Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

trial sometimes. You’re very patient with her . . . I’m

aware that she thinks she’s the one who’s being patient

with you . . . Certainly Auntie Vance can have a rough

tongue . . . She told you to put your big toe where? . . .

Well, that is kind of coarse, but you know what Auntie

Vance is like . . .”

Judith was distracted by the return of Joe with three

deliverymen carrying several cartons and portable

heating units. “Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I forgot about

the caterers.”

“I’ll handle it,” Joe said grimly.

As the deliverymen began to unload the order onto

the buffet, Renie eyed the food with longing. “I know

it’s foggy,” she said into the phone. “Yes, I’ll cover all

my orifices when I go outside so that the damp won’t

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harm me . . . Of course I’m wearing sturdy shoes.” She

glanced down at her flimsy brown flats. “No, this pair

doesn’t lace up to my ankles. I haven’t worn those oxfords since I was twelve . . .”

Judith’s attention drifted to the buffet, where Joe

was ripping open boxes and dumping out heated bags.

The deliverymen had already skittered out of the house

after presenting an embarrassingly large bill.

Joe emptied a box of Wienie Wizards, dropping almost all of them on the floor. They bounced, but not

very high.

“Wait!” Judith cried. “Let me do that. You’re angry,

and you’re making a mess.”

Joe’s jaw jutted. “Do you know what all this crap

cost?”

“No, and I don’t want to know,” Judith shot back.

“Not now. Let me call Arlene on my cell phone and see

if she wants any of this food before you destroy it.”

She started to get her purse from the kitchen

when she heard the sound of hurrying feet on the

stairs. “I smell Wienie Wizards!” cried Ellie Linn.

“Yum, yum!”

In a flurry, Judith scooped the hot dogs off the floor

and dumped them into a crystal bowl. “They’re nice

and warm. Be our guest.”

“I already am.” Ellie giggled, her dark eyes shining

with delight. “Mmm . . . my faves!” She immediately

pitched in, grabbing four wieners and four buns at

once.

Finally reaching the kitchen, Judith dialed Arlene’s

number.

“What food?” Arlene asked in a puzzled voice.

Judith reminded her neighbor about the large order

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from the caterer. “I thought you wanted some of it for

your family dinner tonight.”

“What family?” Arlene asked. “They canceled.

They all decided to stay home because of Halloween.”

“Rats!” Judith muttered. “Okay, sorry to bother

you.”

“Why don’t you freeze it?” Arlene suggested.

“Frankly,” Judith said, “we’re running out of room

in the freezer. But you’re right, I’ll try to squeeze in

some of the items that won’t keep.”

By the time she returned to the living room, Renie

was finally hanging up the phone. Ellie Linn had disappeared, apparently going upstairs to savor her Wienie Wizards.

“Guess what?” Renie said, looking dazed.

Bill and Joe barely looked up from their places on

the matching sofas. The TV screen showed Nazi planes

swooping over England. Bill had one eye on the set

and the other on his chart, which was spread out over

the coffee table. Sweetums was weaving in and out between his ankles, the cat’s great plume of a tail swishing back and forth.

“Go away,” Bill snarled under his breath, “or I’ll

turn you into cat chowder.”

“What is it?” Judith asked of Renie.

Bill spoke up before his wife could answer. “Get

this damned cat out of here. And I could use a purple

pen.”

Renie swooped down, grabbed Sweetums, and

made a face at Bill. “The marker pens are under your

chart, Galileo.” She moved away, unceremoniously

dumping Sweetums near the entry hall.

“My mother actually read The Gasman, ” Renie de- SILVER SCREAM

221

clared. “So, of course, did my father. He made her read

it because he insisted it was a quick way to learn the

history of the world.”

“You’re kidding!” Judith cried.

Joe hit the mute button on the TV’s remote control;

Bill didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“Does Aunt Deb remember anything about the

book?” Judith asked, aware that her aunt’s memory

was much keener than her mother’s.

“Well . . .” Renie made a face. “She admits she

skimmed it. My dad enjoyed it because there were

some obscure facts he learned and some misconceptions he had that the book cleared up. I gather C. Douglas Carp meticulously researched his material.

Anyway, that sort of thing appealed to Dad. Mom

didn’t give a hoot, and thought the story itself was

silly, and she didn’t like all the wars.” Her gaze shot to

the TV, where London was being bombed into what

looked like charcoal clumps.

“Oh.” Judith was disappointed. “At least we know

that somebody besides Bruno read the book.”

“There was one other thing,” Renie said. “You know

my mother—she’s like you, coz. Her main interest in

life is people.”

Judith smiled faintly. It was a great irony that in

many ways, Judith’s personality was more like Aunt

Deb’s. Conversely, Renie had some of the same traits

as Gertrude. Reacting to Renie’s comment, Bill

groaned, but Joe gave a thumbs-up signal. Both men

felt they had a cross to bear when it came to their

mothers-in-law.

“So?” Judith prodded.

“So,” Renie began, “Mom had an old friend, Hattie

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McDonough, who married a man named Carp. In fact,

I guess she married him back in the late twenties, about

the time that my folks read The Gasman. Naturally,

since Carp isn’t a common name, Mom wanted to

know if Hattie’s husband and C. Douglas were related.

Hattie—who, by the way, died a few years ago—said

they were cousins. Bernie Carp—the one Hattie married—was from the Midwest. Iowa or Nebraska, Mom

thought. Alas, Mr. Bernie Carp turned out to be a

drinker, and Hattie divorced him before World War

Two, a war we all know who won by now.” Renie raked

the TV screen with a scathing look.

Judith clapped her hands together. “Damn! Why

didn’t I think of this before? I’m going on-line to find

out about Bruno’s background. If,” she added on a note

of doubt, “I can figure out how to do it.”

“I’ll do it,” Renie volunteered. “I’m semigood at

finding stuff like that. But only after I eat most of this

food. Then you can start putting it away while I surf.

Meanwhile,” she added, pointing to Joe and Bill, “we’ll

leave General Eisenhower and General Patton in here to

beat the stuffing out of the Führer all over again.”

Five minutes later Renie was at the computer in the

kitchen while Judith staggered past, carrying a load for

the freezer. Directly behind Renie’s chair, two of the

boxes fell over and hit Renie on the back.

“Yikes!” she cried. “Watch the shoulder! I’ve had

surgery, remember?”

“How can I forget?” Judith muttered. Favoring her

artificial hip, she bent over to retrieve the boxes and

dropped two more.

Renie jumped out of the chair. “Let me help. You

can’t carry all that at once.”

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223

“I guess not,” Judith admitted. “How are you doing

on the Internet?”

“I just got into one of the main sites,” Renie said as

she scooped up the fallen boxes. “I had to eat a little

something first. Like the steaks.”

“Those I could have frozen,” Judith said, leading the

way down the basement steps.

“I didn’t really eat them,” Renie admitted. “I had

some of that field-green salad, a few tempura prawns,

a piece of fried chicken, and some excellent lox on an

outstanding bagel.”

Arriving at the freezer, Judith shook her head. “All

that in five minutes. How could you?” She always marveled at how much—and how fast—Renie could eat.

She also wondered why she couldn’t have inherited

Renie’s metabolism instead of Aunt Deb’s compassion.

“You’re right,” Renie said as Judith opened the

freezer. “You don’t have much room. Maybe we

should take this stuff out of the boxes and put it in

freezer wrap.”

“There’s some right up here,” Judith said, reaching

for a roll on the shelf above the freezer. “So did you

learn anything about Bruno’s background yet?”

“No, I just got started,” Renie replied, removing

four prime New York steaks from one of the boxes. “I

only learned his age, which indeed is fifty-three as of

March ninth. The next thing I knew, I was being

crushed by your cartons.”

“Here,” Judith said, moving some of the items in the

freezer, “I’ve made some room. We can put those

steaks in this corner by the—” She stopped and sucked

in her breath.

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Renie looked at her cousin with some alarm.

“What’s wrong? Did you cut yourself on something?”

“No,” Judith said slowly as she brought her hand out

of the freezer. “But I did find these.”

She opened her palm to reveal four black rubber spiders, stiff as boards and covered with frost.

FOURTEEN

“GIVE ME A clean piece of freezer wrap,” Judith said

to Renie. “I’ll put the spiders in it just in case there

might be fingerprints or fibers or something on them.”

After securing the evidence, the cousins worked

quickly to store the rest of the food. It was almost

six by the time they returned upstairs to find the

guests in the entry hall, awaiting their limousine.

On a whim, Judith approached them. “Hey, anybody lose some fake spiders?” She held them out in

their shroud of plastic wrap.

Ellie, Winifred, and Dade all gave a start. The

others looked mildly curious. Judith’s eyes darted

around the gathering, trying to assess the individual

reactions.

“Where’d those spiders come from?” Ben Carmody asked. “They look like the ones in Bruno’s

bed and over the sink.”

“I’m glad they’re fake,” Ellie said. “Those things

creep me out even if they are phony.”

“They devastated Bruno,” Winifred noted. “Why

do they look like they’ve been frozen?”

“Because they were,” Judith responded. “Nobody

wants to claim them, I see.”

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“Gosh, no,” Chips said. “Why don’t you put them

around the door for the kids who come trick-ortreating?”

“I don’t think so,” Judith said, trying not to show

disappointment at the lack of a revealing reaction.

“We shouldn’t be late,” Winifred said as a knock

sounded at the front door. “By the way,” she informed

Judith, “we heard from the hospital. Angela is going to

pull through, but it was a near thing. Dirk will be joining us at Capri’s for dinner.” Along with the others, she

moved toward the door, where their chauffeur awaited

them.

Joe ambled over to the entry hall after the guests had

left. “What was that all about?”

“This,” Judith said, showing him the frozen spiders.

“You should have Woody check them out.”

“Hidden in the freezer?” Joe cocked his head to one

side. “Not a bad place, I suppose. Nobody twigged

when you showed them off?”

“No,” Judith admitted. “Oh, Ellie and Winnie and

Dade gave a start, but that doesn’t prove anything. I

was hoping that either all of them except one, or none

of them except one, would react. Or not.”

“I think I understand you,” Joe said, taking the spiders from Judith. “Dilys can handle this. She saw the

spider over the sink.”

Judith went back into the living room. Bill, with the

sound on again, was now watching the Allies get revenge for London by blasting the bejeesus out of

Berlin.

“You two sofa soldiers can graze at the buffet,” she

announced. “I’m not making a formal dinner.”

In the kitchen, Renie was staring at the computer

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227

screen. “Interesting,” she remarked. “Bruno was born

in Iowa of an army mother and a German war groom.

They moved to California when Bruno was very

young. His dad got a job in Hollywood as a translator

for German films. Young Bruno grew up obsessed by

the movies. Hence his destiny, but only after two years

of extensive travels in search of his roots. He was married briefly at the age of twenty, divorced before he

was twenty-one, then took Taryn McGuire as his second wife when he was twenty-seven, divorced six

years later, married a third time to a film cutter for five

years, again divorced. The two children by Taryn are

listed, ages eighteen and twenty.”

“Does it give his mother’s maiden name?” Judith

asked.

“Yes,” Renie replied, scrolling up the screen. “Father, Josef Zepf; mother, Helena Walls. No Carp.

Sorry.”

“What about wives number one and number three?

Any names?”

Renie shook her head. “The first marriage was so

brief they don’t mention her. And the film cutter’s

name isn’t listed, either. Since this is an official site,

they may have been omitted because they weren’t

names in the industry. There are other sites, I’m sure.”

“Check those,” Judith urged. “There’s got to be a

Carp somewhere.”

“I’ll try,” Renie said, “but sometimes it’s tricky to

get into the unofficial sites. At least it is for me. Meanwhile, I’ll print out the stuff we’ve already seen.

There’s quite a bit of information about Bruno’s films,

of course.”

In the living room, World War II had ended in Eu- 228

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rope. The program had moved on to the Pacific, where

General Douglas MacArthur was wearing his game

face. Bill was adding another section to his chart.

“Joe,” Judith said with a sigh, “I thought you were

detecting.”

“I am,” Joe replied. “I’m like Hercule Poirot, letting

my little gray cells cogitate.”

Bill gave Judith an accusing look. “You didn’t let

me finish explaining my chart.”

“You’re right,” Judith said, sitting down on the sofa

arm. “Really, I am interested. Show me.”

While Bill wrestled with his unwieldy chart, Joe reluctantly turned off the TV as a mushroom cloud exploded over Hiroshima. Bill picked up his bamboo

skewer just as Renie burst into the living room.

“Hey!” she cried. “I found something. There’s a

whole Web site devoted to The Gasman and its origins.”

Judith turned to look at her cousin. “What does it

say?”

“I don’t know,” Renie replied. “It’s kind of long, so

I’m printing it out.” She saw her husband with his chart

and pointer. “Oops. Sorry, Bill. Am I interrupting?”

“You usually are,” Bill said with a long-suffering

air.

“Go ahead,” Joe urged, nodding at Bill. “I’d like to

hear this, too. It might help me . . . cogitate.”

“What’s that new section?” Judith asked, noting that

two more circles had been added.

“Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming,” Bill replied

with a tap for each of the turquoise circles.

“You’re right,” Judith said. “We can’t ignore them.

They were here last night, too. What else can you tell

us?”

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229

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Bill began, tapping

the corner of the chart. “We’re talking about Hollywood, and we should keep a few things in mind. One

is power. Who has it here? Bruno, of course. He was

one of the most powerful men in the movie industry.

That’s a very exclusive club. Who else, then?”

Judith felt she was in the classroom with Bill, and

automatically raised her hand. “Winifred? She was so

close to Bruno.”

Bill nodded solemnly. “That’s right. If nothing else,

Winifred would have had the power to say yes to a proposal or a script. Anyone in Hollywood can say no. But

saying yes is a risk. Winifred was probably able to do

that because of her close association with Bruno.”

“Then Eugenia would have power, too,” Judith conjectured, “because she’s Bruno’s agent?”

“Only to the extent of allowing access to the people

in her stable,” Bill replied. “Eugenia also represents

Dirk, doesn’t she? The amount of her power depends

more on her clients’ clout.”

“What about Morris?” Joe asked.

“Morris Mayne is a studio flack,” Bill said, tapping

the smaller of the circles in his addendum. “Morris can

be replaced on a whim. The only way publicists have

any power is if they’re keeping a secret. Let’s say, covering up for Angela’s overdose today.”

“Blackmail,” Joe said. “Morris is more likely a victim than a perp because he knows too much. Blackmailers are always vulnerable.”

The room went silent for a few moments as the foursome reflected. Finally, Renie spoke. “Angela and Dirk

are bankable. Doesn’t that give them some power?”

“Dirk, yes,” Bill said. “But not Angela. She’s a big

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star, though I doubt that a producer or a studio could

get a large investment on her name alone. Bruno could

and did with Dirk.”

“What about Chips Madigan?” Joe asked. “He’s a

successful director.”

Bill shook his head. “Chips is under contract to

Paradox. His power is limited. In fact,” he continued,

tapping at several of the smaller circles, “no one here

really has power except Bruno, Winifred, and Dirk.

Writers in particular are way down on the food chain.”

“Ellie had power,” Judith pointed out. “She was the

reason Bruno got a big chunk of money for The Gas-

man.”

Again, Bill shook his head. “That was a fluke. Ellie

had connections, which isn’t the same. Until now, her

father wasn’t a player.”

“But,” Renie said, “do people murder for power in

Hollywood? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a

thing.”

Bill pointed the pointer at Renie. “That’s right,” he

said approvingly. “They don’t. If Bruno was murdered,

I doubt that power was a motive.”

“You really think he was murdered?” Judith said eagerly.

Bill shrugged. “How do I know? But you and Joe

seem to be operating on that premise. Judging from the

studio’s involvement, they are, too.”

“So,” Renie inquired, “what’s the other factor besides power?”

“Factors, really,” Bill responded, then studied his

chart for a moment. “Image, for one. I realize it’s not

like it used to be in Hollywood, where studios manufactured images and personalities. Stars were shielded

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from bad publicity; they had to live up to certain standards. Of course they misbehaved, but either they were

protected from the press or the reporters themselves

turned a blind eye. Nowadays actors don’t have that

kind of buffer. And journalism is different—no turn

goes unstoned, as they say. The tabloids not only exploit the stars’ misdeeds, but they invent some of

them.” Bill took a deep breath. “All that being said, it’s

only human nature for actors to want to keep certain

unsavory things from the public. Such as Angela’s apparent cocaine habit.”

“Dirk, too?” Judith offered. “If he and Angela were

romantically involved, isn’t it possible that he also had

a coke addiction?”

“We don’t know about Dirk,” Bill replied. “Do we

have proof?”

On the sofa, Joe stretched out his legs. “Only the

coke dust my bride discovered in the downstairs powder room and traces I noticed in the bathroom Angela

and Dirk used after they commandeered Bruno’s room

last night.”

“But that could have been only Angela,” Bill

pointed out.

“What about the bathroom Angela and Ellie shared

the first night?” Judith inquired of Joe. “Did you notice

anything in there?”

Joe shook his head. “It could have been cleaned up,

of course.”

Judith persisted. “The night that Dirk roomed with

Ben, they had access to Bruno’s bathroom, because it’s

the largest and it’s shared by Rooms Three and Four.”

“Nothing there, either,” Joe responded. “Angela

may not have wanted to haul out her stash while she

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was sharing a room with Ellie. They don’t like each

other much. Ellie might have lorded it over Angela

somehow. Haven’t we figured that Angela used the

bathroom on this floor to do coke?”

“That’s right,” Judith allowed.

“What else?” Bill asked, impatient with the latest

digression. “We’re talking image and reputation here,

remember.”

“Ellie’s too young to have much of a past,” Judith

noted.

“Chips,” Renie declared, “is too good to be true.”

“Do writers care what people think of them?” Joe

remarked. “Dade, at least, gives off I-don’t-give-adamn signals.”

“All writers are weird,” Renie said. “That’s why

they’re so difficult to deal with.”

Judith was staring at Renie. “Why do you think

Chips is too good to be true?”

Renie shrugged. “Isn’t he always telling you those

endearing stories about his wholesome youth in the

Midwest? Mother and apple pie—literally.”

“It was chicken pot pie,” Judith said, but Renie’s

comment caused her to wonder. “Could we check him

out on the Internet?”

“Probably,” Renie replied.

He pointed to the circle that represented Dirk Farrar.

“The worst thing about Dirk—from an image standpoint—would be to find out he was gay. He’s Mr.

Macho on the screen.”

“Can’t we rule that out?” Joe inquired. “He was

banging Angela.”

“He could be a switch-hitter,” Bill responded.

“What about Ben Carmody?” Judith asked.

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233

“Ben’s a different case,” Bill said. “He usually plays

villains. Isn’t the role in the Utah picture his first

leading-man opportunity?”

“I guess,” Judith said, “though I don’t think all the

different parts he played in The Gasman were bad

guys.”

“That’s not the same,” Bill pointed out. “Ben Carmody has built his reputation as an actor, not as a star.

You see the difference?” Like any good professor, he

waited for the others to nod their understanding. “As

for Ellie, you may be right, Judith. She’s not only

young, but grew up in a prominent family. I suspect

that her past is relatively blameless.”

But Renie didn’t agree. “She may have run over a

cripple. She could have done drugs. She might have

gone off on a lark with some friends and held up a convenience store at gunpoint.”

Bill gave his wife a withering look. “She may have

been the homecoming queen and won a scholarship to

Yale. Let’s assume she’s in the clear. You’re just being

contrary.”

“True,” Renie admitted, not looking the least contrite. “Still, I think there must be something unsavory

about Chips. And where did he get a name like that

anyway? It’s got to be a nickname.”

“You may be right,” Bill said. “Midwesterners are

very good at hiding things they don’t want others to

see, especially their dark side.”

Bill ought to know, Judith thought, since he was a

Wisconsin native. “Who’ve we left out?” she asked.

“Winifred?”

“Yes.” Bill tapped the circle nearest to Bruno’s.

“What do we know about her background?”

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“I think she was a Demure,” Judith said, walking

over to the stereo, where she had slipped the tape behind a rack of CDs. She related Renie’s discovery

along with Winifred’s reaction. “I’m sure it’s her,” Judith concluded, “but she doesn’t want it known.”

“Ah,” said Bill.

“I remember them,” Joe put in. “They were a onehit wonder. Vivian used to sing their song when she did

her piano-bar stints. ‘Come Play with Me,’ wasn’t it?”

Judith gave her husband a censorious look. “I’m

sure she did.”

Joe waved a hand. “It was her job. At least I had a

spouse who worked. Sometimes.”

“She only worked because she got free drinks,” Judith asserted.

“Truce!” Renie shouted, holding up both arms like

a football official signaling a touchdown. “No fighting,

no biting. Let’s go back to Winifred.”

Joe calmed down first. “So Winifred’s ashamed of

being a Demure? Why?”

“Because,” Judith suggested, still bristling a bit,

“they only had one big hit?”

“Another person deeply affected by failure,” Bill

murmured. He used the purple pen to make some

marks by Winifred’s circle. “Yet,” he continued, making a squiggle with the orange pen, “she rebounded to

become Bruno’s assistant, a position of great power.

So why,” he concluded, adding a chartreuse slash,

“wouldn’t Winifred be able to laugh off her early experience in the music world?”

“Bill,” Renie inquired, “have you any idea what all

those marks mean?”

“Of course.” With an expectant expression, he gazed

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235

at the others as if waiting for the brightest student to

give the correct answer. “Well?”

“Because,” Judith said slowly, “there was something

shameful about that experience.”

Bill nodded approval. “There has to be. What could

it have been?”

“Guesswork,” Joe said in a disgusted voice. “That’s

all we can do is guess. That’s not a professional approach in law enforcement.”

“We don’t have anything else,” Renie pointed out.

With a hopeful expression, Judith turned to Renie.

“You couldn’t find it on the Internet?”

“I doubt it, coz,” Renie said.

“Then there has to be another way,” Judith declared,

getting up from the sofa and heading out of the room.

“Hey,” Renie called after her cousin, “what are you

going to do?”

Judith turned just before she reached the entry hall.

“I’m about to crash the dinner party. Anybody care to

join me?”

“Hey,” Bill said sharply, “I’m not finished yet.”

“Later,” Judith shot back. “I feel useless. I’m frustrated. I’m getting out of here.”

“Don’t act like a moron, Jude-girl,” Joe said with a

scowl. “You can’t go barging in on those people like that.”

“Look,” Judith said, almost stamping her foot but

afraid to, lest she jar her artificial hip, “we’re running

out of time. The guests may be gone by tomorrow.

You’re not the one who worked your tail off to build

this B&B. Do—or don’t do—what you want, but I’m

not sitting around waiting for a bunch of L.A. lawyers

to fleece us.” She turned on her heel and headed for the

back hallway to get her jacket.

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Mary Daheim

“Wait for me!” Renie cried, hurrying after Judith.

“Our car’s blocking the driveway. I’m coming with you.”

Judith waited, though it took only seconds until her

cousin was in the Joneses’ Toyota Camry. A moment

later Renie was reversing out into the foggy cul-de-sac.

“It’s just as well to take your car,” Judith said, fastening her seat belt. “It’s newer than my Subaru.

Maybe the parking attendants at Capri’s won’t act so

snooty.”

“They aren’t as snooty as they used to be,” Renie

replied, heading onto Heraldsgate Avenue. The fog had

settled in over the hill, making it difficult to see more

than twenty feet ahead. Though Renie had a reputation—which she claimed was unearned—for driving

too fast and erratically, she crept along the thoroughfare. “With all the new money in this town,” she said,

“especially among the younger set, it’s hard to tell a

millionaire from a millworker.”

Capri’s was located on the east side of the hill,

closer to Renie’s house than to the B&B. The cousins

climbed Heraldsgate Avenue to the commercial district

on the flat, then kept going north into a sloping residential neighborhood. They turned right in the direction of the restaurant, but within four blocks, Renie

took a left.

“Hey!” Judith cried. “What are we doing?”

“You do nothing,” Renie said. “I change clothes. I

can’t go into Capri’s wearing this Loyola University

sweatshirt and these black pants. They have a hole in

them, in case you haven’t noticed, which maybe you

haven’t because I’m wearing black underwear.”

“Good grief.” Judith held her head. “Okay, but don’t

take long.”

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237

Sitting in the car, she studied her own attire. The

green wool slacks matched the green cable-knit turtleneck. Her shoes were fairly new, having been purchased at Nordquist’s annual women’s sale. She

supposed she could pass at Capri’s for a real customer.

As she continued to wait, Judith’s mind wandered

back to Bill’s chart. Someone was missing. Who, besides the Alien Suspect? The answer came to mind almost immediately. Vito Patricelli wasn’t represented

among Bruno’s satellites. But it appeared that he

hadn’t arrived in the city until this morning. Was that

true? Judith used her cell phone to dial one of the airlines that served passengers from L.A.

“We have no one named Patricelli on our manifests

in the last three days,” the pert voice said.

Judith tried the other connecting carriers and got the

same negative result. Maybe Vito had flown north by

private plane.

She was about to call Boring Field, where many of

the smaller aircraft landed, when Renie reappeared

wearing a great deal of brown suede, including her

pants, jacket, ankle boots, and handbag. She also wore

a brown cashmere sweater.

“How many animals had to die to clothe you in that

outfit?” Judith inquired as Renie slid into the driver’s seat.

“A lot of cows with really rotten dispositions,”

Renie replied, starting the car. “None of the children

were home. They must have gone a-wooing.”

“Very likely,” Judith agreed as they headed back up

the hill to the turnoff for Capri’s. “Really, I’m anxious

to meet the future in-laws.”

“So am I,” Renie said darkly, “even though I allegedly have already done so.”

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“Say,” Judith said, “did you get a chance to look at

the material you got off the Internet about The Gasman

and its origins?”

“Not yet,” Renie replied, slowing at a six-way stop

and peering into the fog to see if there were any vehicles coming from the other directions. “It looks as if it

came out to at least twenty pages. That includes artwork, of course.”

“Who puts those sites together?”

“This one may have been done by the studio,” Renie

said, curving around in front of the restaurant and

pulling into the driveway. “Some of the sites are created by fans.”

A blemish-free teenager with corn-tassel-colored

hair and a big smile greeted the cousins.

“Which private party will you be joining?” he asked

as Renie stepped out of the Camry. “That is,” he added

with an ingenuous expression, “on Sundays we’re not

open to regular customers.”

“How many parties are there?” Renie inquired as

Judith joined her under the porte cochere.

“Two,” the youth replied with a discreet wink. “The

Smith and the Jones parties.”

Renie darted a glance at Judith. “I’m Mrs. Jones,”

Renie said, winking back.

“Ah.” The young man made a flourish that was almost a bow. “This way, please. Derek will take care of

your car.” He nodded at a second fresh-faced adolescent who had been standing by the door.

“So which is which?” Judith murmured as they

passed across the flagstone flooring, where they were

met by a maître d’ so handsome that he could have

given Dirk Farrar a run for his money.

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239

“We’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of getting the right

party,” Renie said out of the side of her mouth. “Serena

Jones here,” she informed the maître d’ in her normal

voice.

“I’m Charles,” the maître d’ informed the cousins.

His smile seemed to assure them that he was their new

best friend. Charles led the way up a winding black

iron staircase, then turned right to face a paneled mahogany door. With a dazzling smile and a flourish that

was indeed a bow, he opened the door.

“Your party, Mrs. Jones,” he said.

Renie rocked on the heels of her brown suede boots.

This was definitely the Jones party. All three of Renie

and Bill’s offspring sat at a table for at least a dozen

other people, some of whom looked vaguely familiar.

“Hi, Mom,” Tom said in greeting. “We thought

you’d never get here. Where’s Pop?”

FIFTEEN

“WHAT IS THIS?” Renie demanded when the maître d’

had left and she regained her equilibrium. “What do

you mean, ‘Where’s Pop’?”

“Didn’t you get our note?” Anne said with an innocent look on her pretty face.

“What note?” Renie all but shouted. Then, realizing that she must be in the presence of her future inlaws, she tried to smile. “No. Where was it?”

Anne turned to Tony, who was seated four places

down the table. “Where did you put the note, Big T?”

Tony’s chiseled features were vague. “I thought

Tom put it up by the hall closet.”

“Not me,” Tom said with a shake of his curly dark

head. “You wrote it, Annie-Bannany. What’d you do

with it?”

“I didn’t write it,” Anne retorted. “I thought—”

“Hold it!” Renie cried, this time unable to keep

her voice down. But she managed a smile for her bewildered audience. “Your father and I never saw a

note. We haven’t been home since early this afternoon. How about introducing your poor old mother

and your just-as-poor-and-almost-as-old aunt to

these other folks?”

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241

Anne and Tony both gazed at Tom as they always

did when they expected the eldest of their lot to take

responsibility. The others included a fair-haired young

man who was growing something fuzzy that looked

like it might become a goatee, a raven-haired young

woman who looked as if she could be Native American, a red-headed girl who looked faintly ethereal, and

a half-dozen middle-aged adults who looked as if they

wished they were somewhere else. The whole group

stared at Renie.

“We told you and Pop about the dinner tonight,”

Tom said, looking wounded. “Remember, it was Friday, and you mentioned having everybody over at our

house. But we said we thought it’d be better to go out.

You and Pop didn’t say anything, so we assumed it was

all set.”

“Probably,” Renie muttered to Judith, “they were all

talking at once—and so loud—that we couldn’t hear

them.”

“What’s that, Mom?” Tony inquired.

“I said I guess we goofed.” Renie looked unusually

subdued. “I’ll call Pop and get him over here.”

“He won’t answer the phone,” Anne warned.

“He’s not home,” Renie said, delving into her brown

suede purse for her cell phone.

Judith whispered into Renie’s ear. “I’m out of here.”

“Coz!” Renie cried as she hit the wrong button,

causing the phone to emit a sharp squawk.

“Sorry,” Judith apologized. “I have a job to do.”

She scooted out of the room.

The only similar door was on her left. The other

doors along the corridor were for rest rooms, storage,

and other restaurant facilities. Grasping the mahogany

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Mary Daheim

door’s brass lever, Judith took a deep breath. Now that

her prey were at hand, she didn’t know what to do. Barging in, as Joe had cautioned, wasn’t a good idea. The

door was too thick to allow her to overhear what was

going on in the private dining room. Worse yet, the

servers were all young men wearing tuxedos. A wild idea

involving the impersonation of a waitress had struck her

earlier. Not only was it far-fetched, it was impossible.

At that moment, one of the waiters appeared at the

top of the stairs carrying a jeroboam of champagne.

Swiftly, Judith fished into her purse, searching for a

piece of paper.

“Young man,” she said, blocking the door, “could

you deliver a message to the Smith party? I’m with the

Joneses, in the other private dining room.”

The waiter, who was young, Asian, and very goodlooking, was too well trained to show surprise.

“To whom shall I give the message?” he asked.

Having found a small notebook, Judith scribbled out

a half-dozen words. “Morris Mayne,” she said. “Tell

him it’s urgent. Thank you.”

The waiter disappeared inside. Judith wondered if

she should have slipped him five dollars. Or ten. Or

twenty-five, considering that she was at Capri’s.

Moments later Morris Mayne dashed out into the

hall. “What is it? What’s happened at the studio?” Not

nearly as tall as Judith, he peered up at her through

rimless spectacles. “Wait! You’re the bed-andbreakfast lady, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” Judith said, hoping to look appropriately solemn. “I think we’d best go downstairs to the

bar. Perhaps they’ll serve us a drink.”

“A drink?” Morris’s sparse tufts of hair stood out on

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243

his round head. “Yes, I could use a drink. Though of

course I’ve already had . . . Never mind, let’s talk.” He

hurried down the winding staircase.

Charles the maître d’ expressed great pleasure at

serving the duo. Judith ordered Scotch rocks; Morris

requested a Bottle Rocket. Judith had never heard of it,

but it appeared to consist of several alcoholic beverages and a slice of kiwi.

“Tell me, please,” Morris begged after Charles

handed him his drink. “Why am I being recalled?”

“Recalled?” Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Is that

what I wrote? Oh, dear. My handwriting is so bad. I

meant you’d been called by the studio to . . . well, I

didn’t quite catch the rest of it, so I thought I’d better

come in person to make sure you got the message.”

Morris slumped in relief. “Oh! Thank God! I

thought I’d been fired!”

“Why would you think such a thing?” Judith asked,

still wide-eyed.

Morris gulped down some of his Bottle Rocket.

“Because of this Gasman mess. I mean,” he amended

quickly, “it’s not exactly a mess, but it does present

some problems. With Bruno dying and all, you see.”

“Yes, that complicates matters,” Judith said in a

sympathetic tone. “What do you think will happen to

the movie now?”

“Who knows?” Morris spread his arms, knocking

over a candle on the bar. “Oops! Sorry, Charles.” The

gracious maître d’ picked up the candle and turned discreetly away.

“Hasn’t the studio given some instructions?” Judith

asked, taking a small sip of Scotch. It was excellent

Scotch, maybe Glenlivet. She sipped again.

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Mary Daheim

“Paradox is waiting to find out what happened to

Bruno,” Morris replied.

“What do the studio executives think happened?”

Judith asked.

Morris drank more Bottle Rocket. “Whew!” he exclaimed, passing a hand over his high forehead. “That’s

strong!” He leaned closer to Judith. “What did you say?”

She repeated the question. Morris reflected, though

his eyes weren’t quite in focus.

“Paradox is sure Bruno had a tart ahack. I mean”—

he corrected himself—“a heart attack. He’s had problems, you shee. See.” The publicist hiccuped once.

“You mean he’d had a history of heart trouble?”

Morris grimaced. “Not exactly.” He hiccuped again

and drew himself up on the bar stool, which luckily

had a large padded back. “Strain. That’s what Bruno

had. He worked under a lot of strain. That’s why he—”

He stopped abruptly. “I shouldn’t tell tales out of

school, should I?”

“You’re not,” Judith assured him. “I’m not in the

business. I don’t count. I’m nobody.”

“Thash shtrue,” Morris agreed. “You’re not.” He

took another gulp from his glass. “Anyway, Bruno

worked too hard. That caushes strain.”

“Yes,” Judith said amiably. “And strain can lead to

many things. To help him cope, of course.”

“Cope!” Morris’s arm shot out, striking a calla lily

in a tall black vase. “Oops!” He giggled and put a hand

over his mouth. “Mushn’t drink this too fast. Had a lot

of champagne upstairs.” He jabbed at the ceiling with

a pudgy finger.

“Yes, to cope,” Judith said patiently. “People cope in

many ways. Sometimes those ways aren’t healthy.”

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245

Sadly, Morris shook his head. “True, too true. Like

Bruno. Not healthy. Don’t blame him. Too much

presshure. Not all his fault. Blame Big Daddy Dumas.”

Judith was taken aback. “Big Daddy Dumas? Who’s

that?”

Morris giggled some more and shook a finger at Judith. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes,” Judith said seriously, “I would.”

At the desk by the bar, the phone rang. Charles

picked it up. He appeared to be taking a reservation.

“Phone,” Morris said. “Musht phone the studio.” He

patted himself down, apparently searching for his cell.

“Hunh. Musht have left it upstairs. Here I go.” He

picked up what remained of his Bottle Rocket and

staggered off to the iron staircase.

Judith was on his heels. “But, Morris,” she said urgently, “you can tell me about Big Daddy Dumas. I’m

nobody, remember?”

On the second step, Morris turned around. “Doeshn’t

matter. Big Daddy’s dead. Ta-ta.” Clinging to the iron

rail, he wobbled up the stairs.

Judith returned to the bar, took another sip of fine

Scotch, and considered her next move. She was still in

a quandary when Bill came through the main entrance.

“Hi, Bill,” she said, waving from the bar stool. “You

aren’t really Big Daddy Dumas by any chance, are

you?”

Bill stared at Judith. “Why do you ask?”

Judith stared back at him. “Do you know who I’m

talking about?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Dumas is a famous psychological case study from about twenty years ago.

Where did you hear the name?”

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Mary Daheim

Quickly, Judith explained. “So what do you know

about this Dumas?”

Bill looked pained. “Dumas was a black gang lord

in L.A. He was involved in drugs and prostitution. He

was atypical because he didn’t allow his hookers to

take drugs, though he used them to sell the stuff. He

was interesting from a psychological standpoint because the control he exerted over his girls was paternal,

rather than intimidating or enabling. He was creating a

familial bond between himself and the prostitutes. Almost all of them had had no father figure in their lives,

or if they did, he was abusive. Big Daddy never had intercourse with the girls. He protected them and made

sure they were checked out for disease. He acted like a

real father, which was all the more intriguing because

he was only in his twenties and had a large brood of

children of his own. This was one of the first case studies that showed how young people got caught up in

gangs and prostitution rings. It emphasized how the

gang provides a surrogate family and a sense of belonging.”

“What happened to Dumas?” Judith asked. “Morris

Mayne told me he was dead.”

Bill nodded. “I suppose Morris knows the story,

being based in L.A. Dumas was quite a legend there

for almost ten years. One of his girls killed him. He

was also involved in the local music scene, though

whether with promoting talent or just peddling drugs

and sex, I can’t recall. This particular girl, who was

from Mexico, felt Dumas could help her get started as

a singer for the Hispanic audience. He couldn’t or

wouldn’t, so she stabbed him in a fit of rage, claiming

he’d betrayed their family bond.”

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247

“A father-daughter quarrel,” Judith remarked.

“Speaking of children,” Bill said, starting up the

steps, “I’d better join mine before Renie and our kids

eat all the food.”

Judith watched Bill disappear at the top of the staircase, then resumed her place at the bar. The glimmer of

an idea was forming at the back of her brain.

Charles cleared his throat. “Will you be rejoining

your party upstairs?”

“Ah . . .” Judith paused to take a quick sip from her

glass. “Yes, in a few minutes. I had to get away.”

“Oh?” Charles tried to hide his puzzlement.

“I mean, I know I just got here,” Judith explained,

“but those people can be very . . . difficult.”

“The Joneses?” Charles inquired politely.

“Yes, the Joneses.” Judith smiled confidentially.

“They’re relatives, you see.”

“Yes,” Charles agreed tactfully. “Sometimes family

members can be taxing.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my drink down here,”

Judith said, wondering if she should call a taxi and go

home. Renie and Bill would be stuck with the future

in-laws for at least an hour or two.

“Of course,” Charles responded.

Before Judith could say anything else, a pair of

hefty legs and sensible black pumps came down the

stairway.

“There you are,” Eugenia Fleming said in an accusing tone. “What’s this about the studio calling Morris?

And how did you get him so drunk?”

“He got himself drunk,” Judith declared. “I’ve never

seen anybody drink a Bottle Rocket before. It’s a wonder he didn’t launch himself across the lake.”

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Mary Daheim

Eugenia turned her head in every direction. “What

lake?”

Judith gestured at the slanting windows that faced

the length of the restaurant. “There’s a lake out there.

Two lakes, in fact. And mountains. You can’t see them

because of the fog.”

“Miserable weather,” Eugenia muttered, planting

one black pump on the single step up to the bar. “Now

tell me what’s going on with Morris and the phone

call.”

Judith feigned innocence. “I’m only the messenger.”

“Morris was too drunk to call Paradox,” Eugenia

huffed, her majestic bust heaving. “I wouldn’t let him,

so I called for him. No one there knew anything about

trying to contact him. Vito is very annoyed.”

“That’s a shame,” Judith said placidly, then took another drink of Scotch. “Morris isn’t in trouble, is he?”

“Of course he is!” Eugenia shot back. “We’re all in

trouble!” Abruptly, she put a hand to her large crimson

lips. “That is,” she said in a much softer tone, “this

Bruno incident presents several challenges to all of us

who are involved.”

“I would imagine,” Judith said, sounding sympathetic. “You’ve lost a very important client.”

“Yes,” Eugenia said, then turned to Charles. “Give

me a shot of Tanqueray, straight up.”

Charles complied. Eugenia downed the gin in one

gulp. “Producers like Bruno don’t come around every

day,” she grumbled. “In fact, I was with him from the

beginning, right after he won that film-festival prize.

You might say he owed a lot of his success to me.” She

gave Charles a curt nod. “I’ll have another, please.”

“Really?” Judith remarked. “How does that work?”

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249

Eugenia scowled at Judith. “How does it work? I do

the work, that’s how. I start a buzz, build an image,

play publicist as well as agent. It wasn’t easy with

Bruno,” she said, downing the second gin. “He had

hang-ups, phobias, problems. But I connected him to

the right people. Nobody gives agents credit for the

grunt work involved in building a reputation.”

Judith inadvertently neglected the agent’s efforts as

she zeroed in on a word that had captured her attention.

“You mentioned hang-ups?” Again, she wore her air of

innocence.

“Family background,” Eugenia said, snapping her

fingers at Charles for another hit. “His parents may

have moved to California, where Mr. Zepf worked in

the business, but they were very strict. What would you

expect with a German father and a Midwestern

mother? It’s a wonder Bruno’s creativity wasn’t stifled

before he could leave home.”

“I understand he went in search of his roots,” Judith

said, trying not to stare as Eugenia knocked back a

third gin.

“He did,” Eugenia replied. “He went to Germany to

discover his father’s past. Josef Zepf had come from

Wiesbaden, the son of a shoemaker. Bruno loved Germany, especially the music and the literature. No doubt

Wagner influenced him, which may be why his pictures always ran a bit long.”

“As long as The Gasman?” Judith asked as Eugenia

signaled for yet another drink.

“Not that long,” Eugenia said. “But even the picture

that won the film-festival prize— No Prunes for Pru-

dence—was over two and a half hours.”

“That’s a lot of prunes,” Judith murmured.

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Mary Daheim

The agent, however, was in full spate, and apparently didn’t hear the remark. “He visited England as

well, since his mother, Helena, had been stationed

there before being sent to Germany,” Eugenia continued. Her voice had taken on a lilting quality, as if she

were narrating a documentary on Bruno’s life. Or

quoting from an A&E Biography. Judith was reminded

of Winifred’s dissertation on Bruno. Maybe all his associates had been forced to memorize the producer’s

life story.

“After more than a year,” Eugenia went on, “he returned to the States. The farm in Iowa where his

mother had been raised was gone, the fields plowed

under for a development, but the house was still there.

Grandfather Walls had died, but Bruno’s grandmother

still lived in the old house with its rickety steps and

shutters which hung by a single hinge and clattered in

the wind. Grandmother Walls was very old and ill.

Bruno stayed with her until the end came, almost a

year later.”

“That’s admirable,” Judith said, thinking there

should be a violin accompaniment to Eugenia’s recital.

“Bruno sounds very compassionate.”

“Oh, he is. He was,” Eugenia corrected herself with

a start. “My God, I can’t believe he’s gone!” She requested a fifth drink. “To Bruno,” she said, holding up

her glass.

“To Bruno,” Judith echoed, finishing her Scotch.

She tried not to stare at the other woman, who seemed

completely sober. Maybe her size accounted for her

ability to drink like a fish. Bracing herself, Judith

posed a question: “Who was C. Douglas Carp?”

Eugenia didn’t bat an eye. “You mean the man who

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251

wrote The Gasman novel? Some relative, I believe. I

never read novels, unless the book is adapted for a picture, and even then I skim. Books are inevitably dull.”

With surprising agility for her size and the amount of

gin she’d consumed, she slid off the bar stool, planting

her sensible shoes firmly on the floor. “I must go upstairs. I do wish you hadn’t disturbed Morris with that

silly message. He’s very drunk. Tsk, tsk.”

Charles smiled at Judith. “Would you care for another?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.

Judith shook her head. “I should go, I suppose.”

“But I thought you were with the Joneses.” Charles

looked a trifle tense. “Or am I mistaken? You also seem

to know the people attending the Smith dinner.”

Judith wondered if the maître d’ suspected she

might be a groupie or a party crasher. “Charles”—she

sighed—“it’s a long story. Some members of the Smith

group are . . . ah . . . staying at my house.” She refrained from mentioning that her house was a B&B.

“Mrs. Jones is my cousin. It’s a coincidence that both

parties are here at once.”

“Ah.” The maître d’ offered her a conspiratorial

smile and seemed to relax. “Then you know these

Smiths are movie people. I recognized Dirk Farrar

right away. He came late, though.” The last sentence

almost sounded like a question.

“He came from someplace else,” Judith said,

“though he’s staying with us. How did he seem?”

Charles looked around to make sure no one could

overhear. But the lower part of the restaurant was still

vacant. Even the waiters seemed to have gone to

ground.

“I thought he looked kind of grim,” Charles said,

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Mary Daheim

keeping his voice down. “Is that because of the producer who passed away last night?”

“That’s part of it,” Judith said, then curbed her

tongue. She mustn’t gossip about Angela La Belle.

“I’m sure the poor reception The Gasman got at the

premiere upset Dirk, too.”

“I never read movie reviews,” Charles said, then

turned as the valet with the corn-colored hair came into

the restaurant, looking worried. “What is it, Josh?” the

maître d’ inquired.

“There’s a couple out in the parking lot who insist

they want to eat here,” Josh said. “They won’t take no

for an answer. I think you’d better talk to them.”

“Excuse me,” Charles said to Judith. “This happens

almost every Sunday when we’re closed to regular diners. In fact, this is the second time an insistent couple

has shown up this evening. I won’t be long.”

Judith got up and strolled over to the big windows.

It was dark and the fog was thick. She couldn’t see any

lights, not even directly below the restaurant, which

was located about halfway up Heraldsgate Hill. When

she turned around again, she saw Charles leading a

middle-aged couple inside and up the winding staircase. The man was big, bald, and bearlike; the woman

was small, dark, and of Asian descent. Apparently,

they had an entrée to one of the private parties upstairs,

and Judith didn’t think they were keeping up with the

Joneses.

She could almost smell the aroma of Wienie Wizards wafting behind the couple as they disappeared

onto the second floor.

SIXTEEN

JUDITH WANTED VERY much to see Heathcliffe and

Amy Lee MacDermott up close. She wasn’t sure

why, but it seemed important to talk to them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of an excuse to get

past the Smith party’s mahogany door.

For several moments Judith stared down at the

smooth black marble bar, where she could see her

reflection. It was distorted by the slight grain, making her look old, tired, and ugly. A crone, she

thought, and was disheartened.

What was she doing at Capri’s, seeking clues to a

murder that might not be a murder? Was she bloodthirsty, as Renie had remarked? Surely possession

of material goods wasn’t so important that it made

her wish that one person had killed another. No, that

wasn’t the real reason she preferred murder over

more mundane deaths. So why was she beating herself up so badly? Slowly, she turned to the windows

again. There was nothing to see. The night was as

dark and blank as her brain.

Yet Judith knew that if the fog suddenly lifted,

the city’s lights would glitter like stars on a clear

winter’s eve. The lakes and the mountains were

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Mary Daheim

there, if only she could see them. So were the answers

to the riddle that was Bruno’s death. Judith always had

to know. If only the fog would lift from her brain, she

could find the truth.

Charles hadn’t come down from the second floor.

There was still no sign of the waiters. Judith was curious. The guests must be getting served. How was the

food coming from the kitchen, if not via the iron staircase?

Hurriedly, she crossed the restaurant to the far side,

where she saw a plain brown door. Turning the knob,

she discovered a narrow hallway on her left that presumably led to the kitchen. On her right was a staircase. Judith ascended to another plain door and opened

it. She came out into another narrow hall, where she

saw two identical doors.

The first one led into the main corridor, but judging

from her position in the restaurant, the second door

had to go into the Smith party’s private dining room. In

the shadows just beyond the door was a busing area.

On tiptoes, she approached the second door and cautiously opened it just a crack.

“. . . lose my investment” were the first words she

managed to hear, and they were spoken by a nasal male

voice she didn’t recognize. Heathcliffe MacDermott,

alias the Wienie Wizard? Judith peered through the

sliver of open doorway. All she could see was Morris

Mayne with his head down on the table and Dade

Costello’s blunt profile.

“Not necessarily,” said a smooth voice that Judith

identified as belonging to Vito Patricelli. “Paradox

may not shelve the picture. They have an investment,

too, even larger than yours, Mr. MacDermott.”

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255

“Idiots,” snapped a waspish female voice that didn’t

sound like Winifred, Ellie, or Eugenia. “Idiots,” the

woman repeated. Judith figured the speaker had to be

Mrs. MacDermott.

“I don’t get it,” declared Heathcliffe MacDermott.

“The movie’s a dud. If I made wienies like Zepf made

movies, I’d be wearing a paper hat and peddling hot

dogs at minor league baseball games instead of running a billion-dollar empire.”

“The studio can make changes,” Vito said, his voice

unperturbed. “They’ll have free rein—under the circumstances.”

“You beast,” murmured Winifred. “How can you

say such things when Bruno has been dead less than

twenty-four hours?” Though Judith couldn’t see her, it

sounded as if Winifred was close to the service door.

“What kind of changes?” Ellie asked, not quite as

pert as usual.

“Cutting, for one thing,” Vito replied. “No one can

argue that the picture should be shortened by at least

an hour.”

“Are you saying,” Heathcliffe asked in a slightly

confused voice, “that Paradox can do whatever it wants

now that Bruno Zepf is dead?”

“Exactly,” Vito responded. “The studio has the

major chunk of money invested in the picture. They

can do as they please.”

Except for the creak of chairs and shuffling of

limbs, a silence fell over the room. Judith glanced at

the door to the stairs to make sure the coast was

clear. As far as she could tell, no one seemed to be

eating. Perhaps the group had finished its most recent course.

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Mary Daheim

“What about Utah?” the unfamiliar female voice demanded. “What about my script?”

Judith heard Dade Costello snort.

Vito waited a moment to reply. “Your script?”

“All the Way to Utah,” Amy Lee MacDermott retorted with anger. “Bruno bought it, and it’s supposed

to star darling Ellie.”

“I can’t answer that right now,” Vito said, smooth as

ever. “There hasn’t been time for anyone to make that

decision.”

“Who makes it?” Amy Lee’s voice had grown strident.

“Bruno’s production company,” Vito replied.

“Isn’t that a weird setup?” Ben Carmody put in.

The actor sounded uncharacteristically harsh. “Bruno

had no second in command. He thought he was immortal.”

“That’s not true,” Winifred said in a strong, stiff

voice. “If anything happened to Bruno, I was to take

over. I already had, when he was in . . . the hospital.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Ben’s voice brightened. “Then I

guess any big decisions would be up to you, Win.”

“Not necessarily,” Vito interjected. “I suspect that

Winifred’s powers are limited to such situations as

Bruno being temporarily out of the picture. So to

speak.” No one laughed except Dirk Farrar, and the

sound wasn’t pleasant. “There are two other factors involved, one of which is the studio’s agreement to put

money into All the Way to Utah. But now that Bruno is

dead—let’s not mince words—Paradox would be free

to pull out.”

“They wouldn’t dare!” Amy Lee cried. “They made

a commitment!”

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257

“It’s not legally binding when the producer dies,”

Vito asserted. “But the other factor involves the heirs

to Bruno’s estate. Winifred, do you know if he made a

will?”

“Why . . .” Winifred’s voice sounded faint. “No,”

she went on slowly, “I don’t believe he did.”

“It figures,” Dirk snarled. “From A to Zepf. Bruno

thought he was the Alpha and the Omega, with no end

in sight.”

“Stop that!” Winifred shouted. “You’re angry because you and Bruno got into a big fight and Ben

ended up with the leading role in the Utah picture.”

“Let’s stop wrangling and back up here,” Heathcliffe broke in, his voice sounding like that of a man

obviously used to exercising authority. “What’s this

other factor, Mr. L.A. Lawyer?”

Vito cleared his throat. “That was what I was getting

at when I inquired about a will. Since Bruno had no

wife, his entire estate goes to his two children.”

“His children?” Amy Lee and Ellie Linn shrieked in

unison.

“That’s ridiculous,” the mother scoffed.

“That’s stupid,” the daughter declared. “Those kids

aren’t as old as I am!”

“How old?” Amy Lee demanded.

“Greta was twenty in June,” Winifred said quietly.

“Greg just turned eighteen a month ago.”

“The son’s name is Greg?” Ellie’s voice had taken

on a lighter note.

“Yes,” Winifred replied. “After Gregory Peck. Greta

was named for Garbo.”

“Hmm.” There was a faint simper from Ellie.

Judith saw Dirk Farrar’s back at the door. She

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tensed, wondering if he might be about to leave the

room.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that Utah crap,” he

said. “All I want to know is when the hell we can get

out of this fog bank and go back to L.A.”

“The matter should be resolved by tomorrow,” Vito

responded.

“It better be,” Dirk shot back. “This place sucks

scissors.” His back moved away from the door. Apparently, he’d gotten up only to stretch his legs.

“Mr. Farquhar,” Amy Lee said sternly, “don’t speak

so nastily of my Utah script. It’s going to be a blockbuster. After all,” she added with a sneer in her voice,

“you were slated to star in it until you behaved so

badly toward Mr. Zepf.”

“The name’s Farrar,” Dirk shouted, “as you

damned well know! And I’ll tell you something else,”

he continued, not as loud, but just as intense, “I didn’t

really give a damn when Bruno canned me. I’d put up

with enough crap from him with The Gasman and

that lousy script he’d taken from Crappy Pappy

Carp’s book.”

“Don’t be so disrespectful!” Winifred exclaimed in

dismay. “You’re callous, Dirk. Everybody knows how

self-centered you are, even more so than most actors. I

suppose you intend to leave Angela lying in the hospital while you head back to Los Angeles.”

“It’s her own damned fault she’s there in the first

place,” Dirk retorted. “I begged her to go into rehab.

Besides, I’m not a doctor. What good can I do her

hanging around the hospital?”

Judith was so caught up in the heated drama just a

few inches away that she never heard the approaching

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259

footsteps. It was the tap on her shoulder that made her

jump and let out a stifled cry.

I’m done for, she thought. They’ll throw me out in

the street. They might arrest me. They might ban me

from Capri’s forever. They might put my picture up by

the desk with a slash through it. “No Judith McMonigle

Flynn.” With considerable trepidation, she turned

around to confront the enemy.

“Learn anything?” whispered Renie.

“Coz!” A sudden silence had descended over the

dining room. Judith was certain that the contentious

crew had heard a suspicious noise. She gently shut the

door. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for the busing station,” Renie replied, spying her goal behind Judith. “We need more napkins.

You know how our kids eat. The tablecloth looks like

an army field hospital.”

“You’re no slouch yourself,” Judith retorted.

“How’s the dinner going?”

Renie made a doleful face. “Could these people be

less fun? The parents are like mannequins. Thank God

our kids have some animation. They’re never afraid to

speak out.”

“Coz,” Judith said, keeping an eye on the service

door, “your family isn’t merely outspoken, you’re all

very loud. Even Bill can bellow when aroused. The future in-laws are probably cowed.”

Renie shot her a disdainful glance. “Okay, so we’ve

got pep. But these people hardly eat a thing. The fiancé

and fiancées are a little livelier. Heather is very

smart—she’s Tom’s girl—and Cathleen—Tony’s

beloved—seems genuinely kind. As for Odo, he laughs

at everything Bill says, which is good.”

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“Odo?” Judith responded. “His name is really

Odo?”

“Yes,” Renie replied, looking very serious. “You

know the original Odo. Bishop Odo became pope just

in time to launch the First Crusade.”

Judith shook her head. “Funny, the kid didn’t look

militant. Or religious.”

“He’s not,” Renie said. “At least as far as I can tell.

I just wish the parents had more zip. They never

flinched when our kids got into a shouting match. They

didn’t bat an eye when Tom threw one of Tony’s socks

in the consommé. And you know how Bill belches

sometimes when he eats—well, the rest of them sat

like statues when he practically blew up after taking a

bite of jalapeño pepper by mistake.” Renie shook herself. “I babble. What are you doing here? Or should I

guess?” She nodded in the direction of the door behind

Judith.

“It’s been interesting,” Judith said, edging around

the corner to the hallway, “but I’m pushing my luck.

I’ve been eavesdropping for over five minutes, and the

waiters are bound to reappear.”

“Care to join us?” Renie asked.

Judith grimaced. “I think I should go home. Mother

must be famished. I’ll call a cab.”

“You don’t have to,” Renie said, piling linen napkins over her arm. “Bill drove your Subaru to Capri’s.

Just get the keys from the valet.”

“Do I need the parking ticket?” Judith asked.

Renie shook her head as they approached the top

of the winding staircase. “Tell them you’re Mrs.

Jones. And by the way,” she said with a quizzical expression, “is there anything I should know about what

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261

you discovered while you were lurking outside that

door?”

“Not now,” Judith said, “but I’ve got quite a bit of

information to sort out. Maybe I’ll have made some

sense of it by the time I talk to you later this evening.”

“Sounds good,” Renie said, heading for the private

dining room. “Time to rejoin the stuffed animals.”

Judith smiled at her cousin. But she was thinking

less about the stuffed animals at the Joneses’ table than

about the wild ones at the Smiths’.

She got as far as a block away from Capri’s when

she had another, possibly impractical idea. Instead of

going up Heraldsgate Hill, she took a left and swung

back onto the main thoroughfare through the city. Just

before reaching downtown, Judith took another left

and pointed the Subaru toward the hospital district. In

less than ten minutes, she was in the parking garage of

Norway General.

Angela La Belle would no doubt be listed under an

assumed name. Judith knew she’d have to think of a

really good fib to tell the person behind the reception

desk. Her role as Angela’s innkeeper probably

wouldn’t cut any ice with the staff.

Inside the main doors, she checked the directory.

Not ICU, Judith figured. Angela had been taken to the

hospital several hours ago and was reportedly on the

mend. She’d be in a private ward, of course. But under

what medical heading? Not yet ready to show her

hand, Judith approached the main desk and asked

where emergency patients were taken after they were

out of danger.

Specialty medicine sounded promising. Judith took

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an elevator to the seventh floor, then followed the arrows to the nurses’ station in the middle of the corridor.

A woman wearing a blue hospital smock over a print

dress looked up from a patient chart. She wore half

glasses on a silver chain and her white hair was in a severe pageboy that accented a hooked nose and prominent chin.

“May I help you?” she asked in a tone that indicated

she’d rather stuff her visitor into the recycling bin that

sat next to the desk.

Judith froze. The fib she’d been trying to conjure up

still hadn’t materialized. Briefly, she closed her eyes.

Angela’s pale face and tall, voluptuous figure floated

before her. The well-defined features, the wide shoulders, the above-average height, the dark eyes, the

blond hair that was undoubtedly colored by an expensive Beverly Hills stylist . . .

Inspiration struck. There was a physical resemblance as long as no one looked too closely. “I’m here

to see my daughter.” Judith leaned forward, striking a

conspiratorial pose. “I don’t know what name she’s

using, but to her adoring fans, she’s . . . Dare I say it?”

“Say what?” the woman snapped.

Judith glanced at the name tag on the blue smock.

“Perhaps you aren’t aware of her real identity, Wanda.

My daughter was brought in today with . . .” She

feigned embarrassment. “A drug reaction.”

Wanda’s expression went from unpleasant to sour.

“Oh, yes. One of those.” She scowled at Judith, no

doubt blaming her for the daughter’s decadence. “May

I see some ID?”

Momentarily flustered, Judith tried to come up with

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263

another tall tale. “Her father and I,” she began, fumbling for her wallet, “were only married for—”

The phone rang on the desk. Wanda held up a hand

for Judith to be silent. After tersely answering some

questions regarding the status of another patient, the

aide hung up.

“Let’s see that ID,” she ordered. “I don’t need your

life story.”

Judith handed over the wallet with her driver’s license. Wanda gave it a piercing look, then nodded.

“Miss Flynn is in Room 704, back down the hall and

on your left.”

With a gulp, Judith nodded and hurried off before

Wanda noticed her astonishment at the coincidence.

The door to Room 704 was closed. Judith knocked

in a tentative fashion, but when no one responded, she

slowly opened the door. Except for the green and red

lights on the various monitors, the room was dark.

Nearing the bed, Judith saw that Angela was on her

side, turned away from the door. The IVs that trailed

from her left hand looked all too familiar.

Judith thought she was asleep. But the actress must

have heard someone approach. “What now?” she

asked in a disgruntled, if subdued voice.

“It’s Judith Flynn.”

“Who?” Angela didn’t bother to move.

“Judith Flynn, your innkeeper at the B&B. How are

you?”

“Awful,” Angela replied, still not moving. “What do

you want?”

Judith sat down in the molded plastic visitor’s chair.

“You’re my guest. Naturally I’m concerned.”

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“Bull,” Angela muttered. “You’re here to pry. Why

should you be concerned? Are you afraid I’m going to

peg out like Bruno did?”

“Of course not,” Judith said a bit testily. “I’m genuinely concerned about your welfare. You gave us an

awful scare today.” She paused, waiting for a response.

There was none, except for a restless flutter of the

young woman’s hands at the top of the bedsheet. “I

also wanted to know,” Judith continued, her voice a bit

stern, “why you used my name when you checked into

the hospital.”

“I didn’t use it,” Angela said querulously. “Dirk

checked me in. Or somebody. I was out of it.”

“But why Flynn?” Judith persisted.

At last Angela turned to look at her visitor, though

the movement made her wince. “Why? Because it’s

my name, dammit. You don’t really think I was born

Angela La Belle?”

“Ah . . .” Judith hadn’t considered this possibility. “I

see. I’m sorry I was impertinent. That is, I didn’t mind

you using my name, I just thought it was . . . odd.”

“It’s not odd,” Angela insisted, her voice a trifle

stronger. “I was born Portulaca Purslane Flynn. My

mother was into plants and herbs. Even if I hadn’t become an actress, I’d have dumped all three of those

names just like my mother dumped me when I was

two. Now how about getting out of here? My head

hurts like hell.”

“Shall I ring for the nurse to bring you more pain

medication?” Judith offered.

“Are you kidding? These sadists are afraid I’ll get

addicted to aspirin.”

“I’m sorry, really I am,” Judith said. “I was in the

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265

hospital last January. I know how difficult the medical

profession can be when it comes to administering

painkillers.”

“Don’t be cute,” Angela snapped. “You know

damned well why they won’t give me anything. I’m a

coke hound. Now beat it, will you?”

“Of course,” Judith said, standing up. “Really, I feel

so sorry for you. Is it possible that you could kick the

habit if you went into rehab?”

Angela scowled at Judith. “The goody-goody side

of the Quick Fix, huh? Easier said than done, Mrs.

Flynn.” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Where are you

from?”

Judith was taken aback. “You mean . . . where was I

born?”

“Yes. Where? When?” The queries crackled like

scattershot.

“I was born right here,” Judith replied, “about two

blocks away, in a hospital that’s been turned into condos. Why do you ask?”

“Are you sure?”

“Certainly I’m sure,” Judith answered, indignant.

Then, seeing the disappointment on Angela’s face, she

understood the reason for the questions. “I’m sorry.

I’ve only had one child, a boy. And I didn’t become

Mrs. Flynn until ten years ago.”

Wearily, Angela turned away. “Never mind. I keep

hoping someday I’ll find my mother.”

Even when she wasn’t wanted, Judith was too softhearted to walk away. She remained standing, gazing

down at Angela’s blond hair and twitching hands.

“Do you want to meet your mother for revenge,” Judith asked softly, “or for an explanation?”

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Angela didn’t respond immediately. Indeed, her

whole body convulsed, then went slack. “I know why

she gave me away,” the actress finally replied, her

voice muffled by the pillow. “She never really wanted

me. My mother was a free spirit, a big-time flower

child. I was just a burden in her personal revolution.”

“Your mother sounds selfish and immature,” Judith

declared. “Who raised you?”

“An aunt in San Bernardino,” Angela said. “She meant

well, but she had four kids of her own. I was much

younger than they were. I was always the outsider.”

Abruptly, she turned again to face Judith. “This is none of

your business. Quit asking so damned many questions.”

“I apologize,” Judith said. “I can’t help myself. I’m

interested in people. I care about them.”

“You’re an oddity, then,” Angela said. “Most people

only care in terms of what they can get from you. The

funny thing is, my mother didn’t want anything from

me. She didn’t want me, period.”

“She may be a villain,” Judith said quietly, “but

she’s not the one who hooked you on drugs. Who did?”

Angela gaped at Judith. “What a rotten, snoopy

question!”

“No, it isn’t,” Judith said reasonably. “Addicts have

to start somewhere, and usually because someone

coaxed or goaded them into it. You don’t just walk into

the supermarket and get cocaine on Aisle B.”

“Why do you care?” Angela’s voice was toneless.

“It’s abnormal.”

“I guess,” Judith said, “I’m one of those rare people

who do care. I must be eccentric. Humor me.”

Angela heaved a deep, shuddering sigh. “Why not?

It doesn’t matter now. It was good old Bruno.”

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267

Judith was surprised. “Bruno? Did he do drugs?”

“For years,” Angela said, “right up until he overdosed midway through the making of The Gasman.”

“Is that why he was hospitalized?” Judith asked, remembering Vito’s medical notes including the letter C.

For cocaine, apparently.

“That’s right,” Angela said with a bitter note. “It

scared him, so he went into rehab. He’s been clean ever

since. Lucky him.”

“Not so lucky since he’s dead,” Judith remarked.

“You say he’d been an addict for years?”

“Yes.” Angela looked bitter. “Some people can

function forever on coke. Bruno thought so. I did, too.

Maybe I still do. As Bruno told me, coke can enhance

the creative process. He truly believed it did for him.”

Maybe, Judith thought, that explained The Gasman

disaster. “It’s more like Russian roulette,” she asserted.

“Eventually, you’re going to reach the chamber that

takes you out.”

“Sure, sure. Easy for you to say.” Angela made a

face at her.

“So who got Bruno hooked?” Judith inquired.

Angela shook her head. “You’re not going to get me

to tell you about that.”

“But Bruno’s dead,” Judith said as she heard the

faint sound of the doorknob turning. A nurse no doubt,

coming to take the endless vital signs. “What difference does it make?”

“Because the person who got him started is still

alive,” Angela said. “And if you ask me, very dangerous. You don’t want to know.”

But Judith did want to know. Despite the odds, even

the risks, she had to know.

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Yet she could get nothing more out of Angela. And

to be fair, the young woman seemed not only agitated,

but tired. Judith was heading out of the room when another click sounded at the door. She waited for the person in the corridor to come in.

But no one did, and when she turned the knob she

discovered that the door was firmly shut.

SEVENTEEN

SLOWLY, SHE OPENED the door and peered into the

hallway. A pair of orderlies had their heads together

by the elevators. Wanda was sitting at the reception

desk. A doctor in scrubs was talking to a nurse at the

far end of the corridor. None of them seemed interested in Room 704.

But someone was. As she’d turned the knob to

open the door a few inches, she’d heard footsteps

close by. Not the soft, almost noiseless tread of

shoes worn by members of the medical profession,

but high heels. Tap-tap-tap. They’d stopped

abruptly just as Judith had looked into the corridor.

The door on the right of Angela’s room was open.

Moving as silently as possible, Judith looked inside. It

was dark, but she could tell that the single bed was

empty. On a whim, she opened the bathroom door and

flicked on the light. Nothing. Leaving the light on and

the bathroom door open, she went to the closet. Nothing there, either. But just as she was closing the closet

door, she heard the tap-tap-tapping again. Quickly

switching off the bathroom light, she hurried into the

corridor. The tableau remained the same, except that

the orderlies by the elevators had gone.

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Judith walked softly to Room 702, on the other side

of Angela’s private room. There a light glowed above

the bed, where an old man with paper-thin skin

breathed with noisy effort. Judith gave up. She

couldn’t search every room. Besides, she reasoned, the

high heels might have belonged to a visitor who had

tried to get into the wrong room.

But she didn’t quite believe it. Feeling defeated, she

headed for the elevators. There was one good thing

about her visit, though. As she exited on the main floor,

Judith felt a sense of freedom at leaving the hospital

under her own power. It hadn’t been that way when she

exited Good Cheer on a cold day in January. She’d

been wheeled out to a cabulance and had spent the following week learning to walk again.

Fifteen minutes later she was back at Hillside Manor.

Joe was sitting in the living room, studying Bill’s chart.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I

was about to file a missing-persons report.”

Judith explained everything except the hospital

visit. She had a question of her own that wouldn’t wait.

“What about Mother? It’s eight o’clock. She must be

starving.”

“Your mother is fine,” Joe replied. “Arlene brought

her dinner over a couple of hours ago. It seems that

none of the Rankers clan showed up. Arlene was furious—right up until she insisted she hadn’t wanted to

see any of them in the first place.”

“Dear Arlene.” Judith sighed, collapsing next to Joe

on the sofa. “A sea of contradictions. And a heart as big

as Alaska.”

“So what good did all your sleuthing at Capri’s do

for you?” Joe asked, putting Bill’s chart aside.

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271

“I’m not sure,” Judith said, suddenly hearing her

stomach growl. “Goodness, I haven’t eaten in hours.

What’s left from the caterers?”

Joe peered at her. “You look beat. Let me fix you a

drink and bring you something to eat. How about

Winifred’s field greens and Chips’s chicken pot pie?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Judith said, slipping out of her

shoes as Sweetums crept up to the sofa. “I should see

Mother, but I’ll wait until I get my second wind.”

Joe had gone into the kitchen when the doorbell

sounded a minute later. Wearily, Judith trudged to the

front door. Eugenia Fleming and Morris Mayne stood

on the front porch with three small trick-or-treaters.

The youngsters, who had an adult waiting on the sidewalk, chorused their Halloween greeting. Eugenia

practically trampled them as she entered the house.

“It’s very damp out there,” she complained. “Did

Vito mention that he and I and Morris are staying in

your vacant rooms tonight?”

“I’m . . . not . . . sure,” Judith replied, scooping

candy bars out of a cut-glass bowl in the entry hall. She

stepped aside as Morris barged his way inside. Judith

scowled at him, then addressed the children. “Two

ghosts and a witch,” she said, dropping two chocolate

bars into each of the three pillowcases. “Very scary.

Don’t get a tummy ache.”

The children said thank you with varying degrees of

confidence, then turned around and ran off to join their

adult companion. Judith managed to flag down Eugenia before she reached the second landing of the main

staircase.

“Excuse me,” Judith said, “but the rooms aren’t

made up yet. It’s been a very busy day. Besides, there’s

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only one vacant room. Bruno’s,” she added, lowering

her voice. “We’ll have to see if Ellie or Winifred or

Chips or Dade will consent to share a room.”

“Chips and Dade wouldn’t share a bomb shelter if

a nuclear device went off,” Eugenia retorted. “You

might have better luck with Win and Ellie. Just tell

me which room is mine. I need to lie down. I’m quite

fatigued.”

Judith was forced into a quick decision. “Morris

will stay in Room Three. You take Room Six. I’ll make

it up as soon as I have something to eat.”

Eugenia leaned over the banister, her bust looming

like two large water balloons. “Now would be preferable.”

Judith was about to snap back when Joe appeared in

the entry hall bearing a tray with a Scotch rocks, a

steaming chicken pot pie, a generous salad, and a hot

roll.

“Take a seat, Jude-girl,” he said as the doorbell rang

again. “Dinner is served.”

Judith shot Eugenia a frigid look and returned to the

living room. Morris Mayne was reclining on the sofa,

his shirt and tie loosened and his suit jacket covering

the coffee table.

Joe stared down at the publicist. “Get the door, will

you, Morris? And move that jacket. My wife’s dinner

is going there.”

Morris looked affronted. “Pardon? I’m a guest, not

a servant.”

With a nimble move, Joe lifted one foot, caught the

jacket on the toe of his shoe, and dumped it on the

floor. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Get that door. If you

want to lie down, use the stiff’s room. It’s behind Door

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273

Number Three. Move it. I’m not in one of my good

moods.”

Morris moved. He scrambled for his jacket, gave

Joe a wary glance, and scooted out of the room. Sweetums, who had been napping by the sofa, woke up and

chased Morris all the way up the stairs.

Judith beamed at her husband. “I always find it exciting when you play bad cop.”

“Maybe we’ll both have a chance to get excited

when this crew of loonies gets the hell out of here,” Joe

grumbled. “Now sit and stay. And eat. I’ll take care of

the trick-or-treaters.”

“How many have we had so far?” Judith asked.

“About thirty,” Joe replied, heading to answer the

doorbell on the second ring.

By the time her husband returned, she’d eaten half

of the pot pie with its flaky crust and chunks of tender

chicken. “Were they cute?” she asked.

“It was some of the Dooleys,” Joe said, referring to

their neighbors whose house was across the back fence

by the Flynn garage. “I can never tell if it’s their kids,

grandkids, nieces, nephews, or just some strays they’ve

picked up.”

“Darn. I’d like to have seen them,” Judith said, tackling the field-green salad.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to see some of the bigger ones,” Joe said. “About half an hour ago there was

a scarecrow and a cowboy who were as tall as I am. I’d

swear they were old enough to vote.”

“Candy hogs,” Judith said with a smile that quickly

turned into a frown. “Did you say a scarecrow and a

cowboy?”

“Right,” Joe responded. “Why do you ask?”

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“A Wizard of Oz scarecrow? Was the cowboy wearing snakeskin boots?”

“As a matter of fact he was,” Joe said.

“They were here last night.” Judith took her first sip

of Scotch. “Doesn’t that seem odd?”

Joe shrugged. “As you said, candy hogs. That’s the

problem with Halloween falling on a Sunday. It becomes a holiday weekend instead of just one night.”

Judith didn’t respond. But she was more than curious. She was alarmed.

Joe had offered to make up the rooms while Judith

finished her meal and put her feet up. He’d just come

downstairs when Dirk, Ellie, Chips, and Ben returned

to Hillside Manor. With a few succinct words, he explained the new room assignments. Ellie didn’t seem

pleased.

“Win’s such a fussbudget,” she said with a scowl.

“At least Angela didn’t care if my clothes weren’t hung

perfectly in the closet.”

Judith apologized for any inconvenience. “I had no

idea that Mr. Patricelli, Mr. Mayne, and Ms. Fleming

were all going to stay here tonight instead of at the

hotel downtown.”

“The Cascadia is in a pickle,” Chips Madigan remarked. “We’ve got about fifty people there who can’t

leave town, and some tour group is coming in from

Japan tonight. They’re overbooked.”

So, Judith thought, was she. There were other hotels, some high-class motels, and probably even a few

B&Bs that were empty on a Sunday night. She had the

feeling that it wasn’t a lack of vacancies that had

brought the trio to Hillside Manor, but Paradox Stu- SILVER SCREAM

275

dios’ desire to keep certain persons under Vito’s eaglelike eye.

“Is it possible,” she inquired, recalling what she’d

overheard the attorney say in the private dining room,

“that you’ll all be going back to L.A. tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Chips replied.

“Let’s hope so,” Ben Carmody put in.

“We’d damned well better be out of here by tomorrow,” Dirk growled, then turned on his heel and

stomped upstairs.

A smiling Ellie watched him disappear. “Goody.

Now we can watch Ben’s movie on TV.” She turned to

Judith. “It’s okay, isn’t it? Chips directed. You might

want to see it, Mrs. Flynn. The Virgin Vessel. It comes

on in five minutes, and it’s really creepy. Perfect for

Halloween.”

Judith vacillated. “I’ll watch the first part while I

finish my dinner. But then I have some work to do.”

Joe volunteered to turn on the set. Ellie assumed her

usual perch on the window seat, even though it meant

she had to lean a little to see the screen. Chips

sprawled on the sofa across from Judith, and Ben settled into one of the big armchairs.

With the screen coming to life, Joe had just put

down the remote when there was a knock at the back

door. He went out through the French doors and appeared a few seconds later with Renie.

“I’m bored,” Renie announced as the movie’s opening credits appeared on the screen. “Bill’s exhausted

from meeting the future in-laws, so he’s going to bed

even earlier than usual. I don’t feel like reading, and

there’s nothing on TV,” she continued, stopping in the

middle of the room and blocking the screen. “Once the

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baseball season is over, there’s not much I want to see

on television.”

“Keep it down,” Ben called out.

“Did you pay for your seat?” Renie sneered.

“Get out of the way,” Ellie demanded. “You’re

blocking the screen.”

“Read a book,” Renie shot back as she refused to

budge. “Improve your mind.”

“Coz?” Judith forced a tense smile. “Our guests are

actually watching a movie. Or trying to. Would you

mind sitting down?” She patted the empty sofa cushion

next to her.

“They are?” Renie shrugged. “What movie? There

are some of them that I actually like.”

“The Virgin Vessel,” Ellie said, no longer annoyed.

“It’s really, really scary. We should turn out all the

lights.”

“Atmosphere!” Chips exclaimed, jumping up and

hurrying around the room to turn off the four lamps

that were burning. “How’s that? Fog outside, witches

flying on broomsticks, the whole Halloween scene.

Could it be more frightening?”

“I hate frightening movies,” Renie declared. “They

scare me.”

“They’re supposed to,” Chips replied, resuming his

place on the sofa. “It’s more thrill than scare when the

picture’s directed properly.”

Judith nudged Renie. “Chips directed this one,” she

whispered to her cousin.

“Jeez,” Renie sighed. “I guess I’ll shut up now.”

Joe edged past Renie to collect Judith’s tray.

“There’s a preseason NBA game on,” he said quietly.

“Care to join me upstairs?”

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277

“If this thing gets too gruesome, I might do that,”

Renie responded.

The movie’s opening shot followed a young woman

in late-nineteenth-century dress down a dark, winding

London street. She was obviously nervous, and

stopped periodically to look over her shoulder. As she

turned a corner, a light glowed from a narrow timberfronted building. Expressing relief, she pulled the iron

knocker on the door. To the accompaniment of creaking hinges and ominous music, the heavy door opened

slowly. The young woman rushed inside. The door

slammed shut behind her. Strong, hairy hands swung a

big ax. She screamed in terror. The hands and the ax

came down again and again as blood spurted, presumably from her unseen body.

“That’s it,” Renie said, getting up. “I’m going to

check out the basketball game. If I wanted brutality, I’d

watch hockey.”

Judith didn’t much blame her cousin but felt obligated to watch at least the first fifteen minutes of the

movie. The scene changed to what appeared to be an

interior of Scotland Yard. The policemen were discussing the crime spree that had been taking place in

London’s East End. They shook their heads a great

deal and muttered “Baffling” several times.

“Wow!” Ellie enthused. “This is sooo good. Watch,

Mrs. Flynn, Ben’s coming up in the next scene.”

Sure enough, Ben Carmody, dressed in the garb of a

nineteenth-century gentleman, sauntered up the same

street where the young woman had presumably been

murdered. It was daylight, and Ben carried a cane. He

stopped in front of the building where the ax-wielding

maniac had done his dirty deed. Ben looked up to the

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second story. Then, as a stout woman carrying a wicker

basket entered the street, he turned and disappeared

around a corner. Judith suddenly realized she’d seen

this before.

“Excuse me,” she said, getting up. “It’s after nine,

and I’m going to take our jack-o’-lanterns in. The

trick-or-treaters should all be home by now.”

As far as Judith could determine, the fog-filled culde-sac was empty. Taking the trio of pumpkins inside,

she found Renie in the kitchen.

“I thought you were going to watch the game with

Joe,” she said, placing the pumpkins on the counter.

“I’m stealing a Pepsi first,” Renie said, opening the

refrigerator. “Did you get scared, too?”

“Sort of,” Judith admitted. “But I think I’ve seen

that movie before, though I can’t imagine why. Joe and

I don’t like horror films, either.”

“Maybe you saw a preview,” Renie suggested, opening a can of Pepsi.

“Maybe.” Judith paced a bit. “That must be it. I certainly can’t remember anything else about The Virgin

Vessel. But the scene with Ben Carmody looked very

familiar.” She went to the sink and stared out the

kitchen window. Suddenly something clicked in her

brain. “Coz!” she cried, whirling around to face Renie.

“Do you remember that man I saw a couple of months

ago between our house and the Rankerses’ hedge?”

“What man?” Renie looked blank. “I don’t think

you mentioned it to me.”

“Maybe I didn’t,” Judith allowed. “It was after

Labor Day, when Skjoval Tolvang was working on the

house and the toolshed. Mr. Tolvang saw him first. He

thought the man was a city inspector.”

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279

“Did you see this guy up close?” Renie asked.

“Fairly close,” Judith replied, pacing a little faster.

“He had a beard and glasses. He said he was looking

for a Mr. . . . I forget, it was an odd name. Anyway, he

hurried off after that.”

“Okay,” Renie said. “And your point is . . . ?”

“My point,” Judith said slowly, “is that the man I

saw outside the house may have been Ben Carmody.”

Renie thought Judith was imagining things, and said

so. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“Because of his height and build,” Judith said. “At

the time he reminded me of someone. I’ve seen Ben in

a couple of movies, and one of them was a costume

picture from the same era as The Virgin Vessel.”

“It’s a stretch.” Renie yawned. “Why would Ben

Carmody be hanging around outside Hillside Manor in

September?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Judith said, reverting

to her old habit of chewing on a fingernail.

“Why indeed?” Renie said as they heard the front

door open. “I doubt that Ben did any such thing.”

Judith didn’t respond, but went into the dining room

to see who had arrived. It was Vito and Winifred. He

seemed fresh and vigorous; she appeared weary and

anxious. Judith informed Vito that he’d be staying in

Room Three.

“Bruno’s room,” Vito said solemnly. “It’s an honor.”

“You may find Morris Mayne already there,” Judith

said. “Would you mind asking him to move to Room

Five with Chips?”

The attorney informed Judith that he’d gladly pass

on the request. “I appreciate getting the larger room,”

he said. “I have some work to do.”

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Winifred, however, wasn’t pleased to hear that she

would have to share her room with Ellie. “Why

couldn’t Ellie and Eugenia share Room Six?”

“Because,” Judith said, clearing her throat, “you and

Ellie are quite slim. Eugenia is not. Both your room

and Room Six, where Ellie’s been staying, have double beds.”

Flattery didn’t have any effect on Winifred, who remained glum but didn’t argue further. Maybe, Judith

thought, that was because Eugenia had admitted that

she and Winifred weren’t on good terms. Whatever the

reason, Winifred immediately went upstairs while Vito

peered into the darkened living room.

“What’s going on?” Seeing the movie on TV, he

didn’t wait for an answer. “Ah— The Virgin Vessel. The

role that made Ben famous. It was Chips’s first attempt

at directing. He was superb.” Without waiting for a response from Judith, Vito slipped gracefully into the living room just as a willowy blonde met her fate at the

hands of Mr. Ax.

Judith was still shuddering when she returned to the

kitchen. “Let’s go upstairs so we can talk privately,”

she said to Renie, who had fixed herself some cheese

and crackers. “I can still hear the screams from the

TV.”

“You want to watch the NBA’s preseason?” Renie

inquired, getting up from the table with her snacks.

“Not really,” Judith said. “We can go in Joe’s office.”

The cousins ascended the back stairs, then entered

the door that led up to the family quarters. Judith sat

down in Joe’s swivel chair and placed her unfinished

Scotch on the desk.

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281

“Okay, so fill me in,” Renie said, seating herself in

the rocking chair that Joe used to relax his back.

Judith complied, and it took almost fifteen minutes.

Renie made only the briefest of comments until her

cousin had finished.

“You’ve got a lot of fragmentary information there,”

Renie pointed out. “Let’s start with A for Angela. She’s

a coke addict who got started by Bruno. He went to

rehab and it apparently worked. She’s still hooked. Is

that a motive for murder?”

“I doubt it,” Judith said, hearing the wind pick up

outside. “But her most recent movie with Bruno turned

out to be a bomb, and Ellie was to have starred in the

next one. That might be more of a motive than mere

drug addiction.”

“Revenge,” Renie murmured. “What does Bill’s

chart say about that?”

Joe had fortuitously brought the chart up to the office before any of the guests could see it. “I don’t think

Bill got to revenge,” Judith said, spreading the chart

out on the desk. “Wait—he did. Bill and Joe must have

worked on this while we were gone. Angela, Dirk,

Ben, Dade, and Chips all have mauve marks, which

stand for revenge.”

“They’re all associated with the Big Flop,” Renie remarked. “But murder doesn’t seem like the right way

to rectify a career stumble. I can’t imagine that any of

those celebrities won’t bounce back.”

Judith studied the chart for several moments. “It’s

got to be something personal. It almost always is.”

“You ought to know,” Renie said with a grin. “I see

Bill’s keyed in jealousy, but he’s marked it only for Angela and Ellie, with a slash for professional rivalry.”

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Judith shook her head. “Why would either of them

kill Bruno?”

“Didn’t you say you overheard something about

Ellie’s next movie not being made now that Bruno’s

dead?”

“That’s my point,” Judith replied. “Bruno was worth

far more to Ellie alive than dead. Let’s face it, the only

person in the entourage who got violent with Bruno

was Dirk Farrar. They had that big fight in Marina Del

Rey. Which signifies to me that Dirk wouldn’t hesitate

to duke it out in a disagreement, but he’s not the homicidal type. If he killed someone, it would be in a burst

of temper with his bare hands.”

“You’re ruling out Dirk banging Bruno in the head

with the cupboard door and shoving him in the sink?”

“There would have had to be an argument first,” Judith asserted. “Dirk’s very loud. Joe or I would have

heard the two men quarreling, even from the basement.”

Renie didn’t say anything for a few moments.

“You’re convinced this wasn’t an accident?”

Judith grimaced. “I’m not going down without a

fight to prove otherwise.”

“I don’t blame you,” Renie said. “The problem is,

we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. We don’t even

know who all the guests were last night.”

Judith gave Renie a puzzled look. “Yes, we do. Except for Vito, the ones who came back here after the

premiere are the same people who attended the midnight supper.”

“So where’s Mrs. Mayne?” Renie queried.

“The one dressed as a pioneer woman?” Judith

shrugged. “I assume she’s still at the Cascadia. Morris

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283

told me she wasn’t much of a traveler. She probably

didn’t want to make another move.”

“Let’s find out.” Renie reached across Judith to pick

up the phone on Joe’s desk. “If she’d dug in at the

hotel, you’d think Morris would have stayed with her.”

A moment later she was asking for Mrs. Mayne.

“That’s Mrs. Morris Mayne,” she said. “She and her

husband checked in either Friday or Saturday.” There

was a long silence from Renie. “Oh. Really? Well,

thanks all the same.” She replaced the phone and stared

at Judith. “Mrs. Mayne checked out at noon.”

EIGHTEEN

“I DON’T GET it,” Judith said, stopping herself from

gnawing on another nail. “Why would Mrs. Mayne

be allowed to leave town when the rest of them

weren’t?”

“Maybe because she’s not in the movie business,”

Renie suggested. “Maybe there was a family emergency in California.”

Judith nodded absently. “Maybe she was never

here.”

Renie looked startled. “What?”

“I mean,” Judith explained, “here in this house.

We only assumed that the pioneer woman was Mrs.

Mayne. Do you remember what she looked like?”

Renie hunched her shoulders. “No. She was

wearing a big floppy bonnet. I don’t think I ever saw

her face.”

Judith got up from the swivel chair. “Let’s find

out. We’ll ask Winifred. She’s still in Room One,

sharing it with Ellie.”

But Winifred wasn’t in Room One. As the

cousins reached the second floor, they could hear

her raised voice coming from Room Six. They could

also hear Eugenia’s bellow.

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285

“Now what?” Renie said as they edged closer to the

angry voices.

Signaling for Renie to be quiet, Judith pricked up

her ears. The cousins stood at the door to Room Six

like a pair of sentries.

“. . . more harm than good,” Eugenia shouted.

“That’s not true!” Winifred rejoined. “It was Morris

more than you!”

“Oh,” Eugenia responded, her voice dropping a

notch, “it was Bruno. It was always Bruno. But why

was he killed?”

“Who says he was?” Winifred retorted. “I thought it

was an accident.”

“Nonsense,” Eugenia snapped as Judith gave Renie

a thumbs-up sign. “Think about it. How could anyone

hit a cupboard door or get hit by it hard enough to

knock themselves out? And even if they did, wouldn’t

falling in a sink filled with water snap them back into

consciousness? Why do you think the studio has insisted we stay in this stupid town? Because they’re

doing their own investigating, that’s why.”

“I don’t agree with you,” Winifred huffed. “If

they’re investigating, why haven’t we seen any detectives around here?”

“We haven’t been here all the time,” Eugenia said in

a reasonable voice, which still carried as if she were

speaking into a bullhorn. “The investigators may be

working with the local police. Or maybe they’re arriving tomorrow.”

“Vito said we could leave tomorrow,” Winifred said,

sounding sullen.

“Vito said maybe,” Eugenia responded. “Let’s stop

wrangling. I’d like to retire for the night in peace.”

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“Until you got here,” Winifred complained, “I could

retire in peace. Now I have to share my room with that

little twit Ellie.”

“Ellie’s simply immature. And spoiled, but she has

talent,” Eugenia pointed out. “She’s limited, of

course.”

“You mean because of her race?” There was steel in

Winifred’s voice.

“No,” Eugenia replied, “I’m referring to her acting

range. And her looks, which have nothing to do with

the fact that she’s half Chinese.”

“You meant race,” Winifred accused. “It always

comes down to race, doesn’t it?”

“For you, apparently,” Eugenia snapped. “I often

find that different-colored skin is also very thin.”

Judith and Renie exchanged pained expressions.

“That’s not true!” Winifred cried. “But can you argue

that Hollywood has always been fair to minorities?”

“Certainly not,” Eugenia said in a self-righteous

tone. “But look at you. You’ve managed to claw your

way up to the top. Of course some would say you used

more than your brains to get there. I wouldn’t use

Winifred Best and ethics in the same sentence.”

“Ethics? What have ethics got to do with this business?” Winifred demanded.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Eugenia

asserted. “A certain lack of ethics is one thing, but

criminal means are—”

“Ladies!” a masculine voice cut in. “Please! I can’t

stand any more of this quarreling. I’m trying to rest.”

Renie mouthed “Morris?” at Judith, who nodded.

“He’s in Room Five,” she whispered. “He’s sharing

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287

with Chips. The bathroom connects between Five and

Six, remember?”

“This whole situation is intolerable,” Winifred declared. “Do you both realize that all three of us are out

of a job?”

“No, we’re not,” Morris replied. “I work for the studio as well as for Bruno. Eugenia has other clients. As

for you, Win, someone will have to stay at the helm of

Bruno’s production company at least for a while. Who

knows? His children may want to keep the company

going.”

“No, they won’t,” Winifred asserted. “I know them.

They’re utterly irresponsible. They couldn’t run a convenience store.”

“Win’s right,” Eugenia conceded. “Besides, there’s

the problem of bailing out The Gasman. It may prove

very complicated, not to mention the harm done to

Bruno’s reputation.”

A door opened in the corridor. Judith and Renie

both jumped as they turned around to see who had

caught them eavesdropping.

It was Joe, coming from the family quarters. “Jeez,”

he said in a low but vexed voice, “could you be more

obvious?”

Judith gave her husband a sheepish look. “Okay,

we’re done here anyway. But this is how we sleuth.”

“Unprofessional,” Joe murmured, heading for the

back stairs. “I’m going to lock up for the night. It’s ten

o’clock straight up.”

Judith glanced at her watch as the cousins followed

Joe downstairs. “You’re right. I suppose they’re still

watching the movie in the living room.”

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“I suppose,” Joe said. “It was scheduled to run until

eleven.”

“I should go home,” Renie declared as they reached

the main floor.

“Don’t,” Judith urged as she saw the computer printouts on the kitchen counter. “We never had a chance to

go over the material you found on The Gasman and its

origins.”

“Oh. Well . . . sure.” Renie began sorting the pages

as Joe headed for the front door to lock up.

A terrified scream erupted from that vicinity, causing Renie to drop several sheets on the floor. But the

exclamation of “Wow!” followed by “Way cool, Ben!”

from Ellie and a couple of masculine chuckles indicated that the scream had come from another hapless

movie victim.

Judith heard Joe say something to the guests that

she couldn’t quite make out. A moment later he was

back in the kitchen. “Everybody’s here except Dade,”

he said. “He has a key, right?”

“He should,” Judith said. “That’s odd. Has he been

back since they all left Capri’s?”

“Chips said he hasn’t,” Joe replied, removing a can

of beer from the fridge. “Dade arrived here with some

of the others, but never came in the house.”

“Typical,” Judith remarked, “though why he’d want

to walk around on such a foggy, windy night is beyond

me.”

“The wind’s blowing the fog away,” Joe said, then

yawned. “I’m going to watch Sports Center and head

for bed. It’s been a long day. In fact, it’s been a long

weekend.” He kissed Judith, gave Renie a hug, and

headed back upstairs.

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289

“I’m organized,” Renie announced. “I’ve skimmed

some of this stuff, especially Bruno’s filmmaker’s approach to the narrative. Naturally, he sounds like a genius.”

The cousins sat down at the kitchen table. More

screams could be heard from the living room.

“Wouldn’t you think they must have killed off most of

the cast by now?” Judith murmured.

“We wish,” Renie remarked, underlining points of

interest with a red pen. “Dade should be writing a

movie about what happened after this crew arrived at

the B&B. Who needs spooky London streets or the

human race’s time line?” She paused, shuffling some

papers. “Okay, here’s some information on C. Douglas

Carp.”

“Crappy Pappy Carp,” Judith said suddenly. “That’s

what Dirk Farrar called him.”

“You can call him Pappy, you can call him Crappy,

you can even call him Sappy,” Renie said, handing two

pages of underlined information to Judith, “but don’t

call him Slaphappy. Carp was a diligent scholar of

some repute. He wrote The Gasman when he was

twenty-two.”

“Goodness,” Judith responded. “That’s impressive.”

“It may account for why my father read the damned

thing,” Renie noted. “Dad was probably swayed by

Carp’s credentials.” She flipped through a few more

pages. “This is what I found on Carp himself. I haven’t

read it yet. Shall I read to you?”

“You can also carry me up to bed and tuck me in.”

Judith sighed. “I’m not sure I can get up those two

flights of stairs again.”

Renie offered her cousin a sympathetic smile. “You

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should put an elevator in this place. And not for the

guests.” She cleared her throat and adjusted her muchabused glasses. “Carson Douglas Carp was born in

Cedar Falls, Iowa, in 1907, the son of Louis Franklin

Carp and Annabelle Ernestine Carp (née Morgan). An

outstanding student, Carp began his epic novel of civ-

ilization, The Gasman, while still attending Northern

Iowa State Teachers College. While Carp’s fictional

style has been criticized by some as tedious, pedantic,

and maladroit, his meticulous attention to historical

detail and his accuracy have merited praise from oth-

ers. Although the novel never sold well except to li-

braries, his next work, a nonfiction treatise on the

Dahlak Archipelago, was eagerly awaited by scholars.

Unfortunately, Carp suffered from severe alcoholism,

and died at the age of thirty-eight, leaving the two-

hundred-thousand-word tome unfinished. His son,

William Euclid Carp, and his daughter, Marguerite

Louisa Carp, attempted to find a publisher for the

work in the mid-1960s, but without success.”

“No kidding,” Judith said. “Where’s the Dahlak

Archipelago?”

Renie shrugged. “Wherever it is, I doubt that it’s a

major book market.”

“Pappy,” Judith said thoughtfully. “Whose Pappy?”

“You mean in reference to the guests?”

“Yes. Nobody would call someone Pappy—especially a man who died quite young—unless he was

their father or the father of someone they knew.”

Renie rested her chin on her fist. “I’m not sure why

it matters. Aren’t you grasping at straws?”

“Of course I am,” Judith said testily. “I’m desperate.”

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291

“Okay.” Renie’s tone was unusually agreeable.

“Pappy Carp is dead. He died in 1945 or thereabouts,

right? Which means that if any of these people are his

offspring, it has to be someone over fifty. Bruno’s

out—his father was a German war groom. Dade,

Chips, Ben, Dirk, and Angela are too young. Did you

say Angela’s real last name is Flynn?”

“I did. It is.” Judith was still a bit testy.

“Rule Ellie out because her father is alive and hustling hot dogs,” Renie said. “That leaves Eugenia,

Morris, and . . . Vito?”

“Vito wasn’t here for the postpremiere supper,” Judith pointed out.

“Are you sure?”

Judith gave Renie a peculiar look. “What do you

mean?”

“How do you know that someone didn’t change costumes? Or that there weren’t two Arabian sheikhs or a

pair of matching Gutenbergs?” Renie demanded.

Judith considered the idea. “But never in the same

room at the same time,” she murmured. “It’s a thought.

There’s another thing we might have overlooked—

Chips is from the Midwest.”

“Even if he appears younger than he really is,”

Renie noted, “he couldn’t be over fifty.”

“Grandson, maybe?” Judith suggested.

“Oh.” Renie got up from the chair at the counter and

went to the refrigerator to claim another Pepsi. “That

could be. On the other hand, Chips often talks about

his mother, but not his father. I wonder why?” She

paused, then shook her head. “It can’t be Chips.

What’s the motive?”

Judith gave Renie a helpless look. “I’ve no idea. Un- 292

Mary Daheim

less the novel was written by Chips’s father—big

stretch, I know—or grandfather, and Bruno stole it.

Remember, I told you that the book had keepsakes in

it. Obviously, it had been treasured by someone for

many years.” She suddenly jumped up. “Keepsakes!

What’s wrong with me? Where did I put that book?”

Frantically, she looked around the kitchen as the wind

rattled the windows.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “I didn’t

put it anywhere. Joe brought it down from Room

Three.” Cautiously bending down to favor her artificial

hip, Judith opened the bottom cabinet drawer next to

the wall. “Here it is. Let’s see if we can learn anything

from these keepsakes.”

Renie wore a resigned expression but said nothing.

The cousins had just sat down at the counter again

when Sweetums sidled up to Judith. He had a partially

eaten chicken breast in his mouth, which he began to

wrestle around the kitchen floor.

Judith scowled at the cat. “Where did you get that?

Here, let me have it.”

Sweetums wasn’t in the mood to oblige. He backed

away, with the chicken still in his teeth. Judith chased

him into the pantry, where he got under the lowest

shelf, just out of reach. In recent months, Sweetums

had figured out that his human was limited in her capacity for capturing him.

“Damn!” she cried as she heard the cat chewing

lustily on the chicken. “He must have gotten that out of

the garbage. I’d better make sure the can didn’t blow

over.” Grabbing her jacket from its customary peg, she

headed outside.

Driven by the wind, the fog swirled around the

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293

backyard like smoke from a beach fire. The light in the

toolshed appeared and disappeared as if it were coming from a lighthouse. Gertrude kept late hours, requiring less sleep as she got older. Of course, Judith

thought as she hurried to the garbage cans and recycling bins by the side of the house, her mother dozed

off frequently during the day.

The big green bins were intact, but one of the

garbage cans had blown over, spilling half its contents.

From inside the house, she could hear more screams

emanating from the TV. The terrified cries set her teeth

on edge. She was beginning to wonder if the events of

the past two days and her fears for the future were triggering an emotional collapse.

As Judith set the can upright, a loud banging noise

behind her made her jump. Peering through the eddies

of mist, she saw nothing. Gingerly, she began putting

the garbage back into the can.

She was about to replace the lid when something

brushed against her leg. Judith let out a small squeal,

then looked down to see Sweetums depositing bare

chicken bones on her shoe.

“Nasty!” she exclaimed under her breath. “If my

nerves weren’t going to pieces, I’d pull your tail.”

Sweetums responded with a growl, then trotted off

down the driveway. Judith started back to the porch,

but decided to make a quick visit to her mother. She

felt guilty for hardly seeing Gertrude all day. As she

headed down the walk to the toolshed, the wind rattled

her nerves along with the Rankerses’ wind chimes. The

usual gentle tinkling sounded more like an out-of-tune

brass band.

But the fog was definitely dissipating. She could see

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the toolshed clearly, though the lights had now gone

out. Judith stopped, debating whether or not to bother

her mother. She decided against it. Gertrude would

only berate her for being neglectful. Judith didn’t need

any more problems on this particular All Hallows’ Eve.

She’d started up the back-porch steps when she

heard another clatter nearby. It sounded like another

garbage-can lid. More annoyed than nervous, she

trudged around to the side of the house.

Within a foot of the cans, Judith stopped dead in her

tracks. There, down the driveway in a maelstrom of

fog, an unearthly creature seemed to levitate before her

eyes. She suppressed a scream as her legs wobbled and

her eyes grew huge. The pointy hat, the stiff shaggy

hair, the windblown garments, and the shoes with the

turned-up toes almost convinced her that witches did

indeed fly the skies on Halloween.

The image was enhanced when a cat with its fur

standing on end suddenly appeared out of the mists.

The animal hurtled straight for Judith. In fright, she

flung herself against the wall of the house, and only

recognized Sweetums when he hid himself between

her feet.

“P-p-poor k-k-kitty,” she stammered, glancing

down at the cat. “P-p-poor m-m-me.”

Then she looked up, and the eerie apparition was

gone.

A frowning Renie was standing on the steps.

“Where’ve you been? The back door blew shut, and I

thought maybe you got locked out.” Seeing Judith’s

pale face under the porch light, she gasped. “Hey,

what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

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295

“A witch, actually,” Judith said, clinging to the

porch rail as Sweetums crept along beside her. She felt

dizzy, her teeth were chattering, and her feet seemed

glued to the steps. “I may be having a nervous breakdown. I need a drink.”

“I’ll fix it,” Renie volunteered, but first put a hand

under Judith’s elbow. “You are a mess. Easy does it.”

Carefully, she guided her cousin through the back door.

“How does Bill describe his patients who’ve gone

mad?” Judith asked, slumping into the nearest kitchen

chair.

“Clinically?” Renie responded, going to the cupboard where the liquor was kept.

With vacant eyes and mouth agape, Judith nodded.

“Crazy as a loon,” Renie replied, pouring her

cousin’s drink. “Tell me about the witch.”

It took Judith two big sips just to get started. She

scowled at the glass before she spoke. “I’m not only

insane, I’m turning into a drunk.”

“Hardly,” Renie said. “You’ve been through a lot the

last few days.”

“So I have.” Judith sighed, beginning to pull herself

together. “But I’m not seeing things. I don’t think.”

She proceeded to tell Renie about the apparition in the

driveway.

“A witch?” Renie said when Judith had finished the

horror story. “Maybe it was. It’s Halloween.”

“At this hour?” Judith glanced up at the schoolhouse

clock, which showed eleven on the dot. As if to underscore the time, applause and cheers could be heard

coming from the living room. “Then why didn’t whoever it was come to the door?” Judith asked, clutching

her drink as if it were a talisman against evil.

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“Maybe the witch went to the toolshed,” Renie

replied. “Your mother was probably still up, and with

the TV on and the lights out in the front of the house,

whoever it was may have thought everybody had gone

to bed.”

“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, then gave her

cousin a piercing look. “You don’t believe that. You’re

just trying to make me feel better.”

Renie winced. “Well—I’d like to make you feel better. Frankly, you look like bird poop.”

“Thanks. I feel like bird poop.”

“I’d better go home,” Renie said as the movie

watchers broke up and headed for bed. “Is there anything I can do before I leave?”

Judith slumped farther into the chair. “We still don’t

know who Crappy Pappy is.”

“Does it matter?” Renie asked gently as she stood

up.

“No.” Judith’s voice was lifeless. “Nothing does.”

“Coz!” Renie gave Judith a sharp slap on the back,

then let out a little yip. “I keep forgetting, I’m supposed to favor that arm and shoulder for a while

longer.”

Judith looked up. “Are you okay?”

Cringing a bit, Renie moved her right arm this way

and that. “I think so.” She sat down across from Judith.

“Maybe I should wait a couple of minutes. I only

started driving again in July. Even though the surgeon

assured me I couldn’t dislocate it again, I don’t want to

take a chance and wreck the car.”

“Don’t mention dislocating our body parts,” Judith

said, though there was evident relief in her voice. She

hadn’t wanted Renie to leave just yet. “I worry about

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my hip all the time. Unlike your shoulder, there are

certain things I can’t do because it’ll dislocate. I suppose that’s next—more major surgery.”

“Oh, coz!” Renie shook her head. “Don’t fuss so.

You’ll only—”

A banging at the front door startled both cousins.

“The witch?” Judith gasped.

“Dubious. Stay here, I’ll get it.”

“No,” Judith said, already on her feet. “Rest your

shoulder.”

With considerable trepidation, she went through the

dining room and the entry hall. Except for the small

Tiffany-style lamp on the table by the stairs, the rest of

the house was dark.

“Who is it?” Judith called through the door.

“Me,” came the voice on the other side. “Dade.

Dade Costello.”

“Oh!” Relieved, Judith hurriedly unlocked the door.

“Come in. I thought you had your key.”

“I did,” Dade said, rubbing at the back of his head.

“I guess I lost it.”

“Oh, dear,” Judith sighed. “Do you think it’s in your

room? When did you use it last?”

Dade shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ve used it at all.

Or did I?”

Judith couldn’t remember, either. But she didn’t

want a key to Hillside Manor in the wrong hands. Disconcerted by the latest calamity, she said the first thing

that came into her head: “Wasn’t it kind of miserable

for a walk this evening?”

“I didn’t walk that much,” Dade said in his soft

Southern drawl as he started for the stairs.

The response further muddled Judith. “Wait,” she

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called after the screenwriter. “Do you have your room

key or was it with the one to the house?” Guests were

always given the two keys on a simple ring with their

room number taped on the room key.

“Let me see.” Dade rummaged in the pockets of his

cargo pants. “Here,” he said, holding up a single key.

“It says Room Two. That’s me.”

“Yes,” Judith answered. “But you’re sure you don’t

have the house key lying loose in your pockets?”

“I already checked.” He shrugged again. “Sorry.”

Once more, Dade started up the stairs.

“One other thing,” Judith said, standing by the banister. “Who was C. Douglas Carp related to?”

He paused, frowning. “Hunh. I think Carp was some

relation of Bruno’s.”

“Are you sure?” she pressed.

“Well . . .” Dade looked up into the stairwell. “Carp

was his father-in-law at one time. Yes.” He nodded to

himself. “Bruno was married to somebody whose

maiden name was Carp. C. Douglas must have been

her daddy. Bruno always referred to him as Pappy.”

“The father of which wife?” Judith hoped she didn’t

sound eager.

Again, Dade looked puzzled. “It wasn’t the second

wife,” he said slowly. “I met her at the Cannes Film

Festival a couple of years ago.”

“That was the actress?” Judith prompted.

“Right. Taryn, Taryn McGuire. But she doesn’t act

anymore. She’s married to an oil sheikh. They brought

their yacht to Cannes to attend all the parties.”

“What about the first and third wives?” Judith persisted. “Did you meet either of them? Wasn’t the third

wife in the movie business?”

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299

“Right,” Dade said. “She was a film editor or something. I never met her. I think her name was Mary

Ellen.”

“But you don’t know if her maiden name was

Carp?”

“I’ve no idea.” Dade looked apologetic.

“I assume you never met wife number one,” Judith

said. “I understand that was a youthful marriage.”

“Way before my time,” Dade said, still leaning on

the banister. “She was the one Bruno rarely talked

about. When he did, he was critical. I’ll say this for

him—he never bad-mouthed the other two wives.”

“Why was he so hard on the first one?”

Dade grimaced. “I guess she was kind of a terror. I

recall Bruno saying he ran into her someplace where

he least expected. He always called her Spider

Woman.”

Judith stared up at him. “Did that have something to

do with his superstition about spiders?”

“I don’t think so.” Dade yawned. “Sorry, Ms. Flynn,

I’m beat. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.” Once

more, he started up the stairs, but this time he was the

one to stop his own momentum. “Why do you need to

know about Bruno’s wives?”

Judith offered him an uncertain smile. “I’m just curious. You know—when someone dies under your roof

and all . . .” She let the sentence trail away.

“Oh. That makes sense. I guess.” At last he continued on up the stairs and out of sight.

Wearily, Judith trudged back to the kitchen. Renie

was wearing her suede jacket and holding her huge

handbag.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

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“Dade Costello. He lost his house key.” Judith made

a face. “But guess what? Bruno referred to his first

wife as Spider Woman.”

Renie looked surprised. “Really? Who was she?”

“Dade doesn’t know,” Judith said, espying The Gas-

man novel on the counter. “Did you find any of the

keepsakes interesting?”

Renie started ticking off items on her fingers. “The

usual pressed flowers and leaves, a faded red ribbon, a

pair of ticket stubs from the 1968 World Series between

St. Louis and Detroit, another pair of stubs from the

1975 Iowa State Fair, a lock of what looked like baby’s

hair, a young woman’s photo, a newspaper clipping of

C. Douglas Carp’s obituary, and a recipe for prune pie.”

Judith looked thoughtful. “Let’s see the obit.”

Renie flipped through the book, then handed her the

yellowed clipping.

“Hmm,” Judith said. “Nothing here that wasn’t in

the other account of his life and times. By the way, did

you come across a picture of a young woman?”

Renie flipped through the pages. “Yes, here it is.

Anybody we know?”

Judith studied the youthful face with the innocent

expression. “I don’t think so. And yet . . .” She held the

photo out for Renie’s perusal. “There is something familiar about her. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Do

you recognize this face?”

But Renie didn’t. “Why,” she inquired in a wistful

voice, “are you fixated on Mr. Carp?”

“Because,” Judith replied in a peevish tone, “I don’t

know where to go with this damned mess. I still think

the motive for this crime—if it was a crime—is personal. I don’t believe that anybody under this roof

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301

killed Bruno for professional reasons. Somebody has a

secret that was worth committing murder for, or somebody just plain hated Bruno.”

Renie set her handbag down on the floor and leaned

against the counter. “As in hated him for personal reasons?”

Judith nodded. “Exactly.”

“A woman scorned?” Renie suggested.

“Possibly.”

“Which woman? Wives one through three, or someone who wanted to be number four?”

Judith sighed along with the wind, which was now

a dull moan. “It’s possible. We know nothing about the

personal lives of Eugenia Fleming or Winifred Best.”

“Eugenia?” Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “Hardly

the type you’d expect a bigwig producer to marry.”

“We might say Eugenia isn’t the right type,” Judith

pointed out, “but that doesn’t mean Eugenia would

agree.”

“Winifred?”

“She’s been a wife, in a way,” Judith said. “Women

who work closely with men are like wives.”

“True,” Renie said. “I’ve seen it in the corporate

world. The business partner, the executive secretary,

the special assistant. It’s not usually a sexual relationship, but sometimes it is. And of course one of the parties may suffer from unrequited love.”

“I think we can scratch Ellie and Angela,” Judith

mused. “They owe their careers to him in some way—

despite the Big Flop—but I can’t picture either of them

panting with desire for Bruno.”

“Power’s a great aphrodisiac, though,” Renie noted.

“Still . . .” She gave a shake of her head.

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“We’re on the wrong track there,” Judith said.

“We’re back to professional motives. I wish we knew

why Winifred is so reluctant to talk about her brief career as a singer.”

“Because it was so brief?” Renie offered.

“I think it’s more than that,” Judith said. “I think that

the brevity of her musical career could be a secret

worth keeping.”

Renie didn’t bother to stifle a big yawn. “I’ve got to

head home. The fog’s just about gone and the wind’s

dying down. If I had to, I could drive with my feet.”

“That might be an improvement,” Judith murmured.

“Sometimes you’re not so hot at using your hands.”

“Funny, coz,” Renie said sarcastically. “Talk to you

in the morning.”

As Renie left via the back door, Judith glanced at

the schoolhouse clock. It was almost midnight, the

witching hour on Halloween.

Maybe she wasn’t losing her mind. Maybe she

wasn’t even losing her nerve.

But she still believed she could be losing Hillside

Manor.

NINETEEN

“THE AIRPORT’S STILL closed,” Joe announced as he

brought in the morning paper. “That’s bad news.”

“I didn’t know it was closed,” Judith responded

with a frosty look.

“It’s the fog,” Joe said. “Haven’t you noticed it

settled in again during the night?”

“I haven’t had time to notice anything,” Judith retorted. “I’ve been too busy figuring out what to

serve our unwanted guests for breakfast.”

Joe rested his chin on her shoulder. “Need some

help?”

Judith jerked away from her husband. “Help? Like

what, plugging in the coffeemaker? I already did that.”

“Hey!” Joe sounded offended. “What’s wrong?”

She whirled on him. “What’s wrong? Are you

kidding?”

Joe held up his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Take it easy, Jude-girl. I know you’re upset, but

this morning I’m going to call Dilys at headquarters

and find out what she’s—”

“Dilys!” Judith exploded. “Where’s she been since

Saturday night? Sunbathing? And what have you

been doing except studying Bill’s stupid chart?”

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“That chart’s not a bad idea,” Joe said, still relatively calm. “Woody and I used to put together something like—”

“Woody!” Judith cried in exasperation. “I thought

he was helping you. Has he been kidnapped by Gypsies or did the floating bridge between here and the

Eastside sink again?”

Joe threw up his hands. “Okay, okay! Don’t knock

Woody. He’s been running background checks on

these goofballs all weekend. I expect to hear from him

soon.”

“And he won’t have one single thing that will help

us,” Judith declared, dumping two pounds of bacon

into a skillet. “Toast.” She bit off the word. “That’s it,

toast, bacon, and scrambled eggs. They can take their

weird food cravings someplace else if they don’t like

it.”

“Hey, has Woody ever failed when it comes to being

helpful?” Joe asked, getting two dozen eggs out of the

fridge. Judith started to grab them from him, but he

pulled the cartons out of her reach. “I’ll fix these. I do

a better job of it.”

Judith refused to acknowledge that Joe definitely

had a way with eggs. “I’m not criticizing Woody per

se,” she asserted. “I meant that any information he

comes up with—and I’ll bet there won’t be much—

isn’t going to help us in this particular instance.”

“You don’t know that,” Joe countered. “I don’t see

why you won’t sit back and let the police and the studio’s investigators figure out what happened. They’re

pros.”

“You used to be a pro,” Judith shot back. “I thought

you still were with your private detective jobs. But you

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don’t seem very involved in this whole, horrible situation.”

“That’s because I’m retired from the force,” Joe said

with obvious resentment. “I don’t have the resources

anymore. Once you’ve been a cop, you realize that

most of the time law enforcement personnel know

what they’re doing.”

Judith didn’t respond, but gave him a skeptical look.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he didn’t have faith in his

ability to work without the backup provided by a fullfledged police staff. Maybe, she thought with a pang,

he didn’t care about Hillside Manor as much as she

did. It was even possible that in retirement, he disliked

the constant parade of strangers going in and out of his

home.

The phone rang as Joe was whisking eggs, green

onions, and slivers of red pepper in a big blue bowl. Judith answered, and somewhat sheepishly wished

Woody Price good morning. Without looking at Joe,

she handed over the receiver.

“Good morning!” Eugenia Fleming’s booming

voice and majestic presence filled the kitchen.

Judith pointed to Joe, who had put one finger in his

ear. He immediately began moving down the hall and

out of hearing range.

“Sorry,” the agent apologized, speaking with less

volume. She was already dressed, wearing a tailored

pants suit with a no-nonsense silk shirt.

“You’re up early,” Judith remarked, trying to be polite. “I usually don’t serve breakfast until eight.”

Eugenia checked her watch against the schoolhouse

clock. “Seven-forty on the dot. I’m a morning person,

which can be a disadvantage in Hollywood. Except for

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people who are actually involved in shooting a film,

everyone else tends to work late into the night.”

“The coffee’s ready,” Judith said. “Would you like a

cup?”

“Certainly,” Eugenia replied, surveying the kitchen

with a critical eye. “Black, please.”

Judith poured the coffee into a Moonbeam’s mug

and handed it to her guest. “I’m curious,” she said in a

casual tone. “Why was Morris Mayne’s wife allowed

to go back to L.A. when the rest of you weren’t?”

Eugenia choked on her first swallow of coffee.

“Well . . .” she began, gathering her aplomb, “that situation was different.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Eugenia cleared her throat. “Different.” She

winked.

Judith gave the other woman a quizzical look. “I

don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.” Eugenia winked again.

Enlightenment dawned. “You mean,” Judith said,

“Morris came here with someone who wasn’t his

wife?”

“Now,” Eugenia said, wagging a finger, “don’t be

too hard on Morris. His wife is a genuine recluse. She

hasn’t left their house in fifteen years. You can hardly

blame the man if he sometimes gets lonely when he

travels. It’s sad, really. I admire him for staying with

her.”

“Yes,” Judith said slowly, “you have a point. So the

woman who came here with him after the premiere

was his . . . ah . . . companion?”

It was Eugenia’s turn to look puzzled. “What

woman?”

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307

“The one dressed as a pioneer,” Judith replied, turning the bacon in the cast-iron skillet.

Eugenia shrugged her broad shoulders. “I’ve no idea

what you’re talking about. Morris’s . . . companion remained at the hotel.”

Joe’s conversation with Woody ended just as Eugenia took her coffee into the front parlor.

“Eat your words, Jude-girl,” Joe said, wielding a

whisk in a bowl of eggs. “Woody came up with some

interesting stuff.”

“Criminal stuff?” Judith asked in surprise.

“If it was, would you stop treating me like I had

bubonic plague?”

So frazzled were Judith’s nerves that she actually

had to think twice before answering. “Yes, sure, go

ahead.” Her attempt to smile wasn’t very successful.

Joe didn’t respond until he’d put a quarter pound of

butter into a huge frying pan. “Nothing on Eugenia,

Morris, or Chips,” he said, keeping his voice down in

case Eugenia was still in hearing range. “Ellie has a

stack of speeding and parking tickets as high as the

Hollywood Hills. Ben got busted a couple of times for

possession.”

“Of what?” Judith asked, getting plates out of the

cupboard.

“Weed.” He shrugged. “Dirk has been arrested four

times for assault, but the charges were always

dropped.”

“Does that include the incident with Bruno at Marina Del Rey?” Judith asked.

Joe nodded. “It seems Mr. Farrar has to prove his

macho image on both sides of the camera.”

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“Unsure of his manhood? Low self-esteem?” Judith

murmured.

“Rotten disposition, no self-discipline.” Almost

forty years as a cop had caused Joe’s patience with

people’s foibles to erode long ago.

Judith placed the silverware settings next to the

plates on the counter. “What about the others?”

“I’m not finished with Dirk,” Joe said, taking a

break from his cook’s duties to refill his coffee mug.

“He was also involved in a messy paternity suit a year

or two ago. He lost, and is paying for the kid’s upbringing.”

“Is Mom anyone we know?”

Joe shook his head. “Dirk was on location in Spain

when he met Mom. She was an extra in a Basque uprising.”

“No help there,” Judith said.

“Only in terms of support payments.” He offered

more coffee to Judith. “Dade’s had a couple of DWIs.

He wiped out a Rolls-Royce on Sunset Boulevard and

ran his Range Rover into a palm tree in Benedict

Canyon. Not recently, though.”

“He doesn’t seem like much of a drinker,” Judith remarked as she set out a dozen juice glasses.

“You never can tell,” Joe said, reaching for a chafing dish high up in the cupboard. “Here’s one you expected—Angela La Belle’s been busted three times for

coke possession. Bruno was arrested twice. On one occasion, they were together.”

“That’s not surprising,” Judith said, “since Bruno

supposedly got Angela hooked in the first place. Did

they do time?”

“No,” Joe replied, reaching for a second chafing

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309

dish. “Their clever lawyers—Vito, maybe?—got them

off with fines, community service, and promises to go

into rehab.”

“Anything on Vito himself?”

“Nothing criminal,” Joe replied, “though I suspect

that like any successful L.A. attorney, he may have a

few slightly unethical tricks up his sleeve.”

Judith narrowed her eyes at her husband. “You still

look a bit scrofulous to me. Why am I supposed to

heap you with praise and affection?”

Joe held up his index finger. “For one reason, and

one reason only. Ahem.” He paused so long for dramatic effect that Judith was poised to pounce on him.

“In 1979, Winifred Lou Best was arrested twice, once

for possession of cocaine and once for resisting arrest

along with a man named Bartholomew Anthony Riggs,

aka Big Daddy Dumas.”

“Wow!” Judith’s eyes sparkled as she threw her

arms around his neck. “Now that is news!”

“What did I tell you?” He chuckled as she planted

kisses all over his face. “I’m plague-free.”

“More than you know,” Judith said, finally releasing

her husband. “Morris mentioned Big Daddy Dumas

last night at Capri’s. He was a pimp and a drug dealer.

But Morris said Big Daddy was dead. He also said . . .”

She frowned in recollection. “What was it? Oh! To

blame Big Daddy for. . . . Damn, I forget.”

“Sounds like Big Daddy was a bad daddy,” Joe remarked.

“That’s the odd thing,” Judith said. “Bill had heard

about him via a case study. According to Bill, Big

Daddy wasn’t all bad. He was good to his girls, he

treated them like family. But that’s not the point. Now

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we know why Winifred doesn’t want to discuss her

past. It’s possible that Big Daddy helped the Demures

get their start in the music business. Maybe the three

singers were in his stable of hookers. That might explain why the group didn’t have more than one hit.

Their lives couldn’t have been conducive to the discipline required by a serious music career. For all we

know, the other two may have overdosed, gone to

prison, or were murdered in a drug deal gone sour.”

“Anything’s possible,” Joe allowed. “What happened to Big Daddy?”

“A dissatisfied hooker/would-be singer killed him,”

Judith replied. “Not one of the Demures, but a Latino

girl.”

“So maybe,” Joe conjectured, “Big Daddy was the

muscle who got Win and the other two started in the

music business. When he got whacked, the Demures

lost their leverage.”

He picked up the plates and silverware from the

counter. “Here, let me set up the dining-room table.”

“What?” Judith was lost in thought. “Oh, thanks. I’ll

cook Mother’s breakfast now. I feel bad, I’ve hardly

seen her lately.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe called from the dining room.

“She hasn’t improved.”

As Judith prepared Gertrude’s meal and set it on a

tray, the house seemed very quiet. Typical for early

November, she thought, with the fog not only isolating

but insulating Hillside Manor from the rest of the

world. The calm, however, was not reassuring.

As usual Gertrude was up and dressed before eight

o’clock, She sat behind the card table, not bothering to

look up when her daughter arrived with breakfast.

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311

More surprisingly, the old lady was humming in an

off-key manner.

“Hmm-dee-dee-hmm.”

“Good morning,” Judith said, forcing a bright smile.

“You seem cheerful this morning.”

“Hmm-mm-hmm-mm.” Gertrude picked up her TV

Guide and riffled through the pages. “Hmm-dee-deehm-hm.”

Judith wasn’t in the mood to play games with her

mother. She placed the tray on the card table. Gertrude

ignored it. “What is it?” Judith asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Dee-dee-mm-hmm.”

“Mother!” Judith’s patience fled. “Stop that humming! What’s going on?”

Slyly, Gertrude looked up from the TV Guide. “Oh,

it’s you. I suppose you expect a tip now that I’m going

to be rich. Forget it, I’m spending every dime on satin

bloomers, lace hankies, and a walker with a motor on

it.”

Puzzled, Judith sat down on the arm of Gertrude’s

Davano. “What’s going on? Did you win the lottery?”

“That’s for suckers,” Gertrude declared, even

though she frequently conned Judith into buying lottery and scratch-card tickets for her. “You’ll find out

when the armored car pulls up with my loot.”

Judith fought an urge to shake her mother until the

old girl’s dentures rattled. “What then?”

Gertrude shot her a contemptuous look. “How do

you think, dummy? By selling my life story to the

movies. That nice young Southun gentleman is writin’

the script,” she went on, her speech suddenly tinged

with a drawl straight out of the cotton fields. “He’s

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promised me a piece. Up front, too, but no points. Ah

couldn’t expect that for my first story, could Ah?”

Judith didn’t know whether she was more amazed

by Dade’s offer or her mother’s use of movie jargon,

which, judging from the drawl, was straight from the

writer’s mouth. “Are you sure he’s not kidding you?”

“He’s not the kind to spoof,” Gertrude replied

smugly, the drawl gone. “He’s on the up-and-up. He

says I’m great. In fact, I’m part of the Greatest Generation. I’ve lived through a bunch of wars, a big Depression, a whole slew of newfangled gadgets, going to the

moon, riots, earthquakes, volcanoes, and bathtub gin.

Not to mention your two lunkhead husbands and listening to Aunt Deb talk my ear off on the telephone.”

It almost made sense. It was, in fact, not unlike the

concept of the simple gasman viewing the history of

the world. Judith was speechless.

“So what have you got to say for yourself now,

Toots?” Gertrude demanded, finally picking up a fork

and studying her meal.

“I think it’s . . . terrific,” Judith said at last. “If it all

works out.”

“That nice Southern boy says it will,” Gertrude

replied glibly. “What did he call it? ‘An intimate portrait of the twentieth century.’ See here?” She tapped a

small piece of paper. “I wrote it down so I wouldn’t

forget.”

Judith still had some reservations. “Have you signed

a contract?”

“Nope,” Gertrude said. “But some guy named Vito or

Zito or Tito is writing it up. Still, I figure I’d better get

an agent first. I can’t read all that fine print. Literally.”

Standing up, Judith reached out to hug her mother.

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313

“It sounds promising. I hope everything turns out the

way you hope it will.”

“It will,” Gertrude said complacently. Then she

frowned. “I just hope they hurry.”

“You mean because the Hollywood people may be

leaving soon?”

Gertrude shook her head. “No. Because I may be

leaving soon. Even the Greatest Generation can’t live

forever.”

By the time Judith got back to the house, she was

surprised to see that several guests were sitting down

to breakfast. In the kitchen, Joe was hustling eggs,

bacon, and toast.

“The estimated time of departure is ten-thirty,” he

informed her in a low voice.

Judith gave her husband a startled look. “They’re

leaving? But the fog hasn’t lifted.”

“Vito says the studio has given them the go-ahead,”

Joe replied, placing toast in a rack. “The weather forecast predicts the fog will be gone by noon.”

Judith stood rooted to the spot. “Should we be glad?”

“I don’t know,” Joe replied, heading to the dining

room with the toast. “I couldn’t get a feel one way or

another from Vito.”

When he returned moments later, Judith inquired

after Angela. “Is she going, too?”

“No,” said Joe, pouring more eggs into the pan.

“They’re sending her directly to rehab at the Ford

Madox Ford Center on the Eastside. According to Vito,

she’ll be there at least a couple of months. Maybe this

time the cure will take.”

As Joe tended the stove, Judith peeked over the

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swinging doors that led into the dining room. The conversation seemed lighthearted. Maybe the movie people had put their differences aside now that they were

leaving what they considered a fogbound backwater.

Everyone was there. Everyone except Winifred.

Winifred Best seemed to be the least likely of the

guests to sleep in. A wave of apprehension came over

Judith as she started for the back stairs.

The phone rang. Judith grabbed it from its cradle,

hoping that Dilys Oaks was calling with good news for

Joe. Instead, it was Phyliss Rackley, calling with bad

news for Judith.

“I can’t breathe,” Phyliss announced in a voice that

was anything but short of wind. “I must have tuberculosis. Where’s the nearest sanitorium?”

“They don’t send people there for TB anymore,

Phyliss,” Judith asserted. “They can cure it with antibiotics. Call your doctor.”

“I can’t,” Phyliss replied, then coughed with what

sounded like feigned effort. “I’m fading fast. I need an

iron lung.”

“That’s for polio,” Judith said crossly. “Are you

telling me you won’t be here today?”

“How can I?” Phyliss asked, forlorn. “The Lord is

coming for me. I saw Him this morning in my closet.”

“Tell the Lord to come out of the closet and put you

on the bus to Hillside Manor,” Judith huffed. “I’ve got

a big mess here today, and I’m worn out. Furthermore,

it’s All Saints’ Day and I have to go to noon Mass.”

“You and your Roman rituals,” Phyliss complained.

“What kind of sacrifice do you make this time? A gopher?”

Judith refused to waste time discussing the sacrifice

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315

of the Mass to Phyliss. She’d already explained it on at

least a dozen occasions. “I really need you, Phyliss. Do

you think you could make it by noon? The fog’s supposed to lift by then.”

“Well . . .” Phyliss seemed to consider the request.

“I’ll see. Maybe the Lord can work a miracle cure.”

She coughed some more for effect. “Kaff, kaff.”

Hanging up, Judith continued on her way upstairs,

then went the length of the hall to Room One, which

Winifred had shared the previous night with Ellie Linn.

Knocking gently at first, she got no response. She

rapped harder. Still no reply. She was about to hammer

on the door when she decided simply to open it.

The door was unlocked. A billow of smoke engulfed

Judith. Flames licked at the bedclothes just as the fire

alarm sounded and the sprinkler system went off.

Winifred lay awkwardly on the bed, her eyes closed,

her mouth agape. Even as Judith screamed for help,

she braved the smoke, fire, and drenching water to

reach the motionless woman. Coughing, gritting her

teeth, and ever aware that she could dislocate the artificial hip, she grabbed Winifred by the feet and attempted to tug her off the bed.

Despite Winifred’s slimness, Judith could move her

no more than a few inches. The water was pouring

down, dousing the flames but turning the room into a

nightmare of sizzling vapors. Judith gasped, coughed

again, and yanked at a pillowcase to put over her

mouth. She barely heard the pounding of feet on the

stairs or Joe’s shouts as he reached the second floor.

A moment later he was in the room, arms flailing,

trying to push Judith out of the way. He missed. Judith,

with the wet pillowcase protecting her nose and mouth,

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caught Winifred around the knees and, with a mighty

wrench, moved her into a sitting position against the

headboard.

At the same time she felt—and heard—an odd

sound in her hip. She collapsed on the floor.

“Don’t move!” Joe yelled as he picked up Winifred

and carried her into the hall.

Dazed, Judith choked, coughed, and shivered in a

huddled mass near the door. The fire, which had spread

to the lace curtains on the other side of the room, was

now sputtering out. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Someone must have called 911. Again.

“Winifred . . .” Judith murmured as Joe bent down

to put his arms around her shoulders. “Is she . . . ?”

“Never mind Winifred,” he said, his voice husky.

“Can you stand?”

She wasn’t sure. What was worse, she was afraid to

try. To her surprise, Dirk Farrar entered the room. “I

can lift her,” he volunteered.

“We both can,” Joe retorted.

They did, carefully moving her out of the room and

placing her on the settee in the hall. Winifred was lying

on the floor by the door to the bathroom between

Rooms Three and Four. Dade was leaning over her,

once again trying to revive a fallen comrade.

“She’s alive,” Eugenia announced.

Dade looked up. “She’s coming ’round.”

“Thank God,” Judith gasped, then tried to sit up

with Joe’s help.

Vito Patricelli’s customary calm was ruffled; he’d

removed his sunglasses. “What happened? How did

the fire start?”

He was ignored by both Flynns as the emergency

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317

crew charged up the stairs with Eugenia Fleming in

their wake. Somewhat to her surprise, Judith didn’t

recognize any of the rescuers. Maybe, she thought a bit

hazily, that was because it was a Monday. She couldn’t

recall anyone ever dying or almost dying at Hillside

Manor on a Monday. This must be a different crew.

Somewhat giddily, she wondered if eventually she’d

know them all—police, firefighters, medics, maybe

even a coroner or two.

“Clear the area!” one of the firefighters shouted.

From somewhere on the stairs, Judith could hear a

vaguely familiar female voice giving orders for the rest

of the guests to stay put. The girlish tones sounded

more like Ellie than the buglelike Eugenia. But the

voice belonged to a newcomer.

The medics had moved Winifred down the hall.

“We’ll work on her here,” one of them announced with

a slight Spanish accent. “Everybody else get lost.”

Finally, Joe got Judith to her feet. “Can you walk?”

he whispered.

She bit her lip, then wiped at her eyes, which were

still smarting. “I’m not sure,” she replied unsteadily.

But one foot went in front of the other. There was none

of the agonizing pain she’d suffered from previous dislocations. Perhaps the sensations trying to move

Winifred had only been a warning.

The others had already trooped downstairs, except

for Vito, who lingered in the hallway.

Eugenia was standing under the arch between the

entry hall and the living room. Cautiously, Judith

stepped over the tan fire hoses.

“Where is that woman?” Eugenia demanded, fists

on hips. “It must be all her fault.”

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Mary Daheim

Judith stared. “What woman?”

“Your cleaning woman,” Eugenia snapped. “What

kind of a person is she to cause such a mess?”

“My—” Judith stopped, allowing Joe to help her

onto the sofa.

Eugenia followed, a bulldog running down a cat.

“I let her in while I was waiting for you to serve

breakfast,” Eugenia said, incensed. “How did I know

she was a pyromaniac?”

Judith forced her brain to kick-start. “No. That

couldn’t have been my cleaning woman. I spoke to her

on the phone just before I went upstairs looking for

Winifred. She lives a good four miles from here.”

“What did this person look like?” Joe asked, all

business.

“Why . . .” Eugenia paused. “Like a cleaning

woman. Which is who she said she was. Gray-haired,

thin, homely.”

Oddly enough, the description fit Phyliss Rackley.

But that was impossible. Ignoring her hip, Judith

jumped up. “Where is she now?”

“How do I know?” Eugenia shot back. “She went

upstairs just before the others came down to breakfast.”

“Christ!” Joe took off at a run, apparently heading

for the back stairs. The sound of water thundered overhead. Through the big bay window, Judith could see

two firefighters climbing up to the roof.

“Oh, no!” she wailed. “My poor B&B! It’s ruined!”

It was only then that she realized the fire wasn’t the

only thing that had laid waste to Room One. So overcome with shock and fear had Judith been at the time,

she had failed to take in the more minor damage.

Winifred’s room had been ransacked.

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319

*

*

*

Joe returned a few minutes later with Dilys Oaks.

Judith realized that it was the young policewoman’s

voice she had recognized earlier.

“Nothing,” Joe said, out of breath. “We couldn’t

find any trace of the so-called cleaning woman.”

Judith turned to Eugenia, who had just finished a

call on her cell phone. “Did you notice a car outside

when you let this woman in?”

“A car?” Eugenia looked indignant. “How could I?

It’s too foggy to see past the front steps. I don’t know

when I’ve been in such a miserable place. Except

Croatia, perhaps.”

“Look here,” Judith said, her temper flaring, “you

were the one who admitted this woman. Why didn’t

you let me open the door?”

“You weren’t here,” Eugenia retorted. “Neither was

your husband. Besides, your cleaning woman had a

key. Apparently, she was having trouble turning it.”

Judith frowned. She must have been in the toolshed

with her mother. Maybe Joe had gone to the bathroom.

It wasn’t really fair to blame Eugenia for the disaster.

If, Judith suddenly thought, Eugenia was telling the

truth. As for the key, perhaps the intruder was faking it.

Or, it suddenly occurred to her, someone had found

Dade’s missing key. But who?

A firefighter, moving clumsily in his bulky safety

suit, entered the living room. “We think everything’s

under control,” he announced, then turned to Joe. “The

fire itself was just about extinguished by the sprinkler

system. But there’s quite a bit of water damage. We’ll

stick around to check things out, but if there’s danger

to the wiring, you’d better think about staying some- 320

Mary Daheim

where else for a while. Also, it may take some time for

the investigators to do their job and for the insurance

adjusters to estimate the amount of damage.”

“That’s impossible!” Judith exclaimed. “This is a

bed-and-breakfast establishment! We can’t shut down.

And we certainly aren’t going to move out.”

With regret, the firefighter shook his head. “Sorry,

ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to do both. Safety first.”

Before Judith could argue further, the medics appeared on the staircase with Winifred on a gurney with

her eyes closed and an oxygen mask over her face. Vito

was right behind them.

“They’re taking her to the hospital to treat her for

smoke inhalation,” the lawyer announced from the

entry hall, a frown on his usually imperturbable face.

“I don’t get it,” Judith put in, moving with care.

“The fire had just started. There was plenty of smoke,

but not enough to render Ms. Best unconscious. She

wasn’t asleep; she was in her bathrobe lying atop the

bedcovers.”

The medics didn’t respond as they wheeled

Winifred out of the house and disappeared.

Vito started to follow, but Eugenia waylaid him with

a firm hand. “Mrs. Flynn’s right. What’s going on with

Win?”

With a pained expression, Vito leaned down to

whisper in Eugenia’s ear. She gave a start, then

scowled. “The medics told you that? I don’t believe

it!” she snapped, then turned on Judith as Vito exited

the house. “Your cleaning woman knocked Winifred

unconscious!”

“What?” Judith shrieked. “That wasn’t my cleaning

woman!”

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321

Eugenia shrugged her broad shoulders. “As you say.

Vito is accompanying Win to the hospital. I understand

this wretched house has to be evacuated. Don’t worry,

we’re all but on our way.”

Returning to the living room, Judith began to pace

the floor.

“Take it easy,” Joe warned. “You’re listing a bit to

starboard.”

“I’m fine,” Judith snarled. “I didn’t dislocate, I

just . . . twinged.” She stopped by the piano at the far

end of the room. “I can’t believe this. Even if we don’t

get sued, we’re out of business for God knows how

long!”

“Come on, Jude-girl,” Joe urged, “try to relax a little.

It’s not like the place burned down.” He looked at

Dilys, who had her back turned to both Flynns and was

on her cell phone. “An APB has gone out on the mysterious cleaning woman. If there was one,” he added,

lowering his voice.

Dilys clicked off to face Judith and Joe. “Unfortunately,” she said, “the description isn’t very helpful.

Ms. Fleming thought the woman was wearing dark

clothing. The rest of her appearance is quite ordinary.

With all the new apartments and condos on this side of

the hill, there must be a hundred women like that

within three square blocks of here.”

Judith abruptly sat down on the piano bench. “No,”

she said slowly, “there’s only one.”

TWENTY

THERE WAS NO time for Judith to explain. The battalion chief came into the living room to consult

with the Flynns. His main advice was to contact

their insurance agent as soon as possible. Joe

agreed, saying he’d drive up to the top of the hill as

soon as the local office opened at ten.

“What about the damage?” Judith asked in a

plaintive voice. “How bad is it?”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we can,” the chief

said kindly. His name was Ramirez, and he spoke

with a slight Spanish accent.

Judith winced. “You’re sure we have to move out?”

Ramirez nodded. “It may not be for long. It’s the

water damage, mostly. That’s often the case with a

small fire. Only the bedcovers, curtains, and carpet

were destroyed. The rest of the fire merely scorched

the bed itself, the mattress, and one wall. By the

way, who tossed the room?”

Joe and Dilys both stared at Judith. “Um . . .” She

put her hands to her cheeks, which seemed to have

suddenly grown quite warm. “I forgot to mention

that. It must have been the intruder who knocked out

Ms. Best.”

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323

Ramirez frowned. “So that’s what I heard someone

talking about. Where are the police?”

Dilys took a step forward. “I am the police,” she declared. “My backup should be along shortly. The patrol

cars are already on the lookout for the perp.”

The battalion chief seemed disconcerted. “You

mean . . . All these people in this house and no

one . . .” He gave himself a good shake. “Excuse me.

It’s a big house. In fact, haven’t you had a couple of

other 911 calls in the past few days?”

To Judith’s great relief, Dilys stepped in to spare the

Flynns the burden of an explanation. “To begin with,”

she said, guiding Ramirez out of the living room, “this

is a B&B. The current guests are somewhat unusual in

that they . . .”

The pair disappeared into the front parlor. Judith

glanced at the bay window. The ladder remained;

water still poured down the side of the house. Judith

couldn’t have felt worse if she’d suffered a physical

blow.

“What did you mean,” Joe inquired, “when you said

there was only one woman?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Judith noticed the guests leaving

their breakfast table. “My,” she said in sarcasm, “I’m

glad we didn’t spoil their appetites.”

Joe gave her a quick hug. “Hang in there. It’s going

on ten. I’ll head out now to see Fred Sheets at the insurance agency.”

Judith said something that sounded like “Mrph.”

A moment later Dilys stuck her head back into the

living room. “I’m going to confer with my backup.

They seem to have gotten lost.” She winked. “At

Moonbeam’s.”

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Mary Daheim

“Great,” Judith said through gritted teeth, then threw

her hands up in the air. “Mother! I’d better tell her what

happened. She must be frantic.”

Gertrude, however, was in her usual place, leafing

through a film directory. “Hi, Toots,” she said, barely

looking up. “Abbott or Costello or whatever his last

name is brought this to me. It’s got all the directors and

actors and moving-picture people listed. It’s too bad

Joan Crawford’s dead. People used to say she looked

like me.”

“Mother . . .” Judith began.

But Gertrude interrupted. “Anyways, Dade—yes,

Dade, I remember his first name now—left me his card

and one from some woman named Fleming. She’s supposed to call me when she gets back to Los Angeles.”

The old lady pronounced it “Los Ang-elees.” “Boy,

there sure are a lot of names in this book.” She tapped

the cover. “I never heard of most of them.” Finally,

Gertrude looked at her daughter. “Where’s lunch?”

“It’s ten o’clock,” Judith said, then pointed to the

breakfast tray. “You didn’t eat all your eggs.”

“They have funny stuff in them,” Gertrude said.

“What did you do, mix the eggs with an old salad?”

Judith refrained from saying that Joe had made the

eggs. She also refrained from telling her mother about

the fire. As long as Gertrude’s deafness had obscured

the sirens, there was no point in upsetting the old girl.

At least not yet. Judith had other things on her mind.

Back in the house, the guests were scurrying about,

completing their packing, hauling their luggage downstairs. They seemed as eager to leave as Judith was to

see them go.

“Incredible,” Ben Carmody said to Judith as he put

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325

on a black leather jacket. “How did Win set fire to her

room?”

Looking guileless, Judith shrugged. “Who knows?

Does she smoke?”

“Hell, no,” Dirk declared. “She’s no drinker, either,

at least not at nine in the morning.”

Judith kept mum.

“She’ll be fine,” Ellie said, hooking her arm through

Ben’s. “I’d like to work with her on All the Way to

Utah.”

“Win’s spunky,” Chips said. “Maybe she’ll be able

to leave for L.A. later today.”

Again, Judith made no comment.

Vito slipped a white envelope into her hand. “The

studio wants to compensate you for your trouble. This

is a promissory note for five thousand dollars. As soon

as everything is cleared up in L.A., you’ll get your

money.”

Judith’s smile was off center. “Why . . . that’s generous. I think.” For all she knew, the money would

cover only the caterers. Of course it was better than a

subpoena.

Dade was the last one out the door. He was halfway

down the steps when he stopped and turned around.

“Tell your momma I’ll be in touch. I’m pretty excited

about this project.”

Judith still couldn’t believe Dade was serious. “You

are?”

“I sure am,” he responded. “That little lady has

some mighty swell tales to tell. I like her style.” With

a salute, Dade ambled along after the rest of the party.

The limos had barely pulled away when Judith

heard a knock at the back door. Maybe it was Renie,

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though she rarely got up until ten o’clock, and even

then, it took her another hour to become fully conscious.

It wasn’t her cousin who’d come to call. It was an

even more unlikely person to show up so early in the

day.

“Goodness!” Vivian Flynn exclaimed. “You’ve had

more excitement, I see. Those sirens woke me up. I

only managed to get dressed about five minutes ago,

and then I saw the limos in the cul-de-sac. What’s

going on now?”

“One of the guests had an accident,” Judith replied,

leading Herself into the kitchen. “A small fire upstairs.

She’ll be okay, I think. Would you care for coffee?”

The offer came with a tug of reluctance.

Vivian, however, waved a hand. “No, but thanks

anyway. As long as I’m dressed”—she ran a hand over

her ensemble, which consisted of a black wool suit

with slits in the skirt, a frilly white blouse, sling-back

stiletto heels, and a perky black beret adorned with

faux pearls—“I think I’ll pop over to Norway General

to see Stone Cold Sam.”

“I hear he’s doing well,” Judith said.

“He’s doing wonderfully,” Herself declared, then

giggled behind her hand. “But I feel sooo guilty!”

“About what?”

Vivian giggled again, then made a face. “About the

heart attack. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were doing anything really outrageous.”

Judith’s mouth was agape. “You mean . . . ? Stone

Cold Sam was . . . ah . . . with you when he had the

heart attack?”

Vivian’s false eyelashes fluttered. “With me. Yes.”

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327

“Oh.” Judith gulped. “I see.”

“You’d better not!” Herself said, wagging a finger.

“Naughty of you to peek!” She giggled some more.

“That’s why I feel guilty. I went to see him last night,

and I was so upset I ended up on the wrong floor. I almost panicked when the room I thought was his turned

out to be empty. I was afraid he’d passed away. I practically ran all the way to the elevator. I thought he was

in 706, but it was 906. Silly me.”

An alarm bell went off in Judith’s brain. She stared

at Herself until the other woman stared back with a

puzzled expression.

“What’s wrong, Judith?” Vivian inquired. “You look

like you don’t feel well. I’ve noticed that you haven’t

really looked very good since your surgery. Did it age

you terribly?”

Judith was accustomed to Herself’s barbs, but on

this occasion, they were the least of her worries. “No,”

she said tersely. “I’m just tired. It’s been a difficult

weekend.”

“So it seems.” Vivian reached into her cobra-skin

handbag to retrieve a pair of black kid gloves. “I must

be off. I’ll give Sam your best. By the way, I hope that

nothing was badly burned. Except for those handsome

firefighters on the roof, everything looks fine from outside.”

“It’s not too bad,” Judith said, hoping the statement

might be true.

“Good,” Herself responded. “Toodles.” She departed through the front door on a wave of decadence

and a whiff of Chanel No. 5.

For at least a full minute, Judith stood in the hallway, thinking hard. She had been certain that the per- 328

Mary Daheim

son wearing high heels at Norway General was Winifred,

coming to see Angela. She had ruled out Eugenia, who

always wore sensible shoes, and Ellie, who preferred

sandals and sneakers. The idea that Winifred had wanted

to ensure Angela’s silence concerning the source of

Bruno’s cocaine addiction was out the window.

She considered going upstairs to see what was happening on the guest floor. But she didn’t really want to

know. Besides, she was leery of overdoing it with her

hip. The first order of business was almost as painful

as the fire itself: She had to call Ingrid Heffelman to

change the current set of reservations.

With a heavy sigh, Judith looked at the calendar on

the wall above the computer. She hadn’t flipped the

page to November. Saying good-bye to Sculptor’s Stu-

dio, she stared at the new painting. It was Grant

Wood’s American Gothic. Born 1892 in Anamosa,

Iowa, the tag line read, he taught in the Cedar Rapids

public schools and later was an artist in residence at

the University of Iowa. Wood was strongly influenced