by Mollie Hunt
The big woman had laughed. “Oh, you thought I meant cats for cat shows. Not hardly! I need cats who can be trained for television. Actor cats. I’ve decided to become a cat handler, you see.”
Up until that moment, I’d never heard of a cat handler. I knew there must be someone who trains those dogs, horses, rats and, yes, cats that we see on the tube, but I’d never thought about who it might be. And since the film industry had only recently discovered Portland, Oregon, it had never crossed my mind there would be any need for them here.
Not finding a good match, Rhonda went home but she said she’d be back to try again. Meanwhile she would check the FOF website to see who came available. In a few weeks, she returned to meet Tweedle and Sophocles. It was love at first sight. Tweedle became Cary Grant and Sophocles, Clark Gable. Rhonda had worked with them for a year, then put out a press release. The rest was history.
Interest in all things cat led Rhonda and me to cement a lasting friendship. That was a handful of years ago, but now as she sobbed softly in my arms, it seemed much longer. The return of the prodigal Cary Grant had vinegared the wound of his loss. Suddenly free to imagine all the horrible things that could have gone wrong, the dark scenarios crashed in on her like waves upon a coastline. Cary, though cold and hungry—not to mention miffed as a wet cat could be—was home safe. Now Rhonda could cry. And cry she did.
Still swaddled in a fleece blanket, the big red boy usurped her lap. Clark Gable sat on the arm of the couch, his back turned as if to tell his brother I don’t care that you were gone. It had been another story when Cary had first returned and Clark was all over him, smoothing against his shivering body and licking his rain-soaked fur with a barbed pink tongue.
“Oh, Lynley, thank you for coming,” Rhonda said, sitting up and wiping her eyes and nose with a Kleenex from a paisley box on the side table.
“I’m just glad we found him so quickly,” I said in all honesty, then added, “I mean, Victoria found him.”
“He was going for the food under the trailer. She said she just scooped him up and brought him in. The food was your idea.”
“Trader Joe’s wins again.”
“I should have thought of that. It’s what I clicker-trained them with after all.”
“You probably had other things on your mind.”
“What? Oh, yes, I suppose I did. I can’t believe how worried I was! I just couldn’t think.” She gave the cat in her lap a little hug. “I’ll never, never, never let that happen again! You hear me, Cary? Clark? Don’t you scare your mom like that ever again.”
“The movie people seemed supportive,” I mentioned. “Helping you look and all.”
“Some more so than others,” she retorted. “But they’re a great group,” she added quickly. “We were very lucky to get the part. It’s a real breakthrough for the boys, even if it is an independent production.”
“I’ve read all the McCaffrey & Jack books. I’m glad they’re going to make them into television series.”
“This is just the pilot. It’s still got to get picked up by the network, but it’s well-financed and I think it will be good. Gerrold is an excellent director, for all his other, uh, shortcomings. He’s a stickler for detail. Apparently he and Jason Prince, the associate producer, consult regularly with the author by Skype. It looks like he’s going to try to retain as much of the original flavor as he can.”
“He seemed a bit single-minded but that might not be such a bad thing in a director.”
“No, only for the people who have to work with him.” She chuckled. “Just kidding,” she revised; then appended again, “Not really.”
“Why? Has something happened between you two?”
“Oh, no, not exactly. I’m just tired and wrung out emotionally. He’s the director after all. He’s paid to have the big picture, and we peons are paid—much, much less—to do whatever he tells us to.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s how it usually goes.”
“In my opinion, he’s working the boys too hard. He doesn’t seem to understand they need rest. Cats can’t put in the long hours that people can.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Well, he’ll call for a shot, and we’ll get out there all ready to go, but then he’ll dink around for ages, sometimes up to an hour before he wants the cat to perform. He doesn’t realize that once they’re out of the trailer, their clocks are ticking. They don’t want to wait until he gets his shot set up. Especially after the third or fourth time in a row. Sometimes I carry them or take them in their stroller, just so they don’t have to sit in their carriers all day long. They are actors and can put up with a lot, but first and foremost, they’re cats.”
“I’m amazed you can get them to do anything at all. I’ve managed to teach Little to give an abbreviated high-five with the clicker technique, but that’s about it.”
“You should come and watch us sometime,” she said with honest enthusiasm. “You’ll be impressed, I guarantee. Come tomorrow. The call is at nine o’clock so you’d need to be here at the trailer at eight forty-five. Or better yet, come have breakfast with me in the white tent. It sounds funky but the caterers are actually very good. A hearty breakfast with all the trimmings. We can either eat there with the crew or we can bring our meal back here. I usually eat there to let the boys have a bit of alone time before their spot, but we can do whichever you want.”
She had it all thought out so how could I refuse? Besides it sounded like fun. Who doesn’t want to get a sneak peek backstage? “Okay, breakfast it is. What time?”
“Seven too early?”
“Not at all, but I’d better get going.” I stood.
Not letting loose of Cary Grant, Rhonda rose to her feet and gave me a little one-armed hug. “Thanks again, Lynley. I mean that.”
“You’re welcome. I’m so glad Cary is safe. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Picking up my coat and bag, I paused. “Did you ever find out who might have left your door open?”
For a moment, a grimace of discontent crossed Rhonda’s face, then she shrugged. “Probably just the wind.”
We said a few more farewells, as friends do, and I walked down the metal steps and out to my car. The rain had stopped—for now. Looking back, I waved. Rhonda gave a nod and closed the door. As it shut with a thunk, I heard the latch click into place.
To open a latch like that, I thought to myself, the wind must have had fingers.
* * *
It was still relatively early when I arrived home. I’d got it into my mind I wanted that pita sandwich, with or without Rhonda, so I picked one up on my way. The cats were glad to see me and reminded me it was time for their dinners as well. I refilled food bowls with dry kibbles, poured myself a ginger ale, heated my sandwich for thirty seconds in the microwave—just enough to warm the falafel balls without wilting the spinach—and plunked down in front of the TV.
As I surfed through the channels, I began to notice just how many animals there were in the various scenes: a wire-haired terrier in a sitcom; several dogs, a few cats, and a snake on commercials; rats and mice in a cop series. There were bugs and spiders as well—did insects have handlers? I supposed they did. Those things have to be supplied from somewhere, and it’s for sure the producers aren’t going down in the basement to find the creepy crawlies for themselves.
I hadn’t seen much of Rhonda Kane since she and the cats had started on the show. She had noticeably changed, and it wasn’t only the anxiety of Cary Grant’s disappearance. Those stress lines in her face don’t just appear in a few hours. I suddenly wondered if there weren’t more to this story: the open door, the innuendoes. For a moment, I started to worry, then I let it go. I’d be seeing Rhonda in the morning. Plenty of time to talk it out then. Besides, wouldn’t working on a mystery series have to be at least a bit mysterious? All those actors running around playing their arcane parts. I was probably letting my imagination get the better of me.
I cli
cked off the television and grabbed a book from the coffee table. It just happened to be the latest by Angela T. Moore, McCaffrey & Jack, Sign of the Tiger.
Chapter 5
As more people choose to keep their cats indoors-only, the use of strollers to take them out and about is becoming more commonplace. Much like a baby stroller, these lightweight mesh-enclosed carts are a safe and fun way for you and kitty to visit the world outside.
The sky was still dark when I got on the road to Sellwood to meet Rhonda for breakfast, but the clouds had fled and stars sprinkled the blue-black of the oncoming dawn. I wondered what this would do to the scene which she had mentioned was supposed to take place in the rain. Would Gerrold be upset that he’d missed his opportunity the day before? Of course this was Portland and chances were it would rain again soon.
This time I had no trouble finding the lot; the gate was open and in I went. Rhonda answered her door before I’d even knocked. I was happy to see she was all smiles.
“Come in! Come in!” She gave me a little hug and stood aside for me to enter. Closing the door behind me—again I couldn’t help but notice the distinctive click of the latch—she motioned to a chair. “We’re almost ready. Just let me get the boys situated and we’ll go down to the white tent. Did you have a good night? I slept like a log. And so did Cary Grant, you naughty guy,” she added with a pet on Cary’s tangerine head for which she received a throaty Mrow.
“I slept well too. Nothing like disaster averted to give one good dreams.”
“Oh, I never dream,” said Rhonda. “I wish I did.”
“Dreaming can be fun, unless you dream you’re being crushed because you have a ten-pound cat on your chest.”
Rhonda laughed. “Try fifteen. Cary and Clark are on the large side. When I get both on me at once, it feels like a pair of elephants.”
Rhonda scooped up Cary Grant and took him into the back room, then returned for Clark Gable. As she softly closed the door, she gave me a guilty smile. “I usually let them roam, but after yesterday, I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Do you lock your door?”
“I never have, but I think I’m going to start. This is a bigger set than anything we’ve worked on before. There are all sorts of people coming and going. I’m sure they’re trustworthy, but someone might be careless.”
“Why would anyone go into your trailer without you knowing it?”
She gave a little shrug. “Oh, lots of reasons.”
When she didn’t elaborate, I asked, “Do you think that’s what happened yesterday?”
“Probably.” She was suddenly busy washing up a coffee cup and putting it away in the cupboard. “What else could it have been?”
“The wind?”
She grinned. “No, I thought that one through after you left. This door is tight as a drum. It had to have been a person.”
“But who? Why?”
Rhonda pulled on a burgundy fleece coat and wrapped it with a heavy cashmere shawl.
“I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s go eat.”
* * *
The white tent with its rows of long tables and folding chairs reminded me of a food pavilion at an old fashioned state fair, but without all the litter and screaming children. Scents wafted through the air; I picked out bacon, apple pie, and something spicy like an East Indian curry. We were far from alone. There was a line of folks getting breakfast from a buffet at one side of the tent. Though people were scattered around the spacious area, most of them were congregated at the tables nearest the food. The only person I recognized was Grace, the costume supervisor. Today she was wearing a gorgeous vintage silk blouse and blue sweat pants. I waved to her and she waved back.
“Mornin’ Lynley. Everything well with the moggies?” she hailed over the crowd, surprisingly loud for her charming Irish manner. I suppose in show business, one learns to project.
“All good,” I called back. “Rhonda’s giving me the tour.”
Grace nodded heartily, then tucked back into her plate of eggs and green melon.
Rhonda wedged us into the line, saying hello to several folks around her. To me she advised, “Take anything you want, but we don’t have a lot of time. And you should watch the chili, it’s really spicy. You don’t want to get the poots on set, believe me.”
We pushed through quickly. I took only what I thought I could eat, half a grapefruit, a spoonful of cheesy egg scramble, and a couple of pastries that looked like they should be dessert instead of breakfast. I wished I’d had time to savor—some of the fare looked seriously tasty.
“Do you want to eat here or take it back?” Rhonda asked.
I eyed the busy, bustling tables. “Would you mind taking it back to your trailer? That way we could talk a bit.”
“Not at all. To be honest, I haven’t left the cats alone since... yesterday.”
I nodded; she didn’t have to spell out what yesterday meant.
Rhonda got trays from a caddy and we set our plates, coffee cups, juice bottles, and packets of plastic utensils into the little pre-fab holes so they wouldn’t spill on the way.
“Hold on a sec,” she said as she went to talk to the helper behind the warming trays. In a few moments, she returned with a small paper tub. “Roast chicken for the boys. Bob always holds some out before they add the spices.”
The sun was up now, and sure enough, the sky was clear as a summer’s morning. Everything glistened with last night’s raindrops shining in prisms round as pearls. We crunched across the gravel. Where the droplets burst, we left dark, wet footprints.
There were people everywhere, some walking or sprinting with driven determination to places unknown, others standing in wait. I the felt excitement in the air. A girl in jeans and Carhartt coat rolled a rack of costumes toward a large trailer marked Dressing Rooms. A pair of lanky kids draped in cables and high-tech equipment looked like Borg. An older woman with a clipboard was queuing a line of people carrying garment bags and rolling suitcases.
“Extras,” Rhonda said as she followed my gaze.
I looked at the procession which extended as far as I could see. “So many?”
“It depends on what we’re shooting. Some of those scenes take a lot of background. Remember that every single person you see on screen is a paid actor, carefully orchestrated to look like the real thing. They don’t just grab people off the street, you know.”
“I guess I never thought about it. I suppose they don’t.”
We were passing a row of what looked like shipping containers, still set on truck wheels. Flights of external stairs led up to doors at each end.
“Hey, Rhonda,” someone yelled from the third one down. “How’s Mister Grant this morning? No PTSD from his big adventure, I hope?”
I looked up to see Juno, the young camera operator, standing on the platform cradling a tan restaurant mug in his slender hands. The scent of the steam wafting into the crisp morning air left no doubt that it was coffee.
“He’s fine, Juno,” Rhonda answered. “Cats don’t take things as hard as we humans.”
Mary came out to join her partner, draping herself across his spare shoulders. “And how about you, Rhon? You doing okay?”
Rhonda made a little smile-sigh. “Yes. Once Cary was back safe, we all had a good night’s sleep. Thanks again for helping out. It means a lot to me.”
“We gotta watch out for each other,” Juno cautioned. “Especially now that...”
“See you on set,” Mary cut in quickly. Turning to Juno, she spoke in fast, hushed tones. From the little I caught, it sounded very much like she was telling him to shut up.
Rhonda waved and we walked on.
“What did he mean, we have to watch out for each other?” I asked once we were out of earshot.
She gave me a furtive glance. “Nothing, I’m sure.”
“But he made it sound so... ominous. Almost like a warning.”
“Oh,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation, “think nothing
of it. It’s just the way they talk.”
Once back in the trailer, Clark Gable and Cary Grant happily chowing down their roast chicken, Rhonda was quiet. She had produced TV trays and I was surprised at how hungry I was. Though it’s my practice to get up at what I consider a reasonably early hour for a retiree, I don’t usually have breakfast until about ten o’clock. It must have been the anticipation but I was ravenous and finished my eggs and fruit in record time.
Rhonda just picked at her huevos rancheros. The smiles were gone now, and again I saw that grimace of discontent settle on her square face.
“What’s up, Rhonda?” I asked, pushing aside my pastries for the moment. “Is there something I don’t know about?”
She gazed out the little window, then gave a truncated “Huh?”
“I can see you’re upset. What’s going on? Is it the cats?”
“The cats?” She seemed a million miles away. Then she shook her head and was back. “The cats, no. Aside from Cary’s wild adventure, they’re just fine.”
“Then what is it?”
She glared at me for a moment, then turned away and got busy drinking her coffee. “Why do you think it’s anything? Things are different now, that’s all. This is a big production, and if the pilot flies, it will be a huge one. Gerrold wants to make a sequence of mini-movies as opposed to your usual television series. Each an hour and a half, based on the books. It’s a real undertaking, and if it gets picked up, Cary and Clark will be two busy cats.”
“To say nothing of their handler.”
Rhonda sighed. “To say nothing of that.”
“But that’s great. What an opportunity! I’d think you would be ecstatic. Are you worried about it being too much for the boys? I know you mentioned Gerrold sometimes overworks them.”