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The next morning, bright and early, Opal’s limo took us into town, to the studio where her show was being taped. Opal’s show ran daily on weekdays, and I was surprised to discover how many people worked behind the screens. I’d seen the show a couple of times—it was hard not to, with an avid fan like Gran—but it had always just been Opal on stage, interviewing people in front of a live studio audience. Well, her cat Prunella was usually there as well. She was a constant source of entertainment and something of a mascot for Opal fans. She usually sat peacefully next to Opal on her couch, but from time to time wandered off into the audience to go and sit on someone’s lap.

I’d always figured the show was just Opal and Prunella doing their thing, but when we walked into the studio, the place was abuzz with activity, with literally dozens of people milling about. There were lighting people and sound people and props people and camera people, and when Opal took us backstage into a large conference room, I saw that there were half a dozen staff members sitting around the table, a large whiteboard on one wall, preparing that day’s show. This was her team of writers and producers, and when Opal introduced Odelia and Gran, she didn’t introduce them as two detectives, but as two new assistants-in-training being added to her team.

I think Odelia and Gran were as surprised as the rest of the team, and I could tell from the expression on Odelia’s face she didn’t know the first thing about writing and producing a daytime talk show.

Tex and Marge had accepted Opal’s offer to be taken into town, where they planned to spend the day seeing the sights, and somehow I had a feeling they’d have a lot more fun than we would. I think Gran was already starting to regret insisting to assist Odelia.

Being carted around LA in a limo suddenly sounded like a lot more fun than sitting in this small conference room trying to come up with ideas for Opal’s next show.

Harriet and Brutus had wandered off, and so Dooley and I decided to do the same.

“This place is huge,” said Dooley as we returned to the studio where the show was being taped.

“Yeah, it’s a lot bigger than I imagined,” I agreed.

The stage looked just like it did on television, though without Opal there and no studio audience, it felt pretty empty.

People were rigging up lights and one person was vacuuming Opal’s couch, paying special attention to the spot where Prunella usually sat.

After a while, we decided to get some fresh air. The studio was part of a larger studio lot, and there were plenty of so-called soundstages where shows were being taped. Some were talk shows, like Opal’s, but some were actual television shows, and Opal had told us in the car on the drive over that big Hollywood movies were also being shot at the studio.

The studio lot was in Burbank, a part of LA where a lot of big studios are located, and as we wandered about, people passed us by riding in funny-looking little cars that reminded me of golf carts.

“Hey, isn’t that Brad Pitt?” suddenly Dooley cried, gesturing to a man smoking a cigarette.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “unless Brad Pit has developed a stoop and lost his hair.”

“He could have shaved it off for a movie.”

“I doubt it. Brad Pitt wouldn’t shave off his hair. His nice hair is part of his appeal.”

“I guess so,” said Dooley, disappointed. Part of the attraction of coming to LA is to see movie stars, and so far we’d only seen Opal, who was a star, but not really a movie star.

We traipsed on, and passed what looked like an Old West town. Two actors were recreating a fight scene. They were both dressed as cowboys and were pretending to shoot at each other, a director and movie crew standing around to put the whole thing on film. The set looked really real, with a saloon and a funeral parlor and a jail. Horses were drinking from a water trough, and as the men squared off, suddenly a large bag of sand dropped down from the roof of one of the houses and fell into the water trough. It spooked the horses who whinnied and neighed and then promptly galloped off.

“Cut! Cut!” shouted a red-faced man with white hair. “Who dropped that bag?! Idiot! Moron! Numbskull! You’re fired! You hear me?! You’ll never work in this town again!”

“They’re not very nice here in Hollywood,” said Dooley.

“I’ll bet it’s just that one guy,” I said as we moved along. I didn’t particularly like western movies, even when they were so obviously fake.