Oodles of Poodles (12 page)

Her expression looked bleak beneath her bright red hair. “Yes, some, I think. But not all of them.”

I gave her a reassuring look. The more people who knew of my intentions, the more likely it was that they would come true. “What you all do is shoot great films. What I do is to find new families for homeless pets. If I’m given the go-ahead when the shooting is done, I’ll make sure they’re all taken care of.” Assuming that they’d all be considered
owned by the production company, which could do an owner relinquishment to HotRescues. We’d work that out somehow.

“Really? Oh, Lauren, that’s wonderful!” Her smile was enormous, and she gave me a hug, which I returned. There was a lilt to her step as she walked to the front of the truck and got in.

I decided to head for that burger joint that had smelled so good. But I wasn’t only going to grab lunch there. I figured other people from the set wouldn’t be able to resist any more than I could.

I’d join them—and engage them in conversation, I hoped, about Hans.

I left the area cordoned off for the shoot, waving to the guy wearing a security uniform. I wasn’t sure if that was the same person I’d shown my ID to before, but I’d probably want to get back inside later. It wouldn’t hurt to stand out a bit as someone who’d already passed muster.

The aroma of those grilled burgers met me again as I got closer to the hamburger joint. When I got inside, I looked around. It was one of those places where you ordered your food, got it on a tray and paid for it, then sat down. The decor was a bit cutesy for me—pictures on the wall were caricatures of smiling and dancing burgers—but the crowd suggested that the food was as good as it smelled.

I recognized a lot of the patrons occupying its tables. Fortunately, it seemed large enough to accommodate a substantial crowd. And that crowd included one of the people I especially wanted to speak with: Mick Paramus’s assistant.

I stood in line and got my burger, keeping my eye on my target. She was busy chatting with others at her table. I was
delighted to see a couple rise and depart, leaving empty seats. I headed there as soon as I could.

“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 and 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.”