Oodles of Poodles (16 page)

He smiled as he turned and began walking along the row of cars toward the path to the studio lot. Quite a few other people seemed to have arrived at the same time, and we headed toward the crowd.

“I’d better watch out or you’ll leave HotRescues and take a job with American Humane,” Dante said.

I snorted. “No worries about that. I’m perfectly happy with what I’m doing. But this is a nice diversion. And, by the way, I’m still spending plenty of time at the shelter. I did an adoption yesterday and there are others that’ll come first thing next week. Then there’s the dog named Hope, whom we just rescued. I need to talk to you about her. And how we should handle any of the poodles and other dogs from this film who aren’t adopted by the cast and crew. And—”

Dante laughed, raising a hand into the air to silence me as we reached the wide, crowded pathway. “I get it. We’ll talk. But not now.” His hand turned to wave at a man who approached from the opposite direction from the flow of people. The crowd appeared to part like the Red Sea in Moses’ story in the film version of
Exodus
, then converge again behind the guy.

He didn’t look especially powerful. But he held out his hand to Dante as the two men met face-to-face.

“Hi, Morton,” Dante said. Which made me both freeze and think,
Of course,
at the same time. This medium-height, medium-built man in a beige shirt and black vest over blue
jeans didn’t look like a studio mogul, but he had to be Morton Lesque, the renowned CEO of Solario Studios.

I could have crowed in delight about meeting him today, right here, in a situation where it wouldn’t look like I was a nasty media person or stalker or anyone else he’d want to avoid…yet. But he was the ideal person to ask about the studio’s intentions regarding the potential filming of
A Matter of Death and Life
.

“Dante, welcome. Glad you decided to come. I know you’ve met Mick Paramus, but seeing him in action on set will reassure you that he’s the right director to replace poor Hans on
Sheba’s Story
.”

I thought about clearing my throat, or perhaps tripping Dante as the men started going with the flow of pedestrian traffic onto the lot. I wanted an introduction.

But I needn’t have worried. As always, Dante did the appropriate thing. “Morton, have you met my usual representative for the shooting days? This is Lauren Vancouver, the excellent administrator at the private animal rescue facility I founded, HotRescues.” I smiled across Dante’s chest toward the other man.

“How do you do, Lauren?” Morton said politely.

“And Lauren, this is Morton Lesque, CEO of Solario Studios.” As if I didn’t already know.

“Delighted to meet you, Morton.” We were a bit far apart for me to offer to shake hands, but that was all right. I didn’t mind having Dante as our intermediary, at least for now.

The scene today was to be shot in an inside studio location, and Morton led us to a vast structure that paralleled two other similar ones in the lot’s center. The headquarters
building was close to the parking lot, and other structures I couldn’t identify were located in organized proximity to one another. I of course recognized those I’d visited before, including the one in which the luxurious dog kennels were located.

Not everyone in the crowd we’d walked in with converged on that building, but a lot of them did. We entered first. Obviously everyone here knew the hierarchy. Morton probably trumped all others present, with Dante coming in a close second.

And me? Well, good thing I was in such august company.

“I checked the set a little while ago,” Morton said. “You might like it, or maybe not.” He was looking at me as we walked along a wide corridor. “The scene to be shot today is when the Millie Roland character has been hunting for the stray dogs she saw on the streets and learns they were captured by the public shelter. All their lives are in imminent danger, and she finally finds them and promises to save them. It should be a real tearjerker.”

“Sounds that way,” I agreed. We stopped in front of a closed door. The sign over it read
FILMING IN PROGRESS
, but it wasn’t lighted. I suspect that its being lit wouldn’t have stopped Morton anyway, but he opened the door and motioned for us to enter.

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 myself 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.