by Mollie Hunt
“You said had. Did something happen to it?”
“Yeah, it flew away all by itself on little birdie wings out of the records book.” Freddie glowered over the steering wheel.
“Did you get in trouble?”
“I sure did. If I weren’t such a valuable asset,” he boasted straight-faced like the man-boy he was, “I think they would have fired me on the spot.”
Freddie took an abrupt turn and headed toward an oasis of bright lights in the middle of what looked a lot like a homeless camp.
“Well, here we are, Miz C.” He pulled to a stop in front of a colorfully decaled trailer and jumped out of the car. “I’ll help you in. You and the kitties just hang out here until they call you. There’s a place for them in the back to relax. It shouldn’t be long, but you never know.”
Young muscles bulging, he grabbed the twin carriers as if they weighed nothing at all. Knocking twice and then entering, he set them on the floor and was heading back out as I scaled the steps.
“Thanks for the ride, Freddie,” I told him, “and the information. I assume I’ll be seeing you again?”
“Oh, for sure, Miz C. I’m always around.” He started for the car, then stopped and turned to me. His young face was grim. “What we discussed just now?” I nodded. “It’s fine with me—I won’t spread it around that you were asking or anything. But I’d be careful about who else you talk to. Something’s going on here, and I don’t think it’ll stop until we catch whoever’s doing it or...”
“Or what?”
“Or she gets her way and the show goes up in flames.”
Before I could reply, Freddie was back in the smart car and pulling away. I watched the little red tail lights disappear around the corner with far too much weirdness running through my mind.
Chapter 11
Cats seem to know when you are looking at them. They may come out of a sound sleep just to give you the stink eye for waking them up with your unwanted stare-vibes.
At first I thought I was alone in the big trailer, then I caught a rustling from the shadows and a few choice swears.
“Hello? It’s Clark Gable and Cary Grant. And Lynley,” I added, almost as an afterthought.
“Lord give me strength,” announced Grace, stepping forward and disentangling herself from the chaos of costumes hanging along the wall. “Dornie said he’d be gettin’ this iron fixed yesterday, but now it’s all hinkey again. However can I work like this?”
Grace was dressed like a jumble sale and I saw why she had blended so well with her surroundings. On top she wore at least three layers of sweaters in various weights and colors crowned by a flamingo pink Columbia Sportswear vest. Her lower half was draped in a tapestry skirt, and on her feet she wore gum boots.
She blinked moss green eyes at me as if I might hold the answer, then she broke into a smile. “But you’ve brought my lovely moggies, haven’t you? Here.” She shuffled in between a curtained dressing room and a short couch piled high with clothing to a set of Dutch doors with a Private sign affixed to the bottom section. “This is where you’ll be keepin’ until their call.”
She pulled the doors open, revealing a cozy furnished room about the size of a large closet. In fact it probably had been a closet when the trailer was designed, only becoming a kitty boudoir as the need arose. The carpeted floor was strewn with cushions, a few of them large enough for human use. A covered litter box sat discretely in one corner and a food station in another. A bank of shelves held an assortment of kitty essentials. I picked out grooming items, a basket of toys, and even a few books on cat behavior for the cats’ human custodian. There was a row of small windows along the wall, deep blue curtains drawn against the dull day. A single ceiling light shown a quiet, homey glow.
The Dutch doors were new and I’d never seen ones quite like them. Where most double doors are of equal size, this one’s lower part took up about two thirds of the space, leaving a smaller square above. I guessed the extra height was to dissuade the cats from jumping over. A good idea but I couldn’t help but wonder just how effective it really was.
Clark Gable and Cary Grant were more than ready to escape their confinement and settled into the plush closet as if they knew the place well, which they probably did. With only a minimum of inspection, sniffing, and marking their territory with cheeks and paws, they curled up together on one of the pillow beds to rest before their debut. I’d closed the bottom section of door, leaving the top open, and made myself comfortable in a soft corner with a book of obscure cat facts.
After a few minutes, Grace came over and leaned on the jamb. “They really are so lovely,” she commented, gazing admiringly at the sleeping boys.
“Yes, they are. And so easy to work with. Rhonda has done such a good job with them. Cats aren’t the easiest to train, as you can imagine.”
“Oh, I’ve had my share of moggies,” Grace reminisced. “From kits to the old ones. Loved them all. But train them? Not a chance!”
I riffled through the day pack and pulled out the clicker, the leashes and halters, and a can of fishy treats.
“Tricks of the trade?” Grace commented.
“I suppose. They seem to work for Rhonda. I hope they do as well for me.”
I located the specially-made teaser toy with its collapsible wand and extended it to its full length, a good three feet. Twitching the thin dun-brown ribbons to get the feel of it, I suddenly had two cats front and center, yellow eyes intent on the quivering strings.
“Wow! That works,” I commented.
Grace nodded. “And the neutral color is easy to edit out if it shows up on film. There should be some other ends for it, in that pocket there.” She gestured a wrinkled finger toward the side of the pack. Unzipping the pouch, I discovered a handful of creatures: a tiny mouse, a multicolored caterpillar, a puff of green feathers, and a few I couldn’t identify as anything but alien. “They clip to the ribbon. Each one lets the cats know to do a different thing.”
A page of yellow paper accompanied the little zoo and I began to read out loud: “‘The worm is for jumping, the mouse for chasing or running, the black flitter’—that must be this.” I held up what looked like a snarl of black yarn. “—‘is for getting them to stand on their hind legs.’ This is really detailed. I wonder if they’ll need all these different things? Yesterday was so easy—all they had to do was sleep and sit.”
“You’ll be fine. Now I’d better be gettin’ back to my chores. Mr. Ray needs a dry jacket for the next scene, though I don’t know how I’m supposed to be dryin’ it without the iron.”
Grace disappeared from the door and I could hear her rummaging—and swearing—her way through the pile of costumes.
“This will never do,” she said finally. “I’ve got to step out for a minute, dearie,” she called. “There’s a hair drier in the stock kit.”
“Okay, I’ll be here.”
Footsteps crossed the room. With a gust of cold spring air, the door swung open and for a moment I could hear yelling and piercing screams from the set outside, then the door clicked shut and the silence resumed. I lay back against the pillows, closed my eyes, and before I knew it, was fast asleep.
* * *
“Cats!” someone shouted into my dream. “Ready for Jack!”
I stumbled to my feet, still in a sleep daze, and gently picked up Cary Grant. “What do we need?” I asked the PA who was standing in the doorway looking more impatient than I thought was really necessary.
“It’s a long shot. Didn’t you read your call sheet?”
“Yes but I wasn’t sure what all the abbreviations meant. I’m new at this, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, whatever.”
Ray Anderson poked his head in beside the grunt. The right side of his face was covered with blood. “I’ll take care of this,” he told him.
“Yes, Mr. Anderson, of course Mr. Anderson.” The guy melted away like a snowflake on fur.
“Thanks, Mr. —uh—Ray,” I told
him, trying to keep my eyes from the grisly stage makeup—it looked so real! “I’m still trying to get the hang of things.”
“No problem, Lynley. The cats know what to do.” He smiled and I felt a little less like an impostor.
“That Cary Grant? Good choice. Rhonda usually pulls Cary first. He’s really the superior actor—don’t tell Clark—but he burns out fast. Clark’s better for the long haul.
“The guy said this was going to be a long shot? Should I take Clark instead?”
“No, long shot doesn’t mean it’s going to take a long time to shoot; it’s the camera view, the opposite of a close-up. This is an action shot of Jack running across the set from A to B. In the scene, he’s running to get help because McCaffrey’s been knocked out by the villain. Take off his collar and get him in his camouflage harness, then you can carry him out to the set.” He looked over the accouterments I had spread out on the floor. “Bring the wand for sure, and that little spray bottle. That’s Rhonda’s special formula to attract the cat. Not certain what else you’ll need.”
I picked up the little brown bottle and read the label which just called it “Kitty Mist.” I grabbed the wand with a few different ends, then added the treats pouch as well. Stuffing everything into my coat pockets, I asked, “Won’t the harness show when it’s filmed?”
“They edit it out in post-production. This is a noisy scene, so better safe than sorry. See you there,” Ray said with a wink.
Once Cary Grant was harnessed in a red-orange camo halter that was a near-perfect match for his fur and I’d clipped the thin black leash to the loop, we hurried on down to the set. They had chosen a clearing ringed by scrub oak on one side and a marsh of cattails, their new spring shoots prolific among last season’s dead brown heads, on the other. Several banks of bright high lighting with two main spots rigged to the platform of a tall scissor lift lit the place up like daytime. A pair of ginormous white sheets reflected the luminosity into every corner and crack. Offhandedly I wondered, With all that artificial brilliance, what was the point of having the shoot at night?
Ray took his place lying on the cold wet ground—in other words, reclining on a neutral-colored foam mat. He propped his mangled head on his elbow, his smile completely negating the impression of the severe and debilitating head wound.
Gerrold and Jason Prince were busy giving Mary and Juno blow-by-blow instructions for cameras. Mary caught my eye and gave me a thumbs up. I reciprocated, then stood back and waited for my cue.
And waited.
And waited.
Cary Grant, to his credit, lay in my arms without so much as a fidget, which was more than I could say for myself. I loved holding him, but to be honest, he was a big cat, and soon enough my back was cramping and my arms were getting tired. At least they were filming now—a few times I had to move to this side or that to keep from showing up in the frame—but so far, no Jack.
Looking around, I recognized one or two people from the cat hunt but most of the crowd were strangers. I was amazed how many people it took to make this one little scene, and how long.
Eventually I sat down in an unoccupied folding chair and zoned out, musing on the tomato plants I’d started in my upstairs window and what other vegetables I wanted to plant once the season began to warm. Hot peppers, Japanese eggplant, and maybe a few zucchetta squash. Those could all be set out when the rains had past. Zucchetta is a wonderful summer squash that grows long, spiraled fruit. They are far better tasting than zucchini which tended to be watery and bland. Zucchetta had a meaty, robust flavor, but each plant took a huge space in the garden. If I planted them next to the wall trellis and let them climb upward...
“Lynley!”
“Huh? Oh.” I came out of my reverie with Gerrold standing big as life in front of my face.
“Come,” he said heavily.
I fell into step behind him as he escorted me into the set and over to Ray Anderson. “Jack begins at McCaffrey’s head, or thereabouts. He stands for a moment, looking at Mac, then turns and hightails it across to B.” Gerrold pointed to a girl with a clipboard standing on the sidelines. She waved and I waved back.
“Um, what do I do?”
He gave me a pained look, but answered frankly, “You’ll run with him, in the shadow, about here.” He took me to a spot some three feet back. “Keep the leash as taught as possible without inhibiting his gait. Got it?”
I nodded, now seeing why the harness had side loops as well as the normal one between the shoulder blades.
“You have the Kitty Mist? When I call background, give Ray’s hair a spritz. Right here.” He leaned down and pointed to the big man’s temple, near where the fake blood glowed crimson red.
“Just a bit,” cautioned Ray. “It doesn’t take much and I don’t want to come away stinking of rancid sardines.”
I pulled out the small bottle and held it up. “Ug, is that what it is?”
“It’s a complex mixture of special scents that allure cats,” explained Gerrold. “I had it imported specially from Australia.”
“Smells like sardines to me,” muttered Ray.
“Just keep your eyes on me, Laurie,” Gerrold commanded.
“It’s Lynley,” I said under my breath as he returned to his director’s chair and perched, tense as a cat about to pounce, amid the tiers of mobile movie paraphernalia. Holding up his left hand, he let it hover for a moment in the air, then dropped it.
“Rolling,” he called.
“Rolling, rolling,” voices echoed as a kid ran out in front of the camera with a digital clapper board and slapped the top down.
“Background.”
Suddenly the set was teeming with homeless people—the extras I’d seen back at basecamp. I reached down and gave Ray the tiniest spritz of scent. Cary Grant instantly perked up sniffing.
I glanced at Ray who was now lying helpless with a look of sheer agony on his bruised and bleeding face. Turning back to the director I watched for his signal; when it came a moment later, I placed Cary by the hapless detective and stepped back to my mark.
“Action!”
It was magic. Cary sniffed at Ray with all the concern of Lassie down the well. Gerrold was making go motions so I pulled gently on the leash and started running. Cary paralleled me, giving it all the gusto of a fleeing cat. We ran as a single entity to the girl offset. He was perfect and to my mind, it couldn’t have gone better.
As I was congratulating myself and Cary, I heard Gerrold yell, “Cut!” then “Back to One!”
I looked questioningly at the girl. “Back to One?”
“Yeah, that means go back to where you started so they can shoot it again.”
“Again?”
“Sure. They never get it in a single take.” She reached down and smoothed her hand along Cary Grant’s luxurious fur. “You work for your money, don’t you, kitty cat?”
I scooped Cary up and trudged back to one. Ray gave me a wink, then rolled his eyeballs up into his head and stuck out his tongue. I couldn’t stifle my laughter at the actor playing dead. Maybe show business wasn’t for me, but it was certainly a unique experience, one I should relish for as long as it lasted because it would likely never come again.
We went through the scene three more times before Gerrold deemed the long shot passable and twice more while Juno, camera strapped to his chest in a complicated and heavy-looking rig, got some of that jerky hand-held footage that makes the viewer feel like they’re right in the center of the action. As they prepared for the next scene, I took Cary back to the trailer and put him in the cat closet with Clark who was still sleeping on his pillow. Clark slit one golden eye at me, then slipped it closed again with a small kitty sigh.
This time I checked out the schedule. The movie shorthand didn’t make much sense to me, but if I read things correctly, it was more of the same: Jack running for help; Jack running back with help; Jack running, period. I wondered if I should switch cats and was mulling it over when I heard a deafe
ning crash outside on the set.
People were shouting wildly. There were shrieks and a bloodcurdling screech that brought my heart pumping. What new horror has the hexter wrought now? was my first thought as I ran to the door. Looking back to make sure the cats were secure, I flung it open, cringing against the disaster I was convinced I would see.
The set was in chaos, but not the sort I had anticipated. The cameras were rolling; Gerrold was gesturing wildly. Then he yelled his “Cut—back to One.”
It was the most amazing thing. The chaos cut off instantly, mid-scream, mid-run, mid-shout, leaving only the mumble of the extras as they paced back to their various starting points. The pair of upended dumpsters that had made the crash, a thunderous racket which would be even more thunderous after the Foley artists got through with it, was reset by the crew.
“Rolling!”
“Background!”
“Action!”
And the pandemonium took up all over again.
I returned to the cat closet and sat down with the boys. “You’ll never guess what I just saw,” I told them. “But then you’re used to this place. You don’t even bat a pretty eye, do you?”
Cary Grant blinked innocently; Clark Gable slept on.
Chapter 12
Some cats enjoy grooming each other, most often cats who are related or who get along well together. Grooming is a calming behavior and may be identified with a mothering instinct, though allogrooming* is also seen in male cats.
*Allogrooming is social grooming between members of the same species.
Before I got two pages into a fascinating behavior book by cat whisperer Ramona Marek, there was a knock on the door. It edged open but not enough for me to see who was on the other side.
“Back to the set,” said a male voice through the crack. The door eased shut again and he was gone.
“Well, Cary,” I said, giving him a quick brush down and a much-deserved treat, “I’ll swap you out next time, I promise.”
Clark Gable was still sleeping on the pillow. Kitty dreams! I sighed to myself as I hefted Cary across my shoulder and trudged to the clearing.