I was dead. Deceased. About to be buried. I, Kelly Canyon, wannabe crime reporter, current actor and photographer, stared at the brand-spanking new, hot-red Jimmy Choos hanging from my dog’s mouth. Grandma, or Ruthie, as she preferred to be called, was going to kill me and Shutterbug. “Drop it, girl.” What was with my normally well-trained dog and shoes?
Ruthie marched into the room, set her Yorkie, Sassy, on the sofa and pointed at Shutterbug. “Drop them this instant.”
The shoes fell to the floor with a thud. Shutterbug’s ears perked-up and she tilted her head to the side, looking very pleased with herself.
“I’m sorry, Ruthie.” I grinned sheepishly. “We were just about to head out the door to scope out the venue for the award’s ceremony when she trotted out of your room with these.”
“The very shoes I plan on wearing to receive my award.” Ruthie snatched the shoes from the floor and flipped them over in her hands. “Nothing but drool.” She wagged a finger at Shutterbug. “You are one lucky dog.” With her nose in the air, Ruthie whirled and marched to her room.
“At least we’re still breathing.” I snapped my fingers for my furry best friend to follow me outside. Since it was just the two of us, I buckled her into the passenger seat of my 1965 candy apple red Corvette. Soon, we were zooming toward Hollywood Boulevard.
Ruthie was going to receive a lifetime achievement award. With our most recent season of our mother/daughter cop drama, her fame had grown. Well, mine too, but I much preferred the attention I received from writing a book based on each of the last two murders I’d help solve. Book number one stayed on the best-seller list and I had high hopes for book two. Soon, I wouldn’t have to act and could devote all my time to photography and writing.
Yes, I’d given up on becoming a crime reporter. I got paid more from being an author and still took photographs for fun and a little pocket money, as Ruthie called it.
I’d volunteered to take photos at the award ceremony where Ruthie would receive the award. Brock was emceeing the event and would be more handsome than was legal. I still couldn’t believe he called me his girlfriend.
I parked behind the theater and let Shutterbug out of the car. She dashed ahead of me, stopping at the door with an excited yip. I smiled, spotting Brock’s car. He’d arrived first and probably had Brutus with him. Good. The dogs could play while we worked.
Brutus, an English Mastiff around six months old would catch up in size to Shutterbug very soon. The gangly pup barreled toward us. The only thing that kept me from being bowled over was Shutterbug leaping between us to play.
“Good morning.” Brock strolled my way, a smile highlighting his handsome features.
“Good morning.” I lifted my face for his kiss. “Been scoping out the best places for your promo pics?”
He obliged with the kiss. “I think I’ve found a few places that will work. Let’s see what your expert eyes say.” He slid his arm around my waist.
A few minutes later, we entered a dressing room. “I thought maybe one of me in front of the mirror for makeup. Then another of me in my tux and maybe a few candid pictures of me on stage just hanging around in my jeans and tee shirt.”
I nodded. The candid ones would be the best. Brock looked very good in jeans and a tee shirt. “Maybe a couple of you and Brutus?”
“If we can get him to sit still long enough. He’s got enough energy for three dogs.”
“Shutterbug got Ruthie’s shoes again.” I sagged onto a chaise lounge. “I might have to get my own place.”
He sat next to me. “Not in a million years. Ruthie would never kick you or Shutterbug out. Despite her grumbles, she loves your dog almost as much as that yappy thing she takes everywhere with her.”
A few months back, I’d bought Ruthie the Yorkie pup to ease her loneliness when I wasn’t around. Brock had found Brutus around the same time, and life became pretty chaotic with three dogs under one year in age. I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. Then, to spite the local law enforcement who often accused me of interfering, all three of us had our pups certified as service dogs so they could go with us everywhere. Shutterbug had proven her worth already by taking down a criminal.
“Let’s get started,” I said, “I need to read over my script for next season. We start filming on Monday.” Today was Friday and the ceremony tonight, but weekends often got away from me. Not entirely true. The beach called to me way too often on the weekends for me to get any reading done.
Brock led the way to the stage and whistled for Brutus. The pup lumbered down the aisle and bounded onto the stage.
I took a few shots of Brock and the pup wrestling, then some posed ones of them on the stage steps, before taking a few of Brock alone. Not an easy thing to do with a large puppy that wanted to photobomb the shoot.
The ones of Brock having his makeup done and wearing his tux would have to wait until after the ceremony that night. He wore makeup now, but fans liked to see the process of getting Hollywood glam, so we’d pretend. I packed up my camera and studied the room. Plush red chairs faced the stage. A matching carpet runner ran down the aisle, promising that everyone who entered would receive the royal treatment. The venue wasn’t as large as the one that housed the Oscars, but still impressive with two thousand seats and a balcony that held a thousand more.
“Is Leo’s catering?” I glanced at Brock.
“Yep. Let’s hope the night doesn’t end with a crab leg in someone’s neck.” He shuddered.
“Don’t remind me.” I’d thought the death of Lauren Matthews to have been my first experience with murder, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was my second. My father’s death was the first, as it turned out. Then the maintenance man, Bob, was the third. A movie studio or random traffic stop couldn’t prevent evil doings.