Deadly Dues (29 page)

“Oh well,” I shrugged. So much for impressing Brad Saunders with my great fame.

She was elbowed aside by a woman who must have been ninety years old, ninety pounds, with ninety thousand wrinkles on her face. I recognized her as a famed millionairess known for her outspoken opinions.

“You! Lulu Malone! How dare you!” she shrieked.

I thought this was bizarre behaviour from somebody to whom I had never been introduced. Diana was hopping around behind her, making gestures that indicated she was a big source of money for the fundraiser, so I dimpled and listened.

“How dare you make those gawdawful commercials?” she shrieked again, loudly enough that heads turned across the room. “They are an insult to dog lovers. That revolting song! That dog who can't act!”

The last sentence hurt, and I was about to respond when Diana, sensing trouble, as she knew I was loyal to Horatio, elbowed her way between Brad Saunders and me, oozing charm. “Oh, Emily, we are so glad to hear you say that. Perhaps Lulu will mention your comments in her speech. You are so important to the animal and arts community.”

As she was dragged away by Diana, Emily looked over her shoulder, obviously wanting to have at me for another few rounds (not that I was contributing in any way to the exchange). An understandably awkward silence fell between Brad Saunders and me.

Without a word, we helped ourselves to the shrimp and avocado tapas, the cheese and olives, the smoked salmon and the chilled cucumber dip. The hot food steamed at the other end of the buffet, but I wasn't inclined to brave the crowds to get there. I was grateful that Saunders didn't abandon me after the last exchange. Instead, he concentrated on his shrimp and lifted two more glasses of wine from a passing tray, handing one to me.

The string quartet was now playing a sprightly classical version of “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?”

I used those moments to contemplate the fact that I was driving a beater, had been fired from McDonald's, was wearing thrift store clothes, and was the star of the evening, surrounded by people who had no idea of my real situation.

Then I heard the dreaded sound. “Doggie Doggie Bow Wow!” Two of the young caterers, in their white shirts and white hats, had paused at the table beside us, their arms laden with platters of shrimp, lemon and avocado. Much as I usually dreaded these words, the two kids sang in perfect pitch. They were probably acting students moonlighting as catering staff.

Again, “Doggie Doggie Bow Wow.” They executed a little bow at the end, in homage to me, I guessed, which brought a genuine smile to the face which so far had struggled to keep from crumpling.

“You're fired!” Diana hissed at them from behind me. “I'm telling your manager that you should never work another event. What an outrageous display. You're catering staff here. You don't sing!” She hissed the last word as if singing were a crime against humanity.

“Oh, Diana,” I said sweetly, putting my hand on her arm. “I begged them to sing my song. They didn't want to at first, but when I insisted, they gave in.”

Her lips vibrated for a few seconds, undecided.

“Oh. Okay.” She moved toward the bar, then turned back. “But no singing unless you're asked, right?” This asserted her authority.

The two kids shook their heads, wide-eyed and innocent. One of them winked at me as they turned back to their duties, shovelling dip into a huge bowl.

I turned back to Brad Saunders and found him beaming at me.

Before I could continue my conversation with him, my name was announced over the sound system, and I was called to the stage, where I gave an impromptu but (if I do say so myself) charming speech on love of animals, love of the arts and the joy of involving both in your life. It was brief, but okay, and I moved back into the crowd amid applause. I smiled, thinking that if I had had the nerve, I could have made a pitch for helping out destitute actors like myself, but decided it was not the classiest thing to do at a fundraiser I was hosting.

I was accosted by fans, would-be friends and strangers. I thought I saw Ryga across the room with a tall, beautiful blonde, but decided I was hallucinating. Habim appeared before me with a striking brunette, whom he introduced as his wife, Mimi, a stockbroker. Mitzi wobbled toward me on her highest stilettos and we exchanged kisses, and then the handing over of the BlackBerry, which she almost kissed before putting it into her diamanté clutch.

To my horror, Hal Shapiro lounged across the room, with a glass of wine in his hand. He waved at me and continued his conversation with a couple who were well-known philanthropists. Brad Saunders was nowhere in sight. Perhaps my speech was not as charming as I had thought.

As I worked my way to the door, and then the elevator to the parking garage, the string quartet was playing a sombre version of “Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”

• • •

When I got home, I was exhausted. Dealing with dog dilemmas in real life, while trying to coax money out of animal lovers, was taking its toll on me.

I collected Horatio from Mrs. Lauterman, thanking her profusely, and led the sleepwalking Horatio back to his favourite cushion.

I climbed the stairs, each one seeming like a step up Everest, ran a sea salt, lemon and chamomile bath and settled into thought.

My mind was like a jackhammer—no noise but just as annoying with its repetitive questions.

Who had killed Stan? Who had sent Zonko to assault me? Who was in cahoots with the garden gnome? What did Zonko want (probably the key, but did I know that for sure?)? Who had moved Stan's body? And why? Why did Sherilyn want the key so badly? Why had Stan given it to me, by accident or by intent? What was going on with Mitzi and Stan? How was poor Alphonse going to get by in life? How much was therapy for Horatio going to cost me? Would I ever get another gig? Was Hal Shapiro going to call his parents and tell them I was a borderline criminal with a troubled dog, a penchant for dumpsters, and a nasty group of associates? Would they tell my parents, and then would my parents fly in and camp out in my condo until I cried uncle and joined a convent?

By this time, I had crawled into bed. I didn't bother with the marbles tonight. If an idiot like Alphonse could break into the house, any moderately gifted criminal could. I folded the rolling pin to my chest and decided I would just play it by ear.

Each day brings its own wondrous astonishment. This morning, my happy surprise was that nobody had tried to break into my condo and kill me. I am grateful for every blessing, and this deserved a few moments of meditative silence, big-time.

I lifted the covers and acknowledged the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Then I felt the pain of the rolling pin wedged into my armpit (damn, how did that happen?) and happily noted the faint doggie smell (correction: not so faint, change to overwhelming) emanating from Horatio on the floor at the foot of my bed.

First thing today: take Horatio to Puppy Spa, where in half an hour the competent staff could accomplish a task that would have cost me five hours of cursing, praying, bribing and getting totally soaked in dirty doggie water. Puppy Spa was not cheap. Luckily, I had a VIP account (due to the fact that the staff adored Horatio and viewed him as the star of the Bow Wow commercials and me as his lowly sidekick) and could make monthly payments. I would have to live on macaroni and cheese dinners for weeks and get temporarily fat and sluggish, but Horatio would smell better. I had a lot of problems, including being nearly knocked off by various unknown assailants. Being taken out of action by doggie B.O. was not high on the list, but at least it was a threat I could address.

I hauled myself out of bed and turned on the Food Network for Horatio. He settled on the floor in front of the TV, entranced. I made strong coffee and inhaled it, along with a pear that was just about to see the Pearly Gates. Then, more momentously, I turned off the television and lugged Horatio (although it would be more accurate to say I bribed, tempted, lured, cajoled and begged him) into the car. The trail of dried garlic flakes was my last resort, and it worked.

His eyes were brighter now, and he was almost his old self. All that garlic sautéeing on the Food Network had really perked him up. His tongue slurped my cheek, and part of me wanted to kiss him, while the other part of me wanted to throw up. This puppy needed a bath, big-time.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up at Puppy Spa. Lonnie and Chan helped me roll Horatio, protesting all the way, into the spa waiting room, where they immediately sprayed him with doggie aromatherapy mist.

“We have a new scent,” said Lonnie, a four-foot-eleven dynamo with the strength of a big-time wrestler, her white blonde hair in gigantic spikes. Her hair shifted with the mood of her clients, so I guessed she had had a few ferocious ones in the past few days.

Lonnie and I got on well. She always made Horatio a better, happier dog. On sultry summer days, we often went to a nearby wine bar and talked dogs and men. At times, we got confused and didn't know which breed we were discussing. But it was always fun.

“Dog House Nirvana.” She sprayed some in the air, and I ducked. It smelled like—I don't know—too much dog. Waaay too much dog. Mixed with cinnamon, cloves and fennel.

Horatio sniffed it, made a sweet little noise, lowered himself onto the floor, rolled onto his back, closed his eyes and paddled his paws in quiet ecstasy.

I looked at Lonnie.

“Go figure,” she said, shrugging. “If only I could get a guy to do that.”

Then she leaned over Horatio.

“Come on, big guy. We're going to make you clean and pretty.”

Horatio stood up and followed her obediently.

I watched them head back to the private spa rooms, where dogs got the sort of pampering I hadn't seen in years. Lonnie took a terry-towel doggie robe from a row of hooks on the wall as she opened the door for Horatio. Between Hal Shapiro and Lonnie, I was starting to feel wildly inadequate in the dog owner department. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I still felt bitter over the way Horatio had snuggled up to Mr. Size Twenty—
whoops,
Zonko—when he was trying to kill me. I was spending more on Horatio's personal care than I spent on my own. No wonder my career was fading, when my dog was better groomed than I was.

I knew Horatio's cleanliness overhaul (a.k.a. bath) would take some time, so I drove to Yen's Supermarket, three blocks away, and picked up apples, milk and other necessities for Mrs. Lauterman. Yen and I got into our usual spirited debate about the prices of apples and oranges (unfortunately, quite literally, but it was the sort of mindless chatter that I welcomed at this point).

Yen's daughter swaggered in, dressed in a leather jacket and a miniskirt so tiny I wondered if I needed reading glasses to see it, and they immediately flew into an exchange in their language which had nothing to do with the prices of oranges and everything to do with the length of miniskirts. I knew better than to interrupt, and picked up a newspaper while I waited to pay.

I turned to the second page and froze, my hands by my shoulders, my face hidden by the paper. “Body of respected union employee found in river.” Surely the writer wasn't talking about Stan.

I read further and realized it was Stan. His body had been found in the river. Foul play was suspected.
Duh.
How on earth did Stan get from the dumpster to the river? I couldn't imagine one person managing it. An image of Geoff and Bent hauling Stan's body down dark alleys flitted through my mind. I immediately swatted it away. No way could any of my friends be involved.

At least Stan's body was no longer travelling around the city. I didn't know if he had family. If he did, they would be able to lay him to rest and say goodbye. I felt tears begin to cloud my eyes and tried to talk tough to myself. Stan had ruined my career. Why should I care?

From what I knew of Stan, I had guessed that what he wanted most in life was to be respected. But he had confused the abuse of power with the ability to command respect. Before he met Sherilyn, he had been a strong advocate for the rights of performers. He wasn't nice, but he was effective. He had been a man to be reckoned with, an intelligent, informed and fearless warrior for actors. Then Sherilyn had sashayed into his life, and the Stan we had known (the one I had once liked) had disappeared.

After he met Sherilyn, he had taken a sharp turn into Machievelli territory and started to do and say things that had made all of us question his stability.

I now knew that Stan must have been in turmoil, trying to do the job he had at one point loved while trying to satisfy the demands of a lover who wanted it all—him, his job and everybody over whom he had any power.

How could Stan, who had once valued his work, have thrown away whatever respect he once might have earned? I had once admired him. He had fought like a champion, spent many hours of overtime fighting to get the performers in film and television the money they were owed, the treatment they deserved. I had received many much-welcomed cheques thanks to Stan's zeal for the righteous battle.