Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

that Bruno’s face was in the standing water from the

plugged-up drain.

“Mr. Zepf!” she cried, fear seizing her like an iron

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clamp. She lurched at him, shaking his arm. “Mr.

Zepf!” she cried again.

Bruno Zepf slumped farther into the sink, his burly

upper body carrying him forward. With trembling fingers, Judith searched for a pulse. There was none. She

felt faint, but kept shaking Bruno’s arm. Then she noticed that the broken cupboard door was wide open.

And above the sink, suspended from the single light

fixture, was a big black spider.

SEVEN

JUDITH DIDN’T HEAR Joe come running down the

hallway. She was aware of his presence only when

he grabbed her by the shoulders and gently but

firmly pushed her out of the way.

“Call 911,” he ordered in a calm but emphatic

voice. “I’ll try to resuscitate him.”

A flicker of hope sparked in Judith’s breast.

“He’s alive?”

Joe didn’t reply. He hauled Bruno onto the floor

and started CPR. Judith couldn’t remember where

she’d put the phone. She finally buzzed the receiver

from its base and heard it beep from the opposite

kitchen counter.

How could she explain that a man might have

drowned in the kitchen? Not a swimming pool, not

a bathtub, not a hot tub, but a kitchen sink. Fumbling with the buttons on the phone, Judith felt

giddy. She wouldn’t give the details. She was afraid

to, for fear of becoming hysterical. Or worse yet,

disbelieved.

Finally she got a grip on her composure and informed the operator that there was a man near death.

Or already there, Judith thought dismally. Help was

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required immediately. The operator told her to stand

by, someone should arrive at Hillside Manor in just a

few minutes.

“But,” Judith said in amazement, “I haven’t given

you the address.”

“Our system showed it on the screen,” the female

voice replied. “Besides, you’ve called here before,

haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Judith said weakly. “So I have.”

“The patrol car is close by,” the operator assured

her, “and the medics and firefighters have been alerted.

You’re not calling for your mother, are you?”

“No,” Judith whispered, fixated on Joe, whose efforts appeared to be futile. “No.”

“How’s she doing?” the operator inquired. “I hear

she’s quite a character.”

“Fine. Good. I . . . must . . . hang . . . up . . . now.”

Judith clicked off and, with a limp wrist, placed the

phone on the kitchen table.

Panting, Joe looked up from Bruno’s prone form.

“It’s no good. He’s dead.”

Judith crossed herself while Joe hung his head.

“Damn,” he breathed, “how did this happen? Was it an

accident?” His eyes traveled to the light fixture. “Oh,

hell! What’s that thing?” He picked up a long cooking

fork and poked at the spider. “It’s fake.”

“I need a drink,” Judith said, her voice hoarse. She

noticed that the balky cupboard door had swung open

again and closed it with a shaky hand. “I can’t believe

this. Yes, I can believe this. But why me? Why us?”

“Hey,” Joe said, reaching into the Flynns’ private

liquor stash, “it isn’t personal. When I was on the job,

I investigated at least a half-dozen homicides involving

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families that had already suffered through at least a

couple of other murders.”

“They were probably all crooks,” Judith pointed

out, wincing as she looked at Bruno, whose face was

an unnatural color. She was about to turn away when

she saw something round and white on the floor next

to his body. Moving carefully so as not to touch the

dead man, Judith fingered the object. “Aspirin,” she

said, holding it between her thumb and index finger.

Not seeing the bottle she kept on the windowsill, she

placed the pill on the counter. “Then you don’t think

it’s all my fault?”

“No.” Joe handed Judith her drink, then stared at

Bruno. “I wish I could figure out what happened. Does

the spider suggest a setup?”

Judith gaped at him. “You mean . . . to scare Bruno

to death?”

“Maybe just to rattle him,” Joe replied, wearing his

deadpan policeman’s face.

As Judith gazed with compassion at Bruno’s lifeless

form, the familiar sound of sirens could be heard in the

distance. “The neighbors.” She sighed. “What will they

think now?” She paused, a hand clutching at the deep

neckline of her Roman gown. “The guests! What shall

I do?”

“Nothing,” Joe replied as the first of the sirens

stopped nearby. “Yet. I’ll get the door. You stay with

the stiff.”

Judith flinched. It was bad enough that she and Joe

were drinking Scotch and standing over a corpse. But

now her husband had reverted to his professional self,

hard-boiled, keeping his distance, just-part-of-the-job.

She, on the other hand, apparently had slipped into the

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role of Joe’s longtime partner, Woody Price. Despite

her not infrequent confrontations with corpses, Judith

wasn’t indifferent to the body on the kitchen floor.

Surely Bruno had family who must be notified.

Winifred would know.

Joe returned with two familiar figures in tow. Darnell

Hicks and Mercedes Berger had been summoned to Hillside Manor before, when a mobster had been gunned

down outside of Gertrude’s toolshed. Over two years

later they still looked young, but not nearly so naive.

“What a shame,” Darnell said, gazing down at

Bruno. “How’d he get so soggy?”

Mercedes glanced at the sink. “What’d he do, stick

his head in there and couldn’t get out?”

Before Judith or Joe could respond, the medics and

the firefighters arrived. “Come on,” Joe said with a

hand on Judith’s elbow, “let’s retreat into the dining

room and give the folks some space.”

“To do what?” Judith asked, moving through the

swinging doors. “Oh, Joe, I can’t stand it! It’s got to be

an accident, right?”

Joe didn’t answer directly. “We’ll find out more

after the ME gets done. It may be tomorrow afternoon

before we hear anything. Saturday nights can be pretty

busy, especially on a holiday weekend.”

Darnell Hicks gave a tentative rap on the swinging

doors. “May I?”

“Sure,” Joe said, going back into the kitchen.

“What’s up?”

“We’re going to take the body to the morgue.” Darnell’s brown eyes seemed intrigued by the Flynns’ costumes. “Do you or Mrs. Flynn have any idea what

happened to the guy? Was this a Halloween party?”

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As Joe started to explain, Winifred appeared in the

dining room. “What’s going on?” she demanded of Judith. “Why are the police here?”

Judith put a hand out to the other woman. “Oh, Ms.

Best, I don’t know how to say this—except that Mr.

Zepf is dead.”

Winifred clutched at the front of her deep blue

bathrobe. “Dead? As in . . . actually dead?”

Judith supposed that to someone in the movie business, dead didn’t always mean losing one’s life. “Yes,

as in expired. We don’t know what happened.” She

glanced over the top of the swinging doors into the

kitchen. “They’re taking him to the morgue. We’ll

know more later.”

“Oh, my God!” Winifred swayed, then caught herself on the big breakfront. “His heart! Maybe he had a

heart attack! He was complaining of a terrible

headache earlier.” She pulled out one of the diningroom chairs and collapsed onto it, her slim body convulsing.

Judith glanced at Joe, who was answering routine

questions in the kitchen. She heard a squeal from Mercedes Berger as Joe mentioned Dirk Farrar’s name.

“Ms. Best,” Judith began, “do you want to have the

medics check you out?”

Winifred shook her head. “I must see Bruno,” she finally said, but couldn’t get to her feet. Winifred fell

back into the chair as a knock at the front door made

Judith jump. She hurried into the entry hall and peered

outside. Under the porch light she could see Dade

Costello, still in his costume and dripping wet.

“Mr. Costello!” she exclaimed, opening the door.

“What are you doing out in this rain?”

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Dade made an angry gesture toward the cul-de-sac.

“What are they doing out here?”

Closing the door behind the screenwriter, Judith

glimpsed the emergency vehicles, their lights still

flashing. “I’m afraid I have bad news—”

“I don’t need any more bad news tonight,” Dade

broke in. Without another word, he stomped upstairs.

“Oh, no,” Judith groaned. Glancing at Winifred,

who had her head down on the dining-room table, she

hurried into the kitchen but had to step aside as the

medics began to remove Bruno’s body.

“Move, Jude-girl,” Joe said, taking Judith by the

arm. “They’re going out the back way, they need room

for the gurney. I gave them as much information as I

could.”

Mercedes’s blue eyes were huge. “Is it true?” she

asked Judith. “Is Dirk Farrar really under this very

roof?”

“Yes,” Judith answered. “As far as I know.” Nothing

seemed certain on this wretched night. For all she

knew, Dirk could have climbed out a window and been

blown away by the gusting winds.

“What a hunk!” Mercedes was visibly palpitating.

Darnell’s dark skin seemed to glow. “Movie people.

Wow. You know, I hate to bring this up just now, but I’ve

been working on a script, and I wonder if I could—”

“Patrolman Hicks,” Joe interrupted in a solemn

voice, “you’re on duty. Let’s get on with the job.

Maybe I can mention your name to . . .” He paused, apparently wondering which guest would be interested in

a script. “Chips Madigan, the director. Okay?”

“Really?” Darnell looked elated. “Golly. That

would be terrific. Believe me, my script isn’t just an- SILVER SCREAM

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other piece of junk. I’ve got serious themes.” He turned

to his partner. “Come on, Merce, let’s hit it.”

The kitchen was clearing out. Judith put both hands

to her head and gave Joe a frantic look.

“What do we do now?”

“We wait,” Joe said, sitting down at the kitchen

table. “It may look like some kind of freak accident,

but in fact they’re going to have to send the homicide

’tecs in.”

Judith was aghast. “Tonight?”

“Of course. You know the drill.” He shot her a wry

glance.

“But it’s two in the morning, and we’ve got all these

people upstairs, and—” She stopped, looked out over

the swinging doors, then lowered her voice.

“Winifred’s still at the dining-room table. She either

passed out or she’s asleep.”

But Winifred Best was wide-awake. Her head jerked

up, then she slowly rose to her feet. “Where’s Morris?”

she demanded.

“Morris?” Judith echoed in a dull voice. “Morris . . .

Mayne?”

Winifred thrust open the sliding doors and entered

the kitchen. “Of course I mean Morris Mayne. The

publicist. He must be at the hotel.” She pulled her cell

phone out of her bathrobe pocket and began to dial in

a staccato manner.

Judith felt not only exhausted but helpless. “I’ll

make coffee,” she said, and started for the sink.

“Hold it,” Joe said. “You can’t use the sink, remember?”

“Yes, I can,” Judith shot back. “We’ll plunge it. I

can’t imagine that it’s seriously plugged up. Anyway,

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we’ve got a snake. If the plunger doesn’t work, the

snake should clear the line.”

“You’re missing the point,” Joe said, his patience

sounding thin. “The sink may be a crime scene.”

“Oh.” Judith stared into the murky water. “Oh,

damn. You’re right, I should have realized that.” For

the first time she saw something bobbing listlessly

around in the sink. Judith reached out to touch it, then

quickly withdrew her hand. “Evidence,” she murmured. “It looks like my aspirin bottle. I found a pill

on the floor.”

“When I talked to Bruno the last time,” Winifred

said, clicking off the cell phone, “and he complained

of a headache, I told him I’d seen some aspirin in the

kitchen.” For a brief moment she looked as if she were

going to cry, then rallied. “Morris will be issuing a

statement. He’ll hold a press conference later for the

early newscasts.” She looked up at the schoolhouse

clock. “That will be four A.M. our time for the seven

o’clock news on the East Coast. Perhaps I should join

him at the Cascadia. I doubt I can do anything here.

Those cretins upstairs don’t need to be consoled.” With

a swish of her bathrobe, Winifred started to leave the

kitchen, but stopped abruptly. “Where is he?” she

asked in a hollow voice.

Judith was puzzled. “You mean . . . Morris? I

thought you just—”

“No!” Winifred exploded, waving a frantic hand.

“Bruno! Where did you put him?”

In the dishwasher? Judith almost said as the giddiness she’d felt earlier tried to reclaim her emotions.

But Joe intervened. “His body was removed just

minutes ago.”

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“Oh.” Winifred’s shoulders slumped. “Of course.”

Without another word, she left the kitchen.

The doorbell sounded. Joe got up to answer it while

Judith gazed at the mess that still hadn’t been—

couldn’t be—cleaned up. She, too, felt like crying.

But there was no time for tears. Joe, whose face had

become so red that he looked as if he might explode,

came storming back into the kitchen.

“It’s Stone Cold Sam,” he said under his breath, and

then swore such a rapid blue streak that Judith—mercifully—could hardly understand him.

“Who,” she finally dared to inquire, “is Stone Cold

Sam?”

Joe stared at her. “You don’t remember? Stone Cold

Sam Cairo, my nemesis in the department? The

world’s biggest pain in the butt?”

“Oh!” Judith did remember. There had been several

occasions when Joe had come home from work fuming because Stone Cold Sam had interfered with an investigation, offered unwanted criticism, and generally

tried to make Joe’s life miserable.

The stocky man with the goatee and mustache

swaggered into the kitchen. Following him was a small

young woman with short blond hair sticking up in

peaks and an intimidated expression on her pretty face.

“You know, Flynn,” the man said in a rough, deep

voice, “it looks like you’ve got everything here, including the kitchen sink. Har, har.”

Joe cradled his drink and leaned against the refrigerator. The gold flecks glinted in his green eyes, but

with malice rather than mischief. “We don’t know if

we have a homicide or not,” he said without inflection.

Stone Cold Sam Cairo chuckled, an unpleasant,

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grating sound. “Yeah, I guess it always took you a

while to figure out the facts.”

Judith didn’t know whether to introduce herself or

not. Not, she decided. Any gesture of hospitality would

annoy Joe.

Cairo, however, took matters into his own hairy

hands. “Meet my new partner,” he said, dragging the

small blonde forward by the hand. “Dilys Oaks. Dilys,

this is Joe Flynn, a former colleague, now retired.

Don’t be misled by the choirboy outfit. Joe can’t sing

a lick.” Cairo glanced at Judith. “Let me guess. You’re

either a Roman empress, Joe’s wife, or Joe’s slave.

Maybe the last two combined. Har, har.”

“I’m Judith Flynn,” Judith said, as noncommittal as

Joe.

Cairo gave a faint nod. “Okay by me.” He looked at

the sink, and noted the phony spider, which swayed

grotesquely from the overhead light. “Halloween stuff,

huh? Nice touch. What was this movie guy doing, bobbing for apples?”

Joe didn’t respond, which forced Judith to speak. “I

think he was taking some aspirin. He had a headache.”

“Hunh.” Cairo steered Dilys to the sink. “What does

this tell you?”

Dilys’s smoky-gray eyes widened. “That the drain is

plugged?”

Cairo put an avuncular arm around Dilys’s narrow

shoulders. “Think a little harder. Take in the whole picture. Remember, you’re a rookie. This isn’t like your

first two cases with the drunks popping each other and

the spousal murder-suicide.”

“But,” Dilys protested in her little-girl voice, “is it a

homicide?”

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Cairo removed his arm and wagged a finger at his

partner. “There you go, young lady. Is it? How can we

tell?”

“We don’t have the body,” Dilys noted. “Shouldn’t

they have waited until we got here before they removed it?”

Cairo nodded approval. “That’s right. Haste makes

waste,” he added with a disapproving glance at Joe,

who remained expressionless.

“I guess,” Dilys said slowly, “you should have told

them we were on our way. Now we’ll have to wait for

the autopsy.”

Cairo shot Dilys a sharp, wary glance. “They should

have known we were coming. But you’re right, only

the ME can tell us for sure how this guy died.” He gave

Joe an even darker look. “You know better, Flynn—

why didn’t you tell them to hold their horses?”

Joe stared up at the ceiling, looking innocent in his

choirboy costume. “I’m retired, I’m old, I forgot.”

Cairo grunted. “If you say so.”

Joe said nothing.

But his former colleague wasn’t giving up. “Hey,”

Cairo urged with an expansive gesture. “Share your

thoughts with us, for old times’ sake. Reach out. We’re

listening.”

“I never speculate,” Joe said quietly.

“No kidding?” Cairo gazed at Joe with feigned

shock, then swore as the faulty cupboard door swung

open and rested gently against his right ear. “What’s

with this thing?” the detective demanded. “Ghosts?”

Judith shook her head. “The spring is sprung. Or

something. It does that often.”

Cairo glared at Joe. “Can’t you or your slave here

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fix the damned thing?” He gave the door a vicious

slam, rattling china and glassware in the cupboards.

Judith gritted her teeth.

But Cairo’s gaze was now on the spider above the

sink. He turned to Judith. “What about you, Mrs.

Flynn? Is that scary tarantula wannabe one of your

Halloween decorations?”

“No.”

“Oh?” Cairo grew curious. “Then who put it there?”

“I’ve no idea,” Judith replied. “I didn’t see it when I

was in the kitchen before . . . before Mr. Zepf died.”

Cairo nudged Dilys. “You hear that, young lady?

Mrs. Flynn doesn’t know how that nasty old bug got

there. What’s your idea?”

Warily, Dilys looked up at the spider. “Are you sure

it’s not real?”

Cairo reached up and gave the spider a spin. “Definitely fake.”

Dilys gave a nod. “So maybe . . .” Her small voice

trailed off.

“Yes?” Cairo urged. “Maybe what?”

“Maybe”—Dilys swallowed hard—“someone put

the spider up there to frighten the deceased. You know,

like a practical joke.”

Cairo frowned at her. “Come now, isn’t that pretty

far-fetched?”

Dilys was blushing furiously. “Ah . . . maybe, but—”

“She could be right,” Judith put in, unable to watch

the young woman suffer further. “The deceased—Mr.

Zepf—was superstitious about spiders. They terrified

him. Someone had already tried to scare him by placing one of these phony tarantulas in his bed.”

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“No kidding.” Cairo moved his frown to Judith.

“You sure about that, Mrs. Flynn?”

“Absolutely,” Judith replied. “There were several

witnesses. Not to mention that Mr. Zepf became frightened by a very small but very real spider out on the

back porch. I saw that with my own eyes.” To Judith’s

satisfaction, Dilys had slipped behind Cairo and was

making bunny ears above his head. Maybe, she

thought, the young detective wasn’t quite as cowed as

she pretended.

At that moment Angela La Belle and Ben Carmody

appeared in the hallway that led from the back stairs.

“What’s going on?” Ben asked, looking sleepy.

Joe turned to the pair. “Didn’t Ms. Best tell you?”

Ms. Best hadn’t. “What’s to tell?” Angela inquired.

“Bruno’s dead.” She was wearing a paper-thin wrapper

over a sheer, short nightgown. “Are there any truffles

left?”

Cairo’s dark eyes were bugging out from underneath the black brows that grew together. “Now who’s

this, I might ask?” He leered at Joe. “Another one of

your slaves?”

“This is Angela La Belle,” Joe said woodenly, “and

Ben Carmody. They’re part of the movie company that

came here with Bruno Zepf. You do have a list of possible witnesses, don’t you?”

“Ah!” The question was ignored as Cairo beamed

and put out a pawlike hand. “Celebrities! I’m thrilled.”

Despite the grin, it was obvious that Cairo would have

preferred meeting a pair of real tarantulas.

Dilys, however, was goggle-eyed as she stared at

Angela La Belle. “Ohmigod! I saw you in your first

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big movie, that musical— Enjoy Your Pants! You have

such a beautiful voice!”

Angela was scanning the kitchen counters, apparently for truffles. “Thanks. It was a small part. My

voice was dubbed.”

“But the dancing!” Dilys enthused. “Looking down

from way up high on you with all the spinning and

leaping and twirling and—”

“That was a double,” Angela said, opening a couple

of plastic containers. “I’ve got two left feet.” She

looked at Judith. “So they ate all the truffles?”

“I guess so,” Judith replied. “Eugenia Fleming

seemed especially fond of them.”

“Bummer.” Angela took in the official yellow tape

that Stone Cold Sam Cairo was putting up between the

kitchen and the dining room. “Oh,” she said with mild

interest, “is this a crime scene or what?”

“Bruno couldn’t have drowned,” Ben Carmody remarked. “Win must be wrong. He probably had a heart

attack. Not that I blame him after what happened

tonight.”

Cairo whirled around with surprising agility for

such a thickset man. “And what was that, young fellow?”

Ben gazed incredulously at the detective. “The premiere. What else? Bruno bombed. Big time.”

“Ah, yes.” Cairo rummaged in the pocket of his

navy-blue raincoat. “What’s it called?” He peered at a

small notepad. “The Gasbag?”

“It might as well be,” Ben said with a heavy sigh.

“It’s The Gasman, ” he added, emphasizing the final

syllable.

“So,” Cairo said, stuffing the notepad back inside

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his raincoat, “the deceased had suffered a big disappointment, had he? Did he have a history of heart trouble?”

Angela and Ben looked at each other.

“Ulcers, maybe,” Angela said.

“High blood pressure?” Ben suggested.

“Ask Win.” Angela pulled the folds of her wrapper

more tightly around her body. “Win knows everything,” she added with a sniff.

Cairo nodded sagely. “Let’s have a word with this

Win. That would be Winifred Best, correct?”

“Right,” Ben said. “Come on, Angela, let’s go back

upstairs.”

“But no further,” Cairo called after them. “We don’t

want any of you fancy birds to fly the nest. Har, har.”

Angela, who had started down the hallway, turned

around and glared at the detective. “What do you

mean? Are we stuck in this place for some weird reason?”

“That’s right,” Cairo said with a sharp shake of his

head. “You’re stuck until I unstick you. Surely you’re

enjoying the company of Mr. and Mrs. Flynn here.”

Angela managed an ineffectual smile. “They’re

nice, but . . .”

“We’ve got meetings to take, lunches to do, people

to . . .” Ben began in a not unreasonable voice.

“In due time, my lad, in due time.” Cairo waved the

pair off with a faintly sinister smile.

They had just disappeared up the stairs when someone knocked at the back door. Judith and Joe stared at

each other. The rear entrance was reserved for family,

friends, and neighbors.

“Mother?” Judith mouthed and started for the door.

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Cairo put a hand to stop her. “Dilys will get that,” he

said. “It might be a reporter. Shoo him—or her—off,

will you, my girl?”

The young woman cautiously opened the door to reveal a startling figure. A tall platinum blonde of more

than a certain age stood on the threshold in an emeraldgreen satin lounging robe slit to the hip. She was carrying a paisley umbrella in one hand and a glass in the

other.

Judith’s jaw dropped. It was a neighbor, all right, it

was sort of family, but it wasn’t necessarily a friend.

Vivian Flynn, also known as Herself, was Joe’s first

wife and Judith’s nemesis. Their visitor dropped the

umbrella and swayed into the kitchen with a big

crimson-lipped smile on her face.

“Stone Cold Sam!” she cried, setting the glass down

by Judith’s computer. She reached out her arms, embraced the detective, and kissed him three times. “It’s

been too long!”

Cairo, his chin on Vivian’s shoulder, gave Joe a

wink and a smile. A nasty smile, Judith noted, and

thought the night would never end.

EIGHT

“LET’S GET OUT of here,” Joe whispered to Judith.

“We’ll go into the front parlor.”

Unobtrusively, Judith tried to edge toward the

door. The crime-scene tape barred her way. Joe

glanced at Cairo, saw that he was still in Vivian’s

embrace, pulled the tape aside, and with an arm

around Judith, slipped out through the dining room.

Dilys, though evincing curiosity about her partner

and Joe’s ex-wife, raised an eyebrow at the Flynns’

departure but made no comment.

“Good Lord.” Judith sighed, collapsing into one

of the two matching armchairs in front of the stone

fireplace. “I’m exhausted! And what’s Vivian doing

here?”

Joe’s grin was off center. “You know Vivian,

you’ve watched her for six years since she moved

into the cul-de-sac. She keeps late hours. No doubt

the emergency vehicles caught her attention.”

Meanly, Judith figured it was more likely they’d

roused her from an alcohol-induced stupor. Herself,

as Judith preferred to call Vivian, had brought a

glass with her. Maybe she’d come to borrow a refill.

Despite Joe’s efforts to get his ex to join AA, she

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continued to drink. Vivian Flynn wouldn’t admit that

she had a problem.

“Vivian obviously knows Stone Cold Sam,” Judith

remarked as Joe stirred the embers in the small fireplace.

“Oh, yes,” Joe replied, adding some paper and a

couple of small pieces of wood. “They go way back.”

“They must.” Judith stared into the fire, which was

now sparking into orange-and-yellow life. It rankled

her that Joe and Vivian had such a long—if rocky—

past. The marriage had been a mistake from the start, a

catastrophe set in motion by Joe’s first encounter with

a fatal teenage overdose. The cop bar he’d gone to afterward had offered strong drink and a stronger comeon by the woman perched atop the red piano. In

fighting off the shadows of wasted fifteen-year-old

lives, Joe lost his grasp on reality. When he awoke the

next morning, he was in a Las Vegas bed with a new

bride, the already twice-wed Vivian.

There was no going back, though Joe had tried.

He’d called Judith from the hotel casino to try to explain, to beg forgiveness. But Gertrude had told him

that her daughter never wanted to see him again. The

irony was that Judith never knew about Joe’s call, or

his subsequent attempts to reach her. Brokenhearted

and abandoned, she had married Dan McMonigle on

the rebound. That union was also doomed from the beginning. When Judith learned years later what had happened to Joe, she realized that both of them had

married alcoholics and were paying the price for their

folly. Joe’s folly more than her own, she had often

thought, but no one had compelled her to marry Dan.

It was only retaliation—and the unborn child she was

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carrying—that had sent her so recklessly to the altar.

Eventually, she had begun to understand Joe’s ties to

Vivian. In addition to having been married twice before, she had a son by each ex-husband and was down

on her luck. Joe was a sucker for the underdog. Having

taken the vows, he felt obligated to live them, for better or for worse. And like Judith, Joe had endured more

worse and no better.

Those long, mean years had tempered both of them.

It hadn’t been just the chance meeting twenty years

later that caused him to file for divorce. The marriage

to Vivian had been a shambles for more than a decade;

the only good thing that had come of it was a daughter,

Caitlin. Perhaps it was proof of the dismal state of matrimony in the first Flynn household that had kept

Caitlin, now forty, from seeking a husband.

The thoughts flickered through Judith’s brain like

the flames dancing in the grate. She could picture Joe

and Vivian hosting a departmental party, with Stone

Cold Sam Cairo running his hand up the welcoming

slit in Herself’s dress. She could see Joe chatting with

his longtime partner, Woody Price, on the deck—if the

Flynns had had a deck—and being introduced to a

young woman named Sondra, who would later become

Mrs. Price. Joe would tend the barbecue, rustling up

steaks and burgers for many of the cops whom Judith

met later in life, and for some she’d never known at all.

Despite a decade with Joe, Judith still resented the

wasted years during which Vivian had held him

hostage.

“. . . too long now,” Joe was saying.

Judith realized she hadn’t been listening. So caught

up in her thoughts, so weary was her body, so en- 128

Mary Daheim

wrapped in what had been and what might have been,

she hadn’t heard her husband.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I faded out there for a

minute. What were you saying?”

Joe gave her a sardonic look. “That they can’t do

much tonight. They need the ME’s report to proceed if,

in fact, foul play is suspected.”

“Oh. Good,” Judith said. “You mean they’ll have to

go away?”

“Right.” Joe, who had sat down in the other armchair, turned as Stone Cold Sam Cairo entered the

parlor.

“So you’ve got two wives in the same cul-de-sac,”

he said with another one of his leers. “Two wives, two

slaves, and some sexy movie actresses upstairs. I guess

you’ve got it made, eh, Flynn? Maybe I should retire

right now. Then you could tell me your secret for the

good life. Har, har.”

“Don’t count on it, Sam,” Joe responded with a sour

expression. “What’s up?”

“Do you really want to know? Har, har.” Cairo

laughed again, then sobered. “I just heard from downtown. They won’t know anything until midmorning.

Bruno Zepf may be a big shot in Hollywood, but he’s

just another stiff on a busy Halloween weekend.”

“His companions won’t like that,” Joe said.

“They’re used to first-class treatment.”

“So what are they doing here?” Cairo slapped his

thigh and laughed even louder than usual.

“It’s a fluke,” Judith said, and wished she’d kept her

mouth shut.

“A fluke?” Cairo looked mildly interested.

“A superstition,” Judith replied as Herself and Dilys

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129

entered the parlor. “Bruno Zepf considered B&Bs

lucky for his movies.”

Cairo scowled. “Not this time.”

“Goodness!” Vivian exclaimed, cradling her chimney glass, which was now almost full of what looked

like bourbon. “To think that all these Hollywood

people were here and I never noticed! That’s what I get

for being such a night owl! I miss the comings and goings during the day.”

Judith felt obliged to offer Joe’s ex a thin smile.

Cairo was moving restlessly around the room, his

gaze darting between Herself’s glass and Herself’s décolletage. “I’d better chat up these folks, just to remind

them they shouldn’t wander off.” His hooded eyes

turned to Joe. “You want to tell ’em to rise and shine?”

“No,” Joe responded. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Hey!” Cairo raised his voice and scowled at Joe.

“Who’s in charge here?”

“You are,” Joe retorted. “You tell them to rise and

shine.”

Cairo started to speak, stopped, and turned his scowl

on Dilys. “You’re it.”

Dilys’s gray eyes widened. “Me?” She hesitated, as

if waiting for verification. “Okay.” Obediently, she

trotted out of the parlor.

“Now,” Vivian said, slithering onto the window seat,

“tell me about all these gorgeous hunks who are sleeping just over my head.”

When Joe didn’t answer, Judith stepped in. “There

are only two actors, Dirk Farrar and Ben Carmody. The

actresses are Angela La Belle and Ellie Linn.”

In a dismissive gesture, Herself waved the hand that

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Mary Daheim

wasn’t holding her drink. “Actresses! They’re all

made-up hussies. Surely there must be more . . . men.”

Judith glanced at Joe, whose expression was blank.

He and his ex remained on friendly terms, and not only

because they had a daughter. It seemed to Judith that

Herself was some kind of source of amusement to Joe.

Or maybe she was a reminder, the living reinforcement

of Joe and Judith’s good luck in finally finding each

other. Judith hoped it was the latter that made him so

indulgent of—or was it indifferent to?—Vivian’s notso-subtle charms.

In response to the question, Judith nodded. “There

are other men, but they’re not actors. They’re directors

and writers and—”

Herself waved again. “Aren’t those types homely?”

Before Judith could try to reply, Cairo intervened.

“Let’s cut out the chitchat, ladies. I want to hear some

specifics about this so-called accident. Tell me,” he

said, standing in front of the fireplace with his hands

folded behind his back, “who discovered Zepf’s body?”

“I did,” Judith admitted, sounding miserable.

“You did, eh?” Cairo glanced at Joe. “Not the great

detective over here?”

Judith didn’t comment.

“All right,” Cairo went on, “when did you find the

stiff?”

Judith glanced at Joe. “Around one-fifteen, maybe

later?”

Joe gave a faint nod.

“When and where,” Cairo queried, “did you last see

this Zepf character alive?”

Judith tried to focus on the question, though her

brain was fogging over. “He was on one of the living- SILVER SCREAM

131

room sofas by the fireplace. That must have been about

a quarter to one, when Joe and I began to clean up

everything and take some of the perishable items down

to the freezer in the basement.”

Cairo flung out his hands. “So where’s the basement?”

Joe sneered. “Under the house.”

Herself burst out laughing; her bust almost burst the

seams of her emerald-green robe. “Oh, Joe-Joe! You’re

such a scream!”

Stone Cold Sam Cairo did not look amused. “You

know what I mean,” he snarled. “How do you get to the

damned basement?”

Judith spoke before Joe could further enrage Cairo.

“Through the kitchen, the hallway, and down the stairs

on the left.”

Cairo looked thoughtful. “So it’s quite a distance

from where Zepf was in the living room. Who was

with him?”

The fog enclosed Judith’s brain. “I don’t remember.” She glanced at Joe for assistance, but none was

forthcoming. “He may have been alone.” She paused,

straining in an effort to concentrate. “The cat—I think

Sweetums was sitting on Mr. Zepf’s lap.”

Cairo scowled, but Herself laughed again, though

this time the sound was soft and purring. “That lovely

cat! Oh, Sam, you’ve never seen such a beautiful

pussy. Not lately, anyway.”

Cairo ignored Herself. His attitude seemed to indicate

that perhaps he was getting tired, too. Maybe frustrated

as well, Judith thought in her exhausted haze. Before the

detective could pose another question, Dilys returned to

the parlor.

“They won’t come down,” she announced. “They

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Mary Daheim

won’t even open their doors. The woman in Room One

says we have no probable cause or any evidence of a

crime having been committed.” Dilys didn’t bother to

stifle a wide yawn.

“Not cooperating?” Cairo slammed his fist against

the fireplace, hurt himself, and swore under his breath.

“Poor baby,” Vivian murmured. “Let Mommy kiss

your boo-boo.” She advanced on the detective, allowing a great deal of bare leg to become exposed.

“Not now,” Cairo growled. “I’ll take a rain check,”

he added.

Joe looked at Judith. “Who’s in Room One?”

“Winifred Best,” Judith said, surprised that she

could remember where Room One was located, let

alone who occupied it.

“Ms. Best is right,” Joe said to Cairo. “Why don’t

you go away?”

Rubbing his sore knuckles, Cairo bristled. “I want

to hear the details about how this Zepf guy died.”

“You have heard them,” Joe asserted. “He came into

the kitchen, maybe to get some aspirin, probably had a

heart attack, and fell face first into the sink. Look, the

guy had just had the biggest comedown of his career.

His future was on the line. You never knew of someone

to suffer a coronary after a life-altering shock?”

His face darkening, Cairo continued rubbing his

knuckles, but made no comment.

“I’m curious about that cupboard door,” Dilys put

in. “How often does it open by itself?”

“Occasionally,” Judith admitted.

“Interesting,” Dilys remarked, then turned to Cairo.

“Mr. Flynn has a point. We can’t do much until we get

the ME’s verdict.”

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133

“Awwr . . .” Cairo grimaced, but nodded abruptly.

“Okay, we’ll hang it up for now.” He loomed over Judith. “I gotta trust you, Flynn. We’re shorthanded

tonight because of the holiday weekend. You see to it

that nobody goes near that kitchen, especially the sink.

You got that?”

Joe nodded solemnly; Judith blanched. “But I have

to serve breakfast for—” she began.

Cairo made a slashing gesture with his sore hand.

“Forget about it. Your fancy guests can go out to eat.

So can you.”

“But Mother can’t—” Judith began before Joe broke

in.

“Sam’s right. The kitchen is a potential crime scene.

We’ll manage.” He offered Cairo a dubious smile.

“Trying to get rid of me, eh, Flynn?” There was

nothing playful about the look in Cairo’s chilly eyes.

The equivocal smile remained on Joe’s lips. But he

said nothing.

Cairo gave Dilys a nudge and took Vivian by the

hand. “I’ll see one of your wives home,” he said.

“You’ll see me again tomorrow. Stay put.” Cairo,

Dilys, and Vivian left the house.

“Oh, Joe,” Judith murmured, “I’m so tired! But

what will we do about breakfast tomorrow?”

“We’ll work it out,” Joe said grimly. “You go to bed.

I’ll check things around here before I come up.”

Judith started to protest but lacked the energy for argument. She did, however, have one last question.

“So you really think Bruno’s death was an accident?”

Again, Joe said nothing.

Indeed, Judith was too tired to care.

*

*

*

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Mary Daheim

To her great surprise and relief, a smiling Chips

Madigan met her as she came down from the third

floor just before nine o’clock the next morning.

“That’s great!” he exclaimed, framing her with the

ever-present viewfinder. “ ‘Early A.M., overcoming

tragedy, ready to face the world.’ My mother would be

proud of you, Mrs. Flynn. She’s had a couple of B&B

guests die on her, too.”

“Really?” Judith quietly closed the door to the thirdfloor staircase. “What happened?”

Chips made a face. “I’m not sure. I mean, it was so

long ago that I don’t quite recall. One was maybe a

stroke. Maybe they both were.”

Strokes, heart attacks, even aneurysms sounded

comforting to Judith. Anything was better than murder.

She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I can’t make

breakfast this morning. No one is allowed in the

kitchen until the cause of Mr. Zepf’s death becomes

official.”

Chips nodded. “That’s what Win and Dade told us.

Dade got his start writing for a TV cop show a few

years back. He’s our police expert. And Win—well,

Win knows everything. Or so it seems.”

“How is she?” Judith inquired. “I thought she was

terribly upset last night.”

“She was,” Chips agreed. “She still is. She and

Bruno were like that.” The boyish-looking director entwined his first and second fingers. “But she’s a survivor. She’s had to be,” he added on a grim note.

“I guess everybody in Hollywood has to be a survivor,” Judith remarked, slowly heading for the front

stairs.

“True.” Chips’s voice held no expression. “We’re

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135

going out to forage. At least Win and Ellie and Ben and

I are. Dade already left.”

“He’s a lone wolf, isn’t he?” Judith remarked as she

reached the top of the stairs.

Chips nodded. “A lot of writers are like that. They

work alone, they prefer their made-up characters to

real people.”

“I can understand that,” Judith said, though she really

couldn’t. People were the center of her world, her reason for being. Family, friends, and strangers—Judith

held out welcoming arms to them all. She would never

have been able to run a B&B if she hadn’t loved people.

Judith risked a touchy question. “I got the impression that directors and screenwriters don’t always

agree on how a movie is made.”

Chips flushed, his freckles blending in with the rest

of his face. “You mean that little dustup with Dade the

other night?” He didn’t wait for Judith to respond, but

shrugged in an exaggerated manner. “Typical. We call

it artistic differences. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Yes,” Judith said, “I see how that can happen. But

you and Bruno Zepf must have agreed on how The

Gasman was made, right?”

Chips cocked his head to one side, looking even

more boyish than usual. “Directors and producers have

their own differences. It wouldn’t be normal if they

didn’t. We’re all creative types, we all have our own

ideas about how a picture should be made.”

“Do you think Bruno had the wrong idea? I mean,”

Judith added hastily, “that he did something wrong to

get such a strong negative reaction to his movie?”

“Yes,” Chips said sadly. “Making the picture was

wrong. A passion for filmmaking is one thing—Bruno

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Mary Daheim

had plenty of passion. But personal missions seldom

make for good box office. The project was doomed

from the start. Maybe,” he continued on a mournful

note, “Bruno was, too.” With a shake of his head, he

turned back into Room Five.

Judith headed downstairs. Joe had already gone to

early Mass and was bringing back pastries and hot coffee in big thermoses. But Judith’s priority was

Gertrude. The old lady would be fussing, since her

daughter usually showed up at least an hour earlier

than this with breakfast.

Indeed, when Judith entered the toolshed Gertrude

wouldn’t speak to her. She was sitting in her usual

place behind the card table, sulking.

“One of our guests passed away last night,” Judith

began.

Gertrude turned her head and stared at the wall.

“He may have had a heart attack. That’s why I

haven’t been able to make breakfast. I can’t go into the

kitchen.”

Gertrude uttered a snort of derision.

“It’s possible that someone—” Judith stopped and

bit her lip. There was no point in alarming her mother.

“We have to get an official verdict from the coroner before I can use the kitchen.”

Gertrude picked up a deck of cards and shoved them

into the automatic shuffler. Click-clackety-click-clack.

She removed the cards and began to lay out a game of

solitaire.

“In about fifteen minutes, Joe will come back with

pastries and hot coffee,” Judith said, then added with a

touch of irony, “I hope the trouble last night didn’t

bother you, Mother.”

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137

Gertrude, who was about to put a red six on a black

seven, turned her small, beady eyes on her daughter. “I

didn’t hear a thing. At least your latest corpse was

quiet about sailing off through the Pearly Gates.”

“Thoughtful of him,” Judith murmured, so low that

her allegedly deaf mother couldn’t hear her.

“What kind of pastries?” Gertrude demanded, playing up an ace. “They’d better have that custard filling I

like. Or apples, with that gooey syrup. The last time,

Lunkhead brought something with apricots. I don’t

like apricots, at least not in my pastries.”

“He’ll do his best,” Judith avowed.

“No blueberries!” Gertrude exclaimed. “They turn

my dentures purple. I’d look like one of those trick-ortreaters who came by last night.”

Judith frowned. “You had kids come to the toolshed?”

“Kids, my hind end! They were as tall as I am. I

didn’t give ’em anything. Nobody eats my candy except me.” Gertrude slapped a deuce on the ace.

“What were they dressed as?” Judith asked, recalling the late arrival of the spaceman and the alligator.

“A cowboy with fancy snakeskin boots and a scarecrow that looked like he came out of The Wizard of

Oz, ” Gertrude replied, putting up another ace. “I could

hardly hear a word they said. That’s when I told them

to beat it. They did. They knew better than to mess

with this old lady.” With a savage gesture, she reeled

off a black nine, a red eight, and a black seven.

“What time was that?” Judith asked.

“Time?” Gertrude wrinkled her nose. “What’s time

to an old lady on her last legs? There’s not much of it

left. If you were me, you wouldn’t keep track of time,

either.”

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Mary Daheim

Judith eyed her mother shrewdly. “You seem to keep

track of mealtimes pretty well.”

Gertrude played up several more cards. “What does

it mean?” she said in a musing voice. “Think about it.

Why do they say that?”

“What? You mean about time?”

“No,” Gertrude replied with a scornful glance at her

daughter. “Last legs. You don’t talk about somebody’s

first legs, or their second or their third. If you got more

legs as you went along, then they wouldn’t give out on

you. Your last legs should be your best legs, because

they’re newer.” She paused, scanning the cards in her

hand. “Now where’s that ace of clubs? I saw it someplace.”

Judith surrendered. She’d been curious about the

trick-or-treaters because she wondered why they’d

gone to the toolshed instead of to the house. But maybe

they had. Renie or Arlene would have taken care of

them. There’d be more tonight, she realized, since it

was officially Halloween. At least the wind had died

down and the rain had dwindled to a mere mist.

Joe had returned when Judith went back into the

house. He was putting a variety of pastries and doughnuts onto the buffet, along with crackers and various

cheeses. There was also a plate of cookies in the

shapes of jack-o’-lanterns, bats, and witches.

“Cute,” Judith remarked, kissing him on the cheek.

“Me or the cookies?” he responded, plugging in the

coffee urn.

“Both,” said Judith. “When should we hear from the

ME?”

“Elevenish,” Joe replied. “Then we’ll know if the

guests can leave.”

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139

Judith began to pace the living-room floor. “I’d hate

to have to go through Ingrid at the B&B association to

put up the guests who are coming in later today. We’ve

got five reservations, you know.”

Dirk Farrar entered the room, looking belligerent.

“What’s going on? Nobody’s telling us a damned

thing. We can’t stick around forever.”

“We were just talking about that,” Judith said.

“We’re still waiting to hear from the police.”

“Screw ’em,” Dirk said fiercely. “That SOB Bruno

had a heart attack. It served him right. My price just

went down at least five mil and next time—if there is

a next time—I’ll be lucky to get any points at all.”

“But you’re a huge star,” Judith protested. “You’ve

been in several big hits, including with Mr. Zepf. Or so

I’ve heard,” she added humbly.

The handsome, craggy features that had made females hyperventilate on five continents, and possibly

Pluto, twisted with anger. “You don’t get it. None of

you people who aren’t in the business get it. Last

night’s flop could be the end of Dirk Farrar!”

Joe may have been three inches shorter and twentyfive years older, but he stepped smoothly between the

actor and Judith. “That could come sooner if you don’t

stop yelling at my wife. Back off, big fella, or I’ll have

to do a little cosmetic surgery on that famous face of

yours.”

“Why, you—” Dirk began, but suddenly stopped and

threw up his hands. “Screw it. I don’t need to make the

papers for mixing it up with some old fart. That’s why

I usually have a couple of bodyguards around.” He

stepped back, then started to stomp off—but not before

he scooped three sugar doughnuts from the buffet.

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Mary Daheim

“ ‘Some old fart?’ ” Joe echoed. “I don’t like that old

part much.”

“You’re not old,” Judith insisted, patting her husband’s cheek. “You’re middle-aged. When Dirk Farrar

hits sixty, all that cragginess will turn into bagginess.

You have such a wonderful round face, you hardly

have any wrinkles at—”

The phone rang. Judith let Joe pick up the receiver

on the cherrywood table by the bookcases. When he

turned his back on her, she was certain that he was

speaking with Stone Cold Sam Cairo.

“Right . . . Yes . . . No . . . So be it.” Joe hung up.

“Well?” Judith asked anxiously. “Is it . . . ?” She

couldn’t say the word murder.

Joe looked rueful. “A blow to the head apparently

knocked him unconscious and he fell in the sink and

drowned.”

Judith was mystified. “You mean someone hit him?”

“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “It could have been

that cupboard door swinging out. He may have bent

over for some reason, reared up, and conked himself.”

Judith remembered the aspirin she’d picked up from

the floor. Perhaps Bruno had dropped it, ducked down

to retrieve it, and then—unaware that the door had

swung open—hit his head with such force that he

blacked out.

“It’s possible,” she allowed, though with reluctance.

“You don’t hear it coming,” Joe said ruefully, then

walked over to Judith and lowered his head. “Feel the

bump about two inches above my hairline.”

Judith touched the spot. There was a slight swelling.

“The door? When did that happen? You never mentioned it.”

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141

“Friday,” Joe said, avoiding her gaze. “You were

gone. I didn’t want to admit that I’d banged my head

on the door, because I was supposed to fix it. I actually

saw stars at the time.”

Hands on hips, Judith stared at her husband. “You

mean this is all our fault?”

“Yes,” Joe said in a weak voice. “We may have

killed Bruno Zepf.”

NINE

“THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” JUDITH declared. “How is it

our fault that Bruno bumped his head on an open

cupboard door? Maybe he opened it himself.”

Joe gave Judith a bleak look. “The door was broken. That’s negligence. That’s our fault.”

“My God,” Judith moaned, “we could be ruined!

If they find out about that door, they’ll sue, they’ll

take every cent we have!”

Joe’s expression turned grim. “What’s the insurance for guests?”

“Substantial,” Judith said, agitated. “I mean, adequate under normal circumstances. But not for

something like this, if we’re shown as being negligent and a big Hollywood celebrity gets . . . Think

of the publicity! It’s one thing to have a guest murdered by someone else, that can’t be helped,” Judith

went on, her usual sound logic working in strange

ways, “but an accident caused by the owners’ carelessness?” She put her hands over her face. “Oh,

Joe, I can’t bear it! I feel sick!”

“Well, you can’t throw up in the kitchen sink,”

Joe remarked, a touch of his characteristic humor

surfacing.

SILVER SCREAM

143

Judith took a deep breath. “I’m in shock. And that

poor man—if it’s our fault that he’s dead . . .” Her nausea remained though she pressed her hands against her

face as if trying to subdue the sensation.

“Hang on.” Joe put an arm around his wife. “We’re

not licked yet.”

Judith peered between her fingers. “What do you

mean?”

“I mean,” he said quietly, “that we don’t know for

sure how Bruno ended up unconscious in the first

place.”

“You mean . . . Someone may have hit him with a

different object?”

“No, there were slivers of wood and maybe varnish

in what was left of Bruno’s hair,” Joe said. “Cairo was

so busy giving me a bad time that the facts were a little

hard to piece together.”

Judith was still puzzled. “But what’s the official verdict?”

“Death by misadventure. That means,” Joe explained,

pouring himself a cup of coffee, “that there’s no evidence of foul play, but an investigation will continue.”

“What about the guests?” she asked. “Are they free

to go?”

“I suppose so,” he said as the front doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it.”

When Joe reappeared moments later, a tall, balding

olive-skinned man wearing wraparound sunglasses

and what looked like a very expensive Italian suit was

right behind him.

“This is Vito Patricelli,” Joe announced. “He’s a

lawyer, representing Paradox Studios. He just flew in

from L.A.”

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Mary Daheim

The last person Judith wanted to meet was a lawyer.

She reached out with an unsteady hand and tried to

smile. “Hi, Mr. . . .” The name eluded her anguished

brain.

“Patricelli,” the attorney said smoothly, holding out

a manicured hand. “I believe my clients are staying at

your B&B.”

“Clients?” Judith’s brain was still numb. “Which

ones?”

Vito Patricelli offered her a look that might have

passed for compassion. “The Gasman’ s cast and crew.

I represent the studio, ergo, I represent Misses Best, La

Belle, and Linn as well as Messieurs Farrar, Carmody,

Madigan, and Costello. And, of course, the late Mr.

Zepf.”

“I see,” said Judith, who almost did. “Excuse me, I

have to sit down.” She flopped onto the sofa and

rubbed at her temples.

Joe took over. “I assume you want to meet with your

clients. That door on the other side of the buffet leads

to the parlor. There’s also a door off the entry hall.

Shall I get them?”

The attorney nodded. “I’d appreciate that. In fact,

may I come with you?”

“Sure.” Joe led the way out of the living room.

Judith put her head back on the sofa’s soft cushions

and closed her eyes. She saw strange visions, of her

mother dressed as Cleopatra playing solitaire with

chocolate cards, of Joe and Woody and Stone Cold

Sam Cairo chasing each other in Keystone Kops costumes, of Skjoval Tolvang fending off Angela La

Belle’s advances with a crowbar.

The gentle squeeze on her shoulders brought her

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145

back to reality. Startled, she looked up at Joe. “I must

have fallen asleep,” she said in a sheepish voice.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Joe said, then gestured toward

the parlor. “They’re all in there. Every so often you

hear somebody yell. It’s usually Dirk or Angela.”

“How long have they been meeting with Patricelli?”

Judith inquired, moving around to remove the kinks

she’d acquired in her neck and back.

“Not that long,” Joe said. “Ten minutes at most.” He

stiffened as Vito Patricelli emerged from the parlor

door that led into the living room.

“The meeting’s concluded,” Vito said in his unruffled manner. “I’ve made it clear to my clients where

their responsibilities lie and what they must do to carry

them out on behalf of Paradox Studios.”

Joe was equally unflappable. “Which is?”

A faintly sinister smile played at Vito’s thin lips.

“That they are not to leave the vicinity until the studio

knows exactly what happened to Bruno Zepf.”

Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did

neither, remaining on the sofa until the sullen guests

exited the parlor.

Vito sat down opposite her, carefully arranging his

trousers to make sure the crease stayed in the proper

position. “I have some questions for you both,” he said

in that same, smooth voice.

Joe joined Judith on the sofa. “Fire away,” he said.

Vito removed his sunglasses, revealing wide-set

dark eyes that seemed to have a fire lit behind them.

“What time did Mr. Zepf die?”

“Around one A.M.,” Joe answered.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Vito asked.

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Mary Daheim

“We can’t be precise,” Joe said reasonably. “My

wife and I weren’t with Bruno when it happened. The

time is an estimate, which is also what the ME gave

us.”

Only an almost imperceptible flicker of Vito’s eyelids indicated any emotion. “But,” he said, “you’re positive that Bruno died after midnight?”

“Definitely,” Joe replied. “Why is the time so important?”

The lawyer took a deep breath, then gave Joe what

was probably meant to be a confidential smile, but

looked a trifle piranhalike to Judith. “Let me explain

two things. First, Paradox Studios insures all members

of a shooting company when a picture is made. This is

standard procedure, to make sure there’s due compensation for anyone involved in the production suffering

a disabling injury or”—he paused to clear his throat—

“dying. The policy the studio took out on The Gasman

expired October thirty-first, which is today. The problem is, did it expire last night at midnight or is it still

valid until tomorrow, November first?”

Joe frowned. “Aren’t such policies specific?”

“Not in this case,” Vito replied. “There was also a

rider concerning postproduction. Bruno had stated—

verbally—that once The Gasman premiered, he

wouldn’t tinker with it. But last night he told Winifred

Best and Chips Madigan that it was clear there would

have to be some editing. He intended to pull the picture

from release and postpone its general opening for a

month.”

Judith finally found her voice. “What does all this

have to do with the guests not being able to leave?”

Vito tried to look apologetic, but failed. “I’m afraid

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147

I can’t discuss that with you at present. But I’m sure

you realize that the studio wants to conduct its own investigation into the cause of Bruno’s death. You must

be aware that the medical examiner’s report is inconclusive.”

“We’re aware,” Joe said with a dour expression.

“Good.” Vito stood up, ever mindful of the crease in

his trousers. “I hope this doesn’t sound crass, but I believe you have a vacant room?”

“Ah . . .” Judith’s jaw dropped. “You mean Bruno’s?

Yes, but—”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll spend the night there,”

Vito interposed. “Right now I have to head back

downtown to talk with the rest of the company at the

Cascadia Hotel. Don’t bother to show me out. I know

the way.” He slipped his sunglasses back on and gave

both Flynns the slightly sinister smile. “I’m a quick

study.”

Despite the lawyer’s assertion, Judith and Joe followed him as far as the entry hall. When the door had

closed behind Vito, Joe put an arm around his wife.

“Let’s go into the parlor in case the guests decide to

come downstairs and commandeer the living room.”

In the gray autumn light with the dead ashes in the

grate and the single tall window streaked with rain, the

room had lost its usual cheerfulness. The parlor

seemed bleak, matching Judith’s mood.

“Whatever are we going to do?” she groaned, slipping into one of the two matching side chairs. “Will

the studio’s investigation make us the culprits?”

“I’ve no idea,” Joe admitted, “but one thing’s for

sure—Stone Cold Sam Cairo isn’t going to rush

around on our account. He’s laughing up his sleeve

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over our dilemma because he hates me. Resents me,

too, which is maybe why he hates me. I always had a

better ratio of cases solved than he did. It was a competition to Sam, one-on-one. The bottom line is we

can’t rely on him.”

Judith felt too dazed to respond.

“So we’ll do our own investigating. I’ve got the experience, and you’ve got . . . a way with people.” Joe

lowered his gaze. It was difficult for him to admit that

his wife’s amateur tactics could ferret out murderers.

“Between us, we may be able to get ourselves out of

this jam.”

“You mean,” Judith croaked, “we informally interrogate them?”

“You do,” Joe said, patting her hand. “I’ll take a

more professional stand. After all, I’m not only a retired cop, but a private detective.” He offered her his

most engaging grin. “Want to hire me?”

Judith grinned back, though she was still upset. “Of

course. I’d better make arrangements with Ingrid for

tonight’s other guests.”

Joe patted her, then started for the door. “I’m on the

case.”

“Oh!” Judith called after him. “One thing.”

“What’s that?”

She swallowed hard. “Do you honestly believe that

Bruno may have been murdered?”

Joe regarded his wife with grim compassion. “I

can’t rule it out.”

Judith’s heart sank. “You sound like a cop.”

He shrugged.

Judith tried to regain her composure. “One more

thing.”

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149

“What?”

“Can I use the kitchen?”

When Judith drained the sink, she felt as if she were

releasing the floodgates of evil. Joe had already removed the rubber spider and fingerprinted the entire

area, including the wayward door, the window and

windowsill, and the faucets. He’d ask Woody Price to

run the evidence through the lab.

Judith called Ingrid at the state B&B association’s

office, but was informed that Ms. Heffelman had the

weekend off. In her place was a soft-spoken woman

named Zillah Young. Apparently Zillah was new to the

hostelry business and didn’t know of Judith’s reputation for murder and mayhem. Without giving the details, Judith meekly asked her to assign the five

Sunday-night reservations to other B&Bs in the area.

Finally, Judith had a chance to call Renie and let her

know about the tragedy. It was shortly after eleven

o’clock, and the Joneses should be back from Mass at

Our Lady, Star of the Sea. Judith would either have to

miss Mass or go in the evening. There was no way she

could leave Hillside Manor at present.

The only guests that Joe had found upstairs were

Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle. Joe reported that both

were furious. He also noted that they seemed to be

sharing Room Three, which had belonged to Bruno.

“I told them to get out of there,” Joe said. “I want to

search that room thoroughly before Vito settles in.”

“Will they go?” Judith asked, her fingers poised to

call Renie.

“They stomped out of the house five minutes ago.”

Judith sighed. “So there’s nobody here for me to

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chat up. Heaven only knows where Dade Costello

went. He seems to wander the neighborhood, thinking

great thoughts.”

“Or homicidal ones,” Joe put in.

“Are you going to search Bruno’s room now?” Judith asked.

“Yes. You want to come along?”

“No,” Judith replied. “I have to call Renie, and then,

if none of the guests are back, I’ll go down to St. Fabiola’s at the bottom of the hill for noon Mass. Oh, by

the way, there’s a book in Bruno’s room called The

Gasman. I heard he based the movie on it. It’s old and

looks as if it’s been cherished. Chips Madigan said

something this morning about Bruno being on a mission. I know it sounds silly, but I’m curious. Why don’t

you bring it down and I’ll call one of my library

mavens to see if they know anything about it.”

“You never came across it when you worked as a librarian?” Joe inquired, referring to the weary years of

Judith’s first marriage when she worked days at the

public library and tended bar at the Meat & Mingle in

the evenings.

Judith shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Joe left the kitchen while Judith dialed Renie’s

number. There was no answer except for Anne’s voice

on the machine.

“Anne Jones here. If you want to reach me immediately, call my cell phone or my pager. The numbers

are . . .” After reeling off the digits, she added, “If you

must speak to anybody else, leave your—” The message cut off abruptly, as if Anne didn’t give a damn

whether the rest of the Joneses ever got a phone call.

Which, Renie asserted, Anne didn’t.

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151

Judith took a plateful of pastries out to the toolshed,

where Gertrude picked over them with a persnickety

air. Finally she selected two custard sweet rolls and

three sugar doughnuts.

“Some breakfast,” the old lady sniffed. “Isn’t it time

for lunch?”

Judith told her mother that lunch would be a little

late. Gertrude sniffed some more.

By five to twelve, none of the guests had returned.

Their absence made Judith nervous, but accepting it

as a sign from heaven, she headed off to St. Fabiola’s. The church was near the civic center, and was

a half century newer than Our Lady, Star of the Sea.

The amber brick edifice was only a few minutes’

drive from Hillside Manor. At the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill on a quiet Sunday morning, traffic was

light. Most of the businesses were closed, and the

few that were open had just unlocked their doors to

customers.

Judith arrived just after Mass had started, so she sat

in a pew near the back. The lector was reading the first

epistle when there was a commotion behind her.

Discreetly, she turned to look. At the side entrance,

an elderly usher was struggling to keep a disheveled

bundle of unsteadiness upright. It was a woman, Judith

thought, and wondered if she was drunk or ill. At last

the man steadied the unfortunate soul, propping her up

against a confessional door.

“. . . word of the Lord,” intoned the lector from the

pulpit.

“Oh, my Lord!” Judith gasped from the pew.

The disheveled woman was Renie. She was panting

and limping, her clothes in disarray and her hair going

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every which way, including over her eyes. Judith hurried into the aisle and approached her cousin.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered in a frantic voice.

“Are you sick?”

Renie shook her head, brushing unruly chestnut

strands of hair out of her eyes.

“Have you been attacked?” Judith asked.

Renie shook her head again. “Not exactly.”

Judith gestured toward the pew where she’d been

sitting. “Can you sit down?”

Renie nodded. The usher, whose wrinkled face was

etched with concern, made a move to help both

women.

“It’s okay,” Judith said softly. “She’s not heavy,

she’s my cousin.”

TEN

RENIE ALL BUT fell into the pew. By now, several of

the nearby worshipers were staring. But as she regained her breath and straightened her clothes, the

curious returned their attention to the altar. Judith,

however, still stared at her cousin with anxious eyes.

“Later,” Renie mouthed.

It seemed like the longest Mass that Judith had

ever attended. She had great difficulty concentrating

on the liturgy, though she found no problem in praying for Renie and for herself. It seemed that they

both were in a great deal of trouble. At last the priest

gave the final blessing. Judith offered to help Renie

out of the pew, but was shaken off.

“I’m okay now,” she declared. “I won.”

“You won what?” Judith asked as they started

down the aisle.

“The fight,” Renie said as they reached the

vestibule. “I got into a fight at the XYZ Market up

the street.”

“Oh, good grief!” Judith exclaimed, drawing

more stares from the exiting churchgoers. “How did

that happen?”

“Some middle-aged Amazon thought she was

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Wonder Woman and tried to edge me out at the checkout counter,” Renie explained as they headed down the

stairs to the door that led to the parking lot. “I’d already stood in line for ten minutes and I was afraid I’d

be late for Mass. Bill had gone to ten o’clock at Our

Lady, Star of the Sea. I was so pooped from everything

that happened yesterday that I slept in. Anyway, this

brazen broad ran her cart over my foot and said something like, ‘Move it, shorty.’ So I rammed her with my

cart. Then we got into it, and the next thing I knew we

were slugging it out over the counter and finally I put

a plastic produce bag over her head. She surrendered.”

Renie wore a grim expression of victory. “So what’s

new with you this morning?”

Judith started to speak, and discovered that she had

no voice. “I . . .” The single word was a squawk.

“Joe . . .” Her husband’s name was a guttural sound, as

if she were gagging.

Renie looked alarmed. “What’s wrong, coz? Is

something caught in your throat?”

Judith shook her head. The other churchgoers were

now swarming the parking lot, revving engines, and

readying for departure. The cousins were blocking

traffic. With a desperate effort, Judith mouthed the

words, “Buster’s Café.”

“Buster’s?” Renie looked bewildered.

Judith made chewing motions. Renie got it.

“You want me to meet you at Buster’s? Okay, see

you in a couple of minutes.”

Buster’s Café was old, a lower Heraldsgate Hill

landmark. Buster himself still ran the place after inheriting it from his parents forty years earlier. Nothing

much had changed in that time, or even before, but the

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155

food was decent and the rubber-soled waitresses could

have won a restaurant Olympics for speed and efficiency.

It took each of the cousins less than three minutes to

drive to the café, but almost ten to find parking spaces,

even on a Sunday morning. Judith was out of breath

when she arrived; Renie seemed to have regained her

usual bounce.

“I can’t have more than coffee,” Judith said, “because I have to get home. If you think you’ve had a bad

weekend, listen to this . . .”

Renie did, her brown eyes growing wider and wider.

When Judith had finished about the same time that

Renie’s coffee had gone cold, an incredulous expression remained on her cousin’s face.

“You can’t lose the B&B!” Renie cried. “It’d be like

removing your liver!”

“I know.” Judith sighed. “It’s not just a job or making money, it’s who I am. The horrible part is that we

may be at fault. We were negligent in not getting that

cupboard door fixed. Why, you almost slammed into it

the other day.”

“True,” Renie allowed, her expression full of concern. “But you don’t really know what happened to

Bruno.”

“Also true,” Judith agreed.

A brief silence fell between the cousins. “I’m not

going to say it,” Renie said at last.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” Judith responded, finally taking a sip from her water glass. “No

matter what, I’ve already said it about twenty times

since last night.”

Renie said it anyway. “It can’t be another homicide.

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Mary Daheim

That’d be three at Hillside Manor. On the other hand,

if it is, you wouldn’t be at fault.” She paused after stirring extra sugar into her coffee. “When is a murder not

a murder? How on earth do you and Joe expect to find

out?”

“I’m not sure,” Judith replied, looking worried. “I

talk, I listen, while Joe sleuths in a professional way.”

“Can Bill and I help?” Renie offered, her deep sense

of family loyalty leaping to the surface.

While not nearly as compassionate, Renie ran a decent second to her cousin when it came to striking up

a revealing conversation. As for Bill, whatever he disliked about idle socializing was more than made up for

by his extraordinary perceptiveness. Being a trained

psychologist didn’t hurt any, either.

“Why not?” Judith said, brightening a bit.

“Well . . .” Renie grimaced. “We were planning on

inviting our future in-laws over so we could make sure

who was marrying whom, but the kids aren’t positive

that will work with their various and elaborate schedules. They insist we’ve met them already. I’ll find out

what Bill thinks. If he gives me a green light, we’ll be

over as soon as we can.”

Driving to Hillside Manor, Judith breathed a little

easier. To her relief, the cul-de-sac was empty, except

for the patrol car that had crept close to the curb. She

couldn’t see who was inside, but assumed it was someone from the day shift. Darnell Hicks and Mercedes

Berger would have gone home hours ago.

As she often did, Judith left her Subaru in the driveway. She usually entered the house from the rear, but

on this anxious Sunday she retraced her route to the

front. Pausing on the walk, she drank in the entirety of

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157

Hillside Manor, acknowledging its age, soaking up its

memories. The house was almost a hundred years old,

built in the Edwardian era. The dark green paint and

the off-white trim on the Prairie-style Craftsman had

just begun to chip and fade. Next summer, Judith

would have to hire a painter. If there was a next summer at Hillside Manor.

So many memories, she thought, ignoring the slight

drizzle. Her Grover grandparents had bought the house

in the twenties. Her father and Renie’s father had

grown up there along with four siblings. Gertrude and

Donald Grover had raised Judith within its sheltering

walls. After Don died, Judith and Mike had returned,

converting the house into a bed-and-breakfast. To Judith, it wasn’t just a building, it was a sanctuary. She

couldn’t possibly give it up. Not ever.

With a dragging step, Judith entered through the

front door, where her melancholia was swept away by

angry voices coming from the living room. One voice

soared above the rest.

“You don’t live in our world, Mr. Flynn,” proclaimed Angela La Belle. “You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be in the picture business. If we

aren’t free to talk to people, to make contacts, to keep

up on every nuance of the business, our careers are in

jeopardy. Indeed, after last night’s fiasco, all”—she

paused, and Judith thought she glanced at Ellie Linn—

“or almost all of us are already in deep doodoo.”

It seemed to Judith the reference was not to Bruno’s

death, but to The Gasman’ s flop. She couldn’t help but

flinch at the lack of humanity.

Joe remained unruffled. “Don’t blame us. Talk to

your studio suits. You all have cell phones, don’t you?”

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Mary Daheim

He cupped one ear with his hand. “I could swear

they’ve been ringing like a satellite symphony.”

“It’s not the same,” Ben Carmody argued. “I

planned to take a dinner meeting tonight with the number two producer in Hollywood. Number one now,

with Bruno out of the picture. So to speak.” The actor

looked faintly sheepish, but continued, “After last

night, there may not be any producers who want to talk

to me.”

“You’re not kidding,” Angela chimed in. “Now

when my name comes up, they’ll say, ‘La Belle? She

was in that disaster, The Gasman. I wouldn’t touch her

with a ten-foot pole.’ It’ll be like I have a contagious

disease. There’s no rationality in this business. Only

success and its afterglow count.”

The others enumerated their complaints, all of

which swelled into a dirge of doom. Judith studied the

gathering. Winifred was seated on one of the sofas by

the fireplace with Chips Madigan at her side. Opposite

them were Angela and Dirk. Ben Carmody leaned

against the mantelpiece and, while not wearing his

usual sinister screen expression, definitely looked morose. Dade Costello retained his lone-wolf status in his

favorite place by the French doors. Ellie Linn also

stood outside the circle, perched on the bay window

seat with her feet tucked under her. It seemed to Judith

that the young actress hadn’t been nearly as vocal

about the unfortunate movie premiere as her colleagues.

It was time, Judith believed, to cut someone from

the herd. She singled out Winifred Best.

“Excuse me,” she said in a deferential voice, “but

could I speak with you privately, Ms. Best?”

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159

Briefly, Winifred looked hostile. Or maybe just

wary. But her response was sufficiently courteous.

“Yes, if you like.”

Judith led her guest into the front parlor. “It’s really

none of my business, but since I’ll have to fill out some

forms, I should know what the plans are for Mr. Zepf’s

body.”

“Oh.” Winifred’s face fell. “I’ve contacted his children—they’re both in the L.A. area—and they’re making the arrangements. My understanding is that the

body will be shipped from here tomorrow. Under the

circumstances, I should think any kind of service will

be private. Very private.” She uttered the last words

through taut lips.

Judith wondered if the very private services were

because the family was very private or because the deceased had suffered a huge professional catastrophe

and the survivors were afraid that nobody would attend.

“Are his children grown?” Judith inquired.

Winifred nodded. “Practically. That is, they’re both

in college. Greta’s at Pepperdine and Greg just started

USC.”

“Um . . .” Judith cleared her throat. “Is their mother

also in L.A.?”

Winifred arched her thin eyebrows. “Their mother is

in Dubai. She divorced Bruno several years ago and

married an emir. She was an actress named Taryn

McGuire. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d never heard

of her. She did mostly TV and only appeared briefly in

two or three feature films.”

The name meant nothing to Judith. “I suppose being

married to Bruno wasn’t easy,” she said in a sympa- 160

Mary Daheim

thetic tone. “That is, he really was considered a movie

genius, wasn’t he?”

“Brilliant.” Winifred’s eyes lit up and her voice became almost caressing. “He always had his dreams.

Bruno attended every Saturday matinee, his attention

fixated on the screen, his imagination catching fire.

Early on, he understood what made a successful picture. It was born in him.”

Judith felt as if Winifred were reading from a press

release. Maybe she was; maybe she’d written it.

“It was only in the last six or seven years that he began

to recieve the kind of acclaim he’d always sought,”

Winifred went on. “Two years ago he made the short list.”

“Which is?” Judith asked, puzzled.

Winifred offered Judith a pitying smile. “It refers to

those few at the very top of their professions in the film

industry. Like Spielberg or Cameron. And Bruno.”

Quickly, she turned away. “Excuse me. It’s so hard to

think of Bruno going out . . . with a failure.”

“You seem genuinely fond of him,” Judith said, surprised at herself for being so bold, even more surprised

that she was using the word genuine with a Hollywood

person.

Winifred drew back sharply. “Why wouldn’t I be?

He gave me an excellent job.”

Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe gratitude

was possible in the movie business. Maybe something other than ice water ran in the veins of Winifred

Best.

“You’d been with Mr. Zepf a long time?” Judith

said, keeping her voice low and casual.

“Yes,” Winifred replied, still wary.

“You must have had excellent credentials to get the

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job as Mr. Zepf’s assistant,” Judith remarked, hearing

a car pull up outside.

“Good enough,” Winifred said, her expression shutting down. “Is that Morris who just arrived?”

“Morris?” Judith echoed, puzzled.

“Morris Mayne, the studio publicist,” Winifred said,

joining Judith at the parlor’s tall window.

“No,” Judith said, recognizing Woody Price’s car.

“It’s a friend.”

Winifred stiffened. “Not Vito?”

“No . . .”

“Who, then?” Winifred rasped out the question.

“Ah . . . An old friend of my husband’s, actually.”

Judith didn’t want to identify Woody as a cop. He had

probably come to collect the physical evidence Joe had

gathered. As much as she wanted to see Woody, she

thought it best to stay out of sight. Joe could handle his

ex-partner’s arrival with a minimum of fuss.

But Winifred persisted. “Why is he here? He’s not

media, is he?”

“Heavens, no!” Judith’s laughter was false. “He

won’t stay. I think he wants to borrow something from

my husband.”

Winifred looked relieved. “Morris has done an outstanding job of misleading the media about Bruno’s death.

So far, they have no idea where or how it happened.”

Judith could hear Joe greeting Woody in the entry

hall. To divert the other guests, she led Winifred

through the parlor door that opened directly into the

living room.

“Excuse me,” Judith said loudly. “Since I can use

the kitchen, I’ll take dinner orders now. Does anyone

have some particular craving?”

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Only Ellie Linn seemed excited by the announcement. “Can I get some of my dad’s famous hot

dogs? I’ve really missed them the past few days, you

know.”

Judith nodded. “There’s a Wienie Wizard just across

the ship canal. Anyone else want something special?”

“Not wieners,” Angela said with a sneer. “I’d rather

eat rubber.”

“Steak,” Dirk said, giving Angela’s shoulders a

quick squeeze. “New York cut, an inch thick, rare.”

“You know what sounds good to me?” Chips Madigan said in his ingenuous manner. “An old-fashioned

chicken pot pie, like my mother makes.”

Ben Carmody gazed at the ceiling. “Pasta. Any

kind, with prawns and a really good baguette.”

“If Vito is here,” Winifred put in, “he prefers sushi,

particularly the spider rolls.”

Judith’s innkeeper’s smile began to droop. She

hadn’t planned on serving a smorgasbord.

“Wine,” Ellie added. “You know—some really fine

wines. I like a Merlot with my Wienie Wizards.” She

shot Angela an insolent look.

“Dade?” Judith called across the long room. “What

about you?”

The writer, who had, as usual, been staring out

through the French doors, slowly turned around. “What

about what?” he inquired in his soft Southern voice.

“What you’d like to eat,” Judith said, hearing the

front door close.

“Chitlins,” Dade said, and turned his back again.

“Winifred?” Judith said as Joe ambled back into the

living room.

Winifred shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” She

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163

paused, tapping her sharp chin. “A small salad, perhaps. Mostly field greens.”

“I’ll call a caterer. They’ll be able to stop by the

Wienie Wizard on their way here.” Still trying to keep

her hospitable smile in place, Judith hurried off to use

the phone in the kitchen.

“Woody’s heading for the crime lab,” Joe whispered

as Judith went past him. “He’s doing some background

checks, too.”

It took ten minutes to place the order with the

caterer, with Judith filling in various other items to tide

her guests over until the next morning. She had just

hung up when the phone rang in her hand.

“Now what?” demanded an angry Ingrid Heffelman.

“Zillah Young just called me from the state B&B—on

my day off—to say you’d requested changes for tonight.

What’s going on, Judith?”

“Hey,” Judith retorted, “this Hollywood booking

was your idea. I didn’t ask to change the Kidds and the

Izards. You forced my hand.”

“That’s beside the point,” Ingrid replied, simmering

down just a bit. “The Kidds were considering staying

over for a day or two and moving to your B&B. They

felt they’d missed out. I wouldn’t be surprised if the

Izards would still like to spend a night there for future

reference.”

“The Izards already checked out the place,” Judith

said, still vexed. “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do. It’s

out of my hands.”

“How come?” Ingrid was heating up again.

“I can’t tell you exactly,” Judith replied, trying to

sound reasonable. “It has to do with an incident involving one of the guests.”

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Mary Daheim

“An incident?” Ingrid sounded suspicious.

“What would you expect?” Judith said, no longer

reasonable but downright cross. “From the beginning,

I figured this crew would be nothing but trouble. I was

right.”

“What kind of trouble?” Ingrid asked, then uttered a

high-pitched squawk. “Not . . . ? Oh, Judith, not

again!”

“I can’t say. Really,” Judith added in a frustrated

voice, “I’m not allowed to tell anyone just yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Ingrid said sharply. “I can read

the newspaper. It’s that Bruno person, isn’t it? He died

last night. I didn’t put two and two together this morning because the story was so small and I was barely

awake. Being my day off and all.”

“I’m sorry, really I am.” Judith was about to say it

wasn’t her fault. But this time she couldn’t. Maybe she

was to blame. “Please, Ingrid, don’t tell anyone. We’re

under siege from the studio, which is why the Hollywood guests can’t leave.”

“Oh, God.” Ingrid expelled a huge sigh. “All right,

I’ll be discreet, if only for the state association’s sake.

You’re right—it’s my fault for putting them up at

Hillside Manor. Given your track record, I should

have known better.” With an apathetic good-bye, she

hung up.

Judith was still muttering to herself when Renie and

Bill arrived at the back door.

“You told us we could come through the kitchen,”

Renie said, breezing through the narrow hallway.

“Where are the nuts I’m supposed to observe?” Bill

asked in his rich, carrying voice.

Judith winced. “In the living room. We’re expecting

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165

at least one more, I understand. Remember Morris

Mayne from last night?”

“The publicist?” Renie said, hanging her jacket on

the antique coatrack.

“The very same,” Judith replied. “And Vito Patricelli, the studio lawyer.”

“What happened to the agent, Eugenia Whateverher-name-is?” Renie asked.

Judith sighed. “I forgot about her. Who knows?

Maybe the entire crew from the Cascadia will show up

eventually.”

“Let’s watch TV,” Bill said upon entering the living

room. “There’s a pretty good NFL game on.” As the

guests stared at him, he marched over to the entertainment center next to the bay window, opened the oak

doors, and switched on the big-screen television set.

“Who’s a Packer fan?” he asked, being a Wisconsin native.

“I am,” Chips Madigan declared.

“I hate the Packers,” Dirk Farrar asserted.

Dade actually expressed some interest. “Who are

they playing? The Falcons, by any chance?”

Angela rose from the sofa. “I hate football. I’m not

watching.” She sailed past Judith and Renie, heading

for the bathroom off the entry hall.

“Me neither,” Ellie said, slipping off the window

seat. “I’ve never understood how all those great big

men like grabbing each other. It’s not natural, you

know.” She wandered off into the dining room.

“The observation period?” Judith murmured to

Renie.

“That’s right,” Renie said. “Bill insists you can tell

quite a bit about people by the way they watch—or

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don’t watch—sports. Have you chatted up Ellie or Angela yet?”

Judith shook her head. “Only Winifred. Dade’s the

one I’d really like to talk to. Maybe if Green Bay isn’t

playing Atlanta, he’ll get bored.”

“I’ll tackle Ellie,” Renie said, making motions like a

football player. “You can grab Angela when she comes

out of the can.”

While her cousin went into the dining room, Judith

slowly paced the entry-hall floor. A couple of minutes

passed. Angela didn’t reappear. Judith fiddled with the

guest registry and the visitor brochures she kept on the

first landing. Still, Angela didn’t come out of the bathroom. Judith began to wonder if the actress might be

ill.

After another three minutes had passed, she rapped

softly on the varnished walnut door. “Ms. La Belle?”

she called, also softly.

There was no response. Judith pressed her ear

against the old wood, but heard nothing. She rapped

again, this time louder.

Still nothing.

Alarmed, Judith tried the knob. The door was locked

from the inside.

“Ms. La Belle!” she called. “Angela! Are you all

right?”

Renie and Ellie Linn appeared from around the

corner.

“What’s going on?” Renie asked with a frown.

Quickly, Judith explained. “I’m afraid Angela may

be sick.”

Renie’s frown deepened. “The lock’s one of those

old-fashioned bolt things, isn’t it?”

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167

“Right,” Judith said, “but it means damaging the

door, which Skjoval Tolvang just rehung.”

“Then leave Angela in there,” Ellie said with a

shrug, and walked away.

“We can’t,” Judith declared, scowling at Ellie’s departing figure. “I’ll get Joe.”

Everyone in the living room seemed to be caught up

in a third-and-three situation for the Packers except

Joe, who was watching Bill watch the guests. Urgently,

Judith grabbed her husband by the arm.

“Come with me,” she commanded, keeping her

voice down. “We have a lock problem.”

“What lock?” he said, turning to Judith. “I thought

you knew how to pick them.”

“Not this one,” Judith said, pointing to the bathroom

door. “It’s a bolt, remember? Angela La Belle is in

there and won’t answer.”

Joe looked skeptical, but saw that his wife was upset

and threw up his hands. “Okay, but if there’s nothing

wrong and she just wants to . . . well, sit around, then

I’m going to be even less popular around here than I

am already.”

“Please, Joe,” Judith begged. “Do it.”

First, however, Joe knocked. Then he called Angela’s

name. There was still no response. Grasping the doorknob, he counted to three, then gave a mighty tug. The

old wood shuddered, but stayed in place. He tried a second time. The bolt gave, but not enough to come free.

“Get Bill,” Joe said to Renie. He was panting and

beginning to perspire.

Renie hurried out into the living room, returning almost immediately with her husband. “Commercial

break,” she murmured to Judith. “Lucky us.”

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Joe held on to the knob and Bill held on to Joe. With

a mighty effort, they pulled the bolt lock out of the

door, which swung outward.

Angela La Belle was facedown in the bathroom

sink.

ELEVEN

HAVING BEEN PRIVY to two, possibly three, murders

at her B&B, and encountering corpses at various

other sites, Judith couldn’t believe that history was

repeating itself in less than twenty-four hours.

In some tiny hidden corner of her mind, she honestly thought that nothing could sever her hold on

reality. She’d seen everything, overcome so many

obstacles, endured unaccountable hardships. Surely

this was a dream, inspired by the discovery of Bruno

Zepf’s body the previous night. Flashing stars and

crazy comets sailed before her eyes as Judith

swayed backward. She would have fallen if Bill

hadn’t caught her.

Dazedly, she heard Bill shout at Renie to get a

chair out of the dining room. More dimly, she

caught snatches of Joe speaking—or was he shouting?—he sounded so far away—to summon 911.

“Call . . . Medics . . . CPR?”

Judith thought she heard Joe mention CPR.

Maybe Angela wasn’t dead in the bathroom sink. Or

maybe Joe wanted CPR for Judith. As a former cop,

he knew CPR. Maybe everybody needed CPR. . . .

Someone—Bill, she guessed, catching her

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blurred reflection off his glasses—was easing her into

Grandpa Grover’s chair at the head of the dining-room

table. A moment later a slender hand held out a balloon

glass with what looked like brandy in it.

“Take a sip,” Renie urged. “I got this out of the

washstand bar.”

Judith didn’t care if Renie had held up the state

liquor store at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. Gratefully, she accepted the glass and inhaled deeply before

taking a small sip. The darkness with its streaks of

spinning lights began to recede; the dining room was

coming into focus. Judith fixated on the middle of the

table, where a Chinese bowl of gold and amber

chrysanthemums sat in autumnal splendor.

But reality returned along with her vision. “Angela!” she gasped. “Is she . . . ?”

Renie gave a sharp shake of her head. “I’m not sure.

I think Joe was asking if anyone knew CPR. I suspect

he didn’t want to do it himself in case something

else—” She caught herself. “In case Angela doesn’t

make it. Dade Costello volunteered. Don’t move, I’ll

take a peek into the entry hall.”

Judith took another sip of brandy. Bill stepped behind the chair and began rubbing her shoulders.

“Dirk Farrar is passive-aggressive,” he said quietly.

“Winifred Best has low self-esteem. Chips Madigan

has an unresolved Oedipal complex. His father may

have abused him.”

Bill’s analyses, along with the brandy and the massage, brought Judith into complete focus. “You figured

out all that in five minutes of watching the guests

watch TV?”

“It was longer than that,” Bill replied. “The Packers

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171

got stalled on the Bears’ thirty-eight-yard line, punted,

and the Bears made two nice pass plays before they

kicked a field goal.”

“Oh.” Judith smiled faintly. “I’m still amazed at

how quickly you pinpointed their personalities.”

“I’m guessing,” Bill said, finishing the massage.

“Ordinarily, it’d take several sessions to peel the layers

off a patient. But you’re under pressure to figure these

people out.”

“Yes,” Judith agreed as Renie returned to the dining

room.

“Angela’s alive,” she announced, “but still unconscious. Fortunately, there was no water in the sink.”

“And no cupboard door to hit her in the head,” Judith murmured. “So what happened?”

Renie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Maybe she

fainted.”

“She wouldn’t still be out cold,” Judith noted, getting to her feet with Bill’s help. “She’s either sick

or . . .”

“Or what?” Renie put in as her cousin’s voice trailed

off.

“I’m not sure.” Judith’s expression was grim as she

moved unsteadily into the entry hall, where Dirk Farrar was kneeling over Angela’s motionless figure.

Dade Costello, apparently weary from his CPR ministrations, leaned against the balustrade and used a blueand-white bandanna to wipe sweat from his forehead.

Dirk looked up. “She’s alive. Her breathing’s better.

Where the hell are the medics?”

Judith’s ears picked up the sound of the medics’

siren. “They’re outside,” she said, and staggered to the

front door.

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Chips Madigan was already on the alert. “In through

here,” he told the emergency team, pointing to the

entry-hall bathroom. As the trio made their way to Angela, Chips got down on one knee and framed an imaginary shot with his fingers. “Whoa! This is good!

Medium shot, backs of uniforms looking great, equipment visible, love the red steel cases.” The director

stood up. “Two men and a woman. That’s good, too.

But the height differentials could be better. The

woman’s too tall.”

Dirk Farrar had stepped aside as the medics began

their task. The woman—who was indeed over six

feet—waved the other onlookers away. “Clear the

area,” she commanded. “We need some room here.”

Judith, Joe, Renie, and Bill returned to the dining

room. The women sat down at the dining-room table;

the men remained standing, Bill by the window, Joe

next to the big breakfront that held three generations of

the Grover family’s favorite china.

“What could have happened to Angela?” Judith

mused in a fretful voice. “Stress?”

“In a way,” Joe said, rocking slightly on his heels.

“That is, if you figure that stress can lead to drug addiction.”

“Drugs!” Judith exclaimed. “You think Angela

overdosed?”

Joe nodded. “I’m certain that the white powder you

found in the downstairs bathroom was cocaine. I’m

having Woody analyze the residue to make sure. I

found traces of it upstairs in the bathroom that Dirk

and Angela shared when they usurped Bruno’s room.”

“Not surprising,” Bill remarked. “How many showbusiness people have a drug habit?”

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173

“How many ordinary people do, too?” Renie said

with a touch of anger. “It’s everywhere.”

“Bruno!” Judith breathed. “What if he overdosed,

too?”

Joe, however, shook his head. “No traces of drugs

were found by the ME.”

Slipping out of her chair, Judith tiptoed to the door

that led to the entry hall and peeked around the corner.

An oxygen mask had been placed over Angela’s face

and an IV had been inserted into her arm. The two

male medics were preparing to remove her on a gurney. The woman was speaking in low tones to Dirk

Farrar. Judith couldn’t hear a word they said.

She barely had time to duck out of sight before Dirk

Farrar came into the dining room. Without his usual

bravado, he addressed Joe.

“I assume it wouldn’t break any rules if I went with

Angela to the hospital?” he said.

“Go ahead,” Joe responded. “What’s her condition?”

Dirk frowned. “Not so good. But they think she’ll

be okay.” He hurried out of the room.

“Halftime,” Bill murmured. “Let’s see how the other

guests are taking all this.” He, too, left the dining room.

Judith and Joe trailed behind him. Bill was correct:

The Packers and the Bears had retired to their respective dressing rooms to regroup for the second half. Ben

Carmody was on his cell phone; Chips Madigan was

leafing through a coffee-table book on Pacific Northwest photography; a disconsolate Winifred Best was

sitting in what had once been Grandpa Grover’s favorite armchair; Dade Costello had gone out through

the French doors and was standing on the back porch.

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Winifred’s head snapped up as Bill, Judith, and Joe

entered the living room. “What’s going on? What happened to Angela? Is she dead?”

Joe explained the situation, somehow managing to

leave out the part about a cocaine overdose.

“Was it a cocaine overdose?” Winifred demanded,

looking as if she were about to collapse.

Joe didn’t flinch. “That’s possible.”

Winifred wrung her thin hands. “I knew it. I knew it.

She can’t get off the damnable stuff. How many times

have they—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s Dirk?”

“He rode to the hospital with Angela,” Joe replied.

“I believe they’re taking her to Norway General.”

The siren sounded as the medic van pulled away.

Judith went back into the entry hall and looked outside. A second van, apparently a backup, was also

turning out of the cul-de-sac. The neighbors, who

were accustomed to the occasional burst of mayhem

at Hillside Manor, were well represented by the

Porters, the Steins, and the Ericsons, who stood on

the sidewalk with Arlene Rankers. Across the street

on the corner, the elderly widow Miko Swanson sat at

her usual post by her front window. However, there

was no sign of Vivian Flynn, whose bungalow next

door to Mrs. Swanson’s typically had its drapes

closed during the daylight hours. Feeling obligated to

keep her fellow homeowners informed, Judith started

onto the porch just as a black limousine pulled into

the cul-de-sac.

Vito Patricelli emerged with Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming. With a weak wave in the neighbors’ direction, Judith ducked back inside, where she collided

with Winifred, who was hovering right behind her.

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175

“Sorry,” Judith murmured.

Winifred ignored the remark as she hastened to

greet the newcomers, who barely acknowledged Judith’s presence as they entered the house.

“Dirk called me on his cell,” Vito said, his mouth set

in a grim line and his sunglasses hiding the expression

in his eyes. “We have to take a meeting. Now.” He

marched straight for the living room. “Ben, shut off

that damned TV. Where’s Dade? Where’s Ellie?”

“Dade’s out back,” Chips replied, his tone indifferent. “I think.”

Vito’s head turned in every direction. “What about

Ellie?”

“She went upstairs,” Winifred said in an unusually

meek voice. “I think.”

“I’ll get her,” Judith volunteered.

Vito gave a curt nod. “You do that. And clear the

room of any outsiders.” He particularly glared at Bill,

who maintained his stoic expression.

Joe had clicked off the television set. “Let’s give

these people some space,” he said amiably.

Hands in his pants pockets, Bill meandered out of

the living room. Renie, however, balked.

“Why don’t you hold this session in a regular meeting room at the Cascadia Hotel?” she demanded.

“There’s the Regency Room, the Rhododendron

Room, the—”

Bill turned around, grabbed his wife by the scruff of

her neck, and hauled her away, muttering, “Don’t

make trouble.”

“Hey,” Renie protested, “they’re such big shots, I

just thought they’d rather . . .”

Halfway up the stairs, Judith didn’t hear the rest of

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Mary Daheim

her cousin’s contrary reasoning. Going all the way

down to the end of the hall, she rapped on the door to

Room Six. When there was no response, Judith’s heart

skipped a beat. Originally, Angela and Ellie had shared

quarters. Then Angela had moved into Bruno’s room

with Dirk. Could Angela and Ellie also have shared a

habit, one that would overcome their apparent dislike

for one another?

Judith knocked again, much louder. When there was

still no answer, she turned the knob and held her

breath.

Ellie was lying on the double bed, wearing headphones and tapping out the beat of a song only she

could hear. The young actress looked up in surprise as

Judith moved into the room.

“What’s up?” she asked, removing the headphones.

“Are the Wienie Wizards here?”

“No,” Judith replied in relief. “But Mr. Patricelli,

Mr. Mayne, and Ms. Fleming are. Mr. Patricelli has

called a meeting in the living room.”

“Oh, drat!” Ellie switched off the CD player and

slid off the bed. “What a busybody! When are the wienies coming?”

“Not until after five,” Judith said.

“But it’s only three o’clock,” Ellie responded. “How

am I going to sit through a stupid meeting without my

wienies?”

“I’m sorry,” Judith said, then frowned. “Don’t you

want to know what happened to Angela?”

“Not really,” Ellie said, slipping into a pair of white

mules decorated with multicolored beads. “Angela’s

on a collision course, if you ask me.” She paused to

glance in the big oval mirror attached to the dressing

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177

table. “Is she dead?” The question was asked without

much interest.

“No,” Judith said. “But I gather it was a close call.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ellie responded, yanking at shafts

of her long jet-black hair. “Look at this—why can’t I

do what my stylist does to make this cut look right?

Oh, I’ll be so stoked to get back to Cosmo in L.A. They

should have let me bring him with me.” She gave her

hair a final tug. “Next time, I bet they will.” Her small,

perfect lips curved into a smug little smile.

“Next time?” Judith echoed.

“I mean,” Ellie said, turning away from the mirror,

“next time I have to make a special appearance. You

know—like this premiere.” Suddenly her usual perky

expression disappeared. “Except I don’t know if All

the Way to Utah will get made. At least not soon. You

know—with Bruno dead.”

The title struck a familiar chord with Judith. “I’ve

heard of that,” she said. “What’s it about?”

“Pioneers,” Ellie replied, picking up a pink cashmere cardigan that matched her pink cashmere shortsleeved sweater and tossing it over her slim shoulders.

“The Old West. You know—action, adventure, sex, big

rocks, bonnets, seagulls, Mormons.”

“Fascinating,” Judith commented, though it sounded

like a bit of a mishmash. “Do you have a big part?”

“Very,” Ellie said, joining Judith at the door. “I not

only play the female lead, but my name should go

above the title.”

“Really?” Judith knew that was good.

“Really,” Ellie said over her shoulder. “Got to scoot.

Vito can be an awful pest. Besides, I really need to talk

to him.”

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Judith took the back stairs. Renie was in the kitchen,

studying the contents of the refrigerator.

“What’d you do with all those leftovers?” she asked.

“We put most of them in the freezer,” Judith replied.

“There are still some cheeses and slices of Italian ham.”

“Good,” Renie said, checking the crisper drawers.

“I’m starved. I didn’t eat a serious lunch.” With a gesture of triumph, she held up some smoked Gouda and

a package of prosciutto. “Pass the crackers, coz.”

Judith fetched a box of table wafers from the cupboard. “Where are the husbands?” she asked.

“Eavesdropping in the front parlor,” Renie answered, putting two round slices of Gouda on top of

the ham.

“Ah,” Judith remarked. “That’s good.”

“Bill’s taking notes,” Renie said, making a sandwich out of the crackers.

“Did you get anything interesting from Ellie Linn?”

Judith inquired, sitting down at the kitchen table.

Renie opened a can of Pepsi and sat down across

from her. “You mean besides how much she hates Angela La Belle and Dirk Farrar?”

“And why is that?” Judith asked.

“Professional jealousy of Angela,” said Renie, after

swallowing a big bite of her concoction. “Maybe genuine dislike. Conflict of personalities. It can happen in

any business.”

“What about Ellie’s feelings for Dirk?”

Renie shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” She ate another

mouthful.

Judith took a pumpkin-shaped cookie from the jar

on the table. “Did Ellie mention a film called All the

Way to Utah?”

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179

“Yeph,” Renie replied, still chewing. “Geb wha?

Ewwie’s muvver wode the scwip.”

“Her mother wrote that script?” Judith, who had

learned long ago to decipher her cousin’s words when

she spoke with a mouthful of food, was surprised at the

information. “I actually saw that script someplace. I

think it was in the room that Dirk and Ben shared.”

“Her mother,” Renie began, having swallowed, “is a

writer. Her name is Amy Lee Wong, wife of the Wienie Wizard. She’s Chinese by birth, from Hong Kong.

I gather she’s written a few romance novels under the

pen name of Lotus MacDermott.”

“Interesting,” Judith commented, looking thoughtful. “So Mrs. Wienie sold the script to—whom?

Bruno?”

“Could be.” Renie polished off the crackers, cheese,

and ham, then took a long drink of Pepsi. “Ellie is supposed to star as the seventh wife of a Mormon bishop

back in the 1850s. The narrative involves the Utah War,

which occurred when there was a public outcry about

the Mormon practice of polygamy. According to the

script, one of the reasons that the persecution or whatever you’d call it ended was because the Mormon

bishop took a Chinese wife. If I recall my Western history, it had more to do with the Mormons pledging allegiance to the Union when the Civil War broke out.

Ben Carmody is supposed to play the bishop.”

“My.” Judith got up and took a can of diet 7UP from

the fridge. “It sounds a bit implausible. I mean, the

Mormons weren’t famous in those days for being tolerant of other races.”

Renie grinned at her cousin. “That’s why it’s a

movie.”

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Mary Daheim

“I suppose,” Judith said. “Except for the distortion,

the film might have possibilities. Maybe that’s what

Ben and Ellie were discussing when we saw them at

T. S. McSnort’s.”

“That’s very likely,” Renie said. “Since Ellie looked

as if she had the upper hand, I wonder if she was talking Ben into it. Therefore, I wonder if Dirk Farrar

wasn’t her first choice.”

“So where does Ellie get so much clout?” Judith remarked, sitting down again. “She hasn’t made very

many movies.”

“Ah!” Renie grinned at her cousin. “Don’t you remember who bankrolled Bruno for The Gasman?”

“Mr. MacDermott, the Wienie Wizard,” Judith responded.

“Right,” said Renie. “So naturally he would put

money into the Utah film. If he has any left after the

debacle with The Gasman.”

“Hmm.” Judith drummed her nails on the table and

grimaced. “If Bruno was murdered, then we can eliminate Ellie and probably Ben Carmody as suspects.”

Renie shook her head. “Not necessarily. The fact

that the movie flopped at the premiere might make

Bruno dispensable.”

“What do you mean?” Judith queried.

“I can’t explain it,” Renie said. “Ask Bill. It may

have something to do with the studio’s insurance. Or

Bruno having a flop, which would have made raising

money for his next picture much harder. It was complicated. I got sort of mixed up.”

Judith was about to speculate further when the

phone rang. She picked it up from the counter behind

her and heard a vaguely familiar female voice.

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181

“We’re sure glad we didn’t stay at your place,” the

woman declared. “And don’t think we ever will!”

“Mrs. Izard?” Judith ventured.

“You’re darned tootin’ it’s Mrs. Izard. And I’m

speaking for Mr. Izard, too. Walt here says you must

run a pretty half-baked bed-and-breakfast to let your

guests get murdered in their beds.”

“No one,” Judith said firmly as she cursed Ingrid for

breaking her word, “got murdered in their beds. In fact,

no one got murdered that we know of, period.”

Meg Izard chortled gleefully. “Whatever happened

wasn’t good. And doesn’t that just go to show you? No

matter how big a wheel, the Grim Reaper can still bust

up your spokes when you least expect it.”

The phone slammed down in Judith’s ear. “Damn

that Ingrid—she promised to be discreet about our . . .

misfortune. And she usually is. I’ve always trusted her,

even if we’ve had our differences. And,” Judith went

on, growing more annoyed by the second, “talk about

a poor sport. Since Meg Izard and her husband didn’t

get to stay at Hillside Manor, the old bat wants to lord

it over us because we’re in a pickle.”

Renie was trying not to smile. “Yes, it’s a pickle,

coz. At least the other displaced couple hasn’t bugged

you about what’s happened.”

“The Kidds?” Judith said, going to the refrigerator

and taking out a package of bologna. “No. They were

very nice about it. In the Izards and the Kidds, you see

the two ends of the spectrum when it comes to guests.

Some—most, really—are wonderful, and then others

can be a huge pain.” She deftly buttered two slices of

bread. “I’m going to take Mother a snack. She’s been

shortchanged today.”

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Upon entering the toolshed, Judith expected a testy

greeting. Instead, Gertrude was writing on a ruled

tablet as fast as her arthritic fingers would permit. She

barely looked up when her daughter arrived.

“I have a bologna sandwich with apple slices and

some hot chocolate,” Judith said as the old lady scribbled away.

Gertrude still didn’t look up from the tablet. “Put

’em there,” she said, nodding at the cluttered card

table.

Judith moved a bag of Tootsie Rolls and a copy of

TV Guide to make room for the small plastic tray.

“What are you doing? Writing a letter?”

“Nope,” Gertrude replied. She added a few more

words to the tablet, then finished with an awkward

flourish and finally looked up. “I’m writing my life

story. For the moving pictures.”

“You’re . . . what?” Judith gasped.

“You heard me,” Gertrude snapped. “That writer

fella, Wade or Dade or Cade, told me that everybody’s

life is a story. So I told him some things that had happened to me over the years and he said I should write

it all down. So I am.” She gave Judith a smug look.

Judith was puzzled. Her mother had led a seemingly

ordinary life. “What exactly are you writing?”

Gertrude shrugged her hunched shoulders. “My life.

Fleeing Germany in my youth. Starting a revolution in

primary school. Drinking bathtub gin and dancing the

black bottom. Eloping with your father.”

“You were a baby when you came to this country,”

Judith pointed out. “I don’t recall you ever mentioned

fleeing much of anything.”

“We fled,” Gertrude insisted. “We were fleeing

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183

Grossmutter Hoffman. Your great-granny on that side

of the family was a real terror. She drove your grandfather crazy, and how she treated your grandmother—

her daughter-in-law—is hardly fit to print.”

Vaguely, Judith remembered scattered anecdotes

about the autocratic old girl and her savage tongue.

“Well . . . okay. But I never heard the part about the

primary-school revolution.”

“I’ve been ashamed,” Gertrude admitted. “But this

Wade or Dade or whoever told me to let it all come out.

I was in third grade, and those girls at St. Walburga’s

grade school never flushed the toilets. It disgusted me.

So I told my friends—Agnes and Rosemarie and Maria

Regina—to stop using the bathroom and piddle on the

playground. Protesting, you know, just like all those

goofy people in the sixties and seventies who didn’t

know half the time what they were protesting against.

Or for. Silly, if you ask me, burning brassieres and

smoking funny stuff. What kind of a revolution was

that?”

As she often did, Gertrude seemed to be getting derailed. “What about the bathroom protest?”

The old lady looked blank. “What bathroom? What

protest?”

“At St. Walburga’s,” Judith said patiently.

“Oh.” Gertrude gave a nod. “Well, we all got into

trouble, and the principal, Sister Ursula, sent for our

parents. We were suspended for two days, but by the

time we got back, those toilets were flushed, believe

me. In fact, the school’s water bill went up so much

they had to raise tuition three dollars a month.”

“You were ashamed to talk about this?” Judith

asked.

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Mary Daheim

“That’s right,” Gertrude said. “Nice little girls didn’t

piddle in public. In those days, nice little girls didn’t

even admit they piddled at all. But I feel good about it

now. We won a victory for hygiene.”

“You did indeed,” Judith declared, patting her

mother’s arm. “That was very brave.”

“I hope that writer fella will like it,” Gertrude said,

preening a bit. “He told me he could use a good script

about now. I guess he’s in some kind of a pickle.”

“Like what?” Judith asked.

Gertrude frowned. “I don’t rightly know, except it

had something to do with an ax.”

“An ax?” Judith looked puzzled. “Or . . . acts?”

Gertrude waved a hand. “No, it was an ax. A

hatchet—that’s what he said. Some kind of a job he

was supposed to do with a hatchet. Maybe he’s got a

part-time job as a logger. What kind of money do

scriptwriters get? I’d like to charge him at least fifty

dollars for my story.”

“At least,” Judith said vaguely. “Did Dade say anything else about this hatchet job?”

Gertrude shook her head. “Not that I remember. He

seemed kind of off his feed, though.”

There was no point in pressing her mother for details. If Gertrude remembered something later, fine.

Besides, Dade Costello’s moodiness seemed to be an

integral part of his personality.

Or so Judith was thinking when she smelled smoke.

“Mother,” she said, sniffing the air, “did you put

something on your hot plate?”

“Like what?” Gertrude retorted. “You think I could

roast a turkey on that thing? I can hardly boil an egg on

it.”

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185

Nor did Gertrude ever try, preferring to have her

daughter wait on her. Still, Judith went out to the tiny

kitchen, with its sink, small fridge, microwave oven, and

hot plate. Nothing looked amiss, nor could Judith smell

anything burning. She went back into the living room.

“It must be coming from outside,” she remarked,

and headed for the door.

Gertrude didn’t respond or look up. She was writing

again, her white head bent over the card table.

The smell got stronger as Judith stepped outside and

closed the toolshed door behind her. The rain had

stopped, but fog was settling in over the rooftops. She

could barely make out either of Hillside Manor’s chimneys. Perhaps Joe had started a fire to ward off the increasingly gloomy October afternoon.

Then she noticed the barbecue. It sat as it had all

summer on the small patio by the statue of St. Francis

and the birds. Like the kitchen cupboard door, the barbecue had been another source of Judith’s prodding.

Joe should have taken it into the garage at least two

weeks earlier when the weather had made a definite

transition into autumn.

Instead, it remained, and smoke was coming out

from under the lid. Judith went to the patio and opened

the barbecue. A sudden burst of smoke and flame made

her step back and cough.

Reaching out with a long wood-and-steel meat fork

that was lying nearby, she stirred whatever was burning. Peering with smoke-stung eyes, she saw that it

was mostly paper. Quite a bit of paper, and attached to

a plastic binding, most of which had melted.

Judith was no expert, but she thought that what was

left might be a movie script.

TWELVE

JOE HADN’T YET detached the garden hoses or covered the faucets for the winter. Judith turned on the

hose by the back porch and gently aimed it at the

barbecue. The stack of paper hissed and sizzled, but

didn’t go out. When she increased the pressure, the

smoke finally died down and the heat faded away.

Standing over the barbecue, Judith stirred the ashes

with a meat fork.

“I don’t think I’ll ask what you’re doing,” Renie

called from the back porch, “but I thought you’d ordered food from a caterer.”

Startled, Judith turned toward her cousin. “Somebody burned something in here. I’m trying to figure

out what it was.”

“Wienie Wizards?” Renie inquired, coming down

the walk to the patio.

“Nothing so edible,” Judith said. “It looks like a

script.”

“It does for a fact,” Renie agreed, picking up a

pair of steel tongs. “It’s pretty well fried.” She

flipped through the ashes until she got to the last

few pages, which were only charred. “If I touch

them, they may burst into flame again, but it looks

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187

like a script all right. See—it’s mostly dialogue on this

top page with some directions in between.”

“Can you see what any of it says?” Judith asked,

shivering slightly as the fog began to drift among the

trees and shrubs.

“Not really,” Renie admitted, after putting on her

much marred and thoroughly smudged reading

glasses. Judith could never figure out how her cousin

could see anything through the abused lenses. “Wait—

here are a couple of lines I can make out: Benjamin:

You have never had cause to be . . . I think the last

word is afraid. The next line is dialogue by someone

named Tz’u-hsi, who replies, It is not strange to be a

concubine, though I am called wife. Yet I am more than

a stranger, I am a . . . The rest of the page is too burned

to read.”

“A Chinese name,” Judith murmured. “Ellie’s role

in the script written by her mother, All the Way to

Utah?”

“Maybe,” Renie allowed. “So who’d burn the

script? And why?”

Judith started to stir the ashes again, thought better

of it, and replaced the lid to the barbecue. Heading

back into the house, she paused with her hand on the

doorknob. “It was in Dirk and Ben’s room,” she said.

“Room Four. The script was all marked up. There were

even some obscenities, as if whoever was reading it

didn’t like it much.”

“But which of the two actors?” Renie asked. “Ben

or Dirk?”

“Ben, of course,” Judith said. “He’s supposed to

costar, remember? Besides,” she added, “I read a clipping, also in Room Four, about how Dirk had lost the

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lead in another Zepf movie because he and Bruno got

into a fistfight at Marina Del Rey in L.A. I assume

Dirk was permanently scratched from Bruno’s A-list.”

“Very interesting,” Renie remarked. “So Ben gets to

be a leading man instead of a villain because Dirk

played smash-mouth with Bruno.”

“I suppose so,” Judith responded as the cousins

went inside. “I guess nice guys do finish first.”

“That’s not the saying,” Renie corrected. “It’s the

other way around.”

“You’re right,” Judith said. “With everything that’s

happened in the last couple of days, my mind’s a muddle.”

The cousins had barely reached the kitchen when an

insistent tap sounded at the back door. It was Arlene

Rankers, looking desperate.

“What’s wrong?” Judith asked, hastening to meet

her friend and neighbor.

“What’s wrong?” Arlene threw up her hands.

“That’s what I came to find out. Who got hauled off by

the medics?”

Judith realized that the Rankerses wouldn’t know of

the events that had occurred at Hillside Manor since

they left for home the previous night. “Have a seat,”

she said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll

fill you in.”

Which Judith did, though she was careful to omit

specific details. Her good-hearted neighbor was famous for spreading the news over what was called Arlene’s Broadcasting System, or merely ABS. Judith felt

there was no need to make the situation any worse than

it already was.

“Goodness!” Arlene gasped when Judith had finally

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189

finished. “You certainly get more trouble than you deserve. What can Carl and I do to help?”

Judith was about to reply that she was beyond help,

but changed her mind. “Keep an eye on who comes

and goes around here.” That was easy; the Rankerses’

kitchen windows overlooked Hillside Manor and the

cul-de-sac. At the sink and the dinette table, Arlene had

long ago established her personal observation deck.

“Fine,” Arlene responded, “but can’t you do that

yourself?”

“Not really,” Judith said. “There’s too much going

on. This is a big house. I can’t keep track of everybody’s movements.”

“Not to mention that it’s Halloween,” Renie put in.

Arlene was uncharacteristically silent. She was staring at the table, arms slack at her sides, forehead

creased in concentration. When she finally spoke, it

was as if she were in a trance.

“Seven-fifty A.M., Joe leaves through the back door in

his red MG. Eight-fourteen, the writer goes out the

French doors and disappears around the west side of the

house. Nine-oh-six, the red-headed youngish man leans

out the second-story window by the stairs and looks

every which way through something like a small camera. Nine-twenty-two, Joe returns with two white bakery

bags, two pink boxes, and a Moonbeam’s bag, probably

filled with hot coffee. Nine-thirty-one, writer comes

back and sits in lawn swing on front porch. Nine-forty,

black Lincoln Town Car pulls into cul-de-sac. Writer

jumps over porch rail and runs down driveway toward

garage. Nine-forty-one, well-dressed man wearing sunglasses goes to front door and is let in.” Arlene, wearing

a bright smile, looked up. “How am I doing?”

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Mary Daheim

“Wow!” Judith gasped in admiration. “So that’s how

you do it?”

Arlene looked blank. “Do what?”

“You know . . .” Judith faltered, never one to accuse

Arlene of snooping. “Keep track of things. Help Carl

run the Neighborhood Watch. Stay on top of events on

the block. You must file everything like a computer.”

“No,” Arlene asserted. “Not at all. Now that I’ve

said it out loud, I can barely remember anything.”

Judith didn’t quite believe her, but wouldn’t argue.

Any dispute with her neighbor brought grief in the

form of Arlene’s reversals and self-contradictions.

“That’s very helpful,” she said. “After Vito—the man

with the sunglasses—arrived, what happened next?”

Arlene’s smile faded. “There is no next. Carl and I

left for ten o’clock Mass at SOTS, went to coffee and

doughnuts in the school hall, and stopped at Falstaff’s

on the way back. We didn’t get home until almost one.

I didn’t notice anything or anybody until you showed

up shortly before one-thirty.”

“What about,” Renie inquired, “since Judith got

back?”

But Arlene shook her head in a regretful manner. “I

got caught up in dinner preparations. Most of our darling children are coming over tonight. Except for seeing you and Bill arrive, I didn’t notice anyone else until

the medics arrived.”

“Nothing in the backyard?” Judith asked.

Arlene’s eyes narrowed. “The backyard?” She automatically swerved around to look in that direction,

though she couldn’t see anything from her position at

the table. “No. What on earth did I miss?” She seemed

genuinely aggrieved.

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191

“It may have happened while you were on the sidewalk with the other neighbors,” Judith said in a comforting voice. Quickly, she explained about finding the

burned script in the barbecue. She had just finished

when Joe came into the kitchen.

“They’re adjourning to the living room,” he announced. “I gather they may all be going out to dinner

in a private room at Capri’s.”

Capri’s, on the very edge of Heraldsgate Hill, was

one of the city’s oldest and most distinguished eateries.

“I didn’t think they were open on Sundays,” Judith

said.

“Apparently they are for this bunch,” Joe responded

with a wave for Arlene, who was heading to the back

door.

“But what about all the food I ordered?” Judith

wailed. “It’ll go to waste and I’ll get stuck paying for it.”

Arlene went into reverse in more ways than one.

“Send it over to our house. I can use it to feed those

wretched kids of ours. They eat like cannibals.”

“Cannibals?” Renie echoed.

“You know what I mean,” Arlene said peevishly.

“They eat like your children.”

“Oh.” Renie nodded. “Now I get it.”

Arlene hurried out of the house.

Judith was on her feet, gripping Joe’s shoulders.

“Well? What did they say in this latest meeting?”

“Spin-doctor stuff, mostly,” Joe replied. “Morris

Mayne has the burden of trying to make everything

sound as if Bruno died for Art.”

“Hunh?” Judith dropped her hands.

Joe shrugged, then opened the fridge and took out a

beer. “You know—that Bruno was so disturbed over

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Mary Daheim

the possibility of failure that it broke his heart. He’d

striven to be the best in his chosen profession, and anything less than a total triumph was too terrible to face.

Blah-blah.”

“So they think it was an accident?” Judith asked as

she heard footsteps climbing the main staircase.

“They want it to be more than an accident,” Joe said

as Bill also came into the kitchen, carrying a small

notepad. “They want it to be a Greek tragedy. It plays

better that way, as Dade Costello pointed out during

the powwow. Morris Mayne was all for it.”

“What’s the official news release?” Renie inquired.

“Go scavenge for it after they’ve cleared the area,”

Joe suggested. “Bill and I could hear the ripping and

tearing of many sheets of paper. Maybe you’ll find

what’s close to a finished product.”

Bill was now at the fridge, perusing its contents.

“They issued an earlier statement, but it sounded very

terse.” He paused, scowling at the shelves. “Don’t you

have any weird pop?”

Judith knew that Bill preferred oddly flavored sodas

that came in strangely decorated bottles. “Not really,”

she said.

“Oh.” Bill firmly closed the refrigerator door.

“Maybe I’ll just have a glass of water.”

He was turning on the faucet when Eugenia Fleming barged into the kitchen.

“Do you people know how to keep your mouths

shut?” she demanded.

“No,” Renie shot back.

“Yes,” Judith said, giving Renie a dirty look. “I assume you’re referring to the media?”

“Of course,” Eugenia replied with a scornful glance

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193

at Renie. “Morris is very concerned that we can’t keep

the lid on this location much longer.”

Joe stepped forward to face Eugenia, who met him

at eye level. “Are you saying,” he inquired, “that

there’s been no leak as to where the non–Cascadia

Hotel guests are staying or where Bruno died?”

“That’s so,” interjected Morris Mayne, who had

come up behind Eugenia like a small caboose following a large locomotive. “But eventually they’ll put two

and two together. I’m sure they’ve checked out most of

the hotels by now. Eventually, they’ll get to the bedand-breakfasts. Once they tie in the emergency calls

that have been made from here, they’re bound to show

up en masse.”

Joe tipped his head to one side. “So?”

“So,” Eugenia said, rising up on her tiptoes to look

down at Joe, “we must insist on the utmost discretion—indeed, total silence—from all of you.”

“Fine,” Joe said.

Morris peeked out from behind Eugenia. “Really?”

Joe was nonchalant. “Sure.”

Bill moved closer to Joe. “I have a question.”

Both Eugenia and Morris looked surprised. “What

is that?” Eugenia asked.

“Why should we keep quiet? It hardly matters to my

wife and me what the media might learn from us.”

Bill’s voice was, as ever, very deliberate. “Mrs. Jones

and I could sell information about all these Hollywood

shenanigans for quite a big sum.”

Renie’s eyes practically bugged out. “We could?”

“Of course,” Bill replied. “Especially to the tabloids.”

Judith and Joe exchanged uneasy glances. Morris

seemed stunned. Eugenia was growing red in the face.

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Mary Daheim

“You wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t these

people your friends?” She waved a big arm in the

Flynns’ direction. “Do you know what legal straits they

might be in?”

Bill looked unfazed. “They’re not friends, they’re

my wife’s relatives.” He paused to pour himself more

water. “What about a compromise? Why don’t you let

us in on what you know about anyone who might have

had a motive to kill Bruno? Why not be up-front about

Angela’s drug habit? Why not”—the next word

seemed to gag Bill, who despised buzz-words—

“share?”

Eugenia whirled on Bill, who didn’t budge. “That’s

blackmail! What right do you have to ask such a thing?

Can you imagine the legal steps we could take to silence you?”

“My brother, Bub, is a lawyer,” Bill said quietly.

“Or maybe that wasn’t a threat?”

Joe, who along with Judith was looking relieved

now that Bill had tipped his hand, was nodding sagely.

“I think this is a good idea.” He gestured expansively.

“Take a seat. We’ll talk.”

“No, we won’t,” Eugenia retorted. “At least not until

we’ve consulted our legal counsel. Who, I might add,

is waiting for us in the limousine. We’re going back to

the hotel.” She turned abruptly, almost knocking Morris over.

“Have your suit call our suit,” Bill said as the pair

departed. “Bub’s number is—”

“That’s great, Bill.” Renie could barely contain herself. She was leaning against the fridge, holding her

sides. “You’ve got them worried.”

“They should be,” Bill said in a mild tone. “But I’d

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195

have preferred that they give us some information on

the spot.”

Judith heard the door slam. “Tell us what you overheard from the parlor,” she urged.

Joe sat down at the kitchen table. Bill got out his

notepad.

“As we mentioned,” Joe began, “it was mostly spindoctor stuff. They talked more about how to make it

seem as if Bruno was such a dedicated artist that he

couldn’t survive failure. Eugenia—being Bruno’s

agent—was for that, but there was some disagreement,

especially when they discussed whether or not The

Gasman should be salvaged.”

“Could it be?” Renie asked.

“Maybe,” Bill put in. “They’d have to cut the running time by almost half. As it is, the film’s not only a

flop, but it’s a distribution nightmare. At four hours,

that means only one showing a night per house. That’s

economically unfeasible.”

“So they wouldn’t make a profit?” queried Judith.

“Not in domestic theaters,” Bill responded, also sitting down. “But these days there are all the ancillary

rights. There are so many other markets—offshore,

cable TV, syndication, merchandising tie-ins. A movie

can lose money in this country and still turn a profit.

Not to mention that the studio could cut back on its advertising and promotion. I suspect they intended to

spend huge sums before the general release.”

Joe sipped his beer before he spoke. “You sure know

a hell of a lot about Hollywood for a psychologist.”

Bill shrugged. “Cinema is both a reflection of and

an influence on contemporary life. Besides, I just like

movies.”

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Mary Daheim

Judith, however, was looking for a more personal

angle. “What about reactions? Did you catch any remarks or attitudes that might indicate animosity

toward Bruno?”

“Plenty,” Joe replied, “but nothing I’d call suspicious. Dade complained about what Bruno had done to

the script. He also griped that Chips Madigan hadn’t

directed the movie the way the script indicated. Chips

accused Dade of screwing up the original work.” Joe

glanced at Judith. “That must have been the book you

saw upstairs, The Gasman novel.”

“Did you find it?” Judith asked, having forgotten

that she’d told Joe to look for it in Room Three.

“Yes,” Joe answered. “I put it in a drawer by your

computer. Anyway,” he continued, “Dade reminded

Chips that a movie is not a book. They started to get

into it, but Vito cut them off.”

“That,” Bill put in, “was when Ben Carmody declared that the whole thing was a mistake from the

start. He insisted that the movie would never have been

made if Bruno hadn’t been able to con a huge investment out of Heathcliffe MacDermott in order to boost

his daughter Ellie’s career.”

“I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, “but I don’t understand

how the financing works. If Bruno is an independent

producer, how does the studio get involved?”

As was his fashion, Bill waited to organize his

thoughts. Renie, who was long accustomed to her husband’s methodical and precise mental processes,

climbed up on the kitchen counter, popped the top on

another Pepsi, and settled in for the long haul.

“Usually,” Bill finally said, “it works this way: A

producer like Bruno never invests his own money.

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197

Let’s say he’s already nailed down at least one big

bankable star. Dirk Farrar, in this case. Maybe the estimated budget is seventy million dollars. He—

Bruno—then goes to Paradox Studios and says he’s

got a project and he’s got a star. Dirk’s name is worth,

say, twenty million at the box office. Paradox says

okay, we’ll get our investors to come up with another

thirty million, then you—Bruno—raise the rest of it.

Bruno goes to private investors, in this case because of

the connection with Ellie Linn, he asks Heathcliffe

MacDermott for ten million. The other ten million he

gets from other sources—German businessmen,

Japanese investors, Italian bankers. I mention those

three countries because they’re big moviegoers. The

studio then says they want him to use one of their directors—maybe Chips Madigan—and one of their

stars—Ben Carmody, perhaps—plus a cinematographer, a writer, an editor, some other actors already

under contract to the studio. They’ll share the profits

with Bruno and they’ll handle distribution. Thus,

they’re ready to roll.”

“The Gasman had a hundred-million-dollar budget,”

Joe remarked. “Isn’t that kind of high? And didn’t

Chips Madigan mention going over budget?”

“Did he?” Bill frowned. “Yes, you’re right. I think I

read something about that while the picture was being

made. Did Chips give a reason?”

Joe scratched his head. “I didn’t catch all of what

Chips said. He was toward the other end of the room,

by the bookcases. Dade, who always assumes his

stance by the French doors, was even harder to hear.

But I think—in essence—Chips put the blame on

Bruno for shooting some of the scenes over again.”

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Mary Daheim

“That’s possible,” Bill allowed. “If that’s the case,

Bruno would have had to scrounge up more money to

make the revised budget. The next thing I have in my

notes is that Winifred broke in saying that Bruno had

so much clout in the industry that he would have been

green-lighted for any project. A number of people

would back him because of his track record. Naturally,

Eugenia Fleming agreed.”

“How did Ellie react to all this?” Judith queried.

“She kept her mouth shut,” Joe said. “In fact, she

sort of simpered.”

Judith gave her husband a skeptical look. “You

could hear simpering through the parlor door?”

“It was open a crack,” Joe replied. “Besides, she

was standing next to it, fiddling with the CDs by the

stereo.”

Judith sighed. “This isn’t very helpful.”

“We did our best,” Joe said with a touch of sarcasm.

Renie also seemed disappointed. “That’s it?”

Bill carefully went through his notes. “There were

undertones, of course.”

Joe gave a little shake of his head. “Maybe so.

That’s your department, Bill. We cops tend to stick to

the facts. But since it’s you, go ahead. At least it’ll

please my wife.”

Judith shot her husband a dirty look. “You’ve certainly never been one to credit my intuition.”

“Intuition doesn’t hold up in court,” Joe pointed out.

Judith sniffed, then turned to Bill. “I’ll take all the

undertones I can get.”

“Let me see.” He studied the notepad pages for

some time. “What’s missing is interaction between the

absentees—Dirk and Angela—and the others. Ellie

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199

made a couple of cracks about both of them. Only

Chips was inclined to defend them, though he wasn’t

very enthusiastic.”

“Are Dirk and Angela lovers?” Renie asked.

“Probably,” Bill replied, “though what that means in

Hollywood these days, I couldn’t say. They may have

been sleeping together just for the fun of it while they

were here. You have to allow for a certain amount of

old-fashioned promiscuity.”

“What about the cocaine?” Judith inquired. “Was

that mentioned?”

“Only in passing,” Bill responded, “though there

was a cryptic remark made by Morris. When someone . . .” He addressed his notes. “It was Ben Carmody

who said maybe Angela had learned her lesson. Morris agreed, observing that as they all knew, three times

could be a charm.”

“Curious,” Judith murmured.

“Come on, Bill,” Renie urged, “you know darned

well you’ve got some other information tucked away.”

“I’m sifting it,” Bill said, putting the notepad back

in his pocket.

“As usual,” Renie remarked, accustomed to her husband’s cautious but thorough approach to the deductive

process.

Judith started for the kitchen’s swinging doors. “I’m

going to look for the news-release drafts before the

guests come down to leave for dinner.” She glanced

back at the old school clock. “It’s almost four. They

should be a while.”

Renie followed her cousin out to the living room,

which was uncharacteristically untidy. As Joe had reported, there had been much tearing of legal pads, ac- 200

Mary Daheim

companied, no doubt, by a certain amount of tearing of

hair. There were also empty springwater bottles and a

few glasses, the latter apparently used for beverages

foraged from the liquor supply in the washstand. The

buffet had been raided, too, with the last of Joe’s bakery goods reduced to crumbs. Someone had removed

several paperback books and left them scattered

around the window seat. Magazines from the coffee

table had been dumped on the carpet, and a stack of

tapes and CDs were lying by the stereo.

“Spoiled brats,” Judith muttered, picking up some

of the litter before perusing the discarded sheets of yellow paper.

“I’ll help,” Renie offered, already gathering up the

books by the bay window.

“These people must never wait on themselves,” Judith groused. “Frankly, I think it’d be awful to live like

that. No wonder they get bored and take drugs. They’d

be better off using a dust mop.”

Renie had replaced the books and was now collecting the tapes and CDs. “Gosh, coz, some of these

recordings are kind of old. Since when do you listen to

heavy metal?”

“I don’t,” Judith responded, brushing crumbs from

the matching sofas. “Half of those tapes and CDs are

Mike’s. He says he’s outgrown most of them, but when

I asked why he doesn’t throw them out or give them

away, he says someday he might want to hear them

again. Of course he doesn’t have room to store them up

at the cabin.” She sounded put-upon.

“He might be able to sell them,” Renie said, glancing at some of the labels. “A few of them are real classics.” She held up a tape. “Remember the Demures?

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201

They had one huge hit, ‘Come Play with Me’—it’s on

this—and then the group fell out of sight.”

“I vaguely remember it,” Judith replied. “Didn’t the

lead singer have an unusual name?”

Renie peered at the tape. “Ramona Pomona. I hope

it wasn’t her real name. The two backup singers

were . . . Hunh.” Her eyes widened.

“What?” Judith inquired, pausing on her way to the

kitchen with an armful of glasses and water bottles.

Renie gave Judith a curious look. “The backups are

Jolene DuBois and Winnie Lou Best. What do you

make of that, coz?”

“I’m not sure,” Judith said slowly. “It may be a coincidence. Is there a picture of the group?”

“Yes,” Renie replied, “but it’s small and not very

good. The girls all have their mouths open—presumably singing—and are waving their arms.”

Judith moved next to Renie and looked over her

cousin’s shoulder. “You’re right. Three dark-skinned

girls with bouffant black hair. Let’s see the liner notes.”

“If you can believe them,” Renie cautioned.

But the information was brief and not very enlightening. “It says,” Judith read after taking the small

folder from Renie, “that Ramona, Jolene, and Winnie

Lou grew up together in Compton, California, and

started singing in their high-school glee club before

forming their own group. They got their first big break

when they were discovered at a high-school dance in

Glendale. The trio, and I’m quoting now, toured for

two years as the opening act for several of the biggest

names in the business before becoming headliners in

1978. This is their debut album, featuring the red-hot

single . . . et cetera.” Judith examined the notes closely.

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“This is copyright 1979. Mike would have been

twelve. How old do you figure Winifred is now?”

Renie screwed up her face. “It’s hard to tell. Fortyish? She would have been in her late teens back then.

But maybe it’s not her.”

“And if it is,” Judith noted as she slipped the liner

notes back inside the plastic tape container, “so what?”

“So how do you go from being Ramona Pomona’s

backup with one hit single to Bruno Zepf’s assistant?”

Renie mused.

“Over twenty years,” Judith said. “A lot of things

can happen in that time, especially in a place like Hollywood.”

“There’s one way to find out,” Renie said.

“How?”

“We could ask Winifred.”

“Oh.” Judith felt almost disappointed. “We could at

that. I’ll do it now, before they leave for dinner.”

After depositing the dirty glasses and garbage in the

kitchen, she headed up the main staircase for the second floor. Winifred was in Room One just off the landing.

A double rap on the door brought an immediate response. Judith was relieved; it seemed as if every time

she knocked on a door, an anxiety attack ensued.

“What is it?” Winifred asked in an irritable tone.

“I wanted to show you something,” Judith said,

clasping the tape in her hand. “It’ll take just a moment.”

Warily, Winifred opened the door a scant four

inches. She was wearing her dark blue bathrobe and

her face was covered with cream. “What is it?” she repeated.

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203

Judith wore her most ingratiating expression. “I

think my son may be a fan of yours. Or at least he was

several years ago.” She opened her hand to reveal the

tape. “Is this you?”

Winifred recoiled. “Oh, my God! Where did you get

that?”

“It was in our collection,” Judith replied equably.

“Mike—my son—left some of his belongings here

with us.”

“You’re lying.” The astonishment on Winifred’s

face had been superseded by a steely-eyed look.

“Where did you really get that?”

“I told you,” Judith persisted, “in with our other

recordings in the living room.”

“That’s impossible. This tape’s a demo. It was never

released.” Without opening the door further, Winifred’s

slim arm reached out to grab the tape.

But Judith pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry. I don’t

understand. Is this you on the tape? Is that why you’re

upset?”

But Winifred’s lips clamped shut as she slammed

the door in Judith’s face.

THIRTEEN

JUDITH STOOD ROOTED To the spot, staring at the tape

in her hand. She jumped when Chips Madigan came

into the hall, apparently heading for the bathroom

between Rooms Three and Four.

“Whoa!” he called, a bath towel slung over the

terrycloth robe that reached to his knees. “Sorry.

Did I scare you?”

“Startled is more like it,” Judith said with a weak

smile. “I was lost in thought.”

Ever the director looking for the perfect shot,

Chips half knelt to frame Judith’s stance by

Winifred’s room. “ ‘Shaken innkeeper, anxious about

guest, medium shot.’ ” He stood up and moved

nearer. “ ‘Close-up of innkeeper, looking weary and

somewhat distraught.’ How am I doing?”

“Better than I am,” Judith answered, keeping her

voice down. “How much do you know about

Winifred’s background?”

Chips fingered the towel. “Not much. I mean,

she’s been with Bruno a long time. As far as I

know, she started working for him nine, ten years

ago, after he made his first hit, No Prunes for Pru-

dence. That was the small-budget independent pic- SILVER SCREAM

205

ture that won a film-festival prize at PAW in Iowa

City.”

Judith was puzzled. “PAW?”

Chips nodded. “It’s called THAW nowadays. I’m

not sure what it stands for.”

Judith hesitated before posing another question.

Judging from his youthful appearance, she assumed he

was in the same thirty-to thirty-five age group as

Mike. “Do you remember the Demures?” she asked,

holding out the tape.

Chips looked bemused. “Yes . . . yes, I do. They had

a big hit . . . What was it called?”

“ ‘Come Play with Me,’ ” Judith responded. “It’s on

this tape.”

“Right.” The director beamed at Judith. “It was a

single, really popular the year I graduated from high

school. We wanted to play it at our senior prom, but the

principal wouldn’t let us. It was kind of raunchy for

those days. I grew up in a typical Midwestern town,

sort of straitlaced. You know what they say—change

starts on the coasts, and it takes a long time to get to

the middle.”

Judith smiled back. “One of the singers was named

Winnie Lou Best. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

“Winnie Lou . . .” Chips repeated, then slapped a

hand to his head. “You mean as in Winifred Best?”

Judith nodded. “I showed her this tape and she

pitched a small fit. Why would she do that?”

“Golly,” Chips said, “I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s embarrassed.”

The explanation was so simple that it made sense.

“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, though a snippet of

doubt remained. Before Chips could resume his walk

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Mary Daheim

to the bathroom, she held up a hand. “Quick question.

Why is there so much controversy over the way The

Gasman was filmed?”

“You mean the picture’s length?” Chips responded.

“No, not exactly,” Judith said. “I understand there

were differing opinions about the story itself.” Maybe

that was more to the point. “That the result wasn’t true

to the original book.”

Chips laughed. “You’d better ask Dade about that.

Of course, he’ll tell you I didn’t direct the picture right.

The fact is, I directed it the way Bruno wanted. Of

course I wouldn’t admit that publicly, but you’re not in

the business.”

“In other words,” Judith said, “Bruno dictated how

you should direct?”

Chips shrugged. “It was his picture.”

“You felt he knew what he was doing?”

A flush crept over Chips’s freckled face as he began

inching his way toward the bathroom. “I admit, I

hadn’t worked with him before, but until I signed on

for The Gasman, he hadn’t missed a beat. Of course,

he directed his first six films himself. It was only for

the last two—including The Gasman—that he’d hired

another director. I had reason to trust him. All his films

had been successful.”

Through the window over the landing, Judith could

see the fog swirling around the house. It was going to

be a gloomy, damp night for the trick-or-treaters.

“What went wrong with this movie?” she asked,

aware that Chips was trying to escape.

“Well . . .” He looked pained. He also looked around

the hallway. In the process, he noticed the fog through

the window. “Wow,” he said softly. “Real fog. We

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207

didn’t have that in the Midwest, where I was raised. In

L.A., we have only smog, which doesn’t create this

kind of atmosphere. Would you mind moving to your

left about six inches?”

“What? Oh, sure.” Judith sidestepped a half foot.

“ ‘Troubled innkeeper,’ ” Chips murmured, framing

yet another shot with his fingers. “Fog in background

symbolizes her ambiguous thoughts, as well as impending danger. I like this very much.”

“About what went wrong,” Judith said as Chips

scooted around in a crouching position, seeking different angles. “Have you any idea what happened?”

“The length, for one thing,” he replied, one eye

closed as he peered through his imaginary lens. “Ah!

That’s perfect!” He stood up. “The ambitiousness of

the project. The concept itself. The original material.

The budget overrun.”

“In other words,” Judith put in, “everything?”

Chips gulped. “Sort of.”

“I see,” she said. “But you couldn’t tell that from the

start?”

“You wouldn’t believe how Bruno could talk up an

idea.” Chips grimaced. “That’s a talent in itself. After

five minutes with him, you’d think he was going to

make the next Gone With the Wind.” He bobbed his

head as a door shut somewhere on the second floor.

“Excuse me, I’ve got to take a quick shower before we

go to dinner.”

Dade Costello shambled down the narrow corridor

that separated Room One from Rooms Two and Three.

When he saw Judith, he merely nodded and kept

going. He was halfway down the stairs before she

called to him.

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Mary Daheim

“Mr. Costello,” she said, hurrying down the top

flight and realizing that her hips were aching from all

her recent exertions, “may I ask you a question about

my mother?”

Dade turned to look over his shoulder. “Your

mother? Oh, Mrs. Grover. Sure.” He continued on

down the stairs. “I was just going out for some fresh air

before we took off to dinner.”

“It’s pretty foggy out there,” Judith said when she

reached the main floor. She pointed to Dade’s leather

vest, which he wore over a plaid shirt. “You should

wear a heavier jacket.”

“Think so?” He sounded dubious. “I’m not used to

all this damp. Now what’s this about your mother?”

“Are you really encouraging her to write her life

story?”

“Sure,” Dade replied, leaning one arm on the

balustrade and propping a booted foot up on the umbrella stand. “Why not? She seemed to like the idea.”

“She would,” Judith murmured. “You aren’t seriously thinking of buying it from her, are you?”

“I’m a writer,” Dade said. “I don’t buy scripts, I sell

them.”

“I don’t get it,” said Judith.

Dade shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m interested

in ideas. Your mother sounds as if she’s had a colorful

life.” His casual demeanor evaporated, replaced by

weariness. “Besides, I could use some good ideas

about now. I feel tapped out.”

Judith was mystified. “You mean—you’d buy ideas

from her?”

“Not exactly,” he replied, eyeing the door as if he

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209

were anxious to make his getaway. “It gets real complicated.”

Judith let the matter drop. She was more interested

in The Gasman script than in her mother’s life story.

“Was it so complicated with the book that The Gasman

was based on? I mean, that was a very old book, wasn’t

it? Copyright may have expired.”

“It had,” Dade said without much interest. “I think.

Anyway, whoever wrote it had been dead for years.”

“How did Bruno come by the book? That is,” she

went on, not wanting to admit she’d been snooping in

the guest rooms, “I used to be a librarian, and I’ve

never heard of it. I’m assuming it was fairly obscure.”

“It was at that,” Dade drawled with a gleam in his

eye. “I heard that one of Bruno’s ancestors had written

it. In a nutshell, sophomoric and dull. Carp was the author’s name, as I recollect.”

“C. Douglas Carp,” Judith said as the name on the

title page sprang into her mind’s eye. “Was it his

grandfather or an uncle?”

Dade shrugged again. “I don’t really know. There

was a family tie, though. It was more textbook than

novel, almost impossible to use as the basis for a script.

Too much fact and not enough fiction. And too damned

much territory to cover. I struggled for almost a year to

get just the outline done.”

“I gather you had your differences with Chips Madigan over the script,” Judith said, trying to sound

matter-of-fact.

“Chips!” Dade growled, making a slashing motion

with one hand. “That punk. He and Bruno screwed up

my script every which way. They—Bruno speaking for

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Mary Daheim

both of them—insisted I hadn’t kept to the spirit of the

book. Bull. There was no spirit. It was just a bunch of

events strung together by a weak narrative. For all I

know, old Carp may have paid to get it published. It

was garbage, all nine hundred pages of it.” He paused

to pull out a pocket watch from inside his vest. “Hey,

it’s after five. I’d better get going. I think the limo’s

coming a little after six.” He ambled to the front door.

“Psst!” It was Renie, lurking behind the archway

that divided the entry hall and the living room.

“Where’ve you been? I pieced the statement together.”

“You did?” Judith hurried to join her cousin. “How

is it?”

“Stilted,” Renie said, flapping a half-dozen sheets of

yellow paper at Judith. “It’s the kind of corporate copy

that makes me want to shoot all writers and fill up

space with graphic designs instead.”

Judith held out her hand. “Let me see.”

“No,” Renie retorted, “don’t read this hodgepodge.

I’ve written it out in what’s probably close to the final

draft.” She held up the last sheet and began to read

what she’d patched together: “In the wake of producer

Bruno Zepf ’s tragic passing last night, Paradox Stu-

dios launched an investigation to determine the cause

of death. It is generally felt by studio executives and

Zepf ’s close associates that The Gasman premiere’s

apparent inadequacies—some choice of words,” she

interposed before continuing, “may have caused the

producer to die of a broken heart. According to Zepf ’s

agent, Eugenia Fleming, ‘Bruno set the bar extremely

high, not only for himself, but for others in the indus-

try. The Gasman was a project he had nurtured for

years, with roots going back to his youth. Having the

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211

picture receive such harsh criticism at its premiere

may have been too much for him. He wasn’t used to

negative reactions, and he had worked himself into ex-

haustion. During the making of the film, he had to be

hospitalized for a lengthy period. Obviously, his health

was seriously affected. Bruno couldn’t tolerate a lack

of excellence, especially in himself.’ End of quote,”

said Renie.

“That’s it?” Judith inquired, sitting on the arm of the

sofa.

“No,” Renie responded. “That’s the end of what Eugenia said. There’s more, but not much. In fact, there

were about three concluding statements they might

have used. The gist was that Bruno should be remembered for his many successes, rather than for The Gas-

man’ s flop.”

Judith didn’t respond immediately. When she did,

her words didn’t pertain to failure or success. “Do you

suppose Bruno really had health problems?”

Renie hesitated before answering. She flipped

through the discarded pages, then tapped her finger on

several fragments of writing. “There are some notes

about that, but they’re cryptic. Here.” She handed the

page to Judith.

B’s health, came first, written in an elegant if not

very legible hand, presumably by Vito. “How do you

read penmanship like this?”

Renie shrugged. “It’s all those years I’ve spent reading CEOs’ scribbles. Of course most of those people

never got past the block-printing stage. They thought

cursive meant cussing.”

“HPB,” Judith read aloud. “High blood pressure?”

Renie nodded. “Probably.”

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Mary Daheim

“Ulcer . . . ulcer . . . ulcer. That’s clear enough.

So’s colitis. What’s this? C? It’s underlined twice.

Then it says treatment. Cancer?”

“I couldn’t tell,” Renie said. “Maybe the C is for colitis.”

“Do you remember a drug called thalidomide?”

“Sure,” Renie replied. “Years ago, it was prescribed

as a sleeping pill for pregnant women in Europe. Unfortunately, it caused horrendous birth defects.”

“True,” Judith agreed, “but when we were in Good

Cheer Hospital, I overheard a doctor and a nurse talking about thalidomide. It sounded as if it was being

used for cancer patients.”

Renie looked blank. “I don’t remember that. Maybe

you heard it after I’d been released from the hospital.

You had to stay a few days longer.”

“How could I forget?” Judith said with a grimace,

then grew silent again. “High blood pressure could

have killed Bruno. But wouldn’t the ME be able to

tell?”

“You’d think so.”

Setting the sheet of paper down on the coffee table,

Judith heaved a big sigh. “If only we could be sure that

Bruno was murdered.”

Renie looked askance. “Aren’t you being kind of

bloodthirsty, coz?”

“No, I’m being realistic,” Judith retorted. “I can’t

bear to think that Joe and I may be at fault for Bruno’s

death. It’s not just the possibility of a lawsuit, it’s the

moral implications. If we’re to blame, I’ll feel the most

awful guilt for the rest of my life.”

Renie’s face hardened. “What about that stupid spider over the sink? Who put it there? Why? Was it just

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213

a prank to scare Bruno? Did it scare him into passing

out in the sink?”

Judith stared at Renie. “How odd—I never thought

about that. I mean, first there was the real spider on the

back porch, then the spider in his bed—he didn’t pass

out, by the way— and the one over the sink. Why

would that one have more of an effect on Bruno than

the others?”

“Maybe,” Renie reasoned, “because Bruno was already distraught. Wasn’t a spider a sign of bad luck for

him? And hadn’t he just had the worst luck of his career?”

“True,” Judith allowed in a thoughtful voice. “Who

put those spiders in the bed and in the kitchen? What,”

she went on, her voice rising as she stood up from her

perch on the sofa, “if there are more spiders somewhere?”

“Good point,” Renie remarked. “Have you looked?”

“No,” Judith said, “but Joe searched the guest

rooms. Still, it’s odd that there weren’t more than two.

If you wanted to scare somebody with a fake bug over

the course of a weekend, wouldn’t you bring along,

say, a half dozen?”

“I would,” Renie said. “Better safe than sorry.” She

turned as Joe and Bill entered the living room.

“Bill made a chart,” Joe said. “It shows all the relationships between the guests and their possible motives.”

Sure enough, Bill held up a sheet of butcher’s paper.

He had used different colored pens, made a legend in

one corner, and set down at least a dozen footnotes in

the other. It was so elaborate that it resembled a diagram of the solar system. Or Einstein’s theory of rela- 214

Mary Daheim

tivity. As far as Judith could see, it was equally hard to

decipher.

“Goodness,” she said for lack of anything more positive. “Does it . . . make sense?”

“It does to Bill,” Joe replied.

“Of course,” Renie murmured.

Bill revealed a long bamboo skewer to use as a

pointer. “Bruno is here in the middle,” he said, indicating the largest of the circles.

“Like the sun,” Judith said softly.

Apparently, Bill didn’t hear her. “This smaller circle

closest to Bruno is Winifred Best. Note the lines coming from her. Can you read my handwriting?”

“Can I ever?” Renie remarked. “By the way,” she

said in an aside to Judith and Joe, “he can’t spell.”

Bill ignored his wife. “One line is for loyalty, another is for dependence, a third is for—”

“What’s that thing that looks like a bug?” Renie interrupted.

“It’s a bug,” Bill responded, smacking the creature

with his hand. He paused to use a handkerchief, wiping the victim off his palm.

“Not a spider,” Judith noted.

“The spider’s over here.” Bill pointed to what

looked like an asterisk. “Source unknown. To get back

to Winifred—”

The phone rang. Judith went to the small cherrywood table and picked up the receiver. “It’s for you,”

she said to Joe.

The others remained silent while Joe took the call.

His expression changed from mild interest to surprise.

“No kidding? That’s . . . a shame. Sure, let me know.”

He hung up.

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215

“Who was that?” Judith inquired.

“Dilys,” Joe replied, looking preoccupied. “Stone

Cold Sam Cairo is in Norway General Hospital with a

heart attack.”

“Oh, no!” Judith exclaimed. “How serious is it?”

“Serious enough, I guess,” Joe said, trying to look

sympathetic but not succeeding very well. “Dilys is

waiting to hear who’ll take over the case with her until

he recovers.”

“I was wondering why we haven’t heard from

downtown,” Judith said. “I thought that Cairo and

Dilys had taken the day off. At least the police haven’t

given up. I mean, they must still believe that Bruno

could have been murdered.”

“It’s high profile,” Joe said. “They have to stay on it,

or they could get sued, too.”

“Don’t mention it.” Judith nodded at Bill. “Go ahead,

what else have you attached to Winifred’s circle?”

“The possibility of a love affair,” Bill replied, “or

her wish to have one with Bruno. Men and women

who work so closely together—especially in the Hollywood atmosphere where sex is so prevalent in every

phase of life. Often, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just

casual sex. But sometimes it can be more, at least for

one of the parties involved.”

“Say,” Judith put in, “what’s Bruno’s marital track

record? Was he married to anyone besides the starlet

who’s now an emir’s wife in Dubai?”

The others looked blank. Finally, Renie spoke.

“Didn’t Winifred say Bruno’s kids were of college

age? He must have married—what was her name?”

Judith thought hard. “Tamara . . . no, Taryn. Taryn

McGuire.”

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Mary Daheim

Renie gave a brief nod. “Bruno must have married

Taryn at least twenty years ago. It’s hard to imagine

that he never married anyone else. I saw on one of

those discarded statements that he turned fifty-three

this year. Surely he couldn’t be the only man in Hollywood who had just one wife.”

“True,” Judith remarked. “But Winifred didn’t mention any other family except the two children. Let’s

face it, we don’t know much about his background.

Except,” she continued with a wag of her finger, “he

was related to the C. Douglas Carp who wrote The

Gasman novel.”

“Ah.” Bill glanced at Renie. “I need an orange pen.”

Dutifully, Renie reached into the box of markers on

the coffee table and handed her husband the object of

his desire.

Bill drew a rectangle on the chart. It could have

been a book—or a box of cereal. “That’s interesting,”

he noted. “Despite the fact that the novel wasn’t very

good, Bruno was deeply attached to it. Which suggests

he was deeply attached to the author, maybe more so

than to the book.”

Joe gave Bill an approving nod. “You may be onto

something, Mr. Jones.”

Judith was peering at what looked like a stick figure

wearing a big hat. Or maybe it was a halo. “What’s

that?” she asked.

Bill examined the clumsy sketch. “That’s the alien

suspect. See, it’s from outer space.”

“So’s Bill,” Renie murmured. “He can’t draw, either.”

“I don’t understand,” Judith admitted.

Bill tapped the figure twice. “We can’t exclude an

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217

outsider. If you and Joe were in the basement when

Bruno died, he could have let someone in, someone

you never saw and don’t even know exists. Thus, the

alien suspect.”

“That’s not a bad theory,” Joe remarked. “I tell you,

Billy Boy, you may be going somewhere with this chart.”

“Speaking of going,” Renie said with a bored expression, “could we go on to something else?”

“No,” Judith responded. “I think Bill has a very important point.” She ignored her cousin, who was using

her hands to make a conical steeple over Bill’s head.

“Why don’t I call one of my buddies with the library

system and ask about The Gasman?”

“Why?” Joe countered. “You said yourself you

didn’t remember anything about it.”

“But I’m not eighty-five years old,” Judith said, seeing Sweetums wander into the living room. “Delia

Cosgrove is. She might recall something. Delia’s been

retired for years, but she’s still very sharp. I ran into

her last spring at the annual library tea.”

“Forget Delia,” Renie said with a curious expression. “Call my mother.”

Bill looked askance. “Your mother?”

“Yes,” Renie replied with a touch of defiance. “My

father read all sorts of books, including some oddities

nobody else probably ever heard of. Mom might remember.”

Bill sucked in his breath. “I’ve gone to a lot of work

here.”

Judith started to speak, but Renie interrupted. “I’m

going to call my mother right now.” She picked up the

phone and dialed as Sweetums sashayed over to Bill

and sniffed the corner of his chart.

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Mary Daheim

“Why don’t we watch the end of the football

game?” Bill muttered. “We might as well. This is

going to take a long time.”

“The game’s over,” Joe said as the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it.”

Without any sense of optimism, Judith stood next to

Renie as Aunt Deb picked up the phone on the first

ring.

“Hi, Mom,” Renie began. “I’ve got a question for

you . . . Well, yes, of course I want to know how you

are, but I talked to you this morning for at least twenty

minutes and . . . No kidding? How did your big toe get

stuck in the drain? . . . Thank goodness for Mrs. Parker

stopping by . . . I didn’t realize Auntie Vance and

Uncle Vince were coming down from the island . . .

No, I won’t tell Aunt Gertrude . . . Yes, I know how she

and Auntie Vance like to argue . . . No, I realize you

aren’t one to quarrel . . . Yes, Aunt Gertrude can be a