out the identity of a murderer, it was unusual to get a whole group of suspects together like this. Sometimes I got to assess several at once during the victim’s funeral. On one occasion there had been a group meeting of suspects—when the victim was the head of an organization of affiliated pet shelters.

I shook my head in disbelief at the way my thoughts were roaming as I walked quickly down the sidewalk from
where I’d parked my car. I could see the line of large white trucks at the curb, surrounded by bustling people.

In a minute, I’d reached the perimeter.

“Hi, Lauren.” Dr. Cyd Andelson had approached from one side, and her smile looked relieved, as if she was glad to see a friendly face. The vet of the day hadn’t penetrated the filming area yet. Her mousy brown hair was loose, though I was used to seeing it fastened at her nape at The Fittest Pet. I also usually saw her with a clipboard in hand, but she was carrying a script. Her button-down pink shirt wasn’t tucked into her jeans.

I’d gotten used to dressing up a bit whenever possible when I’d come to a filming. Maybe it was because I represented Dante. It certainly wasn’t because I tried to impress members of the film industry with how professional I could look. Today I wore a woven beige jacket over a blue short-sleeved sweater and navy slacks.

“Hi,” I said to Cyd. “Have you seen Grant?” I figured on spending most of the day following him around—except when I got an opportunity to talk nonchalantly with people I thought could be murder suspects.

Of course, that included Grant.

“No,” Cyd replied, “but a lot of people are already gathering inside the secured filming area. Maybe he’s there.”

“Then let’s go.”

We approached the hired security guys standing at the barrier leading to where the shoot would take place. There were three of them now, but that was the only change I noted. It didn’t seem any harder to convince the guy we talked to that we were who we said we were, and that we were cleared to be present at the filming. The underlying process hadn’t
been changed despite the fact that the director had been murdered nearby. But even if he had been killed by someone not authorized to be present, tightening the screening process now wouldn’t resurrect Hans. Was anyone else targeted for murder? Since we didn’t know who’d done it or why, who could say?

It was something I’d consider as I asked my questions.

As soon as we’d gone through the makeshift gate, I saw Grant Jefferly standing nearby. Today he wore a teal blue T-shirt under his American Humane Association vest. He must have seen me at the same time, since his concerned frown as he surveyed the area turned into a huge smile that, as always, revealed his perfect white teeth. Maybe someone should cast him in a toothpaste commercial if he ever got a break from attending film sets. Even with that thought—or maybe because of it, I couldn’t help smiling back. I liked the guy, or at least what he did.

“Hi, Lauren, Dr. Andelson,” he said. “Glad you both could make it.”

“Has any filming started?” I asked.

“No. The new director has called a quick meeting for”—he looked at his wristwatch—“ten minutes from now.”

“Great. I’ll be interested in hearing what he has to say.”

We started walking along the sidewalk inside the area cordoned off for filming. There were a lot of people here, too. The first I recognized was Lyanne Shroeder. She sat on a folding chair on the sidewalk, and a couple of people were fussing over her makeup and hair.

Interesting. I didn’t think she was included in any of the scenes that would be shot today. We’d probably learn more before filming started, but I’d heard that the scenes in
today’s takes were to occur prior to the time her character, Millie, even became aware of the dog who’d become Sheba.

Since she wasn’t in a position where she was likely to run off quickly, she could become the subject of my first inquiry. I eased my way through the crowd toward her.

“Good morning,” I said.

She brushed away the man working on making her lips pout even more and looked at me. “Hello, Lauren.” She settled back in the chair, obviously assuming I was just being friendly.

“Are you in one of today’s scenes?” I now stood beside her, and the woman fussing with her dark hair gave me a dirty look as she edged toward Lyanne’s other side.

“I hope to be.” Lyanne shrugged off her peeps and smiled at me. “I told Hans about my idea—showing Millie at a store near where the escaping dogs are running—without having them meet yet, since that’s not in the script. But it could be such a poignant scene. The audience will expect that their paths will cross then, yet they don’t for months.”

“And Hans was going to film it?” I asked.

“Well, no. He didn’t like the idea. But I’m planning on making an all-out effort to convince our new director, Mick Paramus, so I figured I’d be ready.”

Interesting. A bit flimsy as a motive to kill Hans, but I made a mental note of it.

“Why didn’t Hans like it?” I asked. Not exactly subtle, but I was digging for information about any strife between Lyanne and him.

“He’s—er, he
was
—such a by-the-script kind of director. A good guy, and his films were great. But he wasn’t all that creative himself.” Her frown evidenced her displeasure,
but she wasn’t admitting to any huge disagreement with the guy, creative or otherwise, that could have led to something worse.

She’d remain in the computer file I always made about suspects, but her page would be near its end…for now, at least.

“See you in a bit,” I said noncommittally. Her assistants looked relieved when I walked away, as they could recommence their work.

Cyd hadn’t waited for me, but when I looked around I saw both her and Grant at the far end of this block. That’s where the dogs were, too—four on leashes held by the young dog handlers, Jerry and Elena; the trainer, Cowan; and the chief handler, Winna Darrion. I hurried in their direction.

The day was warmer than the last time we’d been here. I smelled a barbecue aroma in the air and realized that some enterprising local restaurant along this street must be attempting to make money by luring the cast and crew in to eat. Maybe they were using fans to make sure the delicious smell wafted around everyone.

The aroma seemed to inspire the dogs to do anything but obey commands. “Let them get it out of their system now,” Winna was saying as all four dogs strained at their leashes, apparently trying to get beyond the cordoned-off filming area. She was short, and her dyed red hair clustered in a poodle haircut of her own. The T-shirt over her jeans looked well worn, a gray tweedlike knit. “Show me where you want to go, Blanca.”