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danger, I doubt there’s anything she wouldn’t do to save them. Some people I’ve talked to said there were concerns about how yesterday’s filming was handled. I need Dr. Stellan’s contact information, if you have it.”
    As soon as I could get away from the detective, I stood on the main street with a finger in one ear to ward off the sound of traffic. With my smartphone at my other ear, I called Carlie.
    She didn’t answer so I left a message. “It’s about the filming of Sheba’s Story . Hans Marford was killed near where the movie was filmed yesterday. Call me. We need to talk.”
    I wanted to give her a heads-up about what was going on and that she was as likely to be interrogated as I’d been. I hoped she’d return the call soon.
    Meanwhile, I stayed near the crime scene. I wouldn’t look for clues or interfere in the cops’ gathering of evidence. But I wanted to make sure that Sheba, her miscellaneous poodle versions, and the other dogs were well cared for.
    When I saw Detective Maddinger walking inside the yellow crime scene tape, I motioned for him to join me. To my surprise, he did.
    “Yes, Ms. Vancouver? Did you think of something else to help our investigation?”
    “Not yet,” I said. “I’d really like your okay to take the dogs out of their crates and walk them. We humans may hate what happened here but at least we know what it was and its seriousness. All the dogs know is that something is going on, and they’re being ignored.”
    “I’ve got a pit bull mix at home,” said the detective, and his usually skeptical face went all gooey. “A really nice guy, never been used for fighting, of course. Ebby is really gentle.”
    Ah, another animal lover. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take advantage of that—and actually hoped I wouldn’t need to. I had no intention of getting involved in this investigation.
    But realistically? I already was involved.
    I made a mental note about Ebby in case knowing about him came in handy someday.
    At least the detective cared about animals enough to give me an okay to help take the dogs for walks. Apparently the initial interrogation of the animal handlers was also complete, since they, too, were in the building where the dogs were crated when I got there.
    I threw the strap of my purse over my shoulder and borrowed an extra leash from Jerry. He, Elena, and I set off down the noisy main street with the dogs—not the quieter side street where Hans had been killed.
    We passed the row of huge white trucks used to transport filming equipment. Evidently the show must go on—or at least no one had told the film crew to remove its stuff. Maybe filming would resume sometime soon. I’d heard mention of an assistant director to whom Hans was giving orders. Maybe whoever that was would take over.
    “This is all so weird,” Jerry said. I’d considered him an eager young kid before. Now, his sandy hair looked askew and his long face was pale and drawn. Everything about him, appearance and demeanor, was obviously strained.
    In his charge was Sheba Number One, the poodle whose name really was Sheba. I had a younger white poodle—Blanca, who was used in the puppy shots. Elena walked another adult poodle, Stellar, who was trained more for rolling over and acting scared than the other Sheba lookalikes.
    “This is only the second film where I’ve been involved in production, though I’ve also worked on a few TV shows,” Jerry continued as we passed the last truck and could finally see the street. “I can’t believe what happened.”
    The traffic was backed up. Was it because the restaurants and clothing and gift shops to our right were busy, or because looky-loos were trying to see what they could about the nearby death? I wasn’t sure.
    “It’s an omen,” Jerry went on. “That’s what some people would say. All of us who’re working on Sheba’s Story may be doomed. Not the dogs, though. I hope.”
    “Don’t be silly,” Elena said softly. “Relax,