Chihuahua Confidential Page 2

  “I don’t hear anything,” I told him.

  “You are not a dog,” he said matter-of-factly. He had made that statement more than once since we’d been together, and I sometimes wondered if he was just stating a simple fact or if he was being patronizing: like someone explaining a complicated theoretical formula, and when you say you don’t understand it, they say, “Well, you’re not an astrophysicist.”

  “I believe we are approaching the cause of the disturbance,” said Pepe, craning his neck forward as our limousine slowed down. “It appears to be a protest.”

  “What?”

  “Sí, a protest,” Pepe continued. “Many people carrying signs and yelling and blocking our way.”

  The limousine had come to a complete stop as it attempted to turn right into a driveway. There was a little booth at the edge of the sidewalk and behind it a barred gate. The archway above the gate read METROLAND STUDIOS. A lot of people were marching back and forth on the sidewalk, carrying signs that read NO DOG SHOULD DANCE! and STOP CANINE SLAVERY.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “It must be that damned PETA!” said Rebecca.

  “What does the Greek bread they use in making gyros have to do with any of this?” Pepe asked me.

  “It’s not that kind of pita,” I told him.

  He gave me a quizzical look.

  “This is PETA,” I explained. “People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well that is a good thing, is it not?”

  “Not in this case,” I told him. “I think they might be trying to stop us from doing Dancing with Dogs.” I turned to Rebecca. “Why are they doing this?”

  “They think making dogs dance is cruel and unusual,” she said.

  “Why would they think that?” Pepe asked.

  “I can’t believe they organized this fast!” Rebecca said.

  “Did you know this was going to happen?” I asked.

  “Oh, we started getting threats as soon as the Hollywood Reporter mentioned we were going to begin filming. These people are fanatics!”

  The chauffeur pulled as far as he could into the driveway, and we could see the demonstrators better. Most were in their twenties. Some of the young women were almost nude and had painted their bodies to make them look like dalmatians and springer spaniels. They wore dog collars around their necks with leashes dangling down.

  “I must say I like their costumes,” Pepe said thoughtfully. “You should try that, Geri. I think it would be a good look for you.”

  “I guess my publicist is worth the money I’m spending on her,” Rebecca observed.

  “You arranged this?” I asked, aghast.

  “Publicity is publicity.” Rebecca shrugged. “Look!” She pointed out the window. I saw a TV cameraman and a reporter thrusting a microphone toward the young woman whose lithe body was painted white and covered with the black spots of a dalmatian. “We’ll probably make the evening news.”

  The chauffeur was talking to the guard in the booth, and in a few minutes, the gate slowly slid open and our limousine began to ease through it into the studio.

  As we passed through the demonstrators, they shook their signs like so many leaves in a storm. The messages were weird: DOG IS GOD SPELLED BACKWARDS! and LET MY ANIMALS GO! and YOU’RE REALLY DANCING FOR DOLLARS! and PEOPLE ARE ANIMALS, TOO! and EAT TOFURKEY, SAVE A TURKEY! The strange mix of slogans made me wonder if they’d brought some signs that were left over from a previous demonstration.

  “What is a Tofurkey?” Pepe asked me. “Is it better than turkey? I very much like turkey.”

  “I’ll get you one later,” I promised him.

  The studio was quite impressive. There was a tall office building, which Rebecca explained was used for interior shots, like the office scenes in Mad Men, plus it contained the studio offices, some editing suites, and a café where we could get lunch.

  “We were lucky there was a soundstage available here,” Rebecca said as the chauffeur pulled up in front of the building. “Unfortunately I couldn’t get the one with the in-stage pool.”

  “How would we have used that?” I asked.

  “I thought it might provide a nice twist. We could have had the dogs perform some synchronized swimming,” Rebecca said.

  Pepe shuddered. He has a fear of water that he claims comes from being thrown into a swimming pool by one of Caprice’s friends.

  “The only problem is the tight schedule,” Rebecca said. “We have to be in and out of here in a week.”

  “Look, there is Caprice’s car!” said Pepe, checking out the parking lot. He pointed a paw at the red Ferrari parked in a handicapped spot.

  “Are the other judges meeting us here?” I asked Rebecca.

  “Yes, all three of them. I want to do a run-through, just to see if the setup works. That way they won’t have to come back until we start filming tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Who are the other judges besides Caprice?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ve lined up animal psychic Miranda Skarbos and Nigel St. Nigel.”

  “Nigel St. Nigel?” That was quite a coup. Nigel St. Nigel had been the mean judge on the popular So You Wanna Be a Star show for four seasons. Then he disappeared. No one was sure why, although there were many rumors.

  “Yes, we have to have one mean judge. Otherwise, the show won’t work.”

  We transferred to an electric cart to get to the soundstage. Apparently they restricted the number of normal cars and trucks on the lot—I suppose the vibrations of too many heavy machines could rattle lights and wobble cameras.

  As we rolled along the asphalt, down a narrow alley between the soundstages, I began to enjoy myself. The sun on my skin felt good after weeks of Seattle’s gray skies and constant drizzle. Puffy white clouds floated in a sky the exact color of a sky-blue crayon. Pepe seemed happy, too, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and his eyes closed.

  The soundstages resembled the hangars where Boeing builds its jets in Seattle. They were made of corrugated steel, painted dull beige, and punctuated by red doors with numbers on them. We didn’t see any other people, just empty carts parked outside the doors. One could imagine all the fantastic worlds going on inside. I would have to Google MetroLand and find out what shows were currently being filmed here.

  Our soundstage was #13. I thought the number was ominous, but Rebecca didn’t seem fazed.

  She tried the knob and it turned. “I guess one of the judges must have gotten here before us,” she said.

  The inside was cavernous. The ceiling towered overhead, laced with grids of metal and dripping with cables and ropes. The walls were painted black, which gave the impression that we were standing in infinite space. A little light came in through the open door, illuminating a swath of concrete floor that was cluttered with snaking cables, but beyond that was only a dense velvety blackness. A few exit lights glowed green. They seemed to be miles away.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” Rebecca called out. Her voice died away. She sighed, exasperated. “Where are the lights?” She fumbled around on the wall for a switch.

  Suddenly a light flickered in the darkness. Ahead of us, like an apparition, a stage appeared. The floor was a dull black, but it was surrounded by a luminous, white plastic border that cast an eerie glow in the dark space. A flight of glittery stairs, lit from underneath, led down to the dance floor between two bright red fluorescent fire hydrants.

  “Oh, it’s just as I pictured it!” said Rebecca with a little gasp of admiration. “Our set designer did a great job.”

  “I think the fire hydrants are a mistake,” said Pepe. “A dog is a creature of instinct, and when I see a fire hydrant, it is not dancing that comes to mind.”

  Rebecca hurried toward the stage, with me and Siren Song and Pepe following close behind. As we got closer, I could see that there were bleachers for the audience members rising up on either side of the stage and a sort of booth in front of the stage for the judges. A man sat
in one of the judges’ chairs, gazing out at the stage.

  “Nigel? Is that you?” Rebecca asked. He did not respond. But then no one really expected that of him. He was known for his long silences during which the contestants would squirm.

  “Wait, Geri!” said Pepe, coming to an abrupt halt. “Something is wrong! Do not go any closer.”

  Rebecca reached his side and put out a hand to tap Nigel on the shoulder.

  “I’m so honored to be working with you, Nigel,” she said.

  And then she began screaming. Ignoring Pepe’s frantic attempts to stop me, I ran forward, just as Nigel St. Nigel toppled sideways and fell into a pool of blood on the floor.

  Chapter 3

  Pepe and I knew what to do. We’d been at a crime scene before. I grabbed Pepe, who was sniffing around the corpse. I didn’t want him to get any blood on his paws—then the police might want to hold him as evidence.

  After calling 911, we went outside with Rebecca, who, after that one shriek, was remarkably calm. She was on the phone within minutes, first to her publicist (looking for a way to spin the death), then to the casting director (looking for a replacement for Nigel), and finally to the studio execs (trying to figure out if she could move the show to another soundstage).

  Pepe was annoyed. He kept telling me he wanted to get back inside to investigate. He fancies himself a PI, and sometimes I encourage him in this belief. It makes him happy, and don’t we all want our dogs to be happy?

  The truth was that I was merely working for a PI named Jimmy G while I waited for the real estate market to improve so I could go back to my old job: staging houses for sale. When Jimmy G hired me, he told me I would be a junior investigator, but it turns out you need to have four hours of training and pass a test to be a PI in Washington State. So I had settled for the title of Girl Friday and would begin the training when I got back to Seattle. Meanwhile I’d brought along my copy of Private Investigating for Dummies, hoping to have some time to study.

  I heard sirens far off in the distance. An emergency vehicle showed up first, lumbering along the narrow road between the soundstages. As it came to a stop in front of us, we saw people emerging from the buildings all over the lot. Most were guys who were dressed in jeans and T-shirts, but I also saw people in blue surgical scrubs and white lab coats clustered in front of one soundstage, and another group dressed in the clothes of the fifties outside another. I thought I recognized some of my favorite actors from Mad Men: the curvy redhead and Don Draper himself, in a shiny gray suit.

  Of course, all the productions would have to stop as the traffic of death rolled by. The people gathered in knots, smoking and talking, but stayed at a respectful distance as the EMTs rushed through the door of the soundstage.

  A few minutes later, a short, slender young man in a pair of lime-green trousers and a Hawaiian shirt came bustling up. His bleached-blond hair stuck up all over his head like a porcupine’s quills and he wore horn-rimmed glasses. He juggled a drink tray bearing two tall paper coffee cups.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, staring at the red and white emergency vehicle.

  “Don’t go in there!” I warned, but it was too late. He dashed into the soundstage. A moment later we heard his strangled cry: “No! No! No!”

  He staggered back outside, his face pasty, the coffee missing. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” he said as he slumped against the wall of the soundstage.

  “Who are you?” Rebecca snapped.

  “Rodney Klamp. I’m Nigel’s PA,” he said, bristling with importance.

  “PA as in public announcement?” I turned to Pepe, puzzled by the acronym.

  “No, as in personal assistant,” said Pepe. “It is a common term in Beverly Hills. Like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Sí! You are my PA.” He seemed mighty proud of himself. “Ask him where he has been.”

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Rodney replied. “Nigel sent me out for a couple of lattes. Oh, this is all my fault!”

  “Ask him why it is his fault!” Pepe told me.

  “Why is it your fault?”

  “Because the coffee was the wrong temperature. I told the barista one hundred eighty degrees, but by the time I got back to the soundstage, the coffee was too cold. So Nigel sent me back. But I shouldn’t have left him alone!” Rodney wailed. “It seemed so safe. There was no one else here. But I knew better.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  But just then the police arrived. First one black-and-white car with two guys in the standard dark-blue LAPD uniforms, then a gray sedan from which emerged a pair of plainclothes homicide detectives, one man and one woman. They both looked like movie stars. The woman was blond and had a long ponytail. She wore a pretty pink jacket over a yellow linen dress. She resembled Kyra Sedgwick from the TV show The Closer. The man was a Nordic type: fair hair, strong jaw, blue eyes. He looked a little like the vampire Eric from True Blood.

  “Does everybody in Hollywood look like a movie star?” I whispered to Pepe.

  “Everybody in L.A. is a movie star!” he replied.

  The coroner’s van pulled up next, and a short Asian man in a white coat got out and went inside. Soon the alley between the soundstages was filled with black-and-white cars and cops who were unrolling crime scene tape.

  A harried studio executive in a sports coat showed up. Rebecca confronted him. “If we’re not going to be able to shoot tomorrow morning, we’re not paying for the space,” she said.

  “Hey, look, it’s not under my control,” he said. “We have to wait until the police clear the scene.” He rushed off to talk to the crews and actors on the other soundstages and soon had them convinced, after some arm waving and yelling, to go back inside and get back to work.

  When he returned, he approached the female detective. “I need you to move the cars. Any noise will disrupt the productions going on here, and we have several important shows being filmed. Every minute not worked is money down the drain.”

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I can’t guarantee anything. We might have to rush someone to the hospital.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The short Asian man came out of the soundstage, peeling off his blue latex gloves. “He’s dead. No hurry now.”

  “Do you have an estimate on time of death?” asked the female detective.

  “Body’s still warm. I’d say he died within the hour—maybe during the last thirty minutes or so.”

  “Cause of death?” she asked.

  “Looks like he was shot through the heart at close range. But we’ll know more when we do the autopsy.” He went to his van and removed a plastic case and headed back into the building. “We’ve got an ID on him, but it would be great to have confirmation. Any of you here know him?”

  “I certainly did,” said Rodney, sniffling. “That’s Nigel St. Nigel!”

  “Nigel St. Nigel?” The coroner seemed properly impressed.

  “Yes!” said Rodney. “The meanest man on television.” He wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief, which he had removed from his pocket with a flourish. “He was proud of that title.”

  “Where were you when he was shot?” the woman asked.

  Rodney explained again about the coffee and his concerns about leaving Nigel. “He was acting weird. Almost as if he was expecting to meet someone.”

  “Can you think of anybody who’d want to kill him?”

  Rodney let out a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Who didn’t want to kill him? He alienated everyone he ever met! Even his parents. That contempt was not an act. He thought everyone was a fool!”

  “Even you?” she asked.

  Rodney’s face shut down. “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked. He looked about wildly as if he expected to see one in the wings.

  There probably was someone playing a lawyer on one of the soundstages, I thought.

  The tall blond policeman, who introduced himself as
Sam Scott, took us back into the soundstage to conduct interviews. All of the lights had been turned on and were blazing down on the stage and the judges’ box. Nigel’s body was still on the ground, with crime techs buzzing around it. The uniformed police officers were conducting a search, directed by the female detective. They fanned out, peering at the floor, leaving behind little yellow number markers. A photographer followed behind, snapping pictures.

  All the action stopped when Caprice appeared in the doorway. She paused a moment, framed against the bright sunlight. She was wearing a short red dress, and she had her Papillon tucked into a red patent leather bag on her shoulder. She had even changed the dog’s bows to match the bag and her red high heels. The room went silent. I swear the police photographer snapped a photo of her—was probably going to make a little extra money on the side selling it to the Star.

  “What’s going on here?” Caprice asked, strolling down the aisle.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Kennedy,” said Scott, rushing away from us and over to her. “You shouldn’t be here! This is a crime scene!”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone was murdered.”

  “Who?” Her pretty face crinkled up.

  “Nigel St. Nigel.”

  “Serves him right!” she said. “He was mean to me!” She gave the body a passing glance.

  “He was mean to everyone, darling. Don’t take it personally,” said Rodney, stepping forward.

  “Did you just arrive?” Scott asked Caprice.

  “Yes,” she said with a pretty pout.

  I frowned. Pepe had identified her car in the parking lot earlier. Perhaps he had been wrong.

  “Where’s the other judge?” I asked.

  Rebecca looked around. “That’s a good question. Miranda was supposed to meet us here, too. I hope nothing happened to her. Otherwise, I’m down two judges.” She picked up her phone and started dialing.