Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (10 page)

“How is she?” Judith inquired. “I thought she was terribly upset last night.”

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

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

“True.” Chips’s voice held no expression. “We’re
going out to forage. At least Win and Ellie and Ben and I are. Dade already left.”

“He’s a lone wolf, isn’t he?” Judith remarked as she reached the top of the stairs.

Chips nodded. “A lot of writers are like that. They work alone, they prefer their made-up characters to real people.”

“I can understand that,” Judith said, though she really couldn’t. People were the center of her world, her reason for being. Family, friends, and strangers—Judith held out welcoming arms to them all. She would never have been able to run a B&B if she hadn’t loved people.

Judith risked a touchy question. “I got the impression that directors and screenwriters don’t always agree on how a movie is made.”

Chips flushed, his freckles blending in with the rest of his face. “You mean that little dustup with Dade the other night?” He didn’t wait for Judith to respond, but shrugged in an exaggerated manner. “Typical. We call it artistic differences. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Yes,” Judith said, “I see how that can happen. But you and Bruno Zepf must have agreed on how
The Gasman
was made, right?”

Chips cocked his head to one side, looking even more boyish than usual. “Directors and producers have their own differences. It wouldn’t be normal if they didn’t. We’re all creative types, we all have our own ideas about how a picture should be made.”

“Do you think Bruno had the wrong idea? I mean,” Judith added hastily, “that he did something wrong to get such a strong negative reaction to his movie?”

“Yes,” Chips said sadly. “Making the picture was wrong. A passion for filmmaking is one thing—Bruno
had plenty of passion. But personal missions seldom make for good box office. The project was doomed from the start. Maybe,” he continued on a mournful note, “Bruno was, too.” With a shake of his head, he turned back into Room Five.

Judith headed downstairs. Joe had already gone to early Mass and was bringing back pastries and hot coffee in big thermoses. But Judith’s priority was Gertrude. The old lady would be fussing, since her daughter usually showed up at least an hour earlier than this with breakfast.

Indeed, when Judith entered the toolshed Gertrude wouldn’t speak to her. She was sitting in her usual place behind the card table, sulking.

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

Gertrude turned her head and stared at the wall.

“He may have had a heart attack. That’s why I haven’t been able to make breakfast. I can’t go into the kitchen.”

Gertrude uttered a snort of derision.

“It’s possible that someone—” Judith stopped and bit her lip. There was no point in alarming her mother. “We have to get an official verdict from the coroner before I can use the kitchen.”

Gertrude picked up a deck of cards and shoved them into the automatic shuffler.
Click-clackety-click-clack
. She removed the cards and began to lay out a game of solitaire.

“In about fifteen minutes, Joe will come back with pastries and hot coffee,” Judith said, then added with a touch of irony, “I hope the trouble last night didn’t bother you, Mother.”

Gertrude, who was about to put a red six on a black seven, turned her small, beady eyes on her daughter. “I didn’t hear a thing. At least your latest corpse was quiet about sailing off through the Pearly Gates.”

“Thoughtful of him,” Judith murmured, so low that her allegedly deaf mother couldn’t hear her.

“What kind of pastries?” Gertrude demanded, playing up an ace. “They’d better have that custard filling I like. Or apples, with that gooey syrup. The last time, Lunkhead brought something with apricots. I don’t like apricots, at least not in my pastries.”

“He’ll do his best,” Judith avowed.

“No blueberries!” Gertrude exclaimed. “They turn my dentures purple. I’d look like one of those trick-ortreaters who came by last night.”

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

“Kids, my hind end! They were as tall as I am. I didn’t give ’em anything. Nobody eats my candy except me.” Gertrude slapped a deuce on the ace.

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

“A cowboy with fancy snakeskin boots and a scarecrow that looked like he came out of
The Wizard of Oz,
” Gertrude replied, putting up another ace. “I could hardly hear a word they said. That’s when I told them to beat it. They did. They knew better than to mess with this old lady.” With a savage gesture, she reeled off a black nine, a red eight, and a black seven.

“What time was that?” Judith asked.

“Time?” Gertrude wrinkled her nose. “What’s time to an old lady on her last legs? There’s not much of it left. If you were me, you wouldn’t keep track of time, either.”

Judith eyed her mother shrewdly. “You seem to keep track of mealtimes pretty well.”

Gertrude played up several more cards. “What does it mean?” she said in a musing voice. “Think about it. Why do they say that?”

“What? You mean about time?”

“No,” Gertrude replied with a scornful glance at her daughter. “
Last legs
. You don’t talk about somebody’s first legs, or their second or their third. If you got more legs as you went along, then they wouldn’t give out on you. Your last legs should be your best legs, because they’re newer.” She paused, scanning the cards in her hand. “Now where’s that ace of clubs? I saw it someplace.”

Judith surrendered. She’d been curious about the trick-or-treaters because she wondered why they’d gone to the toolshed instead of to the house. But maybe they had. Renie or Arlene would have taken care of them. There’d be more tonight, she realized, since it was officially Halloween. At least the wind had died down and the rain had dwindled to a mere mist.

Joe had returned when Judith went back into the house. He was putting a variety of pastries and doughnuts onto the buffet, along with crackers and various cheeses. There was also a plate of cookies in the shapes of jack-o’-lanterns, bats, and witches.

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

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

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

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

Judith began to pace the living-room floor. “I’d hate to have to go through Ingrid at the B&B association to put up the guests who are coming in later today. We’ve got five reservations, you know.”

Dirk Farrar entered the room, looking belligerent. “What’s going on? Nobody’s telling us a damned thing. We can’t stick around forever.”

“We were just talking about that,” Judith said. “We’re still waiting to hear from the police.”

“Screw ’em,” Dirk said fiercely. “That SOB Bruno had a heart attack. It served him right. My price just went down at least five mil and next time—if there is a next time—I’ll be lucky to get any points at all.”

“But you’re a huge star,” Judith protested. “You’ve been in several big hits, including with Mr. Zepf. Or so I’ve heard,” she added humbly.

The handsome, craggy features that had made females hyperventilate on five continents, and possibly Pluto, twisted with anger. “You don’t get it. None of you people who aren’t in the business get it. Last night’s flop could be the end of Dirk Farrar!”

Joe may have been three inches shorter and twenty-five years older, but he stepped smoothly between the actor and Judith. “That could come sooner if you don’t stop yelling at my wife. Back off, big fella, or I’ll have to do a little cosmetic surgery on that famous face of yours.”

“Why, you—” Dirk began, but suddenly stopped and threw up his hands. “Screw it. I don’t need to make the papers for mixing it up with some old fart. That’s why I usually have a couple of bodyguards around.” He stepped back, then started to stomp off—but not before he scooped three sugar doughnuts from the buffet.

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

“You’re not old,” Judith insisted, patting her husband’s cheek. “You’re middle-aged. When Dirk Farrar hits sixty, all that cragginess will turn into bagginess. You have such a wonderful round face, you hardly have any wrinkles at—”

The phone rang. Judith let Joe pick up the receiver on the cherrywood table by the bookcases. When he turned his back on her, she was certain that he was speaking with Stone Cold Sam Cairo.

“Right…Yes…No…So be it.” Joe hung up.

“Well?” Judith asked anxiously. “Is it…?” She couldn’t say the word
murder
.

Joe looked rueful. “A blow to the head apparently knocked him unconscious and he fell in the sink and drowned.”

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

“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “It could have been that cupboard door swinging out. He may have bent over for some reason, reared up, and conked himself.”

Judith remembered the aspirin she’d picked up from the floor. Perhaps Bruno had dropped it, ducked down to retrieve it, and then—unaware that the door had swung open—hit his head with such force that he blacked out.

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

“You don’t hear it coming,” Joe said ruefully, then walked over to Judith and lowered his head. “Feel the bump about two inches above my hairline.”

Judith touched the spot. There was a slight swelling. “The door? When did that happen? You never mentioned it.”

“Friday,” Joe said, avoiding her gaze. “You were gone. I didn’t want to admit that I’d banged my head on the door, because I was supposed to fix it. I actually saw stars at the time.”

Hands on hips, Judith stared at her husband. “You mean this is all our fault?”

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

“T
HAT’S RIDICULOUS
,” J
UDITH
declared. “How is it our fault that Bruno bumped his head on an open cupboard door? Maybe he opened it himself.”

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

“My God,” Judith moaned, “we could be ruined! If they find out about that door, they’ll sue, they’ll take every cent we have!”

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

“Substantial,” Judith said, agitated. “I mean, adequate under normal circumstances. But not for something like this, if we’re shown as being negligent and a big Hollywood celebrity gets…Think of the publicity! It’s one thing to have a guest murdered by someone else, that can’t be helped,” Judith went on, her usual sound logic working in strange ways, “but an accident caused by the owners’ carelessness?” She put her hands over her face. “Oh, Joe, I can’t bear it! I feel sick!”

“Well, you can’t throw up in the kitchen sink,” Joe remarked, a touch of his characteristic humor surfacing.

Judith took a deep breath. “I’m in shock. And that poor man—if it’s our fault that he’s dead…” Her nausea remained though she pressed her hands against her face as if trying to subdue the sensation.

“Hang on.” Joe put an arm around his wife. “We’re not licked yet.”

Judith peered between her fingers. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said quietly, “that we don’t know for sure how Bruno ended up unconscious in the first place.”

“You mean…Someone may have hit him with a different object?”

“No, there were slivers of wood and maybe varnish in what was left of Bruno’s hair,” Joe said. “Cairo was so busy giving me a bad time that the facts were a little hard to piece together.”

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

“Death by misadventure. That means,” Joe explained, pouring himself a cup of coffee, “that there’s no evidence of foul play, but an investigation will continue.”

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

“I suppose so,” he said as the front doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.”

When Joe reappeared moments later, a tall, balding olive-skinned man wearing wraparound sunglasses and what looked like a very expensive Italian suit was right behind him.

“This is Vito Patricelli,” Joe announced. “He’s a lawyer, representing Paradox Studios. He just flew in from L.A.”

The last person Judith wanted to meet was a lawyer. She reached out with an unsteady hand and tried to smile. “Hi, Mr….” The name eluded her anguished brain.

“Patricelli,” the attorney said smoothly, holding out a manicured hand. “I believe my clients are staying at your B&B.”

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

Vito Patricelli offered her a look that might have passed for compassion. “
The Gasman’
s cast and crew. I represent the studio, ergo, I represent Misses Best, La Belle, and Linn as well as Messieurs Farrar, Carmody, Madigan, and Costello. And, of course, the late Mr. Zepf.”

“I see,” said Judith, who almost did. “Excuse me, I have to sit down.” She flopped onto the sofa and rubbed at her temples.

Joe took over. “I assume you want to meet with your clients. That door on the other side of the buffet leads to the parlor. There’s also a door off the entry hall. Shall I get them?”

The attorney nodded. “I’d appreciate that. In fact, may I come with you?”

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

Judith put her head back on the sofa’s soft cushions and closed her eyes. She saw strange visions, of her mother dressed as Cleopatra playing solitaire with chocolate cards, of Joe and Woody and Stone Cold Sam Cairo chasing each other in Keystone Kops costumes, of Skjoval Tolvang fending off Angela La Belle’s advances with a crowbar.

The gentle squeeze on her shoulders brought her
back to reality. Startled, she looked up at Joe. “I must have fallen asleep,” she said in a sheepish voice.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Joe said, then gestured toward the parlor. “They’re all in there. Every so often you hear somebody yell. It’s usually Dirk or Angela.”

“How long have they been meeting with Patricelli?” Judith inquired, moving around to remove the kinks she’d acquired in her neck and back.

“Not that long,” Joe said. “Ten minutes at most.” He stiffened as Vito Patricelli emerged from the parlor door that led into the living room.

“The meeting’s concluded,” Vito said in his unruffled manner. “I’ve made it clear to my clients where their responsibilities lie and what they must do to carry them out on behalf of Paradox Studios.”

Joe was equally unflappable. “Which is?”

A faintly sinister smile played at Vito’s thin lips. “That they are not to leave the vicinity until the studio knows exactly what happened to Bruno Zepf.”

Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did neither, remaining on the sofa until the sullen guests exited the parlor.

Vito sat down opposite her, carefully arranging his trousers to make sure the crease stayed in the proper position. “I have some questions for you both,” he said in that same, smooth voice.

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

Vito removed his sunglasses, revealing wide-set dark eyes that seemed to have a fire lit behind them. “What time did Mr. Zepf die?”

“Around one
A.M
.,” Joe answered.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Vito asked.

“We can’t be precise,” Joe said reasonably. “My wife and I weren’t with Bruno when it happened. The time is an estimate, which is also what the ME gave us.”

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

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

The lawyer took a deep breath, then gave Joe what was probably meant to be a confidential smile, but looked a trifle piranhalike to Judith. “Let me explain two things. First, Paradox Studios insures all members of a shooting company when a picture is made. This is standard procedure, to make sure there’s due compensation for anyone involved in the production suffering a disabling injury or”—he paused to clear his throat—“dying. The policy the studio took out on
The Gasman
expired October thirty-first, which is today. The problem is, did it expire last night at midnight or is it still valid until tomorrow, November first?”

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

“Not in this case,” Vito replied. “There was also a rider concerning postproduction. Bruno had stated—verbally—that once
The Gasman
premiered, he wouldn’t tinker with it. But last night he told Winifred Best and Chips Madigan that it was clear there would have to be some editing. He intended to pull the picture from release and postpone its general opening for a month.”

Judith finally found her voice. “What does all this have to do with the guests not being able to leave?”

Vito tried to look apologetic, but failed. “I’m afraid
I can’t discuss that with you at present. But I’m sure you realize that the studio wants to conduct its own investigation into the cause of Bruno’s death. You must be aware that the medical examiner’s report is inconclusive.”

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

“Good.” Vito stood up, ever mindful of the crease in his trousers. “I hope this doesn’t sound crass, but I believe you have a vacant room?”

“Ah…” Judith’s jaw dropped. “You mean Bruno’s? Yes, but—”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll spend the night there,” Vito interposed. “Right now I have to head back downtown to talk with the rest of the company at the Cascadia Hotel. Don’t bother to show me out. I know the way.” He slipped his sunglasses back on and gave both Flynns the slightly sinister smile. “I’m a quick study.”

Despite the lawyer’s assertion, Judith and Joe followed him as far as the entry hall. When the door had closed behind Vito, Joe put an arm around his wife.

“Let’s go into the parlor in case the guests decide to come downstairs and commandeer the living room.”

In the gray autumn light with the dead ashes in the grate and the single tall window streaked with rain, the room had lost its usual cheerfulness. The parlor seemed bleak, matching Judith’s mood.

“Whatever are we going to do?” she groaned, slipping into one of the two matching side chairs. “Will the studio’s investigation make us the culprits?”

“I’ve no idea,” Joe admitted, “but one thing’s for sure—Stone Cold Sam Cairo isn’t going to rush around on our account. He’s laughing up his sleeve
over our dilemma because he hates me. Resents me, too, which is maybe why he hates me. I always had a better ratio of cases solved than he did. It was a competition to Sam, one-on-one. The bottom line is we can’t rely on him.”

Judith felt too dazed to respond.

“So we’ll do our own investigating. I’ve got the experience, and you’ve got…a way with people.” Joe lowered his gaze. It was difficult for him to admit that his wife’s amateur tactics could ferret out murderers. “Between us, we may be able to get ourselves out of this jam.”

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

“You do,” Joe said, patting her hand. “I’ll take a more professional stand. After all, I’m not only a retired cop, but a private detective.” He offered her his most engaging grin. “Want to hire me?”

Judith grinned back, though she was still upset. “Of course. I’d better make arrangements with Ingrid for tonight’s other guests.”

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

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

“What’s that?”

She swallowed hard. “Do you honestly believe that Bruno may have been murdered?”

Joe regarded his wife with grim compassion. “I can’t rule it out.”

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

He shrugged.

Judith tried to regain her composure. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Can I use the kitchen?”

When Judith drained the sink, she felt as if she were releasing the floodgates of evil. Joe had already removed the rubber spider and fingerprinted the entire area, including the wayward door, the window and windowsill, and the faucets. He’d ask Woody Price to run the evidence through the lab.

Judith called Ingrid at the state B&B association’s office, but was informed that Ms. Heffelman had the weekend off. In her place was a soft-spoken woman named Zillah Young. Apparently Zillah was new to the hostelry business and didn’t know of Judith’s reputation for murder and mayhem. Without giving the details, Judith meekly asked her to assign the five Sunday-night reservations to other B&Bs in the area.

Finally, Judith had a chance to call Renie and let her know about the tragedy. It was shortly after eleven o’clock, and the Joneses should be back from Mass at Our Lady, Star of the Sea. Judith would either have to miss Mass or go in the evening. There was no way she could leave Hillside Manor at present.

The only guests that Joe had found upstairs were Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle. Joe reported that both were furious. He also noted that they seemed to be sharing Room Three, which had belonged to Bruno.

“I told them to get out of there,” Joe said. “I want to search that room thoroughly before Vito settles in.”

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

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

Judith sighed. “So there’s nobody here for me to
chat up. Heaven only knows where Dade Costello went. He seems to wander the neighborhood, thinking great thoughts.”

“Or homicidal ones,” Joe put in.

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

“Yes. You want to come along?”

“No,” Judith replied. “I have to call Renie, and then, if none of the guests are back, I’ll go down to St. Fabiola’s at the bottom of the hill for noon Mass. Oh, by the way, there’s a book in Bruno’s room called
The Gasman
. I heard he based the movie on it. It’s old and looks as if it’s been cherished. Chips Madigan said something this morning about Bruno being on a mission. I know it sounds silly, but I’m curious. Why don’t you bring it down and I’ll call one of my library mavens to see if they know anything about it.”

“You never came across it when you worked as a librarian?” Joe inquired, referring to the weary years of Judith’s first marriage when she worked days at the public library and tended bar at the Meat & Mingle in the evenings.

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

Joe left the kitchen while Judith dialed Renie’s number. There was no answer except for Anne’s voice on the machine.

“Anne Jones here. If you want to reach me immediately, call my cell phone or my pager. The numbers are…” After reeling off the digits, she added, “If you must speak to anybody else, leave your—” The message cut off abruptly, as if Anne didn’t give a damn whether the rest of the Joneses ever got a phone call. Which, Renie asserted, Anne didn’t.

Judith took a plateful of pastries out to the toolshed, where Gertrude picked over them with a persnickety air. Finally she selected two custard sweet rolls and three sugar doughnuts.

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

Judith told her mother that lunch would be a little late. Gertrude sniffed some more.

By five to twelve, none of the guests had returned. Their absence made Judith nervous, but accepting it as a sign from heaven, she headed off to St. Fabiola’s. The church was near the civic center, and was a half century newer than Our Lady, Star of the Sea. The amber brick edifice was only a few minutes’ drive from Hillside Manor. At the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill on a quiet Sunday morning, traffic was light. Most of the businesses were closed, and the few that were open had just unlocked their doors to customers.

Judith arrived just after Mass had started, so she sat in a pew near the back. The lector was reading the first epistle when there was a commotion behind her.

Discreetly, she turned to look. At the side entrance, an elderly usher was struggling to keep a disheveled bundle of unsteadiness upright. It was a woman, Judith thought, and wondered if she was drunk or ill. At last the man steadied the unfortunate soul, propping her up against a confessional door.